#whose muses write in chicken scratch? ))

[prvtocol]

bri writes in the most perfect cursive.

[mochazai]

₊˚⊹♡ 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝙼𝚞𝚜𝚎 [𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟶𝟷] ♡₊˚⊹

Summary: An aspiring author with a dark past to overwrite , finds himself addicted to a different kind of poison

Pairing: Writer!Dazai x Barista!Reader

Genre: yandere / fluff

A/N: relaunching this blog with a little series, hope y’all like it!

*skritch scratch swoop*

The old fashioned ink pen dragged over the paper; a stark contrast to the modern cafe Dazai found himself in.

He found his lines growing fainter the longer he wrote and sighed before dipping it back into the pot of obsidian-black ink. He hurried to write down his thoughts before he forgot;he almost always forgot.

‘Maybe I should switch to carbon…’ he thought, looking at the nib of his pen, now having jotted down the line he’d wanted to, making sure it lived on forever in his writing.

Well, maybe not forever,more like as long as he kept it dry.

Another downside to using ink,as Dazai had come to realise, was that one drop of water,or in his case alcohol,could undo months or even years of work.perhaps the newer invention made sense after all?

But no.

“Odasaku preferred ink,and so I'm sticking to ink too.” He said matter-of-factly.

Dazai often wondered why he became a writer; and then he’d remember.

Maybe he did need to get his head looked at…no,that’d be expensive,and maybe he’d actually get put in jail this time if he willingly let someone look at the fucked up maze of thoughts he called his mind.

Maybe he wasn’t as bad as he thought he was? Yeah! He was actually oka-

Nope. One look at the musings in front of him and he knew he was not normal.

The lines were thickly written,with far too much pressure for a normal poem or love letter,which ended up in the ink leaving blood like splatters across the paper.

‘Hmm,’ he thought to himself, ‘blood’

Could it be used as ink? Perhaps? Yes! It should be possible!

He looked to his finger and thought about testing his hypothesis right then and there when-

“ One mocha, with a shot of espresso and whole milk, for Osamu Dazai!”

He heard his name and his order and practically floated over to where the voice had come from.

That angelic voice…its owner, the very person who plagued his dreams and nightmares, the person who inspired all of his latest pieces and whose absence in his life caused him to drink so much that he spilled sake all over his writings,causing them to fade away and become illegible ,but perhaps that was for the best…

“Thank you y/n,” he said with a smile as he took the drink in both his hands,”looking flawless as always~” he added with a wink.

You blushed,as you always did, and let out another on of your cute laughs,Dazai’s heart did a flip and he swore that he’d do anything to make sure no one ever wiped that smile off your face,he’d rip his heart from his chest if you’d ask, he’d drink cyanide if you’d put it in his coffee,because osamu dazai was obsessive. He knew not how to love like a ‘normal’ man,only to throw himself into something so fully that it drove him insane. Insane with desire, with love, and with lust.

such was the situation before him.

He needed you like he needed air. He needed to feel your skin against his if only for a moment. Yet all he did was smile at you and return to his seat.

You watched his retreating form and your intrusive thoughts got the better of you.

You walked over to his table,some paper napkins in hand to use as an excuse if you chickened out.

You tapped your finger on his shoulder and he turned around so fast that it made you trip.

You braced yourself for impact but then felt a bandaged arm wrap around your waist and catch you,the grip of said arm holding you firmly and its owner's face was mere inches away from yours.

“Careful bella,” he said, his coffee-scented breath fanning over your face, “coulda hurt yourself there” there was a long pause as you looked into his eyes and as he took in your features, studying them and committing them to memory,as if he hadn’t already,his gaze lingering on your lips a little longer than you though normal,but he didn’t notice and you didn’t care.gods, how you wanted to kiss him in that moment,but you calmed your nerves and blurted out your question.

“Are you free later tonight? My friends are having a party and i want you to be my plus one”

‘What the fuck??? You WANT him to be his plus one??? Way to sound desperate y/n!’ You mentally scolded yourself,and in the process missed how his expression shifted from shock to a smirk.

“Actually,” he began, drawing you out of your mini-pity party, “i’d love to~” and this time you didnt miss the smirk that was plastered on his face,nor did you miss how his eyes darkened,or even how his hold on your waist tightened just a little.

Your heart beat faster and your eyes involuntarily darted to his lips.

But just as you were about to make your move you heard a loud,

“Y/N!!!”

It was your co-worker calling you back to your station.

You begrudgingly stood up straight, scrawled out your number on one of the napkins,handed them to him and darted back to your station, apologising for nearly spilling his coffee and thanking him for catching you.

And all the while all he noticed was how adorable you looked when you were flustered and how you’d very nearly kissed him.

‘But no matter’ he’d thought as he sat down in his seat. You’d get your chance later that day…and so would he.

𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐲 @𝐦𝐨𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐢 ; 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲,𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧.

[bmblboop]

Struck Like Lightning

    (Contains spoilers for RWBY Volume 4)

Absorb Electricity. He felt something, not an emotion, just a gut-instinct. With everything that had happened; every coincidence that led Nora, that Grimm, and his family to Kuroyuri that night, he knew, somehow, that this phrase on his arm was connected to… something. It must be important.

The following is the introductory chapter to a Semblance-Soulmate AU in which a name or description of someone’s semblance will appear on their soulmate’s skin. The concept of a ‘soulmate’ is discussed in-universe and is treated as less of a one-and-done deal (nothing is 100% predetermined in RWBY). I plan to elaborate more on the Semblance mechanics if I end up finishing more chapters.

I am posting this in commemoration of Renora Week 2021 because this chapter features Ren and Nora! Let me know if you enjoyed it!

The days and weeks after the fall of Kuroyuri allowed Nora and Ren time to readjust and explore new parts of themselves. Ren’s sudden companionship had brought out a new side of Nora; she had someone to talk to, someone to bounce ideas off of. Someone who didn’t judge her or pretend she didn’t exist. Nora often took the lead when following the trails and roads, in hopes of finding them someplace else to stay. That town had never felt like a home to her, but to Ren, it was everything he’d ever known. He was quiet, but observant, and getting better at his newfound abilities, which gave them both a sense of comfort. They didn’t have to fear the dark so long as they had each other.

One restless morning, the two were walking east, caught up in conversation.

“…so that’s why I think I like my hair short. Not that long hair is bad – it just gets tangled up in everything. You’re smart Ren, keeping it tied up like that.”

“-huh?” The sudden praise had caught him off guard.

“You pull hair up to keep it out of your face! I have no patience for that, so that’s why mine is short!”

“Oh, yeah. Do you think we could take a break soon?”

“Sure!” She scanned the treeline for a spot. “Ummm, let’s sit there.”

They made their way to a small boulder under the shade of the trees. Nora climbed up and sprawled on top of it to stare at the sky. Ren sat at the rock’s base and scratched his sleeve. His arm wasn’t itchy, but there was something-

It must have been the light of the fire playing tricks on my eyes he thought. He gripped his wrist tighter.

But something was nagging at him, something deep in his soul. To look again, to make sure it was just nothing. In broad daylight, surely if there was anything there-

Pulling his right sleeve back, Ren balked. On the inside of his arm were two words.

Absorb Electricity

“What-“

“What? What is it?” Nora pondered, sitting up and leaning over.

“Absorb-? What do those words mean?”

“What words?”

Ren turned around. Nora was looking at his arm too, with a quizzical expression on her face.

“Those words!” he pointed to inky writing on his arm.

“I don’t see anything?”

Ren did a double take; looking at Nora, then back to his arm.

“If you’re making a joke, I don’t get it.” Nora deadpanned, head propped up in her hands.

You don’t-? But it-? I’m not-? Ren dropped his arm and pushed the sleeve down. “It’s fine, I must be seeing things.”

Nora shrugged and turned back over, watching the clouds gather above.

--

They found a rocky overhang to camp under for the night. Nora passed out pretty fast; she had gotten a lot more comfortable sleeping through the demon-filled nights with someone by her side. Ren just stared at the embers of the fire and let his thoughts wander.

I know they weren’t there before I met her. Before… that night. So where did it come from?

A distant shriek echoed over the valley, and Ren could feel his heart beating in his ears. Immediately, he was awash with the calming greytones of his semblance. The scream turned to baying. A Beowulf then, probably alone and several miles away.

Exhaling slowly, he returned to color, the gears in his head returning to the question of the mysterious words. He looked at Nora, her deep sleep undisturbed by the distant Grimm calls.

I also never had this power, this courage, before that night. I feel like there is something…

He gripped his arm. Absorb Electricity. He felt something, not an emotion, just a gut-instinct. With everything that had happened; every coincidence that led Nora, that Grimm, and his family to Kuroyuri that night, he knew, somehow, that this phrase on his arm was connected to… something. It must be important.

And what does electricity have to do with anything?

--

Climbing over a mountain in a thunderstorm was never their intended route, even less so when a stray bolt pierced the heavens and struck true.

Nora collapsed, and so could have Ren from the shock. Without thinking, he ran toward her - her body lying still and crackling with electricity. To both of their surprise, Nora was alive. She sat up, singed but supercharged, and no worse for wear other than some temporary hearing loss. (Which she demonstrated when she inadvertently screamed in his face: “Wow Ren, I lived!”)

Together, they settled into a rocky alcove further down the mountain to wait for the storm to pass. Once out of the rain, the pair took the time to laugh away the adrenaline. Safely out of the storm, Nora shouted to the sky, taunting the Gods that had tried to kill her and failed. The thunder only grumbled in response. She traced the thunderbolt-shaped markings the impact left on her with her fingers, and watched them fade away over the next few days.

It felt dream-like, the week following the storm. Perhaps it was just the stress of surviving something so scary, but Ren felt stronger and closer to her than before. One night, curling next to the fire, he began to lay his head on his arm to go to sleep. Out of curiosity, he pushed back his sleeve and stared at his arm.

By the light of the campfire, his skin was blank - the words were gone.

Perhaps, he pondered, that was just a warning. It told him that lightning was going to strike, but she would be okay. Perhaps the words disappeared because they were fulfilled, like a destiny that had come to pass? He was too tired for this, his eyelids were growing heavy. He pushed the thoughts away and drifted to sleep.

-

Years later, when the two survivors worked their way into Beacon Academy, did all the stars align. It was at lunch, with their team and their friends of team RWBY.  Pyrrha had brought up the importance of balanced meals when Yang interjected that Jaune had taken all the chicken nuggets.

“I did NOT!”

“Then why is it the only thing on your plate?”

“BECAUSE, um…”

Ren looked back at the textbook, tuning out the argument and glancing over the chapter’s topic for next class. His preemptive studying was interrupted with an elbow jab to his ribcage.

“What?” he said.

“We should be social, you know.” Nora scolded under her breath before turning to the group and gesturing with a boisterous “HEY!”

A sinking feeling in his gut began to form. If there was one thing Ren could never figure out about Nora, it was her immunity to social anxiety.

“Not that taking down a monstrous Nevermore and giant Deathstalker isn’t bonding enough, but I think we should get to know each other better!” she exclaimed. “Anyone know a good ice-breaker?”

Their leader Jaune perked up, “Ooh, how about everyone’s favorite movie or franchise?”

“Too broad.” Weiss replied.

“How about our weapons? I bet everyone has a cool story about theirs!” Ruby added with a glint in her eyes.

“We could talk about our favorite books.” Blake offered.

“Ha, everyone knows the best ice-breaker is sharing semblances,” Yang smirked, “and your semblance-soulmate.”

Pyrrha choked on her salad. Ruby groaned and leaned back in her seat. Blake visibly stiffened.

Breaking the silence, Jaune scoffed. “C’mon, not everyone knows that.” He then rushed to clarify - “It’s not like it tells you their name. You could walk right past them and never know!”

“Yeah,” Ruby pouted, “and maybe some of us don’t want to deal with that extra layer of existential dread.”

“Aw, but that’s what makes it exciting!” Yang teased.

“That’s what makes it agonizing!” Ruby retorted, “Knowing you have a compatible life-partner somewhere in the world and your only hint will disappear when you meet them?!”

“Hang on a second.” Ren interjected, “I thought we were talking about semblances?”

“We are, but y’know…” Weiss was tapping the inside of her arm. “…the Semblance mark.  It can only be read by the person whose skin it appears on, so sharing that knowledge would be another way of bearing your soul to the world.”

“It’s highly personal.” Pyrrha nodded in agreement.

Yang put her hands up in defense. “We don’t have to share them. I just suggested it because it’s so personal. It’s like the fastest ice-breaker in the world.”

Yang’s awkward laughing aside, Ren was still lost. Luckily, Blake picked up on his uncertainty and continued the conversation fluidly.

“It describes the semblance of a person you are destined to come across. According to popular belief, that person is your equal – your other half so to speak.” Blake’s voice then dropped into a hushed monotone, gripping her wrist. “Of course, some people believe strongly in it, while others prefer to forge their own path.”

“Right,” Jaune jumped in, “there’s no rule about marrying them or anything.”

“So it’s more of a suggestion, then?” Nora asked in confusion.

“I find it all very poetic.” Pyrrha said. “I’ve heard that your soulmate mark will disappear after you meet them. After that, it is up to you to forge that bond in person. Nothing is set in stone; it’s a path you can choose to take.”

“Whoaaa.” Nora mused. “Wait, how come I never got one!?” Nora was on her feet in surprise. “Is it possible I didn’t notice?”

Ren was only half listening to the conversation now as the puzzle pieces aligned and clicked together. Words. Semblances. Partners. Those letters he nearly blocked from memory, blocked with the rest of Kuroyuri... didn’t they mention something about electricity?

Two semblances tied together. Two souls cross paths and find each other’s company.

It is pretty poetic, isn’t it?

--

[jenosweave]

college!kun

FINALLY A KUN REQUEST!! this is one of my favorites please enjoy and don’t let me flop!!

let’s start w the basics…

major: linguistics

minor: comparative literature

extracurriculars: book club

other: literally writing his own novel??

school life

kun is such a good student

he always does his work on time and tries to get ahead when he can

he’s a plug too

he'll even do his friends’ readings and summarize it for them if they have a particularly busy week

he doesn’t allow himself to be used though

he just loves and appreciates his friends so much and wants to help them be successful when there are things they cant control that can get in the way of that

kun really enjoys his studies

his required courses are really stimulating and keep him on his toes

he loves leaving class every day feeling like he’s one step closer to understanding where language comes from and why we communicate the way we do

kun’s passion for linguistics sprouted from his adoration of reading

he’s a member of every book he could find on campus

he firmly believes the more you read, the more perspectives you’re able to see, which in turn, makes you a generally more enlightened and compassionate person

kun loves reading and language so much that he decided to just write his own book over the summer for fun

he sent a “very rough draft” to a local publisher

just for experience

and to get him used to rejection in case he ever wants to seriously pursue a career in writing someday

but now he’s fucked because

they actually liked it??? so he kind of has a book deal now??

which he was not expecting at all

there were a lot of comments for him to address as he expected

and the first one he decided to deal with was the lack of a love interest for his protagonist

except there’s only one problem with that

he has no idea how to successfully write for a love interest

so he does what any normal young writer would do to get inspiration

and goes to the university’s monthly speed dating event in the quad

early stages

you had been “too single for too long,” according to your best friend

and the only way you could get them to shut up about it was if you attended one of the school’s speed dating nights

and you decided it was worth the trouble, and made your way to the quad to get this over with

you had exactly two and a half minutes with every person you’d “date”

and for the most part, those two and a half minutes couldn’t go by fast enough

after talking to other students who only cared about football, trucks, and battlestar galactica, you were about ready to up and go

but your second to last “date” changed your mind

his name was kun

“alright this is gonna go by quick, so i’m gonna take the reigns if you don’t mind,” he spoke

he was oddly productive

you nodded

“great!’ he smiled. “any hobbies?”

“well, i love to read an-”

“reading? me too! what genres are you into?”

a wide smile stretched across his smooth face and his pupils dilated noticeably UGH CUTIE

“i mean, i like fantasy, historical fiction, biographies, science fi-”

“no way! me too!” he interrupts. “i just like all books so much!! i’m writing my own actually!”

you thought that was mighty impressive and asked him what his book is about

and he told you he can’t disclose that information because of his publishing deal

and youre like,,,, wA i T.. PUBLISHER?? THAT’S SO COOL!!

and he goes, “thank you! maybe you’d like to come and read it sometime when it’s finished.”

you couldn’t help but blush and turn your head away

and that’s when you noticed you only had ten seconds left on the stopwatch

you hurriedly seized the pen the event organizers had left on the desk and grabbed kun by the wrist, taking him by surprise and causing a slight gasp to escape his lips

you messily scribbled your number onto his forearm

and as soon as you had finished writing your digits, the timer rang

as you both departed from the table, kun shouted at you from a distance “how am i supposed to read this chicken scratch?!”

you shot him a smile playfully and shouted back

“text me!”

you didn’t receive a text that night

or the night after

but the night after that, your phone dinged as soon as you hopped out of the shower

“hey! this is kun from the speed dating thing. i hope this is the right number. i’ve already texted three wrong people and have had to explain myself to each of them. it’s really embarrassing. please confirm if this is you!”

you sent him a simple “:)” in response

“so does that mean you’re down to get a coffee with me tomorrow?”

“:)”

the next morning, you had the first of many, many morning coffee breaks outside the school library

these quick little meetups usually concluded with a quick sift through the library, where you’d each recommend each other your favorite books and read the prologues to each other over a hot cup of coffee

at first, the librarians used to kick you out for having drinks inside, but now youre clever and just hide your cups under your jackets

this became a weekly occurrence

and then it started happening twice a week

and now you basically see kun every other day

he even managed to get you to join the biographical book club with him, something you’d be way too nervous to do before meeting him

kun was such a good guy

you knew he was smart and funny and you knew he was caring and fun to be around

but what you didn’t know is that he had been smitten with you from the second you scribbled your number onto his arm

one day, as you were studying for your last final of the semester, you got a call from kun

you sent him the automated response, “sorry, i cant talk right now”

but he called right back anyway

“what is it?” you answered

“i’m sorry if you’re studying but this is super important and im so excited and i just have to tell someone!”

“what’s up kun?”

“my book! it’s finished! and i finally added in the love interest like the publishers asked!”

“I’M SO PROUD OF YOU BITCH

“finish studying! then we can facetime and i can read you a chapter!”

and so for the next thirty nights (even over your winter break), you and kun would facetime so he could read you a chapter until the book was finished

and you’d give him pointers at the end of each one so he could go back and revise once you had gone to sleep

the plot was incredible, honestly

the protagonist was a divorced middle-aged man whose wife left him for being too aggressive and absent-minded all the time

in the divorce, the wife got full custody of their teenage son

but when she goes on a business trip, the protagonist gets to watch the son

however, when he goes to pick the son up to take him to his house, hes nowhere to be found

so the novel follows this poor guy trying to find his missing son

but no one seems to be listening to him, so hes losing his mind

he’s working alongside the police and falls for the dci leading the investigation

and basically in the end it turns out he’s schizophrenic and his wife and son never existed at all

all of this was in his imagination

and he had just been showing up to the police station every day like a crazy person

kun did so much research for that

he even got the accuracy of his portrayal of a schizophrenic checked by his pal psych major!jungwoo

on the night kun finally finished reading to you

you were sh0000000000000k like what the fuck all that trouble for it all to be fake?? genius kun!!

so he asked for your feedback on the development and personalities of all his characters

you complimented him on how well he portrayed the dci

they weren’t your typical love interest

they were headstrong and witty and educated

and they were determined to help the protagonist find his son when no one else was listening to him

“you like them?” he asked you

“yes! they were so different than i had expe-”

“i was hoping you’d like them. i was inspired by you.”

your heart BURST!!!

“KUN THAT’S SO SWEET!”

and that’s when he explained to you why he went to speed dating to begin with, and told you he was so glad to have met you

because you were the “perfect muse”

and then he asked if you’d like to be his s/o

and of course

you said yes bc duh?? he’s kun?? 

relationship

kun is the cutest bf ever!!!

nothing has really changed between you two

you still have library and car dates

but now you hold hands sometimes

and when kun is feeling extra bold, he gives you a peck on the cheek

you guys have such a cute and innocent relationship

you can often be seen together on the campus quad where you met for the first time, you in kuns arms, him tickling your stomach to make you giggle

he’s so sweet and is so considerate of your needs

out of all the boys, he’s hands down the one most likely to change for you if you guys hit a rough patch

he always pays for food

which kind of ticks you off because what if one day he goes broke

but all he really cares about is your happiness and satisfaction

and he really just wants you to know that no one loves you quite like he does

and he tells you every day how grateful he is to have you in his life

[shinyoliver]

Writing is a skill, like running or being a meathead who didn't know when not to get punched. Writing is more like that.

You can read. You can write--probably. Feels pretty good these days. We live in a world where freaking everyone CAN write.

Thus rendering writers entirely redundant, right?

That's comforting to me. Means that I can pack away my one skill and, I don't know, go sell cars or something.

Nice. I can relax forever now.

That's kind of how it feels to be a writer, to be honest. The whole idea of arranging these chicken scratches into meaningful shapes has grown so ubiquitous that it's lost its illusions of skill and otherness. I mean, it used to be that if you wanted literally anything written down you needed to go to the one literate person who lived within a hundred miles of you and get them to write the thing down, and in order for anybody else to receive that message your Uncle Emory, or whoever, had to find the next closest literate person in order to even read the thing.

Can you imagine? We make fun of the idea of a town crier, but once upon a time the reason that person was there doing that crying was because they were the literate person, or one of only a few, who lived in your town. So they got the letter from elsewhere and read it because you, probably, couldn't.

Now writing isn't a skill. It's a god damned function of human biology, apparently, and it doesn't matter how much of a bullshit headache it is for some people, we are a damned literate society whether we want to be or not.

I mean, I like it, but I also don't, which is why I think that Fitzgerald would probably find me annoying. I live by something that F. Scott Fitzgerald said about intellectuals. He said that the test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function. Well, in my experience intellectuals who encounter real life examples of their philosophies tend to find that it infringes on their sense of uniqueness. Which is a good way to get intellectuals to go back on their annoying ideas, if you were wondering.

Anyway, the point is that I'm glad that everyone's literate, because that means that, as a writer, I have a hope of doing something interesting with my life.

I also don't like it, because it means that if I say, "I'm a writer," then I can just see people thinking the phrase, "Well, I can write," and having trouble seeing a profitable use for me.

Which bugs the hell out of me. I mean, we can see a profitable use for big dudes whose primary skill is an ability to get punched ten times in a row and then not fall over, and it's because not all of us can do that. It's a thing universally acknowledge, when we're being honest with ourselves, that most of us do not have what it takes to behave like a stubborn foundation under a sledge hammer, which is why we pay MMA fighters to do that.

People seem more troubled with the distinction between people who can write and writers.

I am not someone who can write and writes when I need to or have to or if the muse takes me.

I'm a writer. Not merely literate, but before you after a lifetime of obsessive practice. Any writing that you NEED to do is something that I want to do. I am practiced.

The puzzle is convincing a literate world that writing is a skill, not a biological function. It's more like running than breathing.

The conversation is ongoing. Tune in for more.

[michaelgogins]

More Rant-Like Musings on Algorithmic Composition Software

I have recently completed a Haskell foreign function interface (FFI) to Csound, with helper functions for using Csound to render Euterpea Music values. The code is almost completely contained in Csound.hs.

In the process of writing this I have, of course, gained a better understanding of the facilities afforded by Euterpea (by Paul Hudak and others) and its offspring Kulitta and Jazzkell (by Donya Quick). In addition, while searching for other music made with Haskell, I have also learned more about TidalCycles by Alex McClean and others (for live coding music) and csound-expression by Anton Kholomiov (compose both score and orchestra in Haskell, render with Csound).

Below I list other systems that I have used or tried to use or at least examined, followed by a second list of pieces made with some of these systems. This post can in fact be used as (a highly incomplete) guide to recent algorithmic composition software. Repeating the above-mentioned systems, and in alphabetical order:

athenaCL by Christopher Ariza (Python, no longer maintained).

blue by Steven Yi (Java).

Common Music by Rick Taube (Common Lisp version, minimally maintained).

csound-expression and temporal-media by Anton Kholomiov (compose both score and orchestra in Haskell, render with Csound). csound-extended and Silencio by Michael Gogins (JavaScript, Common Lisp, Python, Haskell, C++).

Euterpea by Donya Quick (Haskell).

Grace by Rick Taube (Scheme), the most direct descendant of Common Music.

Jazzkell by Donya Quick (Haskell).

Jeskola Buzz by Oskari Tammelin (a tracker, but you can do algorithmic composition in it using peer controllers).

Java Music Specification Language by Nick Didkovsky (Java, no longer maintained).

Kulitta by Donya Quick (Haskell).

Max by Miller Puckette and Cycling 74 (custom visual programming language).

music21 by Michael Cuthbert, Christopher Ariza, and others (Python). 

nudruz by Drew Krause (Common Lisp, maintained by me, includes a Csound FFI to Common Music and OpenMusic).

Nyquist by Roger Dannenberg (XLisp).

OpenMusic by IRCAM (visual programming language based on Common Lisp).

Pure Data by Miller Puckette and others (visual programming language).

PWGL by Mikael Laurson, Mika Kuuskankare, Kilian Sprotte and others (visual programming language based on Common Lisp).

Reaktor by Native Instruments, which although primarily a user-patchable or visually programmable sound synthesizer, can also be used to compose.

RTcmix by Paul Lansky, Brad Garton, and others (C++ with custom scripting language).

Rubato Composer by Guerino Mazzola (Java, no longer seems to be maintained).

Slippery Chicken by Michael Edwards (Common Lisp, looks like another offshoot of Common Music).

SuperCollider by James McCartney and others (custom programming language).

TidalCycles by Alex McClean and others (for live coding music, Haskell).

Here I have ignored approaches to algorithmic composition based on machine learning, not because I think them unimportant, but because I don’t yet know enough about them. A starting point however would be Google’s Magenta.

I link below to some pieces that hint at the potential of some of these systems. Of course, it’s impossible to list all the best algorithmically composed pieces. My objective here is simply to focus on musical quality and originality and to present the best pieces I could easily find that were made using some of these systems.

Please note, I am primarily interested in pieces for fixed media, i.e., pieces that could be thought of as “through-composed” as opposed to “improvised.” But a lot of the action today is in improvisation, interactive pieces, and live coding. 

My own example piece: Parachronic, 2018 (CsoundAC in csound-extended).

I should stop right here before even starting, and mention the pathbreaking work of Iannis Xenakis, whose works such as La Legende d’Eer and Gendy3 proved very early on that programming could be used to compose great music. Ideas from Xenakis’ software live on in many other systems.

Gendy3, Iannis Xenakis (composer software).

La Legende d’Eer, Iannis Xenakis (composer software).

Rough Raga Riffs, Brad Garton (composer software in Common Lisp, probably rendered using RTcmix).

Le lac, Tristan Murail (OpenMusic).

for rei as a doe, Michael Edwards (Slippery Chicken).

demiurgic ecstasy whispering in streets of ear, Christopher Ariza (athenaCL).

Carlisle Variations, Drew Krause (nudruz, rendered by me using Aeolus).

Tom Johnson - Algorithmic Composition, “Algorithmic Composer” (Pure Data).

Fractus 1, Eli Fieldsteel (SuperCollider)

Algorithmic Composition, “acreil” (Pure Data).

Vanishing Trajectories, Akira Takaoka (composer software and RTcmix).

Zero Waste, Nick Didkovsky (Java Music Specification Language).

Tourmaline, Donya Quick (Kulitta).

Elmas Krizi, Andrew Bergemann (Rubato Composer)

Hypnotize, Donya Quick (Jazzkell).

TidalCycles Jam 1, Eloy Platas (TidalCycles).

Jungle Etude 1, Anton Kholomiov (csound-expression).

This exercise has been exhilarating in that it discloses some hints of the amazing potential of algorithmic composition, yet somewhat depressing at the same time. 

My depression arises from the fact that wonderful facilities provided by one system cannot be used by another system unless, as is actually often the case, they are re-implemented from scratch in that system. Needless to say, this is an immensely wasteful duplication of effort, and often does not quite work. Also, note the large number of systems that are no longer maintained, or are maintained by one aging composer/developer... for an even more extensive and possibly even more depressing list of software systems for composing, see Christopher Ariza’s list. 

Another source of depression is the great efforts expended by many composer/developers without leaving evidence of any music that I would like to hear again.

Composers are like cats, they are impossible to herd. But in algorithmic composition, almost all of the software developers are also composers. In other fields of software development, after a decade or so, standards emerge and the resulting synergies supply a walloping jolt of power to the field. Every new feature or library in one sub-field can then be used by developers in all the other sub-fields. Examples would include the entire suite of W3C standards, the MIDI and MusicXML standards in commercial music software, and standardization on certain programs such as Pro Tools or Max in computer music. As my list sadly demonstrates, this has not happened so much in algorithmic composition software.

I call on all composers who also are software developers to do something about this. It may be too late to do anything about existing systems, but if you are contemplating developing a new system, please carefully consider my strong advice.

Update 15 October 2019: James McCartney, the developer of SuperCollider and other computer music languages, commented “No” regarding these points because he perceived them as obstructing research and personal goals. I think that his point about a continuing need for research in new music programming languages is quite valid, so I have edited my advice to reflect this. I would like to stress that my overriding concern here is to create synergies based on the the ability to use new facilities and features along with existing ones, and to avoid unnecessary duplication of effort.

Do not create a whole new system. Instead, create an extension for an existing system.

In fact, create an extension for OpenMusic, Euterpea, Pure Data, SuperCollider, or Csound.

If you do create a whole new system, do not create a whole new programming language, even if you know how. Instead, create a library or package for an existing language.

In fact, choose a widely used language such as C++, Common Lisp, JavaScript, or Python.

If you do create a whole new language because it would just be so cool, do it as a library or package for an existing system (examples would be the embedding of the Python and LuaJIT programming languages in the Csound orchestra language, or the embedding of Csound in Pure Data and Max/MSP), or provide an application programming interface that can be used to embed your new language in other applications. And that leads to...

Create your system first as a library or package, only after that as a standalone application.

Many systems have issues with the representation of music. The developer/composer often creates a representation that suits their own particular style of music but does not work well, or at all, for other styles. MIDI 1.0 as it stands is no good, but it looks like MIDI 2.0 may be better. In any event, make sure that you support arbitrary pitches, rhythms, densities of notes and sounds, tied notes, and so on. Note that Csound has a very good low-level representation of musical events.

I compiled these lists to help guide my own future work in both composition and software development.

Please notify me of any errors you find in this post, or any suggestions you have for improving it.

[otp-bubbline]

I didn’t write this it was requested

ImmoImmortals (1/8)

[Originally posted on my fanfiction.net account back in May, before I had a tumblr, but since the Bubbline fandom’s pretty lively here, thought I’d share. It’s been turned completely AU by Stakes, but still works pretty well as an alternate history. Romance/Angst/Tragedy

[As it turns out, Marceline and Bonnibel have more history than all of Ooo, and back in the beginning, Marceline still had a moral code, and Bonnibel still had a heart. But a thousand years is a long, long time, and nothing lasts forever.

[Adventure Time belongs to Pendleton Ward and the song “Immortals” to Fall Out Boy.]

.

(they say we are what we are

but we don’t have to be)

.

“Why isn’t there any…chicken…soup?!”

That plaintive cry echoes throughout the dead city, ricocheting off busted cars and broken buildings, and muffles in the freshly fallen snow that clogs one of its alleys. In the alley’s center, an elderly man, his skin tinting to blue, shakes his fists at the unsympathetic leaden skies.

And nearly gets concussed by the falling can of chicken soup.

“What? I’ll freeze you!” he yells, spinning around with his hands extended, crab-like, but there’s nothing there—no threats, no oozing monster. Just a deep divot in the snow, shadowed blue as his skin. He lowers his hands, the fear fading from his face, and fishes out the miracle can. “Er…”

“Simon? Simon, what’s going on?”

He turns around, still cradling the can, but waves arrestingly at the girl halfway out of a rusting automobile. “Marcy! Stay in the car! I’ve got your soup, but it’s cold now—the air, not the soup, although I suppose it’d be cold anyway, being that it’s in a can and all—but whatever, I mean, you’re not well, and what if there’s more monsters—”

His protests fall on deaf ears, as Marceline disregards his concerns and clambers through the snow to his side, even though it’s up to her knees and she’s decidedly not equipped to be trekking across a polar landscape. She laughs upon seeing the can, like it’s the prize at the end of a long quest, but her attention is quickly caught by something in the background.

Something smiling. Something pink.

The half-demon approaches the sticky substance where it’s strung across the wall. “Is this who gave you the soup?” she asks, mirroring the smile hanging in the translucent material: the happiest semicircle of a curve.

“Huh? What?” Simon bleats, and he looks vaguely at the pink goop. “What’s that? You think that thing gave me this soup?” He chuckles, but it’s ranging towards a cackle, and Marceline slants him a suspicious look, which swiftly swivels to fixate on the crown hanging from his belt. Simon clears his throat and tries to salvage the situation and fails rather miserably. “What? It’s just a wad of sentient bubblegum.”

“Simon!” she protests, glancing nervously at her magenta benefactor, whose smile has faded. “That’s really mean! I think she heard you! And she probably has a name, you big jerk!”

“Eh? She? Why d’you think it’s a girl? It’s a blob,” the man says, pointing up at the strings of gum that wander up the wall like rigging on a ship. “Quite a bit of blob, too.”

“You really are a jerk,” Marceline declares, laying her hands on the gum somewhat to the sides of the eyes: her best guess as to where the ears are. “And of course it’s a girl. It’s pink. What kinda boy would be pink? Geez.”

“A bubblegum boy, that’s who,” Simon grouses, but there’s no real fight in his words, and he exhales a long sigh. “Fine, fine. ‘Princess Bubblegum’ here gave me the soup, sure. Can you just eat it now? You’re sick, Marcy, and I want to help you. Would you let me help you like I’ve always done?”

Her dark eyes narrow, not oblivious to the sarcasm riding his words, but she capitulates with a nod. “Okay. I am hungry, anyway.”

He beckons, already halfway back to the dilapidated husk of the car. “Come on. It’ll be warmer in here, and safer, too. Once you’ve eaten, we need to get out of this city. Who knows how many more slimy monsters are prowling the streets.”

Marceline starts to follow him, but she hesitates, glancing back at the gum. “But what about her? We can’t leave her here, Simon. Those oozy monsters might attack her next, and she can’t protect herself.”

“She can if she drops ballistic cans of chicken soup on their heads,” he mutters, but with a note of fondness. Rather more realistically, he poses, “There’s enough gum up that wall to weigh both of us down, Marcy. How do you want to go about carrying her? Or are you suggesting that we chew her up and blow the world’s biggest bubble and balloon away from here?”

The half-demon child laughs. “Oh, Simon, you’re so silly! Blowing a bubble, geez. You’re pretty dumb for being so old. No, we…pull her down, kind of, and mush her up until she’s…person-shaped. Like…like a snowman, but with gum, and a girl. A gum-girl. Yeah. We’ll make a gum-girl.”

One of Simon’s eyebrows rockets skywards, and he cranes his neck, scanning the lattice of pink elastic roped up the wall. “Well,” he says at last, “I’ve heard stranger ideas. What the heck. Let’s give it a whirl.”

Giddy, Marceline claps her hands together and turns back to the nearly-featureless face on the wall. “Did you hear that, Princess Bubblegum? You can come with us. Just…come on down here.”

The smile returns, spreading wide and semicircular again. As the child and the old man watch, the strands of pink gum shiver and contract and coalesce, creeping down the building like a vine growing in reverse. It pulls in streamers and reclaims clumps until, at long last…

Simon blinks. “It’s a wad,” he echoes.

Marceline crouches next to the lump, which is almost half her height and possessing all the form of a beanbag chair. “Aw, Princess, that’s not right. You need to have legs! And arms! Otherwise, how’re you gonna do anything?”

The small, hazy eyes are half-closed, though, as if coming this far were exhausting enough. With a last burst of energy, a tendril extends and scrapes loopily through the snow.

The half-demon cocks her head to the side. “Sugar?” she reads, and she sends a questioning glance to her adopted parent.

Simon scratches his whiskery chin. “Makes enough sense,” he muses. “Not only are simple carbohydrates the core ingredients in most metabolisms, given the fact that she’s composed of gum, it might also serve some secondary, structural purpose.”

Marceline’s brows pinch together. “…What?”

“She can’t form a body without sugar,” he explains, and he sighs again, more heavily this time. “But to get sugar, we’ll have to venture even further into the city.”

His small companion, though, falls on her knees and hugs the pink blob. “Aw, c’mon, Simon, we have to! It’d be great to have a friend!”

He blanches. “Aren’t I your friend?”

She considers this. “Well, yeah, but…you’re kinda like a dad, Simon. I meant a friend who’d be another kid. And then you’d have another kid, and we’d…” She falters, her chin trembling, and tears bead up in her eyes. They slip down her cheeks in crystalline trails and drip, soundless, onto the mound of gum, which looks up at her sympathetically. “We’d be like a family.”

Simon stares at her for a long time, the crown heavy on his belt. One day, he knows, the power of it will pull him beneath its gilded surface and he’ll drown in its depths; one day, he won’t be able to be there for Marceline, to protect or provide or simply accompany. When that day comes, he would dearly like to guarantee that she won’t be alone, even if all she has left is a princess made of bubblegum.

Walking over to her through the snow, he braces an arm around her small shoulders and presses a kiss into her night-black hair. “We are a family,” he gently corrects her, and he empties his pack onto the ground. “Here, take Hambo,” he says, passing over the teddy bear. “I think our new friend here will fit inside. That way, we can carry her to the sugar and still able to run away if we have to.”

Marceline scrubs the tears off her cheeks and grins, sharp-toothed and riotously happy, and she squeezes Hambo so hard in her arms that his seams threaten to burst. “Thanks, Simon! You’re the best!”

He chuckles, a little embarrassed, but shimmies the empty pack over the pink blob and hefts the whole thing onto his shoulders. “You still need to eat your soup,” he reminds her.

“Oh, right!”

.

It doesn’t take them long to find sugar; the stuff is apparently more plentiful than chicken soup, or perhaps horrible slime monsters prefer more complex offerings. Either way, they find torn-open, paper-wrapped pounds of it spread about the shelves like snow in the first grocery they check. After exchanging a glance and a shrug, Simon sets his pack down and opens the flap while Marceline gathers handfuls of the sweet crystals and dumps them over the bubblegum blob.

Some of the grit sinks in, but most of it just spills over the top and sits there, delicious dandruff.

“Um…” Marceline bends over the bag, head tilting to one side, lips pulling to the other. “Are we supposed to do something, Princess…?”

But the bubblegum begins writhing, kneading the sugar into its own flesh, and the half-demon stumbles backwards. Simon catches her under the arms and pulls her a safe distance away, and both of them look on in wary interest as the pack begins to jostle this way and that as the gum surges about inside it. The motions are so violent, though, that the flap flops shut, and neither the man nor the child can quite summon the courage to approach closely enough to tip it open again.

At length, the shaking stills, and Marceline gets her weight back on her feet and creeps closer. There is movement again, but it is now sluggish and slow. The half-demon reaches out and pulls aside the flap…and looks down into a face that is no longer so featureless, into eyes that are no longer so small and dark and a smile that isn’t a perfect semicircle.

It’s better, though. It’s practically human.

Violet lashes blink across lavender eyes, and teeth as white and square as sugar cubes shine in her smile. Her skin is pale, barely pink at all, but it absorbed the majority of the sugar and so faded out. Her hair retains its obnoxious shade and almost all its stickiness, too, falling in globs instead of strands around her small, round-cheeked face.

“Whoa! You’re like alive and stuff!” Marceline exclaims, grinning another razor-edged smile.

The gum-girl bobs her head. With the help of the half-demon’s hand, she unfolds herself from the pack, standing strong and steady on her new legs. “Bonnibel,” she says in a voice that’s light and sweet.

Marceline quirks a dark eyebrow. “Eh, what?”

“My name,” she clarifies, and she touches a hand to her breast and bows. “I’m Bonnibel.”

The other girl chortles. “Not Princess Bubblegum?”

Bonnibel tucks her chin to her chest in a posture of deep thought. “No,” she says at last, “but I suppose I could be, if you want.”

“Nah,” Marceline dismisses, “I like Bonnibel. I’m Marceline, and this is Simon,” she says, taking in her other friend with a wave.

“Yes, I heard,” the gum-girl confirms, and she offers a bow to the old man as well. “Thank you for coming along to save me.”

Simon arches a doubtful eyebrow. “We hardly saved you,” he says. “You pulled yourself down off that wall without any help from us.”

“Yes, but I had nowhere to go before,” Bonnibel explains. “I had no reason to leave the wall for years, and no sugar to grant me form. You see, I got blown there during the final bombings.” She stretches her fingers into stars and adds for emphasis, “Splat.”

“Gross,” Marceline remarks with a smirk, fangs just jutting into her lower lip.

Bonnibel nods solemnly. “Gross, indeed,” she confirms, and then she smiles again, sugar-bright. “But then you two came into my alley, and spoke of friendship and family, and I…had almost forgotten about such things. I’ve been so lonely.”

The half-demon boldly grasps one of her hands and extends her other to Simon, who completes the chain. “Well, you’re not alone anymore, Bonnibel!” she declares, her smirk widening into an almost perfect semicircle of a grin.

“No,” she agrees, “I’m not.”

.

.

(i’ll be the watcher of the eternal flame

i’ll be the guard dog of all your fever dreams)

.

Slouched next to the campfire with her crossed arms balanced on her knees, Marceline stares through the flickering yellow flames at the sprawled figure of Simon. He’s deep asleep, his crown hugged possessively to his chest, as if he fears someone will take it from him—and his fear is well founded, as Marceline has attempted exactly that over the years but has always been met with failure. Now she doesn’t really try, because afterwards, Simon always seemed more enraptured by the power than before. She doesn’t want to be the one that pushes him over the edge.

She couldn’t catch him if he fell. It’s not like she can fly.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

The half-demon glances sidelong at Bonnibel, who’s peering at her from the depths of her own sleeping bag. Lavender eyes flash orange in the firelight. “What thing?” Marceline prompts, scratching idly at one pointed ear.

Now laughter flashes, too. “Trying to think.”

“Har har,” Marceline tosses back with just a smidgeon of acid. “You’re hilarious, Bonni. Go back to sleep already before I bop you one.”

But the gum-girl disregards that warning and sits up, smoothing out the rumples in her sleeping bag. “Really, though,” she presses, “what’re you thinking about? You’re so intense, you look like you’re gonna blow a blood vessel.”

Exhaling through her nose, Marceline leans back against the half-rotten log behind her and gazes up at the stars scattered—like sugar, like snowflakes—across the velvety black expanse of sky, their light poorly hidden by the leafless branches of the surrounding forest trees. She fails to respond, although a muscle works in her jaw, pulsing like her heartbeat.

Bonnibel waits half a minute more before surrendering—but not in the way Marceline would have expected. Instead of rolling over and punching another ticket to dreamland, she wriggles out of her sleeping bag entirely and reclines at her friend’s side. They’re the same height, the half-demon idly observes: their arms, their legs are the same length, too. But these facts don’t really surprise Marceline, and she’s always secretly appreciated the unspoken explanation. After all, Bonnibel doesn’t have any rules about growing up—the girl’s made out of gum, for glob’s sake. She could skip straight to adulthood if she wanted to, if she packed on enough sugar.

But she’s always been very careful about how quickly she ages.

She’s always been the same height as Marceline.

Their shoulders brush, and the half-demon sighs once more, blustery this time. “He’s calling you Princess Bubblegum again.”

The other girl hums, an unconcerned confirmation. “It’s a little creepy,” she concedes, “but he’s harmless. It’s nothing to keep you up at night.”

Marceline’s lips twist in a grimace, one fang poking free. “It’s not the creep-factor I’m worried about. I mean, I don’t want him creeping on you, ’cause that’s mega-nasty, but…” She trails off, her expression creasing further, and she pulls her legs closer to her chest, locks her arms more tightly around them. She’s fairly bristling with angles, like a defensive star. “But he hasn’t called you that in seven years, Bonni.”

Eyes dimming, Bonnibel, too, stares across the fire.

“I think he’s forgotten,” the half-demon concludes in the most regretful whisper. “And not that he’s forgotten that it’s not your name or whatever. I think he’s forgotten the last seven years altogether.”

She tucks her chin in. “And he’s calling you Marceline,” she adds slowly as the realization occurs to her.

“Exactly,” she agrees, even less than a whisper now. “He’s never called me by my full name. I introduced myself with it, of course, but…he never used it. I’ve always been Marcy.” She tries to swallow, but her throat’s too thick, and the knot of emotion serves to slowly strangle her.

Until Bonnibel rests a hand on her shoulder, that is; then she can breathe easier. She takes in several gulps of the cool night air, willing its chill to calm the hammering of her heart, and she shakes her head in a terribly lost motion, black hair rustling in a waist-length curtain. “What’re we supposed to do, Bonni? It’s the crown, I know it’s the lumping crown, but…I don’t think I can save him from it. I mean, what am I? I’m a scrawny teenaged half-demon, not a hero. And it’s taken him already. There’s nothing I can do.”

Pink fingers tighten in reassurance. “Perhaps not,” she admits, low and gentle. “But he’s not a lost cause yet.”

“So, what?” Marceline rasps, half-sneering and hating the tears that burn in the corners of her eyes. “We’ll sit around, twiddling our thumbs, until he becomes one?” She shoves the other girl’s hand from her shoulder, not caring that such a forceful motion almost causes the threadbare fabric of her t-shirt to tear. “That won’t solve anything!”

Bonnibel studies her in the shivering firelight, her expression inscrutable, her eyes dark and distant. “Not every problem has a solution,” she says at length. “Some equations are broken from the beginning.”

“Simon’s not an equation,” Marceline snarls, fangs gleaming gold, knuckles bleaching white. “He’s a person.”

A wrinkle appears in her brow. “I know that.”

“Do you?” the half-demon snaps, and she unfolds her gangly limbs to stand, stiff and shaking, above her friend. “’Cause it sure as hell doesn’t sound like it! It sounds like you’re ready to write him off, like one of your stupid experiments when they go wrong!”

Bonnibel’s lips seal in a thin line, but whatever she intends to say is never heard: across the fire, Simon stirs lethargically and half-opens one swirling, ice-blue eye. “Hrm, Marcy? Is that you? Are you alright?”

Marceline slackens like a sail that’s lost the wind, flapping loose against the mast of her spine. “Yeah, I’m—I’m fine,” she croaks, and her voice splinters into shards. “G-Go back to sleep, old man. Glob, you’re such a pain.”

“Hmph! You’re no cakewalk yourself, kid,” he mutters, and his white-lashed eyelid drops shut again, sweeping the snowy madness out of sight.

Marceline stands there and trembles, tears sliding slickly down her pale gray cheeks, until Bonnibel breathes a soft sigh and wipes them away. The droplets soak into her sugary skin, melting shallow depressions, but she doesn’t seem to mind. “We won’t leave him,” she declares, fingers lingering on the slanting planes of the half-demon’s face.

She snorts, but there’s no humor in the sound. “He’ll leave us,” she points out, cracking and hollow.

“Yes, one day, he will,” Bonnibel murmurs. “But we’ll stay until he does. It’ll be his decision.”

The skin strains around Marceline’s eyes and mouth, and she corrects darkly, “It’ll be the crown’s decision.”

There is nothing Bonnibel can say to that, so she says nothing.

.

It takes three more months, and Simon, lost in the depravity of his magic, is no longer so harmless. A horrified Marceline has to tackle him off Bonnibel, yelling and grabbing fistfuls of his beard and his coat, and even then, she can’t hold him down unaided. He’s old, true, but the crown grants him terrible power, and she’s just a scrawny teenaged half-demon, not a hero.

In the end, Bonnibel whacks him in the head with a stick. Even though that knocks off his crown, both girls know that doesn’t make a difference anymore: the crown is in his soul, its madness buried deep where they can’t dredge it out. So she hits him again and again until he’s exiled to unconscious realms, but she has more trouble extricating Marceline, who’s sobbing into his chest, all regret and apology and anger.

Mutilated by the magic, he has betrayed her loyalty and her love, and that knife sinks up to the hilt in her heart and twists and twists and twists.

Bonnibel manages to untangle the other girl’s fingers and drag her away; Marceline is incoherent in her grief, and she lacks the clarity to walk or stand. So after a dozen paces, Bonnibel lets her friend sag against her and cry a divot into her shoulder.

Before they flee, Marceline throws the hated crown as far as she can, heaving it somewhere into the dark trees. It won’t help him now—he’ll always, always find it, chained as he is to its irresistible anchor—but it makes her feel a little better.

It makes her feel like she tried.

(sometimes the only pay-off for having any faith

is when it’s tested again and again everyday)

.

Three years pass, three years without Simon—but not without snow, no. They crossed some mountains, and there was a trio of winters to contend with, but this snow melts, and it doesn’t taste like insanity. Three years in which Bonnibel carefully adds seemingly inconsequential amounts of sugar to her own frame, because after three more years, Marceline isn’t quite as scrawny anymore. She’s still a riff on the theme of angles, pointed ears and teeth and nose and sharp triangles of collar- and cheek- and hipbones, but there’s a softness now that wasn’t there before, even considering their meager diets, their constant travel.

Bonnibel’s taken note of these changes, but she has to, she tells herself, because she has to augment her own body to match. They’ve grown up at the same rate, and they’ll continue to do so. She’s not noticing anything because shewants to, oh, glob, no.

She doesn’t admire Marceline’s hair when it shines iridescent like a raven’s wing in the moonlight. She doesn’t stare when Marceline’s movements are languid and lithe, smoothed by a grace that Bonnibel can’t quite replicate, despite having almost exactly the same proportioned limbs. She certainly doesn’t wonder what it’d be like to twine her fingers through Marceline’s, and not for comfort or for support or simply not to lose one another on foggier days but just because she can.

She doesn’t think about any of these things, ever.

Never, ever.

“Kssh. Earth to Bonnibel. Come in, Bonnibel. Over. Kssh.” And knuckles rap on her sugarcane skull.

“Ow!” the gum-girl protests, and she swats peevishly at her friend’s arm. Snickering, Marceline retracts her hand and plops down beside her in her usual effortless lounge. “You’re back already?”

“Yup,” the half-demon replies, tilting her head back to ease the kinks from her neck. Bonnibel resolutely does not trace her eyes up the slender curve of her throat. “No sign of any nasty monsters anywhere around our campsite—hooray.” She raises a loose fist in a parody of triumph, and she tips her head forward again, opening one dark eye to peer at her friend. “Good thing, too, ’cause you woulda been dessert. How lost in thought were you, eh? Forget to bring a map when you wandered into that big ol’ brain of yours?”

“Shut up, Marcy,” Bonnibel grouses, and she sniffs importantly. “Maybe I was concocting marvelous plans about how to fix the entire world, and now you’ve gone and interrupted me, and everyone will suffer. Way to go.”

But the other girl shrugs, an easy ripple of thin shoulders. “Well,” she concedes, “I am the daughter of Evil Incarnate. If I didn’t ruin the world’s chance for, um, a second chance, then I’d hardly be living up to the family expectations.”

She squints sidelong at her friend. “Yeah…what’s up with that?” she asks. “Like, how evil are you?”

“Pretty evil,” Marceline quips, forked tongue flicking out from between her sharp, sharp teeth. “But seriously, I don’t even know. Glob, I haven’t even been in the Nightosphere since I was way young; I don’t remember much, ’cept for like fire and brimstone and junk. Mom thought I’d grow up better in the human world, but I guess she wasn’t expecting the Mushroom Wars. ’Course, for all I know, Dad orchestrated the whole thing. Seems kinda like his style…more souls to munch and all. Whatever, though, right? I mean, if I am the harbinger of the Apocalypse or somethin’, then mission accomplished ’cause, wow, did the Apocalypse happen hardcore. Go me, I guess.” And she raises another fist, this one much more sarcastic, into the air and gives it a half-hearted pump.

Bonnibel absorbs this with the impartiality of a true scientist, and as such, she goes on to wonder, “Do you have any abilities? Outside of the physical characteristics, you don’t seem particularly demonic.”

Marceline shifts her weight, getting more comfortable against the pillows of their packs braced against the sheer cliff wall. “Who made you drink curious juice, Bon?” she asks in a lazy drawl, her eyes slipping shut, as if she intends to take a nap, conversations be damned.

The gum-girl tries not to take offense at this. “I just realized that we always talk about the present, that’s all. Where we are, where we’ll be going tomorrow, what’s for dinner. Nothing consequential, really. Nothing about…before.”

The atmosphere crystallizes, ever so slightly. Before means before Simon, and that just dredges up his frozen ghost. Marceline suddenly seems to have more edges than usual, but then, just as suddenly, she relaxes. “Oh, is that all?” she says, her tone determinedly light. “Well, dang, you shoulda just said. I think I’ve got some latent magical talent that I’ve never really messed with. Like I’m pretty sure I can open a portal to the Nightosphere whenever the plop I want, but really, who wants to do that? And I’m immortal, just like the old man.”

Bonnibel lifts her eyebrows, impressed. “You’re deathless?”

“I’m…something?” Marceline hedges, her brow furrowing, and she stares inquisitively off into the night. Storm clouds are brewing in the west; she can smell the change in the air from here, and she vaguely concedes that they’ll need to set up the tent soon. “I mean, I’m aging, right? I don’t know if I’ll stop at some point or what. I’m only half-demon, after all. I think I’ll live forever, though; it’s a surety I’ve got in my bones. But, like…I also think I could die,” she adds, more quietly. “That’s in my bones, too.”

“I don’t want you to die,” Bonnibel blurts before she can think better of it.

The other girl tips her a wink, and Bonnibel’s glad the darkness hides her blush. “Aw, shucks. I knew you were sweet, but now you’re just giving me cavities. Lemme just dig out my toothbrush and—”

“Shut up,” she grumbles once again, and she pulls her knees in to her chest and sulks with her chin on their knobby curves.

Marceline sniggers. “Geez, I didn’t know you were so sensitive. Guess you’re not hard candy.”

Bonnibel throws her a flinty glare. “I do have feelings, you know.”

The half-demon rolls her head back again and flaps an unconcerned hand. “’Course ya do, babe. There’s bound to be more than just sugar in your veins.” She frowns but doesn’t straighten up to ask, “Now how does that work, eh? How do you function? I’m not the only mysterious person in our intrepid little duo.”

“I function on the same principles as everyone else,” Bonnibel says, adding conscientiously, “at least, everyone else who exists in a corporeal fashion. The only difference between us is that I’m carbohydrate-based and you’re protein-based.”

“English, Bonni.”

The gum-girl sighs. “I’m made out of sugar and you’re made out of meat.”

“Well, geez, you could’ve just said,” Marceline says with hint of annoyance that smoothes into a luxurious shrug. “Whatevs. That’s all I’ve got. I’m tappin’ out.”

Bonnibel stalls for a long time, trying to organize her thoughts, and they’ve never been so hard to file before. As of late, though, she finds that as much as she prizes her intelligence, she’s liable to be receiving awards for idiocy if she remains in the unsettling grasp of this strange emotion whilst in Marceline’s presence. But even with the threat of embarrassment, she can’t find it within her heart to want to leave—just the opposite, in fact.

She’ll do anything to stay.

Awkwardly, she clears her throat. “Marcy,” she ventures, soft, “do demons…have feelings?”

“Just went over this,” her friend drawls, twirling one finger in a circle for emphasis.

“No, I meant like…” Her throat closes up and chokes off the words, and only with determined prying can she open the pathway again. “Like, y’know…feelings.”

Marceline blinks up at the faraway stars and watches for a few beats as more and more of them are covered by the incoming clouds. “Like feeling-feelings? Like love and crap?”

Love and crap, Bonnibel echoes internally. Oh, glob. What do I see in this girl. “Yes,” she confirms aloud. “Like love.”

“’Course,” the half-demon replies, settling more deeply into her comfortable slump, lashes like crow’s wings feathering on her cheeks. “I loved Simon. I loved my mom. I…think I love my dad? Ish? That one’s hard to say; I don’t remember the dude. I’ll have to pop into the Nightosphere one of these days and have a big ol’ family reunion.” She shrugs again, clearly done talking.

Bonnibel’s more than certain that her candy heart is going to crack in half. “And…no one else?”

Marceline furrows her brow and stares, once more, straight up at the sky. “Have I met anyone else?” she wonders, sounding genuinely confused.

The gum-girl reaches over and taps her fist into her friend’s forehead, exactly as Marceline herself had done when she arrived at the campsite. “Hello, you dingus! Me! What about me!”

The half-demon shifts her gaze down and across until charcoal irises meet lavender ones. “What about you?” she protests, bewildered.

Bonnibel resists the urge to throttle her, or perhaps just to burst into mortified flames. “Argh! Do you love me?” she all but yells. The words echo off the cliffs, mockingly hollow.

And Marceline explodes laughing. “Whoa, calm down, Bonni! Of course I love you,” she says, still chortling, her arms wrapped around her ribs: “You’re my best friend! Glob, what a dumb question.”

A strange, curious ache sets in the back of Bonnibel’s jaw, like she’s eaten too much sugar—except she can never eat too much sugar, and this ache goes deeper, far deeper, right down to the molasses in her marrow. She turns aside stiffly, and it will rain soon; she can smell it too, the promise of moisture, the pressure of the surly atmosphere. They need to set up the tent. She needs to stay out of the wet, lest she start to melt.

But she gets to her feet, instead. “I’m going for a walk,” she says, her voice small.

The humor hitches in her friend’s smile, warping it into something closer to a frown. “Er…okay?”

Bonnibel doesn’t reply. As she wanders off into the darkness, she vows never to ask Marceline that again.

Never, ever.

.

It starts to rain, and Marceline curses, fumbling through their packs for coats, blankets—anything that will pass as a makeshift umbrella. “Stupid sugarbrain knows she’s gonna melt but goes for a freaking joyride anyway,” she mutters under her breath as she irritably knots a jacket around her waist. She slips a second one on properly, hiking its collar up against the rain even though her hair provides more of a barrier than the stiff material can really hope to match. “Stupid lumping sugarbrain…”

She crawls out of the tent, and the steady plunking of rain on canvas is replaced with the rather more intimate plunking of rain on her face; the droplets are fat and heavy, each one bursting like a ripe berry as they strike her skin. Marceline scowls and retreats momentarily into the tent, snatching up a well-worn baseball cap and screwing it onto her head, and the pressure of it makes her ears stick out even more, appearing almost wing-like at a glance. The cap’s bill shelters her face from the deluge, though, and grants her a modicum of comfort, so she sets out again, still grumbling but no longer quite so miserable.

The cliff road is dark and wet and treacherous, and only intermittent lightning flashes illuminate its tortuous length. Once upon a time, Marceline recalls, she and Simon had flashlights, but the batteries succumbed to time and use and went to rest with everything else antebellum, and they never did manage to find replacements. Marceline retains the flashlight, though, empty and useless as it is; it’s stowed in the bottom of her pack, as if it will still keep her from getting lost in the dark.

It doesn’t help her now, and not just because she didn’t bring it along, and she slips more than once on the slippery rocks, the broken asphalt of the long-forgotten mountain pass. Rusting guardrails flare and shine in the lightning’s evanescent electric glow, but there’s no sign of Bonnibel, not even a trail of half-melted sugary footprints, which Marceline has been hoping she’d find. Eventually, after a quarter hour of determined trekking, the half-demon discovers that the road winds back into the mountains, and along the path of least resistance, too—or the path of greatest resistance, if you’re a pessimist—because it carves a tunnel into the rock face. Its far end is a distant gray smudge, and its arched length is opaque and black.

Marceline has no time to appreciate the brief respite from the rain; her breath hisses in past her fangs, instead, when she realizes what’s lying on the ground just inside the tunnel.

It’s a leg, still oozing sugary blood, molasses-slow.

“Bonni?” she yells, and its first iteration is a shriek, scraping up the octaves in her throat via the train of sheer panic. She grapples for control after that and manages to shout, rather more audibly over the raging storm, “Bonni! You in here? You alive? You better freakin’ answer me!”

A weak reply reaches her pricked ears, small and shrill with fear. “No! Marcy, get out of here! Go away!”

Relief washes over Marceline like a tsunami wave, and it almost topples her, too. She hangs onto her balance with grim determination, and after a wavering moment of pure nausea, she gingerly lifts the severed leg—it’s surprisingly heavy, for being made of sugar. Biting back against the acid that rises unstoppably in her throat, she ventures into the tunnel.

“Don’t be a total moron, dude,” she says, loud and carrying, although the cheerfulness falls terribly flat. “Who d’ya think you are, the lumping gingerbread man? You can’t just go around lopping off your limbs and think you’ll be fine.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Bonnibel’s voice possesses more of an edge now, its timbre buzzing like a saw. “Get outta here!”

Marceline homes in on the sound, stumbling in her haste and the inky darkness, and she can barely distinguish the shadow of her friend from the shadow of everything else. “Here you are,” she declares, and she crouches down, willing the enveloping blackness to recede so that she can investigate the gum-girl’s terrible injury. “I’ve, er, got your leg…I’ll just set it down, shall I? Like right next to whatever stump you’ve got left, yeah?”

Bonnibel recoils in the thick gloom, though, her shoulder blades endeavoring to burrow through the stone wall behind her. “Glob, Marcy, I don’t care about my leg!”

“Now that’s just blood loss talking,” the half-demon dismisses. She scootches closer again, still wielding the leg like a determined carpenter wrestling with a broken chair. “Can I borrow some of your hair, maybe? I think I can, like, glue it back on, kinda, with the gum…”

“Stop it! You don’t understand! Why aren’t you listening to me?” Bonnibel reaches out, and at first she twists her fingers in Marceline’s jacket’s sleeves, as if she wants to keep her here, but then she uses her grip to propel her friend backwards, instead. “It’s still here! It’ll attack you next—”

But Bonnibel’s warning is truncated as Marceline slams into her, and that only happens because something, in fact, slammed into Marceline. The girls’ foreheads knock together sharply, dizzyingly, and with a discombobulated groan, the half-demon braces her hands on the tunnel wall and tries to lever herself back up. The weight on her back, though, is so heavy, and somehow, it’s getting heavier…

“What the hell?” she grunts, and this close, she can read Bonnibel’s expression: utter terror. The same fear lances through her willowy frame as a voice—low and guttural and riding cold, rancid breath—purrs in her ear.

“Ahhh, you smell good,” the vampire says, slow with relish, and something that feels very much like a tongue slides slickly up Marceline’s neck. “Like real blood, not that syrupy crap…”

The half-demon only has time to gasp, “Oh, shit—” before the vampire’s fangs pierce the delicate skin on her neck and delve into the mineral-rich seam of her carotid artery. Agony like no pain she has ever felt before rushes through her veins: a wildfire or chain-lightning or anything that moves too fast to be predicted or blocked. It burns, it burns, and then, once her entire body is screaming itself hoarse, the pain switches direction, running against the grain of its own just-inflicted wounds as the suction starts.

She can feel like the life draining out of her, but she can’t stop it.

Bonnibel tries. Not paralyzed by the vampire’s poison herself, she drives her fist into the monster’s head with as much power as she can manage, howling rage at him all the while. Her pummeling, though, achieves no victory, and helpless saccharine tears flood her cheeks.

Marceline’s heart stops, a sudden arrest that leaves it hanging hollow behind her ribs, and it never starts again. The last thing she sees before the world fades into inescapable shadow is Bonnibel’s horrified face, her eyes wide, their lavender irises washed gray in the darkness.

And then she doesn’t see anything.

The vampire, swollen with blood like some disgusting, engorged spider, finally plucks his fangs from Marceline’s neck and tosses her body aside with all the care and ease of a child discarding a rag doll. Another scream catches in the traffic jam in Bonnibel’s throat, and she stares through the blurring screen of her tears at her friend’s corpse sprawled gracelessly on the cracked asphalt, just a shadow within a shadow.

“Mmm, delicious,” the vampire says, his voice thick and lush like velvet now. “So much more satisfying than you, my candy princess. Your red was so watery, and your blood…mm, it was not very pleasing. Not nearly enough salt, no.” He runs his tongue, stained with Marceline’s ichor, over his icicle fangs, and his eyelids flutter at the pleasure of the taste.

A thousand desires flood Bonnibel, principal amongst them the driving need to rip out the vampire’s throat, but before she can rush to any foolish action, a dry laugh rasps in the air. It’s a quiet sound, and she’s surprised she can hear it over the continual rumble of thunder and shudder of rain. Her own heart stills in her chest when a very familiar voice reaches her ears.

“Haha, oh, wow…did you think I’d take death lying down?”

Bonnibel’s gaze flickers aside, and yes, Marceline’s body is stirring, awkward like a marionette that’s had its strings cut and needs to learn to stand on its own. Her hair sweeps across her face in a black curtain, but the strands slip aside to reveal her eyes, gleaming red, the dark red of sullen embers in a banked fire. Her lips pull back in a terrible grin, and the once-even serration of her teeth is interrupted now by the sharper points of prominent canines.

The vampire beast still squatting in front of Bonnibel stares at her, his jaw slipping open in wordless shock. With dint of great determination, though, he manages to speak. “I didn’t want to turn you!” he all but squawks. “I wanted to kill you! I—I did kill you!”

“I’m the daughter of Evil Incarnate,” Marceline lets him know, as she had let Bonnibel know. She stretches her arms wide like she’s expecting applause. “You can’t kill me.”

She lunges then, faster than Bonnibel’s eyes can follow in this gloom, and snarls her fingers in the bat-like fur rising up all over the vampire beast’s body. She pivots on one foot and, with unprecedented strength, throws the monstrous form across the tunnel, where he slams into the far wall and groans pathetically.

The gum-girl stares up at her friend for a fracturing instant. “Marcy?” she whispers.

Marceline glances over her shoulder, and something in her face softens; some of the fire in her eyes dims. “This must be how Simon felt,” she remarks, quiet and bitter and with half her mouth still cranked in a parody of a smirk. “Calmly accepting a curse just to protect a friend. Yeah. I think I understand now.”

Her heart wrenches in her chest. “You…you came back like this…for me?” she croaks.

“Don’t be an idiot, Bon,” she replies, the insult curling fondly off her tongue, and her smile straightens out. “You already know I love you. Glob, you only just made me say it. So what did you expect? That I’d leave you here with this lumping freak to die? Geez.” And she shakes her head. “You’ve got like the worst opinion of me, babe.”

Her heart just writhes further. “Marcy,” she echoes, plaintive and pleading—although for what, she doesn’t exactly know.

“Sit tight, not that you have much choice,” Marceline quips, and she jerks a thumb at the beast, who’s stirring again. “I’ve got a vampire to slay.”

It’s hard to discern much in the darkness, but Bonnibel can see that, for being new to the vampiric lifestyle—deathstyle? Unlifestyle? She’ll have to work on that—Marceline manages to steal and keep the upper hand. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that the other vampire seeks strength in its huge monstrous form, which might have been more of an advantage if the tunnel weren’t so cramped. Marceline, by comparison, flits about easily, dodging and landing quick strikes, and Bonnibel is certain that it’s not just a trick of the dark—she’s certain that Marceline’s flying.

The male vampire’s roars suddenly cut short as the female dives in for the kill; humans might need to kill vampires with elaborate methods, all garlic and sunlight and wooden stakes in unbeating hearts, but amongst their own species, brutal violence suffices. Bonnibel closes her eyes, because even the storm-dark is not enough of a shield against the carnage, and she presses her fingers into her ears, too, so she doesn’t have to hear the cold flesh tearing free of ancient bones.

She only knows it’s over, then, when Marceline is gently pulling her hands down, and she blinks up at her friend. Smoldering eyes gaze back at her, level and searching, and the new vampire must feel her arms trembling beneath her grasp, as she sighs and lets go.

“Oh, Bon,” she breathes sadly, “you’re scared of me, aren’t you.”

She doesn’t pose it as a question, already resigned to the answer.

“No, I’m not,” Bonnibel protests, not admitting that she’s more than a little disconcerted by the change. It’s a lot to process, but she’s a scientist by nature, and she approaches all things with as much clinical detachment as she can muster, and she scrambles for its objective comfort now. Marceline being a vampire just means there’s a fresh set of variables to consider in the never-ending experiment of their lives. Nothing more, nothing less.

“My leg’s torn off,” she points out, as if that’s a detail inconsequential enough to be forgotten. “I think the blood loss is having some ill effects on my constitution, that’s all.”

Marceline crouches down, her vision now augmented by the inclusion of infrared, and reviews the wound. “Yeah, it’s not pretty,” she remarks, her tone still a bit brittle around the edges. “I think my gum-glue idea is gonna work, though. It should keep things from getting worse, at least, while I nip back to camp and borrow a cup of a sugar, heh.”

Bonnibel tugs a clump from her hair and hands the sticky wad over. The new vampire accepts it without really looking, and after swiveling the severed limb so that it’s lined up with the stump, she smacks it down haphazardly. “Um, there?” she ventures, tilting her head to the side without much confidence.

The other girl laughs, thin and light. “I’ll seal it better while you head back to camp. Don’t worry about it.”

Marceline grimaces doubtfully, and she rocks back on her heels, not yet departing. The sullen embers in her eyes are shadowed by her lashes as she stares down at the ground. “I’m…not gonna end up like Simon,” she whispers at length. “I know being a vampire comes with a whole ton of baggage, but I won’t let the bloodlust drive me mad or anything. I won’t go nuts.” Her eyes flicker up. “I won’t hurt you.”

There’s supplication in her tone. It’s raw, so raw.

Brow pinching in sympathy, Bonnibel reaches out and brushes her fingertips across Marceline’s cheek; the pale gray flesh is cool now, no longer suffused with the warmth of living tissue. It’s more than enough to bring tears to her eyes, but she determinedly holds them at bay. “I know,” she says, soft, and she taps a finger to one of the new fangs. “Besides, I have it on good assurance that I don’t taste good to vampires.”

“Well, we’ll see about that,” Marceline remarks impishly. She sticks out her tongue, just to taunt, not to taste, but it’s a fine line.

Despite the blush heating her own cheeks, Bonnibel rolls her eyes. “Glob, gross, Marcy.”

The vampire chuckles and gets to her feet—or not, because she hovers above the crumbling asphalt—and this newfound ability gives her pause. After a second of deliberation, she shrugs out of her jacket, draping it over her friend, and then scoops the gum-girl effortlessly into her arms.

“Wh-What are you doing?” Bonnibel yelps, the blush returning full-force.

“Dude, I can fly,” Marceline says with a shrug, and she unties the second jacket from her waist and arranges it on the other girl’s legs. For a moment, then, she’s just holding Bonnibel with one arm, and not apparently taxed in the slightest. “It’s super radical. And, like, I can get us back to camp and to all the sugar your little candy heart desires in no time flat. Maybe it’ll be the greatest thing ever, me being a vampire, eh?”

The optimism rings false, but she’s trying, and hard.

After a second’s hesitation, Bonnibel lowers her head to Marceline’s collar, and as she shuts her eyes, she catches herself listening for a heartbeat. Her friend’s chest is silent, though, and she twists her fingers in the vampire’s shirt over the spot where the sound should’ve been. “I know it’s a curse, and I know it won’t be easy for you,” she murmurs, throat thick, “but I’m really lumping glad you’re still here.”

Marceline’s fingers flex. “Yeah,” she agrees, “me, too.”

“We’ll be fine,” Bonnibel adds. “We’ll…we’ll both be just fine.”

Something like a laugh escapes the vampire as she floats out into the rain. “Oh? Is that what your science tells you? Is that a fact?” There’s no real venom in her voice, though—just more bitterness.

“No,” Bonnibel admits, the softest yet. “It’s just faith. I believe in you. In…us.”

Her lips tilt, and it might be a smile, though it’s hard to tell for sure.

(live with me forever now

pull the black-out curtains down)

.

Summer steals across the ravaged world, bringing warmer winds and longer days, the latter of which only yields complications for Marceline. She discovers early on—with drastic results—that vampires don’t appreciate sunlight, and Bonnibel has to bodily shield her from the burning rays while she digs through her pack with blistered hands in a desperate search for appropriate articles of clothing. But layering up isn’t so bad, because she doesn’t really have a body temperature anymore, and like a lizard, any amount of warmth she absorbs is almost instantly dispelled. It’s strange, and it takes some getting used to, but by the time they achieve the western side of the mountains, slapping on a hat and gloves in eighty-degree weather is second nature.

They could’ve simply begun traveling nocturnally, but Bonnibel has the worst eyesight in the dark—her fructose-filled diet isn’t exactly bursting with vitamin A—and they’ve yet to come across a handy pair of night-vision goggles in any of the abandoned cities they encounter. They do find an unbroken pair of sunglasses, which Marceline dons with a serrated grin and a tip of her hat, and in the end, she doesn’t really mind the sun.

Its indirect warmth almost makes her feel alive again.

She’s aware that Bonnibel’s kept a close eye on her ever since her transformation, but it’s tactfully done, and Marceline knows she means well. Cataloguing her strengths and weaknesses might prove useful down the road, and it would be outside of the gum-girl’s nature to ignore the chance to study something. For example, it’s Bonnibel who discovers that Marceline can simply subsist on the color red, not blood itself, and the vampire believes for a little while that she won’t have to be a monster at all.

But the color is thin and lacking compared to the fluid, and it doesn’t sustain her half as well. She hunted for food long before she turned into a bloodsucker, though, and now she’s the kind of predator that other carnivores can only dream of imitating. Hunting is a breeze, and she no longer has to bother with cooking.

Still, she doesn’t eat—or drink, rather—in front of Bonnibel. She just…doesn’t.

Some things shouldn’t be observed, even by a scientist.

But this new life, or whatever it is of Marceline’s, acquires much the same rhythm as the old. Sometimes, she almost forgets she’s a vampire until she notices that she’s hovering a few inches off the ground on absentminded instinct, or that she has a craving for strawberries that has nothing to do with flavor.

Bonnibel’s still there, though, right there beside her, and that’s all that really matters.

Sometimes, Marceline finds herself holding Bonnibel’s hand, just to preserve the illusion of her own lost body heat in her friend’s warmth.

And sometimes, she finds herself twining their fingers together, just because she can.

.

By autumn, they reach the coast. The ocean stretches out before them, seemingly infinite as it conquers the horizon, and the cities here seem less pillaged—still ruined by the apocalyptic might of the Mushroom Wars, but not as ransacked in the aftermath. They wander down pockmarked and desolate streets, scavenging supplies from shops, until Marceline sees one they’ve never found intact before: a music store.

“Oh, Bonni, we have to check this out!” she exclaims, all giddy enthusiasm, and she tugs on her friend’s arm.

The gum-girl raises her eyebrows, a little surprised by this excitement. Sure, she’s heard Marceline humming nonsense to herself and singing made-up songs to the moon, and sure, maybe she likes listening to her voice more than she really should, but somehow she’s never actually pegged the vampire as a musician.

She allows herself to be pulled into the dark, musty, cobweb-filled interior and glances around at the veritable forest of instruments decorating the walls and littering the floor. “Do you…know how to play any of these?” she asks. Stretching out a curious finger, she plucks the string of a rotting acoustic guitar; it only makes a dull thunk.

“Well, no, not know exactly,” Marceline says. In the shade of the shop, she’s busily stripping off her sun-gear until she’s just left in jeans and a t-shirt, and Bonnibel rolls her eyes inwardly at the latter garment. It’s such an ugly shirt, like the worst thing she’s ever seen, black and branded with some cartoonishly terrifying version of…she’s not quite sure—zombie marshmallows, maybe, spitted for their future as S’mores? But when the vampire found it shortly after her transformation, she was thrilled by the discovery.

Dude, this was like the best band ever, she confided. And this thing’s like in mint condition. Check it! And she tugged it on.

Of course, it fit perfectly. Fate and all that.

With the way Marceline’s floating to and fro now, unable to focus on anything in the grip of her exuberant glee, Bonnibel’s reminded of that day and of the fact that vampire or not, her friend is still reassuringly human. No monster would ever be this overjoyed by music, or a t-shirt.

Marceline’s speaking, though, and her voice drags the gum-girl back to the present with a bump.

“That’s why I’m gonna try every last lumping one until I find one that fits. You don’t mind, do ya, Bon? It’s not like we have anywhere to go, right?” And she glances pleadingly at her friend, fingers laced together in prayer, scarlet eyes full of blood and delight.

Bonnibel shrugs. “Why not? I’ve still got half of that chemistry textbook left.”

“Nerd,” Marceline teases, lips curved in a fond smirk, and she turns eagerly to her task.

The gum-girl opens the tome and invests herself in learning, listening with only half an ear to the vampire’s extremely thorough and often woefully out-of-tune exploration. She gets so lost in the wonders of thermodynamics and equilibrium that she doesn’t even notice when it becomes quiet again. She reads right through to the section’s end, and before she can begin the learning about the properties of gases, it occurs to her that she’s getting hungry, and only that prompts her to look up.

Marceline is reclined cross-legged on the window sill, surrounded by discarded instruments. Her eyes are shut, loosely so as if she’s only half-caught in a dream, and she cradles a red electric bass in her lap, vertically as if it were a cello with its neck extending up past her own. She isn’t really playing anything, just hugging it to her chest and plucking the lowest string over and over and over again, steady as a metronome.

Dunnn. Dunnn. Dunnn.

Quietly, as if she believes she’s witnessing a wizard casting a complex spell—not that she’d have half as much respect for that—Bonnibel approaches, her brow wrinkling in quizzical thought. “Marcy,” she whispers, hesitant to break the almost-silence but needing to satisfy her curiosity, “what’re you doing?”

The vampire doesn’t open her eyes or even reply right away. She just keeps plucking that string. “I want this one,” she finally replies, soft and sure.

Bonnibel considers the instrument politely. She’s picked up a thing or two, so she asks, “Are you certain? I think a regular guitar, as opposed to a bass guitar, would grant you more versatility.”

“No. This one,” Marceline repeats, instantaneous. “The bass…I need the bass. The vibrations of the sound…I can feel ’em in my chest, Bon.” She taps one of the prongs on the top of the guitar’s body, which is resting squarely on her sternum. “I haven’t felt anything in my chest in a long time, not since…” She trails off, her lids rising halfway, but her ember eyes are still shadowed by the lashes. Her voice scrapes, roughshod, in her throat as she concludes, “It’s like a heartbeat. It’s like having a heartbeat again.”

Empathy nearly overwhelms Bonnibel, and she’s forced to swallow before she can speak. “Then you should definitely get that one,” she agrees. “Don’t forget to stock up on extra strings and all. Who knows when we’ll find another place like this.”

“Yeah, good idea,” the vampire murmurs, still playing that lone note.

Bonnibel gazes at her for a long moment, sadness swirling in her lavender eyes. “You seem to be doing well,” she ventures at last. “With the whole vampire business.”

Marceline chuckles, low and dry. “Yeah, I’ve somehow come out on top, haven’t I? I mean, sure, I have to drink blood now, but I had to eat back in the day, and a balanced diet at that—now I don’t ever have to worry about getting scurvy again. Going feral, sure,” she concedes, “but that’s the only problem, and it has an easy solution. Just think of the positives, dude: I can fly, which is beyond mathematical; I’m super strong; I like never get tired; my teeth are even sharper; and I can heal from almost any injury in no time at all. Being allergic to sunlight is hardly worth complaining about.”

As Marceline mentions her healing ability, though, Bonnibel’s gaze is drawn to the two holes pierced in her neck, which still gape as raw as the day they were inflicted. “What about those?” she asks, nodding at her friend’s stigmata. “They’ve never gone away.”

She reaches up gingerly, just brushing across them with her fingertips, and winces. “I don’t think they’re ever going to.”

The gum-girl frowns at her friend’s reaction. “Do they still hurt, too?”

“Nothing awful,” Marceline dismisses in a show of bravado. She lowers her hand and tilts the bass in her lap, holding it now in the more established horizontal position. “I guess that’s a strike against vampirism. Oh, glob, is that three strikes? Then I’m out.” She grins, but it falters, and she turns her head to stare out the window, her gaze getting lost in some middle distance.

Before she knows what she’s doing, Bonnibel’s shifting closer, and her own fingers extend to trace the bloodless holes. Marceline flinches away, but it’s just reflex, and when she understands her friend’s intentions, she relaxes against the window frame once more, tacit permission.

Bonnibel touches the pale skin beside the marks, not wishing to cause the vampire pain, and all she can think is that the flesh is so smooth and that she wants to touch more of it. Her fingers ache with the desire; her cheeks burn with it; but Marceline has her eyes closed again and doesn’t notice. Maybe that’s what gives Bonnibel the courage, or maybe she’s more reckless than she ever believed, because she leans in and ever so carefully presses a kiss to the eternal wound.

Marceline stiffens beneath her touch, a more subtle reaction than her earlier one that is nevertheless infinitely more profound. A breath she habitually inhales catches in her throat.

Bonnibel still has the blood to pound in her ears, and it nearly deafens her as she draws back. “There,” she whispers, barely audible to either of them. “All better.”

The vampire is blushing, and it must be from the blood she consumed earlier, because otherwise the reaction wouldn’t be possible. But it is, it is, and heat and color she thought lost forever flow up her otherwise empty veins to settle in her cheeks.

Embarrassment is understandable, Bonnibel thinks within the haze of her own awkwardness. After all, she did just kiss her friend on the neck—not a place generally associated with platonic gestures. Which it was decidedly not, but if anyone asks, she’ll swear to that lie for all eternity.

Marceline at last musters a response, and it’s caught between a surprised hum and a strangled grunt. Her eyes, wide and even redder than her cheeks, are fixed on the gum-girl in…it’s hard to say. It might simply be shock. But then again, there might be something more than her usual banked fire burning in their depths.

“You can fix things with kisses, right?” Bonnibel remarks with a shaky laugh, several eons too belated to be a legitimate explanation.

Another indistinguishable sound escapes Marceline’s throat, and she blinks a few times in an effort to regain her composure. At length, she manages to unlock her jaw and woodenly reply, “So I’ve heard.”

The gum-girl dips her head, looks aside. “Ah, well, good. I hope it helps.” She makes to move away, but Marceline lashes out, viper-quick, and snags onto her wrist. She stares down at the pale gray fingers wrapped around her own pale pink flesh, as if daring them to disappear. When they don’t, she tentatively returns her gaze to the other girl’s.

Those changeable eyes, locked on hers, draw her in. She wonders briefly if it’s some sort of vampire hypnosis designed to attract prey, but she disregards that notion as ludicrous in the next second. She wanted Marceline long before she became a vampire. It’s a bit moot, as thought processes go.

“You asked me once,” Marceline says slowly, deliberately, “if demons were capable of love.”

“I did,” Bonnibel confirms, her voice little more than a breath. Oh, how she can’t look away.

“I’m not a demon anymore,” Marceline continues. “Bit of a downgrade, really, when it comes to my evil-factor, but…” She trails off, shakes her head. “That’s way beside the point. My point is—”

“—Are vampires capable of love?” Bonnibel finishes for her, the words slipping out as gracelessly as amateur skaters on ice.

The vampire in question studies her for another timeless moment, and the setting sun somewhere outside stains everything in molten orange. And it might just be a reflection, but Bonnibel can swear that the fire in Marceline’s eyes is real, and she can almost swear it’s burning just for her. She shivers at the thought, despite all the heat prickling her skin.

“Yes,” Marceline says, as low and rough as musical sandpaper. She tugs on her friend’s wrist, pulling her closer, and lifts her other hand to the back of her neck, pulling her closer still. “The answer is decidedly yes…”

She doesn’t need to breathe to live, but she needs to breathe to speak, and the air is cool and soft like twilight’s last caress as it drifts across Bonnibel’s lips. In the next moment, Bonnibel discovers that her lips are cool and soft, too, and that she tastes like the reddest autumn leaves and wood smoke and the promise of winter’s edge, something cold and dangerous and utterly thrilling lurking just a whisper out of sight. Sensations ride down her spine on an express train to the bottom of her belly, where they curl and twist and conspire to sap all the strength from her legs.

She stumbles forward, catching one hand heavily on the window sill and blindly planting the other on the wall beside Marceline’s head, and accidentally crushes their mouths together. The vampire makes a small sound, but whether that’s in protest or pleasure, Bonnibel can’t discern. But she does feel her grin a second later, and there’s a rasp of fangs against her lower lip.

“M-Marceline,” she gasps, a shuddering little breath.

“Yeah?” the vampire prompts languidly between searing kisses.

For the first time in her life, Bonnibel gives up on thinking. She just tangles her fingers in the collar of that ugly t-shirt, even though it’s no longer the worst thing she’s ever seen. Maybe it’s the best. Maybe she’ll never be able to see it again without swooning a little inside.

“Just do that again.” She means to make it a command, but it comes out rather closer to a plea.

The fire fairly dances in Marceline’s eyes, and she obligingly scrapes her teeth across once more.

(i’m bad behavior

but i do it in the best way)

.

Time passes.

So much time.

Centuries rise and ebb like tides in the sea of the gods, pulling the spinning, half-destroyed world along their undulating sine-wave path to infinity. Marceline and Bonnibel see all of it, or all that’s left of it: they climb to the peak of the highest mountain, cross the vastest sundering ocean, and even stand on the lip of utter ruin. There, they gaze down grimly at the subtle yet shocking transition of rocky crust to molten mantle all the way down to the starkly disconcerting glimpse of the planet’s sullen iron core, almost invisible behind the rising convection currents.

They find settlements occasionally, too, groups of survivors that have cobbled together rudimentary societies.

“It’s like watching history come full circle,” Bonnibel observes once after they’ve departed a village of friendly albeit seriously mutated crab-people along the waterfront. “We’re nomadic hunter-gatherers. Now other people are starting to experiment with agriculture and the concept of stationary communities. Fascinating.”

“Yup,” Marceline lilts in absentminded agreement, floating along on her back and picking out a new melody on her bass. “Totally math.”

“More like ‘totally anthropology’,” Bonnibel corrects, reaching up to tweak her girlfriend’s elbow.

“Bah, you keep your fancy schooling,” the vampire grumbles, rolling over and out of the other’s grasp, though she flickers a teasing tongue and lazily opens one eye in an inverted wink. “I’ll keep the sick jams.”

The gum-girl shakes her head, accustomed to these barbs; they’ve never been sharp, anyway. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a nerd and you’re a badass. Got anything new, Marcy?”

The vampire’s smirk acquires a particularly wicked slant. “I’m sure even after five hundred years I can come up with something new, babe,” she replies, all sultry taunt, and she waggles her eyebrows in a suggestive ripple. “Wanna bet? I know you wanna bet.”

Bonnibel snorts. “What makes you think I want to bet against that?” she wonders rhetorically, her own lopsided grin dimpling one cheek.

“So you’re willing to find out?” Marceline presses, licking a fang in a thoughtful fashion.

Her girlfriend catches onto her collar and pulls her around in mid-air, capturing her in a sudden and clumsy but far from unsatisfactory kiss. “Glob, would you just rock my world already?”

“Yes, princess,” the vampire agrees, her smile edged in razor-wire.

As it happens, even after five hundred years, Marceline can come up with something new.

Afterwards, as they’re lying in the grass—Bonnibel half in the sun and Marceline all in the shade—the former raises a tired question. “I wonder if there’s any way to accelerate social progress—you know, get things back to where they were before the Mushroom Wars.”

The vampire blinks up at the lush canopy above them, her saving grace from daylight’s wrath. And then she snickers, still tracing her fingers in idle swirls up Bonnibel’s bare arm. “Dude, is that seriously what you’re thinking about at this moment? Social progress? Really?”

She smacks her hand lightly on her girlfriend’s stomach. “Don’t mock me, Marcy,” she chides. “I wasn’t thinking about that during, for glob’s sake. Now that my blood’s back to circulating in my brain and my hearing’s returned—”

“I always consider it a bonus if I can deaden one of your senses,” the vampire interrupts in a fit of cocky triumph.

Bonnibel continues speaking as if Marceline hadn’t. “I think it would be beneficial to the world if we established…a role model. Display a higher-ordered society that everyone else can imitate and learn from. There’s still very little security, what with gangs and bandits and glob knows what else. We’re only safe because you’re mega-terrifying.”

“Thank you,” Marceline quips with a toothy grin—and with her particular pearly whites, that’s saying something.

“Indeed,” the gum-girl acknowledges. “But not everyone on earth can have a vampire bodyguard. So our next best alternative is structured society.”

The other girl shakes her head, grass catching in the ankle-length strands of her inky hair. “So, what, Bonni?” she poses with audible humor. “You wanna save the world?”

“No, not save,” Bonnibel corrects. “The world’s already been lost. But fix, perhaps. Not everything, and not everywhere, but maybe some things, here. Or somewhere else. But somewhere.”

Marceline wrinkles her brow and considers her girlfriend sidelong. “Who knew you were such a hero,” she remarks, but the humor is gone, replaced with a curiosity that shades towards suspicion.

“Oh, plop, no,” she dismisses. “I’m not a hero. I’m a scientist. I identify problems, and I provide solutions. It’s not altruistic, exactly, it’s…rational.”

The vampire sniggers, amused once more. “Real stirring speech, babe. You might wanna work on that before you accept your Nobel prize.”

Bonnibel rolls her eyes and sighs, “Oh, Marceline. As if there’s Nobel prizes anymore. But I would totally win one if there were, obvi,” she adds impishly.

Shrugging and disrupting Bonnibel’s comfortable repose on her shoulder, Marceline remarks, “Well, I’m all for, er, saving the world. I mean, why not. So how do you wanna go about this, eh? It sounds like it’s gonna be really lumping complicated.”

“First we have to research,” the gum-girl declares, all confidence. “We need to get back to that one library, the really ginormous one.”

“Dude,” Marceline protests in an elongated whine, “Oxford is like so freakin’ far away…”

Bonnibel sits up, brushing grass flecks from her skin, and reaches for her shirt. “Nevertheless,” she insists, and after wriggling into the garment, she leans down and plants a kiss on her girlfriend’s lips. “If you take me there, I’ll do to you what you just did to me.”

The vampire perks up, cautiously. “That sounds totally rad, babe, but does that mean I get rewarded now or in like three weeks? ’Cause, three weeks…that’s a long-ass time to wait. I’ll be, like, chafing by then.”

Bonnibel taps one of her fangs; it makes a faint ting. “You need to save your energy for flying.”

Marceline scowls. “You suck, man. You really, really suck. Like hardcore.”

The gum-girl casts her a fond, askance look. “So tonight, when we’re done traveling for the day and you don’t need to fly anymore, then I’ll reward you. Geez, if you would just let me finish talking…” She trails off, smiling close-lipped and not at all mysterious, and bursts out laughing when the vampire takes to the air so quickly that she nearly collides with the trees branches above them.

“What’re you freakin’ waiting for?” Marceline protests, yanking on her outfit for daylight travel—gloves and hat and sunglasses crammed crookedly in place. She darts out into the golden glow once she’s done, gathering up the rest of Bonnibel’s clothes and tossing them in her face. “Get dressed on the way! Nobody will see! C’mon! Places to go, babe, places to go!”

.

The library is subjected to so many cobwebs it almost looks like it has snowed indoors, and the windows, equally subjected to centuries of grime, only let a fraction of the sunlight inside. That’s just as well for Marceline, and Bonnibel very carefully navigates with a glassed-in lantern, her feet kicking up thick, choking clouds of dust.

They’ve been to every library in the world before now, and they have an established routine. While Bonnibel hems herself in on all sides with teetering towers of tomes, Marceline wanders in and out, hunting for her own meals and scavenging supplies for her girlfriend’s. In her free time, she floats along the stacks, sometimes perusing the volumes for her own pleasure or fetching something new for Bonnibel, but mostly she finds a comfortable perch up in the ceiling’s arches and strums out song after song on her bass.

It’s a symbiotic relationship. They’re both remarkably independent, for being so reliant on each other.

Weeks pass, filled with long dusty days and short dusty nights, and sometimes, Bonnibel shares her new knowledge and fledgling theories with her girlfriend, who listens politely as she hugs her bass. But by and large, the gum-girl keeps her thoughts to herself, and Marceline’s unbothered by that. If something truly important comes up, Bonnibel will let her know, and there’s no point pushing for answers before then.

Eventually, though, the vampire observes that the genre of the books has changed. No longer are they concerned with history or philosophy or even science; now they venture into more mystical realms, flirting with the bounds of sorcery and magic, whispering promises of power and dominion.

Marceline hovers near one of the more recent stacks, nudging aside a treatise on Marxism and idly thumbing through the biography of someone named Machiavelli, who doesn’t seem like the nicest sort. “What’s up with all this junk, Bon?” she wonders, one fang snaking out to balance her rising eyebrow.

The gum-girl doesn’t look up from the ancient, yellowed pages of her latest interest. “Mm, oh, that stuff…that’s just different theories on government, really. I need to examine every alternative so that I can create the most efficient hybrid. I’ve been over it all, though. I think I’ve got a handle on what’ll work best.”

The vampire nods as if she really understands. “Radical, babe,” she remarks, and she floats closer to her girlfriend, glancing down over one pink shoulder. “And…what’s this? I mean, if you’ve filled up your thinking cap, then shouldn’t we make tracks? Start building…whatever we’re gonna build?”

“The model kingdom,” Bonnibel provides with a hum and a nod. “Yes. But you can’t have a kingdom without subjects.”

Marceline’s lips pull to one side, and she peers closer at the page—it’s written in a foreign tongue, though, and no amount of scrutiny will force it to yield its secrets to her. Somehow, that makes her feel uneasy, as if Bonnibel’s hiding things from her, as if she’s reading different languages on nefarious purpose. She shakes her head and tries to shake the feeling with it, but it won’t quite budge.

“Er, well,” she begins, slow and confused, “aren’t we going with the whole, if you build it, they will come notion?”

“Oh, glob, that’s optimistic,” Bonnibel dismisses, her eyes tracing the strange script. “And mega-naïve. You can’t just build a castle and expect the right people to show up.”

Everything unsettled in her belly sloshes a bit more, and Marceline swallows. “The right people?” she echoes, even though she hardly wants to hear the answer.

“Yeah,” the gum-girl absently confirms. “Our model kingdom should be easily imitable, so that others can construct replicas of it without needing to acquire all the knowledge that went into devising it in the first place. Everything has to go according to plan, then, and so we’ll create the subjects—subjects that will perfectly match the kingdom.”

The vampire half-expects those words to echo in the library’s dusty air, they’re so ominous. She has no idea how to respond to that, so she just hovers there, struck dumb with this swelling dread.

“I’ll need more than just science to do so, at least initially,” Bonnibel continues, oblivious of her girlfriend’s reticence. “I think I’ve discovered the answer, though. Many of these books reference Stones of Power, which seem to be collected in one special book called the Enchiridion. If we find the Enchiridion, then we’ll have everything we need.”

With effort, Marceline pries her teeth apart. “And where’s this En-ky-whatsamajigger?” she asks, and it’s so, so hard to keep her usual nonchalance tacked onto her tone.

Bonnibel flips through the thin parchment pages until she reveals the inked contours of a map. She points at it, all the explanation required.

“Oh,” Marceline whispers. “X marks the spot.”

.

There isn’t an X, but buried deep beneath the ruin of a temple, condemned to millennia-long sleep in the cradle of a catacomb, there is the Enchiridion.

Marceline’s skin has been crawling ever since Bonnibel set them on this quest, and now that the moment is here, she just wants to vomit—an urge she hasn’t had since she used to use her stomach. The book reeks of power, giving off waves of it that entice Marceline’s half-demon soul to sit up like a dog and beg, because it reeks of evil, too, and so strongly that even she wants to make it her master.

Even she, daughter of Evil Incarnate, wants to submit to its thrall.

“What is this?” she asks hoarsely, one hand raised as if she expects it to shine sunlight at her.

“Technically, it’s a hero’s handbook,” Bonnibel explains, blowing the thick coating of dust off its leather cover. “I believe it was designed as such as a safeguard. Only someone pure of heart could claim the book, so only someone pure of heart could claim the Stones.”

And are you? Marceline wants to ask but doesn’t dare. Pure of heart?

Head cocked to the side, Bonnibel studies the book for a long moment in the flickering light of their lantern, and then she reaches out with steady fingers and twists the sword emblazoned on the cover. To the vampire’s surprise, the sword spins like the hands on a clock, and a compartment in the cover cracks open, revealing glittering gemstones, arranged in a circle.

Three of them are already missing.

“Oh, plop,” the gum-girl laments, her brow furrowing. “That’s a bit disappointing. It’ll be okay, though; I shouldn’t think we need quite that much power. Besides, if we do,” she adds, and she digs into the stone sarcophagus that held the book and withdraws something gleaming on a chain, “we have this amulet. Pretty math, eh?”

Marceline swallows, something in her instincts—her demon instincts, again, not her vampire ones—recognizing the shape of this magic. “I dunno, Bon,” she whispers. “Amulets of power are…” She trails off, trying to find the words. But for all the skill she has for penning lyrics, she can’t fathom a way to subvert this doom with mere diction.

“Powerful, I bet,” Bonnibel finishes for her, sounding freakishly unconcerned, and she loops its golden chain around her neck without so much as a flicker of doubt.

“What’re you doing?” Marceline shrieks, and she snags at the chain. “Take it off, Bonni, take it off now!”

The gum-girl recoils, batting the vampire away with one hand and pressing the amulet’s pendant snug to her chest with her other. “Fudge, Marcy, what’s gotten into you?”

“Do you know what this thing does?” the vampire protests, swiping at it again—ineffectually, again. Bonnibel’s stronger and faster than she should be, for being a hodgepodge of sugar and gum. “Do you even know what you’re taking on? What if it’d blown your head off?”

The other girl eyes her with irritation and just a pinch of pity. “Except it didn’t, Marceline. It’s harmless.”

“Harmless?” the vampire echoes, not believing that for a second, and she glares darkly at the amulet. She wants to sink her fangs into it, bite it hard and drain its poison.

Bonnibel stares at her, lavender eyes dark in the catacomb’s shadows and flickering in the lantern’s light, and she shuts the Enchiridion’s compartment and hugs the book to her chest as well, caging it in with her arms. “What the plop’s gotten into you?” she repeats, her voice hard-edged.

Marceline’s jaw works soundlessly for several iterations, incredulity jostling in the queue of other emotions. Eventually, she finds it easiest just to ignore the question and pose her own. “This kingdom,” she says with difficulty. “What’s it gonna be like? Who’s gonna be king, eh?”

“There won’t be a king,” Bonnibel sniffs. “It will be a monarchy, though. All simple societies start with a single sovereign leader. Lawmaking is easier that way, as is enforcement. It will also be easier for other groups to imitate the structure—they’ll only need one really capable person to begin.”

Marceline’s shaking. Dear glob, she thinks, I’m actually shaking. “So, what, Bon? You’re appointing yourself queen?”

Bonnibel looks away. “I was thinking princess, actually.” Her lips curl, the ghost of smile. “Princess Bubblegum, even.”

“That’s sick,” the vampire spits, automatic and dead-certain. “Mega-sick, and not in a good way.”

“I don’t mean it in poor taste,” Bonnibel denies. “It just seems like a good title for the ruler of a candy kingdom.”

“A candy—?” Marceline echoes, and she coughs up a peal of acrimonious laughter. “Blood and hellfire, Bonnibel, what’re you planning to do? Bake your subjects in your own image?”

To her horror, Bonnibel simply shrugs. “More or less, yes.”

“You can’t do that!” the vampire shouts, the sheer volume knocking down dust from the ancient stone ceiling. “You can’t make people and then—then have them do your bidding! You’re not a god!”

“I know that,” she snaps. “I also know that if you’re not going to help me, then get out of my way.”

“Bonni…” Marceline staggers back a step, as if those words were a physical blow. “Y-You can’t be serious. Not after all I’ve done for you!” And she taps two fingers to her bitemarks.

Bonnibel shakes her head. “I didn’t ask you to do that,” she says, quiet and steady and so eerily, eerily calm. “I’m grateful, obviously, for your sacrifice, but the fact remains that it was your sacrifice. I don’t hold with the old-fashioned notions of life-debts, so I can do what I please with the life that you saved. And what I want is to craft a kingdom. My kingdom.”

With a hollow, fracturing laugh, the vampire shakes her head as well. “Oh, Bonnibel…is this really all about power? Because I thought if either of us was gonna go crazy, it was gonna be me! Because of this!” She strikes her stigmata again. “I’ve been terrified for centuries that I was gonna snap and do something horrible. But in the end, geez, it’s you, Bonni! You’re the one who’s gone completely whack! I never thought it would be you. I mean, come on—I’m heiress of the freakin’ Nightosphere and a vampire to boot, and you’re literally made of sugar! And probably spice and everything nice and you’re freakin’ pink and yet somehow your heart’s colder than Simon’s! At least he was possessed by evil magic! You’re choosing all of this with your eyes wide open! It’s sick!”

Bonnibel’s hands tighten on the Enchiridion, and it is true: there is more ice in her eyes than there ever was in the old man’s. “I already told you,” she says, biting off each syllable with scientific precision, “that if you don’t like it, you can leave.”

The dead tissue of Marceline’s dead, dead heart cringes in its bony prison in her chest, and tears spring to her eyes, tears filled with burning salt that Bonnibel’s have never contained. “And go where?” she demands hoarsely, even though her arms are spread in something much more like a plea.

The self-proclaimed monarch turns away. “Wherever you like. You have the entire world to choose from.”

Marceline sags, every last vestige of strength drained from her body as surely as that vampire had once drained her blood. She sways in the weak breeze that worms through the catacombs, as if it truly has the power to topple her. “That’s it?” she whispers.

Bonnibel doesn’t look back. In fact, she begins striding away, taking her amulet and her book and her light with her. “That’s it.”

The words echo in Marceline’s ears.

They never quite fade.

(i try to picture me without you but i can’t)

.

Centuries pass, but this time, oh, they pass so slowly.

After some deliberation—and some tears, so many tears, entire storms and rivers and oceans, and she doesn’t know how she can shed them when she never drinks any water, but even so, she can’t make them stop—Marceline surrenders to fate or destiny or whatever it is and retreats from the world entirely, seeking refuge in the Nightosphere.

Home sweet home, she thinks. Nothing like fire and brimstone to warm the cockles of my unbeating heart.

The Nightosphere is chaos, unrelenting and raw, but it seems like the most benign of tumors when Marceline considers the sterile, calculating order that Bonnibel is imposing on the world above. She tries not to think of it, though—it’s impossible not to, or not to think of her, but at least she tries. She lives in her father’s house and watches as he presides with cruelty and stark, raving madness and recalls that absolute power corrupts absolutely and how’s that going for you, Bonnibel?

She samples some souls, but she doesn’t really like the taste. It doesn’t hold a candle to blood. (It certainly doesn’t hold a candle to Bonnibel.) There’s plenty of red here, though; the place is madly decorated with it; and even if she used her whole eternity to drain each morsel gray, she’d still never drink it all.

She joins a ghost gang. They’re petty and stupid and mean, and Marceline finds herself hoping they’ll corrupt her, that this whole place will corrupt her. Maybe if she rusts and rots, maybe then she’ll be able to go back to Bonnibel and look her in the eye and not cringe at that cold, cold clarity she sees there.

She writes a lot of angry songs. She writes a lot of sad songs. She writes songs for her, too, with words that plead and beg and forgive and condemn and forgive again, but she burns the papers where she scrawled the lyrics. Sometimes she records them just so that she can tear the cassette tapes to shreds, just so she can watch it all fall apart.

It’s lonely. She forgets things, things she ought to remember.

Then her father eats her fries, and that’s the last lumping straw.

The world outside the Nightosphere is foreign to her now, and she hisses in pain as the sun scalds her flesh, forcing her to retreat into the shadow of an overhanging cliff. Oh, yes, she vaguely recalls, that happens here.

This time around, she simply adapts to being nocturnal. There’s no one else’s comfort to consider.

She doesn’t know where to look first, so she just flies around, refamiliarizing herself with the geography. It hasn’t had a chance to change, not in a meager three hundred years, but there do seem to be more cities than she remembered. Not cities like there were in antebellum ages, towering spires of metal and glass, but cities out of antiquity, castles and fortresses of stone.

Not all of them are made out of stone, though.

One of them seems to be made out of incredibly stale cake.

Marceline floats down towards it in the darkness, and with her bird’s eye view, she perceives that this is the center of it all. The other castles, the other cities ring it like planets, each on their own orbiting arc, each revolving around this sun. Landing in front of the castle door, she knocks—she’s not a heathen, after all.

When someone answers, she almost cracks up laughing. It’s a banana. It’s alive. It has a spear.

“Who dares come to Princess Bubblegum’s door at this hour?” it demands gruffly, dark little eyes glaring at her.

Shit, I can’t believe she went with that title. But that’s an inward thought only, and outwardly, she considers for a moment and then flashes her fangs. “Tell Princess Bubblegum that Marceline the Vampire Queen wants to see her ASAP.”

The banana guard’s eyebrows rocket skyward. “Q-Queen?” it echoes. “Oh! Oh! Your Majesty! Forgive my rudeness! I shall fetch Her Highness immediately. Come in, come in!” It backs up, bowing over and over again, until she’s standing in the entrance hall, and it skedaddles across the cavernous room and waddles awkwardly up a flight of stairs at the far end. Left to her own devices, Marceline glances around. The whole place is pink: pink and made of sugar. It’s disgusting, and she wrinkles her nose and hawks a contemptuous loogie on the floor. The saliva melts into the saccharine tile, and she smirks, dark and humorless.

She’s only been waiting for ten seconds total when she gets bored. Lounging on her back in mid-air, she swivels her bass around and plucks out unconscious melodies as she wonders, for the first time, what the plop she’s doing here. What does she really expect to happen? What does she want to happen?

She doesn’t figure it out before Bonnibel arrives.

The princess pauses but once when she catches sight of the vampire, and then she glides across the hall, graceful as ever and seemingly pinker. But that might just be the surroundings, or because she seems to have acquired quite the penchant for purple, which only accentuates her coloring.

Marceline doesn’t notice much of these details, though. Her attention is fixed only on the golden crown.

“Why is it always crowns?” she laments under her breath. She slings her bass onto her back again and comes to rest on the floor and nods as cordially as she can manage. “Bonnibel.”

“Marceline,” the princess replies in kind, and one of her eyebrows arches. “You’re a queen now? Or so I’m told.”

The vampire smirks, all teeth and no heart. “I didn’t want you to think you could give me orders, Princess.”

“You wouldn’t listen in any case,” Bonnibel dismisses. She folds her arms on her chest.

Marceline hums inattentive agreement, and she can’t bite this bitterness back: “Nice crown, babe. Did it come with the title?”

Lavender eyes narrow. “In a manner of speaking,” she allows, ignoring the reference to Simon, to his descent into rotten madness. A pause, and then, “Did you simply come here to harangue me?”

“That depends.” The vampire cracks her knuckles, glacier-slow. “Does that mean I get to rip you a new one?”

“Crude but accurate,” Bonnibel concedes, and she shakes her head, her gaze falling away. She does not attempt to speak again, leaving the ball in the other girl’s court.

Marceline pushes off the floor, hovering about eight inches up, and circles the monarch like a buzzard weighing the chances of dinner. “A nice Franken-nana answered the door,” she snarks at length. “That’s pretty jacked up, Princess—giving life to fruit. Giving life to anything and then making it serve you. Pretty freaking jacked up. I s’pose I should be thankful that you didn’t cross the line of calling yourself Goddess Bubblegum and making them worship you, but it’s a small blessing. Practically a pittance.”

Bonnibel’s jaw tightens, but that is all.

“I don’t see your precious amulet,” Marceline continues, lashing out again, her tongue a whip, her fangs knives.

She sighs. “I lost it, quite a while ago.”

“Is that so,” the vampire murmurs, and her eyes sweep back to the crown. “Seems you didn’t lose the Stones of Power. You’re wearing that one pretty proudly.”

Bonnibel lifts an absentminded hand to caress the opalescent stone. “I retained this one, yes,” she admits. “The others I distributed amongst the kingdoms.”

“Mighty gifts from their benevolent ruler,” Marceline sneers. “What did they do to win your favor, eh?”

Unspoken, but glaringly loud: What could I have done to do the same?

The princess swallows but maintains level speech. “They established orderly, fair, and just communities. Thusly they were entrusted to guard a portion of the Enchiridion’s power.” She pauses again, almost as long this time, but Marceline has nothing more to say, so Bonnibel picks up the thread of the conversation by herself. “Speaking of…I’m actually glad you’ve come.”

“Oh?” the vampire challenges, but it comes out too raw to truly be a taunt.

She dips her head. “I would ask you a favor.”

Marceline barks a laugh, and it’s thin and full of tears. In contrast to that response, and to Bonnibel’s surprise, she permits, “Ask away, Princess.”

The monarch beckons the vampire to follow, and with a half-suspicious frown, Marceline floats after her. They ascend staircase after staircase until they reach the highest room in the tallest tower, where princesses are always required to live. When she realizes where they are, the vampire summons another scathing laugh, but again, it doesn’t come out quite as harsh as she wants it to.

“Wow, Bonni. Don’t you think it’s a bit presumptuous, asking me for a favor and then showing me to your bedroom?”

The other girl just slants her a look, otherwise not deigning to rise to that. She heads to her closet, instead, and shoves some of the boxes and dresses aside. Marceline ventures over, curiosity getting the better of her, and frowns as something catches her eye.

“Hey,” she says, reaching out for the sleeve of a black t-shirt. “Isn’t this mine?”

“What? Oh,” Bonnibel realizes, straightening from her crouch. “Yes. I…think you must’ve stowed it in my pack by mistake back…well, back then. Yes. Er.” She stares at the garment for a long, ticking moment, and then she returns to her rummaging. “You can take it, if you want,” she offers, muffled.

The black cotton is thin and almost slick between the vampire’s fingers, but cotton lasts practically forever if it’s not exposed to direct sunlight, and Marceline has always been careful to avoid just such a circumstance. She’s also always been careful to keep her own clothes in her own pack; she and Bonnibel have never exactly had the same taste when it comes to fashion.

Marceline’s throat thickens, just a sliver. “Nah, I haven’t missed it.” But you’ve missed me, she adds in the astonished silence in her head. Maybe you’re not a lost cause, after all.

“Oh, well, if that’s fine with you. I guess I have enough room in here to store it,” Bonnibel says, still with deliberate evasion in her voice, and then there’s the heavy metallic sound of a lock slipping free, of bolts sliding back. “Come on,” she adds, and she steps into the thick press of the hanging dresses.

Marceline steps closer guardedly. “Dude, where’re we going? Narnia?”

The princess laughs, and now Marceline’s throat does swell shut—it’s been so long since she heard her laugh. It’s beautiful. Musical, almost, light and bubbly. Like sugar. “Glob, no. We’re just going to my strongroom.”

“You have a…strongroom…” The vampire trails off, her mouth slipping open as she stares. Calling this place a strongroom is an understatement—it looks like the most fortified chamber in the whole world. “What’s this lumpin’ placemade out of?” she asks, brushing fingertips across a wall.

“The hardest substance known to candykind,” Bonnibel replies, and a grin flits across her face. “Jawbreakers.”

Marceline whistles appreciatively and tucks her hands into her pockets. Bonnibel is standing near the plinth in the room’s center, and she floats over. “What’s in the box?” she wonders, nodding at it.

In response, the princess pulls a key from around her neck and unlocks it. There’s a click and a rush of steam, and when that clears, there’s the Enchiridion.

Their last meeting playing sharp across her mind’s eye, Marceline wills her hands to unclench. “Why’re you showing me this?” she asks, low and hollow.

Bonnibel hefts the book from its resting place, her fingers tapping arrhythmically on the leather cover. “With the Stones of Power distributed, this…well, I have no reason to have it,” she decides at last. “It’s a handbook for heroes, and I’m not a hero.”

“Neither am I,” Marceline reminds her, ember eyes gleaming crimson with the blood of the creature she killed and drained earlier that night.

For a moment, the vampire swears that the princess is going to fight her on that one, but Bonnibel lets it pass. “You can fly, though. I’ve located a place to keep it safe, a place only a true hero can reach. You’ll be able to deliver it there with ease. The trials aren’t as insurmountable when you’re airborne and undead.”

She tugs at the strap of her bass, a nervous tic of a motion. “You’re not making much sense, Bonni. Geez, look around you—this place is a freakin’ fortress. Why d’ya wanna move it somewhere else?”

Bonnibel shrugs. “It doesn’t require a pure heart or heroic courage to get at the Enchiridion here. All it takes is the key.”

Marceline has to give her that. “And that’s no test for a savior,” she realizes. “Just a test for a really radical burglar.”

“Exactly,” the princess concurs. She proffers the book, heavy beyond its physical shell. “Will you take it there?”

“If you riddle me this,” the vampire replies, not yet accepting the tome. “What’re you expecting to happen, eh? You’re setting this up so you can judge someone competent enough to save you. So what danger do you imagine you’ll need to be saved from?”

There’s a terrible weight in Bonnibel’s eyes, too, even more so than that which burdens the Enchiridion.

“Would you believe me,” she whispers, “if I say myself?”

The only blood in Marceline’s veins is stolen and sluggish and cool, but that statement nevertheless serves to make it run cold.

.

Marceline takes the Enchiridion to the appointed place, skimming through the clouds over the trials below and placing it in the hands of its new guardians. She doesn’t return to the Candy Kingdom afterwards, choosing instead to wander the new, somewhat more civilized countryside of Ooo.

(“Why’s it called that? Ooo? It’s a lump of a name,” she asked Bonnibel before departing.

The princess exhaled an awkward laugh and scratched the side of her head. “Er, well, when I’d first built the kingdom, everyone who came by was so impressed by it that…well, the first words out of their mouths were, ‘This place is…Ooo!’, so, as a joke…”

“You named a country after a joke?” Marceline cackled. “Dude, I knew I loved you for a reason!”

That had killed the atmosphere pretty quick.)

That’s not why she doesn’t return, though. She doesn’t return because she couldn’t save Simon from his crown—she was just a scrawny teenaged half-demon, not a hero. Now, she’s a powerful eternally-eighteen vampire, but even so…

She can’t save Bonnibel from her crown, either.

(i’m still comparing my past to your future

it might be your wound but they’re my sutures)

.

All across Ooo, Marceline claims or constructs or carves out houses. She acquires dozens, in convenient places, in whimsical places, forever searching for a home that she knows is only present in the heart of a princess made of bubblegum.

She does whatever she wants, whenever she wants to do it. She even gets a terrible boyfriend who treats her awfully because sometimes, when he smiles at her, there’s a hint of Bonnibel in the curve. Eventually, though, she kicks him out, because a dash of remembrance isn’t worth putting up with his crap and she’s nine hundred years old, for glob’s sake. She’s finally outgrown fairy tales.

She’s not a knight, so she doesn’t get the princess. That’s the long and short of it. She might as well stop pretending.

(She still doesn’t have a home.)

.

Bonnibel labors ever for stability and progress, fashioning experiments in her lab and crafting order and prosperity outside it. She champions the rule of law, the rule of justice and decency, and in Ooo before anywhere else in the world, there is a glimmer of hope for the future.

Such hope is a little forced, a little false, since she had to create the population by herself, but there has never been any hope that could survive unsupported by sheer willpower. And there has never been any progress that rests on a foundation untainted with sin.

The world doesn’t work that way. And Bonnibel is shrewd enough to understand that, and cold enough to carry it out.

.

Princess Bubblegum has a line of suitors (because, let’s be real, they’re not there to court Bonnibel herself) that she never even begins to consider. She hasn’t thought about dying since that vampire ripped her leg off centuries earlier, and sees no reason to provide an heir to her throne, especially in such an uncouth way. But she glances at them sometimes, the poor candy fools, and each time she does, she experiences a little pang. Marceline’s never lounging there with her razor teeth and her red eyes and her raven-wing hair, ready and willing to sweep her off her feet and take her away from all this…gravity.

Marceline’s never there at all, except in the shirt she let Bonnibel keep.

In the beginning, the princess only takes it out sometimes, caressing the ancient fabric and remembering that first heady rush of Marceline’s lips on hers. She presses the cotton to her face and breathes in, deeper than deep, as if there’s really a scent left there after so many hundreds of years. There isn’t, of course, but the memories remain, twisted and tangled in the threads, inextricable as barbed wire in her heart.

As the years drag by and her crown grows heavier, she takes it out more and more often until she starts to wear it to bed. It protects her in her sleep, wrapping her in memories of happier times, of freer days. It adheres to her skin like armor, and maybe it’s more of a talisman than she thought, because the alluring whispers of the Stone of Power fall on deafer ears.

When it gets really bad, she wears it beneath her clothes in the daytime, too.

It keeps her mind sane, but it wears her heart so, so thin.

.

A message arrives at Marceline’s treefort during late summer when the dusk lingers thick on the western horizon in the most glorious, sullen shade of gold. She lazily pokes open the window with her foot, letting the carrier bird flap inside, and when it drops the envelope in her lap, she arches a curious eyebrow.

The bird pecks at her shoulder as she turns the letter over and recognizes the seal of the Candy Kingdom. With a frown trickling across her face, she absently sinks a fang into the scarlet wax and dissolves the seal, flicking open the paper a second later.

There’s not much of a message. Come to the castle, it reads. Very important.

It’s not even signed, but that doesn’t matter. Marceline’s been reading Bonnibel’s handwriting for almost a thousand years. It’s not as if she can mistake it.

For a moment, she’s caught at a crossroads. The flinching pressure in her hand wants to crumple the note, and the flinching pressure in her dead heart wants to preserve it behind glass and a frame.

In the end, she scowls and shoves it in a drawer and spitefully takes her time, waiting for full night to descend before nudging open the window again and following the bird’s invisible path through the skies above Ooo. The countryside below is dark except for the occasional flicker and flare of firelight, but Marceline pays it little heed; her attention is fixed on the growing silhouette of Bonnibel’s castle, pockmarked like the rolling hills with bursts of light.

Skipping all façade of manners, the vampire floats through one of the princess’s bedroom windows, sprawled on her back with her fingers laced behind her head. She’s irritated to be summoned like this—she’s irritated that she still canbe summoned like this, that she can’t possibly refuse to come when Bonnibel calls—and she is sure to let that emotion leak into her voice.

“What doth you desire, O Great and Chewy One? What could be so lumping important that you’ve deigned to break a century of silence?” she sneers, her eyes stubbornly, disrespectfully shut.

She opens them, though, when Bonnibel replies.

“Marceline,” she says, and her own voice is small. Very small.

The vampire peers at her, her irritation ebbing in the face of vaguely annoyed confusion and more than a modicum of concern. The princess is just standing in the center of her bedchamber, looking as small as she sounds. “What?” Marceline barks, harsher than she intends, but her nerves are starting to fray.

Bonnibel winces, though it’s not clear if her pain derives from Marceline’s tone or something else entirely. Either way, she approaches the vampire and, to her scalding surprise, takes hold of her hand.  “There’s something you need to know. It would be easiest just to show you.” She wavers, gnawing on her lip. “It would also be fastest if you flew us there.”

The other girl stares at her for a calculating moment, and then she exhales a sigh through her nose and hefts Bonnibel into her arms, the motion as effortless as it ever was. “Point the way, Princess,” she says, soft and somehow tired.

Bonnibel does, sweeping an arm out like a compass needle, and together, they venture into the night; the moonlight ripples iridescence across Marceline’s hair, and Bonnibel’s body leaks warmth into the vampire’s cold, empty chest. Neither of them tries to breathe too deeply, because Marceline smells like everything her shirt no longer holds—the tang of metal from her bass strings, the crispness of fallen leaves, the cloying salty rasp of blood—and Bonnibel smells less like sugarcubes and more like purest syrup, something startlingly clear and only halfway sweet.

It’s easy for the vampire not to breathe, but the princess has less of a choice. She has to keep loosening her hands from their nostalgic death-grip in the other girl’s tank top as the scent and the memories nearly overpower her.

Marceline doesn’t need Bonnibel’s indicating finger to realize they’ve reached their destination; she started descending towards the snow as soon as she saw the white gleaming in the summer night. She lands lightly on the edge of it, not certain if she should set the princess down or not. As she hesitates, though, Bonnibel lowers herself and slides a pace away, seeking the return of her compromised composure.

The vampire tries not to be offended by that distancing, telling herself it doesn’t matter anyway, and valiantly refocuses. “So,” she remarks. “Snow in summer.”

There’s not really a question in her voice, but Bonnibel nevertheless provides an answer. “Yes. Simon has come to Ooo.” She pauses, glancing at her former friend to determine her reaction.

Marceline just stands there, though, stands there and stares across the unnatural ice. She seems stiff, her jaw tighter and her shoulders straighter than usual, and she bows her head in something like an acknowledging nod.

Bonnibel swallows. “He calls himself Ice King now. From what my reports have gathered, he doesn’t remember the past at all. Not you, not me, not himself.”

The vampire digs a small divot in the snow with the toe of her boot. “Reports, huh,” she murmurs, staring into the frozen blue shadow by her foot. “You’re spying on him?” Before Bonnibel can defend herself, Marceline shakes her head. “No, I get it,” she dismisses. “I would, too, if I were you. You have more reason to be cautious of him than anyone.” Her lips pull taut, causing the points of her fangs to flash in the starlight. “What’re you gonna do?”

“Nothing,” Bonnibel replies, and Marceline looks at her so sharply her neck cracks. “Seriously,” the princess insists. “His crown may have deranged him, but I can’t imprison a man who’s already imprisoned in his own head. That would just be cruel.”

A spiderweb of hairline fractures spread across the vampire’s countenance, giving the impression that the slightest touch will shatter her completely. “So what’re you gonna do?” she echoes, as hoarse as an asthmatic in a cigar club. “Just leave him to his own devices?”

She nods. “Unless he proves himself a deadly threat, I see no reason to act. I certainly see no reason to act preemptively.”

Marceline is unwilling to let this lie, though, and she picks at it masochistically. “But before…I mean, shit, Bonni, he tried to—”

“Yes, he did,” the princess interrupts, some of her own ice creeping across her words. “You don’t have to remind me. I haven’t forgotten. But.” She shifts her weight, braces her arms on her chest. “That was almost a thousand years ago. Not that there’s a statute of limitations on that crime, but…well, I have guards now. And walls. I’ll be safe.”

The vampire looks away. “Yeah. Safer than when all you had was me.”

“That’s not what I—”

Marceline holds up a hand, and Bonnibel submits to that. “It’s fine,” she whispers. “It’s true.”

No, it’s not, the princess almost blurts, but she catches the words halfway up her throat and tucks them back away. Instead, she remarks, “My reports also seem to indicate that in his advanced senility, he has in fact become ratherless of a threat. I think, perhaps, he is truly harmless once more. Potentially annoying, but harmless. Like…like allergies.”

The vampire bobs her head, over and over and over again, as if it’s loose on her neck. “Okay,” she breathes, and at last, she looks up, sweeping her gaze across the wind-sculpted snow drifts. “Maybe I’ll drop in on him one day.” Her eyes flicker to Bonnibel’s, and there’s a warmth in their depths that has nothing to do with bloodfire. “See if he wants to share some chicken soup.”

The princess almost tears up at that, almost flings her arms around Marceline’s neck and sobs every last truth into her collar. Like I miss you and I still love you and I’m so damn sorry that I hurt you and You’re so much better than I deserve, don’t you see, that’s why I can’t have you. She almost says it all.

But only almost.

“I’m sure he’d like that,” she declares, bright and brittle, and she sniffs—just from the cold, just from the cold. “We should be getting back, though.”

Marceline nods, still so preoccupied, and gently scoops her up again.

This time, Bonnibel doesn’t play at pretenses. She snarls her fingers in the shirt and tilts her face into the vampire’s chest, making sure each breath is thickly infused with her scent and pretending that the wind whipping in her ears is a heartbeat.

If Marceline notices, she doesn’t say a thing.

.

One day, a human boy comes to the Candy Kingdom, and he’s noble and brave and pure of heart. Bonnibel recognizes this, much as she is initially loathe to, and she dangles the Enchiridion in front of him. He claims it like a hero, and he does Ooo proud. He’ll do her proud, too, eventually—and not just because he’ll do anything to make her proud, but because her heart’s not quite as hard as it seems. Not anymore.

She never tells him, though, that she’s always a little bit disappointed that he’s not Marceline.

She really, really thought that, in the end, her hero would be Marceline.

(i am the sand in the bottom half of the hourglass)

.

The thing about mortals is that they die.

Finn lives a long and rich life. His deeds are the stuff of legend, his victories guaranteed to earn him a seat of honor amongst the gods—or so the tales promise. But in the end, he succumbs to the ravages of time, that temporal storm that has never done more than brush fruitlessly at Marceline and Bonnibel, and Ooo loses its greatest hero.

They bury him as he requested: rocketing him upwards into the stars with his collection of swords and his silly, now-threadbare hat and the bones of his faithful canine companion—Jake had passed decades earlier—so that he could have one last grand adventure, sailing eternal across the cosmos.

Afterwards, Marceline burns the treefort to the ground. She can’t imagine ever living there again; it hasn’t been her house in decades, and it was Finn’s home like it never was hers. She respects that. She lets it die with him.

Bonnibel sits with her while it burns, and they watch as it chars itself to ash, as the beams pop and split, as the fire gutters and spikes. Somewhere in the middle, when the smoke is beginning to irritate their eyes, Marceline takes up her bass and composes their friend a tribute, the kind of epic poem that exalted the heroes of old. Tears flow freely down her pale gray cheeks before she makes it through the first verse, and Bonnibel is already crying the moment Marceline picks up the instrument, before she even strikes the opening chord.

The only thing they save from the pyre is the Enchiridion, but it wasn’t really Finn’s. He was just its caretaker for a while, even if it can never hope to have a better one.

When the first light of dawn sees the last wisps of smoke dancing away on the breeze, Marceline shifts her bass onto her back. Her fingertips are bleeding stolen blood from the long, mournful hours of quiet song, but she seems unaware of that, and picks up the hefty book.

“Guess it’s back to the temple for this,” she remarks, glancing sidelong at Bonnibel to make sure.

The princess nods and scrubs the tearstains from her face. “To await its next champion.”

Marceline doesn’t ask what happens if there isn’t one; it doesn’t occur to her. Even if it had, Bonnibel gives her no time to ask, as she’s reaching over and pulling on the strap of the bass. “What’re you doing?” the vampire hisses, glancing swiftly towards the sunrise. “I’ve gotta get going, babe.”

In response, Bonnibel just shrugs out of her long coat and drapes it ungracefully over the other girl’s head like it’s a lampshade. “I know this is terrible timing,” she says, her hand coiling around the instrument’s strap again, anchoring in place. “And not just because of the dawn, but because we just lost Finn. He did more than protect Ooo, though; he gave us common ground once more over the years, and with it, the chance to renew our friendship.” She pauses, deliberating. “We’re almost there. I just need to apologize.”

Marceline forces her lips to smirk. “Then grovel away, Princess.”

“No,” Bonnibel insists, and she tugs on the bass. “I’ve been working on this for a long time. I’m afraid I’m not quite the wordsmith that you are,” she admits ruefully, and the vampire finally permits her to take her guitar. The strings are stained with stolen ichor, and it transfers redly to the princess’s fingers as she runs them up and down the instrument’s neck; she doesn’t care.

“You’re gonna play?” the vampire wonders, genuine surprise in her tone. “Dude, when did you learn?”

She slants her a glance that has a shade of reproach. “I’ve been watching you play for a thousand years,” she drawls, eyebrow tilting up, “and I didn’t write the melody. I borrowed it from you.” She chews on her lower lip. “It seemed most fitting that way.”

Marceline adjusts the other girl’s coat, making certain it’s shielding her from the sun. “Go ahead then,” she teases, and she tugs on the gray points peeking through her hair. “I’m all ears.”

A measure of weary sorrow shadows Bonnibel’s eyes, though, and she does not remark on that attempt at humor. She simply begins to play, and it’s a very familiar melody to Marceline, indeed. What’s worse, it’s a very familiar apology, reminiscent of one she received ages and ages ago.

“La da da da-da, I’m getting buried under my crown

La da da da-da, yeah, it’s pushin’ me so far down

I know I wiped the smile from your pretty gray face

I know I lost the one thing that I just can’t replace but I’m

Sorry I didn’t treat you with compassion or even courtesy

Sorry my ambition drove you so far, so far away from me

It was jacked up, what I was doing, but it felt necessary

I don’t know if ends justify, so I’m sorry for my means

Turn’s out that, I am the problem

Yeah, I am the problem

It’s true, I’m not very perfect, am I

I’m just your problem

And I-I-I-I am getting buried under my crown, and

I-I-I-I am freakin’ scared I’m gonna drown

You’ve gotta stay this time and save me, Marcy, please

I promise this time I won’t do lump to make you leave

’Cause I know I’m just your problem

And know what? You’re still my problem

But maybe together, we could solve ’em

(How ’bout it now?)

Let’s try to solve ’em…”

The last deep notes fade buzzing from the bass, and Bonnibel glances up at Marceline. There are fresh tears tracking down the vampire’s face, silent and as resigned to this fate as the princess appears to be herself.

“You, too, huh,” she croaks, her gaze dragging to the golden circle, as hateful as Simon’s crown ever was. “You said we could solve it, though. Do you know how to fix it?”

The real question, unasked: Is it already too late?

Bonnibel runs her fingers lightly along the strings, causing quiet little shrieks. “There’s always research,” she provides with the smallest shrug. “It’s always worth a try.”

“And if it fails?”

She shrugs again, a more exaggerated and far less casual ripple of her shoulders. That’s answer enough.

Marceline feels she ought to say something, even though at this point, everything’s inadequate. “I’m sorry,” she manages.

Bonnibel smiles, wobbly and wet. “I’m sorry, too.”

.

Not much happens in Ooo after that. Finn had lived at the end of an era, and now, a new age of stability and peace stretches out before them, long and summer-bright as it trails after the sun. Simon’s madness progresses to the point where he doesn’t remember desiring princesses at all, the phantom of his fiancée finally lost beneath a millennium of snow. He calms, and fades, and Marceline plays checkers with him on the weekends and always, always brings chicken soup.

It’s his favorite. He re-discovers this each time, and he’s always surprised that this young vampire would like to spend time with him, but she never corrects him, and she never tries to explain. She just smiles and passes him a steaming bowl and wipes her tears away as surreptitiously as possible.

(Tentative and uninvited, Bonnibel dropped by on Marceline’s first visit, borne aloft on a descendent of Lady Rainicorn and Jake, but she didn’t intrude on their private moment. She just waited outside the ice mountain, gently buffeted by turbulence until Marceline emerged with her empty can and her checkerboard. Neither of them spoke; they just shared a look, and then the vampire hugged her so tightly that she could barely breathe.

Marceline held on for a long while, long enough that the rainicorn started expressing his awkwardness in apologetic Korean. She pulled away, but the shadow of her touch remained, and the bond begun in Bonnibel’s song solidified and sealed, becoming something real and true and unbreakable.)

Almost unbreakable.

Bonnibel’s research, extensive as it is, has unearthed nothing.

.

They fall into a rhythm then, as they’ve fallen into one before. While Marceline haunts the ceilings like the world’s most musical ghost—at least, when she’s not touring Ooo with her latest crop of songs—Bonnibel spends her time ruling. But she delegates more these days, shaping trusted lieutenants into leaders in their own right, and begins hypothesizing about the inclusion of a senate or parliament into the Candy Kingdom’s constitution.

“It worked for both the Roman and British Empires,” she points out with a shrug. “It would balance the power and allow for expansion.”

“Aw, geez, Bon,” Marceline drawls. “Now you want an empire?”

But she’s smirking as she says it, and Bonnibel knows better than to take her seriously when her eyes glitter like that. Some of the humor is lost on her, even so, and she leans more of her weight on her elbow so she can cradle her head in that hand. It feels thick and full of lead, the crown’s slow poison seeping in.

The vampire sits up straighter where she’s reclining in the air. “You okay?” she asks, worry humming a counterpoint to her nonchalance.

“I’m fine,” the princess dismisses. “I was just disgusted by your joke, that’s all. Honestly, Marcy, I want lessresponsibility, not more. One day, I’ll be nothing but a figurehead, and one day, I won’t even be that.”

Marceline’s eyes hover anxiously on her friend’s crown. “What’s less than a lumping figurehead?” she says, the humor creaking and betraying her. “All they do is smile and wave and—and—and raise little dogs in freakishly large numbers.”

Bonnibel narrows her eyes, furrows her forehead, concentrates hard. Nothing is as easy as it was before she traded away her beloved shirt for Hambo; that garment truly was a talisman, and while she hoped that their revived friendship would prove to be an equally potent charm, it’s not so tangible. It doesn’t armor her while she sleeps. Things slip through the cracks…

But Marceline herself can’t save her, so an old t-shirt of hers, no matter how drenched it is in memories, can hope to do the same.

“I…I don’t know what’s less than a figurehead,” she finally mutters.

The vampire’s knuckles bleach as she strangles her bass; it chunners metallically in protest. “That thing you said earlier, babe? Whatever it was? I’d get on that. Like now. The sooner, the better and all. Chop chop.”

Blinking, as if she needs to reorient herself, Bonnibel gives a hesitant nod. “Yeah. I’ll draft a proposal today. I’ll convene the other monarchs in a few days to go over it, and then I can…issue the edicts and begin the process of…appointing magistrates.” She massages her forehead, an action Marceline has seen her mime far too often recently.

Slinging her guitar onto her back, the vampire floats down to the desk and plucks the pen from her friend’s limp hand. “You talk, I write. Saves time. Time’s a-wastin’. Don’t got no time to waste.”

The princess slants her a bemused look, and while Marceline is relieved to see the clarity refreshed, Bonnibel’s words are no reassurance. “What’re you talking about? Despite the fact that both of us have died at least once, we seem pretty indestructible. We have all the time in the world to waste.”

But Marceline just thinks of Simon, who can’t remember breakfast once he’s finished it, and now of Bonnibel, who doesn’t know what’s less than a figurehead.

“There are worse fates than dying,” she declares flatly. “There are worse curses than vampirism.”

It would’ve been better if Bonnibel argued that, but she doesn’t.

She already understands.

.

Time, time, time, Marceline panics, draining the red from everything she can reach. Simon’s crown had three Stones of Power. Bonni’s only has one. And she’s stronger than he was. She’s so strong. Plus, she’s held it off this long already. She can hold it off a little longer.

And she thinks of the Enchiridion, how it kept the Stones out of corruptible hands—and maybe not corruptible like evil, but like rust, how it bites into metal and eats it and rots it and takes away all its shine.

She can’t stop thinking about the book. She gave it up, twice, but she hadn’t earned it either time. It didn’t mean anything to hold it then. But now the stupid book is locked behind a maze of trials designed to prove its bearer worthy.

Anyone can earn the Enchiridion.

Well, anyone who is strong and brave and pure of heart.

She wonders if it still counts even if that heart forgot how to beat a thousand years before.

.

“Maybe it’s just the price we have to pay,” Bonnibel murmurs later that week, once her proposals are drafted and her councils have convened. She strokes her fingers idly through Marceline’s hair where the long strands stray across her own arm, not really aware of the action; her eyes are shut, and she’s half-asleep.

The vampire bows her tightly closed lips to her friend’s shoulder. It’s not a kiss, but it’s close. They’re not what they used to be, but they’re close.

At length, Marceline prompts, “Price we have to pay…?”

“To save people,” the princess clarifies, her fingers slowing, faltering. “Maybe people who aren’t heroes…maybe when they try to be them, they have to sacrifice more. Simon wanted to save you, and his crown took him. You wanted to save me, and now you’re a vampire. I wanted to save Ooo, and my crown’s taking me. We get what we want, but…but maybe our sanity’s the price. Lost in our own heads for all eternity.”

“Speak for yourself,” Marceline shoots back reflexively. “I’m not off my rocker and I don’t plan on falling off ever. My bloodlust is quite under control, thank you very much for asking, I’m touched by your concern.”

Bonnibel chuckles, little more than a humorous exhale, and her lips curl at just the corners. “Oh, Marcy,” she laments, “you’re such a dingus. But I guess that’s why I love you.”

The vampire stiffens. It’s probably not true. She’s probably just forgetting intervening time, like Simon forgot it. She probably thinks they’re still together, that this is five centuries earlier, or even earlier still. She probably won’t remember a lick of this conversation when the sun rises.

It makes Marceline want to scream.

Instead, she kisses Bonnibel’s pale pink neck, right under her ear, and whispers back, “I love you, too.”

.

In the morning, Marceline attempts the Hero’s Trials in a desperate bid to claim the Enchiridion.

She fails.

But she’s known for a millennium that she’s not a hero.

She’s also known for a millennium that she’ll do whatever she has to do in a pinch, like come back from the dead as a vampire to save the life of her only friend. So she hikes a middle finger at the universe and flies over the obstacles that she couldn’t defeat, and when the guardians squabble and protest, she kicks the living daylights out of them.

“I’m Marceline the Vampire Queen,” she growls as she grinds the last one’s face into the dust beneath the heel of her boot. “I don’t play nice, and I don’t play by the freakin’ rules.”

“But the Enchiridion…it must judge you as worthy,” he protests feebly.

“It’s a lumping book,” she snaps with a razor-edged scowl. “What the flip does it know?”

He doesn’t seem to know what to make of that. “Er…everything it contains…?”

“Shut up,” she snarls, and she kicks him hard for good measure and swivels her glare to the ancient tome. “You’re just a book,” she repeats, as if she’s trying to convince it, or trying to convince herself. “You have no right to judge me. Ideem myself worthy, and you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

The Enchiridion doesn’t burst into flames or howls or anything when she lifts it from its rest. That might not indicate that it’s her by right, but it is hers for the taking, and so she takes it, takes it and flies around Ooo as fast as she can. She explains to the other rulers about the threat inherent in their crowns, but none of them believe her, none of them seem to have suffered any ill effects. For a moment, she wonders if Bonnibel’s delirious musings were right—if only people who aren’t heroes yet try to play the role are corruptible by the Stones.

The Enchiridion is known as the hero’s handbook. Maybe those who forget that fact are doomed to forget everything, and maybe heroes aren’t such wonderful people, after all. Maybe they’re as spiteful and vindictive and possessive as anyone, because who else would lay such a trap and cast such a curse?

Marceline doesn’t know if that’s true or right or anything more than a flight of fancy, but she takes the Stones just as she took the book itself—by force if she has to. Nobody has to like her after this. Nobody has to like her ever again. They can all lump off in parliamentary bliss for all she cares.

Once she collects the Stones, even the three in Simon’s crown that have been missing from the book from the start, she flies the completed set and the book it resides within to the edge of the world. It takes her a long time to reach the jagged cliffs, and she almost goes feral more than once from the strain she puts on herself. She manages somehow, though, and when she gets there and gazes down at the seething heart of the planet, she is convinced that she’s doing the right thing.

There are extremes of power that people should not be allowed to have—the Mushroom Wars proved that.

Hovering out over the planet’s mortal wound, Marceline holds onto the Enchiridion until she’s above the molten mantle; it swirls sluggishly miles below.

Without preamble or any fitting, final words, she lets it go.

It might splash. It might incinerate long before it strikes. She can’t tell.

All she knows is that it’s gone, good freaking riddance, and that this action, while pleasingly rebellious and undoubtedly beneficial to future generations, doesn’t change anything for her friends. She was too late when she began this quest, and too late even before that. Taking away the Stones of Power will do nothing for Bonnibel. It’s been made amply clear via the example of Simon, and via the princess’s own futile research, that the corrupting effects are irreversible.

That grates against Marceline, flays her alive. She knew she was doomed before she started, and she can picture the future facing them all: lost in their own heads for all eternity. Except for her, that is—like she said, her vampirism isn’t that terrible, and even when she goes feral, she can recover. It’s not like how it will be for Bonnibel and Simon. It’s not the same at all.

Still, she doesn’t know where that leaves her.

.

It takes a few more decades for the sickness to set in entirely, a few decades of stumbling pauses and a love so belatedly rekindled, but even their love, which has conquered so much, can’t conquer all.

Eventually, Bonnibel forgets Marceline.

It’s subtle in the end. There’s just a loss of recognition in the depths of those familiar lavender eyes, the suffusion of a terrible blankness that has been erasing in from the edges for too long.

The vampire clasps their hands together—hers are shaking so badly—and she brushes her lips against the princess’s forehead.

Bonnibel looks up at her, only mild curiosity in her gaze, and she reaches out to catch a teardrop on her finger. The saline melts into her sugared skin.

“Yeah, you’ll wanna be careful with that,” Marceline chokes out, her serrated teeth gleaming in a watery smile.

“Okay,” she accepts, and her brow pinches slightly. “Why are you crying?”

Marceline considers that for a sticking second. “I just lost the love of my life.”

“That’s terrible,” Bonnibel murmurs, and despite the consequences, she wipes away another tear. “What happened?”

Her mouth curves, subtle and slow, and she shrugs. “She went away.”

The princess’s confusion deepens as she wonders, “And you can’t follow her?”

Marceline thought her heart had died a thousand years ago, but as it turns out, it was merely comatose all the while, because now…now it dies. She nearly suffocates from the mess it leaves behind in her chest, but she perseveres with grim determination—she’s always been able to subvert death for Bonnibel. “No,” she says through the gravel in her throat. “Not where she’s gone.”

“Oh,” she realizes, but there’s no real comprehension in her eyes. Just sympathy for a stranger. “I’m so sorry.”

Marceline nods halfway, chin tucked to her chest, and just looks at her, as if she hasn’t memorized everything about her centuries before. She’s still so stupidly pink. And she’s still so stupidly beautiful.

“Take care of yourself, Bonni,” she says, as lightly as she’s able, “and always be nice to little girls lost and hungry in the snow.”

Bonnibel looks at her politely and doesn’t understand.

(Sometimes, later, she notices the photograph taped on the inside of her closet door, and she wonders who this black-haired, sharp-toothed girl is, and whether or not they were friends. She likes to think they would be. And some preferences are carved in the bones, so whenever she hears rock music, Bonnibel really likes it, and her favorite color is red.

The candy folk take care of her, as she once so diligently cared for them.

And she is at peace.)

.

Unable to summon the strength to fly with this strangled concrete filling her limbs and the riven husk of her heart, Marceline trudges out of the room and unloops the princess’s crown from her belt. Without its Stone of Power, it’s just a fragile circle of gold, and she has strength enough to snap it in half. She drops the mangled metal on the floor and adjusts the ride of her bass’s strap for a snugger fit, fishing in her pocket afterwards for a piece of chalk. Deftly, she draws a magic circle on the castle wall and smears bug milk across it.

Once she speaks the incantation, the portal to the Nightosphere yawns wide, an eternal inferno plagued with chaos. It doesn’t look like home, but that’s because Marceline’s home is behind her, draped in a violet blanket and gazing contentedly out the window at the fading autumn sun.

She slips her pack off her shoulders and roots through its meager contents. Resting underneath the disintegrating form of Hambo, there’s a lock of Bonnibel’s bubblegum hair; tears prick her eyes anew when she thinks that it’s really more of a wad. A sentient wad, maybe, that has a name and enough love in her heart to last a thousand years.

She likes to think that it smiles at her, as it had smiled at her before: a perfect semicircle. While she knows that isn’t true—it’s wishful thinking at its finest—she indulges the delusion. It’s not like she has long to pretend.

She’ll be forgetting herself soon enough.

Raw heat blasts across her face, whipping her hair back like the tail of the darkest comet as she steps through the portal and enters the Nightosphere. Its volcanic landscape stretches out to indeterminate horizons in every direction, and she floats above the burning madness, not paying it much attention. She’s seen it all before, and she’ll be seeing it until the end of time.

Her vampirism never was going to drive her insane, but it wasn’t the first thing to grant her eternity, either—her demonic heritage did that.

And that which giveth, taketh away.

.

When she arrives in a familiar craggy mountain, her father leaps to his feet, thrilled to see her. “Marceline! What brings you all the way to hell, eh?”

“Hey, Daddy,” she replies, none of her usual lilt in her tone. She gestures vaguely at the amulet resting against his chest. “I’m…here to take up the family business.”

“Oh, happy day!” he cheers, oblivious of her agony, and he joyfully rips his amulet from his neck. “My little monster’s ready to embrace her destiny!”

Marceline hates him for that speech, but she hates other things far more, so she accepts the burden of her birthright without comment.

As she weighs the amulet in her hand, her mind wanders back to the beginning, reviewing more than ten centuries years of life and desperately searching for a loophole, for all the good it will do her now. She wonders if they could’ve done things differently somehow, if they could’ve subverted this fate, if she and Bonnibel and Simon could’ve lived out their undying days happily and together.

But if they saved themselves, then they couldn’t save the world.

And they wouldn’t be heroes.

“Huh,” she murmurs to herself with a cluck of her tongue. “Not bad for a sentimental old man, a brainy bubblegum girl, and a scrawny teenaged half-demon. Yeah. Not too bad at all.”

Marceline smiles one last time, real and heartfelt and true, and then she slips the amulet over her head and lets the chaos carry her away.

.

Elsewhere, the broken, healing world spins gently towards tomorrow.

.

(we could be immortals)

.

.

.

[wilwywaylan]

The Meeting

Fandom : Les Misérables

Modern AU, 1659 words, Montparnasse/Jehan Prouvaire, Montparnasse & Eponine

The prompt was “fast food”, but as a title, it doesn’t really make it justice.

Also on AO3 !

Sometimes, when he mused about his life, Montparnasse wondered if, per chance, one of the fairies who leaned over his cradle wasn't evil, and while all the others blessed him with godlike beauty, irreprochable taste and extraordinary hair, she hadn't cursed him in a way or another. Because how else would a man like himself, so refined and elegant, find himself stuck in that situation ? That probably was the biggest injustice in the whole world ! He should have been modelling somewhere, all brands begging for him, for a bit of his time, not working in a fast food ! Granted, it was the best organic-fair-trade-fair-wages-no-unnecessary-cruelty fast food in town, with organic-sourced meat, a charity box on the counter, and countless posters for non-profit events on the walls. But still.

Eponine walked past him, and as usual, pushed the horrid pink cap he had tried to hide behind his head, on his forehead. He pushed it back and glared at her, but she just laughed. He leaned on the counter, head in hands. There were things to do, of course, tables to clean, fries to cook, and trash bags to carry out. But he really wasn't in the mood to do any of this, especially not the trash bags. And he hated minding the fryers, because he always smelled of hot oil afterwards. And cleaning the tables was mind-numbing. No really, that job wasn't made for him at all. The only thing he liked doing here was watching the customers. At least this was fun. A fair-trade-organic fast food was sure to attract the most... colorful people in town, as Claquesous would say. Montparnasse was less nice, and refered to them as visual disasters and eyesores. So many bad fashion choices, he never thought he would be a witness of so many nightmarish outfits in so little time. Was it a new tendance, getting dressed with eyes closed ? Or were they just that clueless ?

The door opened, and Montparnasse didn't make any effort to look less bored or less idle. Talking of fashion incidents, the person who entered the shop had probably assembled their outfit at random. Or got dressed in the dark. But even total darkness couldn't explain... this. Surely, they would have noticed that they were wearing overalls. Denim overalls with "La main verte" cross-stitched on the chest pocket, which was full of pens and other implements. The shirt under it was plain white, but that was probably the only normal cloth, and Montparnasse suspected that a tacky design might hide under the denim. Over it, the strange person was wearing not one, but two plaid shirts that clashed horribly. Bracelets were circling their wrists, and a crystal pendant was dangling from their neck. The legs of their overalls were rolled up and held by several colorful clips, and they were wearing army boots whose laces were trailing on the tiles.

Any other day, Montparnasse would have ran to the back and let Eponine deal with the fashion disaster. But he couldn't move from his spot, and just watched the person walk to him. There was something about them... He didn't know if it was the long, red hair gathered in a complicated braid, and strewn with several star-shaped hairpins and small, blue flowers. Or the freckles scattered on their cheeks and nose. Or the gentle smile. Or maybe all of this, together.

They stopped in front of him. Up close, their eyes were fascinating. Bright and happy, with a glint of mishief. And they were of different color, the left one green as grass, while the right one was a rich golden brown. It was... mesmerizing. It took Montparnasse a moment to realize that the person had said something that he didn't get.

- What ? he asked.

Ah, nice, he thought. Very smooth. The person just smiled, and repeated :

- Can I get a blueberry muffin and a mint tea with sugar, please ?

Montparnasse nodded like a robot, and cashed the order in.

- It'll be ready in a few minutes. Go and sit, I'll bring it in.

That wasn't the usual way, but he needed to do something to get them away and break that strange spell they seemed to put him under. The person smiled, and went to sit at a table near the window, where they put their bag on, and started rummaging in it. Montparnasse shook his head, and went to make some tea.

He had a second of hesitation when it was ready. Should he send Eponine ? That person had a weird effect on him. Those mismatched eyes, they lit a strange feeling in his stomach, and his knees felt a bit weak. He didn't know why, and he didn't like it. But he certainly wasn't a coward. So he took the tray and brought it to the table.

Montparnasse had met a lot of people over the years, of all kinds, but he was sure he hadn't met anyone who could turn a fast food table into a mess that fast. Papers were scattered over it, covering every inch, and books were resting over them. The person was sprawled on top of that, furiously scribling on a notebook. They lifted their head when he approached, and smiled, and Montparnasse felt that strange pinch again. He waited while they put some of their papers away to make some space for the tray. He noticed that their hands were covered in ink, and there was a stain on their nose, near the tip. He kind of wanted to erase it. Instead, he glanced at the chicken scratch on the page.

- Working hard ? he asked, and immediatly kicked himself. Could he sound even less cool ? Not that he cared, of course.

The person didn't seem to notice that he had a sudden burst of foolishness ; they took the cup of tea and started stiring it, looking at the notebook.

- I have an assignement, yes. I had a bit of writer's block this morning so I decided to come here, and it seems that it has unblocked me, at least for now.

Montparnasse had many questions : why come here, what was he working on, what kind of assignement required one to cover a table with that many papers, and how did he cast a spell on him ? Instead, he just nodded.

- Good thing, then, he answered.

- Maybe I should come here more often, then, if it helps me writing.

Oh no, that wasn't right, that wasn't right at all. Neither the smile, nor the jump of his stomach at the idea that the person would come back here and would become a regular. He muttered something that maybe didn't mean anything, and hastly retreated towards the counter, where Eponine was doubling over with laughter. He pushed her none too gently and pretended to be busy with the pastry display. It didn't prevent him from stealing glances at the person here and there.

An arm landed on his shoulders, and Eponine leaned on him.

- So ? she purred.

- So what ? Montparnasse retorted, hoping that his voice maintained its coolness.

- You like him.

Ah, right in the heart of the matter, in perfect Eponine fashion.

- I'm right, she added. You do like him.

He threw her what he hoped was a glare, but she didn't move. Neither did she when he tried to push her away.

- I don't. Mind your own business.

- No ? Then you're not interested in getting their name ?

- You know them ?

As soon as he said it, he knew that he was doomed. Eponine's smile took some Cheshire Cat proportions.

- So you do like him. Don't try to deny it.

- Yes, yes. You do know them ?

Eponine stayed silent for a moment, observing him. Montparnasse hoped that nothing could be read on his face. He had already said and shown too much, and he didn't like it in the least. THe only thing missing would be the rest of Patron-Minette learning that he felt some sort of feelings for someone who was dressed like some kind of hippie.

- I do, she finally answers. He's part of Marius' little group of protestors. You know, les Amis.

"Know" was a stretch. Montparnasse has heard about them from Eponine herself, because she couldn't shut up about her crushes and what they did, and he'd came by one of their protests once, but what they did didn't interest him at all. He didn't have that time to waste. But he was aware of their existence. So that strange person was part of them ? They didn't really look like the part, with the flowers and the carefree attitude. Then again, maybe the saying about books and covers was true.

- So ? What's the name ?

- Jean Prouvaire. Everyone calls them Jehan.

- Jehan Prouvaire....

Montparnasse let the name roll off his tongue. Beautiful name, really. For an... interesting person. Too bad that they were dressing like this but... but for the first time ever, it didn't matter. He had to admit the truth : Jehan Prouvaire was magical, and they had captured their heart with their eyes, and their smile, and their whole personnality. He was caught.

But he would not join the ranks of those pining helplessly after the object of their affection. No, not him. He would deal with it like a man. How, he didn't know yet, but he would. In a moment, he'd go and ask them if they needed something else. Very out of character from him, but it would give him an excuse. In a moment. Until then, he was content with looking at them - at Jehan - through the pastry display, hoping Eponine's snickering wouldn't alert them, and enjoy the warmth of their presence.

[ugh-supersoldiers]

Muses

MASTERLIST

Characters: Steve Rogers x reader

Summary: You were what you could easily call an insomniac, but lucky for you there’s a cute coffee shop in your neighborhood that stays open all night. On any other night, you’d be the only one in the place, sipping contently at a latte and writing in your journal, but what happens when a handsome super soldier with a sketchbook draws himself in the picture?

Warnings: Fluff, cuteness overload, bad editting (sorrrrryyy)

Words: 2681

A/N: This was an adoooorable request by @xxred-vengeancexx. I hope this was what you were looking for darling, enjoy xo

Also I’m a sucker for rainy atmospheres so I used a bunch of indie music for inspiration. Like Gregory Alan Isakov and David Gray. Totally recommend you guys listen them!

You hated sleep, mainly because sleep hated you. You’d always consider yourself lucky if you got a couple of hours during the night. Sometimes you’d wake up at an ungodly hour of the morning, unable to fall asleep again. You’d tried sleeping pills, going for walks, even a stint of meditation, but nothing worked. So, you discovered the all hours coffee shop that resided only about a block from your house and went there almost every night - or well, morning.

When you woke this time, you glanced over at your clock to see that it was 5 am, which in your eyes was a surprisingly late start. Instantly, your mind went to coffee. More specifically, your mind went to the caramel latte that was calling your name at the coffee house. 

You flung the covers off of yourself, stripping down from your pajamas and tossing on a pair of leggings and a yellow shirt that was a good four sizes to big. 

Whatever, you thought, not like I’m gonna see anyone I know.

You pulled a pair of boots on and grabbed your phone, shoving it in your purse with your journal and pen and plugged in your headphones so you could began listening to a new indie album you’d just downloaded, figuring you could at least drown out the rain with it. You unhooked the umbrella hanging by your coat and swung the door of your house open, opening up the umbrella and beginning your jaunt to the coffee house.

You hummed along with your music while you tried to keep dry as the subtle rain slowly turned into a downpour. You didn’t really mind all too much, rain had always been calming for you. 

When you reached the familiar coffee shop, your heart soared. You wrapped your fingers around the cold metal door handle and pulled it open with a broad smile on your face.

The sound of the little bell at the top of the door rang into the dimly lit shop as you pulled your headphones out, listening to the ambient musical selection of the shop instead.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Your head snapped up as you closed your umbrella to see the face of the usual night worker at the place, whose name you hadn’t learned yet, but given your ever growing frequency in visits, you imagined you would soon.

“Nice to see you again.” You smiled warmly at her.

“Usual?” She asked you, turning back to get a cup to steam the milk with for your latte.

“Please.” You replied, delighted that she knew your order.

“Take a seat and I’ll bring it out to you.” 

“I can pay now if you’d like.”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart, this one’s on me.”

You were touched by her kindness and thanked her before taking a seat in one of the booths, taking out your journal and writing down more ideas for the new novel you so desperately dreamed of writing.

Within minutes, your latte arrived, with caramel drizzle just how you liked it.

“Thank you so much.” You said with a grin.

“Y’know, I see you in here almost every morning and I still don’t know your name.” She said before walking away.

“(Y/N).” You said, dropping the pen from your grasp to shake her hand.

“Mary.” She said, sharing your smile.

Mary walked back to behind the counter and left you to work feverishly between sips of latte. Your pen scratched against the paper of your notebook with a fury, jotting down every idea for every supporting character that you dreamed up in your head. 

You loved coming up with little narratives like this, but for some reason you were drawing a complete blank on the main plot. Writer’s block was unusual for you, highly unusual. 

You fiddled with the sugar packet that someone had left on the table from likely hours earlier, idly trying to conjure someone up in your head, but nothing came to you. You were so lost in thought that you barely even heard the door chime.

No one ever came in this early unless it was you, and you could see the surprise in Mary’s face when a man enters the shop, taking off his wet leather jacket and resting it over his arm.

“Hi there.” Mary said as a greeting.

“Morning.” He replied.

“What can I get ch’a?”

“Just some coffee would be great.”

“Gotta love a classic.” Mary laughed.

“Y’know, I get that a lot.” The man replied, his back facing you as Mary got him a mug and poured him his coffee. He quickly paid with a 5, telling her to keep the change, which she was very clearly impressed with.

You turned your focus back to your nonexistent plot, that was beginning to frustrate you more than anything else. You could’ve sworn steam was going to come out of your ears until you heard someone clear their throat from beside you.

You glanced upwards to the left to see the man that had just ordered coffee standing at the edge of the remaining booth seat. You, like almost every other human being, would recognize Captain America anywhere, and you were certain that this was him.

“May I?’ He asked quietly.

“‘Course.” You replied, gesturing for him to sit.

He set his cream colour coffee mug down on the table, placing a notebook similar to yours and a pen next to it. He rested his wet jacket over the banister behind his seat and sat down across from you.

You stared at your journal, pretending to flip through the pages to distract yourself from Steve Rogers who was directly in front of you at 5 am on a Saturday morning in your favourite coffee shop. 

“Y’know,” You broke the silence after a few moments, “People nowadays usually don’t choose to sit so close to the only other person in a coffee house.”

He glanced up at you with a picture perfect smile, “Call me old fashioned.”

“That much I gathered.”

You smirked back at him and dropped your eyes down to your journal again, rereading the same sentence over and over again, absorbing absolutely none of the information that you’d scribbled down in chicken scratch.

You aimlessly reached out and grabbed your mug, taking a larger sip than normal. You could feel your face flushing a shade a pink at the result of his presence.

The sound of his pencil scratching against his notebook in long strokes brought your attention to what he was doing. Unlike you and your dot jots, it appeared that he was drawing something.

You become fascinated by the way that he focused on his work, completely absorbed in what he was doing. You tried to peer over the edges of the notebook in an attempt to catch a glimpse of what he was drawing.

“You know, you could just ask to see.” 

You turned an even darker shade of red.

“Didn’t want to pry.” You shrugged, trying to play it off.

“So you thought snooping was less invasive?” You could hear him laugh a bit under his breath.

“It would’ve been less invasive had you not caught me.” You tried to suppress a giggle, once again diverting your eyes to your notebook.

He continued drawing, the dull sound of his pencil against paper filled your ears again. You found a strange comfort in his presence, you admired the way he sipped his coffee as you tried to sneak glances at him without him catching you again. 

You sort of felt like you were in the company of a celebrity, but at the same time, there was the air of calmness that Steve Rogers brought - very literally - to the table, and you enjoyed it immensely. 

“Do you have a name?” He asked as he sketched.

“Who’s prying now?” You laughed, beginning to doodle in the corner of your marked up page.

“Is asking for your name too personal?” He looked up at your from his work, reaching for his coffee and taking a sip.

“What, Captain America doesn’t like a little uncertainty? There’s magic in the mystery, you know.” 

He closed his notebook and rested his pen on top, you mirrored his actions.

“So you won’t give me a name?”

“Nope.”

You weren’t sure exactly why you were playing the game that you were, you just knew that the amused smile on his face made you want to keep at it.

“What if I guess it?”

“That’s against the rules.”

“What rules?” He laughed as he took another sip of his coffee.

“The rules that I made.” You stated.

He shook his head at you and laughed again, a quiet sound that made your heart flutter. Steve Rogers must’ve been the most handsome man you’d ever met in cafe at 5 am. Realistically, he was the only man you’d ever met like this, but even if you’d met others, they wouldn’t have stood a chance.

“You’re an artist?” You inquired, nodding at the black book next to his hand.

“An amateur at best.”

“They say you’re always your worst critic.” You replied, “Makes sense why I hate all of my works.”

“You draw?” He asked.

“I’m a writer,” You said, “One who can’t sleep and who sucks at coming up with plot arcs.”

“I’d say sorry that you can’t get some shut eye, but if you managed to have a normal sleep schedule that means I would’ve missed out on the mystery.” He said.

“Ah, we couldn’t have that.”

A slow song began to beat steadily in the background of the shop and you closed your eyes, enjoying the scent of fresh coffee grounds that filled your nose in combination with the beautiful melody.

“I love this song.” You remarked.

“Never heard it before.” Steve said, “It’s pretty though.”

“One of my friends had her first dance at her wedding to this song.” You told him.

He hummed in reply, “Seems like it would make a nice song for a dance.”

“Oh, it was.” 

“Was it your first dance song too?” 

You opened your eyes to see a glint of mischievousness in his eyes.

“Well,” You said, holding up your left hand to display your ringless fingers, “Typically a wedding takes two people. I am but one.”

“What a shame, I’m sure someone would really love to have someone like you.”

It struck you that Steve Rogers was flirting with you, and your face flushed yet again. You looked back down at your drink to try and camouflage your blush, but you knew he’d already noticed.

“Perhaps.” You said.

“Well, it would be a shame to waste the song.” He stood up from the seat and extended his hand for you to take, “May I have this dance?”

Your eyes went wide at his question. No one had really ever asked you to dance before, especially not in a deserted coffee house.

“I don’t bite.” He urged.

You nodded your head and took his hand, allowing him to lead you onto the empty floor as thunder and lightning rumbled outside.

You rested your arm around his neck, his around your waist, and your free hands joined together. You enjoyed the feeling of his warm body so close to yours, it relaxed you and helped to heat your cold frame from the cold outside.

He swayed you back and forth gently to the beat, humming along to the tune of the song when he picked up on it. You closed your eyes and took in the sound of his voice, that you were already enamored with. 

You could hear his heart beating and the sound of his breath and you let yourself fall victim of the reverie like state you were in. It felt like a dream, like you would wake up at any moment and discover that none of it ever happened. Too good to be true, how else would you describe slow dancing with someone like this?

He spun you outwards, and pulled you back in again, holding you just a little tighter than before, your faces inches a part. You couldn’t explain why he had this effect on you, all you could do was try to keep your knees from buckling.

“(Y/N).” You croaked out when the song came to a finish, “My name is (Y/N).”

Steve smiled down at you, “It’s nice to meet you, (Y/N).”

He lead you back to your booth by the hand, allowing you to sit back down on your side and begin drinking your latte again.

Without another word, he began sketching again in his notebook. You couldn’t look away from him, lost in watching the way his eyes darted along the page as he worked. He met your eyes and smiled at your embarrassment.

“I should get going.” He said with a sigh, wishing that he could sit there and talk to you more about absolutely anything.

You looked slightly disappointed, but nodded your head with a sad smile.

“I suppose, if the world needs saving, you’re the man to do it.” You said with a grin.

He finished up his drawing and placed it on the seat next to him, tearing the page out. 

“I enjoyed this.” He said.

“I did too.” You admitted.

“You know,” He began as he stood from his seat and shrugged his jacket back on, “I think I have an idea for that story of yours.”

“Oh, really?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest.

“How about you write about a man who has one of the worst sleeps of his life and finds a place to get a cup of coffee where he meets the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.”

You couldn’t help but beam at his words. You opened your journal again, flipping it to a new page to take notes.

“Continue.” You urged.

“He sits across from her, and she’s captivating but stubborn as hell, definitely a feisty one. So he asks her to dance, and she tells him her name and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.”

“Uh huh.” You said, scratching down absolute nonsense due to your shaking hand.

“What do you think he should do next?” He asked.

“Well, I think he should know that she’s sort of enamored with him,” As you said this, you watched his cheeks turn pink, “And that she comes in here around this time almost every morning, so if he ever wanted to see her again, he should come back tomorrow.”

Steve’s smile was the best thing you’d ever seen in your life, you couldn’t help but return it.

“Well, it was wonderful meeting you.” He said.

“I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.” You replied.

He bent down to press a kiss to your cheek, “Count on it.”

You heard his footsteps echo away from you, and the bell ring again when the door opened, the sound of the heavy rain rushing outside entered the cafe.

You laughed to yourself and shook your head, processing what had just happened. 

Deciding to get going yourself, you closed your notebook and threw it in your purse. Finishing the last sweet sip of your latte, you tried to slow the beating of your heart. No one had ever effected you quite like Steve Rogers had.

You stood up and grabbed your bag and umbrella, and walking towards the entrance, but something stopped you. Resting on the seat where Steve had been sitting was a piece of paper, face down. 

You furrowed your brow, reaching forward to grab it. You turned it over to see a drawing. Your heart nearly stopped, it was a detailed sketch of your face with a few words scribbled above it.

“(Y/N), my muse.” 

You folded the paper neatly and placed it gently in your purse as you exited the cafe and started your jaunt back home, unable to wipe the smile off of your face from the chance encounter you’d had with one very inspiring artist whom you’d see again the very next morning.

[kyloren-sithlord]

RULES !!  Post a song that reminds you of your muse and then tag 6 people whose songs you want to see!

tagged by: @stxrkillcr

I Found - Amber Run

I love the deep dark feeling that comes with this song. I’ve actually written a fic based on it before. It sort of seems to show his problems, his inevitable fall to the dark side, or his fall from power. I see it as sort of a relationship between Kylo and the force, because the Force is a dangerous and terrifying beast, no matter how much the Jedi like to say it can be controlled. And those that delve too deeply into it tend to lose their minds. I also have applied it to Kylo’s relationships, mainly the toxicity that is kylux. 

And I'll use you as a warning sign That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind And I'll use you as a focal point So I don't lose sight of what I want And I've moved further than I thought I could But I missed you more than I thought I would And I'll use you as a warning sign That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be Right in front of me Talk some sense to me [2x] And I'll use you as a makeshift gauge Of how much to give and how much to take Oh I'll use you as a warning sign That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind Oh and I found love where it wasn't supposed to be Right in front of me Talk some sense to me And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be Right in front of me Talk some sense to me [3x]

WHAT ARE YOUR MUSE’S AESTHETICS?

[ COLORS ]  red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. forest green. apple red. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. grey green.

[ ELEMENTS ]   fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops.

[ BODY ] claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canine. scars (mental; physical). scratches. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes.hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular. piercing.tattoos.

[ WEAPONS ]   fists. sword. dagger. spear. arrow. hammer. shield. whips. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pistol. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. words. bat.

[ MATERIALS ]   gold. silver. platinum. brass. copper. lead. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick.marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics.

[ NATURE ]    grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. lavender. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. roots. flowers. river. meadow. lake. forest. desert. tundra .savanna. rainforest. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains.

[ ANIMALS ]   lions. wolves. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. praying mantises. crows. mice. lizards. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. rats.

[ FOODS/DRINKS ]  sugar. salt. candy. bubblegum. bread. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. condensed milk. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. rice. ambrosia. soup. stew. whiskey.

[ HOBBIES ]    music. art. watercolors. gardening. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching.fighting. writing. composing. meditation. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games.computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. cds. records. cassettes.piano. violin. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. bells. percussion. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. mahjong. motorcycle riding. eating. climbing. running.

[ STYLE ]   lingerie. armor. cape. dress. tunic. vest. shirt. boots. heels. leggings. trousers. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet.rings. pendant. hat. ballcap. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. robes. bracers. belt. sash. coat. jacket. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup.

[ MISC ]    balloons. bubbles. cityscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. grief. happiness. optimism.realism. pessimism. legacy. loneliness. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies.loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. hugs.

you can tell a lot about a person by the music they listen to. put your mp3 player, itunes,spotify, etc. on shuffle & list the first 10 songs & then tag 10 people, no skipping !

REPOST & DON’T REBLOG !

1. Simple Machine ~ Guster 2. Vagabond ~ MisterWives 3. Gives You Hell ~ The All-American Rejects 4. A Cup of Coffee ~ Julian Moon 5. Wings ~ Birdy 6. A Little Party Never Killed Nobody ~ Fergie 7. That’s All ~ Genesis 8. My Girl ~ The Temptations 9. Devil’s Dance Floor ~ Flogging Molly 10. Gun ~ Mas Ysa

CHARACTER STRENGTHS.

RULES:    bold  the  characteristics  that  apply  to  your  muse !   Tag  your  friends !

adaptable |  adventurous  |  affectionate |  ambitious  |  artistic  |  athletic  |  assertive  |  beautiful  | brave |  charming  |  clever  | compassionate |  confident  | considerate |  cooperative  |  courteous  |  creative  | curious  |  decisive  | dependable  | determined  |  diplomatic |  easy - going  | enthusiastic |  fair  |  fashionable  | forgiving  |  friendly  |  fun - loving  |  funny |  generous  |  gentle  | hard - working |  heroic |  honest  |  hopeful  |  humble  |  imaginative  |  incorruptible | intelligent  |  intuitive  |  inventive  |  jocular  |  leader  | lively  |  loving  |  loyal |  merciful  |  musical  |  observant  |  open - minded |  optimistic  |  organized  | outgoing  | passionate |  patient  |  playful  |  polite  | popular  | practical  |  resourceful  |  self - assured | selfless  |  sensible  |  sincere  |  strong  |  studious  |  thoughtful  |  tough  | versatile |  warm - hearted  | well - intentioned |  wise  |  witty

CHARACTER FLAWS. RULES:    bold  the  characteristics  that  apply  to  your  muse !  Tag  your  friends !

absent-minded  |  abusive  |  addict  |  aggressive  |  aimless  |  alcoholic  |  anxious  |  arrogant | audacious  |  bad liar |  bigmouth  |  bigot  | blindly obedient  |  blunt  | callous  |  childish  | chronic heroism |  clingy |  clumsy  |  cocky  |  competitive  |  corrupt  |  cowardly  | cruel | cynical  |  delinquent  |  delusional  |  dependent  |  depressed  |  deranged  |  disloyal  |  ditzy  | egotistical | envious  |  erratic  |  fickle  | finicky |  flaky  |  frail  | fraudulent  |  guilt complex | gloomy  |  gluttonous  |  gossiper  |  gruff  |  gullible  |  hedonistic  |  humorless  |  hypochondriac | hypocritical |  idealist  |  idiotic  |  ignorant  |  immature  | impatient |  incompetent  |indecisive | insecure | insensitive  |  lazy  |  lewd  |  liar  |  lustful  |  manipulative  |  masochistic | meddlesome  |  melodramatic  |  money-loving |  moody |  naive  |  nervous |  nosy  |  ornery  | overprotective  |  overly sensitive  | paranoid  | passive-aggressive | perfectionist | pessimist | petty |  power-hungry  |  proud |  pushover  | reckless  |  reclusive  | remorseless  | rigorous  | sadistic  |  sarcastic  |  senile  |selfish | self-martyr |  shallow  |  sociopathic |  sore loser  | spineless  |  spiteful  |  spoiled  | stubborn |  tactless  |  temperamental |  timid  |  tone-deaf  | traitorous  |  unathletic  |  ungracious  |  unlucky  |  unsophisticated  |  untrustworthy  | vain | withdrawn | workaholic

Repost! Don’t Reblog! Last Movie I Watched: – Top Secret! Last Song I Listened To:Blood in the cut ~ K.Flay Last book I read: – Eragon ~ Christopher Palolini Last Thing I Ate: Chicken Salad croissant. If You Could Be Anywhere Right Now: In the mountains of New Zealand on a sheep farm Fictional Character You Would Hang Out With For A Day:  Aslan from the Chronicals of Narnia. I feel like he would fix all of my problems.

Pick any of them and tag me! I love reading about your muses. tagging: @huxyou, @imncone, @derbefehl, @serratedlight, @starslayer, @firstorderelite, @gxneraliisms, @askarmitagehux, @rogueofren, anyone else who wants to do it!

[stxrkillcr-blog]

RULES !!  Post a song that reminds you of your muse and then tag 6 people whose songs you want to see!

tagged by: @stillsolo

i come with knives - iamx

I always feel like this song was playing when he first became General, this is just such a fitting song for his rise to power. Every time I hear it I picture him making the speech before using Starkiller Base for the first time.

It was kinda hard to pick between this, Don’t Mess With Me by Temposhark or Volatile Times also by IAMX.

Kinder und sterne küssen und verlieren sich Greifen leise meine hand und führen mich Die traumgötter brachten mich in eine landschaft Schmetterlinge flatterten durch meine seele

The paradox or our minds Too much to believe, too much to deny You fool me again to quiet my pride But I’m a human, I come with knives

I never promised you an open heart or charity I never wanted to abuse your imagination

I come with knives I come with knives And agony To love you

Kinder und sterne küssen und verlieren sich Greifen leise meine hand und führen mich Die traumgötter brachten mich in eine landschaft Schmetterlinge flatterten durch meine seele In der mitternacht.

The monotony And the rising tide Is under my skin, is crawling inside Adrenaline to rewire my mind I'm only human, I come with knives

I never promised you an open heart or charity I never wanted to abuse your imagination

I come with knives I come with knives And agony I come with knives I come with knives To love you And agony To love you With agony

I come with knives With agony To love you

Kinder und sterne küssen und verlieren sich Greifen leise meine hand und führen mich Die traumgötter brachten mich in eine landschaft Schmetterlinge flatterten durch meine seele In der mitternacht [x2]

In der mitternacht [x2]

WHAT ARE YOUR MUSE’S AESTHETICS?

[ COLORS ]  red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. forest green. apple red. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. grey green.

[ ELEMENTS ]   fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops.

[ BODY ] claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canine. scars (mental; physical). scratches. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular. piercing.tattoos.

[ WEAPONS ]    fists. sword. dagger. spear. arrow. hammer. shield. whips. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pistol. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. words. bat.

[ MATERIALS ]   gold. silver. platinum. brass. copper. lead. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics.

[ NATURE ]    grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. lavender. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. roots. flowers. river. meadow. lake. forest. desert. tundra .savanna. rainforest. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains.

[ ANIMALS ]   lions. wolves. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. praying mantises. crows. mice. lizards. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. rats.

[ FOODS/DRINKS ]  sugar. salt. candy. bubblegum. bread. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. condensed milk. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. rice. ambrosia. soup. stew. whiskey.

[ HOBBIES ]    music. art. watercolors. gardening. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. writing. composing. meditation. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. cds. records. cassettes. piano. violin. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. bells. percussion. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. mahjong. motorcycle riding. eating. climbing. running.

[ STYLE ]    lingerie. armor. cape. dress. tunic. vest. shirt. boots. heels. leggings. trousers. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet.rings. pendant. hat. ballcap. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. robes. bracers. belt. sash. coat. jacket. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup.

[ MISC ]    balloons. bubbles. cityscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. grief. happiness. optimism. realism. pessimism. legacy. loneliness. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. hugs.

TAGGED BY : @stillsolo

you can tell a lot about a person by the music they listen to. put your mp3 player, itunes,spotify, etc. on shuffle & list the first 10 songs & then tag 10 people, no skipping !

REPOST & DON’T REBLOG !

1. Let’s Dance - David Bowie 2. Old Money - Lana Del Rey 3. Goner - Twentyone Pilots 4. Whatsername - Green Day 5. Six Shooter - Queens of the Stone Age 6. Flaws - Bastille 7. Goodnite, Dr. Death - My Chemical Romance 8. Chicken On A Stick - Justin Hurwitz 9. Private Fears In Public Places - Front Porch Step 10. Buddy Holly - Weezer

TAGGED BY: @stillsolo

CHARACTER STRENGTHS.

RULES:    bold  the  characteristics  that  apply  to  your  muse !    Tag  your  friends !

Tagged by: @stillsolo

adaptable |  adventurous  |  affectionate |  ambitious  |  artistic  |  athletic  |  assertive  |  beautiful  | brave |  charming  |  clever  | compassionate |  confident  | considerate |  cooperative  |  courteous  |  creative  | curious  |  decisive  |  dependable  |  determined  |  diplomatic |  easy - going  | enthusiastic |  fair  |  fashionable  | forgiving  |  friendly  |  fun - loving  |  funny |  generous  |  gentle  | hard - working |  heroic |  honest  |  hopeful  |  humble  |  imaginative  |  incorruptible |  intelligent  |  intuitive  |  inventive  |  jocular  |  leader  | lively  |  loving  |  loyal  |  merciful  |  musical  |  observant  |  open - minded |  optimistic  |  organized  | outgoing  | passionate  |  patient  |  playful  |  polite  | popular  |  practical  |  resourceful  |  self - assured | selfless  |  sensible  |  sincere  |  strong  |  studious  |  thoughtful  |  tough  | versatile |  warm - hearted  | well - intentioned |  wise  |  witty

CHARACTER FLAWS. RULES:    bold  the  characteristics  that  apply  to  your  muse !   Tag  your  friends ! 

Tagged by: @stillsolo

absent-minded  |  abusive  |  addict  |  aggressive  |  aimless  |  alcoholic  |  anxious  |  arrogant  | audacious  |  bad liar |  bigmouth  |  bigot  | blindly obedient  |  blunt  |  callous  |  childish  | chronic heroism |  clingy |  clumsy  |  cocky  |  competitive  |  corrupt  |  cowardly  |  cruel  | cynical  |  delinquent  |  delusional  |  dependent  |  depressed  |  deranged  |  disloyal  |  ditzy  | egotistical | envious  |  erratic  |  fickle  | finicky |  flaky  |  frail  | fraudulent  |  guilt complex | gloomy  |  gluttonous  |  gossiper  |  gruff  |  gullible  |  hedonistic  |  humorless  |  hypochondriac | hypocritical |  idealist  |  idiotic  |  ignorant  |  immature  | impatient |  incompetent  |indecisive | insecure | insensitive  |  lazy  |  lewd  |  liar  |  lustful  |  manipulative  |  masochistic | meddlesome  |  melodramatic  |  money-loving |  moody |  naive  |  nervous |  nosy  |  ornery  | overprotective  |  overly sensitive  | paranoid  | passive-aggressive | perfectionist  | pessimist |  petty  |  power-hungry  |  proud  |  pushover  | reckless  |  reclusive  | remorseless  | rigorous  | sadistic  |  sarcastic  |  senile  |selfish  | self-martyr |  shallow  |  sociopathic |  sore loser  | spineless  |  spiteful  |  spoiled  | stubborn |  tactless  |  temperamental |  timid  |  tone-deaf  | traitorous  |  unathletic  |  ungracious  |  unlucky  |  unsophisticated  |  untrustworthy  | vain | withdrawn | workaholic

Repost! Don’t Reblog! Last Movie I Watched: – Moana Last Song I Listened To: Breezeblocks - alt-J Last book I read: – In Fury Born - David Weber Last Thing I Ate: French Fries If You Could Be Anywhere Right Now:  Right where I am, relaxed in bed. Fictional Character You Would Hang Out With For A Day:  Only one? Wade Wilson, he’s a riot I’d have so much fun even if I’d probably get dragged into a shit ton of trouble. Tagged by: @stillsolo

Pick any of them and tag me! I love reading about your muses. tagging: @legatumiism @whatyoustartcd @kyloren-sithlord @serratedlight @smugglingscavanger @theslavewhoranaway @thedestrcyer @night-vale-jace @nightvalecoroner @iblamethatguy and anyone who wants to do it

[emmamaree-blog1]

Fiction 001, Hazel Eyes and Scarlet Berries

This is a story I submitted for a writing competition, which follows the life of my Great Grandmother. It’s a little jarring and not completely correct, but this is because I was attempting to keep the word count below 3000.

A siena skyline filled the air with a hushed hope, a soundtrack of birds breathing life into the land. The evergreen path carried scents of berries and corn, the chitter of peasant women gave Maria a warm stomach and full heart. Wheat growing taller than herself goaded the girl into getting lost in their yellow gardens, and she went happily, knowing she was safe and full of food and dance.

Her siblings shared bright hazelnut eyes, ones that flashed and sang as they waltzed through the field, their loose clothing held together with mud and laughter. At 6, Maria’s life was one of food and dancing, singing and getting dirty, cartwheeling and arguing. Her life was a soundtrack of birds, rivers and wind, her mother’s warm arms and father’s amused eyes.

The four children hopped and skipped toward their grandparent’s house, satisfied in a way that could only be seen with their toothy grins. Helga and Maria held hands, swinging their arms and humming. Helga’s hair glowed gold, matching the corn, adding to the list of the ways her siblings doubled the landscape.

“First one to Bubba and Dedu’s house wins!” Danya yelled, racing off. “Not fair!” yelled Viktor as she escaped sight.

Maria and her eldest sister smiled as they watched Viktor desperately trying to catch Danya, whose skirts were pulled up to her knee in the most un-ladylike manner. Bubba would be scandalised, if she knew, Maria thought, as she laughed. Danya howled with such laughter that had it known been for the siblings’ extensive memory of the land, Maria might have been worried she’d fall over.

Viktor’s foot caught, and he skidded across the ground, falling in shock. Maria pulled her brother to his feet as he tried to relieve his bruised pride and red knees. He smiled awkwardly at his sister, who returned it with a gap-toothed grin. The boy scratched his head and sighed.

“Danya’s not gonna let that go,” he mumbled. “Ever,” Helga agreed. “Ever!” Maria repeated.

The three grinned, faces almost hurting. It was a movement so constant, that their mouths naturally remained upturned, like a woodland path so travelled it remained clear. Should their skin melt away, leaving their dried bones in the sun like rocks, their skeletons would be smirking.

Together, the hazel eyed children talked and laughed, their voices ringing out of the valley. Maria paused, looking over the saffron corn, her eyes scanning the enchanted horizon. The usual mellifluous rifts and texture of the land suddenly hummed a somber tune, one that hinted darkness and pain. She sniffed the air, as if she could smell evil polluting the wind.

She frowned. All looked right, but the birds had fallen quiet in their trees. She turned to Helga, who had the same furrowed brows as their father. Viktor’s lung expelled anxiety, his face white. Maria half expected the corn and berries to turn the same colour.

Only when she saw the hooded silhouette of her grandparents Maria stirred, her mouth closed. She walked forward to greet them, only to be yanked back, Helga’s hands clasped firmly on Maria’s wrist.

“Ow!” Maria complained. “Maria,” Helga whispered, “Don’t move.” “What do we do?” Viktor whispered frantically, “They’re going to die!”

Maria gaped, and turned back to her grandparents. They were kneeling now, their fragile bodies lined against the barn. Helga gasped as their parents and Danya were lead there by soldiers, long rifles stuck to the back of their heads.

Helga, only 13 herself, looked to Viktor and Maria, and a sudden sense of responsibility dawned on her. If her parents died, who would care for their children? Every intention of hiding was thwarted when she turned and met a gun to her nose. More alarmingly was the Russian soldier attached to it.

Without a word, Helga turned, taking the hands of her hazel eyed comrades, and marched them silently to the barn. She raised her chin and straightened her back, refusing to let her tears disrupt what could possibly be the last time she saw the berries and corn in the fields of Ukraine.

“Bohdan and Anastasiya Shevchenko, you have been sentenced to death under the laws of Stalin. By refusing to give up your land and produce to Russia, you are traitors.”

Maria’s Grandparents hardly had time to give one last glance at their family before the bullets begun to sing, hitting their bodies in a flash of light. They fell, almost soundlessly, a horrific contrast to the shrieks of the guns.

It was red.

Maria had been around red all her life, and now it pooled at her feet. She had seen the scarlet colour since she was born, the striking embroidery of Ukrainian clothes, the red flowers resting in her mother’s hair, the berries that swarmed her life like wind. Red was constant, and now it soaked her socks and puddled between her toes.

It was almost musical, the sound of bullets. The way they rang out, destroying all noise around it. When the gun went off, the birds silenced their beaks, and the children quietened their hope.

1932

It had been two winters since her grandparent’s deaths, and two nights since her mother’s. For all her fighting, the snaking nature of starvation hallowed her cheeks and turned her toes blue, her eyes closing, where they remained.

The land was full of noise, yet songs that once carried Maria to sleep now attacked her, the wind that once was the reason to dance tangled her hair and her hope. She cursed these violations. She cursed the birds that dare sing, the people who plowed weakly outside, she cursed the starving homeless, for they still had air in their lungs. She damned the sun and moon for appearing on schedule, and for the flowers that continued to grow.

Her mother lay dead, yet life continued.

It was a cold night, and there was an unspoken knowledge that there would be more bodies on the ground tomorrow. The pavement skinned her feet, leaving them bloodied and blistered. Viktor and Danya walked ahead, like matching angels in rags, protecting heaven with weak fists and strong intents. Maria’s father stood behind her and Helga, his knitted eyebrows a gift to all four of his children.

His laughing eyes had left, and like bread crumbs, his smiles were few and far between. Where happiness once was, determination replaced it. When he watched the skinny frames of his children, he couldn’t help but feel ashamed. Their bellies should be full, their skin smooth. The only pride he felt in their appearance were their bright, hazel eyes, ones that once belonged to their mother.

“Here, children,” he mused, “We’ll sleep under this bridge tonight, huddle up.”

He smiled as they curled into each other, reminding him of the piglets he used to raise. “Look to the stars,” he whispered as their eyes shut, “Your mother is shining upon your faces.”

“Excuse me, sir,” expelled a voice from behind the bridge, his face hooded. “Are you Fedir Tereshchenko?” “Yes-”

A loud whack echoed the night. Maria’s father was dragged away, his bleeding body painting the cobblestone in crimson red.

Maria only had time to recognise the badge that identified the man as a Soviet Police Officer, before her father was murdered. Before she became an orphan.

Containing the screams that would give away her siblings’ hiding spot, Maria’s tear filled eyes focused on the sky. The stars blurred with her vision, and she bit her lip, refusing to accept another death. Her eyes opened, and when she looked to the sky and felt some comfort at their sparkling dance.

Another star had joined the night’s ranks.

1943

The early morning dew sparkled in the sun, it’s peaceful calm a juxtaposition to the world. The summer flowers were beginning to fade, their bright colours falling asleep in autumn’s arms. Like a napping child, the wind swayed, calmly encouraging the leaves to dance.

Maria sat on a hill, her frock muddied and brow hardened. Her feet ached against the dirt, feverish with desire to move. Her toes were travellers, they were dreamers and dancers. But the girl was chained to a flag of yellow and blue, stuck in the ground like the stalks of corn she grew.

Sometimes, she longed to return to the orphanage, she wanted to sleep in Helga’s arms and fall for Danya’s tricks. She wanted the quiet protection of her brother, the way he breathed at night, as though he was living a life away from the institute. But then she remembered the bodies, the bloated children and the sickly homeless. She remembered the feeling in her stomach, as though she would never be full again.

Reminiscing was a maze of dead ends and nightmares. A mess of faces gone to the grave and ones out of reach.

She lifted her face, eyes burning hazel in the light, and stared across the valley. If she thought hard enough, and winced her eyes, she could almost make out the silhouette of four waltzing children, squabbling in hysterics and hullabaloos.

She smiled, remembering the days of child-like bliss. “If only I could go--”

A gloved hand yanked her backwards and silenced her words, shock waves swam down her body, her toes painted with anxiety and ears pierced with fear. She tilted her head to find a man staring down at her, gritting his teeth as he covered her mouth and nose. As her vision darkened and she collapsed in her captor’s arms, she focused on the emblem of red, white and black. A swastika.

When she awoke again, she immediately knew she wasn’t in Ukraine.

The rattling train carriage was covered in streaks of brown, the chairs torn from the floor, the windows so dirty Maria had to stop to wonder if she was in a hellish dimension. The

sleeping, sickly bodies of young girls littered the area, crowding them like caged chickens at a market.

A few girls sniffed quietly, some were sobbing. Maria simply blinked, her body frozen. Only when the train came to an uneasy stop a few hours later could Maria act, driven mad by the whimpers of others. The chorus of growling stomachs in the train was so consuming that Maria almost fell sick from listening to them.

The door slid open, and men dressed in plain slacks greeted them, looking broken and uncaring. The girls fell out the train like spilt milk, desperate to find food or home. Maria lingered by the door, unsure what exiting would mean for her future. Soon, she stood alone, an armed guard watching her intently, a swastika on his arm.

“Welcome to Austria.”

Maria jumped, and turned to face a boy, offering his hand up to her. He owned the same greyed frock as every other prisoner, though his musical grin outshone them.

“C’mon,” said the boy, who owned a french accent, “Only trying to help you down.” His smile was a little too wide, his nose a little too big for his face. Maria was struck by the blue of his eyes, almost derived from Neptune. In fact, she stared for a little too long, and the boy raised his eyebrows at her amusingly.

“I’m fine,” Maria replied, turning her nose up, “Thank you, very much.” “You don’t seem very hysterical,” he said, sending a sideways glance at the sobbing girls, “Don’t you know why you’re here?”

Maria didn’t reply, she kept her head forward and followed the other girls, who were making ant trail journeys, lead and surrounded by soldiers. Staring at their guns, she knew to keep her mouth shut. If only the boy did, too.

“I’m am,” the boy said proudly, “Ivan Roberto Brunet.” “Maria,” said Maria. “I think we’re going to be good friends, Maria.” “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see!” he flashed her a smile, reminding her strangely of her youth.

He was new to her, simple and real, a golden breeze. While nightmares and work camps swarmed her life, he was tangible. He was real. She could touch him, hold him, feel his skin against hers.

He gave her a chance at reality, a chance for a future without starvation and death. The Austrian skyline was replaced with a Parisian one, the ache in their toes from dancing, not

14 hour work days and her bloodied fingers only paint, not the result of punishment and labour.

There was no music, the only tunes came from crows and floggings, but at night they would sneak out, dancing under the moon. Their relationship was frustrated by the stars, questioned by the clouds. In so much pain, how can two love each other so much? In a labour camp, where kidnapped teenagers were sent to work and die, how could there be any time to fall in love?

The months passed like droughts, slow and painful. While everyone fell over each other with thirst and hunger, Maria and Ivan were drunk in light and love. Sickness, too, filled the crevices of the forced labourers’ frowns, but even with corrupted lungs, the two still breathed each others names. Days went a little quicker when you had a hand to hold, and stomachs were less empty when full of laughter.

Maria often wondered if the desperation of their love was only accountable to their situation. If the threat of death wasn’t so close that filled their noses and made them sneeze, would she have loved him any less? If war wasn’t so invasive and haunting, would she have waited, taken things slowly? She decided no. Even the grass agreed they were soulmates.

“Brunet,” huffed a voice from above He looked to Ivan and Maria, both half asleep on a hay bale. Ivan looked up, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Mathis,” he nodded to his friend. “It’s Colette,” the other boy replied, curtly.

Maria frowned slightly, yawning. “Who’s Colette?”

“What about her?” Ivan demanded. Mathis raised his hand apologetically. “Calm down, mon amie. I spoke to a worker from the next farm over. He mentioned a Colette Brunet. I asked what she looked like, and he said: “Elle a les yeux bleus. Elle a été kidnappée du même endroit que Ivan.””

Ivan’s breath grew short, his eyes batted and hands raised to his head. “Non, non, non,” he muttered. “Ivan,” said Maria, who grabbed his hand and thrusted him towards her. Still, he cried, “Non, non, non.”

“Ivan!” Maria cried. She turned to Mathis, anger in her eyes. “What did you say!?”

Mathis’ eyes rested on Ivan as he spoke. “His little sister. He took her place to come here, but she’s been captured. She’s at the next farm over,” his head shook sadly. “She’s very ill.”

Maria looked to Ivan, eyes wide. She turned to Mathis, her mouth in a taught line. “That will be all, Mathis. Thank you.”

He nodded, and walked away, hands in his pockets. “Ivy,” she whispered. “Look at me.” When he didn’t, she repeated herself. “Look at me.” He raised his head, eyes flashing azure.

“Colette... She won’t last a fortnight.” “Well, that could only mean one thing,” Maria replied, staring across the fields. “And that is?” “We are going to save your sister.” “They’d kill us.” “We’re probably going to die here, anyway.” “Okay...” Ivan sighed anxiously. “Operation; Save Colette.”

...

The night was musky, clouds covered the moon, as though to dim the stars so Maria and Ivan would not be seen sneaking from the camp. They shared uneasy glances, unsure of what was to become of them.

They shifted through the field, and weaved through corn like snakes, feverish and blind. Maria only had time to catch the silhouette of the labour camp, before she held Ivan’s hands and marched to their destiny. She almost smiled, and thought of the world that was going to become their world.

“Okay,” said Ivan nervously. “Let’s go over the plan.” “Find Colette. Run until we find the American camp across the border.” He frowned. “It’s not the best plan. In fact, I’m pretty sure the American camp is a rumour.” Maria drew a breath. “We have no choice.” Ivan nodded. “For Colette. For us.”

“Ivan,” Maria whispered. “I know... We’ll figure it out.” Maria paused, resting her hands on her belly. “I’m pregnant.”

Gunfire mowed through the corn, suddenly blazing orange and red. Ivan stood still, mouth agape, and held hard onto Maria’s hands. It took him a few moments to drag her to cover, his eyes never leaving her stomach.

“Maria,” he yelled over the bullets, “You need to leave!” “Together!” she yelled back. “It’s too risky! Go to the American camp! They’ll care for you! I- I’ll meet you there!”

The boy rushed to his feet, pulling his soulmate with him. He leaned in, forehead brushing softly against hers, the tune of bullets and hounds doing nothing to stop their symphony of love.

“Maria,” Ivan whispered closely, “I... I love you.”

Maria stood, dumbfounded, as the bullets that whizzed through the air and pushed at her hair like dandelion seeds. She watched Ivan fade away, running the opposite direction from safety. Her jaw set, she held back tears and bolted, and left Austria behind her.

1952

The fifties were quiet. There was no gunfire and stomachs were always full. Australia was freeing, it wasn’t Paris, but it certainty wasn’t Ukraine. The days passed slowly, but the years quickly, running through Maria’s fingers like rain.

Hala was nine now, a sparkling grin and bright, blue eyes, the twins only three.

“Maria,” huffed her husband. “A letter.” Not looking up from her sewing, Maria replied “Who from?”

A silence filled the room, and Maria looked up, slightly concerned. “John?” she asked. “It from an Ivan Brunet.”

When she opened her mouth, a gasp filled the room. She whispered, “He’s alive!?” John’s face hardened. “That’s Hala’s father, yes? The boy... You said he died.” “Well, apparently not! Pass the letter, John!”

Without a word, John, her new husband, threw the letter into the fireplace, it’s contents of daydreams and maybes smoking with it.

After that, there were no letters. Ivan drained away, like the rain in her fingers. But, she still saw his blue eyes, his nose and big smile. She saw it in Hala, she saw it in her future grandchildren, and they would continue to see it for generations to come.

        Based on the true story of my great grandmother: Maria Haiduchnyk, 1925 - 2007, a survivor of Holodomir and World                             War Two.