#the old river town series

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

Curtain Speech: That’s what I’m calling author’s notes from now on. I had the idea for this oneshot while driving to get muffins (unrelated, at first) and pretty much knew it was going to make me crazy if I didn’t write it down. It takes place between “Marigold and the Historian” and “A Long and Lonely Mile” and is more of an au/what-if-scenario than anything. I suppose it also counts as a songfic since “Do You Want Me?” by Mipso is a bit of a motif throughout. What can I say? It’s a total jam! Oh! There is a small potential spoiler for “A Loyal Subject” towards the end but honestly, I’m playing around with a couple of different endings for that story. Yes, I do plan on finishing it soon. Anyway, this pairing has been in the back of my mind since it was first hinted that Boris and Marigold had small and unrequited affections for one another in The Joy That Was Mine and a few of my (horrible) unpublished free writes. So I figured, why not?! Let’s put these two in a petri dish together and see if we can get them to fall in love. And… scene!

Who am I to be your angel?

Who am I if not your friend?

Who am I if I’m all alone,

Wake me up if I’m dreaming again.

-Mipso

It was a very old building. At least, in its foundation and the bones that kept it standing upright through the centuries. Marigold Casey was aware of its history. Researching its past lives was an ideal way to occupy her mind. Far better than dwelling on its current use, anyway. There were bullet holes in the basement from when it was a rowdy inn. Or perhaps they were left over from its boarding house days. The shattered remains of old porcelain dolls could still be found if one sifted through the garden’s soil diligently enough. It saddened her to imagine the house as an orphanage. More so to hear tales of the resident ghost, an eleven year old girl, who lived there for seven long years and never found a home.

Despite all this, if anything there had the potential to be haunted, Marigold was convinced that it would be the item in her hands. A cordless telephone. Purchased new by the facility and placed in the back office less than ten years prior. It was chilling to think of how many conversations it had witnessed. Tidings of life and death and everything in between. Tears shed and secrets shared. Casual banter that was, in its own way, a haunted thing as well. Every call placed on it was inevitably tainted by the possibility of being the last time both parties would ever speak. So much more was lost in the surrounding rooms and corridors than life and will to live. Friendships ended there daily. Parents disowned their daughters. The flame of love was extinguished time and again. All by way of a horrible, unrelenting vortex. Sometimes, however, on the rarest of occasions, a call would guide a patient out of the cycle of worse, then better, then worse again… and onward to a new beginning.

Marigold held her breath, dialing a number that she knew by heart but never called. With trembling hands, she held the receiver to her ear. It rang twice, followed by the crackle of someone picking up on the other end of the line. He did not greet her, but this wasn’t particularly discouraging. She was always the one to speak first, even when she saw Boris in person.

“Do you know who this is?” She asked, sounding far meeker than she intended.

“Marigold Anderson.”

The familiar voice soothed her senses. It always did. “It’s Casey again. I dropped the ‘Anderson’ after Henry dropped off the face of the earth.” There was silence but she knew Boris well enough to anticipate this as well. “Do you know where I am calling you from?”

“I do. Giselle told me about four months back. I’ve been worried. I would have called, but I did not know what to say. It is so good to hear your voice…”

“Yours, too.” A lump formed in Marigold’s throat. Frustrated, she ignored it and talked louder. With just enough force to accidentally come across as angry. “Look, I won’t waste your time. There is a reason why I am calling. And it’s a good one, too.”

“You do not need a good reason to speak to a friend. Especially this one.”

The lump grew tenfold and she felt a warm tide of tears pooling in her eyes. He’d tugged on her heartstrings plenty of times before but she had been feeling even more sentimental than usual lately. She looked across the crudely decorated room, to a figure of the Buddha seated in lotus pose. Why rehab facilities had to disguise themselves as spas always evaded her. Apparently even historical locations were not immune to this trend. There was a leather-bound book on the arm of her chair. It balanced out the scene in some regards, seeing how it predated the building itself by at least thirty years. She touched its cover softly and the grainy texture pulled her back into the moment.

“I asked Giselle to bring me some of Henry’s books to read. One of them turned out to be a journal. Written in the year seventeen-seventy… hmmm,” they shared a laugh, she always was terrible at remembering anything numerical, “by two authors. I’d say one of their names out loud, but I’m pretty sure the staff would take the thing and sell it. The co-author means more to me, anyway. And to you, as well, I’m sure. Boris Bordon! Either an ancestor of yours or your namesake, at least! Let’s be honest, it’s not a name you hear every day.” Silence. Deeper and almost colder this time around. “Boris? You alright?”

“Could you elaborate on the subject matter, please? What did this Boris Bordon write about?

“Plays! Two of them are complete. A few of them were never finished or barely started. I know that it’s authentic, too. Henry never would have held onto a fake. He was an awful husband for sure, but a very good historian. Did he ever mention your potential ancestor?”

“He…” Boris sighed. “Yes. Not very much was known of him. Seventeen-seventy-hmmm was a very long time ago and besides… I’m done chasing ghosts.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some history is better left to dust over on a shelf.”

She shrugged, then chuckled. “The plays are surprisingly humorous! Well, they made me smile! In a place where smiles are pretty scarce, no less.”

“Marigold…” Even though she could not see him, she could imagine his expression with stunning accuracy. Nearly everyone she knew had looked at her with concern at least once, but the way this emotion sat on his features was different. It was never paired with passiveness or aggravation. Even Giselle, her dearest friend in the world seemed to look at her in a way which read, ‘Why are you like this?’ Boris did not have a poker face, no. Instead he had the clearest eyes. ‘Tide pool eyes’. That’s what she called them. Not because they were shallow or easy to decipher, but because in any given moment, she could see the pureness of his thoughts in all of their complexity. ‘I see you as you are’, they seemed to say, ‘and though I do not always understand your pain, I will sit with you through it.’ And so he did, the miles between them notwithstanding. “Marigold? How are you, really?”

“Better.” She breathed in, searched her heart and exhaled honesty. “Better everyday. But I still have a long way to go.”

“What can I do to support you?”

“This. Just this I’ve really missed you. And also, I… I have something coming up two weeks from tomorrow. They call it a ‘graduation’ but Giselle in her infinitely dark sense of humor likes to say that, in my case, it’s a ‘see you again in two-to-three years party’. She’s been right on the money about that one, though, so I won’t give her too much grief. You wouldn’t want to attend, would you? It’s really low-key. I’m probably going to wear a dress, but what else is new? You’ll get to hear me play the banjo and read some of my terrible poetry! I can give you the book and… on second thought, scratch that! You’re all the way in New York and plane tickets are really expensive-“

“-I’ll be there.”

“Wait, what? Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. And excuse me for saying this, but Giselle should stay in her lane. This is a huge accomplishment for you and it should be celebrated. I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

A knock sounded on the opposite side of the open door’s frame. “Time’s up, MareBear. There are two other gals lining up for the phone.”

“I have to go. But before I do, this has been nice. It almost feels like I should have been calling you all along.”

“You can call me whenever you want,” he grinned, “MareBear. I will see you very soon.”

…

The taste of freedom was always sweet at first. She remembered it well, just as she knew by heart the ingredients most likely to sour it in time. Seeing that old building grow smaller in the sideview mirror felt like a rocket launch and Marigold was content to take in the vast expanse of space. For a while, at least, she would enjoy the possibilities before her. The most exciting of which, surprisingly, was the man seated across from her in the back of Giselle’s mini van.

Marigold’s rough collie, Moxie, who she hadn’t seen for the better part of a year, was resting contently with her chin on her knee. She stroked the patches of white and chestnut fur, watching the kaleidoscope of expressions across Boris’ face as he read. Her heart was happy in that moment. The journal had not only brought them together again and given them a reason to reconnect, but it also invited Marigold to take a closer look at their friendship. She was blinded by her attraction to Henry, unable to realize that Boris was the one who did all the heavy lifting. He cared for her from the moment they met, three long years ago. He cared for her, still. Why else would he have made the trip?

Boris had changed very little. He seemed more sure of himself, certainly, but living alone in a big city would do that to just about anyone. His fashion sense had improved. Gone were the days of denim-on-denim. He still had the jeans, of course, but the collared shirt and heavy stubble made him especially easy on the eyes. That and he was still as sweet and as charming as she remembered him. He only wanted to skim through the journal’s pages, out of politeness, but seemed to become transfixed on a random section. Then another. Marigold continued to stare.

He sensed this and looked up from his reading. “I will have to revisit this later. Thank you for entrusting it to me.”

“My pleasure! Hey! How long will you be in town for? Maybe we can go to the cafe tomorrow and try to piece this puzzle together over coffee…”

“My flight leaves in the morning. But there is a bar at the hotel if you’d like to stay a while.” There was something about how he said this that intrigued Marigold. He didn’t mean it in such a way, surely. But it was almost sexy. Sometimes, unknowingly, that deep, rich voice of his would lower to a purr. Their eyes met and she held his gaze. Why was it always blue-eyed men who caused her to grow weak in the knees? Was there some ghost who haunted her? A man from one of her past lives who looked at her tenderly enough to forever alter the inner workings of her soul? “How does that sound? Marigold?”

She shook her head, if only to awaken from the momentary spell he’d placed on her. “Giselle might feel like we’re abandoning her and Moxie…”

“They’re invited, too,” Boris chuckled, wondering why she should suggest that the four of them would have to disperse into groups of two. “Even if the bar doesn’t work, there are lots of dog-friendly places in Charleston. Waterford, as well. I wouldn’t mind visiting some of our old haunts. But this is your day! Where would you like to go?”

“Uhm.” Again, she was distracted. Not by the nature of the conversation, but by how much Boris was talking. Usually his words were chosen and spoken with a certain amount of care. Today, it was rapid fire. He was flustered. She recognized this in him because she was, too. “Crescent Lake Park?”

“They’re setting up the Mid-Summer Fair at Crescent Lake,” Giselle interjected. “It’s supposed to open this evening. So if we get there now, we’d probably be like… tenth in line for churros. And I could really, really go for one.” She looked in the rearview mirror, saw Marigold enthusiastically and Boris second the motion.

…

Dusk had fallen at Crescent Lake Park and the lights of the fair cast a mesmerizing glow across the landscape. On the ground, it was chaos. A maddening cacophony of flashing colors and clashing sounds. But from above, you could almost see how it all fit together. The noise settled into a hum. The lights, into a blinking pulse. To say that it was tranquil up there, at the highest point of that giant ferris wheel would be a stretch. Yet, sitting at the top of it all and indulging in the syncopated heartbeat of the manmade wonder below had a strange sort of serenity to it.

Her fear of heights kept Giselle away from the rides. Boris would have steered clear of them, too, but he agreed to go on several with Marigold. He did not enjoy them as much as she did. In fact, he spent the brief duration of each one catastrophizing. Then convincing himself that there are worse ways to die than by way of some poorly assembled rattle trap. He would ultimately accept it, though, knowing that he had made her happy.

With sweaty palms, he grabbed hold of the bar across his lap as the ferris wheel climbed higher and higher into the soft summer sky.

“You can’t tell me you’re scared!” Marigold teased, placing her hand on his shoulder. “C’mon! After how brave you were on The Zipper!?!”

He breathed deeply, hoping to calm his nerves before she had the chance to realize that he was shaking. “You thought I was brave?”

“Yeah! Thinking the door is going to fly off the cage is actually a pretty common fear. Of course, if it did, you would have been better off holding the handle than onto me!”

He felt his face turn red. “That can’t be the strangest thing to ever happen on that ride. Be honest… are you the first person to ever eat a candy apple while inverted?”

She laughed at this, but not too much. In fact, her mood quickly shifted from playful to almost somber. “Even after all the progress I have made, sweets are still kind of scary for me. I guess I was conflating the two. In a weird way. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I can never just be normal about anything.”

“Marigold…” Their seats shifted as the ride picked up speed. Boris looked down at his feet and saw how high above the ground they were. He wanted to shut his eyes as tightly as possible and keep them closed until the ride was over. But instead, he looked at her. “I think if you were normal, you wouldn’t have had such an incredible turnout at your graduation today. Hearing from your counselors and friends… they love you. People love you. I think it’s because you really, genuinely love them. Now you just need to learn how to give some of that love to yourself. Then you will be unstoppable.” Beside the lake, a pavilion stood over a makeshift dance floor. They could see the reflection of couples gathering inside, waiting for the first song. Marigold recognized it the moment it began to waltz through the speakers and it pulverized her senses like a blast of arctic air. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah! I love this band. I actually have this album on vinyl. The sheet music, too! This song always gives me goosebumps...”

“Sounds like someone I know.” Boris grinned. “It’s always key changes for her, though. Even if the song is bad, she gets goosebumps up and down her arms.”

Oops. She had forgotten about Emily. “That’s right. Your girlfriend is musically inclined…”

“To the point of unavailability. We broke it off about a year ago. ‘In another life’, I always like to say, ‘In another life, perhaps.’ In this one, it was for the better. Now if only I could figure out how to live it to the fullest instead of bouncing around from one temp job to the next. As exciting as New York may seem at first, it doesn’t take long for it to feel like one giant hamster wheel.”

Halfway up, the ferris wheel stalled. Then moved. Then stalled again. Riders began to disembark. New ones boarded, one wobbly seat at a time.

“Have you ever considered moving back to Waterford?”

“No. But now that I am back, I realize…” he stopped himself. “This has been nice. But there is nothing for me here. If I don’t keep searching, I will never find it.”

“See, this is why I like you, Boris. On the surface, you’re a man of few words but once I get you talking, we have the most profound conversations! What are you searching for, anyway? I mean, if you could do anything in this life, anything at all, what would it be?” She could tell immediately that her question had overwhelmed him. “Okay, I’ll rephrase.”

“No need. I’ll tell you, but… you go first!”

“Honestly? To never go back to rehab. To just be done with that chapter of my life forever. And to get back into teaching.”

Boris looked down again, only this time, he felt a bit more comfortable with being seated mid-air. “I believe you will. Just remember, you are in a better place now than you were before. I know it is difficult to see from your vantage point, but believe me, you’ve grown a great deal since I met you.”

“You still didn’t answer my question.”

“A new chapter,” he said, softly, “a new chapter, too.”

…

The bravest thing Marigold did all year was step back inside the house she once called home. It smelled the same as it always did, of coffee beans and incense. Something else, too. The faintest ghost of Henry’s favorite soap still lingered in the rooms above the staircase.

Giselle stayed for a while and offered to spend the night. Had Boris not returned to his hotel after leaving the fair, it might have been different. But Marigold wanted to be alone. Although she almost always preferred company to solitude, she needed time to reflect. To acclimate and make peace with the home she and Henry had made and destroyed- and where she resorted to destroying herself after their marriage ended.

She climbed the stairs, tossed her bathrobe and a clean towel in the dryer so she would have something warm to wrap up in after showering and turned the faucet on. It seemed surreal. To be by herself again after living in close quarters with twelve other women. She loved each one and viewed them as her sisters. Surely, battling the same demon would make someone as good as family. But it was exhausting. Being the resident optimist. Always striving to be cheerful and lighthearted in their presence. Now, she could let her guard down, run the tap until the water turned cold, laugh and cry and think out loud and sing, noisily and poorly, to her heart’s content.

She reached for a small box of handmade toiletries, a graduation gift from her roommate. In it were three matching bars of soap, shampoo, conditioner and a bottle of lotion. Coconut. Meh. She shrugged. It was certainly different from the usual floral fragrance profile she preferred. But the novelty of it quickly grew on her. It smelled like summer. And summer was a time and place in which she dearly wished to stay.

Feeling renewed, she started to towel off and smiled a friendly greeting to Moxie who pushed the bathroom door open with her nose.

“Guess I can’t always smell like I’ve been rolling around in a rosebush, huh, Mox?”

The collie blinked, then lunged at box, stealing a bar of soap and bolting out the door, into the hallway and down the stairs. This could not have happened at a worse time. The second that Marigold began her (very naked) pursuit of the thieving canine, the doorbell rang. Moxie went ballistic, of course, dropping the soap on the ground long enough to bark. And for Marigold to slip on it and crash into the hatrack. The doorbell rang again. Hastily, she snagged her yellow raincoat, buttoned it up all the way and threw open the door, revealing a very confused looking Boris Bordon on the other side.

“Sorry for the intrusion, I can come back later if you-” he began, but his train of thought was immediately derailed when Moxie snatched up the bar a second time and ran out onto the lawn.

Marigold pushed him aside, as gently as possible, jumped and tackled Moxie, and pried the soap out of her mouth. Upon returning to the porch, she looked at Boris, awkwardly. “You didn’t see my butt, did you?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Oh. Well, shoot,” her eyes darted to where the collie sat, staring longingly at the item in her owner’s hand. “So, uh. Collies love coconuts. Apparently. Did you know that? Because I didn’t… didn’t know… uhm. Would you like to come in?”

He nodded, trying to meet her sightline, but Marigold had no interest in making eye contact with him at the moment. They stepped into the living room and she excused herself, returning shortly after in a long, yellow nightshirt and soft gray joggers. She looked pretty, he thought, with her golden hair swept up in a topknot and a pair of thick prescription glasses that he rarely saw her wear. She was usually so put together. Refined, if not a little quirky. But now, in such a relaxed state, he found that he could not take his eyes off of her.

“Thank you for letting me visit. I promise not to keep you long.”

“Honestly, Boris, I’m a little bummed that you’re leaving town tomorrow… so this is nice.” Silence. “What’s up?”

He softened his voice, almost to a whisper. Or in his case, that irresistible purr. “Do you trust me?”

“Implicitly.” She sat down on the couch and Boris did the same. “What’s going on? You seemed fine like two hours ago.”

“Do you remember the word you used to describe me to Henry? You know, when you and I first met?”

“I can think of a few… flustered, erratic… shy. You’ve changed a lot since then.”

“I know,” finally, he smiled again. But there was a sort of gravity to it. “Would it be possible for you to remember me as the man I used to be? Just for a little while?”

“Are you drunk?”

“I wish I were. That would make this so much easier.” The feeble smile fell from his lips. “How badly do you want to know about 18th century Boris Bordon?”

“Well, I mean he’s certainly piqued my interest as of late…”

“Again, do you trust me?”

“What’s not to trust?! You’re only one of my best friends! There’s absolutely nothing you could ever say or do to change that. I promise. Let me make you some tea.” She positioned herself to stand, but Boris reached out and lightly gripped her arm. “Okay, no more fairs for you. Did I hit you too hard on those bumper cars or…” their eyes met and she realized that his were red and damp with tears. “Hey. Hey? What’s wrong? I think the real question here is do you trust me?”

“I… “he stammered momentarily, then emboldened by patient and caring woman beside him, he began… “I delivered parcels before I was a soldier…”

At first, she doubted. Any reasonable person would. Still, she held her tongue and listened. There had to be some truth hidden within this elaborate fabrication. Perhaps he was just confused. Or trying to impress her with how convincingly he could make up a story on the spot. But Boris never lied. He was easily her most trustworthy friend. What’s more, hearing about this humble delivery boy in love with a wealthy general’s daughter, swept away by the rising tide of war, who lost everything because of his own humanity… she could not only picture the Boris she knew in this tragic role- he embodied it all so perfectly. Marigold had seen gifted actors perform on stage and studied footage of renowned masters of the craft. If it was merely an act, he surpassed them all. As the hours crept on, she moved past simply trying to believe that her friend and the flawed yet tenderhearted loyalist soldier were the same person- she knew it in her heart to be true.

He only looked away when the story became uncomfortable or when elaborating on a detail that caused him to feel embarrassment or shame. For the most part, Boris watched her eyes and she, in turn, watched his. Joy and pain, conviction and confusion, she felt each emotion as her own. From his first dance with Sylvia to his valiant effort to see her again despite the mortal wound he received in an ambush along the Santee, mere miles from where they now sat, she believed it all.

“I wanted nothing more than to hold her again. But the road was too long. The winter winds too cold for me to bear.” He stopped and looked through the nearest window. The sky was dark, illuminated only by a sliver of the crescent moon. “We were in the wilderness, a little over halfway through Virginia when the fate I had been running from caught up with me at last. I am not proud of who I became in my final hour. Banastre risked so much, turned away from his career just to help me return home. How did I repay him? By weeping. By begging for Sylvia. For John. For any hand to hold but his. That is my final memory of the life I lived before. Staring up into a wall of snowy pines, glistening in the early morning light. Sometimes in my dreams, I return to that place against my will. To suffer in agonizing pain, blinded by a beacon which to the lucky few means eternal rest. Now the only comfort I have is the belief that my son is there, behind that light. Behind the threshold I was not worthy to cross. And never will be. I am haunted by it all. Where one might hear a heartbeat, I hear my final words, pounding in my ears.”

“What were they?”

“I don’t want to die… Over and over, I made that wish. It came true. In one moment, I lay cowering in Banastre’s arms, in the next, I was standing on a dark stage in an empty theatre. 230 years and 230 miles from when and where I took my dying breath. And you… you don’t believe a word of it, do you?”

Marigold took his hand and gave it a comforting, confirming squeeze. “I believe everything you’ve ever told me. Including this.”

“There is more. You see, I am not the only one. I saw Sylvia again. She went by a different name. We tried, Marigold. Emily and I tried. But her heart did not obey our wishes and just as I chose John over her those many years ago, she chose her career over me.”

“I believe,” she muttered to the floor after collecting her thoughts, “you will find John Andre again. If that is what you want… let me help you. We can visit every place he ever stood, find every letter he ever wrote. Even if I have to step into the afterlife and drag him out of it into the land of the living. I will do anything, anything at all to reunite the two of you.”

The grip on her hand tightened. “Oh, but my dear friend John and I were reunited. Again, by another name. Perhaps you have noticed the similarity between the surnames, ‘Anderson’ and ‘Andre’. I wanted you to know, but the only way to tell you would be by giving you the whole story. What was between us perished long before he found you, Marigold. Even before I found him again in this life. Henry Anderson was only ever a friend to me. He loved you. He told me so, time and again.”

“Did he now?” She frowned, bitterly wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but… I really need to be alone now. You must be so tired. Stay. For as long as you need. I have a guest room. We can sort out your flight home in the morning.”

“You believe me… don’t you?”

“Yes, Boris. I believe you. But the truth can be really heavy sometimes. Just give me an hour or two in my room so I can cry and think. Maybe sleep. You try to get some sleep, too.”

…

It was dawn when Marigold emerged from her isolation. From the landing, she could see light splashed across the living room floor. But it did not originate from the guest room or even the kitchen. Instead, it came from the tiny lamp on the top of her piano. Boris was seated on the bench, silently moving his fingers from one key to another, without pressing down.

“You play, I assume?” She asked, only after he sensed her presence. It would have been cruel to startle him.

“I did once. But I’m afraid I have forgotten how.”

“You never fully forget. Perhaps, if you’ll let me, I can help you remember…” Their eyes locked, weary from a sleepless night. Still, somehow, there were even more sparks between them than before. It was inevitable. Even from behind closed doors, their bond had strengthened. Blossomed into something wondrous and new over the stretch of a few short hours. Her sheet music was stored in a crate on the floor and she could tell just by looking at it that he had been sifting through her collection. “What song were you looking for, anyway?”

“The one from last night.”

Marigold stepped closer, then knelt beside him. It took only a moment for her to locate the piece of paper. He glanced at the notes on the page and was quietly pleased. It might take a couple of tries, but he would surely be able to play it. He pretended to be worse than he actually was, allowing her to position (then reposition) his fingers on the keys. He knew that she could sing well, having gone to a karaoke bar with her on more than one occasion. But it was different now that she was not trying to project or impress her friends. He would never tell her, but he preferred her voice this way. Pure and sweet and vulnerable, with no embellishments or vibrato. Almost like a lullaby, sleepily sung in the middle of the night. Feeling playful now, he decided to surprise her a bit at the chorus by not only chiming in, but harmonizing with her. In the end, it was the lyrics that derailed them both. The subtle yet potent accuracy of the line, “To a new place I have awoken.” The remaining words did not go unsung, but a new energy found them. A sort of daze. Then at the end, silence.

She could not explain it, but that silence frightened her. “Would you like some coffee? It’ll have to be black. I haven’t made it to the market yet for creamer or milk. They should be open soon, though. Maybe we could walk there and get some fresh air, sometimes that’s even better than caffeine…”

Boris lifted his hand, halting her nervous rant with a comforting, confirming grin. “Coffee would be lovely, thank you. And I don’t mind at all, I actually take mine black.”

“Really?” A peculiar notion warmed her heart. There was something so lovely, so intimate in learning this about him. “Well, that myth has been busted.”

“What myth?”

“The sweeter the person, the sweeter they like their coffee to be!” She could feel herself blushing. Hopefully the lighting was low enough for it to have gone unnoticed. “I’ll just… get started on that, then.” She fumbled with the kettle and the press. Burnt fingers were the least of her concerns. Especially when she heard him stand and walk slowly from the piano bench to the kitchen table. “I’ve made a decision. Would you like to hear it? Good. I’ve decided that I don’t want to discuss Henry anymore today. You said it best, ‘Some history is better left to dust over on a shelf.’ I believe the best course of action would be to let bygones be bygones. We should focus instead on what is before us and go from there. But that is going to require complete honesty. From both sides. You told me who you are and that was very painful for you, I know. It is not fair for me to ask for more information. But I need to know… why? Why did you tell me?”

“If I were to wager a guess, it would be the same reason why you called me two weeks ago.”

Trembling now, she passed him a steaming cup and took a sip of her own. It burned like hell, but she didn’t care. “I have another question. Don’t worry, it should be easier to answer than all the others have been so far. Did you know Annabelle Casey?”

“Yes. Not as well as I know you.” He, too, took a premature sip of his coffee and winced in pain. “But if I were to awaken tomorrow in the past… if I were to see her again, she would surely remind me of someone very dear to me. Someone I love.” Whether it was a smile or a frown or her jaw dropping in response, Boris would never know. She covered her mouth the instant that fateful word was spoken. “Now you know. Now there are no secrets left between us.”

It felt like the floor had been ripped out from under her feet. Only, there was no earth to fall towards or dark abyss to swallow her whole. There was no free fall. No skyward motion of being catapulted into the air. No, instead, it was the jarring realization that gravity had been an illusion all along. She did not have to grieve the past or bear the crushing weight of lost love anymore. Love was there in front of her and it never felt so right. But freedom is frightening. It is far easier to run back into one’s cage. With her hand still pressed firmly across her mouth, Marigold abandoned her coffee and ran into the living room. He followed, but kept his distance.

“We can’t do this, Boris. I’ve got baggage, you’ve got baggage. We can try to dance around it, sure! But we’re going to trip and fall. And get scraped and bruised all over. It will be a disaster! And you’re going to leave me, rightfully so! Just like Henry. You’re going to leave me halfway through the dance…”

“I would never.”

“Oh, yeah? Well. Prove it.”

There was a stack of vintage suitcases that Marigold had piled, one on top of the other, to create an end table beside the couch. Boris took each one and scattered them on the floor in front of the entertainment center.

“We need more baggage,” he said after stepping back to inspect his work, “go grab some of your tote bags while I find our song. Unless, of course, you’ve grown tired of hearing it.”

“I never have. And never will.” Marigold laughed, then gathered her large collection of totes, and threw them here and there on the ground between them. Then she watched Boris search for the album. “I will say, though… I do think you’re taking this idiom a bit too seriously. I meant dancing around our baggage as a negative thing.”

“It doesn’t have to be. We see the baggage, acknowledge it is there and work as a team to navigate our way around it. Now.” He dropped the needle on the song she knew very well… that he knew now, too. “May I have this dance?”

She accepted his hand. Her heart was pounding, certainly, but as he pulled her into his strong embrace, it seemed to leap, then soar. “See, goosebumps. Goosebumps every time.”

“Goosebumps every time…” he beamed. “Now, that I know I got the song right…” It was a faint gesture, had she blinked, she surely would have missed the burning in those deep blue eyes as they glanced at her lips.

“Boris. Please, don’t… Don’t stand there and watch me fall in love with you right now only to run off to some other time or place.”

“If ever I am to run again, it will be to your side. To the only soul I’ve ever encountered in all of my travels identical to my own. I see my hopes and fears, my weaknesses and strengths reflected in your eyes. In other lives, we barely scratched the surface or were nothing more than two ships passing in the night. But in this life, Marigold. This life is ours to do with as we please. Right now, I would like nothing more than to do what I should have done last night, sitting with you 75 feet in the air. I love you.”

Marigold stopped moving her feet, causing them both to stumble slightly, but it was an easy save. She was the first to move in, knowing him well enough to plan for his initial hesitation- and she was not wrong to make this assumption. “It was only a matter of time before you stole my heart away, Boris Bordon. Now I love you. I love all of you, fully. Completely. And it feels like stepping out into the sunlight for the very first time.”

No man had ever kissed her in such a way before. Lovers on the silver screen, emboldened by their passion, could never hold a candle to his tender urgency. Any words he had suppressed before were freed, born again as whispers of gentle motion on the tip of his tongue. But he did not only speak to her in kisses. One arm remained stationary, firmly positioned behind her back. His free hand grazed her features for a while, then found the tie at the base of her topknot and with great care, he tugged until her hair billowed downward. He followed its journey with his fingertips, across her collarbone and shoulder. She felt his eagerness, the desire to move lower. But he seemed to stall, to look before jumping.

“We can go upstairs if you’d like.” Marigold offered, moving even closer than before.

“Soon. This is the last track on the album. We should stay where we are until there is no longer music to be danced to.” His words carried a double meaning. In them, she found an invitation to her immediate desires but also, a solemn promise that he would never leave her side.

The song was nearly over. The choir singing in its final measures seemed to come from a loftier place than the old record player across from where they stood. Silence crept back into the space. But it was not an empty silence. They traversed the maze of suitcases and moved, hand-in-hand through the house they would both come to call home and the bed they would share well into old age. Time was still their master, as is the way with all mortal beings. In his case, time and mortality found him the moment he began to live again. Still, in their own special way, they managed to transcend it.

It is a very old town. The little yellow house on Foxglove Drive was young by comparison when their story began. Days collected like pages. Years, like chapters. If those walls could speak, they would tell a tale of hope and renewal.

Marigold returned to the classroom. Inspired by her perseverance, Boris rediscovered his love for music and with it, a career path that he never before considered. She taught English, he taught Band. Every summer, they combined forces to lead a musical theatre camp in the high school auditorium. Sometimes, they would be haunted by shadows of the past. Sometimes, his dreams would carry him back to the life he lived before and he would wonder if Marigold, herself, was nothing more than a passing vision of the night. But with the morning light, he would return to her loving arms. Just as he helped her find herself again. And again.

The End (?)

[blkkizzat]

ღ 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞!𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨 ღ

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 𝐨𝐟 𝟐

18+ONLY MDNI

kizzatober series: Smooth Criminals

Kinktober Prompts: Clothed Male/Naked Female, Thigh Riding, Knife Play Synopsis: The university campus is being terrorized by a copycat Ghostface killer. As a popular sorority girl with a dumb jock bf, you are a prime choice to be his next victim especially given how he can't stop thinking about you. But you're no ordinary Sorority Girl bimbo, now are you? CW: AU college fic. blood obsession/hematolagnia, bimbo reader, murder, slight DV (from your npc jerk ass bf), unprotected sex, masturbation, slight age gap (roughly 21 vs 28) and dark content. NOTE: If death/killer romanticization related shit triggers you this is probably a fic to avoid because that is happening all through this bitch. I literally wrote a murder fluff smut fic lmfao. WC: 6.5k of 15.4k Lightly black fem coded (reader is an AKA lmfao) but no descriptors.

A/N: This is my first kinktober fic! I'm sorry this took so long y'all but last week been low key hell and I was sick for a lot of it. Also I did struggle with this a bit since this one I decided to do as an whole fic instead of PWP and now its gotten to be so long its definitely going to be in two parts. Sorry there's no smut in the first part, but there is some fluff and some juicy build up. I've never written for Choso before but he's so baby girl omg I'm obsessed with him now but still I'm a bit nervous posting this. sorry if its dog.

Enjoy!

“Ever felt a knife rip through human flesh and scrape the bone beneath?”

Those were the last words a nameless student heard before Ghostface's hunting knife shined menacingly in the air and came down to claim its newest victim.

Shluk! Shluk! Shluk!

Metal slashed through flesh with razor precision.

Gurgled death cries are silenced as the lifeless body collapses to the ground. 

A thick pool of blood began gathering around them to fan out and travel around their body down the slanted titled floor to drain. 

Choso breathed in deeply. 

A wave of calm washed over him. 

Peace. 

Almost in an enlightened state, he felt the most serene after a kill. 

It was beautiful. 

Blood was beautiful.

The surging stream of blood that would eventually slow to a trickle, the abstract designs of its splatter and the way it swirled around the body splayed across the ground like paint on a canvas.

Like a painting. 

A death painting… and the knife, his paintbrush. 

This was his art.

Choso can recall the first time he actually saw blood beyond a minor scrape. 

He couldn’t have been more than 6 years old. No doubt trying to impress his younger brother Yuji by balancing on top of the monkey bars. After all this time Choso isn’t certain as to how, but he lost his footing and fell flat on his face onto the unforgiving concrete below.

Screams of children filled the area once Choso pushed himself up onto his feet. He immediately felt wetness rush down his face. However, rather than cry or panic a young Choso cocked his head curiously when he noticed his reflection on the metal jungle gym. A warped view of his face mirrored back at him but he could still make out the bright red fluid cascading down his features staining him in red. 

Choso didn’t know how long he stood transfixed, mesmerized by the sight of rouge river that flowed from him until Yuji ran back crying with their parents in tow. 

It was how he had the scar across the bridge of his nose till this day, which became unsightly enough he had decided to get a black bar tattooed over it as soon as he turned 18. 

From then on he couldn’t deny his growing obsession with blood and seeing it leave the human body. All of which had led him here to this university to attain a PHD in Forensics. 

He picked this university, not only for their program but it was the perfect small town playground for Ghostface, a local urban legend from years ago he decided to revive once he felt as he had attained enough knowledge not to get caught.  

Choso was meticulous in his process. 

Ironclad alibis, no distinctive patterns and no victims with any connections to each other, nor him. Additionally, he had memorized all the angles of the university’s security system (thanks to a security guard he had bribed then promptly killed). 

His victims' lives were just his means to an end for his art and most students on this campus wouldn’t amount to much anyway outside of that was how he justified it. Choso did like toying with them on occasion though, fear made the blood pump faster and spray harder once he finally did catch them. 

Sadly, he could never admire his creations for too long though before needing to make his own exit. 

Almost midnight. 

Ten more minutes before campus security makes another round.

He took one last glance at the scene of carnage he had created before disappearing into the night. 

☠

In just a mere 2 hours, the news of another Ghostface murder spread across campus. 

The university’s students were either scared, scattering back to barricade themselves in their dorms. Or curious, lingering around the crime scene near the safety of the news crews and reporters who had gathered to see who the unlucky victim was this time.

No one however, is likely more curious than you: A third year forensics undergrad, who was just itching to get a real glimpse of your first real crime scene, a Ghostface copycat killer crime scene at that! 

You had even left a huge frat party (to be fair it was about to get broken up soon anyway) to trek across campus in the bitter cold of late fall. 

“Y/N, let’s go back–,” one of your pledges whined, “–it’s cold and my feet hurt in these heels!”

“Shh, Stassi, shut up! What if this is an initiation test?” another pledge whispered. 

Your sorority pledges chatter on behind you and you almost forgot you brought them along. It’s not like you wanted to but, like it or not, they were attached to you at the hip like little ducklings until rush was over.

With a clap you turn on your heel to address them.

“Ladies–” 

However you abruptly stop once you see your Forensics TA, Choso Kamo, taking what appeared to be a night jog across the campus quad. 

Was he going to the crime scene too? Your face instantly lights up and your pledges look around confused.

“Wait here girlies! I’ll be 5 minutes max…. No, I mean it. Wait right here!”    

Your pledges huff quietly, but agree. 

They had no choice really as you were already skipping as fast as your not-so-sober legs would carry you in 5-inch pumps over the quad lawn. Truthfully, that was not something they were trying to do too, especially not to chase down what looked like some creepy emo nerd.

“Choso!”

You call out to him and wave, but he doesn’t look like he sees you as you hurry towards him.

“Hey Choooo! Wait up!”  You puffed out, trying to maneuver over the grass in your heels. 

Choso sighed recognizing your voice, reluctantly slowing his pace. He would have kept on jogging but he knew you would keep calling out to him and draw even more attention that he really didn’t need right now.

Finally catching up to him, you grab Choso’s arm and loop yours through. He flinched slightly at your touch but you knew he always seemed a bit jumpy when it came to physical contact, so this didn’t phase you. 

If anything you thought his reactions were kinda cute.

“Where are you going weirdo? All the action is back that way!” You teased with a big grin and pointed in the direction of the crime scene.

Choso tries to ignore how his adrenaline was pumping even faster from you holding on to him than when he was running, especially dressed as you were. 

You looked sexy as hell utterly ridiculous.

You were decked out in a sailor costume, which was pretty much just a poor excuse for lingerie at this point. Your white sailor flap collar attached to nothing more than a sparkly navy bra with shiney white and red trims, leaving your midsection exposed showing your cute little belly ring in the shape of an anchor. 

This was complemented by a dangerously short yet matching sparkling navy pleated skirt which sat low on your thick hips. Your shapely legs were the most covered part of your body yet still looked overwhelmingly tempting in red glittery garters, attached to white opaque stockings in glittery red heels.

“I’m the weirdo… but you’re dressed like that in 40 degree weather.” Choso retorted, brow raised.

“Duh Choso–” 

You released his arm to give him a twirl in your outfit, not noticing the way he nervously wet his lips watching your skirt rise with your little spin.

“–The ‘Get Nauti’ party was tonight silly, where have you been!?”

Oh you know, just casually killing someone. Choso resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

Of course he knew about the party. 

The campus had been littered with fliers for ‘Get Nauti’ for the past two weeks. Nothing Choso would ever be interested in as he would rather stab himself in the face than attend a mind-numbing party with a bunch of bro-for-brain frat guys. 

However, he did take advantage of the opportunity to create another death painting as Ghostface with the rest of campus preoccupied. 

He couldn’t tell you that though obviously.

“Gym,” Choso said flatly and shrugged, “Heading back to the dorms n-”

“–You mean you aren't going to the Social Sciences building!? Don’t you remember?!” You cut him off in your excitement. 

“The police said they would let us forensic students look at the next crime scene!”

Your face had a warm glow and your movements slightly swayed. You were clearly drunk.

“No Y/N, they said they might let the PhD students, like me, look at the crime scene… and that was only a slim ‘maybe’. You’re still just an undergrad”, he reminded you, much to your dismay as you puffed your cheeks.

But seriously, Choso thought, even the incompetent local police would have enough sense not to let you on the crime scene dressed as you are now, even if you were a PhD student. 

“Awe no fair,” you whine dejectedly. “But you should go, Cho! Then you can tell me all about it! Pleaseeee, I’m dying to know what a Ghostface crime scene looks like. I hear it’s kinda gruesome!”

You gazed up at Choso through fluttering long lashes as you poked out your cherry glossed lips. It was a pout that could famously leave any frat boy at your mercy, but it never seemed to stir Choso much (that you could tell at least).

Choso swallowed. 

On the contrary, your charms worked rather well on him. His mouth was dry and he unconsciously clenched and unclenched a sweat ridden palm behind his back. 

The hell were you doing being this excited over a crime scene? One of his crime scenes for that matter? 

Choso really didn’t know what to make of that.

“Y/N it’s late. I still have papers to grade. I’m going back to my dorm now and you should get home too,” Choso said flatly, trying to keep his cool although fatigue was etched into his voice.

He was in peak physical form but still feeling the strain given he just chased his last victim all over the Social Sciences building. Not to mention still having assignments to grade. All which would be fine if he also wasn’t on edge from you right now as well.

“Booooo…Choso yo– ahchoo!” You sneezed from the cold. 

The effects of alcohol could only do so much to keep you warm in these low temperatures while you were standing still. 

With another sigh Choso unzipped his black track jacket, taking it off and putting it around your shoulders. 

He was doing so as much for your sake as his own. Choso couldn’t help but notice your boobs looking like they were going to pop out of your flimsy sailor bra at any moment when you folded your arms underneath them for warmth.

He was really doing his best to maintain eye contact with you.

“Awe thanks Cho, you’re so chivalrous!” You giggled, blushing as you snuggled into his jacket. 

You could still feel his body heat lingering on the material but the heady scent of oak and sandwood from his cologne warmed you even more.

You also couldn’t help but stare as the black compression turtleneck he wore underneath clung to his body like a second skin. You had suspicions he was fit but you never saw him wear anything beyond his dark colored button ups and shaggy sweaters when in class. 

“Now go home, Y/N. You shouldn’t even be out here alone this late.” 

Choso’s stern voice snapped you out of your ogling.

“But I’m not alone silly!” 

You pointed to the group of scared and shivering freshmen girls also in various states of sparkly undress all for the sake of ‘getting nauti’ standing on a paved path not too far off. 

They looked absolutely miserable. 

“I have my pledges!” 

Choso gave you an incredulous look. You were too clueless. 

“So let me get this straight… You are drunk. You have drunk freshmen with you, who shouldn’t even be drinking in the first place…and you plan on taking them to a murder scene? Where the cops are?” You made an “OH” face and absentmindedly laughed as you came to the realization it probably wasn’t the best look for Chapter VP of the AKAs to take a bunch of drunk and terrified freshmen pledges straight into a recent crime scene. Even if you could put an academic spin on it as it was relevant to your major classes.

Yikes, and on second thought, your house mom would flip her entire shit if she found out.

“Go home Y/N,” Choso said again, shaking his head.

“Besides, you should be more focused on the Chemistry lab midterm on Monday. You know you can’t afford to fail.”

You sulked but relented, he was right. On both accounts.

As your T.A. for that class Choso knew better than anyone just how much your grade depended on passing that lab and you hadn’t even so much as glanced at your notes yet this week.

“Aye Aye, Capitan Choso, sir!” you teased giving him a salute with a wink and lifted knee, your sailor skirt lifting a bit higher.

It was a cute move, or it would have been at least if it hadn't caused your weight to shift all on to one foot. The heel of the sparkly red glitter pump baring your weight sunk into the patch of soft soil beneath you causing your foot to pop out of the shoe as you tumble forward. 

You would have definitely ate shit and embarrassed yourself in front of Choso, your pledges and whoever else was walking across the quad at this time of night if Choso’s quick reflexes didn’t catch you. 

You let out a squeak and waved your arms as you fell tits first onto Choso’s hard chest. 

Shit. 

Choso could feel your hardened nipples pressing against him through the flimsyass costume you wore. He tried hard to focus on how cold it was outside. Anything rather than how warm your body felt up against him or how his biceps tensed from the tight grip of your delicate fingers that sought stability from him.

You grinned sheepishly. You thanked him for catching you not realizing the position you were in nor the torment you were putting this man through.

Setting you upright quickly, Choso crouched down to retrieve your shoe. 

His plan was to simply place it near your foot but he felt your hand land on his shoulder and you raised your dainty foot up expectantly.

Any attempts to avert his gaze proved futile as Choso couldn’t stop his eyes from traveling up the length of your leg. 

Your opaque white stockings practically glowed in the darkness illuminating the shapely calves it covered and thick thighs the tight material cut into. Your hips strained against your garters up until your –he caught himself and his eyes snapped up immediately.

He was a killer, not a perv at least he was trying not to be.

Gingerly making sure to only touch your ankle, you were giggling again as he put your shoe on your foot and placed it on the grass again.

“Thanks Choso! You really are a lifesaver, ya know! I can’t bend down in this skirt.”

“Don’t mention it.” Choso quickly replied, pushing his bangs out of his face in exasperation. 

Really don’t. 

Choso was trying to forget the flash of red lace he saw that barely covered your plump pu– No he had to stop, you were technically his student even if he was just a T.A.

He would surely have to kill you if he popped a boner right now. He was trying to keep a low profile already and did not need to add ‘sexual deviant' to his name from a student harassment claim.

“For real now, go home Y/N.” Choso silently pleaded you would just listen this time. 

He always felt more compulsive right after a kill and didn’t know what he would do if you stayed around him like this much longer.

You finally relented to his relief, nodding and mumbling a sad little goodnight pulling his jacket around your shoulders tighter as you turned to leave back to your pledges. 

Choso started to leave as well but your voice stopped him as you looked at him over your shoulder.

“You know Choso…” You smoothed your skirt down behind you and flashed him a pageant winning smile, “I don’t mind that you saw them.”

Before Choso’s short-circuiting brain could even process what you said you were bouncing off back to your pledges. “Okay ladies, now make like Bey and get in formation! Back to the Soro house!” 

Your pledges erupted with various replies from– 

‘Thank God!’’ 

‘Did you just go over there to steal that nerd’s jacket? Boss!’’

‘Was that your boyfriend, Y/N?’

‘Y/N’s bf is a starter on the football team, she doesn’t want that weird emo dork.’

‘No, sis did you see his muscles– That emo look is still kinda hot right now, huh Y/N?’ 

‘Awe, but I want to go back to the frat!’ 

–all fluttered from the group of chattering girls as you cheerily led them back to the Sorority house. 

You laughed at their comments hoping Choso couldn’t hear them though, as they were a bit embarrassing. 

Unfortunately for the both of you, there was no way for Choso not to hear your rowdy group of drunk giggling girls, he’s sure the whole quad did. 

Choso rolled his eyes as a chill took over him as he started the jog back to his dorms. 

He was glad he had given you his jacket though. The way his body had started to respond to you just now the frigid jog back to the dorms would do him good. 

He just wanted to shower, grade a few papers then go to bed, he didn’t want to end up fisting his cock to you again tonight. 

You had plagued his peace for too long. It wouldn’t do him any good to think of you, it’s not like he could ever have you. 

Sure you went to the same university but you might as well have been from two different worlds. 

You were a popular sorority undergrad with the attention of virtually the entire male population on campus. 

Choso was a PhD student who was used to fading in the background, most avoided him due his looks and academic focus anyway. 

He only had an affiliation with you because his scholarships were tied to being a T.A. for undergrad forensics classes. 

Also you did have a boyfriend. 

An asshole neanderthal football-wide-receiver boyfriend who he would have been tempted to kill already had he not served his own purpose as a reality check and barrier for Choso.

Oh and had an eccentric obsession with blood going for him and was also the Ghostface copycat killer, that too. 

He was sure that would go over well with you, Choso mused sarcastically.

☠

Upon returning to his dorm Choso took a shower, graded papers and tried to fall asleep but inevitably jerked his cock off to you.

Twice. 

The sounds and images of your ditzy little laugh and skippy little panties consumed him as soon as he closed his eyes. The phantom feeling of the way your nipples felt pressed against his chest and how you clung to him desperately had him feeling near insatiable. 

Choso admittedly thinks of killing you often. Just to get some peace of mind.

It wouldn’t be difficult at all to pull off. It’s not like you could put up much of a fight against him.

He didn’t want to break his rule of killing anyone with a connection to him but Choso had also never had anyone stir him the way you did. 

You were a distraction and liability to him. If he killed you he could finally stop thinking about you…right?

You would make a beautiful death painting too.

Choso imagines thick red blood splattered across your curves. 

The fatal gash from the femoral artery in your thigh oozing out a continuous stream of blood. The cut would have to be considerably deep too considering how meaty your thighs were. 

Would the blood streak down your long leg as you desperately tried to hobble away from him in your slutty red heels?

Or would you collapse in fear and surrender to him fully? Landing in such a way that allowed the blood to redirect backwards and soil the flimsy red panties poorly concealing the fat of your cunt as you cried out in fear.

Fuck. 

He was hard again. 

He reached over to his night stand for his lotion bottle– practically empty thanks to his nonstop fantasies of you.

God, he was pathetic.

☠

The school week that followed was relatively uneventful. 

You passed your lab midterms much to Choso’s surprise. Although you always seemed to pass with a relatively decent grade despite how you struggled to get there. Holding firm to your B average in the class and 3.3 GPA in your major overall.

He had to admit you were a better student than he originally gave you credit for. It makes him recall when he first saw you last spring. 

You were a late enroll to Forensic Biology 101. Not only that, you burst into the third class of the semester nearly 15 minutes late.

Oblivious to all the eyes your disruption earned, you leaned on your knees as your chest heaved from exertion giving the entire class an amazing view of your tits spilling from your pink crop top adorned with the prestigious “AKA” sorority. 

You definitely would have given the class an additional show from bending over in your tight green jean skirt had your ass not been facing the door. Choso eyes couldn't help but travel down the length of your legs, your glossy white painted toes peeking out strappy pink pumps. 

You smiled brightly once you caught your breath and apologized for your late entrance but you were newly voted chapter vice president and had just come from your first meeting. 

Surely you had the wrong classroom.

“Er– this class is Forensic Biology 101 young lady.” The older male professor had given you a once over also thinking you must be lost.

“Mhm, yup! I’m Y/N! I just changed my major!” you beamed and handed the professor your schedule.

He looked at it and back at you twice.

“Hm, well so it is…but you are already behind, little lady. Go and take a seat next to the T.A. in the back, Choso Kamo, he will catch you up.”

Just his luck. Choso didn’t want to babysit some sorority bimbo who would probably drop this class in two weeks once the labs started. 

Your university was famous for the forensics program. If you graduated you were all but guaranteed a job at a prominent lab in a major city but more than two thirds of undergrad students dropped it once the rigorous labs began. 

You didn’t look like you would last.

Especially when you told him your interest in forensics came from watching Dexter. You told him how you thought the actor was hott and how his kill rooms were ‘so cool.’ Choso definitely rolled his eyes at that and wrote you off as a soon-to-be drop out.

You proved him wrong though. 

You were a bit of a ditz and a huge clutz but Choso came to understand t's more because you had about a billion different things going on in your head at once rather than you just being dumb or careless. 

You were also a hard worker. 

It was admirable how many activities you were involved in yet still tried as hard as you did in your classes. You always came to his T.A. review sessions and even sought him out at times while he was in the research library to ask him questions. 

You were a good student and he was a horrible T.A. for even thinking of you in this way. 

The campus bell tower struck noon in the distance and Choso looked down to see that he had only read a single paragraph since he sat down to study thirty minutes ago.

Fuck, he had lost himself in thinking about you again. 

Choso put a hand over his face. 

He was sitting alone at a picnic table on the outer, less populated edges of the quad trying to read a textbook but every time he heard a high pitched giggle he snapped his head up thinking it was you.

Class schedules were a bit different due to midterms and he hadn’t seen you the entire week other than to administer the lab but that didn’t mean you didn’t still plague his thoughts more increasingly as of late.

It was making Choso a bit reckless. 

Needing to relieve stress he had created 2 more death paintings. A mistake as it was rumored the local police would soon reach out to bigger towns for more help and perhaps even the FBI would send an agent soon to campus if this kept up. 

He had to move more carefully. 

Maybe make it look like there were multiple Ghostface killers for starters.

“3 Victims, One Week: The Copycat Ghostface Reign of Terror Continues!” 

You read aloud adding a bit of dramatic flair to your voice as you recite the front headline of the campus paper and jar Choso from his thoughts of you. 

Speak of the devil.

You approached Choso at his table and he immediately noticed you were wearing his jacket again, well more like swimming in it as it was clearly too big for you.

This time though you were bundled up in a scarf, leggings and heeled booties. He was glad his face was already a bit red from sitting out in the cold because he couldn’t stop the intrusive thoughts from forming that you looked even sexier cozied up and comfortable in his jacket than in the slutty sailor costume.

“I don’t know why you even bother reading that shit Y/N. They never have any interesting details anyway.” Choso tried to feign disinterest in your arrival but his leg was already slightly bouncing under the table, nervous energy returning.

“Well I have to! You wouldn’t go to the crime scene for me last Saturday, remember?”

How could he forget?  

However a part of him did want you to view it though, his masterpieces, his kills. 

See how glorious their blood looked sprayed on the walls, the ground, and the general surroundings of his victims. 

But he knew you’d never appreciate them the way he did even if you were a forensics student.

“Oh and sorry!” 

You interrupted his thoughts once again.

“I meant to give you back your jacket, I’ve been carrying it with me hoping I’d run into you but I ran out today and forgot mine…whoops! I hope you don’t mind me wearing yours a bit longer?”

Your saccharine smile has Choso sucking in a hard breath. 

At this point he would prefer you to just keep it, he couldn’t trust himself if he had it back with your scent all over it knowing you had been carrying it around all week.

He would never know any peace.

“Keep it as long as you need.”

“Kay!”

You smile at him as you haphazardly plop your overstuffed tote bag down next to him, which of course spilled all its colorful contents all over the table. 

“Oh Crap!” 

You lean over to reach for your bag but almost spill the tray of hot coffees in your hand.

“Y/N, Watch out!” 

Choso grabbed the tray before it could spill all over his and your belongings and sat it down on the table with a small exhale.

“Oh! Thank you!” You flash him a big grin. “I got this one for you!” 

You handed him a grande cup with ‘pumpkin spice dirty chai’ scribbled on it.

Choso preferred his coffee black and he has definitely told you that before but you always just brought him whatever sugary drink you ordered saying he needed to ‘try new things’. 

He wasn’t about to turn you down though, caffeine was caffeine and as a PhD student he needed all he could get. Choso also knew it was your way of thanking him for helping you so much in forensics.  

“Thanks...” Choso mumbled taking a sip. Shit this is actually good.

You sat down next to him, a little too close for comfort with your spandex clad thigh brushing up against his leg.

“Whatcha reading? Is it for your thesis?” You were perilously close leaning on him as you looked over his broad shoulder onto his textbook.

“Yeah, some forensics texts I need to review for citations. This section focuses on serology and bloodstain pattern analysis,” Choso stated knowledgably. 

“Oh! Like in Dexter!” 

“Yeah, Y/N, like in Dexter.” 

Maybe Choso is growing a bit soft as he can’t resist but to crack a small smile at your kid-like-enthusiasm for the subject, you were incorrigible. 

Choso also doesn’t miss the way your eyes sparkle when you ask him to tell you more about his research. 

And so he does.

Sometimes Choso forgets how easy you are to talk on the subject. To be frank no one outside his own PHD program ever asks him about his thesis so before he realizes it he’s letting his guard down to indulge you.

You both get so lost in the conversation to the point it hasn’t even phased Choso yet that you are now actually leaning on him. 

Your soft cheek rests near his shoulder and your body angles deeper into his as you point to ask him about a passage on the page which he begins to break down.  

You try to focus on his words but in the midst of Choso’s explanation your eyes stray from the text up to his face. 

You feel your body start to warm.You always thought he was attractive. His dark looks never deterred you if anything they were refreshing from the crew cut preppy jocks around you. Even more so with his piercings in.

Choso never wore any of his piercings during classes or while in the research library. You counted six facial piercings in total from the three on his brows to the septum, labret and finally the black bar piercing through his tongue that darted out exposed with the movements of his mouth. 

Studying him further you discover for the first time his tattoo across the bridge of his nose was actually covering a scar. It looked old but like it had been deep. 

You couldn’t help but wonder if it had hurt him and why he chose to cover it. 

You didn’t even realize you had reached out to touch it until you felt his gaze snap to you. 

Stunned and a bit embarrassed, you withdraw your hand.

“Ah, sorry I just noticed your tattoo was covering a scar…” you trailed off hoping he wouldn’t be annoyed with you.

Annoyance was the last thing on Choso’s mind as finally registered how you had melded yourself into his side body. 

Although his usual reaction would be to withdraw back, you might as well have him chained down to the table now as he was practically immobilized by you not even being able to look away. 

“Uh, yeah it happened years ago when I was a kid...I fell off the monkey bars, there was a lot of blood.” 

No one had even recognized it since Choso had it covered years ago. You were the first.

“Oh no! I loved the monkey bars, we used to climb up on them all the time when I was little. I guess those things are kinda dangerous huh? Actually, I’m kinda shocked I never fell, a miracle right?” 

You laughed and Choso found himself smiling at you again. 

You were too accident prone so it really was a miracle. 

“Yeah, good thing you never fell Y/N… It would be a shame to have to get a big ugly tattoo on that cute face.” 

Choso swore on his life those last words only were said in his head but from the way your eyes widened he knew he fucked up.

“I- that is.. I meant-”

Choso smacked a hand over his face. He can’t believe he just said that out loud to you. He was really losing it. 

“So you think I’m cute?” you teased giggling. You angled your head so you could look up at him from underneath his hand.

“Yeah, about as cute as the blood splatter diagram on this page.” he teased you back. A small smirk on his features as he peeked at you through his fingers.

“Hey!” 

Choso chuckled. Little did you know he actually paid you a huge compliment comparing you to something he thought so alluring as blood.

You grab the hand covering his face as your smile widens and you playfully struggle with Choso. 

You don’t become aware of your close proximity until you almost bump noses.

Choso locks eyes with you and you feel your tummy tighten as you bite your lip. 

You’re still holding his hand and after a while you work up the courage as your other hand comes up to touch his face. 

“Your tattoo isn’t ugly Choso,” you breathe out softly.

Choso closes his eyes as you trace the scar beneath his tattoo. 

You weren’t sure what you were doing but your hand involuntarily begins to travel across his face and his piercings until they graze over his lips and he opens his eyes again.  

Startled by the sudden hungry look in his eyes you pull back your hand but he captures it in his own, him being the one to trap you this time.

If either one of you just moved even an inch forward your lips would touch. You see Choso’s lips part when–

“Yo! Hands off my girl, freakshow!” 

“Dean!?” You pulled back out of Choso’s embrace, floored to see your boyfriend and some more of his football buddies heading towards you as you knew they still should have been at practice around this time.

“Oooh he’s in for it now messin’ with Dean’s girl.” Dean’s football friends snickered.

Choso audibly breathes out in exasperation. The moment was ruined and he really didn’t have the patience to deal with your neanderthal boyfriend and his football lackeys who all shared a singular brain cell. 

Didn’t they have a ball or something to chase?

“Uh hey, Dean I..” 

You stop yourself when it’s clear Dean is ignoring you entirely as he approaches the table. Not even looking your way to greet you. 

His aura oozes faux tough guy bully and walks straight up to Choso to size him up leaning on the table to tower over him.

“I’m talking to you, freak. You think you can put your hands on what belongs to me?”

Choso doesn’t look up at him but his grip instinctively tightens on the pen in his hand under the table as if it was Ghostface’s hunting knife. 

Dean’s show of bravado going ignored by Choso pisses him off even more that his teammates are with him and the tough guy act is failing to have any real effect. 

Tch. 

With a swift movement Dean knocks Choso’s coffee over on the table, its half drunken contents falling on both you, Choso and his books. 

This has Choso rising out of his seat as he thinks your boyfriend must have an unknown death wish.

Choso’s pen is still in his grasp but by his side now. It would be too easy to drive it into Dean’s neck before the dolt even knew what hit him. A bit extreme, but it could be considered an unfortunate accident of self defense if Dean struck first.

Fortunately, you stepped in between the two in order to diffuse the situation without picking up on Choso’s murderous intent. 

You chewed your lip. This was low key, your fault. You technically were dating Dean. Although Dean was always the furthest thing from your mind when you were around Choso. 

You didn’t even feel guilty for being caught as you’ve had your own suspicions for a while Dean had been cheating on you anyway, you just couldn’t prove it. You were still dating him more out of convenience than anything else, other jocks and frat boys left you alone knowing you were with him.

The only guilt you actually did feel was for Choso. This wasn’t his problem or relationship but of course Dean was a big enough asshole to make this into an actual issue with Choso since it was becoming clearer how little respect he had for you.

“Dean, what the hell is your problem!? You got coffee everywhere, this isn’t even my jacket.” 

“Don’t what the hell me Y/N, you're so fucking dumb you’re going to let this freak get in your pants when– wait you’re wearing fucking his jacket!?” 

Dean was yelling now and a small crowd was forming and starting to take out their phones to record. 

You could not let this turn into an incident.

“Dean chill the entire fuck out, would you?! It was cold, so he let me borrow it– He’s just my T.A.”

A wave of harsh realization washed over Choso. 

Just her T.A.

Right.

Choso is no one important to you, especially with your football boyfriend and social standing on the line.

He’d let whatever the fuck almost happened between the two you just now make him forget that. 

Not anymore.

“That’s right. I’m just her T.A. So if you’ll excuse me.” 

Choso turned from you both to salvage what he could of his books and leave.

You couldn’t place the emotions in Choso’s words and it made your chest tighten up. But you weren’t trying to write him or your almost-kiss off. 

You didn’t mean for it to come out that way but you really lacked the proper words in these kinds of situations.

“Where do you think you’re going, loser?”

Dean grabbed Choso’s shoulder but the intense murderous look in his eyes made Dean release him just as quickly as if he had been burned. 

Even his football goon friends unconsciously took a few steps back feeling the very real threat in Choso’s eyes. 

Choso smirked as he left. Thought so. 

“W-wait Cho–”  

You want to stop him but feel Dean’s rough grip on your wrists.

“Whatever, let’s fucking go Y/N. We have an important party to throw later.” 

Dean grabs your wrist and jerks you away with you barely being able to grab your bag. 

Your stomach twists and you are at a complete loss for words but manage to flash an apologetic look at Choso while you are dragged off. 

However when your eyes meet he looks right through you.

The expression on his face is stone cold and it sends a chill up your spine.

© ʙʟᴋᴋɪᴢᴢᴀᴛ 2023. ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜱ ʀᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴛᴇᴀʟ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ, ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴏʀ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇꜱ ꜰɪᴄꜱ, ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇꜱ, & ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ ᴍᴇ ᴜɴʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀᴡɪꜱᴇ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇᴅ. ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ

A/N: I promise it won't take as long for the second part to come out. I'm half way done with it already! I was just going to wait and post it all together but a like 12k+ word post all at once would be insane lmfao. After I am finished with this prompt the next 3 stories I will do will be from Thrilling Ghouls as they are all much shorter PWPs in the 3-5k range and I won't have to stress so much since I'm realizing all my Smooth Criminal prompts are longer fics and it takes me like a week or more to write them.

ღTaglistღ: @callm3senpaii @arxliana @jujutsualy @luxiethefairy @akaza-simp01 @fredswh0re @missphanosaur18 @moon-esque @samicamy-13

comment on m.list to be tagged in future Kinktober '23 stories

Reblog for Ghostface!Choso to come steal your panties although comments and likes are appreciated all the same!

PART 2

[19burstraat]

Random SOC Trivia I Gathered On My Reread

I'll be using this for fics, but it's fun just to read!

Jesper does not hold alcohol well (though this is according to Kaz, who is not exactly impartial)

Wijnstraat, Nemstraat, Havenstraat, Ammberstraat are all street names if you want em

Van Eck has been involved in trying to clean up the Barrel; pious. (Allegedly pious, I doubt he really is)

1/5 Van Eck (or general Kerch trading?) vessels are lost at sea

Kaz arrested three times at ten, twice at eleven, once at fourteen. Does stints in jail but it does not say prison (ppl assume he's been to Hellgate / another prison but I don't think so. He'd never have shut the fuck up about it if he had; I assume the Stadhall Jail)

Kaz's cane is lead-lined. I wasn't sure if this was canon or fanon

Kaz runs book on prize fights, horses, and chance games. Floor boss at crow club since fifteen-ish. Youngest to run a betting shop and has doubled the profits.

Gambling halls: Treasure Chest, Golden Bend, Weddell's Riverboat, Silver Garter

West Stave brothels: The Blue Iris, The Forge, The Obscura, the Willow Switch, the House of Snow

Van Aakster is the widow mercher who sees Nina to ease his grief

Inej likes orange cakes in white paper

Black Tips tattoo is a hand with first and second fingers cut at the knuckle, Razorgulls is 5 birds in wedge formation

Nina Jesper and Kaz definitely all have the crow and cup; the others don't

Jordie seems to like books

ridderspel and spijker are arcade games

Bilge, clams, and wet stone smell in the Barrel (per Retvenko)

Kaz definitely is partial to dogs; Smeet's hounds and the grey dog the Hertzoon household had, the windup dogs, the metaphors. He loves a dog metaphor sorry ur not real babycakes you'd have loved thematic web weaving posts

Geldspin is the cotton mill in Zierfoort, Firma Allerbest is a cannery. Both in Alys' name

Wylan was 8 when Marya 'died'

the black veil tomb is carved like an ancient cargo ship

3 flying fish on a grave: government. Palm trees and snakes: spices.

Inej's mother braids her hair with orange ribbons (colour of persimmons)

University a series of buildings built around the Boekcanal and joined by Speaker's Bridge (where people debate and/or drink). Boeksplein four libraries built around a central courtyard and the Scholar's Fountain

Shipping container at third harbour is a Liddie hideout; Jam Tart House is an old hotel near the slat that the Razorgulls use

Long scar across Kaz's right knuckle

Violating contracts and interfering with the market can get you hanged in Kerch; same sentences as for murder (this is. Insane)

Haskell holds court with his mates at the Fair Weather Inn every week

Belendt is the second oldest Kerch city and sits on the Droombeld River

Jesper was 7 when Aditi died

Inej has an uncle (who seems to have some sort of ringmaster role) and cousins; Hanzi and Asha

Kaz convinced a locksmith in Klokstraat that he was the son of a wealthy merchant who highly valued his collection of priceless snuffboxes, and that's how he knows what locks the rich are using

Hubrecht Mohren, Master Thief of Pijl, who Kaz doesn't appear to think much of; one of Haskell's old cronies

Martin Van Eck, Wylan's great great grandfather, was a ship's captain, brought back a big shipment of spices from Eames Chin and started the Van Eck fortune

Kaz and Jesper (+ other Dregs boys) taught Inej to fight

Kaz and Jordie are from a town near Lij, as per the 'Johannus Rietveld' exposition, but Lij is seemingly the closest major city/county so it's easier to just say they're from Lij lol

The last time the Council of Tides appeared in public was 25 years prior to CK

Kaz found Filip running a monte game on Kelstraat; he also got the clerks who turned over fake info, the fake attorney, the man who gave them free hot chocolate

The spelling of Zentzbridge lapses to Zentsbridge, not sure which is right or if they're actually separate bridges or if there's a lot of wrong quotes floating around lol

Dryden house symbol is the golden wheat sheaf bound with a blue ribbon; Van Eck is the red laurel but we knew that

Kaz taught himself finance and gambling hall rules

Church of Barter roof is copper and long has turned green

Church of Barter built around the First Forge / The Mortar, which is a flat lump of rock that's supposedly Ghezen's altar

Ghezendaal Hospital is. Idk. a hospital. Just thought ppl might want the name

[gimmethatagustd]

ichor & ambrosia (teaser) | jjk

When your father prayed to Hades to bring your dead brother back to life, Hades requested something in return: a bride for his son, Prince of the Underworld, Jungkook.

↳ pairing: son of hades!jungkook x human!(f)reader

↳ rating/genre: BTS | 18+ | mythology | arranged marriage | enemies to lovers | angst | eventual smut | eventual fluff

↳ teaser wc/date: 1k | july 2023

↳ teaser warnings: idk, nothing really? except it's creepy? obviously mentions character death aka the plot of the fic, kinda sad, angsty, also reader throws up lol if that's gross to you

↳ notes: hi friends, pls enjoy this teaser as an apology in advance for not being able to work on chapter 1 this weekend since my family will be in town 🥺 also, pls ignore any errors~ i'm not done with chapter 1 so i'll eventually edit this at least one more time

↳ masterlist / taglist ✨

↳ what was jai listening to? the series playlist

As of May 2024, this fic is on an indefinite hiatus.

All your life, you've feared Death. 

As a child, Death was a tool used by adults to scare you into obedience. Do the right thing in this life, and Death will be kind to you in the next. Don't do anything dangerous or rash, lest you meet Death before it's your time. Death lurks around every corner, waiting. It bides its time and watches with empty eyes. If you can stay hidden, you'll survive. 

You did your best to be a good person, to stay hidden and be obedient, but Death still came for you. 

Tiny insects whirl around your ears, whispering warnings you can't understand as you trudge through the dark. Beneath your sneakers, dead leaves crunch into jagged pieces but make no sound. All you hear is the whirl of insects and the skitter of unseen animals rustling through the undergrowth. 

The forest feels vast, though it's too dark to see much aside from what's in front of you. You aren't sure how long you've been walking. Hours, perhaps? Days? Your joints ache from the cold that seeps through your skin. You can barely feel your toes in your canvas sneakers. They were once white but now are caked with mud. The hem of your jeans is also muddy, and you know your cardigan and t-shirt aren't faring any better. 

Twigs scratch at your arms and get caught in the threads of your cardigan as you push through bushes and low-hanging tree branches. It's unfamiliar terrain, and you wish you had something solid to hold onto to ground yourself. 

Distracted by the sudden muffled sound of what you think is the wind whipping through the trees, the toe of your shoe gets caught on a tree root. Before your knees can collide with the debris of crumbled rocks and dead plants littering the forest floor, a bony hand squeezes your bicep and hauls you back onto your feet. 

"Careful." 

The voice sounds like it's been dragged through a gravel road, but the breath that follows it is more offensive to your senses. It smells stale, like dried dead vegetation and old coffee grounds. 

You turn toward the voice despite every cell in your body screaming at you not to. 

Stay hidden, your body tells you. Don't let it find you. 

Death's grip on your bicep tightens. Its fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave imprints once It lets go. You don't need to look down to know those fingers are only bones. 

The darkness may hide the forest from you, but Death guides you. 

The Styx's shore is made of stone rather than sand or grass. You can feel the transition from the slight give of the soft forest floor to the hard, cold granite that leads to the river as Death urges you forward. The trees thin out here, allowing the moon to shine across the river. The water practically glows silver in the moonlight, like a thousand rippling diamonds gently lapping at the surrounding stone.  

A boat is docked along the shore, illuminated by a single burning lantern hanging from a pole in the middle. 

"Go." 

Death pushes you toward the boat; It doesn't follow you. Looking back, you see the lantern’s flames flicker in the black holes that serve as eyes in Its skinless skull. 

There is a man who stands at the helm of the boat. He's wrapped in a thick, black cloak. In his hands is a bundle of fabric similar to his cloak. He's human - or at least appears to be human. You haven't seen another human since Death ripped you from your mother's arms. You don't realize how desperately you crave human touch until you're trembling before the man in the boat. 

"Please," you beg for nothing and everything as you fall to your knees. 

Your jeans soak up the thin layer of water on the surface of the stone shore. The cold shocks your system, but you don't care. All you truly feel is the suffocating concoction of anger, fear, frustration, and longing that squeezes your heart and infiltrates your lungs. 

The man glances around you, perhaps toward the darkness where Death has retreated. After a few moments, his gaze lands on you once again. 

“Don’t cry,” he says softly. “I won’t hurt you.” 

You want to believe him. His eyes are kind, soft brown, and narrowed in a way that makes his gaze look attentive but not heavy. His skin looks gold under the lantern’s light, as though he is a beacon within the forest's darkness and the black waters below him. 

The man gestures for you to climb into the boat. You obey because Death stands at the forest's edge, and you have been taught to fear It. 

“My name is Namjoon,” the man says as he unfurls the fabric. It’s another cloak, which he then hands to you. 

When you drape the cloak over your shoulders, you’re hugged by soft, floral scents that remind you of your mother’s garden back home. You wonder what she’s doing now, if she’s still kneeling in the front yard of your home, dirt under her fingernails and clumps of grass grasped in her palms as she screams for you.

You hope she suffers loudly enough to make your father’s ears bleed. 

You sit down on a bench as Namjoon prepares the boat. You know what will happen next; your father taught you about traveling across the river and the judgment that comes after. You’d never believed it until Death stole the breath from your soul and breathed it into your dead brother’s. 

“I hope the cloak keeps you warm.” Namjoon takes a seat on the bench across from you. The boat knows where it’s going without him having to guide it. “I will make sure you have new clothes before you are to meet Prince Jungkook.”

Bile rises in your throat at the sound of his name. You twist around in your seat and let your head hang over the edge of the boat as you throw up into the Styx’s black waters. Namjoon makes a stressed yelp, but you pay him no mind. 

You swear what you thought was the glitter of moonlight across the river is actually thousands of pupil-less eyes staring up at you. 

series masterlist

all rights reserved © gimmethatagustd on tumblr & AO3

do not copy, repost, modify, or translate any of my work

[loversofthegrave]

What are some of your fave wincest fics?

Oh I'm so glad you asked anon! I am always looking for fic recs so I'm sure some followers will appreciate this little one here;

(in no particular order)

try asking by applecrumbledore

“Jerry says he saw them going at it in the back of that car of theirs outside Atlanta last year, I swear to God.”

“Listen, man, I don’t like them either, but that’s a low blow. Jerry’s a fucking pervert.”

outside POV ftw

other brothers by homo_pink

A callow boy can go from infancy to someone’s lover in the space of two wildflower summers.

Another outside POV but this writer I kneel at the altar for, absolute perfection. Read all their work, you're in for a treat

Howls in my bones by weefaol

When John gets a call to investigate a series of grisly animal killings, he drops Sam and Dean at an abandoned cabin two towns over. The boys find ways to keep busy — playing cards, watching movies, chopping wood — but with a howling winter storm on the way, there’s nowhere for Sam to hide his illicit feelings for his older brother.

As the lure of desire threatens to devour him, Sam must learn to face the wolves that lurk outside and the monsters within.

weecest

In the garden where sin began by nyoka

Some places, they grow for you.

weecest, beautifully written, so tender

one on, two out by deadlybride

In the fall of 2001, Deacon gets a letter from his old friend John Winchester, asking if John's son can stay at his house for a while.

not exactly wincest but I want to recommend this because it's just a great insight into a young dean and his vulnerability and there's a sequel involving wincest elements. Really really loved this

it started out with a kiss by intrepidheart

Sam has a date. That's not the problem. The problem is that Sam's asking Dean to teach him how to kiss. The problem is that this kiss changes everything.

rightly obsessed with jealous dean

the repeated image of the lover destroyed by hathfrozen

"Do you really love me that much?" Sam asks.

Dean laughs, a harsh sound, his body shaking underneath Sam.

"Look at me," Dean hisses, eyes still shut. "What the fuck do you think?"

see things so much clearer by deadlybride

Sam's been acting oddly. Dean learns how to use the history on an internet browser and finds out why.

somewhere there's blue by linden

Dean was just gonna go ahead and call this one: evenings which ended with Sam in a river were not evenings which had gone too well.

nickle and dime by linden

It was unlikely, Dean felt, that they'd be coming back to Montana: Child Protection Services had a real nasty habit of not forgetting people's names.

here's a few for now, I have more but I need to remember the names! I will probably reblog this with them but I hope you enjoy! Also if anyone has any recs please point me in that direction

much love

[yeyinde]

WILLOW TREE MARCH

John Price x Reader | Fae!AU

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go."  "Why?" You asked, blinking at her.  "Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't." 

—WARNINGS: 18+ | SMUT fae shenanigans, mythological nonsense; unsafe sex, smut in random places, slight exhibition kink if you squint; Dom-ish Price, soft Price, pining Price; fae trickery (dubious consent on account of the trickery but not really); unreliable narrator; ahhhhhh, body horror (??????????) —TAGS: Fluff, AU, mythology —WORD COUNT: 8,5k —Based on this ask

There's a thick forest at the edge of your town. It curves along the coastline, breaching the yawning maw of the inlet—the last safe haven before the open ocean—and can be found almost nowhere else in the entire world. A unique ecosystem comprising vaguely familiar flora and fauna. Brown and Black bears. Wolves. Sitka-black-tailed deer. Ravens. The waters that crest through the forest are full of salmon, steelhead, and river otters. On the coast of the inlet, you can find whales, sea lions, seals, orcas, and porpoises swimming offshore. 

It's protected, in large part, by its sheer vastitude. Spanning a massive chunk of your home, it stretches far north with curling fingers cutting through the granite of the crumbling coast, and as deep south as its knobby knees can reach. 

From above, it looks like a child curled on its side, knees tucked to its chest. It's this pose alone that makes others revere it as some sacred being, slumbering mindlessly until the day it cracks open its eyes, and awakens to the new world. A child god made of conifers, red cedar, spruce, fir, pine, birch, and hemlock. Mossy caves of granite and limestone. Thick colonies of moss, liverworts, plume moss, and common haircap. 

The forest is linked to your town only by a small strip of land that juts out from a raging ravine with currents too dangerous, too deadly, to try and traverse. An archipelago all on its own, untouched by greedy, human, hands because of its placement. 

It's insulated by the vast ocean on its front, and a series of insidious looking mountains ready to swallow wandering mountaineers whole if they get too close to the sleeping child. Protected and safe by anyone who might try to harm it. 

You used to dream about the forest. A nightmare dredged up about whispers and calls. Lured close to the edge of the river where a man would hand you his heart—sap-stained, and charred; a brittle piece of Bristlecone pine that felt fragile and worn—and told you to come back for him. To wait for him. 

You'd wake in a cold sweat each time, heart pounding so fast that it almost felt like you were dying.

(Maybe you were. Maybe you did.)

You don't know if you believe the stories told about people wandering into the gaping chasm of the forest and never coming out. It's not uncommon for people to get lost, after all. But it feels distinct and archaic. Old. Something about the way the wind howls sounds different from the other woodlands scattered around your home. 

It sounds like a beckoning call. A mother calling their child home for dinner. Come to me, the Chinook bellows. Come home now, dear. 

You never venture too close. You know all too well what happens to children who do.

His name is—was now, you suppose—Kyle, but no one called him that. To everyone in town, he was simply known as Gaz. 

Newcomers to the isolated archipelago are a rarity—so much so that news of the new family's arrival sent waves through the community, making Gaz an instant star overnight, all without him even setting foot on the shores. 

None of that mattered, though. He fit in with an ease that seems almost preternatural when you think about it, as if he was meant to be there. And maybe he was. Maybe the soft rolling valleys were destined to be his home where flowers bloomed in the spring, and Arctic tern trilled from the branches. 

Gaz was unique, different. 

He picked dandelions with the same intensity that picked fights with the bullies in the neighbouring town, the ones who tried to pick on the smaller kids in the community. 

With his fists always covered in dandelion oil and bruises, face caught between a grimace and a grin, like he was never sure if he wanted to spit at their feet or tell a joke, he stood against the onslaught with an anger that seemed to crackle in the air like fireworks. Ready for battle. Thirsty for blood. 

His anger never waned even when he turned back to the group, eyes cresting in satisfaction, and body trembling with adrenaline, and you could scent the rage in his smile, hear it in the soft words he muttered to the kids, telling them everything would be alright. 

Gaz was everyone's friend. The person you told your deepest secrets to, the one you planned adventures with. He was a rock—always armed with snappy jokes to make you smile, and advice when you needed it. 

He was everyone's friend—yours especially—but you can't remember if anyone was his best friend. He was polite. Distant. 

It started in the summer. His hands were always cold, and he kept them shoved deep in his pockets, clenched tight around the latchkey his parents gave him. 

He started to seem almost liquid then. Temporal. You'd reach for him, brushing your hands against his arms or shoulders just to assure yourself that he was really there.

You noticed that his eyes would list sideways, head tilted, slanting toward the forest. It looked to you as if he was listening to something. To some unheard noise or call that only he could hear. 

When you asked about it, he'd always blink, surprised, as if you'd woken him up from a dream quite suddenly. Then, he'd smile, and shake his head. 

"Don't worry about it," he'd say, shrugging. "Just the wind."

He'd bend down and pick a dandelion for you, holding it out between pudgy fingers with a grin that seemed to mimic the cresting moon. 

"For you."

He picked them for three springs before he, too, became another victim of the endless forest. Another empty tomb in the overcrowded graveyard.

Missing, they said, but not forgotten. 

You think about him often. 

(Even more so when you, too, begin to hear your name echoing through the forest.)

Beware the woods, your grandma says. Especially when it calls your name. 

(You never understood why something that sounds so comforting, so sweet, could ever be dangerous. It sounds like an old friend calling you over to play. 

"Never go," she snaps, her hands lashing out to grip your arms tight. You feel her knobby fingers digging into your bones. "Never listen, and stay away—"

"You're hurting me, gran—"

Her rheumy eyes burn into yours. "Stay away—!"

(You wisely never speak about the whispers in your head, keeping them to yourself. A secret just for you.)

You leave town when you're old enough, when the hisses in your head grow too loud to ignore, and it feels as though they're scratching at your skull. 

(Clawing at the walls.)

"Crazy weather, eh?" The first mate mutters nervously, eyes tilted upward as the sky darkens into an angry grey. "Came outta nowhere." 

You leave, and you don't look back. 

(But oh, how the forest screams.)

She calls you back several years later with a phone call. Your gran has passed. 

You think you should mourn, but it's been so long since you thought of home, that you don't remember what she looks like anymore. The sound of her voice is a whisper in your head—the cadence gone, the tone flat. 

But you don't cry, and you don't grieve—she's been dead for a long time now, after all. Ever since your mum went missing all those years ago, she's always seemed more of a ghost than a person. Living as if her body hadn't realised her heart was long dead. 

You go back only because you think your mum would have wanted you to. 

(And pretend it isn't because the silence in your head is suffocating. Without the whispers, it feels as if you're missing something. A part of yourself forever lost in the forest.

You wonder if anyone has found it by now.)

Nothing has changed since you turned your back on the town that raised you, the forest that stole from you. 

It's the same buildings. The same market. The same roads. The same houses. 

The people, too, seem largely unchanged by the years that have passed. 

The friends from your childhood who stayed meet you at the graveyard, eyes filled with sympathy as they ask how you're doing. 

She'll be missed, they lie sweetly to you. Everyone loved her. 

She was a hermit, you want to scream. A woman driven mad by ghosts and fairytales and terror. 

You nod, instead, and let them lead you around the town on a grand tour as if anything about this beautiful, haunting place had changed since you ran away. 

It gets easier to force a smile when they ask if you're okay. 

"Fine," you murmur and wonder if your voice even carries over the whispers. "Just—yeah. Fine."

North of the town is where the river separating the lonely forest carves a path, not at all dissimilar to an idyllic trough, through bedrock and sand, and flows into the sea. 

The estuary is dangerous in high tide when the rapid ascent of water on the sandy shores hides the rip current that is known to form when the two bodies of water meet. 

It's a dangerous place to get caught in. 

This beach was impressed upon you as deadly from a young age, almost in equal—if not greater—measure than the rapacious forest across the river. You know the dangers of standing on the slippery bedrock. 

But as the sun glows a burnt orange in the distance, and the endless ocean before you darkens into an almost unfathomable black, you can't help but find the view from the cliff's edge to be the most mesmerising thing you've ever seen. 

It looks like a painting. A brush stroke of tigers eye in the centre of the cresting sun that gradually fades out into xanthous, and rings of hazy peach; the light of diminishing star smears coruscating rings of persimmons into the indigo water. The gradual fade into gradients as the waves lap closer to the shore is reminiscent of liquid sapphire and smelting amethyst. 

The picturesque view is more befitting of a pastel postcard, an ethereal pastiche of the Ninth Wave—a moment of life imitating art, or—perhaps—the same view Ivan Aivazovsky stumbled upon when he set out to render the haunting beauty of the ocean in oil. 

The cresting waves arch into curled petals of white before setting upon the sloping beach with frenzy. It's the roar of those hungry waves that seem to, if only for a moment, drown out everything in your head. 

There are no whispers. No songs. No screams. Vengeful hissing can't climb to a higher decibel than the frothing waters slamming against jagged bedrock. 

All is quiet—except the sea. 

You lean into it. The closer you get to that precipice, the quieter everything in your head goes. Sounded sucked into the vacuum of the ocean. The endless song of the sea. 

Another step. Another. 

For a moment, you're free. 

The forest doesn't scream for you. Your grandmother doesn't dig her teeth into your gyri, hands clawing at the space behind your eyes. You don't think of her, or your mother, or Gaz, or anyone else unfortunate enough to get consumed by this damnable place where fairy tales split the seams apart, and merge with reality. 

It's peaceful. 

You take another step—

A hand curls over your shoulder, tugging you back. 

Anger pools, thick and acidic, on your tongue, but the flash of your ire, your vexation, is dashed by the sound the waves make when it slams into the spot you were just standing. 

It slashes across the concrete as the stranger pulls you into his broad chest, heat nearly liquifying your spine. 

He sucks in a breath. You feel his chest expand with it. When he breathes out, you taste gunpowder on your tongue. 

"Gotta be more careful n'that, love." 

You've had near-misses before. Flirted with the reaper. Ripped yourself from the jowls of death himself. 

This isn't anything new.

And yet—

Your eyes drag up, meeting flat black boring down at you. His hood is pulled over his forehead, casting shadows down to his jaw. 

"You—"

Your teeth sink into your tongue. Emotions lash through you like the flick of a bullwhip, shredding your skin until it's raw and oozing. The tail pulls away whenever you try to wrap your fingers around one of them—relief: you're not dead; embarrassment: how could you be so stupid; shame: saved by a stranger; and—

Visceral terror. Panic. 

It bludgeons its fist down your throat, barbed knuckles clawing at the soft tissue of your esophagus until you taste blood on your tongue. 

Panic tastes of ozone and leaks, thick and warm like molasse, down your throat. 

"Hey," he murmurs, and the sound of his voice, his low timbre, is porous, calcined. The rough scratch scours through the haze of fear threading through your sternum. "C'mon on, now. Gotta breathe, yeah?" 

It's his hands on your shoulder—hotter than grenade fire—and the thick scent of musk, of stale smoke and kerosene sweat, that break through the gossamer of your acrid panic. He spins you around to face him, eyes fixed on your face. 

"That's it," he says, soft, soothing. "Keep breathin'. You ain't dead yet." 

You come to yourself in pieces. The world bleeds with startling clarity around the blurred edges. Home, you think. Maybe.

Once upon a time. 

You blink. Blink again. 

The hand still on you—heavier, you find, than an anvil—lifts, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw, swiping over the sweat-stained skin.

You can't see his eyes through the shadows cast over his face. A stranger. You've never seen him before. 

They didn't say anyone new moved to town. 

"Who are you—?"

"You don't know?" 

And then his hand is gone, taking all the heat in your body with him. 

It lifts to his vest, thick fingers, gloved in yellow, curling over the butt of his cigar. 

You must make a face. A grimace. A whisper of bemusement. Whatever it is, it makes his lips twitch under the shorn burnt umber of his beard. 

"I'd share," he mutters, teething sinking into the hilt as he pats himself down for a lighter. "But I ain't got the time."

"Shouldn't be smoking in a provincial park, anyway." 

The words are dragged out of you. Numbed, gritty. 

It makes him snort. "Maybe—;" he cups his hand around the end, thumb striking the ignition of the lighter. He inhales, and the red circle at the tip illuminates the cerulean blue tucked away into the folds of his hood. The plume of smoke curls over him like a shroud. "But I doubt a cigar is gonna bring the whole forest down, mm? 'sides, we all have our vices, don't we?"

With that, he leaves you standing in the tendrils of smoke that billow out from his caustic mouth. No goodbye. No name. Nothing except the hum of his touch buzzing through your veins. 

Your head is numb. Thoughts congealing into hardened clay. 

Yeah, you think sluggishly, eyes dropping to the drenched pavement where the ocean narrowly missed you. Swallowed you whole. We do. 

(Yours is bad decisions that reek of napalm. 

Men who scour your hands raw when you touch their coarse surface.)

You find him again in some desolate pub on the fringes of town a few days later. It looks like it's one strong gust of wind away from blowing down. Dilapidated. Rusted from the harsh salt of the ocean to the north. 

He lifts his head when you slide into the empty chair on the left, but says nothing about your unexpected company. 

Instead, his lips curl over the cigar sawed between his teeth. A grin, you think. 

You wonder if he was expecting you. 

(Wonder, then, with a touch of something warm gnarling in your belly, if you surprised him.)

The barkeep wanders past, brows lifting at you in question. 

"Um, a vodka soda—"

The man, Price you learned from the locals with a great of digging, snorts. 

"Ain't got none of that here, love. Two scotches. Neat." He leans over, thick fingers grasping the middle of the cigar, an inch away from the bristles on his upper lip, and pulls it away, ashing it in the tray in front of him. "And a bottle of spring water." 

"Scotch?" You echo, leaning your elbow on the sticky counter. He reeks of smoke. Sweat. Blood. Gunpowder. You veer closer, soaking in the astringent tang of him. Everyone on this island smells of daffodils and cotton; clean and neat and innocent. He reeks of danger. Everything inside of you screams to stay away. "I don't drink scotch."

The cigar burns in the tray. He pulls back, shifting in the chair. His elbow rests on the counter, the other arm is slung over the back of his seat. The picture of appeasement, of a satiated tiger eying a little mouse sniffing past it. There's no immediate danger, and his posture is relaxed. Open. But his eyes—

Price turns to you, then. His legs are spread, knees notched apart, taking up more space than you offer him. A looming presence. Dominating. Confident. He's not doing it on purpose, you don't think, he's just—

Big. 

His legs are too long. Thighs are too thick. 

Something gnarls behind your ribs when you take in his bare face. It's different, smaller, without the bulky black hood thrown low on his brow. His hands bare, leaving him in only casual clothes that stretch taut around his broad body. 

The beanie on his head, pulled low on his forehead, makes him look roguish, rough. The picturesque presentation of a bad boy down to the pelt-brown leather Levi jacket stretched taut around his broad shoulders. 

He looks older, somehow, without the tenebrous of night shading him in dark indigo. Aged like a fine whisky. All burnt umber and ivory. 

The charcoal colouring brightens the heavy blue of his eyes—crushed bluebonnets and powdered graphite; a black hole centre—and the frame of his brown lashes dusting over his clean cheeks makes something pool in your lower belly. 

(You wonder if he'd taste of whisky sour.)

"Well," he murmurs, brow lifting. It makes the skin on his forehead crinkle. He has laugh lines cresting around the corners of his eyes. They stand out to you, now. Void of the shadows you're used to. "You do when I'm paying."

The scotch, the cigar, the dingy pub that reeks of stale cigarettes and is perfumed in a dusting of nicotine that films every surface coalesces into incipient vice. 

His hand moves from where it's loosely curled around his glass, and rests, heavy and warm, on your thigh. 

When he leans in, you taste calcine on his breath. 

The acrid tang is a balm to the blisters in your raw esophagus. You meet him in the middle, smaller hands curling over the wool lapels of his jacket, tugging him into you. 

"Never thanked you for saving me," you murmur, his beard grazing your lips. A tickle. A brush. 

Price sucks in a deep breath, eyes liquifying into an intense azure. "No need to thank me, love. As much as I love the ocean, you don't belong there, do you? No," he adds, decisively. Sure. "You belong on land. The earth. You're wild, like the forest, aren't you?"

It's an out. An escape. An option to flee from the cosm that folds around you like a nebulous cloud. 

You could take it. Back up, away. Walk out of this dingy pub on the wrong side of town, and forget the man who reeks of nicotine, smoke; who leaves ashes behind on your skin when he touches you. 

The only one who stares at you from the unfathomable black of his eyes, lashes shrouded in tenebrous, and makes you falter. Makes your heart lurch, jumping to sit at the bottom of your throat.

You should pull away. Stay away from the man who leaks ethanol and nitroglycerine. From the man who smells of acrid smoke. Gunfire. 

You should. 

But your fingers tighten in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. Closer. 

The bridge of his nose is warm when it presses against your own. 

His eyes spark, wildfires. A blazing forest. 

"You said something about vices." His chest rumbles in response to your hushed words. 

"So I did." 

Smoke singes your nose when you brush your lips over his. Warm. Chapped. Dry. You taste ash. Humus. The bitter tang of dandelion oil. 

"Got some time tonight?" 

"Thought you said I shouldn't be smoking."

"We're not in a park, near flammable trees," your hand falls to his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm. Thick, full. Your eyes lift to his, lidded and heavy. You gaze at him from under your lashes, coy. Demure. You wonder if he can see how eager you are beneath the sly cut of your lids. "Are we, Price?"

The use of his name makes his lips quirk. A small, secretive thing that you can't read. 

"No, we're not." His hand slides down, curling over your knee. "Don't know what you're gettin' into, love." 

"Oh, no?" You taunt, breathless. Even through all your layers, you still feel his searing heat on your skin. His eyes drop when your tongue lashes out, wetting your lower lip. "And what's that?" 

A frisson shudders over his face. Lashes fluttering. He leans forward, resting the rim of his beanie on your forehead. 

When his eyes slide open, all you see is arsenic white pooled around Prussian blue. "More than you could ever dream of." 

Your trembling fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket. For leverage, maybe; or to hide the quiver in your joints from his widening eyes. 

And so, you kiss him. 

A messy punch to the mouth with your sun-blistered lips. 

His mouth parts, wry curls flutter when he inhales sharply. And then—

He devours you. 

It's messy. More sealed lips glueing together than it ever could be considered a proper kiss, but it feels more like a homecoming than stepping off the boat, and you tuck that inside your pounding chest. 

(The whispers in your head seem to sing when his lips touch yours.)

You taste bark on your tongue when it slips over his. Loam. Moss. Something earthy and rich. His beard scratches your chin, your lips, but you pull him closer, hungry for more—for the taste of wilderness on his tongue, for the respite from the whispers, the screams. Like the ocean, he, too, is a vacuum, swallowing everything whole until just you remain, stripped down to nothing but sensation and want. Bare, raw. 

Your teeth ache when you pull away, fingers curling into the coarse hair along his chin. The whips of his wry curls scratch your palm. 

You never want to let go. 

Price's eyes are noctilucent clouds; a storm over a rainforest. He'll ruin you. Devour. Destroy. Take, and take, and take until there is nothing left. 

Your lips tremble when you speak, words tremulous with your desire, your eagerness, when they slip past your bruised mouth. 

"I can think of a few that are better than smoking." 

Price shudders. 

"Where did you go?" Your friend asks, eyes swinging from the cards spread out in front of him—the Idiot, Solitaire—to you. They burn into the side of your face, the same place Price touched with bare knuckles, and said you belong to the forest, don't you? "Missed dinner."

You ate Doro Wat in a small shop after Price fucked you stupid in the dingy bathroom of the pub, face scraping against the waterlogged wallpaper that chipped with each brutal thrust of his hips. 

Like that, hmm? Can barely take me, love, but you're so fuckin' greedy for it, ain't you? 

You're sure the barkeep heard your moans as they bounced off the jaundiced walls. 

(You still hear him hissing in your ear. Still feel him splitting you apart.)

You try not to shiver. 

"Ate already," you shrug, bundling your sleep clothes tight in your trembling hands. When you stand, his eyes follow you. "So. Um—"

"You okay?" 

"Yeah," you say, shifting on the balls of your feet. "I've—" You think of his eyes, gyre white, and wonder if this is what it feels like to get swallowed by the sea. "I've never been better."

"Good," he says, smiling. "I worry about you, you know?"

You nod. "Yeah," you say. "Me, too."

You break apart in the shower, falling into pieces as you make yourself finish, thinking about nothing but the phantom stretch of his cock seated deep inside of you, the taste of his come pooling on your tongue.

It balms the residual burn in your esophagus, and you know, then, when you throb, still wanting his touch on your skin, that you've always been terrible at telling yourself no. 

It can't happen. It can't.  

There's a strange magnetism about him—an uncanny sense of mystery and familiarity sutured together. 

It feels a little bit like staring at the looming maw, the event horizon, of a black hole. Unfathomable black. No way out. 

There's something that feels a bit like forewarning inside your chest when he brushes against you, and presses his lips on the skin behind your ear—a secret place only he knows, where only his fingerprints have ever been. You feel his touch even when he's gone. Haunted by the memory of his rough hands and rasping tenor. 

Running would make sense, you think, watching the ferries come and go. You have enough money for a ticket, and you've yet to even unpack your bag. 

You don't know who he is, but you've given him everything. All of it. There's nothing left inside of you to hand over, but he keeps looking at you as if he's waiting for more. 

"Waiting for a ride?" 

You glance back at the operator with a divot between your brow and cotton inside your ears. 

You want to say yes, but you shake your head instead. 

"No." I can't leave. "Just enjoying the view."

You find birch branches stripped of leaves, juniper berries, maple leaves, spindles of dogwood, bushels of fir, and bouquets of bog rosemary, northern bluebell, fireweed, and wintergreen on your doorstep each morning, laid gently against the old welcome mat. 

You should toss them out, and throw them away. How does he know where you live, anyway? It would make the most sense; be the wisest decision. 

Instead, you tuck them inside your notebook, pressing them against the pages where they'll be safe. 

(You try not to think too much about why they never die.)

It happens again. And again. Again—

It becomes a ritual for the few months you're back in town. The leaves, twigs, petals, pines, and seeds all show up at your door each morning and come nightfall, you're drawn to him like a moth to a flame. 

He finds the nastiest looking pub in the city, and you find him there after dark. 

He sits, smokes a cigar. Orders two scotches, and a bottle of spring water. Teaches you how to drink it properly—none of that sugary cocktail shite; just pure whisky, love, as it should be—and lets you puff on the damp end of his cigar, eyes gleaming in the soft yellow light above as he takes in the way your lips curl over the wet tip.

He stares at you like he's indulging you. 

Like he knows. 

And maybe, he does. 

Maybe he sees the way your jaw works, tongue lashing over the tip just to chase his taste. The heat in your cheeks, your eyes, as you gaze at him, open and raw and wanting. The way you list toward him. Eager for it. For him. His touch, his smell. 

He must, you think, but he's a right bastard. 

He doesn't give it until the end of the evening, when everyone has gone home. When it's just you and him and the barkeep that glowers at you something ugly when you stand on shaky legs, and whisper you're going to the washroom. 

Your fingers curl over the chipped porcelain, back arched as you stare at the face in the mirror. 

You can't remember if it's you. 

Whisky has polluted your synapses. The thick scent of smoke, the tobacco from the cigar, has congealed into resin over that little bundle of axons and nerves that control your impulse, logic. 

Stupid. 

You stare at the thing in the mirror, and wonder if the basal want on your face was so apparent to him as it is to you. If he saw the dark gleam of hunger, greed, impatience, swimming in your ink-smudged depths. 

The door rattles. Clicks. 

The squeak of the hinges is the only warning you get before Price is there, liquified in the doorway and clouded in smoke. 

His hand curls over the worn, peeling frame. Eyes dance with the same hunger, same want, as the ones that flicker across the surface of the mirror. 

"Couldn't wait for me, eh, love?" He breathes, his chest expands with his exhale. Scenting you, you think. You wonder if he can smell the slick pooling in your panties. The desperation brimming in your veins. "Wanted it that bad, huh?"

He moves. A mountain of a man now filling up the entirety of your gaze until all you see is him. 

You used to want to climb mountains. In training, they always warned of summit fever. Of that little part of your head that just wanted it to be over, to reach the very top of the precipice. Impatient, it couldn't wait. It made you spring up, and climb higher and higher before you were ready, prepared. 

You think of it now when your hands lift, curling over his broad shoulders. 

("Summit fever will get you killed," they say.)

"Just shut up and fuck me, Price." 

His eyes flash. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

You are. Painfully so. 

It etches in your ribs like a sickness, festering in your mouldering bones. Rotting you from the inside out. 

A crutch in the searing heat of skin, sweat, and sin. The feeling of him taking you apart, breaking you down into atoms and molecules that bubble in the lining of your head becomes so commonplace, so often forget who you are when you're pushed up against a wall, being filled to the brim by him.

He leaves madness behind when he goes, and the world that divides fantasy from reality begins to crack, to splinter. 

You hear his voice in your head late at night when the wind blows through the window, carrying the scent of the forest.

"Come home," he rasps in your ear. 

The scratch of his beard seems to scrape against the little thread keeping you tied down to reality. It's frayed and worn by his hands. You wonder when he'll sink his teeth in the silk, and snap the line. Untethering you from your binds.

Come home to me. Come back to where you belong—

Price takes you out to dinner three months after this—whatever it is—starts. After your house becomes more of a garden, writ with the wild remnants of the forest, after each passing day. Full of bushes, and branches. Twigs and precious gems. He gives you raw gold, and open geodes full of amethyst, and sapphire. Canopy leaves, and bark from the trees. 

He leaves a whittled deer made from the red wood of a giant sequoia, and the likeness of the little fawn makes you believe that one day, it'll come to life in your living room.

(You leave a dish of water near the doorway—just in case—and wonder if you're becoming just as mad as your gran.)

He shows up at your doorstep, the bleached antlers of a great pronghorn in his hands. It's decorated with vines and moss weaved over the ivory in intricate braids and knots that you can't even begin to unravel. You marvel at the gift as he tells you he's taking you out for dinner. 

There is no discussion. He doesn't ask, he just—

Does. 

"Found a spot," he says, arms crossed over his broad chest. The cable-knit sweater pulls, stretched taut over his bulk. "Think you'd like it."

You don't know what to say. The antlers feel heavier in your hands, and warm to the touch. You try not to shiver when you set it down beside the little fawn.

"Oh," you say, but know you've never turned him down yet. It's all—

So much. 

Your home is slowly becoming one with nature, with vines growing on the walls in great blooms of wisteria and lilac; the old floor boards under your feet shudder and creak as little saplings sprout through the cracks. You wake up at night and taste earth in your throat, feel the grass beneath your fingers. The breeze in your hair. The call of an arctic tern. 

You dream of running through the forest. Of being chased. You breathe and feel the little seeds inside of your lungs start to take root. Soon you'll bloom with dandelions.

"Okay," you say, and wonder if the madness rummaging around your head will turn into a beautiful sequoia in the end. "Let's go."

The tavern is busy on a weeknight, crowded with a swell of mainlanders who'd ventured out for a camping trip over the long weekend. 

You sit with your back straight, and listen to him talk about a hike he wants to take with you in the morning. Through the woods, he says, and you don't ask which one. You know. You know. 

(It's time. It's time.)

There are alarm bells ringing in your head, but they're drowned out by the crooning whispers. 

But the line is only frayed and worn, and despite the lure in his voice, the itch in your head to say yes, you hesitate. Falter. 

The woods are dangerous. 

You don't want to go. 

He seems to sense it. His brows knot together. 

"You want to, don't you?" 

You fiddle with your napkin and try not to meet his arsenic stare. "It's… dangerous."

"I'll keep you safe."

"It's probably time for me to leave, anyway." 

The air in the room turns frigid all at once. You think you can see white plumes of condensation when you shakily breathe out, teeth chattering. 

"Price—"

"Didn't wanna do this, love," he says, voice hushed. Barely a whisper. His eyes are lavascapes. "But you ain't givin' me much of a choice, are you?"

"What—?"

The words die on your tongue when movement flashes in the corner of your eye. A man weaves, liquid, through the mindless crowd, cutting a path like the parting red sea. 

His eyes are honeycombs. In his hand, he holds a limp dandelion. 

It takes you a moment to make out the strange man who looms in the background. A splash of colour among sfumato. 

It's Gaz.

The childish swell of his cheeks has sunken into angled, sharp bone. Slender fingers twirl the flower around, around, around—

It's hypnotic. You stare, horrified and awed—a strange amalgam of emotions that slip down your spine: worry, elation, panic, comfort—as his pink lips part into an easy, familiar grin. The cresting sun breaching the horizon. Eyes slanting in playful derision. 

He looks like he's torn between telling a joke and spitting vitriol. Making you laugh, and then making you cry. 

It buzzes in the air, electrified fingers dancing down your spine, and then just as quickly as the boy who disappeared reemerges into the land of the living, into this bastardised reality, he gives one last sharp, fanged grin, a mordant wink, and then he's gone.

He slips through the door, and without hesitating, you give chase. 

Price says nothing when you go. Or maybe he does, but you can't hear anything except the rustling of leaves in your head. 

Gaz, it whispers. Gaz, Gaz, Gaz.

(It's time for the lost little boy to come home.)

The rocks sit in a zigzag pattern through the frothing waters, a deceptive bridge that connects the valley to the coast. You feel the tremulous rattle of the water slicing against the hollow cavern beneath your feet. A ledge chiselled from the blunt erosion of the rapid currents below. One day, they say, the granite shelf will give and a massive hole filled with howling water will fill it. 

Try not to be the idiot standing on the ledge. 

You feel the power of the currents even on the peat-covered edge. 

The water in front of you is deceptive. A calm, rolling surface at the shoreline almost seems to beckon you inside. Come take a dip in the cool waters. Grow fins and gills and chase the river otters through the currents. Feast on the wily salmon, and see if your feet can touch the sandy streambed. 

But the river's fatality is nearly assured. No one has survived a dip in these waters that act as a serrated knife, carving chasms and channels through the granite below. The currents will rip into you, pulling you until your body is crushed against the wall, or into an unsearchable cave. 

One slip, you think. Just one. 

But—

The man in the bar flickers through your mind. His honeycomb eyes, fanged grin. Ethereal in his beauty like a painting of a god in oil and raw canvas. Carved likeness of a Stygian prince. 

It was Kyle. It was Gaz. You know it. Know it deep within your bones, your marrow.

Taking the first step to the jutting slate that peaks just a few precious inches from the raging waters is easier, then, when you think of the boy who plucked a dandelion from the earth, and tucked it behind your ear. It makes the risk less daunting when it's for him. 

For his parents who sunk into themselves, into the crater his absence left behind. A deep depression into the earth that swallowed them whole.

They moved last year after laying down a bouquet of flowers at the mouth of the forest. 

You toe your shoes off, leaving them at the embankment, and then you leap. The perch is slick with waterlogged moss, slimy. It wobbles under you, but you catch yourself, stabilising. Steady. You huff. One down, four more to go. 

Up close, they look so far apart. A chasm between each rock. An endless abyss that will rip you into pieces. 

Still. Still. You have to find him. Have to. 

You step, toes sliding in the algae. The rock beneath is stained green. It wobbles again when you bring your other foot down on top of it. The loud clack of rock scraping against rock is heard, unmuffled by the roaring water that tugs on the stone. You feel the push against your feet. 

Two more. Two more. 

You take another step, and then—

You fall—

The world drips into focus, a steady trickle of cognisance that paints the world in shades of greens and browns. An eagle soars above the canopy, their shadow swooping through the thick tangle of conifers reaching to the heavens.

The bed of moss beneath you is damp—lush with dew and softer than your mattress at home. You sink into the ground when you breathe, caught in an embrace. The vines curl over your wrists, your ankles, as if refusing to let go. 

It should scare you—and maybe it does—but there's something against your head, fingers digging into your temples, and you feel nothing except a warm serenity leaking in. Thought spool into liquid gold, threads that weave together in a knotted clump. Indistinguishable from each other, and unreachable when they slip deeper into the honeyed-thick fog that curls around your mind. A temper from logic, from fear. Anything that isn't pure, artificial comfort is filtered through and cast aside. 

You don't know why you're here. 

One moment, you felt the coils of the raging currents sinking its claws into your flesh, pulling you under the deep waters, and then—

Heat on your face. The sun's desperate attempt to filter through the corded canopy and touch the forest floor. The shrill call of an eagle on the prowl. The tender caress of the moss below cushions your body. 

You should be underwater. Pressed tight against the side of the rocks until you were swept downstream and spat out in the inlet, waterlogged and dead. 

You draw humid air into your lungs until it swells against your ribcage. The steady thud of your heart tells you that somehow, somehow, you're alive. An empty brag—thud, thud; thud, thud—that seems to call out to the birds in the emergent layer, the ones nestled in their branches as they watch your feeble attempt to reconcile how you survived. 

It's strange, you think, but the soporific warmth coursing through your veins does not let you panic. 

You are—

"Foolish." 

The warmth turns molten. You try to sit up, but the vines tighten around your limbs. If you weren't so vulnerable, you think it would almost feel like a hug. 

The soft crunch of the moss tells you the voice—the man—is moving forward, toward you. You want to scream, but your tongue is thick, and your mouth is numb. 

"What you did there was stupid," he says, and the forest around you seems to come alive in his anger. Pulsing. The branches sway and the leaves rattle without any wind. The trees bend down, coming inward. You hear the scream of a fox in the distance. The chuff of an agitated brown bear. 

Primordial signs tell you to run.

But you're trapped. 

Price steps closer, falling to his knees beside you. You can see him now, and suddenly you wish you'd been swallowed by the waves. 

His face is writ with anger, brows tightening together in displeasure. 

He seems imbued with the forest. One with the lush green that swells around you. Burnt umber and icy blue. Ethereal, unnatural. Something in your hindbrain tells you to run from that man that looks as if he could swallow you whole.

"Tryin' t'die on me, hmm?" 

His hand lifts, and you feel his warm knuckles graze your temple. Soft, gentle, despite the ire in his eyes, and the irritation clenched in his jaw. 

"Gonna hav'ta try harder than that, love." 

You weren't trying very hard at all, you think, dazed, dizzy. You weren't trying at all. 

"You're mine," his eyes flash, and you feel the press of gravity against your skin, pulling you down to the soft earth. Your fingers twitch. The fog inside your head clears. 

Blinking up at him, you catch the scattering supernovae echoing in the corners of his eyes; galaxies of pine and cedar, humus and tussock. They bloom from the black hole in the centre, surrounded by sapphire blue. He's not human, you think, but it doesn't surprise you because you already knew. Have known, really—ever since you asked around for his name and watched the same strange fog seep into their eyes as they struggled to remember a man they claimed to know. 

Ever since you found bushels of figs on your doorstep. 

A crown of pine needles and crow feathers. 

Price leans over you, brows knotted together like the gnarled, weaving trunk of a Great Basin Bristlecone Pine. 

There's a forest fire in his eyes. "You're mine, aren't you?" 

You think about the trinkets left on your doorstep. The whispers, the screams. 

"Did you ever give me a choice?" 

The tension in his brow snaps taut. Agony frissons through the spaced canyons; whet from ire and slick from sorrow. He bends down, and shakes his head. 

"I've always given you a choice," his words are smouldering logs, crackling with his pain. "I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?"

Price takes you on the mossy forest floor, fingers digging into the peat as you sink, down, down, down—

His hand under your head, cradling the back of your skull, keeps you from getting swallowed by the grass knoll that breathes and trill against your spine. 

Fire licks in the crevasses of his eyes, molten desperation you can't ignore. He rages above you, quivering in the fading glow of the sunset struggling to slip through the canopy. No longer a man but a myth. He hangs over you with his canines bared, and flashes of anger and sorrow scorch the path his teeth leave behind on your skin. 

You're becoming unmoored. Each touch, and brush; each sweep of his tongue soothing the indents of his razor-sharp teeth all seem to loosen the ties that thread through your soul, anchoring you to the world that stands in full bloom before you. 

The forest shudders with his frantic pace; each piston of his hips leaks his fervent anguish and makes the trees croon, and creak as they bow their foliage in sorrow. His pain lashes through their roots, and rent the air in two. A fox mourns his loss in the distance. A wolf yowls in agony. His brethren lifting their muzzle to the sleepy moon, and howling out the melody of their despair. 

It's too much, too much, and you fall into pieces in his hands, shivering beneath him as the woods around you tremble and quake. It's a mesmerising dance. 

He finishes with a grunt that makes the world shudder anew, spending himself as deep inside of you as he can, as if he could overwrite your empty spaces with himself. Fill you to the brim until you are bursting with him, with life. Tulips for your eyes. Furze for veins. Moss for hair. Peat soil for blood. 

When he speaks, the world falls silent. 

"You don't know it yet, but you will. You've always been mine. Always belonged to the forest, to the earth. To me."

Despite his words, he lets you go. 

And you run, run, run—

Your toes dig into the wet soil near the stream. The desperate catapult across the ravine halted at the very last moment, leaving you winded and shaking. Hands clenched into tight balls by your side. Quivering with fear, with the adrenaline rush still roaring in your veins. 

You don't know what you're doing. 

The whispers in your head go silent. 

The absence of sound makes you mourn, and you think about his agony. The pain when he took you, the resignation when he let you go. 

You think of him, and you know. 

I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?

You scent napalm in the air, cloying despite the acrid burn that scalds your lungs when you breathe in deep, holding it there. 

You think of the chest inside your closet. The pieces of yourself you left behind. The way he fits you like a puzzle, like he was made for you. Designed with your rough edges in mind. Softening your hard lines; scouring your gritty surface it was smooth and shiny like fire Opal and precious gems. 

Ever since you felt his hand on your shoulder, you haven't been able to let go. 

(You don't even think you ever really tried.)

Come to me, the forest says, honey in your ears. It sounds like the rapid beat of a million birds' wings, ready to take flight. Pulsing and alive and full of wonder, childish glee. 

The earth blooms in your chest. You feel the soft, tender caress of the leaves against your skin, the moss sinking between your toes. Clinging to your flesh, desperate to get inside, and take refuge in your heart. Come home to us.

Your grandmother warned you to stay out of the forest, that it was dangerous. Deadly. Wrong. But how can it ever harm you when it touches you so sweetly? 

The branches curl around your ankles as you walk, leading you, guiding you, to the place where you belong. The forest opens around you, spreads apart and makes room for you to pass, touching you as you go, taking little pieces of you. Strands of your hair, the salt from your tears. Pieces of clothes. Parts of your soul. 

You pluck your heart out of your chest, and leave it beneath a gnarled sequoia. She will protect it forever. 

Moss grows inside of the empty space. A tern makes a nest inside of it, filling it with a bed of pine needles, and twigs from the junipers. You feel a mouse make a home in your rib cage, burrowing between your bones. You place your hand over your side, and feel her nuzzle against your palm. 

"You're safe now," you say. "We're almost home."

It's Gaz who greets you with a crown made of sugi. When he cups your face, you feel raging rivers and streams in his palms, and now that you are home. 

"Missed you, dandelion," he breathes, and his voice turns into a Chinook that crests over the mountains. "But there's someone who wants to see you."

His hands slide down to your wrists, and you feel the sun grazing your skin when he spins you around, around, around—

"Now," he leans down, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear. You hear the Falcons nesting in his chest, and smell pine in his breath. "He's been an impatient bastard, you know? Just moping about ever since you left—"

A scoff. You lift your head and feel the swell of the earth beneath your feet. Dizzying. Wanting. 

He waits for you in the thicket, eyes made of sapphire and stone. When he breathes, the forest swells with his breath, and you taste loam when you swallow. 

"A sorry sap, thinkin' you were runnin' away, and all. But you won't, will you?" Gaz pushes you forward, and his laughter rings in your ears. "Not anymore."

Price meets you in the middle, his eyes sparkling embers. A baptism in fire. You feel the heat on your skin, and shiver. 

You used to be afraid of forest fires, but you know, now, that sometimes trees need to burn before they can truly grow. 

Lodgepole roots bud under his skin, rippling veins across a ravine. He rests his hand against your cheek, thumb brushing the dawn redwood needles that bloom under your skin. 

"Welcome home."

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go." 

"Why?" You asked, blinking at her. 

"Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't." 

You don't tell her that you already have. You don't mention the sticks and precious stones that always ended up on your windowsill. The whispers of the forest calling your name. 

You nod sagely instead, fingers tightening around the sap stained heart chiselled from Bristlecone Pine. The charred ends are warm in your palm. You feel it pulse. 

Will you accept this? My heart? Will you keep it safe for me? 

"I will."

This was meant to be light and fluffy and smutty but now it's. This. And um. Oops. I hope you enjoyed it!

JOHN PRICE MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION PART THREE OF COD X MYTHOLOGY ⁞ SOAP ● DRAGON PRICE

[art]

Creator Spotlight: @scottlava

Scott Campbell has illustrated numerous children’s books, including SKULLS!, Sleepy the Goodnight Buddy, and Zombie In Love. He was author/illustrator of the much-loved HUG MACHINE. He enjoyed a long career in video games, where he art directed the critically acclaimed game Psychonauts and Brutal Legend for Double Fine Productions. Great Showdowns is his ongoing online series. Scott’s work has appeared in galleries and publications around the world. You can see more of his work at ScottC.com.

Check out our interview with Scott below!

How did you get your start in art, and more specifically, with Great Showdowns?

I went to art school in San Francisco and have been painting, making comics, and designing video games ever since with Double Fine Productions. The Great Showdowns began at the first Crazy 4 Cult exhibition at Gallery 1988 in Los Angeles back in 2007, an exhibition of artwork inspired by the cult classics of cinema. The first 10 little paintings were intended to be snack-sized pieces for people to easily collect. They began with perhaps the most iconic of wild west showdowns from A Fistful of Dollars with Clint Eastwood. I pulled some of my favorite moments from films like Ghostbusters, Predator, Exorcist, and Planet of the Apes and placed them all in simple little dust-colored squares as if they were in the dirt streets of a wild west town. They began as good versus evil but grew to all kinds of showdowns between people and objects and often moments of great love between people. I started a tumblr for them a few years later, and I have been posting them ever since. We have published three Great Showdown books and have had 3 solo exhibitions along with worldwide scavenger hunts. There are over a thousand of them up on the site by now, and i do not plan on stopping any time soon.

Which 3 famous artists (dead or alive) would you invite to your dinner party?

I would like to gather Jim Henson, Walt Disney, and Richard Scarry together for dinner and chats. They have all created my favorite and most joyful worlds. I think we would have some of the most delightful chats.

What is a medium that you have always been intrigued by but would never use yourself?

I love collage, but every time I try it, I get frustrated and just quit. Someday I will get into it when my kids are old enough to really mess around with various mediums. I plan to have boxes of textiles and magazines for them to just annihilate.

What does your work set up look like?

Oh, it’s just a table with an old mug for water and an old plate for my watercolors and not much else. I share a studio with a bunch of very inspiring people who make wonderful things, from fabricated creatures to VR experiences and films. I have probably the simplest little area in the space. I do have an old oak flat file that I love to look at.

Advice you would give to an aspiring creator?

The biggest thing I would push upon everyone would be to not fret about one’s visual style. The style will grow and present itself as you experiment with mediums and expose yourself to various cultural delights. Just have fun and try all kinds of things.

What is one interaction you had from a fan of yours that has stuck with you over the years?

I gave a game design presentation many years back on a game I had art directed at the time called Brutal Legend at a game conference in Leeds. The game followed a roadie to the age of metal in the land of metal, with demons and chrome volcanoes and hot rods growing from the ground, and rivers of happy and cheering fans. After the talk, I spoke with someone whose work I had seen in earlier portfolio reviews at the conference. She was very shy but incredibly talented. She came up to me after the talk feeling pretty emotional and inspired to the point of tears and sobbing. It was probably the most extreme reaction I have ever gotten from someone, and it touched me deep down in my guts. That’s why we make things! To bring on the tears!

From video games, to illustrations, and children's books, you've worked on many projects. What was the most challenging, yet rewarding one?

Video games take an enormous amount of work over a long period of time and rely on the skills and talent of many like-minded people. It is sometimes difficult to corral such an effort, but it is incredibly rewarding to see it all come together to create such epic worlds. That said, though, children’s books are very enjoyable in a cozy way. It’s just me right there working on a world and all the pressure is on me. I cannot rely on all the talented people around me to make it look great.

Who on Tumblr inspires you and why?

I love perusing old fashion and film blogs and artists like Bob Jinx and Neil Sanders and collections like Its Colossal.

Thanks for stopping by, Scott! Be sure to check out the Great Showdowns over at @scottlava!

[sunflowersteves]

forgiving you was easy || j.m.

part three of ain't no sunshine

pairing || joel miller x f!sunshine!reader

summary || who knew Joel Miller would be jealous of the entire town of Jackson, Wyoming.

author's note || chapter threeee! sorry it took me a bit! i was on spring break and then a lost a little motivation for writing for this series and joel but im back! better than ever! this isn't edited either so i'm sorry for any mistakes. can be read as stand alone but follows a series!

warnings || jealousy, angst, fluff, insecurities, dependency, joel is so in-love, SMUT, soft dom!joel, cockwarming, a little sub!joel if you squint, unprotected sex, food play, [18+ only]

part two || series masterlist || masterlist

You know I'll always love you And I can't forget the days when you were mine Forgiving you is easy

The warmth of spring in Wyoming settles in between the fluffy green grass and the perk of white from the wildflowers that start to bloom. Spring was always your favorite, especially after the calming storm of the harsh, frosty winter. 

Ellie and Joel could always tell the changing of the seasons when you were around—like an alarm clock that pleasantly buzzed against their ears. The days they watched you with a book in your hand, hot tea in the other, and a blanket snuggled over your lap were over. 

Instead, you were humming along to a tune outside as you tended to your garden. You would fluff out an old blanket to have a picnic under the cedar trees. Spring was just your season, and Joel and Ellie’s smiles couldn’t be brighter when they saw just how much you thrived.

However, Joel hadn’t had the pleasure to watch the seasons change this year. He couldn’t watch the late evenings of watching you and Ellie catch fireflies on the back porch. He hadn’t seen the new sundresses you had traded with one of the taylor’s in town. He hadn’t had the pleasure of going on a hike near the river and skipping rocks until your arm hurt too much.

It wasn’t like it was entirely his fault that he hadn’t seen you. He had been trying for the past two months to get your attention but seemingly failed every time. He knew that you being injured spooked the entire town—hell, it spooked him too. He would argue that it scared him shitless more than anybody else in the entire world. 

But everyone wanted their chance to hang out with you—the world was full of violence and chaos, something that many people in the town had forgotten, and the reminder of your injuries had struck them intensely. Everyone in Jackson, Wyoming wanted every ounce of your attention. 

Tommy wanted your help on a surprise for Maria. Maria wanted your input on the things happening around the town. Jesse wanted to show you a new weapon he had gotten. Dina wanted to ask for more supplies for the new cabin she built. Even when you were back at your own cabin, Ellie wanted to show you all of the new things she had discovered at school. That last one, though, Joel didn’t mind so much. 

And you. You. You were as happy as you could be—a smile plastered onto your face and a sweet voice ringing out saying, “I’d be happy to.” Joel’s sunshine—the person that he was truly starting to miss and crave. 

Joel felt as though was about to simmer over like a pot of water that was about to completely boil over. Joel could feel you slowly start to detach yourself from him—the wall seemingly becoming much higher. 

You never caressed his face anymore in the mornings. You had been waking up too early that your mind fogged over with sleep, no longer cuddling into his side. You never kissed him goodnight, already asleep in the bed. You never hugged him behind the waist when he cooked anymore. 

That was just the way things were when more than half of the damn town wanted your constant attention. He couldn’t really blame anyone else either because he understood. You were the glue to everyone’s smiles and laughter, the town was undoubtedly happier with you around. 

He knew it wasn’t on purpose. He knew you couldn’t help it. But, you were his glue too.

A deep sullen feeling rushed over his chest as he thought about the little time he had spent with you. His hands itched to feel the soft plains of your skin again, to hold your hand as you danced around in the kitchen. 

He closed his eyes, and one of his hands gripped the couch so hard he thought the stuffing might fall out. His breathing was deep and labored, the lonely ache settling into his bones. He knew that all of this would soon pass, at least he hoped.

His fears always get the best of him, especially when all the people he has loved die or leave. The mere thought of you leaving was about to take seize of his chest and break it whole. You and Ellie were the family he thought he could never have, again. You were it for him. 

“Good morning, handsome.” You made your way down the stairs and smiled at the fresh pot of coffee. 

Joel could only grunt as a response. 

You arched an eyebrow, though. While that might be a normal response to everyone else, you were always greeted with a deep scratchy, ‘good morning, darlin’.” You poured yourself some of the coffee into your favorite mug—bright yellow sunflowers that covered the ceramic glass. 

You looked over your shoulder to see Joel completely lost in thought. A frown sat right on top of his pretty features, the curve of his lips was almost starting to become red. “Joel?”

The sweet plains of your voice seemed to catch him out of his daze. His eyes softened and the frown slowly disappeared from his lips at the sight of you in the kitchen. You still had your pajamas on and the sleep under your eyes was still a bit prominent. 

“Sleep any good?” He watched you tiredly nod, knowing you just lied to his face. Even with the warmth that flowed through your body from being next to Joel, your sleepless nights were still taking a toll. He knew you weren’t getting good sleep, but he still wanted to make sure you were okay.

“No, you haven’t.” You open your mouth to retort something back, but the smile that shines on his face halts your jaw to stop. “You don’t have to lie to me, darlin’, I already know.”

You huff out in playful annoyance before sipping some of the sugary coffee. “You always seem to know, Miller.”

You saunter over to him, placing the coffee cup at the end table, and placing your knees over to rest near his thighs. His arms immediately find their home on your hips and he gives them a squeeze. 

You smiled brightly at him, as you always did, and Joel couldn’t contain the pure happiness that flowed through his veins. He pressed a kiss to your cheek and trails his lips up to your nose and finally pecks the tip.

You giggle in his arms, your own hand resting along the back of his neck and shoulder. He lets himself contently sigh and his eyes flutter closed at the relaxed feeling. “Can’t seem to get you to myself.” 

You raised an eyebrow as you start to press soft kisses to his jawline—feeling the gruff of his patchy beard. “What’s that?” 

He opened one of his eyes, peeking to look at you. He huffed, almost childlike, at the thought of having to share you again. “You’ve been busy all week, darlin’. I jus’ haven’t seen you.”

You nodded, your hands making their way past his shoulders and down to his hardened chest. He groaned at the newly founded attention of your touches. His hands start to wander around your hips, one lowering to your side, while the other hand feels the plains of your stomach. 

He could feel the desperation kick in between his chest and his heart. He whimpered at the feeling of your wet tongue skating across his neck. Your hot breath fanned up against the pulse point on his neck and his body couldn’t help itself as it puddled into you.

You nibbled right against the spot below his ear, knowing that would make him melt even further. You had realized through all of the messes that you were cleaning up around town that you missed him too. Even unbearingly, so. 

You missed the way he would press his rough lips against your chest. You craved for the breakfasts he would make in the mornings and bringing you a tray of it to your shared bed. 

Your heart thumped across your chest as his hand trailed up underneath your pajama shirt. Then, as if the universe was out to get the two of you, you heard the call of your name and stopped the assault on his neck. 

“Y’all in there? I just need some herbs for the lunch I’m makin’ for Maria.” Tommy calls from the front door. 

Joel’s hands tightened incredibly fast around your hips. The grit of his teeth is almost striking and his tongue snaps against the roof of his mouth. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare open that door.”

You sighed. Joel could tell that you were contemplating on letting Tommy think that no one was home. Something flashed between your irises, though—something that he couldn’t quite see. Slowly, you pulled yourself out of his grasp, so slow that he almost didn’t feel it.

But then he felt cold—it was harsh and piercing as the warmth from your body dissipated. You walked over to the front door and opened it up. You started chatting with Tommy about the garden before letting him in.

Tommy had even greeted his older brother, but he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure that he could without blowing up in his face. So, he stayed silent with a grind of his jaw and a squint of his eyes. 

He watched you and Tommy make your way to the backyard, all while Joel sat on the couch, alone once more. 

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

Joel was pissed—anger bursting through his chest and almost falling out of his ears in steam. His anger wasn’t regarded at you, never you. He just couldn’t help but be so irate at the entire town around him—even his own flesh and blood. 

After Tommy had talked to you about parsley for ten-fucking-minutes, he had the audacity to ask another favor. He grits his teeth together even harder before as you and Tommy made your way back through the house and right out the door. Tommy had said something to him, too, but he couldn’t listen. He couldn’t listen as you gave him a guilty smile—one that shined a promise that you would be back soon.

Joel had just about been stretched paper thin. He was warring on a side that showed his mean and off-putting nature. He stood up, almost about to pack all of yours and Ellie’s bags so he can take you three far the fuck away from Jackson, Wyoming. He had never been to Nebraska. Maybe it would be just as nice and calming as Wyoming was. 

He shook his head, though. His thoughts were always calculating and stirring in his head. He couldn’t take Jackson away from you, no matter how hard he wanted some peace and quiet. Wyoming was your home now—including his. His dusted, sour heart couldn’t even bear that. 

He had decided he had just about enough.

Joel got up from the couch, his knees cracking at the still position he had been in for over an hour—he had been patiently waiting for your return. 

He heard someone tumble down the stairs just as he was about to walk out the door. He then turned around to see Ellie grabbing a piece of toast from the kitchen. Damn, she was getting quicker and quicker these days. She had grown up so much since they had settled down in Jackson. 

She stopped, though, looking him up and down. “Oh my god, would you just tell her already?” Ellie was exasperated, almost laughing at the old man in front of her. 

Joel could only stare, blinking occasionally. “You two are a mess, sometimes.”

“What are you talkin’ about, kid?” He huffed. He was trying to hide from her, hoping she wouldn’t notice the sullen pining he had been doing for the past couple of months. 

“You love her so much, it’s gross.” She fake gagged. 

She noticed that his eyebrows couldn’t be any more furrowed. Joel protested. “I do love ‘er. I’m just—I don’t know. You know I’m shit at feelings, kid.”

She crossed her arms. “Joel, even I’ve noticed you two haven’t been around each other and I can’t see for shit.” She leaned forward and patted his upper arm—it was the highest she could reach. 

“Just tell her you miss her, man.” With that, she walked up to the door. “By the way, I’m staying at Cat’s. She’s a new friend from school.” 

Joel opened his mouth to protest as you and Joel were supposed to make dinner that night, but Ellie didn’t even hear him. She was already out the door and halfway across the lawn with the biggest smile on her face. 

Joel couldn’t believe he was going to tell himself this, but Ellie was right. The only problem was that he needed to get you alone. 

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

After Tommy had picked out the spicy he wanted, he told you in a hushed tone about his new idea as a surprise for Maria. You raised an eyebrow at the secrecy but nodded nonetheless when he asked if you could talk with him at his house. 

“Sorry, I know you wanted a day with your family. Ellie jus’ likes to blab out stuff to Maria. She can’t keep a secret for shit.” You couldn’t deny that one bit. You loved Ellie and the lack of filter she has, but she, in fact, can’t ever keep secrets. 

You smiled as big as you could. Despite the change in plans, everything was still genuine for you. A shimmering spark shot through your heart at the fact that so many people in Jackson cared about you and were excited to see you well again. You appreciated each and every one of them.

It had been five after seven o’clock by the time you had come back to the house. Your limbs were utterly spent from the day you had had. All you wanted to do was crawl into bed with Joel and never have to deal with anyone else ever again—besides Ellie, of course. 

You sprawled yourself across the couch, a little sigh leaving your lips. Your body ached from practically standing on your feet all day. Just as you were about to inevitably get up and go make dinner, spices and savor hit your nose. 

You turn your head to see Joel standing in the kitchen—an apron hung around his neck as he hummed a tune. You guessed it was Johnny Cash by the way his vocal cords clung to every sound. 

You stood there for while, leaning on the doorway, and watched as he continued to cook a meal. Tears sprung to your eyes, the thoughtfulness of the man in front of you had never ceased to amaze you.

Instead of kicking back his legs and watching a movie to wait for you to get home and make a meal as most men do, he immediately took on the task like no other. You maybe had to show him how to cook, but he was quite a fast learner. 

He finally looked over, his eyes were wide at the startling presence of you by the door. “Darlin’! You jus’ about gave me a heart attack.”

You laughed and shook your head before going over and wrapping your arms around his waist. He sucked in his breath at the feeling of your hands against his frame. Everything felt right again, everything felt perfect. 

He let the onions sauté a bit too long as he let the moment of your arms around him fully sink in. He didn’t want to take any more moments with you for granted—not like he did such a thing previous to your accident. 

“I’ve missed you, sweet girl.”

The nickname sends shivers down your spine, a gasp leaving your lips. You start to press small kisses against his shoulder blade and breathe in the smell of whiskey and oak. “I’ve missed you too, cowboy.”

He turns off the stove and takes a spoon to push the onions onto two plates, nice and even. You almost pull him in a bit tighter, wanting to be as close to him as you possibly could. He turns around in your arms and presses a firm kiss against your lips.

You almost whine, though, from the quickness that his lips leave yours. “Dinner’s ready, darlin’.”

You grab the plate and go to sit down in your usual spot. Normally, there would be a chair between you and Joel so that Ellie could sit right in the middle. Joel shook his head, though. 

“Ellie’s gone. She’s at Cat’s.”

Your eyes brightened with excitement. “Oh! Yes! She was telling me the other day that Cat is a tattoo artist and Ellie was thinking about—” You stopped mid-sentence from the disapproving sound that leaves his mouth. 

You looked at him with a frown. “Hey, when Ellie turns eighteen next year you can’t just—”

“No.” He gruffs, shaking his head. “Not that. You’re just—you’re too far.”

Your mouth opens just a bit out of surprise. Joel’s eyes glance down at his lap for only a moment, before flicking up back into your eyes. 

You stand there, for just a moment, trying to collect your thoughts. Before you know it, your legs are moving on their own and straddling his waist. He hums in contentment at the feeling of your body weight on top of his—the warmth of you already filling up his bones.

You were right where you needed to be. 

You start to move to turn around and eat your food, but Joel stops you. He takes the plate out of your hand and places it on the table. 

“I need you to stop movin’.” He looks at you with one eyebrow raised. Then, he saw the change in your demeanor almost immediately. 

Your back straightened, your eyes dilated—you were a sight for sore eyes. You looked at him innocently, but he knew the darkness that swam through your eyes told him another story. “What do you mean, Joel?”

His hands gravitated toward your hips, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Don’t act all stupid on me, darlin’.”

He could feel his cock harden with each wiggle that his hips shift over his lap. Your crotch laid right on top of his—giving you access to the perfect amount of friction against his member. 

“Fuck—” He whispers.

His cock was already weeping—practically begging for him to unleash and sink down into you. The sound of your mewl as you rocked back and forth was utterly ethereal to his ears. The pure desperation to be near you again—finally all to himself was almost too enticing. 

He didn’t know what he needed first. “Please, baby—lemme—lemme jus’ feel you. I need to feel you so bad.”

You nod vigorously against his broad chest. “Need you too, Joel. N-Need you.” 

You weren’t sure how much more you could say. Your mind was already slipping into an unconscious state of pure love and wanting at the humping of his lap. You would do anything and everything for the man underneath you. 

Joel unzips his jeans and gently lifts his hips, with you on him, so he can shimmy them down his ankles. Your mouth begins to water as he takes out his pre-cum smeared, girthy-veined cock. 

“Don’t move. What did I tell you ‘bout movin', hm?”

You open your mouth to protest, but it dies on your tongue. Joel just wanted to feel you. He just wanted your warm heat to sit on top of his cock—the sensations that rolled through you were almost too much to bear. 

He just wanted you to sit pretty. 

You moved your hips to shove your underwear to the side and slowly sunk down onto his cock. You both moaned in unison, his forehead leaning to press up against yours. 

Joel wasn’t sure how much he could handle—his cock throbbing from your slick, wet core. He had missed this so much. He had missed you so much. 

He could tell that the feelings were mutual from the juices that flowed down to his balls. He groaned at the vision that flushed through him. He pressed sweet kisses onto your temple and down to your jaw. 

He grabbed a fork full of the steak that he had made. You giggled, opening your mouth and he fed the meat to you.

You hummed in delight, the flavor was so good and the meat was so tender. Joel just watched, mouth slightly open in awe. “Fuck, sweet girl. ‘M missed you.” 

You whined, feeling absolutely full to the brim. You missed him too. You didn’t realize just how much your body craved the man in front of you. 

You were starting to get impatient. You pressed your breasts right on top of his chest and wiggled around in his lap. Joel growls in your ear and rushes his hands to still your movements. 

“What the fuck did I just say?” 

You were able to get a full roll of your hips and your eyes almost rolled in the back of your head. “Joel, please, please. I-I can’t—”

“You gettin’ cock dumb, darlin’? Hmm?” He groaned at the clench your walls gave around his cock.

“Haven’t even done anythin’ and you’re already all stumped.” He had a shit-eating grin that spread across his face. He loved when you were needy—he loved when you were just as desperate as he was. 

“Joel—I—please, Joel, please—” It was as if those were the only words you could say or do. You desperately claw at his chest and Joel just couldn’t resist. 

“F-fuck darlin’, you’re fuckin’ squeezing me.” He grunts, shifting his hips to thrust into you fully. You let out a scream, hands clenching his shoulders and your nails dug into his skin through his shirt. 

“I’ve got you, pretty girl, okay? I’ve got you, don’t worry.” He mutters that over and over again, his hands steading your hips in a rhythm. He shoved the cockwarming plan out the damn window when you beg so pretty. 

Your jaw hung slack as Joel’s cock pierced you again and again, thrusting deep and hard. The chair underneath you creaked and rattled, but you paid no mind. “J-Joel–”

You could feel the tight coil begin to snap already, the long-absent months of his cock were taking a toll. He could feel the tightening of your walls and he damn near came at the sight. He watched as his cock completely disappeared into your wet little pussy. 

Joel took some of the mashed potatoes onto his fingers and shoved them into your mouth. “Suck, baby, c’mon.”

You do right as you're told and suck on the garlic mashed potatoes—the ones that he knew were your favorite. Your eyes roll into the back of your head—the slick and spasm of your cunt makes Joel growl against your cheek.

“That’s it, sweet girl. I need you to cum, let it go. That’s it, pretty girl. You’re doing such a good job f’ me.”

You let yourself go in the pure pleasures of Joel Miller. Your walls clench once more and a rush of feelings flow through you—love and lust intertwining as one. Your juices spill all across his lap and squirt over to his shirt. He moans your name, almost too deep for you to hear. 

He groaned loudly, yelling your name into your ear and spilling his seed inside of you. The rush of his thick, sticky cum that hits your cervix fills you even more than before. You whine into him as his thrusts begin to cease. 

He snuggles right on top of you, pressing his forehead against yours. His chest heaved up and down—completely out of breath. 

“I love you, sunshine.”

You giggled, wiping a bit of caramelized onion off of his hand. “I love you too, cowboy.”

The food was definitely cold by now, but Joel didn’t mind. As long as he had you, he never had to worry.

[willowser]

okay this but more.

the man staying in room 6 is kind of...odd. very handsome, dresses nice, has a great charm about him—but he comes in at terrible hours of the night, a little more ruffled than he left. and there's something so surface level about him; his penchant for standard small talk and his perfectly timed quips, almost like he's recited the same lines a dozen times and practiced them even more.

gojo satoru is the name you find on the registry.

(a series of spontaneous, not-so-thought-about decisions have left you working—and staying—in the far countryside, at an inn on a hill overlooking a meandering river. it's a far drive from town, but the views are nice and the worst guest you have is a high-maintenance woman in room 2, that would never forgive you for serving tea cold.)

(you're up late fixing her a glass of warm milk, in the tiny kitchen of your tiny lodgings, when everything goes awry.)

"got enough for one more?"

you jump at the sound of his voice, hushed and raspy as it is, before spinning from the counter to face him. it's the kind of quiet night that makes the crickets sing and footsteps thunder and you're not so sure how he managed to slip into the kitchen behind you, pull out the chair at the small dining table and plop himself down without rattling the whole inn.

—but he's there regardless. gojo satoru, looking a little worse for wear; hair shiny and down, clothes dark and clinging to his skin, as if they'd been soaking wet not long ago. it hasn't rained in days.

your heart is nearly beating out of your chest, but all you can manage to say is, "you're bleeding."

the smile that brightens his face drops, sending the little droplet of blood down his cheek. there's a small gash marring his perfectly high cheekbones, vibrant and stark against his smooth, pale face.

gojo reaches up a long finger to wipe it away, and when he pulls his hand back to assess the stain on his hands, he frowns.

"yowch," he pouts, and his eyes drop to his chest, as if he's expecting there to be more. "someone has to do something about that gang of cats living outside."

when you snort, it draws his eyes back to you and something silly warms the center of your chest; his wide gaze has always made you feel a bit young, school-age and easily flustered. you're sure he can hear the stutter of your heart and the flip of your stomach.

you gain a little bit of ground when the microwave beeps behind you. "cats, huh?" you ask, though instead of pulling out the mug, you fish a dish towel from the drawer. "that why you need the milk?"

gojo takes it quietly, when you offer it. but instead of dabbing at his face, he only stares at the little flowers patterned on the material, runs his fingers over the thread. it's an old, handmade thing, knit by the wife of the owner to the inn—but it looks small in his large hands, heartfelt in contrast to his expensive suit.

something shifts, as if you've given him more than you have, and when he raises his head to look at you, his wound seems brighter, fuller and painful. his eyes are always so big on his face, but they're—too big now, round and all-seeing, like whatever it is scares him.

"gojo?" you murmur, but his head wrenches hard over his shoulder, looking out into the small lobby, and before you can question him further, he's dashing out of his seat and crushing you into the countertop.

the edge digs into your hip painfully and you cry out against his chest as he hugs you—but the sound is lost under the deafening blow that tears the inn in two.

gojo's body is further rammed into yours, but he's all encompassing; a shield against the explosion at his back; cradling you beneath the ceiling as it comes down on the both of you.

you try to scream but inhale drywall and debris, the fabric of his damp shirt with how tight he's pressed you to him. when he groans, you feel it in your teeth, the sound lost under the incessant ringing in your ears; you think you say his name, but you can't hear.

the explosion has completely shattered your bearings, and you don't realize you've been shoved to the floor until gojo is throwing pieces of the upstairs carpet off his back and hauling you to your feet. he says—something, but you can only blink the dust from your eyes, even as he shakes your shoulders and begins to drag you along the battlefield of the kitchen.

a gaping hole has been blown into the right side of the inn, the night ready and waiting as you come to stand at the precipice. gojo is still talking, shaking you by the arm until something catches his eye: he brings a hand up to your head, lightly touches at your ear before curling a fist. blood is on his fingers—but you can't even be sure if it's his or yours.

"gojo?" you feel yourself ask again, and just the movement of your jaw has a sharp pain shooting to your head. you think you're going to be sick—even moreso when that horrific look pales his face again, has him twisting around to see a ghost you can't.

again, gojo winds his arms around your body tight, before tossing you both off the ruined edge of the inn. the grass rushes up to punch the air out of your lungs as you're flung downhill, barreling straight for the river below as a second explosion blows what remains of your quiet life apart.

[roxygen22]

Babysitter

For those of you looking forward to Lofty's appearance in the My Little Cocoa Bean series, your wait is over!

Summary: Willy needs a babysitter ASAP. Lofty steps in begrudgingly. Ben/Bean is 5, and Charlotte/Charlie is about a year old (and crawling).

C/W: Derogatory remark toward children. Babysitter loses track of child. Minor injury.

<><><><><>

It took time for Lofty to grow accustomed to Ben's regular presence at the factory. He found the squirming tiny human tolerable when confined to that silly wrap on Willy's chest. Cute, even. But the fondness waned when the boy became mobile and was fully exhausted once he started to talk. Ben made a habit of following Lofty around, asking the most inane questions. "What are you doing?" "Why are you orange?" "Can I have green hair, too?" He was oblivious to Lofty's exasperation.

On the rare occasion when there were long spells between Ben's visits, though, Lofty would ask after him. "When can we expect the little troll again? I'm not used to actually being able to get my work done without tripping over him." Willy would just laugh and shake his head. He could see right through that callous exterior.

Today was the first day that Willy took both Ben *and* Charlotte with him to the factory. Lofty scoffed when he saw the family enter. "Two of them. Fantastic," he said flatly. He gave Ben the usual side eye, though Willy saw the small smile that lit up Lofty's face when he thought nobody was looking.

Willy had just gotten the children settled in the office when he spied an entry on his desk calendar. "Oh no, no no no! That can't be today!"

"What's wrong, Papa?"

"I have a very important meeting at 9 this morning that I thought was scheduled for tomorrow." He paled and scrubbed a hand down his face. You were at work today as well, and Willy knew how much it meant to you to start back again after Charlotte's birth. There was no way he was going to pull you away because he mismanaged his schedule. Noodle was at school, and there was not enough time for your parents to cross town to watch the kids. "Oh boy. I'll just have to ask Lofty."

Willy pulled out his fife to summon the little orange man. "Lofty, I need to ask a favor. Can you keep an eye on Bean and Charlie, keep them out of trouble just long enough for me to meet with the chameleon flower importer?" Willy implored.

"And why would I want to do that?" Lofty asked incredulously.

"Please, Lofty. If the deal works out, we'll have the ingredients again for those color-changing candies you like so much."

Lofty placed his hand on his chin in thought. "I suppose I can look after your crotch goblins. JUST for a limited period of time. JUST this once!"

Ignoring the jab at his babies for the time being, Willy gratefully shook Lofty's hand. "You're a lifesaver. Here's Charlie's nap and feeding schedule and her bottles. Here are Bean's snacks. I need to go brush off my coat and hat. This shouldn't take more than an hour, tops." Willy left the office in a whirl. "And Bean, stay away from the edge of the chocolate river!" he called out from the other end of the hallway.

Ben and Lofty just sat and stared at each other, not knowing what to do next. Charlotte seemed sufficiently entertained by chewing on her hands and babbling.

"Well, you two are more boring than guarding cocoa beans," Lofty lamented after a few moments had passed. "I need to go count bags of sugar. I will be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Take this whistle and blow on it if you need my attention. Keep an eye on your- hold on a moment, where is the newer one?"

Both he and Ben spun around to look, but Charlotte was nowhere to be seen. Unbeknownst to Lofty, the little girl was already quite proficient at crawling - something that Willy had failed to mention.

"Charlie? Charlieeeeeee!" Ben called out.

"Ba ba ba ba." They heard her babble in the distance in response to Ben's voice. Their heads swiveled until they caught sight of her crawling over the candy bridge. The bridge over the chocolate river. The bridge that does not have any rails to prevent someone from fa-

"Oh, good heavens. Charlotte, stop right this instant!" Lofty yelled. Thankfully, the girl paused. "How did she get all the way over there so quickly? How did she even get out of the office?"

Ben ran toward her, but Charlotte giggled and resumed crawling away at a faster pace, making a game of it. Lofty ran after both of them, but Ben's longer legs (even at 5 years old) prevailed. Ben would have caught up to the baby, too, had he not tripped over a group of candy toadstools at the base of the bridge. The poor boy fell forward and scraped his hands. Fat tears rolled down his face from the stinging pain and from losing sight of his sister again.

Lofty quickly looked Ben over once he finally caught up. "Buck up, you'll be alright. Get back on the proverbial horse. We need to find Charlotte. We know she went that way," he pointed across the river. "Let's split up. If you find her, blow the whistle."

Lofty pulled the boy back up off the ground. Together, they crossed the bridge. Ben went left and Lofty went right, each calling for the girl in hopes she would giggle or babble again. After what felt like hours of searching and chasing phantom sounds across the garden, they crossed paths under the chocolate cherry tree.

"I can't find Charlie!" Ben sobbed. The stoic Oompa Loompa was also nearly reduced to tears by that point as well. Willy would surely cast him out, just like he was exiled from Loompaland. Or worse.

A soft noise pulled Lofty from his downward spiral. It sounded like the tree was...snoring? He circled the trunk to find the source. "What on Earth? Benjamin, come look!" he whisper-yelled to the boy. Ben knelt down and spotted his baby sister cuddled up in a hollow at the base of the tree...asleep. Neither of them were big enough to pick her up and carry her back to the office, so they let her be.

"Stay here," Lofty instructed. "I will go find something to clean up the scrapes on your hands. If she wakes, you give her a great big bear hug and don't let go until I get back."

Lofty went to the storeroom to grab some rags and water. When he returned, Ben was asleep, curled up protectively in front of the den Charlotte had made for herself. He couldn't help but smile at the sight. The poor rascal had exhausted himself worrying over his sister. He didn't dare wake them for fear of playing another round of hide and seek. Instead, he sat down and leaned back against the trunk of the tree to-

Next thing Lofty knew, he felt a tap on his boot. He blinked the sleep away and spotted Willy's tall, lanky frame. Apparently, he had dozed off, too, and in his sleep had leaned over so that his head was resting on Ben's shoulder.

Lofty jolted up and looked to make sure both children were accounted for. Willy snickered. "Don't worry, Lofty. Your curmudgeonly reputation is safe with me. I won't tell anyone you were cuddling with my kids as if you actually like them." He winked.

"Cuddling! I...These menaces?" Lofty stammered. "Really, Mr. Wonka. I sincerely hope you don't plan on bringing more of these small humans to the factory. Now, can I expect to have more of those delightful color-changing candies again soon?"

<><><><><>

A/N: Ben will tell all once he wakes. Charlotte is going to be a handful!

<><><><><>

Masterlist

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

Week 1: Going Nanners

My decision to blog this November came out of nowhere and with unyielding intensity. I brainstormed for most of the morning on November first. As usual, the exercise left me energized, ecstatic and severely scatterbrained; which seems to encapsulate my ongoing relationship with Nano. All of this is perfectly normal. I start the month with a towering dirty laundry list of what I plan on accomplishing, overwhelm myself horrendously and spend the remaining weeks doggy paddling against the breakers until I reach calmer seas. I have something to show for myself at the end of this struggle, sure, but the story that I long to tell and I remain oceans apart.

Last year was no exception. However, it was as challenging as it was wonderful. The “end” result was a new story in my series that I had been chomping at the bit to tell for several years now. Burnout, too. Terrible, depressing, unrelenting burnout- but what is writing if one refuses to take the good with the bad? I am happy with last year’s project and happy with my series, despite its many, many, many glaring deficiencies.

So what is next?! What point am I trying to convey with this gobbledegook of a blog post?! I’ll try my best to explain with minimal rambling. (There will be rambling.)

After clumsily cobbling together the final chapter of “The Joy that was Mine”, I stepped away from Waterford for maybe a month. The bug hunted me down soon after; biting me extra, extra, extra hard on my butt. I had no other choice. I started writing again, but it was different this time. Since January, I have been working on a new story, sort of an alternate reality that stems from a chapter in “Joy”. It is messy, incomplete and written entirely by hand in my horrific cursive scrawl. Parts of it are more than salvageable and eventually, it will go live. It is important to note before proceeding that it is not my Nano for this year. Next year, maybe. But not this year. This story, unofficially titled “The Great Hummingbird Rescue” was penned in solitude. That comes with reward and merit, certainly, but writing is such a communal endeavor for me. Writing about writing is the point here. Writing about writing gives me introspection beyond introspection. Hopefully in reading my writing about writing, I can reach out, beyond my obscure little world and help others. To inspire. That is my ultimate goal and why these weekly blog posts will be part of my process this year.

Speaking of goals…

I have so many ideas for this series. While I am taking my time exploring those avenues (mostly through journaling) there is so much work to be done on the foundation. Yes, these stories are more about the process than any finished project. I honestly don’t know if it will ever be finished and I know for a fact that it never has been and never will be perfect. I wouldn’t have in any other way! So, my goal for Nano this year is to do some serious work on the first story (“Only Through Victory”).

The first draft was written five years ago when I was brand new to the fandom and right around the time I changed universities (transferred) and switched my major from Theatre Performance to Creative Writing. All that I knew was that Colonel Tavington is dreamy and I needed to write a self-insert stat! I had no idea how many other projects this blatant wish fulfillment fic would birth. I had no idea what the creation of Annabelle Casey would unlock inside of my heart. I had no idea that I would build Waterford- my beloved little river town, a deeply sentimental conglomeration of the city in Arizona that raised me and wonderful, gentle, neighborly Portland- who loves so fiercely and shines so brightly that it is now imploding, collapsing in on itself like a dying star. Waterford has been my solace through the destruction of my previous life and the construction of my current one. It is the heart and soul of this ongoing series and the reason why my well of ideas and inspiration has yet to run dry. “Only Through Victory” needs revision. Annabelle needs to be fleshed out more and so does Waterford. That isn’t because the story is a total train wreck (although my inner perfectionist constantly argues otherwise.) These stories are a treasure to me and they deserve to be polished.

So, that is where I am right now. Happily going Nanners just as NaNoWriMo intended. Weekly blog posts about the revision/rewriting process can be found here on my Writeblr. Snippets and poems will be common occurrences, too. There is a lot in the works right now, so if it seems like I’m being elusive, I’m not. Just all over the map and terribly, terribly scatterbrained. Happy Nano to all and to all a good write!

[darkphoenix07]

Elixir of 🕸️Death (J.W)

A vampire series by @darkphoenix07

Mental health request

Masterlist

Paring : Wooyoung x Reader

Genre : Dark Romance, Fantasy, Tragedy

Song suggestion 🎶 : Listen before I go by Billie Eilish, House of cards ♠️ by BTS.

Warning ⚠️ : Mentions of blood, Violence, Degradation, Death, Mention of suicide.

Synopsis : When the girl who doesn't have any will to live meets the demon whose only wish to slaughter humans.

"How will it help me if I drain your blood right now when I can use you anyway I want to?"

- Jung Wooyoung

🍷 "To the people who craves comfort and a single reason to keep themselves alive" 🍷

"There lived my beloved

Weeping for some love

Chasing delicate poisons

To keep her soul alive"

Staring at the ripples, the only thing that comes in your mind is, "If you jump here, how long it will take for you to lose your senses at a point that you won't feel that you've stopped breathing."

Death has always fascinated you. Not only because you were drawn to it through the circumstances of your life. It was because the times you were standing in front of the death valley and how it felt when you were there. They were the only times you felt free, you didn't have any sort of thoughts that would break you or you didn't think of giving someone any explanation.

Unfortunately, you were saved each time by someone which has started to patrify you nowadays.

At a time, you started to feel like you were doing fine. You were thinking that you are alive that was enough for everyone. Like you, others were grateful for you not giving up on your life. But in the end of the day, people got tired of your existence, the way you behaved, the sentences you spoke. It all became a havoc for them, you and your breath.

You relentlessly keep walking by the river through the forest. People call it Red Forest because they think someone ominous lives here and eats people alive. They call that person demon, vampire, werewolf, siren and many more. Because no one knows what it is living here for centuries and no one comes back from this forest alive.

You thought a multiple times that if you end up going back home alive after wondering around here, you'll give up on dying thinking that even God doesn't want to take you back to Him. So, it will only be fair to stop pushing yourself.

Even the moon is hiding from you tonight and there are no animas around. It feels like you are in an empty arena filled with old trees and the river alongside. The cold breeze are now running through your veins. You think if that demon doesn't kill you tonight, the heavy winds may as you are shivering to death.

Your pale blue short dress with love shape front and long sleeves is not enough to keep you warm. You intensionally left your overcoat home but maybe it was too much brutal for you as well.

As you walk a little further, you notice an old mansion with black woods. There was no light inside, you thought but something about the house started to pull you closer.

Maybe the sweet delicate smell of old woods or maybe the little fireflies around the windows wanting some shelter inside. You gotta say that the house was creepy yet the decorations were lively.

You stand in front of the door and knock on the door with your knuckles not finding any bell to ring. Maybe hoping for some horror to find you and filing your wishes.

The town you live in is called "Melanite." The houses here are old and because of this forest there are no developments in here. So you thought this house was one of them and maybe no one lives here.

But someone opens the door leaving you slightly shocked.

His red eyes glimmered in the dark but you couldn't see him properly only his black attire. A sleeveless shimmery shirt and some ribbon around his throat. His pants are loose around his ankles and hiding his boots underneath.

"What do you want?"

His voice is raspy and vouge. It takes you a minute to understand what he asked.

"I am-"

Before you can utter another word, he grabs your wrist and pulls you into the mansion. Closing his door by your back, he pins your hand behind your waist. Your instincts made you close your eyes but when you start feeling his cold breathe on your face, you look into those glimmering eyes staring into yours.

He is twisting your hand behind your back but all you can see is his beautiful shaped face. How perfectly sharped his jawline is, how beautiful his pale skin looks and his terrifying eyes, they look like crimson crystals or drop of blood you can't decide.

"Are you here to unalive me, Ms? How foolish of them to send a pretty woman in front of my door thinking I will be hypnotized. But they don't know I've seen thousands of beauties like you, drained their blood with my own fangs and ripped them apart one by one."

You thought he is going to say something more but you staring at him like you have seen the most beautiful thing on the earth caught him off guard.

He leaves your hand and crosses his hands around his chest, "Who sent you this time?"

"I came here alone," you tell him the truth but he doesn't believe a word you say. Instead he thumps his hands beside you and stops inches away from you.

"Don't lie to me. There are people outside, right?" He asks you again and this time you smile.

"Tell me if these are lenses or you are a real monster?" You ask him again catching him off guard by your words.

"Lenses? What kind of weapon are they? You think I need weapons?" He says and you smile again shaking your head.

"So you are a monster, you are not playing dumb. I'm glad to know they exist."

"You better tell me who are you or I'll drain you right n-"

"Are you afraid of humans?" You cross your hands this time throwing him the question.

"How dare you ask me that? Why would I be afraid of some puny species!"

He backs off of you like he felt wronged by your question and you start to chuckle.

"Are you really alone?" He asks you making you stop chuckling.

You look at him then through the window of the dark living room, "You have no idea."

You don't hear anything from him for a while until he opens the door, looks around and again closes it, "I smell no human."

"I am glad," you reply sarcastically but he doesn't catch it.

"Why are you glad? Are they inside my home?" He asks you starting to look around.

"NO!" You almost scream in frustration.

"Then how did you find this place?" He asks you calmly this time.

You thought if there is something to explain or you should straight up tell him what you really want.

Then, "You are a vampire, ha? That was supposed to be a myth but you are truly real," you don't know why your words sound very lame to you.

But he took it nicely, "As you can see, I am. I am not the only one, there are more hidden among humans too."

It gives you shiver but you forget about it as soon as you remember what is the reason you came here for.

"I want you to do something for me."

"Are you ordering me?" His voice become hoarse than before. It's so vivid whenever he is mad.

You look down and start to play with your nails as you speak up, "I want to give you all of my blood right now."

"What? Did you mix anything in your blood? Is that what you were pl-"

"No, I just... I don't want to live anymore. I have been searching an easy way to do so but I couldn't. I failed too many times and I am tired. I can't do it myself anymore," you sounded pathetic but that's just how you are.

"You want me to drain you? You look already pale," you look at him hearing concern in his voice.

You have always been an empath and it helped you understanding everyone so well yet you never knew that a vampire could feel anything let alone concern.

"I just want you to drain me enough that I die. You'll get some blood and I'll get what I want," you tell him all these like you are doing some business deal.

The way he looked at you told you otherwise, "I am hungry. I haven't had blood for two months. If I really start, I wouldn't be able to stop."

"I don't want you to stop."

"Do you realize how pathetic you sound right now? Don't you have any value of your life?"

"If I had, I wouldn't come here knowing a monster lives here."

"I can turn you if you want to. You can l-"

"Did I say I want to live forever? I said I don't want to live a second so for God's sake kill me!"

Your knees starts trembling with your lips. You start feeling numb by the coldness you feel on your skin. You tried getting better being a person but you ended up hurting people, making a massacre. You tried to find any single reason for you to live but you only see yourself as a worst kind of omen.

"Alright then," you hear him say and feel him moving through the cold winter wind, coming in front of you.

You know, you couldn't run away now. Your legs have already given up on you.

But the thing is, you don't want to run away.

You flinch when you feel his index finger on your chin lifting your face up, "A birdy has come to my cage willingly tonight," he starts walking forward and you start walking backwards hearing his words.

"Do you think I will kill her just like that?" He smirks and one of his fangs shows up.

You can't hear anything without your own heartbeat. Even the wind is silent. You want to take a deep breath but it feels like something is stuck in your throat.

"Look I just want to die. I d-"

"I want to keep you safe for my long time meal. Killing you with one go won't give me fun," he grabs your chin and pull your face closer to his as he bends over you.

"I will feed you and kill you everyday. Because blood doesn't taste good when you don't have any fear in your veins."

Suggest me songs you may think can be suitable for this series. *Wink* *wink*

Chapter 2 ( Drain or Drown )

Chapter 3 ( Death Deal )

Chapter 4 ( Bloody Comfort)

[idle-daydreams]

Violently Yours

Tw: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, stalking, mentions of abuse and murder

Chuuya can’t stop looking at you. Can’t stop thinking of you, thinking of all the things he could do to you.

He wants you so bad, it frightens even himself.

And the worst part is that you don’t even know it. You only know him vaguely as some guy, some guy who lives nearby because he stops by the convenience store almost every night. What you don’t know is that he lives almost on the other side of town, far from your crappy little neighbourhood, and that it takes him an extra hour to make a detour to your place of work.

Chuuya doesn’t know what to do. His usual bravado deserts him when in your presence, and he can’t help but slink between the shelves, sneaking peeks at you as you work behind the counter. Surely you must have noticed him - he’s not bad looking, after all, and he puts a lot of effort on his appearance - but you don’t treat him differently than any other customer. He hates it a little, but also finds it oddly exciting, because you treat him just like any other human being. You banters back when he makes small talk, smile at him when you ring up his purchases, and wish him a good day when he leaves. For someone used to being treated with fear and awe, it was a welcome change.

You, on the other hand, are effortlessly beautiful. You wander around the store, hair tumbling to your shoulders from the messy bun atop your head, looking as though you’d just stepped out of bed yet gorgeous enough to put any model to shame. Chuuya doesn’t get how other people don’t notice, how they don’t writhe and die from sheer envy of your being. It fills him with rage when your boss berates you, when your coworkers leave you the hardest tasks, how you’re forced to work holidays and late hours to pick up their slack. It makes him want to murder them, for daring to make your life more difficult than it is. Because it is difficult. You have no parents, and a history of priors from being shunted through a series of fosters. Chuuya knows, because he’s found out everything about you, right down to the day you were born. The man who abused you when you were thirteen lies at the bottom of the river, feet encased in cement; the woman who forced you to spend a night out in her yard as punishment for some childish mistake had her home burned down. Chuuya’s been debating whether or not to go after your old case workers, but he’s been holding off because if he murders your coworkers, the police will focus on you as the central link to all the crimes.

Some part of him hates himself for these thoughts. He’s never liked killing; unlike Dazai’s lack of regard for human life, Chuuya always tried to avoid killing people if he could help it. It was messy and inconvenient and more trouble than it was worth. Violence was fine, but dead bodies brought too much attention. Besides, someone with a broken leg could learn from their mistakes, and Chuuya was all for second chances.

But not for the people who messed with you.

You were special. You were his. Chuuya’s own little angel, tainted and yet pure.

And so he watches you from the shadows, from around corners and darkened doors, waiting for the day he will make you his.

[itsatorchwoodthing]

i saw a few new people struggling with the audiodramas + i got a lot of questions over on ig and i wanna say, except for a few series (like season5) you can literally listen to them in any order

like most of them will give you clues on when they are set, like you understand Ghost Mission is set after s4, or that The Three Monkeys feature an already dead owen, so it’s post Reset, you will get it - just grab the ones that look interesting to you, especially because how expensive they are you don’t have to feel like you have to listen to them in order or listen to them all, also i might argue the most recent ones are way better then some of the old ones

the lives of captain jack also, it’s a serie but the audio are all independent from each other - one is set during 2006 jack, one is post Alonzo, one is about his time in the time agency

literally just read the description on the site and if it sounds interesting go for it

also if i’m not mistaken none of them are technically canon, so go to town

my recommendations

- Broken for an heartbreaking s1 janto experience

- Serenity to fix what Broken did, it’s a janto fake dating au, but they’re dating

- The Three Monkeys for andyowen experience

- The Last Becon for owen ianto shenanigans

- Rhys and Ianto’s excellent BBQ talking about grief, loss and breaking stereotypes

- R&J for River and Jack’s romantic relationship through space and most importantly TIME

[perotovar]

into the beat of the night (ch 3) "self control"

moodboard by the lovely @hellishjoel, gif by me

pairing: frankie morales/enby!oc!river price (they/them) rating: 18+ (minors dni) chapter warnings: fingering, one (1) handjob, discussions of sexuality/gender (in an... interesting way), goth stereotypes abound, swearing, more cute shit word count: 3k dividers by @saradika beta: @scenaaario (ily adrienne ♥)

for notifications, follow @oakslibrary and turn on alerts ♥

series summary: frankie thought he had himself figured out by now. he liked both men and women, had dated both in the past. but when someone that challenges what he thinks that means comes into his life, in an unlikely place, he truly learns who he is, and more importantly, who he loves.

series masterlist

“What’s their name again?”

“River. I already told you, Benjamin,” Frankie chuckled, taking a drink from his beer.

“Right, sorry. I’ve just never met a non… what was it again?”

Frankie, Benny, Will, and Santiago were at their usual bar that night. It was in a different part of town than The Night Owl, with a completely different vibe, but it was cozy. The four of them had become regulars and knew the staff by name.

“Non-binary person,” Will said, shoving Benny on the shoulder. “Are you listening at all?”

Benny shot his brother a look and stuck his tongue out, because apparently Benny was still five. “Of course I’m listening! Non-bi-nar-y,” he sounded it out, tapping his finger on the table with each syllable. “What does, uh… What does that like, mean, Fish?”

Frankie furrowed his brows and took another drink. “I haven’t actually asked yet. All they told me is that they’re like… both, and neither, at the same time.” He hummed thoughtfully. “I was a little distracted after that and didn’t get to ask.”

Santiago grinned, slapping Frankie on the shoulder. “Good for you, Fish.”

Frankie rolled his eyes, but smiled, thinking about the kiss he shared with River the other night. They kept texting, and he’d even asked River out on a real date, which brought the guys to the bar. It had been a year or so since his last date and he needed advice on where to take someone like River. He wasn’t as familiar with the goth subculture and thought maybe his brothers would have experience. At the very least Ben, who’d been with a few different kinds of people.

“I did look it up that night after I got home, but I’m still a little confused,” Frankie shrugged.

“Just ask them, man,” Will offered. “They seemed cool with your first question.”

Frankie nodded, a look of determination crossing his features. “You’re right. It couldn’t hurt, right?”

Frankie was sweating. Marisol was with her mom this week, so he hadn’t had to worry about having that conversation yet. He was planning on telling River about her tonight. He checked his hair in the mirror again before he left, deciding to go without his hat tonight, but worried all his nerves would deflate the work he put into it. He sighed as he messed around with the unruly curls again. This is why he stuck to hats. Frankie’s phone vibrated on the bathroom counter, startling him.

ok im ready, eddie 😉

River still thought it was hilarious that Frankie had worn an Iron Maiden t-shirt to a goth club, claiming that it fit his “old man aesthetic”, whatever that meant. This led to River referring to Frankie as “Eddie”, after the band’s skeleton mascot.

Yeah yeah i’m coming

Frankie saw the typing dots appear and disappear a couple times before disappearing completely. He sighed to himself and checked his hair one last time before leaving his apartment. 

When he got to the neighborhood of the address River had given him, he checked his phone again, making sure he was in the right place. He slowly crept up the hill towards the last line of apartments and immediately his heart started pounding. Frankie really liked River. He didn’t want to fuck this up, and hoped him being a dad wouldn’t ruin that. Or his big dumb mouth.

River was standing at the bottom of the staircase of the apartment complex and waved, a huge grin on their face. Frankie stopped the truck and leaned over to open the passenger side door for them to climb inside. The scent of bergamot, clove, and sandalwood filled his nostrils again as the truck door shut. Frankie calmed down, and smiled, leaning over to give River a kiss on the cheek. “You look amazing,” he breathed, taking in River’s outfit; they had a collarless shirt buttoned up all the way, tucked into plaid pants, and nice dress shoes. All black, of course. They wore no lipstick today, their makeup was simple, and their hair was perfectly straight. It looked like they’d freshly shaved the right side of their head as well. River’s look was so new for Frankie, he couldn’t help being captivated by them every time he saw them.

“Thank you,” River smiled, heart skipping a beat. “Where are we off to?” They rested their ring-clad hand over Frankie’s larger one in between the two of them on the seat. “When you said it was a surprise, I admit I got a little nervous.”

Frankie placed his hand on the back of the truck seat and looked behind them as he backed up to leave the apartment complex. River’s eyes were glued to Frankie’s neck and subtly licked their lips at the sight of the thick muscles and veins. Their eyes moved up to Frankie’s side profile and they swooned.

“How come? Don’t trust me?” Frankie smirked, making eye contact before his eyes moved to the road, and started heading toward their destination.

River shrugged, even though they knew he couldn’t see them. “Maybe. Maybe not,” they smirked. The red light of the clock on the console caught River’s eye; 7:30pm. 

“Well, that’s a shame. I had a nice dinner planned and everything,” Frankie showed them an exaggerated pout, a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh, well, in that case.”

The restaurant Frankie picked might’ve been a little more… casual, then he remembered. The last time he was here was with Jackson. He shook off the memory. He was here with River now. The place was actually more like a diner, with vintage photos of women in pinup-style outfits and poses.

Frankie reached for River’s hand and laced their fingers together as he found them a table, letting River sit first.

“Such a gentleman,” River teased, squeezing his hand before getting comfy in the booth.

“I try,” Frankie smiled bashfully as he joined them on the opposite side. The light shining down onto the table lit River beautifully. He noticed that River’s button-up was actually a dark green, with subtle velvet roses all over.

They ordered their food and made easy conversation. River talked about their job as an architect. They were working on designing a building that was be built in the next couple of years in the city. Frankie found it fascinating but couldn’t focus on the words, too distracted by their calming voice and watching their mannerisms. River talked with their hands a lot whenever they got excited about something, and Frankie thought it was adorable.

“Sorry, I know I’m rambling now,” River shook their head, cutting themself off. Frankie frowned,mouth full of french fries.

“Please, continue, I don’t mind listening.”

So River did. They talked about anything and everything. Frankie interjected here and there, but was more than content to listen to River talk. When there was a lull in the conversation, Frankie’s palms started to get sweaty. Their plates were empty now, but River still had half of their milkshake left.

It was now or never. Frankie took a deep breath.

“So… I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” he started. River raised an eyebrow and rested their chin on the palm of their hand, listening. Frankie cleared his throat before continuing. “Um, so I know this is a dealbreaker for some people, so I won’t be offended if you want to stop things after tonight. B-But I would like to stay friends if that’s the case.” He rubbed his sweaty hands on his thighs. “I’ve got a daughter.”

River was quiet for a second before a small smile appeared on their face. “I’m actually not surprised. How old is she?”

“You’re not?”

“Of course not. You’re an incredibly handsome man of a certain age–”

“Hey.”

“And any woman would be stupid not to make an honest man outta you,” River winked.

Frankie blinked a couple times before chuckling softly. River continued to surprise him. “Well, her mother isn’t in the picture, at least not with me. Marisol, my daughter, sees her half the time, and stays with me the other half of the time,” he explained, crossing his arms comfortably over the table. “Oh, and she’s four.”

“Aww, can I see a picture of her?”

Frankie’s heart fluttered as pulled his phone out, opening the album of photos devoted just to his little girl. He slid his phone over to River and they started scrolling through the photos with a smile on their face.

“She’s adorable, Frankie,” River hummed, returning his phone back to him. “I can tell you think the world of her. I won’t lie, I’m not really… uh, a kid kind of person. I always just planned on being the cool cousin and not a parent,” they muttered, resting their chin on their palm again.

Frankie nodded in understanding. “I totally get that. I just figured it wouldn’t be fair to you, or to Marisol, to keep her a secret, y’know?”

“Absolutely, and I appreciate you telling me,” River nodded back. “But I like you. A lot. And I’m willing to give this a shot with you. So I don’t think Marisol is a dealbreaker.”

Frankie’s heart soared at River’s words. “I really like you, too,” he grinned like an idiot, cheeks warm. “C’mon, we still have another part to this date.” He stood up and held his hand out for River to take.

After paying, the two found themselves back in Frankie’s truck heading down the highway. It was starting to get darker and the roads were clearing. They pulled up to a drive-in, but there weren’t any other cars.

“What is this, Grease?” River teased. “A diner and then a drive-in movie?”

Frankie snorted and reached out his window to pay for their tickets before finding somewhere to park. “I happen to like drive-in movies and diners, thank you very much.”

“That’s because you’re old–”

“I’m only a few years older than you,” Frankie deadpanned.

“Details.”

About a third of the way into the original Halloween, Frankie put his arm around River’s shoulders and pulled them close. River happily cuddled into Frankie’s side, loving the warmth and softness they found there.

Halfway through, River’s eyes started wandering elsewhere. They looked down at the crotch of Frankie’s jeans, and wondered what lay beyond the tight denim. They looked up at Frankie’s face and kissed the little patch in his beard that refused to grow hair. Frankie looked down at them, deep brown eyes looking over River’s features. He went from their dark-rimmed eyes, to their collarbone, and back to their plush lips, his heart pounding. He didn’t need any further convincing and started kissing River deeply, holding the side of their face.

River hummed into Frankie’s mouth and slowly crawled into Frankie’s lap. They grinned as Frankie huffed a breath against their lips, holding River’s hips in his large hands. River kissed the corner of Frankie’s mouth before moving down to the side of his neck and sucked a mark where his neck met his shoulder. Frankie shuddered, moving a hand down and squeezing River’s ass. They lifted their head and looked at the far-away expression on his face.

“Are you one of those guys that doesn’t like to fool around on the first date?”

Frankie blinked up at River, thinking about it. “I mean, no, but–” “Good,” River growled, latching back onto Frankie’s neck and sucking hard.

Frankie moaned openly at that, but pulled them away. “Wait,” he breathed. River tilted their head to the side and didn’t say anything, letting Frankie continue. “Um, I had another question.”

“Okay.”

“Well, uh. I don’t mean to kill the mood, because God, I really wanna get back to that, b-but I was curious,” Frankie swallowed, not making eye contact again. “I looked up what non-binary was after you told me and I was a little confused, and basically I just– Um, I wanna know like, how… this would… work,” he trailed off, gesturing between the two of them and at the bulge in his jeans.

“You’re asking what I have so you know how to proceed.” It was a statement, not a question, said softly in understanding. River played with the curls at the back of Frankie’s neck.

Frankie nodded. “If that’s an invasive question, I’m really sorry, and–”

“Shh,” River chuckled, pecking Frankie on the cheek. “It’s okay, I promise. I’m not offended. You’re actually being really sweet about all of this. I know this is new for you.”

Frankie smiled shyly and shrugged, but let them continue.

“I was raised as a girl. ‘Assigned female at birth’, is typically what we call it,” River looked down, playing with the collar of Frankie’s shirt. “You were assigned male at birth. The doctors looked at your parts and decided that’s what you were, and you never felt like it was incorrect, right?”

Frankie nodded, listening carefully.

“Right. Well, it felt wrong to me. I didn’t really know what the feeling was growing up. It’s actually kind of a recent development for me.”

Frankie chewed on his bottom lip, one question still buzzing around his head. “How do you… How did you know? And did you… have any… surgeries? To um–” he didn’t know how to word any of this.

River laughed softly. “Yeah, I had top surgery. I no longer have breasts, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Everything below the belt is still intact,” they grinned, moving their crotch closer to Frankie’s. “The complicated answer, especially for someone so new to this, is that gender is a societal thing. How you’re perceived, presented to the world is just through the eyes of society. How you see yourself is what actually matters, though. And when all that societal bullshit doesn’t affect your life, the roles you’re ‘supposed’ to play don’t matter anymore.”

“I’m River. River is me. I don’t care how people see me. I did all of this,” they gestured to their body. “For me. Not for anyone else. Because if I didn’t, I would be unhappy. And my own mental health and happiness matters more than some so-called church-going do-gooder’s opinion.”

Frankie looked at River in awe. Their confidence and respect for themself was one of the most attractive things he’d ever seen. “You’re amazing,” Frankie breathed, surging forward to kiss them deeply. He gripped River’s ass again and pulled them closer, grinding his hardening cock against them.

River moaned softly, grinding back, and tangling their fingers into his hair. Suddenly, Frankie pulled back, catching his breath.

“Wait, does that, like…” He thought for a second. “While I was doing my research, I came across a couple other terms I didn’t know.”

River chuckled and kissed down Frankie’s neck softly. “Go on.”

Frankie’s breath hitched, speaking shakily. “Um, I’ve always considered myself b-bisexual– oh– a-and if non-binary people are technically a th-third gender, then does that change?”

“No,” River hummed, licking underneath Frankie’s ear, before taking the lobe into their mouth and nibbling.

“It doesn’t?”

River shook their head. “Bisexual is more like an umbrella term. People interpret it differently,” they reached a hand down between them, trailing their fingers to Frankie’s belt buckle and undoing it. “For example, you’ve always assumed it just meant you were attracted to men and women, right?”

Frankie moaned softly as the pressure was relieved from his hard cock, and nodded.

“Exactly. Another way you could see it is you being attracted to people that are like you,” they gripped Frankie’s cock tightly, making him gasp sharply. “And people who aren’t.” They grabbed his hand and placed it onto their crotch, grinding against him.

He was so hard he was throbbing, and so turned on his head spun. He started undoing River’s dress pants and slipped his hand down to their panties, finding their pussy impossibly warm and wet. 

“Fuck,” Frankie groaned, rubbing at their clit through the fabric of their underwear. River moaned sweetly and bit their bottom lip, moving Frankie’s boxer briefs out of the way so they could grip around his cock.

“You’re so hard,” River grinned, rubbing their thumb over the tip. They started stroking him slowly, watching as the head of Frankie’s cock appeared and disappeared underneath the foreskin. 

Frankie was breathing heavily, resting his head on the back of his seat and looking at River through his lashes. He moved the tips of his fingers in small circles for a few moments before he moved his fingers beneath their underwear and touched bare skin. River gasped at the contact and nodded, giving him permission.  Frankie slowly sunk his middle finger inside them and started pumping in and out. His thumb rubbed in time against their clit. River started moaning louder, throwing their head back to expose their throat to him.

Frankie saw an opening and latched his mouth onto their neck, marking them in return as his free hand held the back of River’s head. “You’re so fucking sexy,” he groaned, biting at River’s skin.

River shuddered at the praise, rocking their hips against Frankie’s hand. “‘M close,” they whined, panting down at him. They started to lose their rhythm on Frankie’s cock and squeezed him tightly in their fist. Frankie nodded in understanding and started moving his fingers faster, adding a second one as the slick sounds coming from between River’s legs filled the truck. 

“C’mon, baby. You gonna come for me?” he breathed against their neck, leaving soft kisses against their skin. The contrast between what his mouth and what his hand were doing was overwhelming and River wouldn’t change it for the world. 

River nodded, their brows moving downward in pleasure before stilling above him as they came. Their hips rocked back and forth over Frankie’s hand as they came down, moaning and biting their lip. 

The sight of River coming was enough for Frankie and his cock twitched hard as he erupted all over River’s hand. He grunted and hid his face in their neck as his balls emptied messily. He whined softly, twitching in the aftershocks. 

River giggled quietly and held him close after licking their hand clean. “Gonna have to blow you next time,” they hummed thoughtfully.

Frankie groaned as his oversensitive cock twitched between them. “Don’t say shit like that while I’m still vulnerable, you menace.”

River bit his cheek, then kissed it softly. “You love it.”

He did. He really did.

a/n: please enjoy this meme that inspired the scene above

[theresattrpgforthat]

Yo, I am under the impression there’s a flourishing market for “campaign supplement” games that can be played as like slice of life side-bars to another campaign? My play group just finished an Ebberon campaign but we still love these characters and I’m wondering what’s out there? I’m curious for whatever but stuff with a focus on settling down or running your new dukedom would be lovely.

THEME: Fantasy After-Campaign Games.

Hello there! Yes, there are a number of games that you can probably use to keep your characters around and explore other parts of their life! I've got a few games that might be somewhere in the realm of what you're thinking, and then I've got some other ideas that popped up in my brain as I was writing this out.

Peace in the Land, by JunkyardTornado.

Peace in the Land is a cozy one page fantasy ttrpg about solving some regular kinds of problems in a fantasy town. There is a very simple character creation process based off a simple system, the Quick and Dirty System, originally designed for one-page rpgs. 

If you want low-stakes problems and quick rules, you might want to check out Peace in the Land. The rules are pretty standard, with a typical success threshold and differently-sized dice according to player abilities. You can probably place the simple rules into a setting that you’re already familiar with, and then generate problems that the townspeople might turn to the player characters to solve. If the group wants to settle down in one location but still go on minor adventures, this might be a game for you.

Pour One Out For Her, by MrPluckyComicRelief.

She was the greatest hero the world had ever seen. She slayed the Beast of Artenfield, rescued every princess north of the Green River, outgambled the demon Jav-Urok The Bold, and she never paid for a drink. All those years ago, all of you stood by her side, as her faithful companions. You supported her through thick and thin, through triumph and tragedy. You thought she would live forever.

But in a cruel twist of fate, you’re all here, standing at her funeral. For her last great prank, she stated, in her last will and testament, that you would all give a joint eulogy.

Pour One Out For Her is a gm-less RPG for any number of players. It's about good times with old friends, reckless adventures, and a celebration of a the greatest hero to ever live, who was taken too soon.

This is more of a one-shot kind of game for a solemn, last goodbye to a character that didn’t make it. Because it’s GM-less, if you traditionally had a GM in the game, this might be a chance for them to embody an important NPC who saw the characters through the bulk of the story.

Pour One Out For Her assumes that the dead companion had a dying wish, and that the companion was a team-player. Apart from that, I think you could use it to remember the ending of a character that meant a lot to the party.

Stewpot: Tales From A Fantasy Tavern, by Takuma Okada.

The adventurer’s life is tough. It's time to call it quits. For years you stumbled through hostile lands, living off stale rations, and struggling to get a few hours’ sleep. Now it’s time to hang up your weapons, sell off your armor, and settle down. If only it were that easy…

Stewpot: Tales from a Fantasy Tavern by Takuma Okada is a collection of cozy mini-games that tell the story of a tavern run by former adventurers. Gather your dice, pick up a deck of cards, set aside a shiny coin, and get ready for a new set of challenges. Only this time… your adventures start behind the bar.

Stewpot is divided into a series of slice-of-life scenes, with a different set of simple rules and prompts helping adjudicate each scene. You might be scrambling to cook something edible with random ingredients, bartending for troubled souls, calming down a tavern brawl, going shopping for all the things a tavern needs, and more! Work to upgrade your tavern's cuisine, atmosphere, and service. In the process, you might just learn a little bit about yourself - and your fellow party members.

Takuma Okada is known for a number of thoughtful games, including Alone Among the Stars, a solo roleplaying game of introspection in space. Stewpot looks to deliver a cozy, retrospective experience, probably similar to Dungeon Meshi and Legends & Lattes. Stewpot recently finished funding on Backerkit, so if you’re willing to wait for a little bit, you should be able to order a copy of it from Evil Hat’s website! If you’re not willing to wait, there’s a Sampler PDF available on DriveThruRPG.

Wolves & Spices, by A.Tian.

Wolves & Spices is a simple tabletop roleplaying game, based on the traveling mercantile adventures of the light novel/anime series Spice & Wolf.

You are traveling merchants in the medieval country of Feldland. Your shared dream is to earn enough money and goodwill to open a business as a permanent part of a community.

You could use Wolves & Spices if you feel like your characters wouldn’t necessarily settle down in one place, but rather would be more likely to turn to trade as a way to earn their keep while still travelling from town to town. Your goals will probably be more focused around meeting other people’s needs, using your earnings to help meet your heart’s desires (also called your Wolves). If you want a game where the quest didn’t bring about the happy ending your characters hoped for, you might want to try out Wolves & Spices.

Some Other Thoughts

Another way you could possibly re-visit your character’s stories is to re-visit them in a different genre or setting. There’s a lot of possibilities if you’re up to remixing a game or two! For example, you could re-cast your characters as fantasy investigators, such as in Swords of the Serpentine, or follow their attempts at romance, such as in Passion of the Jukebox or Thirsty Sword Lesbians. You could also follow up with the adventures of your characters’ children; my group followed up our Spectaculars game with a game of MASKS, playing as the children of our characters. Games like Kids on Bikes or Kids and Spirits could also work if you want to combine solving mysteries with passing adventure down a generation!

Games You Can Also Check Out

Merchants & Monsters, by AndieSanade.

Dungeon Mart, by May Day.

So, the Beast is Dead, by Prepared Heathen.

Back Again, from the Broken Land, by Cloven Pine Games.

The Laughing Kobold, by therabidbanana.