#“The Three Times You Rebuilt Your House-shaped Heart”

[jamietukpahwriting]

From "The Three Times You Rebuilt Your House-shaped Heart" in Fierce Fairytales by Nikita Gill

[the-final-sentence]

Still the house-heart, sturdy as you make it, finds a way to crumble.

Nikita Gill, from "The Three Times You Rebuilt Your House-shaped Heart"

[cdroloisms]

Hello, idk if you’ll see this, nor do you have to take this request. But I’ve been thinking, and thought up: Dream joined the egg, but not because it offered him world domination or a happy family or any of that; no it offered to treat him kindly, to be affectionate, to be a friend, basically offering him human decency. (With an add on of everyone believing it was for some big reason, but the actual reason gets revealed somehow) if that made any sense. (Idk if this counts as an au or not)

[ask: if dream showed up to the red banquet, that would be very sexy of the writers to make him join the eggpire instead of the pro-omlette]

hehe egg!dream has so much potential ,, this is a ficlet i’ve been working on for a while (writer’s block my detested) but i finally finished it up !! it’s a bit unpolished but oh well - they cant all be winners lmao 

tw: body horror, blood, injuries, implied torture/abuse, starvation, possession, dark/disturbing imagery, dark content, pandora’s vault/prison arc 

Dream gets corrupted by the Egg, because of course he does.

Sapnap trudges through the vine-filled hallway, his face bundled firmly with a holy-water soaked bandana to keep out the worst of the spores. It’s a shoddy defense, but he doesn’t plan to stay long; he’s only been sent on reconnaissance, to see what public enemy number one is planning and get out as quickly as he can. As much as the entire server wants Dream dead, trying to defeat the man the first time was enough of a feat, never mind with the power of a giant demon egg on his side - to try and fight him now would be practically impossible.

The floor squishes underneath his boots, and his lips curl in disgust; the vines are thick and moist and feel ugly and rotten to the core. He can’t imagine anyone being anything but repulsed by the things, but he guesses it makes sense for Dream to be drawn here - corruption attracts corruption, it seems. It only figures that Dream would be desperate enough for power to let himself get possessed by the living - if you could really call it living - embodiment of decay and deterioration itself. The feeling of the floor giving way underneath his footsteps has another wave of revulsion crawling up his throat, though he’s not sure if it’s directed towards the Egg or his former friend or both.

He reaches the end of the hallway, an itching, pulsing feeling of wrong filling the air in the room just beyond the haphazard archway carved into the stone. With careful hands, Sapnap draws the bandana further up his face, making sure that it is tied securely behind his head - just beyond this wall lies the belly of the beast, the heart of the rot slowly but surely spreading its influence over the entire server. Something hums in the air; whispering, otherworldly sounds pierce through his armor and settle beneath his skin; he pushes on. He knows better than to listen, to try and make sense of the words within the noise - from what he’s heard, by the time you understand what it is saying, it’s too late.

He steps inside; the room feels, for the lack of a better word, red. He’s better suited for the place than most, being a Netherborn and therefore more used to the oppressive heat and heaviness of the air, but there’s something undeniably wrong about how this place feels, something entirely Other having made its home in the room. Every inch of the place feels hostile, angry, hungry, recognizing him as someone foreign and wanting nothing more than his destruction. Unlike the Red Forests, which teemed with life - piglins and hoglins and giant fungus - this room is little more than a twisted mimicry, sucking the air dry, leaving little more than husks behind.

His hand immediately goes to his sword, drawing it with a dull, metallic scrape. The room is eerily silent save for the Egg’s hissing whispers, and he frowns; he’d expected an attack, but the room is still, quiet; a mockery of peace that only makes the uneasy feeling in his gut grow further. He trudges forward, watching against the puddles of lava and smoking magma scattered over the floor, but nothing stirs.

There’s a growing pressure against his skull with each step into the room, and his hand tightens on his communicator; they’d set up a stasis chamber, just in case things went south, his way out of this place only a few button presses away. Still, nothing moves; no Bad or Ant popping out of nowhere, weapons in hand, no Dream driving an axe between his shoulder blades as he’s done so many times before in their spars. There’s only the sound of his footsteps against the rotting growths on the floor and his own heartbeat thudding in his ears and the Egg’s warbling voice, beneath it all - beckoning, almost kind.

He swallows, throat dry, and moves forward.

His feet carry him to the back corner of the room, to the rotting, pulsing core of the wrongness plaguing the entire server. Even through his bandana, the air feels foreign, nearly choking him, and he strains his eyes against the glare of the lava to look up at the vines’ rancid heart, the Egg. Up close, it’s almost underwhelming, only about three times his height, hardly coming halfway up to the ceiling of the room. What it doesn’t have in size, however, it makes up in sheer presence; the hissing whispers in his head grow louder, crawling under his skin and between his bones, and he curses under his breath as he prepares to call for his way back. Dream isn’t here; the mission is a bust.

“Sapnap?”

He freezes.

It takes a moment to realize that the voice wasn’t in his head, as raspy and unsettling as it was, and his eyes traced the edges of the Egg to a dull colored shape at its side, completely overlooked in his initial sweep of the room. He watches, a dull horror rising in his chest, as the shape moves, twists around on itself in an entirely unnatural way like a marionette pulled by its strings. A pale dot rises from where it had been hidden against the bright red of the Egg; it’s a face, Dream’s face, covered in clawing vines, stark against the bone-white of his sun-starved skin, vomit racing up his throat at the sight of the vines having made their homes in jagged wounds all over his face and neck and disappearing into the torn scraps of his prison uniform, each one spilling crimson in the form of writhing vines and thorns instead of blood.

“Sapnap,” Dream says again, his mouth moving with the words but something entirely other having made its home in the air of his lungs, a shivering rasp to his voice that lifts and falls with the same desperate hunger that saturates every tainted inch of the room. His neck tips to the side, shifted over by a twisting vine tangled within his hair and wrapping a crown of blood-red thorns over his forehead, tendrils drooping over his face and framing the gaunt edges. “You came.”

“Dream-” the anger comes back, familiar, at the other’s words - the same red-hot rage that had boiled within him in that first and only prison visit (you took so long) but it dissipates as fast as it comes. Dream - if this remnant, this shade, this corrupted, mangled half that seems more corruption than human can even be called the name of one he had once considered his best friend, his brother - stumbles closer, held up by the vines that twist over his shaking legs, one having the pale, ragged edge of a bone clearly having ripped through skin - and Sapnap does throw up, this time, dragging the bandana from his face and heaving bile all over the floor.

“What happened-” he cries, flames licking up his arms in defense when his friend-turned-monster-turned-this steps closer on a wreck of a leg that should not be able to bear weight, stumbles back to a roaring in his ears-

He is mine he came broken came shattered and I gave him everything I gave him his heart’s desire I am his savior his grace he asked for warmth and he asked for comfort and he asked for nothing but for someone to take his pain and he is mine he is mine he is mine

He freezes, hand tightening over his communicator; Dream stares at him with the one dull-green eye not covered by the vines splayed over his too-pale face, mouth moving but no sound coming out. The roaring, angry sound in Sapnap’s ears grows louder, follows the shape of Dream’s lips come join your friend come with me I will give him to you you have failed him once but not again not again he is mine but you can be mine also and you will be together together together

“-pnap! Sapnap!” Puffy’s words crackle over the communicator, harsh and loud and snapping him out of his thoughts, “Pull the switch, Sam! No, he’s not responding- pull the switch-”

The world dips, and he heaves in a shattered breath, lungs finally full as he breathes in clear air for the first time in what feels like an eternity, hacking coughs pulled from his throat as he tears the bandana off in one sputtering gasp for breath.

“Sap- Sapnap,” Sam pitches his voice low, comforting, a hand rubbing up and down his back, but all Sapnap can see is the skeleton of a man held together by red thread, the life leached from his skin and leaving nothing left, he asked for nothing but for someone to take the pain and he is mine he is mine he is mine-

“Sapnap,” Puffy’s voice is tinny with concern, “What happened? You stopped responding and the time passed so we pulled the switch on the stasis chamber- are you alright? Did he attack you?”

“I-” -you have failed him once but not again not again you will be together- “I need a moment.”

He scrambles away, feet carrying him away from Church Prime, away from the Holy Land, away away away until he’s standing on the Community House roof, staring at his hands at this home, destroyed, this home, rebuilt, this home, empty and wrong and a shadow of house for a shadow of a man, a shadow of a friend found, a friend lost- and sobs.

What had he done?

[thornedrose44]

Ends of the Earth

(Read it on AO3)

The world ended.

Well, that's not technically accurate… humanity's time on earth ended, a lot sooner than to be expected which is where the tragedy of it all lies, if Lena were to guess.

Not that Lena's own time on earth had ended. She was still here, pottering on, miles underground, fiddling with forgotten experiments and watching endless hours of television that she never had time for before… 

She wondered if this was what retirement was like… 

Admittedly, Lena had always imagined it involving more travelling, maybe some gardening and it had never been lonely. She refused to acknowledge that when she thought of getting older it was with crinkly blue eyes and silver streaked blonde hair at her side which always helped soothe the ache in her chest that such morbid thoughts produced. Now, even that fantasy was well and truly gone. 

She would only ever get to watch herself grow old now, at least she didn't have to worry about the paparazzi's comments about her receding good looks.

It wasn’t a bad life, not really. She had enough food to see her through old age or until the tempting call of the void summoned her. If Lena was being honest, which she kind of had to be when the only person she had left to lie to was herself… She knew it would be the latter that would take her in the end. 

See the thing is… Lena hears… things. 

They’re not real, or they are but they are merely the sounds that an empty building creates to keep itself company. The groan of a pipe. The squeak of a beam. The hiss of a fridge. The knock of a mechanised system keeping the air breathable and the water on hand.

Lena still had enough of her sanity to convince herself that the sounds were a natural part of her safe haven (‘prison’ more like). But there were mutters at the back of her mind that said other things. That squeak was a mouse still alive on the outside. That groan was a ghost, trapped forever alongside Lena. That hiss, the blast-proof doors whistling open and irreparably bursting Lena’s protective bubble. That knock…

The knock was the worst.

The knock was the call of the void that allowed Lena to fantasise. To dream.

That knock meant she was no longer alone.

That knock… that knock could be everything she ever wanted…

That knock could be Kara…

And that… 

Lena knew that it would be the void that got her before old age. It would be that knock, her loneliness and the hope of seeing blue eyes just one more time… just one more time…. That would do her in.

***

The first six months hadn’t been too bad. Lena had kept herself busy making the repairs she needed to keep her safe haven ‘safe’ for as long as possible. The Children of Earth’s final attack, that had prompted humanity’s departure two months ahead of schedule and Lena staying behind to ensure their escape, had wrought significant damage to the structure of the bunker. 

The work was dull. But it was good. It kept her hands busy. Her mind distracted. And it meant she could fall into bed, utterly exhausted and free of thoughts of what ifs and almosts and not yets and soons and new beginnings… 

The majority of the work required for Lena’s home to be brought to tip-top shape was done after six months. The next six months were about optimisation. Trying to make her home… more homey… An already difficult task when there was little in the way of colour to decorate the concrete bunker, but a nigh on impossible task when Lena’s home had never been four walls but blue eyes, golden hair, a bright smile and a warmth that made even the darkest moments survivable.

It was the second year that broke something in Lena that she would never get back again.

It made the light in her chest steadily dim and extinguish.

A candle that had remained alight with the childish possibility that Lena would get her miracle, her last second save and a happy ending.

She knew it was impossible. Knew that the surface of the Earth was not accessible to another living being. That the transmat portal could not be repaired, the necessary materials completely depleted - even if Lena had the materials to repair it, she wouldn’t have been able to generate a high enough voltage to power it. That the survivors were now countless lightyears away and a ship travelling to her would arrive long after she had turned to little more than dust in this mausoleum. 

To survive the breaking (more specifically the ‘breakdown’ that had Lena spending pretty much the entirety of a month drunk off her ass), Lena found a routine. She found a routine and stuck to it. 

A routine that kept her busy, mentally and physically occupied because if she stopped… if she let her thoughts wander… Well, that knock started to sound rather enticing.

Lena performed regimented checks of her safe haven and its equipment.

Lena had time for reading. For television.

Time for fun science experiments she never had time to progress when the scientist part of her was told to give way to the business woman part.

Time for exercise; soft curves hardening to muscles as she threw around equipment and worked tirelessly and rigorously.

Set meals.

Set bedtime.

Set wake-up.

Day after day passed by in this fashion. Weeks. Months.

Two years in her concrete bunker became three, became five… and before Lena really knew it… she was rapidly approaching a decade in this prison of monotony.

***

It had started with an innocuous ‘beep’.

A fucking beep foretold the destruction of Earth - Lena prayed that humanity, when they re-told the story of the fall of their first home, would ignore that particular aspect of the tale.

It had all started out as a minor reading on a random L-Corp machine tucked away at the back of Lena's lab. (It had been the beginning of yet another half-formed experiment by an idealistic Lena when she thought that being in charge meant she could spend time on her own projects. How utterly naive she had been.)

Lena had taken it over to the DEO where she and Brainy looked over it together for a weekend - mostly because Lena had nothing better to do, what with her friendships being more or less non-existent since her near defection back to the Luthors and despite her subsequent assistance in bringing down Lex. 

Lena assumed it was an atypical reading, a presumption that had been reinforced by Brainy with knowledge of the future. Because if this erroneous result was in fact true and accurate then… the Sun clearly had it in for the Earth. 

It was heating and expanding at a ridiculous rate. A rate which would make the Earth uninhabitable in a mere handful of years, the heat and radioactivity increasing to such a level that it would be like living in an overpowered microwave.

So, the result had to be wrong because as far as Brainy was aware the Earth was very much still standing a thousand years down the line. 

It took a month, with nearly all of L-Corp's resources working on it to find out that, as it turns out, the future can change.

Which was great news for those strongly in favour of free will and heavily against predetermination. Less great news for those that had recently got a mortgage for a new house…

It was full go then.

The next two years were some of the worst and best of Lena's life.

The sun's sudden failure was a parting gift from the Daxamites, who were big believers in ‘if I can't have it, you can't have it either’. Lena assumed Lex would appreciate the pettiness of the action.

The first six months had been filled with hope and a fervour to fix it. Solve the problem like the Superfriends had so many others before. Kara was their guiding light, tirelessly chasing down every lead, ready to get whatever Lena, Brainy and the whole cohort of scientists required at a moment's notice.

Lena, however, wasn't hopeful. She wasn't an optimist. Not anymore at least. Maybe once, when she was young and her mother was there to chase away the monsters under the bed and lift her into the air when the sun was at its warmest. 

She had been hurt, though. Lied to and betrayed far too much to have faith in some intangible and, as of yet, unknown success. She was a Luthor. Raised to be resourceful, stubborn and with a tendency to doubt. 

So, whilst her team of great minds slept, Lena would stay awake an extra couple of hours and plan and prepare for the worst. Because you never know when 'just in case' would be the only option left.

Lena and Kara's friendship over that six months steadily rebuilt.

It rebuilt over peace offering coffees brought to Lena's side by fidgeting fingers, “You look like you need it.”

“You didn’t have to.” Lena would always remind, not wanting there to be an obligation, not wanting Kara to be there unless she wanted to be.

“I know… I wanted to…” Would always be murmured back, soft and sincere, a rope cast out in the darkness.

 It was rebuilt by softly spoken encouragement when either flagged. 

“What use am I? It’s not like I can punch the sun better.” Kara huffed on days when she was left to pace without direction waiting for the next task, the next lead, the next… whatever...

“No, but I know that you would if you could.” Lena would reply, earning her a small upwards tick to Kara’s lips that made Lena’s heart flutter with something other than a constant state of anxiety. “You are more than just your powers, Kara. Far more.” Lena would whisper earnestly, and Kara would simply rest her head on Lena’s shoulder.

It was rebuilt by fingers gently interlacing to offer comfort, “We’ll find something.”

“Together?”

“How else? A Super and Luthor are unstoppable, didn’t you know?”

 It was rebuilt by Kara sharing her fears of losing yet another home and Lena listening, “I don’t know if I can take another loss like this.”

“I know, I can’t even begin to understand what you must be going through, but it's not going to be the same as last time, you know?” Lena would murmur, soft and hesitant, afraid of stepping wrong, afraid of treading on Kara’s open wounds that she had never known were there before. “If it does happen…” Lena would tack on (always if, never when) in those first few months. “You won’t lose everything. I won’t let you. Everyone that can be saved, will be.”

“Is it bad that I don’t… I can live with a few losses… I can, but there are some… Some that matter more...” Kara confessed haltingly, blue eyes wide and scared as if she was revealing something she wasn’t sure Lena was ready to hear yet.

“No, there’s nothing bad about that. At least,” Lena murmured, ducking her head as she curled her fingers tighter around Kara’s, her thumb rubbing back and forth over knuckles, “I don’t think of myself as a bad person for it.”

“You’re not.” Kara would insist, finally covering over the hurt of ‘villain’ once and for all.

It was rebuilt in Kara carrying Lena to her cot in the backroom of the labs whenever she found her slumped over her keyboard in the early hours of the morning. 

“Hmm…” Lena would sleepily hum as she felt herself being cradled in Kara’s arms who never used super-speed when she was carrying her anymore, something Lena was grateful for as it gave her precious extra seconds of being safely ensconced by everything Kara.

“Sleep, Lena, just sleep.” Kara would mutter tenderly, lowering her onto the blankets and pressing an almost imperceptible kiss to Lena’s forehead which guaranteed Lena pleasant dreams.

It was rebuilt on tragedy and hope. It was rebuilt on optimism and pessimism. It was rebuilt by two people who just wanted to save each other in whatever way they could.

***

After six months, it was known. It was known that there was no Hail Mary that could undo what had happened.

Now, it was just about survival… and, for some unfathomable reason, everyone was looking at Lena to ensure that.

“Me! Kara, they’re looking at me to… to… save them!” Lena yelled incredulously once she had returned to the sanctuary of her lab and it was just the two of them (as it often was now).

“Yeah… they are…” Kara replied with a shrug like it was obvious and understandable.

“Me! A Luthor!”

“No. Not a Luthor.” Kara declared firmly, lifting her chin in that way that always made Lena’s knees just that little bit weak. “Lena. The woman that has saved this planet and its people time and time again. A woman who has proven herself selfless and a hero in every way possible. The person that I…” Kara swallowed thickly and in that moment, Lena couldn’t breath, couldn’t move, couldn’t even think. Kara stepped towards her, strong and confident, reaching out to take Lena’s hands in her own, squeezing them tightly as earnest blue eyes stared deep into lost green. “Lena Luthor, you are my hero and I am always looking to you to save me.”

Lena finally inhaled a shuddering breath, nodded her head once and got to work.

The first step was the underground bunkers that would provide shelter for humanity whilst a more long term solution was achieved. The bunkers were not designed to be aesthetically pleasing or even remotely homely. They were functional, quick to put in place and hopefully temporary (which they would be for all but one).

Whilst the bunkers were built, Lena and her team were given two momentous undertakings that were critical for humanity’s continued existence:

Find a suitable new planet to call home.

Figure out how to get the entire population of Earth there as quickly as possible.

Lena hated the second six months of those two years. Kara was barely around, constantly buried under miles of earth, supporting the construction teams in their work, her help was crucial as having someone who could manoeuvre large weights delicately removed the overheads of large pieces of equipment and the time they would take to get in position and slowly carry out the task. When Kara ever did manage to poke her head above sea level, she was off to far flung places trying to minimise the impact of whatever natural disaster was occurring due to the Sun’s interest in making Earth a holiday destination for lava monsters in the near future.

Kara only ever made it back to National City for the occasional weekend once a month. A weekend that she mostly spent sleeping after having pushed herself past the point of exhaustion. 

Kara had taken to sleeping in Lena's cot whenever she was back, holding Lena close instinctively whenever the former CEO managed to collapse beside her after her own ridiculously long days. 

“You know, you have a far more comfortable bed at home? With proper sheets and pillows and blankets and all those really good things that are conducive to sleep…” Lena drawled as she slipped off her heels and sat on the edge of the cot that was already filled with a dozing superhero.

“I could say the same thing to you.” Kara yawned in return, shuffling to the edge of the single-person cot to leave a reasonable gap for Lena.

“Yeah, but…” Lena began to argue, biting her lip; Kara was out there everyday pushing her body beyond its limits in places with little sun, little hope and little in the way of comfort. And when she was granted a few hours of reprieve, just a few measly hours to rest before she was pulled back under, she spent it in a darkened back-room of a laboratory.

“No buts.” Kara cut in, tugging at Lena’s sleeve to pull her down into the empty space and open arms. “I’m here because…” Kara murmured, nuzzling her nose against Lena’s forehead whilst kindly ignoring Lena’s pounding heart, “Because I want to be here.”

“I want you here too.” Lena would eventually reply once her heart had returned to a normal beat and she was sure Kara had fallen into a deep slumber. 

(The Superfriends talked about Kara never returning home and choosing to be wherever Lena was amongst themselves, but they never brought it up with either woman, presumably out of respect or simply being too busy with the impending end of the world).

During that time, Lena was under more stress than she had ever been in her entire life.  A whole planet on her shoulders and she was being crushed under the weight of it all. 

On the plus side, it was the longest anyone had ever gone without spitting her last name out with disgust. It was difficult to damn the person working tirelessly to save you. Not that there weren't some that tried to call her saviour and devil in the same breath, but the Superfriends, who had become her friends again, would put a stop to it before they ever got to the second part of their sentence.

Lena knew that Kara had asked them to look after her whilst she was away. And she appreciated the thought more than she appreciated the actual looking after. Alex had taken to looming over her shoulder like a bodyguard and frog marching her to the canteen at set times to eat three meals a day. Nia, meanwhile, insisted that Lena walk up and down the white-washed corridors of the laboratory at least twice a day to ensure she exercised. 

She grew to love them all: Brainy who was constantly by her side, Alex who was holding her up when she nearly collapsed from exhaustion and Nia who always managed to remind her of the small things she was fighting to save when she got lost in the big picture. She loved them but every time they pulled her away from her work, Lena would hear a voice in her head whispering an ominous countdown.

***

One year post-world-ending-beep, and humanity was tucked away in its new home - the bunkers underground.

Lena and Brainy had finally found a promising planet that they could call home, code-named Goldilocks until an actual name was selected when they finally stepped foot on it (it felt weird officially naming something that they had never seen or experienced). Now, they just had to get everyone there and Lena doubted that there was an intergalactic moving service - maybe that could be her new business venture after her secondment as humanity’s supposed saviour was complete.

 Their best option was the transmat portals (mark two) that she somehow needed to make so that they didn’t require a corresponding portal on the other side. Their idea was more of a wormhole or slingshot, that flung them across the galaxy. They had transports that they could load people up in, they now just needed to create the ‘road’ or ‘shortcut’.

Lena spent day after endless day with Brainy in contact with Earth’s greatest physicists trying to solve problems and reconcile theories that would probably have taken centuries to solve, but mother was the necessity of invention. And dear god, did they need this invention.

The pressure was destroying Lena and more importantly it was creating a gulf between her and Kara that they had so pain-stakingly worked to remove over the last year.

“Lena, you need to eat.” Kara pleaded, her fingers making only fleeting contact with Lena’s elbow, the last time she had made contact Lena had flinched which had hurt Kara in a way that no physical attack ever could.

“I’ll eat later.” Lena replied sharply, her eyes remaining fixed on the board in front of her.

“Come on, Lena. Everyone else has taken a break.” Kara murmured, gesturing to the empty room and the blank computer screens.

“I’m not like everyone else.” Lena responded absent-mindedly.

“I know, I know…” Kara soothed, fingers twitching with the obvious desire to pull Lena into her arms. 

It had been weeks since Lena had been in Kara’s arms but Lena knew… knew that if she sunk into Kara’s embrace, she would crack open and she didn’t know if she would be strong enough to put herself back together again.

“Just, I’m here… for you… always.” Kara promised with a sad and lost tone of voice that made Lena’s throat tight and scratchy.

***

The Children of Earth were the single most irritating thing about the end of the world, and Lena knew that was saying something.

They were also the people that saw Lena’s near year long record without an assassination attempt as a challenge. 

They were a fanatical group that believed if the Earth was ending, the human race should too. That was pretty much it. Considering the rather bleak sales pitch, Lena was impressed by how many people they convinced to eagerly join up. 

Unsurprisingly, Lena was the number one target on their (s)hit list - what with being the main person working on getting them all off planet. Kara, took to being by her side almost constantly, an ever present shadow to the youngest Luthor; dark, steely blue eyes and a harsh frown on the world’s celebrated heroine made even the most committed of assassins think twice.

Kara’s shift to bodyguard came after the very first attempt on Lena’s life.

Lena was at her desk in her laboratory, making changes to an algorithm in the dead of night, the rest of her team retreating to their beds for a few hours whilst they could. It was Lena’s shaky hands that saved her life (exhaustion, stress and a near constant caffeine overdose had produced tremors in Lena’s long fingers that Kara couldn’t bear to look at anymore), Shaky hands reaching for a mug of cold coffee. Shaky hands so tired they couldn’t summon up the strength to hold it steady. The porcelain slipping through her fingers and rushing downwards to smash onto the floor. 

Lena instinctively scrambled after it, pitching herself awkwardly downwards and to the side,

It was this that saved her.

Ensured the bullet aimed for the centre of her back actually hit her shoulder.

It was the sharp inhale of pain and whisper of Kara’s name as she fell off her stool that saved her.

Because Kara was always listening out for her. On hand and ready the second Lena needed her. 

Lena didn’t hit the floor. Didn’t smash into the ground like her coffee mug.

Warm arms were around her before she even got close.

“You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.” Was whispered endlessly on repeat as she was carefully transported to the medbay where Alex and Eliza (quickly roused from sleep by a terrified superhero) got to work. Lena didn’t ask about the assassin, she knew she was safe with Kara watching over her and the Danvers so tenderly cleaning out her wound and that was all that really mattered. She didn’t have any space left in her mind to think of anything else, so overwhelmed with all the problems she had been asked to solve. There was no processing power left to confront other unknown questions.

Kara didn’t leave her side from then on. Not that Lena would let her. Not that night.

Their hands were clasped tightly together and would stay that way even when it inconvenienced the two doctors, who were wise enough not to raise it as an issue.

Lena’s wound was dressed efficiently and in such a way as to minimise scarring, Eliza and Alex returned to bed as they moved away from early morning, and the leaders of the survivors underground were made aware of the threat against their chief scientist. If Kara, as Supergirl, hadn’t insisted on serving personally as Lena’s protector, Lena was pretty sure the leaders would have demanded it, having grown equally fond of and dependent on the youngest Luthor.

When it was just them… just Kara and Lena… that’s when Lena let the tears fall and the sobs wrack her body. She was cradled carefully in Kara’s arms in an instant and everything she had been holding back burst out of her in an unending stream.

It was cathartic, letting it all out whilst Kara just held her and listened and whispered words of reassurance and affection.

The gulf that had formed, disappeared in an instant as Lena buried her head into the crook of Kara’s neck murmuring apology after apology for keeping her out, for putting distance between them, for not being good enough, for not saving Kara’s second home. 

Kara listened, rejecting every single apology with a firm voice and understanding blue eyes.

“Don’t push me away again.” Was all Kara asked for.

“Never. Never again.” Lena promised, not knowing at the time how she would be forced to break that promise less than a year from now.

***

The looks and hints and flirts and teases started in earnest then - they had always been there but boyfriends, secrets, distrust, confusion and hurt had blanketed it and kept it from growing. Now, it was just them and the end of the world.

Their days were spent together, Lena trying to save the world and Kara just trying to save Lena.

“You know I was a prodigy back on Krypton…” Kara revealed her past quietly as she was oft to do when the lab was empty and the bunker was blessedly quiet.

“In writing?” Lena asked, abandoning her work to give Kara her full attention - Kara was the only thing, especially when she was like this (soft, vulnerable and eyes aching with the loss of one home) that could make Lena turn away from the screaming voices inside her head.

“No…” Kara laughed lightly, “I was to be the youngest to join the science guild.” 

“Really?” Lena murmured in disbelief.

“Hmm…” Kara hummed, her mouth quirking up at the edges; Lena’s eyes dipped down to stare at the movement as they had begun to do with increasing frequency.

“Then why…” Lena began curiously wondering why Kara would turn away from something she had been preparing for and so obviously excelling at.

“Because, on Krypton…” Kara reached out with tentative fingers and pushed a dark lock of hair behind Lena’s ear. “We didn’t have people like you. People who worked on the ‘just in case’. People who spoke up. People who… thought everyone should be trusted with the truth. People who thought everyone deserved to be saved, not just the select few.” 

Lena grabbed Kara’s hand and brought it to her lips, pressing a comforting kiss to its palm as Kara revealed her scars to her. 

“I didn’t see science the same.” Kara confessed, her gaze turning far-away and distant as she took in the scribbles on the white-board like she recognised the odd syllable of a language she hadn’t spoken in years. “Science was elitist. Science led to hubris. Science failed to save us. But it was the lies that damned us in the first place. So… when I had the chance to start again…” She trailed off, expression melancholic and wistful.

“Thank you for telling me that.” Lena whispered sincerely, once it was clear Kara had nothing left to say.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Kara chuckled dark and pained in a way that made Lena’s heart crack across the surface.

“What is?” Lena prompted, squeezing Kara’s hand tightly in the hopes of grounding her.

“If I had been a journalist on Krypton, I could have made a difference. And if I was a scientist here, I could have made a difference.” Kara said, her smile a dark and broken thing that looked just wrong on her face.

“You make a difference, Kara. Every day. Just by being you.” Lena declared, green eyes sharp and jaw clenched determinedly.

The twisted smile receded back to something soft and adoring. “Maybe for the next one I’ll switch back to science, I mean how long do you think it would take me to get upto speed?” Kara questioned teasingly jerking a thumb at the board covered in excessive equations.

Lena let go of the heavy moment, though she wanted to reinforce to Kara that she was perfect just the way she was. But there would be other moments, other conversations, other secrets shared, other wounds tended…

“Depends on your teacher. With me there to help, I could make you an expert within a decade.” Lena asserted with a confident wink.

Kara’s gaze narrowed, a smouldering smirk slowly appearing as the kryptonian leaned into Lena’s space, “Is that so? Professor?”

Lena gulped.

***

It was a known yet unspoken thing between them.

They spoke around it, danced right up to it, fogged up the glass with eager breaths and pressed against the membrane with curious fingers. Lena knew Kara felt it, in the same way Kara knew Lena felt it. Though, both were too fearful to define it, to say how deep it ran, how much it meant to either of them. 

It was ambiguous in its immensity, not in its existence.

Whenever they brushed up against it, and came close to breaking that barely visible wall between them, they were pulled back with murmurs of ‘soon’ and ‘almost’...

They were both too dutiful, too dedicated to the task at hand to leave room for much else. And they both didn’t want to start when they couldn’t commit all of themselves to each other. Wanted their chance to have the highest probability for success that it could. Because that's what they both deserved.

“The first sunset.” Kara murmured when they were cuddled up together on Lena’s cot in the small room put aside for the chief scientist at the back of the lab in the bunker. “Me, you and a picnic under the very first sunset.”

“Sounds romantic.” Lena teased, rubbing her cold nose against Kara’s clavicle.

“I’ve got it all planned.” Kara admitted honestly. “Every last detail.”

“You’ve really thought about this…” Lena said in awe, pulling back to look down into soft blue eyes.

“It’s all I think about…” Kara replied, her fingers stroking up and down Lena’s back - Lena wished those clever, clever fingers would sneak under her sleep shirt and run along her bare skin.

“Soon.” Lena exhaled their now common commitment.

“Soon.” Kara echoed.

***

The transmat portals were nearly done. Ahead of schedule which was probably a first for any project, yet alone one on such a large scale.

The only problem was the energy source. It was… rather unstable and the amount of energy required to power all the portals at the same time was substantial. To ensure the tentative peace between all leaders and those involved, an agreement was made that all the portals would activate at the same time and humanity would pass through in one go to ensure that there was no group given an advantage.

Lena understood the political reasoning but it was an engineering nightmare.

They were working on putting power stabilisers on the portals to limit the impact of unwanted surges, when the Children of Earth made their play.

Coordinated explosions that threatened the sanctity of the bunkers moved the scheduled departure date up and prompted a mass evacuation. Kara didn’t want to leave Lena’s side but the people needed their Supergirl and it wasn’t fair for Kara to stay by Lena’s side when she was far from the fighting and others needed her to be their shield. Kara left her side with a promise of, “Soon, we’ll get our sunset.”

Lena had prepped the transmat portals from the command centre, monitoring the power levels with a wary eye as the bunker shook with the ferocity of the fighting. Lena watched over transport after transport, making changes as required to keep the power stable. As the numbers of those left to go through began to dwindle, Lena sent her team of loyal scientists led by Brainy (who she had to order to leave) on their way, leaving one transport for her and the soldiers holding off the Children of Earth. 

Lena struggled, as time ticked ever onwards, to keep the power surges under control and the transmat portal open. With the energy already expended, Lena knew if it closed… it wouldn’t be possible to open it ever again.

The soldiers led by Alex and Nia appeared following a large explosion that completely caved in an entire section of the (thankfully, now empty) civilian barracks. Held up by Alex and Nia was Kara, bloodied and bruised, skin a sickly green as her eyes fluttered weakly and her mouth moved trying to form words, fighting desperately to remain conscious. A battle she lost a second after catching a glimpse of Lena hurrying towards them.

They made their way as a group (Lena and those that had taken the pivotal last stand) to the transport when the evacuation alarm was joined by a clinically detached voice calling out, “Power Level Critical.”

The transmat portal flickered before brightening and then dimming almost immediately. The power surges threatening the very integrity of the portal.

“Lena, we have to go now!” Alex shouted, jerking her head towards the last transport that her group of soldiers were already piling into when she saw Lena freeze mid-step.

Lena doesn’t remember making the decision. It was just instinct. She could work out the variables, could see the solution and just… acted. It didn’t require actual thought.

There was the portal that wasn’t safe for a transport to go through unless someone was making the necessary adjustments to the power in the command centre.

There was Kara, hurt and beaten but still so alive and so beautiful and without a doubt the love of Lena’s life.

It was never a choice, so how could Lena have made a decision.

“No, you have to go. I need to keep the power levels under control. You won’t make it, otherwise.” Lena said, her voice eerily calm and collected for what she was about to do.

The looks of absolute, sheer horror that appeared on Alex and Nia’s faces as understanding dawned would stay with Lena forever. It was the moment she realised she was making a sacrifice and not just carrying out a simply logical action.

“No, Lena…” Alex gasped, her brown eyes turning watery as she hefted Kara higher as if.. As if she was trying to shake Kara awake so that she could bear witness to what was happening. 

“There’s no other way.” Lena declared, striding forward to cup Kara’s perfect face in her hands before leaning down to press a soft, farewell kiss to Kara’s cheek. “I was really looking forward to that sunset.” Lena whispered quietly.

Lena took one second to memorise that light vanilla scent that she would always associate with Kara before letting go of the kryptonian and looking to the distraught sister, “Keep her safe.” Lena requested simply, “And…” Lena swallowed thickly, “Tell her to be happy. Just happy.”

And with those final words, Lena sprinted back to the command centre, yelling for Alex to “Go!”

It was a close thing in the end. The power surges were seconds away from blowing the portal, and the bunker along with it, to smithereens when the transport finally zoomed safely through to humanity’s new home. Lena cut off the power just in time to limit the extent of the explosion that followed. The portal blasted apart but it didn’t have enough oomph to rip through the bunker.

It did knock out the lights, though, leaving Lena in absolute darkness for the first week of her new existence as the last human on Earth.

***

Okay, so Lena needed to admit to something… just a small thing… it was just, she knew it made her sound… you know… not really all there…

She had a dog.

A… uh… robot dog… that she had built for herself for company…

And, you know, Tom Hanks had a volleyball so, in comparison to that Milo seemed far more… sane…

(Don’t worry she had resisted the urge to call it K-9 and she had made it far more mobile and life-like than the rather square Doctor Who companion).

His name was Milo, after the main character from Atlantis, one of Kara’s favourite films. He was sleek, more grey-hound shaped than terrier, but moved rather clunkily. He had a tendency to trip when going up or down staircase B5-1 since that particular set of stairs were a little steeper than the others in the bunker and Lena had forgotten to factor that in when she created him. Now, she found the little stumble he made on those steps gave him character, made him seem even more alive than the adaptive AI that operated him so she never bothered to fix it.

Lena resisted the urge to give Milo a voice, since a robotic voice coming from her robo-canine companion kind of ruined the image that she had of Milo being a real dog but she couldn’t stand the silence anymore, couldn’t stand only hearing her own voice.

That was the other thing… after a year she’d started narrating for lack of a better word. Commenting on her work, speaking her thoughts aloud rather than keeping them inside her head. Partly to add some sound to her quiet life and partly (but mostly) to remind herself she was still here, still had a voice. 

If a tree fell in the forest would it still make a sound?

Did Lena still exist if no one was around to see or hear her?

In year four of her solitary existence, the narration became full-on conversations with herself which eventually prompted her to create Milo after she realised that she had gone to bed two consecutive nights in a row angry at something she had said to herself.

Milo spoke to her in song.

“You’ll always be here to keep me company, right Milo?” Lena would ask after crying over The Notebook.

“I’m never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you.” Milo would blast at her through the speaker in his mouth alongside a friendly wag of his tail.

Lena was working on a beam with a crack in it, bending her head down to check on Milo who was looking up at her through green LED lights. “Did I get it all?” She called down.

“Higher, higher and higher. I said your love…” Milo directed, his LED eyes emitting a beam of light to point out a spot above Lena’s head.

He was a good dog overall, though he definitely had a preference for 80s classics much to Lena’s equal amusement and chagrin.

***

She tried not to think of Kara. But it happened.

The longest she had gone, not including sleep (though most of her dreams involved her blonde best friend so it wouldn’t have helped her average anyway), was three and half hours. An event which occurred during her drunken month in year two; she had grown irrationally angry at the transmat portal and had taken a crow-bar and smashed up the remains of the structure whilst listening to screaming death metal music.

She knew Kara would mourn her, miss her at least for the first year. But Lena knew she would keep herself busy. That there would be near endless tasks to occupy her mind and distract her heart and that whenever there was a lull or a break, the Superfriends led by Alex would be there to soothe whatever pain may surface.

Hopefully, by the second year Kara would be able to think of her and it be a joyful experience rather than one of pain. She knew Kara would still think of her often even one year removed from their separation (loss). Knew she had been significant enough to Kara to leave a wake behind.

By the third year, Kara would be ready - Lena didn’t doubt - to open her heart to another, to find someone else to fill the spaces Lena fleetingly occupied. There would be plenty ready and waiting, many probably far more deserving than Lena. 

Kara would find someone else to share that sunset with.

Years four to six, Lena hoped Kara would be rediscovering her passions, that her new home would be stable enough that Kara could get back to the things that made her happy. Lena hoped Kara was still writing, still turning her hand to paper and creating wonderful prose.

Years six onwards… Lena imagined Kara with a family of her own. The image would shift and change but there were always two children underfoot that Kara adored and both of which had inherited Kara’s blue eyes and pure heart. The other person in the picture was blank-faced, their features undetermined. Male or female, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was they put the brightest smile on Kara’s face possible.

“Just be happy.” Lena would whisper her plea out to the universe last thing at night and first thing in the morning. Because, if she said it enough, willed it enough then there was a chance she could make it true. Make the picture in her head of Kara real just by wishing it hard enough.

***

It was the start of her ninth year - Lena kept track by way of scratching into the walls a tally since it pleased her to think she was leaving some indelible mark on this place even if no one else would ever see it - and the knock was starting to become just that little bit more enticing. Lena had started to find herself walking up to the large blast doors and just… staring at them for hours on end.

It was only Milo that was keeping her going by this stage, blasting out, “Don’t you forget about me”, and “Oh, won’t you stay with me? ‘Cause you’re all I need”, whenever Lena’s fingers so much as twitched towards the manual override button.

Lena didn’t think too deeply about how her only reason for carrying on was the potential guilt that came with breaking the heart of a robot dog. 

“Spread it like peanut butter jelly...”

“Whilst I appreciate that you found the perfect song for my current actions”, Lena chuckled, casting an amused glance over her shoulder at her companion, whilst she spread the peanut butter over the plastic-like bread that had been made to last decades, “I don’t think you realise what that song is really about…”

Milo’s head tilted to the side at the words - Lena had designed him so that when he was processing new information or analysing anything he would tilt his head to the side like a real dog. 

“Oops!... I did it again…” Milo proclaimed, dropping to the ground with an embarrassed shake of his metal head.

“You’re still my best boy, don’t worry.” Lena reassured, finishing off preparing her lunch and making her way to the little living space she had made herself, a rather ratty red sofa and television screen had been added to the small room behind her lab that she had made her own. She had just sat down and was about to take a bite of her sandwich when-

Bzzzztttt…

That was new. 

The buzzing sound was so loud and clear that it felt like the entire bunker was vibrating with it. Lena was on her feet in an instant, Milo by her side, as she grabbed her tablet and went towards the source of the sound. As soon as the sound had begun, though, it decreased in volume to a mere hum. Outside Lena’s lab, in the long corridor covered in tally marks was a bright purple circle with blue streaks of light hovering below the ceiling. Beneath the light in a crumpled mass was a figure dressed in dark blue and crimson red with a silver cable connected to their centre which disappeared back up into the portal.

“Okay, I got the angle slightly wrong… Yep, face planted…”, The intruder groaned as they pushed themselves up to reveal a mess of hair. “I know, I can fly but I wasn’t thinking about flying and didn’t react in time… and-” The figure struggled to their knees and shifted round, finally catching sight of Lena who was simply standing there, mouth agape, leaning on Milo to keep her upright.

Kara.

It was in that moment that Lena saw a shade of blue she had been deprived of for over nine years. Kara’s eye colour, though, was possibly the only thing about her that hadn’t changed. 

Familiar golden curls had been cut away to be replaced by slightly darker blonde with the odd streaks of silver that only just grazed a jawline Lena’s fingers had traced countless times. Also gone was Kara’s defined and overly muscular body, she looked thinner… almost gaunt. Her cheeks hollower than they had ever been before. The crinkles around her eyes were nowhere near as deep as Lena had imagined them to be whenever she thought of Kara with her family. There were instead, however, lines around her mouth that implied she frowned more than smiled and that… that cracked whatever fragile grasp of reality Lena had left completely apart.

Because of this - Lena no longer trusting her eyes, unable to accept an existence where Kara hadn’t been happy, as Lena had begged the universe to make happen everyday - she didn’t truly see the expression on Kara’s face.

She didn’t see the sheer joy, the tears of elation, the broken smile that couldn’t smile as wide as it wanted due to being so out of practice.

“You’re here… You’re really here…” Kara breathed out, her blue eyes drinking in the sight of Lena shifting shyly from foot to foot as she stroked the smooth metal surface of Milo for comfort. 

“Kara.” Lena murmured, testing the word out in her mouth, trying to see if she still knew how to say it after all these years.

“Lena, you’re here…” Kara whispered totally awestruck, getting to her feet and taking slow, careful steps towards Lena, her fingers reaching out for the raven-haired woman.

“I don’t under-... this isn’t real… you’re not real… you can’t be real…” Lena stammered, shuffling backwards away from the ghost in front of her, unaware of the gasp of pain that it caused. “Did I answer the knock? Is this a dream? Milo analyse the surroundings and conditions.” Lena ordered, dropping her gaze to her tablet as she tapped frantically against the screen, mumbling her every thought out loud as she had become prone to do over the years. “Hallucination, most likely… potential causes… sleep deprivation? Unlikely, I have a set sleep schedule. Radioactivity has finally penetrated the bunker and has caused a multitude of health problems. Possible, though I take regular readings of-”

“Lena! Please, stop…” Kara cried, collapsing to her knees in front of Lena, tears streaming down her face. “I’m here, okay? I’m really here!”

“No! No!” Lena shouted in return, “This isn’t real! Because… because…” Lena’s breaths came out sharp and panicky as she was overwhelmed by a tempest of emotions she had worked so, so, so hard to deaden herself to over the last nine years. “You’re meant to be married! You’re meant to be happy! You’re not meant to be here…”

Fingers curled delicately around Lena’s biceps; she wasn’t even aware that she had fallen to her knees as well, that she had brought her hands up to cover her face.

The touch and its sheer gentleness almost made Lena jerk away but the barely there scent of vanilla instinctively made her lean forward instead, her head moving to rest as it always used to do on Kara’s reliable shoulder.

“Lena, how could I be happy without you?” Kara whispered, her fingers moving ever so carefully from Lena’s biceps, round to her back… so tenderly wrapping Lena up in her arms. “Let me take you home, please, please Lena… let me take you away from here, please…” Kara begged, pressing featherlight lips against Lena’s forehead. “Let’s go see that sunset, yeah?”

Lena pulled away so that her hands could move to cup Kara’s beautiful, anguished face, thumbs wiping away the endless tears, “You still want to? Even after all this time?”

“It’s all I’ve thought about.” Kara confessed, a breathtaking smile overtaking her face… and that… that one smile made it all worth it… made nine years in darkness… nine years alone all worth it. 

Lena loved how that smile stretched under her palms and she wondered how it would feel under her lips; the thought barely even crossed her mind before she started to lean forward to find out, Kara inhaling sharply as she realised what Lena intended, when-

“Sha-la-la-la-la-la, music play, do what the music say, you wanna kiss the girl.” Milo sang out for them, his metal tail thumping happily against the concrete floor, his green LED lights looking between his best friend and this blonde newcomer excitedly.

“Thanks, Milo.” Lena chuckled wetly, glancing over at her robo-dog before looking back to find Kara’s blue eyes sparkling with joy at her. “I have a robot dog, now.” Lena explained needlessly, cheeks turning an embarrassed pink.

“I can see that.” Kara replied with a laugh, her hand reaching out to brush through Lena’s dark hair, as she asked her voice brimming with hope, “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah, yeah, I am…” Lena admitted with a fervent nod of her head before pressing a delicate kiss to Kara’s cheek. “I want to see that sunset.”

[pappydaddy]

Ghost of You ii (f.w.)

A/N: Here is a part two for Ghost of You (Requested by the lovely @lovenonymously​!). I didn’t know which way to go with this so I kinda mashed up some of the suggestions in the request to create this! Hope you enjoy!! 

Pairing: Fred x Fem!Reader

Movie/TV Show: Harry Potter

Trigger Warnings: Character death, angst, sadness, some fluffy memories, recovery, a mention of alcoholism (recovering).

Part One | Part Two - You’re here!

masterlist | taglist | wips | navigation - my gif -

  His breath was taken away from him the second she stepped into the moonlight. The purple dress she wore was just an ordinary dress like she always wore but then again, she always managed to take his breath away. He could only manage a smile as their eyes connected, her making her way to where he was standing, the moonlight glowing against her skin like a goddess. “Hello, Freddie.” She giggled, her bare feet stopping to stand in front of him, her dress blowing ever so slightly in the spring breeze that blew past them. 

  “Hello, Love.” He was finally able to find the correct words in the hectic jumble that was his mind. The fact that he managed to find a girl as sweet and beautiful as the one that stood in front of him boggled his mind. Despite them being so young, he knew that she was the one and that he was truly and madly in love with her. 

  “I didn’t know what you had planned so I just threw a dress on,” She spoke in an apologetic tone, looking down at her floral dress bashfully. “I don’t even have makeup on or my hair done.” 

  “You look perfect to me,” Fred whispered, thinking he talked low enough that she wouldn’t hear him. When she snapped her head back up to look at his face, the redness in her cheeks evident in the pale moonlight, he knew she had heard him. He blushed himself, trying to recover from that slip-up. She was the only girl that left the infamous flirt Fred Weasley sheepish. “You really do look perfect.” He spoke these words firmer, stepping closer to her to close the gap between them, his hands settling on her waist. 

  “I look like I just rolled out of bed, which I did because you wanted to meet at midnight. I had to go to bed so someone didn’t rat me out of breaking curfew.” She smiled lightly, though she had felt like she was in no shape to be seen by anyone with her hair falling in her natural waves and makeup-less face, Fred made those pesky butterflies swirl in her stomach with every look he gave her.

  “You’re a Hufflepuff, nobody would rat you out,” Fred spoke over the silence of the night as he swayed them back and forth in a slow dance, turning in a small circle to the beat of the imaginary music in his head. “They’re all too loyal.“ She snorted at this, the sound beautiful to him, but a flaw to her. She slapped her hand over her mouth, embarrassed that she had done that in front of him despite how long they had been dating. 

  Fred laughed, pulling her hand away from her face gently, his fingers interlacing with hers while his other hand kept a hold of her waist, her hand falling back to rest on his shoulder. The pair swayed gently, the blades of grass tickling their feet but they didn’t mind. Suddenly, he spun her out - shocking her for a second before her giggles filled the night air. The image moved in slow motion in his mind. Her dress flaring up, her hair whipping around, the large smile on her glowing face. He pulled her back into him, her body clumsily pressing against his as she stumbled a little, her hand resting against his chest before sliding up to rest on his shoulder again.  

  Silence surrounded them as they just enjoyed each other's company. Enjoying the rhythm of their beating hearts, the feeling that crawled beneath their skin from their skin touching, the swirling in their stomachs, the sheer happiness they felt. “What do you think life after Hogwarts will be like,” She posed the question, her voice softer than anything Fred has ever experienced. “I hope we still have dates like this.” 

  “We’ll have dates like this and many different dates, I will never pass on an opportunity to take you on a date.” He gazed down at her as she laid her head on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart. 

  “And when we get married, it’s nice and intimate, not a big wedding that’s too crowded,” She continued to think of their future, not even doubting that they would be forever. “We will live in a cottage-style house that’s nice and cozy with a beautiful garden that our kids can play in. It won’t be too far from The Burrow so that we can visit your family easily and George won’t be too far either since it wouldn’t be right to not see him every day.” 

  “But we won’t live too close to Mum and Dad, will we,” He asked nervously. “I love my mum, but I don’t think I could survive with her dropping by all the time, a couple needs their alone time.” He spoke with his normal amount of cheekiness in his voice and she could basically see the wink he undoubtedly sent her. 

  “Not too close to your parents so that you can have alone time with me, got it,” She nodded, pulling her head off his chest to peer up at the tallboy. “I’ll write it in my new journal when I get back to my room.” She told him, barely getting the words out before his lips collided with hers, nearly knocking her over by the sheer force and urgency of the kiss. Once she regained her balance, she giggled against his lips, kissing him back in a way that made him melt. 

  Fred sighed as he slowly floated back into reality, his shaking hands picking up the journal he was staring at. The brown leather covers tied closed with a matching string. It was in the same pristine condition it was in when she first got it from her mother. It was intended for her to write about all the day’s activities to keep as a portal to her Hogwarts years, but it turned into her planning her future, writing it all down on the pages. The only thing that looked different about it was the edges of the pages were turning a bit yellow where she had accidentally spilt a bit of water on them. He didn’t dare open it, he was barely managing to move her things back into their rightful places. Instead, he slipped it into its place on her bookshelf in between her old school textbooks she held onto for reference sake. 

  “Fred,” George poked his head into the room as Fred turned his back towards the bookshelf. “Dinner’s ready, come sit and rest. You don’t have to put everything away tonight.” 

  “I’ll be right out, I just have to put one thing back in here.” Fred told him. With an understanding nod, George pulled his head out of Fred’s room to saunter back into the kitchen to prepare the table. He moved across the room to the dresser, picking up the old tube of strawberry chapstick she had left there, shuffling over to the nightstand on her side of the room. Opening the drawer, he neatly placed it among the other neatly placed objects that filled the drawer. With one last look around the room, Fred pushed the drawer closed before making his way out of the room to his waiting brother. 

  “How’d it go?” George asked when he noticed Fred rounding the corner. George placed the two full plates on the table next to the two glasses of water that were already placed in the spots. Fred shrugged, settling down in the seat George didn’t take, looking down at the plate George had prepared for him. 

  “Good, I’ve got everything where it’s supposed to be except the closet, but there isn’t much to do there.” Fred answered him, picking up his fork to eat some vegetables. George hummed, taking a swig of his water, nodding slightly. 

  “Are you going to do that tomorrow? I think you should, Dr. Smith said not to do too much at once,” George reminded him. Fred had taken so long to place the few things back to where they belonged in the bedroom. “And maybe I can help you with your bathroom, the shop is closed tomorrow.” He suggested, knowing that Fred wouldn’t want to do it all alone. 

  “That would be great, I could use the help to clean the bathroom anyway, it’s a bit cluttered.” He told George after chewing all his food. 

  “Then it’s settled, we’ll tackle the bathroom tomorrow and maybe my bathroom while we’re at it - it could use a good cleaning as well.” George slid that in there, earning a laugh from Fred. There had been only a few moments when Fred had laughed recently, once being when Ron had managed to slip on a sheet of ice three times and the others from little comments George has made that he never really thinks of. 

  “Your bathroom needs to burnt and rebuilt, you never clean it,” Fred pointed out, turning his nose up in disgust at the thought of his brother’s bathroom. “After we clean the bathrooms, maybe we could get some takeout? With tacking your bathroom onto the to-do list, we’re bound to be too exhausted to even think about cooking anything.” 

  “Sure, Fred, whatever you want,” George smiled down at his plate, the smile going unnoticed by Fred who continued to talk. His brother was finally acting more like himself. His footsteps were lighter when he walked, his lopsided smile could be seen on his face more often. He has even been able to come down into the shop and work for a few hours at a time, interacting merrily with customers. Fred had a while to go before he was fully back to himself, but he was slowly getting there. George couldn’t help but to wonder what the new Fred will be like. If he would find another person to love or if Fred having a certain amount of soulmates was real. Either way, he knew that Fred was going to be alright, no matter what being healed looked like for him. He knew that he wasn’t skipping out on appointments anymore to drink, in fact, Fred hasn’t even as much as thought of a drink for at least six months and George had aided his brother in his mission of sobriety - quitting drinking himself to stand alongside his brother in his path to recovery. George looked back up at Fred as he took a break in his story about a new product he thought of yesterday to eat some of his dinner. A loose smile played on George’s mouth as he took his brother in. “I love you, Fred.”  

  Fred looked up at George, chewing his food before answering. “I love you too, Georgie,” He replied, taking a drink of his water. “But anyway, I was thinking-” He launched back into his pitch, George nodding as he listened, happy to have his brother back. He wasn’t scared of losing someone without them knowing he loved them anymore, but he certainly made it a routine to tell the people he loved that he loved them at least once a day. 

  He still felt the ghost of you lingering around beside him, but it didn’t bring him sadness anymore. Your ghostly presence provided him with comfort and strength, knowing that you were still with him in spirit. He also knew that someday, when it was meant to happen, you two would reunite in some way. He hoped that you two would spend your days in the afterlife as ghosts, terrorizing people with pranks and practical jokes. No matter what would happen, Fred was sure that he was going to live his life to the fullest until that day for that was what he knew you wanted for him.                 

[destiel-love-forever]

What a Jerk

It’s Valentine’s Day. For Castiel & Dean, that means war. 

Read below or on AO3: HERE

"What a jerk," Castiel grumbles, closing the door as the delivery man leaves.

"Who?" Benny asks from his spot on the couch a few feet away. He turns to look at Castiel, more words about to come out. Then he sees the giant bouquet of flowers in Castiel's hands and grins. "Oh. Dean."

"Stop smiling. He's an asshole." Castiel storms off to the kitchen. Since his penthouse apartment is an open-floor plan, though, he doesn't escape Benny. He just gets his bitch face from a new angle.

"Yes," Benny says sarcastically. "What an asshole for buying you flowers."

Castiel huffs as he searches for a stupid vase for the stupid flowers. "I told him not to do this."

"Yeah, bad idea. Telling Dean not to do something is pretty much the equivalent of challenging him to a duel."

There's a dusty vase beneath the sink. Castiel takes it out and fills it with water, not bothering to clean it first. When it's filled enough for the flowers to survive - because Castiel isn't a monster, he's not going to purposely kill beautiful flowers - he stuffs the bouquet into the vase.

"There." He sets the vase on his kitchen island and breathes a sigh of relief. "At least it's over now. Right?"

Benny snorts. "Dude, it's 8 AM. There's no way that's all he has planned for the day."

"You work for me, ya know," Castiel says in a voice that's supposed to be threatening but isn't. "You have to take my side."

"I'm your bodyguard. I keep you safe from bullets and kidnappers. Not overbearing lovers."

Castiel sighs in frustration. He pulls out his phone and very aggressively types in Dean Winchester's number.

Dean answers almost instantly. Clearly, he had been waiting for this call.

"Hey, C-"

"This stupid romantic nonsense is a waste of money and I swear Dean Winchester if you get me any more presents today I'm going to break up with your stupid ass!"

"So you got the flowers," Dean says with a smile in his voice. "Good. You should get ready for work, my love. Don't want to be late."

"Don't ignore me, Dean! You promised. You promised not to do this!"

"No. You ordered me not to do this. I never agreed."

"Dean-"

"Have a nice day, babe. I'm sure I'll be hearing from you soon."

"Dean!"

"Oh, and Cas?"

Castiel grits his teeth, fuming. "What?"

"Happy Valentine's Day."

Castiel growls - yes, growls - and hangs up. He throws his hands in the air and turns to Benny. "What a jerk!"

----

When Castiel stops at his favorite coffee shop for his usual morning Americano with cinnamon, the barista already has his order ready. It has a message written on it in Dean's hand writing, black sharpie scrawling its way across the disposable cup.

You are so brew tiful. I love you like I love my coffee - inside me (;

Castiel rolls his eyes. "What a jerk."

"Sorry?" the barista says in confusion.

"He's a jerk." Castiel grabs a disposable cup from the stack beside the register. He pops the top off the one Dean wrote on and pours his coffee into the fresh, non-Valentine cup. Then he tosses the graffitied cup and nods at the barista. "Have a good one."

"Uh… yeah." The barista watches him go, looking crestfallen. Clearly she had found it romantic. Disgusting. "You too."

----

Another bouquet of flowers is waiting for Castiel when he enters his private office. He glares at it from the doorway for a long moment before huffing in annoyance, going over and grabbing the damn thing. Still dressed in his trench coat, still with his briefcase in his left hand, Castiel walks down to the bull-pen and lifts the vase in the air.

"Who fucked up today and needs a Valentine's Day present for their significant other?" he yells, his anger making most of his employees shiver or tense up.

It takes a second but then a woman in the back tentatively raises her hand. Charlie. She's dating Dorothy from accounting. They're a cute couple.

"They're yours," he announces, thrusting them out in the air to silently tell her to come get them.

Blushing, she makes her way to Castiel. She mumbles something about not forgetting but running out of time this morning. Castiel couldn't care less whether Charlie forgot or not. He just doesn't want to stare at the damn flowers all day.

Once they're out of his hands, Castiel waves a hand in the air and says, "As you were."

Benny is smirking when Castiel gets back to his office.

"What's so funny?" Castiel asks in a voice that's supposed to be threatening but just makes Benny's lips lift higher. "What?"

"I'm assuming you didn't see the box of chocolates."

Castiel parts his lips, about to ask what Benny means, when he sees a heart-shaped box beside where the flowers had been. He deflates. Goes over to his chair. Slumps down. Sighs dramatically. Then he takes the box and reads the attached note.

Life was like a box of chocolates.  You never know what you're gonna get. - damn glad I got you, babe ♡

"What a jerk," Castiel growls at the box. He rips the lid off and snatches a piece of chocolate before pushing it toward Benny. "Stop fucking smiling and eat. And don't tell him I ate any of it. That asshole knows I can't resist chocolate so you have to lie."

"Sure thing boss," Benny says with a wink. "Sure thing."

----

"Are you Castiel?" a man dressed in a cupid costume asks.

Castiel shakes his head. "Nope."

Unfortunately, he's in the breakroom at work and his employees think this whole battle between Dean and him is hilarious. Balthazar says, "He's lying" at the same time Chuck says, "He's Castiel."

Castiel decides he's going to fire them both.

The cupid smirks and turns to Castiel. Castiel puts a hand up in protest. "Whatever it is, I don't want-"

"Lord Almighty,

I feel my temperature rising

Higher higher

It's burning through to my soul

Boy, boy, boy,

You gonna set me on fire

My brain is flaming

I don't know which way to go

Your kisses lift me higher

Like the sweet song of a choir

You light my morning sky

With burning love"

"Nope," Castiel mumbles under his breath, grabbing his lunch and heading out the door. "Nope, nope, nope."

The damn telegram follows him. Everyone in the office stares, their jaws dropped open as the goddamn CEO is followed around by a glittery man dressed as cupid singing an Elvis song. Castiel isn't even embarrassed. He's just pissed.

Castiel enters his office and shoots a glare at Benny who had conveniently been gone to the bathroom when this all went down but is now back at his rightful place by Castiel's side. "Make him leave."

"It's coming closer

The flames are now lickin' my body

Please won't you help me-"

"Why? He isn't a threat."

"He has a weapon!"

"It's a plastic bow, boss."

"And my chest is a-heaving

Lord Almighty

I'm burning a hole where I lay."

"I own this goddamn building and I'm telling you, head of my security, to kick him out!"

Benny gives him a wry smile. "I'll get right on it, boss. Highest priority."

"Cause your kisses lift me higher

Like the sweet song of a choir-"

"You're fired."

"Oh, well, in that case I suppose he'll get to stay."

"Ah, ah, burning love

I'm just a hunk, a hunk of burning love."

Castiel grabs his office phone and presses 7, gritting his teeth. With every ring that passes, his rage boils. He's a breath away from exploding.

"Singer's Auto, this is Dean."

Castiel slams a finger down on speaker phone and turns to glare at cupid as he finishes the damn song.

"Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love

Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love

Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love

Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love."

Finally, it's over. Cupid winks at him before leaving. Benny smirks. Dean - the jerk that he is - is laughing hysterically on the other line.

"I hate you," Castiel states very matter-of-factly.

"Oh come on!" Dean snorts a laugh. "It's Elvis! You love Elvis!"

"Not anymore! Congratulations, Winchester. You have officially ruined Elvis for me."

Dean laughs harder. "God, I love you babe."

"Gaaaah, no!" Castiel hangs up the call before Dean can use his mystical powers to sweet talk Castiel into forgiving him. It ain't happening.

Castiel bangs his forehead against his desk a few times before deflating against it. "What a jerk."

----

Castiel walks into the first jewelry store he comes across. He storms past all of the stupid Valentine's decorations and up to a young man in a sharp suit who is smiling far too wide if you ask Castiel's opinion. Castiel smacks the palm of his hand on the glass display in front of the man and growls, "I need a goddamn engagement ring."

----

A ring box heavy in his pocket, Castiel stands outside Dean's small two-bedroom house. The yellow paint is peeling back in places, revealing the blue beneath. They come from two completely different worlds. Dean, the eldest son who sacrificed everything he had to raise his baby brother, dropping out of high school, working two jobs, scraping his father off whatever bar floor or sidewalk he ended up on most nights. Castiel, the eldest son who had the world handed to him, private prep school, undergrad at an Ivy league, two master degrees, no student loan debt, a $100,000 no-strings gift from his father to start up his own company.

Dean lives in a house that was foreclosed and rotting on the inside. He’s owned it for three years now. The floors and roof have been replaced. The staircase rebuilt. The walls repainted. The kitchen remodeled. The bathroom gutted. All Dean’s doing since he couldn’t afford to hire contractors.

Castiel lives in a penthouse apartment in a building that’s only seven years old. He got to pick in a catalogue what model of every room he preferred. Professionals molded his home into exactly what he wanted it to be in two weeks, handing it to him furnished and beautiful.

Dean works 60 hour weeks at his uncle’s auto shop, always smelling of oil and sweat. He drinks Jack Daniels. Listens to classic rock. Wears stained jeans and cotton shirts so worn they have holes in the collars and become see-through in certain lighting.

Castiel works 80 hour weeks, but only 30 of them are spent in the office, the rest spent on his phone or at his home so he can lounge on his couch and peruse documents without worrying about employees bothering him. He’s currently working through a bottle of 1926 Macallan. He listens to classical music, as well as plays it himself on his own grand piano that overlooks the city. Wears tailored Brioni suits and silk ties to work, settling for Gucci denim pants and cashmere sweaters when he's casual.

They should have never even met. Castiel would never take his car to a low-grade dealership like Singers. Never. You just don’t do that. Castiel was sure they wouldn’t even know what to do with a custom built Tesla like his. Yet, there Castiel was, broken down outside of the city with a migraine the size of Texas and stubborn impatience that made waiting for the professionals from the dealership that would take 3 hours a choice he wasn’t willing to make. So, he typed in auto shops on google and picked the one nearest to him.

Singers Auto.

Dean had showed up all southern drawl and warm smiles. Flirted right past Castiel’s foul mood. Stroked the hood of his Tesla like it was a cherished pet. Spoke to Castiel confidently about his knowledge on the vehicle. He offered to tow it into the city for Castiel if Castiel wanted but assured Castiel that if he chose to let Dean bring it to Singer's Auto, Dean would be able to take care of it.

“Easy fix,” Dean had said. “In and out. Twenty minutes.”

Castiel had agreed. It was completely out of character but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted more time with the mechanic.

He left that day with a fixed car and Dean Winchester’s number.

They never once brought up the salary gap between them. Some nights they’d crash at Castiel’s. Some nights at Dean’s. They’d go to five-star restaurants and gorge on filet mignon and lobster. They’d go to McDonalds and demolish burgers and chocolate milkshakes. Neither of them so much as blink.

Castiel smiles to himself as he looks at the house again. Where will they live? Castiel could care less, if he’s being honest. He’ll move here if Dean wants. He can deal with the furnace that needs to be kicked every few days as a reminder to work again. He can deal with the pipes that always freeze in the winter. He can deal with the way the fifth step creaks because Dean messed up when building the staircase. As long as he has Dean Winchester, he has everything.

“The hell you doin’ out here?” Dean yells from the front porch, snapping Castiel from his thoughts.

The ring box in his pocket grows hot in anticipation.

“It’s Valentine’s Day!” Castiel yells back, casually walking across the street from where he parked. “I figured if you’re going to insist on celebrating the idiotic holiday, I might as well win by outdoing you.”

“Oh, really?” Dean huffs a laugh, taking the porch steps two at a time until he’s on the grass of his front lawn. “How do you expect to do that?”

Castiel stops when he’s on the sidewalk, about five or so feet between them. He gives Dean a cocky grin that makes Dean’s smirk fall just an inch. Dean Winchester doesn’t like to lose at things - especially all of these silly competitions they get themselves into.

How long can they go without having sex or masturbating, and who will break first and beg the other to fuck him?

Who can eat the most pie in one sitting?

Which one can buy the best Christmas gift?

Who can win the most tickets at the arcade?

How long can they keep their prank war going, and who will be the one to finally throw in the towel when it goes too far?

Who can scare the other badly enough to make them scream?

Which one of them will win the cheesy romantic award of Valentine’s Day 2020.

Castiel won the 1st, 3rd, and 6th.

Dean won the 2nd and 4th.

Neither have won the prank war bet - it’s still on-going.

But Castiel Novak is going to win this damn Valentine’s Day award. If Dean wants to play this game today, it’s on.

“Cas-”

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel says softly, in a voice sickly sweet and loving. He lowers himself to one knee and reaches into his pocket.

Dean’s eyes flare with rage. “No! Don’t you dare!”

“You’re the love of my life-”

“Stop!”

“I can’t imagine any possible future that doesn’t have you in it-”

“I hate you so much right now,” Dean chokes out, eyes welling up.

Castiel smirks and opens the ring box. “Will you marry me?”

“No,” Dean grumbles with a pouty look on his face. Then he growls low in his throat and shakes his arms like a toddler on the verge of a tantrum. “Fuck - fine! Yes. I’ll marry you.”

Grinning, partly because the love of his life just agreed to marry him but mostly because instead of Dean evening the score Castiel is now 2 points ahead, Castiel pushes to his feet and slips the ring on Dean’s finger. He tugs Dean into his arms and kisses him breathless.

“Proposed to me on Valentine’s Day,” Dean says with an incredulous huff, resting his head on Castiel's shoulder and hugging him. “What a jerk.”

If you enjoyed this, please consider supporting my starving artist bum by donating at my Ko-Fi or becoming a Patron <3 Everything helps!

[chessdaze]

YEAR TWO OF BEING LATE TO KH OC WEEK!!! but I had the energy today and my internet is out so I can’t work (using my phone’s hotspot rn with my laptop) - might as well be productive. Plus I’ve loved all the stuff @khoc-week​ has been reblogging from artists and writers alike so I really just wanted to participate even though I said earlier I wasn’t going to this year.

 Day 1 (August 2nd): Introductions – Whether you are returning or this is your first time, introduce us to the OC(s) you’ll be focusing on for the week!   Show us a picture or a one shot that explains who they are. What do they like? Dislike? Give us the run down!

Last year I talked about Atlas, one of my (many) KHX OCs, this year I’m going to talk about Sid! One of my OCs from one of my original worlds. Him and Atlas are loosely (very loosely) connected, so I thought it would be a good idea.

His real name is Siegfried Jasper Gate - but he insists everyone call him Sid and will not be happy if you say his real name. He started out as my attempt to give KH their own ‘Cid’ character. Yes we have the Cid in Radiant Garden and I love that old man but I wanted one more connected to the overall KH plot. And then it spiraled out of control and I ended up making an entirely new wold so there’s that.

The left design is considered a ‘before’ look and the right ones are his current look. He was exiled from the main hub city of his world (both called Cindergate) with his two best friends (because trios), and end up living in the wild with his friends and a handful of other people who were also exiled from the city. He has a bit of an attitude problem, overall distrusting of strangers and can even be a bit of an ass - but he means well. He pushes himself to his limits to make sure those under his care are safe and sound - he gives up his own resources to those younger than him so they can be a little stronger and healthier, even if he becomes weaker. He’ll complain about anything except about the people around him, because they mean too much to him.

Under the cut is what I’ve written about his world and then a short biography that I’ve had written up for ages. Have fun.

the world trapped in a desert 

The Basics

Cindergate is a city that has seemingly seen disasters, parts of the city are being rebuilt and other parts completely abandoned and falling apart. It’s cut off from the vast desert around it by a large, also crumbling, gate. The city has a mix of technology, though seems to shun anything too ‘high tech’. 

The city has a population of tough individuals who know how to survive in harsh conditions. Most of the population in this world are human, with occasional animals who can also survive the harsh sun and heat. These people are ruled over by one family - who govern and help make and enforce laws. Because of this the head of the family is often referred to as ‘sheriff’. The family keeps laws strict in the town. There is one law in particular that the sheriff is always eager to punish those for breaking-

The Keyblade Wielder Ban

The people of Cindergate are aware of the keyblade, heartless, the worlds, etc - however they consider Keyblade wielders evil, no matter who they are or what their motivations may be. They believe that the wielders are dragging darkness into the world and are the reason so many heartless live in the desert that surrounds the city. The city has to constantly beat the heartless back, and are the reason why a good portion of the city has been abandoned or is always needing to be rebuilt. 

It has been the tradition of the world for a while that if a wielder is found, they are to be branded as a traitor to the city - both metaphorically and literally. After a trial to determine if someone is a wielder or not - they are branded with a mark in the shape of a keyhole. Then they are dragged through the city and out to the gates that surround it. The wielders are then exiled, pushed out to the near lifeless desert. The people of the city will often attack them with weapons or throw objects at them to make sure they don’t try to run back into the city. They consider the wielders ‘sacrifices’ to the heartless to keep them at bay. 

At times the heartless in the desert will get the better of the wielders with no training. Those who manage to survive their first day and night have the chance to come across a safehaven made by wielders in the reaches of the desert and on the edges of a canyon. 

Landscape.

The city is the mix of a steampunk and wild west setting. There are some technology around the city but it’s big, clunky, and steam or coal powered. The part of the city that has been abandoned has a chance of heartless sneaking in, and so there are people here who patrol at night on occasion but besides that at times kids sneak into the area to play - but it’s strictly forbidden to do so and they will be punished if they do.

The desert surrounding the city is vast and nearly lifeless. Aside from the heartless, there are few plants and animals that live there.

Past the nearly lifeless desert is an area of plateaus and canyons. Within this area those who have been exiled from the city attempt to make a living. They find items that the people of cindergate ‘sacrifice’ to the heartless, (pieces of machinery, cloth, food, etc) and try to repurpose it for their own needs. There’s a bit more life in this area, but not much in terms of subsistence. 

The Survivors 

The wielders and those who were exiled with them (family members who hid them, other accomplices, and even people who were falsely convicted of being a wielder) have been managing to survive so far, though it’s a constant struggle. They’ve made houses out of spare pieces of wood, tarp, scrap metal, and hide themselves in as much shade as they possibly can. 

Some practice with their keyblades in order to get a handle on their abilities and fight off heartless that come near the safe haven. Others completely shun the fact that they can use a keyblade and refuse to wield it. Those who are not wielders try to contribute by making food or volunteering for other odd jobs. There are also wielders dedicated to finding a way off world.

AND NOW THAT THAT’S OUT OF THE WAY -

Sid’s about:

Born to the ruling family of Cindergate, Sid had everything handed to him on a silver platter. And he hated it. He couldn’t wrap his head around the strict rules of the town or the terrible court system. Any time he would try to speak up on this though was met with punishment from his parents. So he decided to bide his time, becoming their perfect ‘puppet’ so that he could become the leader one day and change things for the better.

While still considered a bit of a rebel, his parents at least ‘admired his change of heart’ and let him walk around Cindergate freely. While growing up he made two friends - a girl name Mari and a boy named Helio. The three of them were practically inseparable, they were some of the only ones that didn’t care who Sid was related to. He could be himself around them, and so he vowed to keep them safe most out of everyone in the town. 

Mari revealed to the boys one day that she was a keyblade wielder - which was a terrible discovery. Keyblade Wielders were banned from Cindergate and it she was found to be a wielder she would be arrested, branded, and exiled to the harsh desert that surrounded the town. The desert that was filled with heartless. At the same time Helio revealed himself to be a wielder as well - having been one of the longest out of all of them, since he was a child. He knew better than anyone what would happen to wielders who got caught as his mother had been cast out when he was a child. Sid promised that he wouldn’t let them get caught and that he would lift the ban, they just needed to keep their keyblades hidden until he became the leader of the town.

This was easier said than done, especially since Sid would come to be a wielder as well. An old friend of his family invited Sid to his deathbed. This old man revealed how close Sid’s father and him used to be, and how they had a dream to make Cindergate a thriving place. But Sid’s father had done nothing more than oppress the people and make the ban more strict than it needed to be. So the old man had a solution - to pass on the power of the keyblade to Sid. He had kept it hidden all of his life, hoping that one day Sid’s father would change his mind on the ban - but he never did. In his last moments he forced Sid to take the power of the keyblade from him, saying it was Sid’s responsibility now, before passing. 

Sid was terrified and furious with the power he had been given. Yes, he had been wanting to make CinderGate a better place for wielders and non wielders alike but - he didn’t want it to be like this. Still, he wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip through his fingers. He told his friends of his new found gift and worked to become even more like the 'perfect’ leader his parents wanted him to be, just so he could take over quicker and get the stupid ban taken down. 

Not long after this, Helio and Mari were caught for being keyblade wielders. Sid stood up to his parents to try and get them to see reason. When they still wouldn’t listen he revealed himself as a wielder in front of the whole town - saying if they were going to throw out his friends they would have to throw out him as well.

And they did, but not before branding him as a traitor - literally. They burned the keyhole shaped brand onto the side of his face before exiling him,Helio, and Mari out of the town. The three ran until they couldn’t anymore, fought off heartless, then collapsed with laughter - surprised but grateful they were still alive. 

A while longer of traveling lead them to a survivor camp. Other people like them who had been exiled from Cindergate. It wasn’t much, but it became home for the three wielders. Sid took it upon himself to improve the day to day lives of the survivors by building various machines and other contraptions to make life easier for them.But still, it wasn’t enough. Thanks to his parents hoard of keyblade wielder knowledge (because how else were they supposed to fight off such a 'threat’ without an entire library full of knowledge?), he knew of other worlds and he knew that the keyblade could get them there. He just wasn’t sure how to unlock the power. None of the survivors were masters by any means, some of them didn’t even have a keyblade - and were friends or family of wielders exiled or falsely accused and wanted nothing to do with the keyblade. 

Sid, taking another burden onto his shoulders, did the only thing he could think he could accomplish - he made himself and his two friends keyblade armor. He hoped that with the armor they could brave the passages in between worlds and find a way to get all the survivors to a new home.

Images of where sid’s scar is, he uses the braids to cover it up as best he can.

[heartforchrist]

Let’s talk Fig Trees....

Have you ever heard of the fig tree generation? If not then get prepared to be schooled. This to me is an extremely exciting topic! It gives us a theoretical view of the possibility that the Lord draws near and we may be going home very quickly maybe even within weeks. (At least I pray that we do!) first and foremost please understand I am not attempting in any way, shape, form or fashion to set a day and hour for the return of Son of Man but I am revealing the season for His return and all prophesied be fulfilled. For we, children of light, know the season when Jesus Christ is returning.

So let’s begin ❤️

Fig tree in the Bible represents the Nation of Israel.

Hosea 9:10: I found Israel like grapes in the wilderness; I saw your fathers as the first ripe in the fig tree at her first time

So we know now that the Fig tree represents Israel, what does the Bible say about Israel and the last generation.

Matthew 24:32 "Now learn the parable from the fig tree: when its branch has already become tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near;

Matthew 24:33 so, you too, when you see all these things, recognize that He is near, right at the door.

Matthew 24:34 Truly I say to you, this generation will not pass away until all these things take place.

Matthew 24:35 Heaven and earth will pass away, but My words will not pass away.

Matthew 24:36 "But of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father alone.

It is the generation that will not pass till they see the rapture, the abomination of desolate talked by Daniel, the Antichrist reign, the great tribulation and Jesus Christ coming in the clouds with a great army.

So let’s start from the beginning with the Fig Tree shall we.

The Barren Fig:

Luke 13:6 And He began telling this parable: "A man had a fig tree which had been planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and did not find any.

Luke 13:7 And he said to the vineyard-keeper, 'Behold, for three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree without finding any. Cut it down! Why does it even use up the ground?'

Luke 13:8 And he answered and said to him, 'Let it alone, sir, for this year too, until I dig around it and put in fertilizer;

Luke 13:9 and if it bears fruit next year, fine; but if not, cut it down.'"

Even after being dug about and fertilized, Israel did not bear any spiritual fruits and Jesus cursed her.

let’s look at the Cursed Fig:

Mark 11:13 Seeing at a distance a fig tree in leaf, He went to see if perhaps He would find anything on it; and when He came to it, He found nothing but leaves, for it was not the season for figs.

Mark 11:14 He said to it, "May no one ever eat fruit from you again!" And His disciples were listening.

Mark 11:15 Then they came to Jerusalem. And He entered the temple and began to drive out those who were buying and selling in the temple, and overturned the tables of the money changers and the seats of those who were selling doves;

Mark 11:16 and He would not permit anyone to carry merchandise through the temple.

Mark 11:17 And He began to teach and say to them, "Is it not written, 'My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations'? But you have made it a robbers' den."

Now here is where we get into the generation of the Fig tree that which we live in now. The replanted Fig Tree. In Matthew 24 we see Jesus talking of a replanted fig tree, her branches are tender, putting forth leaves.

Israel ceased to be a sovereign nation from 70 AD to May 14th 1948 when United Nations proclaimed Israel a sovereign nation. Israel was given her land back thus replanted.

This can be seen not just in the prophecy of Matthew but also in Ezekiel 36-37 the rebirth of Israel.

Ezekiel 36:7 Therefore thus says the Lord God, 'I have sworn that surely the nations which are around you will themselves endure their insults.

Ezekiel 36:8 But you, O mountains of Israel, you will put forth your branches and bear your fruit for My people Israel; for they will soon come.

Ezekiel 36:9 For, behold, I am for you, and I will turn to you, and you will be cultivated and sown.

Ezekiel 36:10 I will multiply men on you, all the house of Israel, all of it; and the cities will be inhabited and the waste places will be rebuilt.

Ezekiel 36:11 I will multiply on you man and beast; and they will increase and be fruitful; and I will cause you to be inhabited as you were formerly and will treat you better than at the first. Thus you will know that I am the Lord.

Ezekiel 36:34 The desolate land will be cultivated instead of being a desolation in the sight of everyone who passes by.

Ezekiel 36:35 They will say, 'This desolate land has become like the garden of Eden; and the waste, desolate and ruined cities are fortified and inhabited.'

Ezekiel 36:36 Then the nations that are left round about you will know that I, the Lord, have rebuilt the ruined places and planted that which was desolate; I, the Lord, have spoken and will do it."

Ezekiel 37:11 Then He said to me, "Son of man, these bones are the whole house of Israel; behold, they say, 'Our bones are dried up and our hope has perished. We are completely cut off.'

Ezekiel 37:12 Therefore prophesy and say to them, 'Thus says the Lord God, "Behold, I will open your graves and cause you to come up out of your graves, My people; and I will bring you into the land of Israel.

Ezekiel 37:13 Then you will know that I am the Lord, when I have opened your graves and caused you to come up out of your graves, My people.

Ezekiel 37:14 I will put My Spirit within you and you will come to life, and I will place you on your own land. Then you will know that I, the Lord, have spoken and done it," declares the Lord.'"

Israel restoration prophesied by Ezekiel was to be physical then followed by spiritual. Israel was to be re-gathered and given her land before being reborn spiritually. Israel became a sovereign nation thus the fig tree come back to life and started shooting forth. The fig tree (Israel) that seemed dead sprung back to life, putting forth tender branches and leaves.

So how do I get the theory that we will soon be going home?

From the time of Adam up to today, humanity lifespan on earth has been deteriorating. The Bible states

Psalms 90:9 For all our days have declined in Your fury; We have finished our years like a sigh.

Psalms 90:10 As for the days of our life, they contain seventy years, Or if due to strength, eighty years, Yet their pride is but labor and sorrow; For soon it is gone and we fly away.

It is only those born in the year 1948 that are of the generation that saw the fig tree shoot forth. The generation that began with the planting of the fig tree (Israel) in 1948 is the generation that will not pass till all things prophesied be fulfilled.

The 1948 generation was over in the year 2018 when the generation attained 70 years in accordance to Psalms 90:10 but the generation has to go up to 80 years for years of labour and sorrow (great tribulation) then soon cut off.

What does that mean? Since the generation will be over in the year 2028, and as Jesus said, ‘generation shall not pas till all these things be fulfilled’, that means the latest for Jesus Christ to return is the year 2028. Since in 2018 the generation was 70 years plus 10 more years for the generation to be 80 years thus brings us to the year 2028. There are 7 years of the great tribulation period which must be fulfilled before the generation is cut off. Which means that the latest the Great Tribulation could began would be 2021. All the signs we see right now seem to be confirming, since my belief is that we will go home (be raptured) before the Great Tribulation, the rapture of the church would then also be this yr 2021.

Again please know that in no way am I trying to set a date or hour of the coming of our Lord for the rapture. I do believe He gives us enough information in the Bible to have somewhat of an idea of what to expect in the future. Everything here is theoretically stated. I can only hope and pray that this is a pretty accurate guesstimation in when Jesus possibly comes for His bride. The only thing I can state, that is indeed fact, is that He will come for His bride it’s only a matter of time.

-Heart For Christ

[flowerflamestars]

Tempest and Fealty

PART ONE  PART TWO PART THREE  PART FOUR  PART FIVE  PART SIX  PART SEVEN  PART EIGHT  PART NINE

Nesta did not actually hide from her baby sister in her office.   After storming a floor higher to her bedroom and ripping the sleeves back off her dress, she went down staircase after staircase, through the kitchen and deeper still into the subterranean wine cellar. They were a common enough feature in noble houses, once this very one had been famous at the height of her great-great grandfathers empire.   In her father’s time, it had been stripped, like everything of what had once been the ancient Archeron estate.   Elain and Nesta had rebuilt. Before Feyre had come back the first time, they’d walked the wreckage of the foundations- the very roof beams and tiles, marble and garden pavers sold in the face of their father’s debt- and tried to remember.   It took an entire day. But the end of which they’d ended up here; the cellar only intact because some particularly ostentatious ancestor of their’s decided to embed great unruly boulders of semi- precious stone to make the walls and floor, too big to be ripped apart without causing a collapse.   A lantern between them and a sheath of paper holding their futures, they’d sat together on a slab of lapis with the absurdly fine bottle of red Elain had somehow found buried.   Half a bottle passed between them to discuss the house, the debts, the future.   The second half to worry if Feyre was alright, if this was really happening, what they could do.   Half hysteric with relief, half mourning, an accidentally flailed hand- and they’d found this place: a second cellar, another flight of stairs down, a room of blue stone walls and hidden treasure. Archeron heirlooms, their father’s seal secreted away.   They’d starved and froze and been cast out- Lord Archeron had protected his inheritance all the while.   Nesta could have killed him with her bare hands.   Now, organized and cleaned, Elain and Nesta had spent the last year adding to the trove of family secrets. Every book on magic they could find that Lucien could vaguely verify made sense. A vault of ash wood and faebane imported from the continent, safely locked away. Treasure that they had yet to liquidate or couldn’t because of it’s magical properties.   Her first step on the cool floor and magic kindled in lamps, golden fire born of Lucien’s hands blooming overhead to light her way. Wrapped one of the coats by the door around her, skirting past the tables of Elain’s hand-distilled floral poisons and Lucien’s weapons, to stop before her war map.   Seven generations of Archeron’s had traded with the continent. Twelve with the Night Court’s secret city and the rest of Prythian’s ports.   Nesta had the blood of explorers and shrewd men and in women in her veins. As far back as their history could stretch recorded, not one Archeron had ever lost a ship, before her father.   That was what happened, after all, when innocent faery blood was spilled by hands bound to magic: ruin.   Ruin that just kept chasing them.   None of the sister’s ships had gone down in this magic-teeming seas that could sense a promise broken. A loophole, that they were their dead mother’s daughters? Or was the legend Nesta had been told only half the story? It had made sense, a merchant’s promise bound immortal in singing steel and fresh seethed gold, protection of the exchange.   Or was the curse bigger?   She so damned tired. 

Her sleep made nightmares by a life impossible, northern peaks that lived behind her eyes. Elain had the crown of Autumn in a hatbox, ready to wage war. Feyre believed so wholly in the man she loved- who’d kidnapped her, lied to her, was lying to her right now, a crown on her head- that she’d bet on all their lives and those of everyone they knew.   Vassals. Children. Farmer’s who’d wept when Elain and Nesta returned and tried to right the poverty their father had left them in.   Feyre and Rhysand could burn in hell, as far as Nesta was currently concerned. She had twenty orphans and an entire estate to save.  She’d work until she couldn’t breathe. Meet Elain and Lucien for a meal under six layers of warding to meld information and plans until the three of them were cataclysm enough to survive.   She wouldn’t live a thousand years- wouldn’t fall through those haunting mountain skies- but Nesta Archeron would be damned if she died now, with the world just in reach.

*** “Cassian.”   His first thought was that he was dying. Blinking in the dark and coming awake all at once as a hundred years of training had taught him, Cassian’s brain moved straight on to the certainty he was dead, seeing Nesta Archeron leaning over his bed.   Maybe she was here to slit his throat for daring infringe upon her honor.   Cassian rolled to land on his feet, knife in hand in less than a one frantic beat of his heart. “We’re under attack?”   “No,” Nesta hissed, before swearing softly. In the moment it took his body to catch up with his brain and lower the dagger, Cassian realized she was fully dressed- the same heart-rending dress as in the garden- a coat around her shoulders, and staring pointedly somewhere in the region of his right shoulder. “Why aren’t you wearing anything?”   The only positive in the humiliation was that for some reason Azriel wasn’t here in the room they were sharing to witness it.   Scrambling into a shirt and pants to the background noise of her gritted teeth, Cassian sent a silent prayer to whatever god was listening. Wind and sky, moon and mother. “Well, you see, sometimes even faeries sleep.” He turned in time to see her scoff, faint color high on her cheeks. “Something you should try.”   Nesta only scowled. “I sleep. Now come on, I need you.”   Because Cassian was insane, because those exact words in any tone from Nesta Archeron could have brought him to his knees, Cassian followed her out of the room and into the dreaming house.   They made it three flights and across a ballroom before he found himself trying again, stupidly softened by the late hour and unable to stop himself. It didn’t matter that Nesta’s straight spine gave nothing away, every taut muscle in her neck and down those graceful shoulders screamed the kind of fatigue that a mortal couldn’t just shake off. “You’re exhausted. We”-   She stopped so suddenly he almost ran into her. “I have things to do. Are you going to help me or not?”  Would Cassian somehow find himself alone in the dark with her every night he spent in this house? Her beautiful, furious face haunting him? Bright moon knew he was defenseless against her, fire and flame burning his throat.   “Or course I am,” Cassian heard himself say, tone too rough and true to meet her frustration unwounded.   It took a her full second to nod, staring up at him like she could see through the dark.   She led him down and down, out of view of the starry sky, through kitchens and storage, long servants halls and winding steps. Down and down into the growing cold, her determined steps echoing over stone.   Quieter, a knife slid between ribs instead of a battlecry, she asked in a wine cellar, the scent of bottled summer all around them, “How can you tell?” Because your eyes are the sky and your voice the wind. “I can smell how weary you are.”   She didn’t respond.   Like it was nothing at all, making precise movements in the near cave darkness Nesta pressed on the rock wall and then like magic, like a mystery that Cassian wanted to know every single detail of, stairs appeared down into the bedrock bellow.   Nesta stepped into the yawning blackness without a backwards glance.   Cassian followed.   “Not that good,” She was grumbling, voice echoing in the narrow space, “Lucien would never stop if”-   “I’m not high fae,” Cassian interrupted. Look at me, he thought, heart beating a bruise in his chest. He wanted to know if he’d dreamt the shape of his name in her mouth, how her voice would sound now that he was awake.   He wanted her to grumble his name with that same unspeakable familiarity that said knowing, belonging.   Which was insane. Two sunrises, and Cassian was desperate to know her.   The moment she reached the bottom of the stairs, light flared around them, revealing a large room and more of Nesta Archeron’s secrets.   They assaulted him on all sides: faebane and ash wood, foxglove and monkshood, enough faery-smithed swords for a small invasion. Cassian ran a hand over the smooth wood of a table covered in poisons, their stinging scent a refuge from the sheer intoxication of Nesta’s presence.   A menace with an armory.   Cassian was going to send for better weapons the moment the sun actually rose. Too many jewels- too much weak Spring make to be reliable- Illyrian steel could cut the very air. He wondered if this room would open for him, to leave them for her.   The space wasn’t big enough to obscure what Nesta had hung on the far wall, but the sheer detail took a moment to resolve itself in Cassian’s eyes. A map twice as long as she was tall depicting their corner of the world: Prythian, the far islands, the continent, in loving, perfect aspect.   A hundred colored pins grouped or linked with ribbon.   Silent, Nesta watched him with hooded eyes as Cassian followed her steps to stand before the map, heart in his throat. Troops- so many more armies gathered than just Hybern, motions echoing to the far reaches of faerykind.   “How many legions do you muster?”   Mechanically, watching her pale hand straighten a long string she’d tied between the armies of the Great Desert, Cassian answered truthfully. “Four.” What was the point of lying to her? They were in this together, all in the same danger. “If war is declared, more than half the steppes will fight- four thousand Illyrians.”   Who Cassian would be responsible for. How many had he trained himself over the years? Cassian could hear the bone drums in his head, the battle cries that would echo from peak to peak when he made the call. To protect his court- to protect this land- Illyria would rise.   Precisely, Nesta sank eight red pins into the blank northernmost corner of the map.   Cassian counted them twice, heart rising to his throat as his eyes raced over the map again, approximating. Hybern, Hesperia, the Blooming Country, the Desert nomads, the Queen’s Countries, Shallavar, the distant Black Land- Cassian swore.   “Nesta,” Her eyebrows rose immediately, and he wouldn’t do her the insult of asking if the numbers were right. Of course the numbers were right- that was why he was here, why her beautiful face gave no quarter despite her impending collapse. “How do you know all this?”   He could practically see her bristle- had to swallow the thought that she must be used to being written off; this painfully vital, clearly brilliant woman, how stupid could mortal men be?- and rein it in. Like exhaustion wore her sharp edges, like maybe, the ridiculous late night early morning hour softened her too, Nesta Archeron only huffed out a breath.   “Bribery, mostly,” She sniffed, looking at the map and not him. “And news from the trade routes.” News- the bowl she’d plucked up the pins from sat on the ruin of an old writing desk, every surface piled so high with paper and books the whole thing looked liable to buckle.  While he watched, apparently done and satisfied with his answer, Nesta turned away and started sorting ribbon bound letters, adding to two towered piles.   Cassian waited for the familiar sting of dismissal, but felt nothing but horrible, out of place hope instead. She’d come looking for him, no matter that they’d been fighting, that Cassian was barely in control of himself every second he spent with her. Nesta had asked for his help. It stilled the thrashing thing in his chest, the flame swept feeling that had left his hands shaking when she’d gotten that last, barbed word. Not Lucien, not Azriel, Nesta had trusted at least enough that he’d tell her the truth.   Something was wrong with him. But Cassian wasn’t about to walk away.   “The black,” Cassian heard himself say, voice rough, “They’re hundreds?”   Nesta’s head snapped up. Nothing given- but she answered, smooth as silk, simple as a shining blade. “Hundreds,” She confirmed, “Blue for two score, and”-   “Red for twenty-five,” Cassian interrupted, biting his smile when her gaze shot to his face with a scowl.   Feyre’s sister- not younger. Older and angrier, cut vivid and sharp. Impossible. Not just because she wouldn’t play by the rules of Feyre and Rhys’ plans, because Cassian couldn’t settle in his own skin until he saw her face. Impossible. But he wouldn’t treat her like they were on separate sides- it was too wrong, wrong as her fear, the weariness that seemed to bleed from her pores- even if Rhysand wouldn’t like it, Cassian could do a damned lot more to help than give this woman the honor of telling her the truth.   “We have spies, “ Cassian started carefully, hiding from her eyes by staring at the map, “In five of those countries. Azriel’s been trying to find the chain of command, where Hybern seeded their people into foreign military posts."   Silence.   Cassian waited. If she threw him out, at least he’d given her something. At least, the thought tangled, and he couldn’t help but imagine that if she threw him out, she’d touch him. Nesta Archeron seemed extremely capable of reaching out and dragging an Illyrian by the wings, manners be damned.   Gods only knew, he’d let her.   The cool china lip of a bowl brushed his arm. This time, Cassian couldn’t contain his smile. With equal silence, the feel of her gaze heavy on his face, Cassian sank green-tipped pins into the appropriate clusters, and passed it back.   Green- for the briar and blood flag of Hybern- had she seen it? Banners the color of decay, that single drop of blood in the design so bright you could see it from the skies.   Nesta Archeron, Cassian was nearly sure, did nothing by accident.   Silence had been the right answer, for all that he was biting his lip to keep it as the moment spooled on and on. Four hundred years of learning patience- Cassian who could and had let a snowstorm bury him to hold a mountain, who’d chipped away at a hundred centuries of tradition his whole life, who’d lived fifty years without the freedom of the sky and stayed sane- all undone, with ease, without intention, by this one mortal woman. Impossible.   “Before we resumed trade, I contracted out all of our ships for cargo. More than a year ago, before the armies mustered, so that by now, the auxiliary would know and trust our sailors reliability.”   Cassian turned it over, twice, to make sure he’d heard the full explanation she was offering correctly, before he met her blazing eyes. “Overland trade is too slow,” He breathed, watching her mouth quirk. A smile- gods, he knew he was grinning at her like a giddy child. “So they’re using your ships to transport their supplies?”   Quicksilver, possibly Cassian’s imagination, Nesta smiled back.   “And bribing the guilds and caravans for their numbers.”   Roundabout, fiendishly clever, “You’re working backwards?” Tallying troops from their supplies, inherently capable of error, but still a better estimate than they had.   Her face said yes, said pride, something fierce that echoed back from beneath Cassian’s ribs.   “So make yourself yourself useful,” Nesta purred, an unadulterated heat sweeping his body at her dropped tone, the complete and total confidence. “Tally confirmed numbers.”   Cassian took the pile of paper she shoved into his hands, and laughed.   Five hours of fraught, electric quiet only broken by Cassian saying stupid things he couldn’t contain later, he retreated upstairs. Tactically. Not because with nothing else to do he was getting twitchy in her presence, Nesta’s dawn bright eyes snagging on the motion of his nervous hands- but because she was tired.   An exhaustion so complete it colored the air like fog, her weary tension hitting every one of his instincts.   Cassian wasn’t stupid enough- disrespectful enough- to try to make her stop. It wasn’t his place. Wasn’t- it had never been clearer she wasn’t Feyre, someone whose youth and easy temper made it simple to look out for.   There was nothing easy about Nesta Archeron, and Cassian couldn’t stay away.   He could however, make tea.   It took him just long enough, following his nose through the kitchen stores to find the variety she’d been drinking earlier, that Nesta seemed to have thought he’d left.   Shed her coat, ripped the laced-on sleeves off her dress, and moved from her perch before the map to sit straight-backed atop the weapons table, the least formal he’d ever seen Nesta.   Cassian’s foot missed the last step.   Watching him with those predators eyes, leagues different from Cassian remembered any mortal, Nesta tilted her head at his approach. Instantly, helplessly, Cassian felt his neck heat. Sharp as a faery, dominant as an Illyrian, eyes like the damned sky.   She took the mug out of his hand like it was nothing.   Black tea and violets, lavender on her lips. It should be nothing- Cassian was the only member of the inner circle with any domestic talents. He fed everyone, all the time.    But for Cassian, the Illyrian, watching the steady pulse of her throat, it was the first moment of calm since he’d scented a fire he couldn’t find.   Wordless, swallowing against the dryness of his throat, Cassian held out the plate of cookies he was also carrying.   She picked one up absently, eyes wandering back to the map. Took a single bite that did unspeakable things Cassian. And then, mystifyingly, recoiled, setting it back on the plate.   Humans couldn’t possibly feel the way about food high fae did, Cassian tried to remind his racing pulse. He’d seen Lucien hand her things, seen Elain accept the pass off of platters from Az, surely-   “Don’t eat those,” Nesta instructed over his thoughts.   Cassian had the half horrified, utterly embarrassed thought that he’d managed to bring her something that wasn’t even actually a cookie. He took a deep breath. Buttery almond, sugar, vanilla, and- Cassian picked up the cookie she’d bitten in half, eyeing the delicate crumbs.   “Who are you planning on poisoning?” Cassian blurted.   Ash- the Archerons had burnt faery killing ash wood and baked it into shortbread. Without her reaction, it would have slid right by him, almond burying the scent.   She twisted to look at him.    Even with the high table helping, they weren’t evenly face to face. Too close at breakfast, too angry in the garden; it was the nearest he’d ever been to her without it being an accident. Nesta didn’t move away.   “Not poison,” She said, finally, “But enough to disable high fae.”   “For ten minutes,” Cassian replied, “Maybe twenty.”   “Plenty of time,” Nesta hissed.   He couldn’t help it, Cassian laughed. Not at her- but at the sheer warlike delight she had. Mortal life and human skin, Nesta was Illyrian at heart, something savage and beautiful all the way through.   He wondered if she were afraid of heights.   Wondered if she hated him.   “So how long before you’re done abetting the enemy?” It didn’t come out right, more accusation than joke, but Nesta only raised those damning brows at him.   “Why should I stop?” Nesta asked, razor edges to her beautiful voice. “No one has declared war on my kind.”   More awake, he might have accelerated right into anger her words. But softened by the night, by the glow of her pale skin in the place that was so clearly hers, nearly mad that she was even speaking to him- My kind. Hate didn’t matter, not now, not pared with trust. What Cassian really wanted know: could Nesta ever look at him and not see other? Shame wasn’t a part of him. Cassian had been born for the skies, could and would bleed for his warlike people.   He was the wind of north, vengeance on swift wings, but he didn’t look anything like a human man.   “Merchants are the only people who really win wars,” Cassian said, without any heat. “Will you run blockades?”   The wrong thing- he could see it immediately, furious temper flashing across her face. “Or,” Nesta’s voice sliced the air, echoing to his ears as the word dragged out. “I’ll wait until the fighting starts and starve the bastards when they need it most.” Vengeance- maybe Nesta Archeron had a taste for it.   Close, they were too close, Cassian breathed, “Good.” He might have imagined it- hope and sleep deprivation heady, but her body seemed to sway to the sound, a hairsbreadth closer. It made him reckless, made him savage. “Poison the last shipment.”   Better than a smile, respect flickered over the pale perfection of Nesta’s face. “What did you think the vault of faebane was for?”   He’d clocked it, wondered. So very vicious; faebane ate at magic from the inside out. Cassian was old enough to remember humans during the last war being horrified by the brutality of fae fighting. Different rules bound them. Honor didn’t mean pageantry or parlance- it meant promises kept. Meant surviving, no matter the cost.   Cassian would have done the same thing.   Their eyes met and held. Not a joke or a brush off, steady blue. Nesta absolutely would poison scores of soldiers sent to conquer her land. Insanely, he was thinking he would help her in an instant if she asked.   They remained that way, Cassian pinned in place by her gaze for longer than he could count. Could have been an age, or a minute- Cassian tried to divine the skies of her eyes, Nesta allowed herself to look back, no air left to breathe that wasn’t wild fire, didn’t possess the cold clarity of frost.   Until without warning, bringing the scent of fire that had never seen a mountain forest, Lucien winnowed to the foot of the stairs.   “I have the,” Lucien said and paused, as though he’d begun speaking before he’d fully appeared, stopping himself at the sight of Cassian.   Cassian, alone with Nesta.   A bloody sort of triumph, shocking him with its intensity, burst beneath Cassian’s ribs when Nesta didn’t falter. Remained in his space like it belonged to her, sipping tea as she met Luciens eyes from over the crest of one wing.   He’d worn the fox mask in the Spring menagerie, according to Feyre. Clever, dangerous, Autumn’s lost heir was an unknown element. Cassian wouldn’t forget the infinitely implied intimacy of Nesta grumbling his name.   Different then she said it now, silken. “Lucien.”   He grinned, flashing fangs. “Nes-ta.”   She bared her teeth right back before sliding off the table. Continuing the out of body- out of his mind- experience that was this night Cassian watched her liquid, storming steps across the room, furious grace not what his brain said was human.   But Cassian had been fighting with mortal men last time he’d been in these lands- Nesta Archeron was no man.   Like she leveled Cassian, snarled at Rhysand, Nesta drew close to Lucien like he wasn’t High Fae at all. Casual. Natural.   “Ready?”   Lucien nodded at her, passing over a flat cedar box that Cassian was briefly possessed by the urge to carry for her to next table. Which was- which was absolutely not happening.   “One bloodline curse old as the bone forest,” Lucien went on, following Nesta as she carried the damn box- as she was perfectly capable- to an empty corner next to the sword pile. Over her head, like he’d felt the force of Cassian’s gaze, Lucien caught his eyes. “Fell wind.”   Cassian nodded back, “Seventh son.”   Faery prick was a language he was also fluent in.   Ignoring them both, Nesta pulled out a low bronze bowl and an old fashioned quill, before opening the box. Without the sharp encasement of cedar, the smell would have knocked Cassian flat. As it was, siphon song shuddered to life as Cassian found himself gripping the table.   Blood. Nesta’s blood- copper and pain, a forest fires vitality gone dead.   “What is that?” He didn’t mean to ask, his words unmoored as they had been all night. Nesta didn’t react- thank stars and skies and bleeding dawns- but Lucien looked up again, and smirked.   “A contract,” Nesta replied, pulling out the parchment. Cursed by Lucien, but written by the hand he could now recognize as her’s in her own blood. “That your High Lord will not be able to break.”   Cassian closed his eyes. He wanted to say, Rhys will keep you safe. He would- Cassian had believed that even before he’d decided he’d go down bloody himself to stop any harm from befalling this glorious, nightmare of woman.   Because they were Feyre’s family. Were family now, full stop.   But Cassian also understood the tough calls required to make a war run; this part of Prythian would be a charnel house in year’s time. Protection would be the sisters in Velaris- not Nesta commanding her ships, not Elain doing whatever she intended with enough poison to kill an army of humans and Lucien Vanserra by her side. Safe would be on Feyre’s terms, and it would break Nesta.   Rhys was going to be furious with him.   On silent feet, wings rustling through the quiet, Cassian walked to Nestas’ other side. Didn’t baulk at the tiny, diamond-studded, precisely curved knife in her hand. Lucien let him get close, the temperature of the room rising.   “Freely given,”  Cassian recited.   Surprise, real and unrestrained, broke across Lucien’s face. Prick, Cassian thought. But all he really cared about was Nesta, her face gone faery sharp with interested.   “Will it work?” The question clearly not for Cassian echoed, but Nesta’s gaze didn’t stray from his face.   “Magic enjoys,” Lucien paused, drawn out, “Fidelity. Promises made and kept are just as personal as bleeding yourself, under the right circumstances.”   Enough of an answer, Nesta offered the knife. Instead of taking it, because he was insane, Cassian pushed up his sleeve and gave Nesta Archeron his sword arm to bleed as she would.   She knew where to cut. Gave him the honor of a neat wound.   As purple-red of drying Illyrian blood joined the more earthen stain of hers, Cassian read over Nesta’s shoulder. It wasn’t the blood loss than made him numb as the sun rose, but a growing horror. *** Both Rhys and Azriel were in the room when Cassian managed to climb back up through the sun-drenched house, walls of snow against the windows making every space bright.    In the middle of something, but Az still rustled one wing in Cassian’s direction, a silent are you okay? Cassian hummed an approximation back, tiredness heavy in his bones. Sure, he was okay. And furious, but he hadn’t gotten to where he was in life without the ironclad ability to fight down anger, to not outright choke on unfairness. They both had.   Pulling on more clothing and actual shoes that his panicked brain hadn’t accounted for in the middle of the night, Cassian tuned in to the conversation. Feyre wanted Mor here, Az would switch out with her to shore up the city defenses.   On the tip of his tongue, bitter heat that had nothing to do with Morrigan who he’d be glad to see sat in the shape of words: had Feyre asked, or even mentioned to her sisters housing them someone else was coming?   Another High Fae they’d be at risk for. Another- Cassian dragged a hand through his hair and breathed.   He’d fought coming here already. Az on his side and Amren quizzically unopposed, but Rhys had listened to Feyre. With her simple explanation it had been a risk- trouble, a mistake- but not impossible. Between Cassian and Azriel, they could keep two mortal girls safe, even from Hybern.   They’d been wrong.   Two women, and Lucien Vanserra besides, not an idle player in any of this, who they were irreversibly screwing over. Cassian would have been angry if it was anyone, but the Archerons were family and Nesta was- Nesta.   Maybe he’d thought it too loud, screamed her name even through mental wards, because Rhys was staring at him.   Cassian summoned half a smile at the severity on his face. But in clear warning knell before Rhysand even spoke, Az’s attention snapped to his High Lord with an icy clarity.   “I don’t have to ask you,” Rhys said in that voice like this was joke between brothers, like he was going to reach out and ruffle Cassian’s hair before they threw down in the mud like children, “Not to sleep with Feyre’s sisters, do I?”   Cassian froze.   Quieter than a breath, sharp and clear beyond the muffled haze of the rest of Rhysand’s words,  siphons sang to life, red death in the still air.   “-think if would really upset Feyre. Vanserra is bad enough already.” He was still talking, eyeing Cassian like this was casual. The proceeding shape of Nesta’s name on Rhys’s lips was enough to unlock his joints, to send a rush of fury to drown out all sense of the world.   “A fling, Cas”-   Cassian punched him.   Fluid and faster than even faery eyes could track- one minute sitting, the next crashing a fist into his brothers face hard enough bone splintered.   Not Cassians hand, he knew damn well what he was doing. Rhysand’s jaw, when he was caught too off guard to roll with the hit, to do anything but snarl. Gentle as a shadow, immovable as a wall, Az winnowed between them to grab Rhys by the shirt. “Rhys. You do not want to-“   “What the hell, Cassian?”   He didn’t have words yet. Too busy fighting the blood red haze behind his eyes, the every instinct in his body that said: rend. The need to defend Nesta, even the suggestion, was all consuming; a violent heat shaking every bit of him apart.   Rhysand was being a jackass, but that didn’t normally mean Cassian wanted to break every bone in his body. Az strong-armed Rhys out of the room before Cassian got a hold of himself.   He didn’t lose control. Didn’t loose himself to the keening violence that was his blessing and curse from birth- Cassian was better than that. Had to be, how else could he have ever survived long enough to wield more siphons than any Illyrian in history but for Az?   He didn’t loose control; which made this terrifying.   Slowly, Cassian came down with a cold, scarred hand pressed to his forehead. The shadows said breathe, and Cassian listened, fighting adrenaline until the rise and fall of his chest matched Azriel in front of him.   “He’ll be apologizing in six hours,” Az promised, voice low.   Cassian almost smiled from sheer familiarity. A fight every few decades was normal with Rhys, but this was different. Az, who could hear the air and siphon song that rang with violence, defend, protect, destroy, knew it too. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.” “Cas.”   “I wanted to,” Cassian shook his head, unsteady. Azriel just moved his hand from his face to his shoulder, grounding. “I don’t know”-   “Cassian,” Az sighed, infinite patience and terrible quiet, “You know.”   Huffing a laugh without humor, Cassian rubbed a hand over his face. “I made her tea, Az. We’re about to fight against armies who outnumber us by thousands and the only time I’ve felt sane since crossing the Wall was watching her take a cup out of my hands. Its”-   “Like falling.” Az agreed, knowing black eyes holding an untapped future. “Realizing the wings that’ll save you from crashing aren't attached to your body.”   It was a relief to admit. Unbearable to try to put into words- Cassian was in such deep shit.   Like he’d plucked the thought out of his head, out of the air- maybe he had, Az grinned suddenly. The face that said trouble was not one most people got to see, though Cassian had always had interesting luck.    “Such unrelenting shit,” Azriel promised, squeezing Cassian’s shoulder in a death grip before retreating. “You’ve never liked easy.”   Easy would have seen him dead in the cold ground before his fifth year.   “She’s a fire,” Cassian didn’t want to imagine how he looked, the raw tone of his voice too much to his own ears. “She’s going to burn the world in this war.”   Feyre might have seen herself as a protector of both her other sisters, but Cassian was certain of if only one thing about Nesta. She would not go quietly into the safety of the night. Rage and keep raging, foment chaos and continue making terrifyingly shrewd calls to protect mortal lives.   Nesta Archeron would go down fighting to protect her people, and Cassian couldn’t say he was any different.

@breath-of-sindragosa

@flxwer-petals

@ladyvanserra

@illyrianinterrasen

@missanniewhimsy

@tntwme

@ourbooksuniverse

@pitterpatterpot

@thestarwhowishes

@abillionlittlepieces

@my-fan-side

@the-eightofswords

@wonderland–memories

@ourbooksuniverse

@cohen-theeleven

@donnarosemary

@keshavomit

[jamietukpahwriting]

From "The Three Times You Rebuilt Your House-shaped Heart" in Fierce Fairytales by Nikita Gill

[exilebuzz]

a little lore...

some nights seem darker than others. they’ve an unease about them that seeps through gooseflesh and settles in the meat of your bones like the cold in the thickest of winter. those aren’t always the nights you need to worry about, though. not in a place like exile. bad things always seem to happen here, like there’s something in the water. or maybe bad things happen here because they’re drawn to the soil the way that we're drawn to doorways; simply and definitely because doorways are where things come to stand. either way, everyone in exile, new and old, has heard the stories. hell, some of them have their own.

the whistler.

if you live in summerset you may, on every third morning at precisely 3:03 am, hear whistling outside your home. it’ll slip between houses, gliding past windows, and make its way down the next street. then the next. the tune as haunting as the time before. never under any circumstances, no matter how curious your mind, should you peer out your window to find the source of this whistling. not even the tiniest peek. for you will not like what you see and quite possibly, wouldn’t be able to tell a soul if you did anyway. people who see him just aren’t quite the same after. it changes them. almost as if their very souls had been drained from their bodies leaving nothing more than the shells that used to house them. leaching all of the goodness from their lives and infecting them with an unluckiness that spreads to everyone they so happen touch. and whatever you do, if the whistler comes knocking, do not answer your door. we still haven’t found the lost souls who have to tell their stories, yet.

blackwood grove.

if you find yourself travelling far past the stench of the wealthy that reside in ivy hill, you’ll come upon a sweet little sign on iron gates that says blackwood grove. rows of pretty new houses that were rebuilt within the last century. one of the many parts of exile’s history that it’s tried so desperately to brush under the rug. unfortunately for exile, the events that transpired there refuse to be erased. in 1692, as many of you already know, salem cast it’s first witch trials. and over the next year or so where more than two hundred people were accused, thirty were found guilty. some were executed by hanging, while others were imprisoned and died without seeing the light of another day. one was even pressed to death. what you didn’t know─unless you live here, of course─ is that exile was much, much worse. the rumors of witches being burned at the stake originated here. because that’s exactly what they did. any woman found practicing witchcraft were made marvelous examples of. they were taken to the edge of town, stripped bare of their clothes and pride, bound them and set aflame in front of the entire town like it was some sort of spectacle. they’d cave in the heads of their children and drown their little babies to stop the spread of any wickedness they may have passed on. and one day, the fire burned so hot and high and out of control, that it scorched the earth killing any living soul for acres who happened to be standing on it. and it was called a tragedy. they say that land is haunted now. cursed. legend has it, it was an angry soul that took vengeance on the people. the very ones who watched as they burned, only days prior, ignoring their pleas of innocence. that a single ember of their charred soul drifted into the flames and ignited it with pure destruction. and as for blackwood grove, no one who lives there tends to stay for long. leaving rows of vacant homes as a warning to those nearby to stay very, very far away.

we call to clara grace.

according to legend, if you're trying to invoke the spirit of bloody mary, you're to lock yourself in a darkened room and chant her name thirteen times whilst looking into a mirror and she'll appear; a gauntly corpse screaming yours, thirteen times back. maybe curse you, drink your blood, scratch your eyes out. but that's a fool's legend created to protect you from the real one. the room must be dark, yes, but in one hand you'll need a candle to appease the shadows. a virgin wick if you want to try your best at not offending them. the other, the one you've soaked in the pond water near [hood/location], will need to be pressed against the glass. a hand to hold the way lovers do. and finally, you'll call out her name three times with eyes closed and when you've opened them she'll be there, waiting for you. but when you call to her, do not let bloody mary slip from your lips. her name is clara. now, they say if you've been hurt or met with death, she'll be kind. understanding that, like her, you too have suffered. and she'll leave you. but if you have blood on your hands─accidental or otherwise─or hate in your heart, she'll grip your fingers tight and pull you into the mirror with her. never to be seen, again. of course, others will tell you something a little different. that she pulls you in, but not entirely. only enough to leave a gaping wound in your arm. a blood curse that causes you to hallucinate terrifying visions like bugs crawling out of your orifices or noticing your own rotting from the inside out. a preview of what’s to come. and the only thing there is to stop it is by swallowing a sliver of the old burning posts, a sliver the weight of your crimes, of your guilt, before she takes you. because by then, it’s far too late. the only thing that’ll be left of you are the little pieces that your family will find, one by one, until the day they join you. bloody mary is just a story. clara grace, however... was a witch.

the wood.

at first glance the wood of exile seems beautiful and lush. give them a further gander and you will feel the distinct unease, stay a little longer and you’ll find that people have gone missing or tend to get lost in the thick expanse of nature. and time? it has no meaning once you’ve crossed the treeline. the hand of time clicks on by while the trees come alive. some people swear they whisper to them, luring them in. further and further. others see their lost loved ones at the edge of the wood, a shadow, a shape… sometimes something that they can’t quite explain.

there’s something in the wood. many swear to never step foot in that terrain, others find it helps to seek permission and ask for safe passage before they trudge through the unholy soil. if you're smart you would stay away. these woods have devoured more than their fair share.

not enough for you? don’t worry, we’ll be allowing members to add to our current lore (via request or forum experience) as well as create some themselves to be added sitewide. there will also be new lore with certain subplots that will pop up when the time comes, depending on how many twists the site takes as we grow.

[divinityslain]

hey   there   demons   !   tis   i   ,   local   lorekeeper   &   part   -   time   trash   pile   ,   coming   at   ya   to   give   miss   wilhelmina   no   fucken   rights   !   isn’t   that   exciting   ?   click   HERE   for   ur   girl’s   ~   new   ~   pinterest   .   also   this   is   long   .

*   RELIGION   &   TWSITD   &   FOOD   MENT   .

full   name   .

wilhelmina   von   hevring

nicknames   .

mina minnie

birthday   .

october   4

fódlan   birthday   .

4th   of   the   wyvern   moon

age   .

twenty   -   three

height   .

172.72cm   /   5′8″

nationality   .

adrestian

hometown   .

county   of   hevring

residence   .

garreg   mach   monastery

house   .

black   eagles

occupation   .

student   at   the   officers   academy

crests   .

minor   crest   of   cethleann   /   sometimes   raises   mt   when   using   recovery   magic major   crest   of   lamine   /   occasionally   conserves   uses   of   recovery   magic

strengths   .

faith riding lance

weaknesses   .

flying axe brawling

budding   talent   .

reason

classes   .

noble   →   monk   →   priest   →   bishop   →   holy   knight

likes   .

horses tea reading making   people   proud   of   her exploring shopping

dislikes   .

mindless   gossip henrik isolation the   dark heights injustice

interests   .

practicing   magic chatting praying helping   to   restore   the   saint   statues

favorite   meals   .

saghert   and   cream peach   sorbet gronder   meat   skewers vegetable   stir   -   fry

favorite   teas   .

mint   tea angelica   tea

favorite   gifts   .

riding   boots tea   leaves stylish   hair   clip goddess   statuette owl   feather   *   universal   gift

least   favorite   gifts   .

hunting   dagger blue   cheese arithmetic   textbook

favorite   flowers   .

roses forget   -   me   -   nots

lost   items   .

gold   hair   bow heart   -   shaped   locket storybook   about   the   four   saints

relatives   .

lorelei   von   beaumont   (   née   hevring   )   ,   mother unnamed   noble   ,   step   -   father theodore   &   sebastian   von   beaumont   ,   maternal   half   -   brothers jasper   ,   anabel   &   elias   von   beaumont   ,   step   -   cousins

count   hevring   ,   maternal   uncle   &   legal   guardian unnamed   noble   ,   maternal   aunt   &   legal   guardian linhardt   von   hevring   ,   maternal   cousin

count   rowe   ,   father   /   illegitimate   child   of unnamed   noble   ,   step   -   mother viktor   gwendal   rowe   ,   paternal   half   -   brother  johanna   sigrid   gaspard   (   née   rowe   )   ,   paternal   half   -   sister henrik   alphonse   rowe   ,   paternal   half   -   brother astrid   faryse   rowe   ,   paternal   half   -   sister adiel   gwydion   rowe   ,   paternal   half   -   brother nikolai   christophe   blaiddyd   ,   paternal   nephew   /   johanna’s   son

the   product   of   an   affair   between   lorelei   von   hevring   ,   a   noble   from   adrestia   ,   &   the   head   of   house   rowe   in   faerghus   .   obviously   ,   count   rowe   is   already   long   married   with   three   kids   by   the   time   mina   is   conceived   ,   &   lorelei   is   …   in   the   process   of   finding   a   suitable   match   ,   courtesy   of   her   older   brother   &   head   of   house   hevring   ,   so   the   newborn   wasn’t   exactly   welcomed   warmly   .

(   although   ,   not   anything   new   as   nobles   have   been   producing   out   -   of   -   wedlock   children   since   as   long   as   anyone   can   remember   .   )

however   …   the   thing   is   ,   this   whole   ordeal   was   count   rowe’s   plan   all   along   ?   like   ,   none   of   his   current   children   are   crest   -   bearers   .   lorelei   comes   from   a   respected   family   ,   one   that   notably   has   a   strong   bloodline   to   keep   crests   alive   .   put   two   &   two   together   ,   makes   sense   ,   right   ?   once   the   child   shows   signs   of   possessing   a   crest   ,   he   would   take   them   off   her   hands   …   you   know   ,   since   having   a   child   in   such   a   way   would   arguably   look   worse   for   her   than   for   him   !   &   said   child   was   supposed   to   become   his   true   heir   to   the   rowe   territory   . 

WELL   !   too   bad   for   him   ,   lorelei   cut   ties   .   a   new   husband   ,   she   said   in   letters   that   are   now   burned   &   forgotten   .   little   did   he   know   ,   it   was   because   she   was   expecting   &   didn’t   want   him   to   know   .   fearful   for   what   may   happen   ,   unaware   of   his   true   intent   .

4th   of   the   wyvern   moon   ;   the   day   wilhelmina   von   hevring   came   into   the   very   world   that   will   become   so   cruel   .   a   premeditated   accident   ,   that’s   what   she   was   .   although   her   uncle   had   plans   .   people   who   would   take   away   the   burden   he   promised   to   keep   a   secret   ,   until   it   suited   him   .   alas   ,   lorelei   wouldn’t   part   from   her   daughter   so   quickly   .   it   would   take   about   four   years   of   mina   living   in   the   hevring   estate   for   lorelei   to   grow   distant   ,   more   focused   on   her   new   children   with   her   new   husband   in   a   completely   different   territory   in   adrestia   .   it   was   then   she   would   be   discreetly   removed   from   the   household   ,   much   to   her   confusion   as   she   would   grip   onto   her   uncle’s   hand   .

those   who   slither   in   the   dark   .   vile   ,   uncaring   ,   harshness   ;   result   orientated   .   mages   would   spend   two   years   testing   &   experimenting   on   mina   —   crestology   ,   implanting   a   crest   stone   into   a   body   seeing   if   it’s   compatible   .   a   lot   of   their   prior   experiments   failed   ,   but   a   strong   select   few   survived   for   awhile   .

 just   shy   of   over   the   two   years   ,   the   mages   of   those   who   slither   noted   many   different   stages   of   progress   .   initially   unaware   wilhelmina   already   bore   a   crest   ,   a   minor   of   cethleann   –   they   saw   as   she   activated   it   for   the   first   time   during   a   trial   .   a   welcomed   addition   to   their   studies   !   but   of   course   she   was   miserable   &   terrified   .   yet   even   so   ,   she   remained   hopeful   .   hopeful   that   this   would   be   over   soon   —   silent   prayers   to   the   goddess   fell   from   her   trembling   ,   cracked   lips   ,   over   &   over   .   a   little   after   she   turned   six   ,   her   desperate   prayers   were   answered   .   the   mages   successfully   in   giving   her   a   new   crest   :   a   major   crest   of   lamine   .   although   as   they   have   seen   in   the   past   ,   the   stress   of   twin   crests   caused   strain   on   her   small   body   ,   causing   her   hair   to   turn   white   (   although   ,   leaving   a   vaguely   blonde   undertone   –   perhaps   homage   to   lamine   herself   )   &   shortened   lifespan   .   that   …   left   them   bored   &   itching   to   move   on   to   the   next   ,   as   the   cycle   repeated   .

after   dropping   a   slumbering   ,   dirty   &   worn   -   out   mina   back   to   the   county   of   hevring   ,   &   a   brief   meeting   with   her   uncle   explaining   the   results   of   the   experimentation   ,   they   departed   within   the   shadows   once   more   .   so   idk   fast   forward   a   few   months   ,   she’s   still   six   &   still   clinging   to   the   teachings   of   seiros   &   the   four   saints   .   she   even   saved   up   enough   money   for   a   storybook   .   her   uncle   trained   her   in   secret   ,   unwilling   to   yet   show   her   twin   crests   to   the   rest   of   the   empire   ,   &   mina   did   her   goddamn   best   to   make   him   proud   !!   like   little   baby   ..   really   ..   was   embodiment   of   pleading   emoji   .   &   alright   count   hevring   was   using   her   from   day   1   but   …..   would   be   lying   if   he   didn’t   get   even   slightly   attached   after   all   the   time   he   inevitably   spent   with   her   lmao   .

once   she   gained   an   understanding   of   how   to   not   randomly   activate   her   crests   ,   her   uncle   took   her   to   enbarr   to   introduce   to   the   imperial   family   .   at   almost   seven   ,   she   didn’t   understand   the   weight   of   the   situation   .   there   he   showed   her   off   to   the   emperor   &   subsequently   ,   his   sons   .   a   choice   between   eric   &   wilhelm   ,   &   the   latter   was   chosen   .   wilhelm   &   wilhelmina   were   engaged   ,   all   because   count   hevring   pulled   the   ‘   my   niece   has   two   crests   &   your   son   has   none   ’   card   ..   huh   ..   that   really   was   the   selling   point   .   (   of   course   it   was   still   kept   hush   ,   those   who   slither   in   the   dark   didn’t   want   to   be   discovered   so   quickly   .   the   emperor   ,   despite   finding   it   a   strange   occurrence   ,   didn’t   question   it   …   lmao   little   did   he   fucken   know   !!   )

during   her   time   in   enbarr   ,   mina   stumbled   across   …   a   certain   boy   ,   unbeknownst   to   her   at   the   time   ,   her   step   -   cousin   jasper   .   now   his   father   ,   being   able   to   make   the   connection   once   he   hears   her   name   being   called   by   hevring   ,   went   to   lorelei   afterwards   &   was   like   ,   hey   so   go   back   to   your   daughter   ,   she’s   betrothed   to   one   of   the   imperial   princes   ,   that   could   be   of   use   to   us   ,   etc   .   etc   .   &   like   ,   well   ,   she   did   .   mina   ,   after   years   of   being   estranged   from   her   mother   ,   was   swaddled   up   quickly   in   an   embrace   under   a   false   guise   of   genuine   wish   to   reconnect   .   she   felt   odd   seeing   her   daughter   with   a   hair   color   so   foreign   ,   but   as   the   shitty   adults   do   ,   she   doesn’t   make   a   note   of   it   .   mina   was   introduced   officially   to   all   of   her   step   -   cousins   ,   as   well   as   her   own   half   -   brothers   .   truthfully   she   tried   her   best   to   connect   with   them   all   ,   but   the   only   one   who   stuck   was   jasper   .   not   that   she   minded   —   despite   all   the   negativity   surrounding   him   ,   she   still   saw   the   good   .   she   always   did   . 

years   later   &   more   tragedy   struck   the   empire   .   the   insurrection   of   the   seven   ,   a   soft   coup   ;   her   uncle   participated   in   stealing   power   from   the   emperor   –   the   individual   she   came   to   know   more   personally   as   her   future   father   -   in   -   law   .   &   then   ……..   it   happened   .   three   years   after   the   insurrection   ,   wilhelm   (   +   the   other   imperial   children   )   were   just   .   gone   ?   no   one   spoke   about   them   ,   &   she   would   be   scolded   each   time   she   brought   it   up   .   her   uncle   was   tense   ,   perhaps   due   to   the   arrangement   that   the   emperor   literally   was   unable   to   break   ,   but   mina   once   more   turned   back   to   the   church   for   solace   .   edelgard   came   back   eventually   ,   white   hair   similar   to   her   own   ,   but   none   of   her   siblings   followed   ,   so   mina   mourned   for   them   in   silence   .

years   &   years   past   &   her   uncle   started   up   a   search   for   a   new   husband   ;   while   she   moved   on   from   wilhelm   ,   he’ll   still   be   in   her   memory   &   heart   .   even   when   her   heart   attached   itself   to   randolph   ,   &   they   slowly   started   courting   ,   despite   her   uncle   strongly   advising   her   against   it   .......   idk   they   been   together   for   awhile   now   technically   ?

ok   so   personality   basically   ,   she   is   beagles   mom   !   very   …   i   would   say   naive   ,   because   how   she   doesn’t   realize   98%   of   her   family   is   using   her   ,   but   ..   but   like   .   she’s   !!!   embodiment   of   honey   &   wildfire   are   both   golden   ,   softness   is   not   weakness   .   she   is   also   a   horse   girl   so   jot   that   down   ,   you   know   ?   find   her   in   the   stables   pretty   often   .   mina’s   uno   reverse   edelgard   in   the   sense   that   while   edelgard   is   angry   at   the   society   they   live   in   /   the   church   +   goddess   +   crest   systems   ,   etc   .   mina   ??   doesn’t   hold   any   hatred   for   what   happened   to   her   .   it’s   more   like   ,   she’s   going   to   take   her   trauma   &   do   the   absolutely   best   she   can   because   if   she   lets   it   go   to   waste   then   all   of   what   she   went   through   would’ve   been   for   nothing   &   she   can’t   let   that   happen   .

she   agrees   with   edelgard’s   position   of   how   crests   shouldn’t   dictate   the   way   people   live   ,   but   also   she   still   has   her   faith   ??   like   ..   *   channels   all   the   cf   endings   that   have   the   church   being   rebuilt   despite   under   supervision   ..   bc   she   wld   have   helped   *

uh   idk   if   any   of   this   intro   makes   sense   but   like   here   we   are   babies   !!   i   am   tired   &   have   three   more   to   write   so   i   am   ….   TIRED   .

[virgilantejustice]

the infection (pt. one)

This is my first ever long fic!! if anyone has any feedback or advice, i am totally open to it, i want to make my work as good as it can be. And, please feel free to reblog, i’m only a small account, and i would be nice to get a few more notes.

Total word count: approx. 7000

Chapter word count: approx. 2500

Trigger warnings: Death and violence, dystopian setting

part two  part three  sea of stars  on the church steps  heartbreak

masterpost link

---------------------------------------------------

     "Logan, please, you don't have to go!" He could see the pleading in Patton's eyes, yet he refused to let the trapped tears fall.

     "You know I do," he replied, desperately trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. He had to be strong, for him. "We're starving, Patton. There's nothing left."

     Patton turned his face to the ground. Logan put a hand under his chin and ran his thumb over the mole on his lower cheek, that formed the faint shape of a heart. The only part of his face not covered by scars. Through all that, the heart remained. Amazing in a way.

     "Just- " Patton whispered, "just stay safe. Come back." His eyes were sparkling, glistening, begging.      

     "I can't make any promises," Logan whispered back steadily,but his voice was catching in his throat. "But I'll try. For you, My Heart."

     Patton shrugged his leather jacket off his shoulders and pressed it into Logan's hands. He'd scavenged it from an old clothes shop years ago, it was his only protection, he couldn't use a knife. The leather was thick enough even to stop bites from the infected fangs.

     "No," Logan said firmly, pushing it back. "You need it, I have my knife."

     "You'll be more danger," Patton replied. He was always so stubborn.

     "What if they come?"

     "The knowledge that you're ok with keep me safe."

     "That's nonsense!"

     "Poetic though." A smirk crept on to his face. He knew how much Logan loved poetry, and his smile was infectious. "Please, Lo. Take it, and say you'll come back by dusk." Logan saw the honest pleading in his eyes and put on the jacket. Patton looked so vulnerable, but he knew that he would stay alive by sheer power of will if it came to it.

     "I"ll make sure of it," Logan muttered. "I've got to go," he brushed his lips against Patton's and pulled away. That was really all they could afford these days, when a couple of seconds was the difference between life and death. But nevertheless, Patton pulled him in close, nestling his face into Logan's neck, his breath smelled so sweet, stale and empty.  

     Logan gently eased him off. God knows he didn't want to go, but he had to, for him. With one more fleeting glimpse, he climbed onto the motorbike and rode away.

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           When the first wave hit eleven years ago, they were ready. The disease was wiped from the face of the Earth, or so they thought.

     During the first wave, the symptoms were obvious. The skin went yellow, the eyes black, the flesh rotting away, all this happening within minutes of infection. With the Military and gamer nerds, it was destroyed.

     But it wasn't. They were cocky, overconfident. They'd only made it stronger. It learned, evolved in the few years of peace in which the world was rebuilt, only for it to be torn down once again. The virus, it'd gaining power for the second wave, which swept the world like a tsunami eight years ago.  

     Then, the only immediate sign was the skin on the bridge of the nose. This was now the only part of the skin that turned yellow straight away. There were no other signs. The infected still walked, talked and breathed, but were suddenly overcome by terrible hunger. As soon as they indulged this urge to feed, the virus finally took over, and they fully transformed.

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     It took hours to get to The Ballroom. Logan stepped off the bike and wiped the tears from his cheeks, he had been strong for Patton, but as soon as he left, the mask dissolved.

     Logan felt the bulge in his pocket hit his leg as he swung it off the seat. Part of him felt guilty, part terrified, and a savage, primal part of him was excited. He tried to clear his mind of emotion though, he knew it wouldn’t help him. There was no place for sentimentality at the ball.

     Carefully, he hid his knife up his sleeve (it was better not to aggravate the other people so soon), and placed his mask on his face.

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   There weren't many people left after a few months, and barely any after the eight long years. Only a few thousand in each country, if that. The virus didn't leave survivors. Each zombie died a few weeks after the transformation, if they didn't starve. And most of the time, if you were bitten and didn't die from the wounds, you'd be shot by your own side as soon as the yellow appeared.

     Hostilities had quickly arisen. Old feuds resurfaced as the law crumbled into dust, but anyone with any sense learned to band together, as they had nothing.

     The water was contaminated, the Earth infertile and difficult to protect, and you could rarely risk hunting. Infected animal flesh was poisonous, they may not have become zombies like humans, did but they became potent enough to kill twenty. Most of the survivors had inside vegetable patches and collected rainwater as well as being experienced in identifying infected animals, but sometimes it wasn't enough. So they went to the ball.

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     The waiting room was filled to bursting, the air of intensity overwhelming, fear oozing from the very walls.

     The rules of the ball were simple: two hundred clean and one infected person in The Ballroom; wear a masquerade mask, so no one knows who the infected is; if you take off the mask, you get shot by one of the guards; whoever kills the infected gets enough supplies to set them up for months.

     By about a month into the second wave, only the rich had anything left, so obviously people began to beg. But the upper classes hearts where as hard and cold as their cash (not that dollars really mattered anymore).  

     There was no fee for the ball, no profit to be made. The superiority that the rich held infected them in another way, made them cruel and sadistic. They watched this as sport.  

     As soon as the doors opened, every poor soul who was desperate enough to come filed out in to the hall. It was largely empty, save a few chairs around the edges for anyone brave (or stupid) enough to sit. It still held more grandeur than any other room for miles despite the peeling paint and bare chandeliers.

     People had walked for days to be here, mainly adults, some ragged and desperate looking teenagers, and a couple of idiots had even brought their families ('must be their first time, the infected picked of the young, old and weak first,' Logan thought coldly). Suspicious eyes bored into his back, as everyone scoped the room, but the masks did their job well. Logan could feel his heavy on his nose, the ribbon tied tightly behind his head.  

     'Who was it? Who was it!' Logan frantically asked himself, his face not needing a mask for the facard of calmness that it was already fixed to. People were chatting, milling around, biding their time until the creature attacked. Was it the woman over there with the sharp chin, long brown hair and striped yellow mask? Or the short person with faded remnants of multicoloured dye in their hair? There was no way of knowing, not yet.

     Logan didn't talk to anyone. He stayed with his back pressed against the wall so no one could sneak up behind him. Waiting for a sign, trying to disappear.  

     He kept Patton's as image in his mind. Logan had only come here once before, and had come back practically falling to pieces, and only with a couple of cans that the victors had decided to share out of pity, but then he didn’t have the plan that he had now. As long as Logan kept thinking about him he knew he wouldn't leave him behind. He was the Heart, and nickname from years ago, but it held true. And Logan was the mind, as Patton would always call him, usually while stroking his cheek and coming in closer.

     'No!' Logan told himself, shaking the memory from his mind. He had to be focused, ready.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

When the second wave hit, it swept the world so fast, and there was no way to stop it.

     Logan and Patton were only fourteen when their parents died six years ago, they couldn’t defend themselves, so they did what their parents told them to do with their final breaths, and went into some old mines. A cave in was imminent at all times, but it was safer than the surface. They didn’t know how long they were down there, walking. There was no day or night, there was only blackness or fire.

     Therefore, Logan didn’t know where they were in relation to the sea, or where they grew up, or the remnants of anywhere that was a big city. In the six years since then, they'd explored for miles around their camp, but never found anything that they recognised. The world was just a barren, endless sheet of brown, with only a few ruined towns and cities to break up the wasteland.  

     They lived in an old church now, the only building still standing in the town in which they came up. It was big, and empty, and the windows were smashed making it drafty, but it was all they had. So Patton decided that they would decorate it and make it cosy, collecting blankets and shelves from the ruined houses. He had made it home for them.

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     Suddenly, the person with the dyed hair revealed a large blade from under their coat and plunged it into the stocky man standing before them. The man gasped and fell to the floor, pressing his hands to the crimson flower blooming on his chest, his once purple hair now dyed red with his own blood.

     One of the guards came over and pulled the mask from his still face. No yellow. Just a man. A young man, with laughter lines around his mouth from once upon a time. A dead man now. Dead for nothing.

     That one act of violence then sparked the inevitable chain reaction. The brown haired woman killed the first killer, not them. Then a person wearing an orange beanie bashed her head in, not her. Then their body hit the ground, not them!

     The pent up aggression that lay in everyone's hearts was unleashed. Knives flashed, bats swung, fists flailed. The rich onlookers behind the glass fence were cheering, choosing favourites and placing bets.

     Logan tried to stay to the side, he didn't want to kill anyone who was clean, but he knew he had to win.

     Finally, he caught a glimpse of something. A glimpse of yellow behind a slipping mask, a glimpse of a fang protruding from the lips. a glimpse of a person clearly infected.. It was a man wearing a snake-print mask and scars down one side of his face.  

     Logan fought his way over, dancing away from the blows and slashes that were sent in his direction. Finally he stood face to face with the man. He was covered in blood, his and others, and something dark lingered in his eyes.

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     Before Logan could even jump back in surprise, the man lunged for his neck. He grabbed his shoulders and tried to push him back but his grip was strong. The man bit mindlessly at him, but the leather kept the new fangs from his flesh.

    Logan slipped his knife out of his sleeve and plunged it into him, emptying himself of emotion before remorse could take hold. 'He's not human, not anymore' he told himself. But as the man fell, Logan saw something so human in his eyes. Something sad. Something agonised, as he pressed his hands to the gaping wound that Logan left in his stomach.  

     There was no need to remove the mask. There was so much blood everywhere, he must have swallowed a little and transformed. Fangs hung over his chin, his skin was dry and flaking, his eyes turned black, and his nails covered with red.

     Logan staggered backwards, clutching his temples. "I won," he shouted it to the protected upper classes, "i won!"  

     One of the guards threw a duffel bag at his feet. Logan looked inside, enough for a month, maybe more, but not enough.

     "No!" He cried. "I did not come here for this!"

     "That is your prize," replied a well dressed man, standing up from his plush armchair behind the glass. "Take it or leave it."

     Logan shook his head, fighting to stay calm, but quickly losing "Neither," he snarled. He pulled the object out of his pocket. The backup plan. A grenade.

     Everyone scrambled away from him when he held it up, they were frenzied. The guards ran towards him, but stopped in their tracks when he loosened his grip.

     "You're bluffing," one of the protected woman spat. "We'll all go up! You wouldn't dare!"  

     "Are you willing to take that chance?" Logan began to idly toss it between his hands. The first man gestured to one of the guards, who huffed and disappeared into one of the side rooms, to bring back another, larger bag.

     Logan picked it up and looked inside. The two bags were enough for months! He knew that he should have been happy, but a fiery rage still was building inside him.

      "You know what?" He said to the bomb in his hand. "You guys really fucking suck." And with that, he threw the grenade up into the air, grabbed the bags, and ran.

      It exploded before it even hit the ground.

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     Rubble flew everywhere at deadly speeds, striking guards and participants alike, but the nobles took it the hardest. Their glass prison shattered, crystal daggers embedding themselves into their flesh.  

     Dust and smoke filled the air, Logan stumbled, and ran into people, all charging in the vague direction that they knew the door to be in. He heard the guard's heavy boots thudding on the floor behind him, hot on his trail, but they were too slow.

     He ran and ran, and finally, he burst through the doors. The clouds overhead were thick and dark, blotting out the sun.

     As soon as he got to the motorbike and swung his leg over the seat, he felt someone else climb on behind him, too small to be a guard.

     "Drive! Fucking drive!!" Came the panicked voice, so he did. His priority was to get away from the people he knew were definitely trying to kill him.

     Logan rode in a zigzag to escape the bullets that were flitting past his head. Bullets were worth more than gold these days, and they were shooting wildly.

     The person behind him was practically bouncing on the seat. He felt the terror radiating from them, Logan wanted to stop and ask them questions, but he couldn't. He needed to go faster.

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[augment-techs]

sentence prompts: Nikita Gill edition

happily ever after

the healing

forest person

four spells to keep inside your mouth

kiss the dead

question the fairytale

for all our hidden witches

what’s in a name

the shapeshifter

skeletons in the garden

motherly advice

nothing soft about it

how to save yourself

in the old days

in the old days ii

mothers and daughters

the ogre

svengali girl (after simon says)

of kings and queens

in absentia: a common curse

devour your monsters

man up, hercules

phoenix blood

princess plain

metamorphosis

charming

the giant’s daughter

the looking glass

the moral of your story

the art of emptiness

vengeance born

hunger: the darkest fairytale

difficult damsels

the trolls (after shane koyczan)

pandora’s mind

the girl goes after the wicked king who trapped her in the tower

ode to the catcaller down the street

the modern-day fairytale

the tale weaver

the moon dragon

why it rains

why the leaves change color

why the sun rises and sets

baba yaga

rapunzel’s note left for mother gothel

rapunzel, rapunzel

lessons from the not-so-wicked witch for dorothy

an older and wiser little mermaid speaks

the little mermaid’s mother speaks to her unborn baby

the sea witch’s lament

belladonna

hansel’s letter to his son

gretel after hansel

the evil queen

seven

waking beauty

the dragon witch’s daughter

take back your fairytale

three times you rebuilt your house-shaped heart

goldilocks

jack’s fable unfalsified

cry wolf

beauty and bravery

how a hero becomes a villain

the hatter

wonderland villain

scheherazade the clever

the shoemaker’s son

badroulbadour

trapped

two misunderstood stepsisters

lessons in surviving long-term abuse

fairy godmother

the stepmother’s tale

cinderella’s mother sends her a message from heaven

the red wolf

child’s play

wendy

boy lost

why tinkerbell quit anger management

half of rumpelstiltskin seeks redemption

the miller’s daughter

whispers from the wicked woods

the woods reincarnated

the fable in thermodynamics

a tale of two sisters

somewhere across the universe, this intergalactic fairytale is being told

for the cynic

once upon a time

once upon a time ii

a universal truth

[itsicantbelievethis666]

The Cunning Woman and The Demon - Christmas/Holiday Special

1854 words. This is a jump-ahead chapter (I tend to do that a fair bit in my other writing), and will probably be edited. 

To all of you and any I may have missed, thank you, thank you, thank you. If I missed you in the tag, please forgive me and let me know so that I can include you. If you have updated your URL or username, please let me know so that I can update my list. 

@new-zealand-chic @deepdisireslonging @trent7thirsting @xprincessofthefallenangels @demonkingsangel @writtingrose @sjwrites22 @writinglionqueen @superrezzy00 @kallirevenne @neversatisfiedgirlfics @neversatisfiedgirl @sjwrites22 @theworldofotps @tacoshuimagines @writing-reigns @baratomaya @devittsslut @the-carter-mob-don @evilangel84 @demonqueen29 @blissedoutbalor @ashleyvc88  @never-sawft-princess @ladycynthia  @warblersarelove @biforbecky2belts@thepalaceofmelanie @twistedbeautifully @shieldgirl18  @dark-blueheart13 @officialbroski10-blog  @the-beastslayers-queen @moody-geeky-synfully-perverse @the-balor-within

The sky is a deepening grey mottled with clouds threatening more than the flurries tumbling lazily on the frigid breeze. The ground is hard, the grass crunching under the frost as I step on it. Only a few birds remain to play with the Fireflies as they flit only a few feet away from me, their sorties short and frequent between stops inside the hood of my coat.

Finn is away visiting the Hardy compound. I have not been feeling well these last few weeks: I’ve been more tired than usual in the admittedly longer evenings, while during the day my appetite has disappeared and nausea has been gripping me at odd times. For that reason I have stayed close to the cottage this afternoon, stocking the root cellar for the winter and clearing away the debris of the garden for the compost pile.

“Little ones, perhaps we should go back inside,” I call out to them as the last of the year’s root vegetables disappear into my basket. The squeaks of protest amuse me for the moment, until they fall silent as, one by one, the Fireflies return to the hood’s shelter and snuggle among its folds. Whatever remains in the garden now will wait dormant in the spring.  

“When will Finn be back?” Joe asks, scouting the outer limits of his flight path before returning.

“Hopefully by nightfall,” I reply. “I don’t remember him bringing a flashlight with him.” Suddenly I’m worried. Wyatt’s minions have been close to the ring of protection, but the Hardy compound and the path towards it are both outside it.

The wind picks up as I mount the steps to the cottage door and step inside with my little charges. Christmas Eve has arrived.  The woods have crept as garlands onto the staircase rail, along the windowsills and around the mantel in the sitting room, crowned with a tree in the corner adorned with popcorn strings, paper chains and ornaments of all shapes and colours. Extra blankets cover the beds; throw blankets sit folded or draped over seat-backs; the crates of firewood are piled high next to both the fireplace and the kitchen woodstove.

With a wave, the lanterns inside are lit. I march my cargo into the kitchen and set it on the table before doffing my boots and coat. A moment or two later, I start a fire on the stove and set a pot of water upon it to boil. I set to work preparing the meal for the holiday – mixing dough for bread, peeling and chopping vegetables, and blending herbs for the dressing. A noseful of summer savoury, however, suddenly brings on a wave of nausea that makes me sit down a moment. The Fireflies gather around me.

She’s not…sick again, like when she came back? Ashley, the sensitive one, the little worrywart – asks.

I’m not sure. Emma gives me a tiny peck on my forehead. She’s not feverish, I don’t think.

Well, that’s good, at least. Nicholas, thus assured, darts off to play with the ornaments on the tree.

Tired again, Sis? Joe asks. Maybe you need some tea to pick you up.

Rachel and Joshua immediately dash off to the cupboard for the tin and a mug, growing in size as they pick each up and bring it to the table before shrinking back again.

Remember how she’d get so tired for those few days every moon?  Dylan, one of the other boys, is an observant sort, but has never had much of a filter. I chuckle.

Dylan! Ew! Funny, though, you’ve not had one of those spells in a while. Not since you’ve been back. Jessica, so proper in her way, and so observant .

“No, no, I’ll be all right,” I answer. Nonetheless, it takes me all my strength, it seems, to walk to the pantry shelf, pull the medical book from its spot and return to the table with it. The lantern’s flame glows from behind its milky glass as I thumb through the pages, looking for a cause. I’m getting old; the winter brings with it its share of death and disease; the last seven years of my life have been almost totally a stretch of traumas and trials. Decline seems not merely expected, but almost welcome.

Five years I was in that cell, most of it encased in that curse of Wyatt’s. The memory of it still sometimes brings me to near-rage, despite what has followed. It also brings me a deep sadness on occasion, as I realize that some hopes are now beyond me. There has been no talk of it with Finn: none yet, anyway.

The last three months, however, have done much to repair the damage. The parcels under the tree for Finn are full of my gratitude for what he has done. The days have been calmer, more productive, quieter in their way, and infinitely happier with Finn to protect me and keep me company, and to inspire me.  The nights have filled me with more pleasure and contentment than I have ever thought possible.  So many nights together…so much….

Wait a minute- no. I must have gone through the Change. I’m not exactly a shriveled husk, but I’m past that stage now. There’s no way….

“All right, little ones – off to the sitting room with you!  Get your stockings hung up for Santa! I have to get the rest of the supper on.” The brief protests morph into excited chirps as the Fireflies make a tight formation flying into the sitting room.

The vegetables make their way into a pot with some of the hot water, a few dollops of tomato paste and a dash of salt and pepper. In a heartbeat afterwards, I find a needle and a small ceramic cup I’ve used before for spell-work. I dash to the washroom next to the kitchen, rinse out the cup with water and, over the toilet, settle myself to my task. I half-fill the cup before finishing my task on the toilet and dropping the needle into the cup. I sit and wait with the cup at my feet, barely registering that I am breathing.  

Within a few minutes, I see the needle changing – flakes of its shine come away and the pale yellow liquid around the needle has turned to billows of a rusty hue. I observe the changes and become hyperaware of everything – of my own heartbeat intermingling with another, a light fluttering inside me, the realization of why I’d been waking up each morning feeling as though I had slept on a pea. I close my eyes as the weight of the discovery descends. How could I have missed it? How could I have been so sure of one conclusion that I wouldn’t entertain any other possibility?

Hello, little one. It’s all I can think of to form in my mind as my heart fills. You are a bit of a surprise.

I can hear a voice singing a carol, and see a flicker of lantern-light through the window. Quickly, I dispose of the needle and its vehicle, flush the commode and give the cup another rinse, this time with soap. I wash my hands quickly and thoroughly, and step back to the kitchen just as the cottage door swings open and a jolt of frigid air blasts across the passage.

“Jaysus, it’s gotten cold out dere,” Finn announces as he shuts the door and gently sets a sack down by his feet. “Any hot water?”

“I’ve g-got a pot on the simmer,” I reply, looking around the kitchen for what to do next. “So, how was the visit?”

“Good, good!” he says, treading through as he doffs his hat and gloves. “Dey sent me back wit’ a sack of presents for us.  De boys picked out some doll outfits for de Fireflies and Matt and Reby sent us a tool set an’ some craft supplies – paints and stuff,  a couple bolts o’cloth for ‘round de house – what’s wrong? You’ve been sick again?”

“It was…just a passing thing,” I reply. “But…um….But I think I’ve found out what’s been causing it.”

“What’s goin’ on?” Finn’s brow furrows and he reaches for my hands.

I give his cold hands a squeeze; his gloves have done little to keep them warm. “You know that we’ve been here…together…about three months.”

“Dereabouts.” He looks at me, his face a map of worry and confusion.

“And before that…how long was I a prisoner?”

“Five years. Ya told me yerself and then you showed me your little book – de last thing you wrote in it was dat long ago. “

“During that time, I don’t remember having had…my period. I figured it was stopped or curtailed between Wyatt’s spell and the lack of food.”

“Dat’s understandable,” he says.  

“Well, since we got back here and restored everything and rebuilt it, I haven’t had one in that time, either, and….”

“…We have been inseparable…in more ways den one.” He gives me a half-grin before the realization begins to dawn. His eyes widen, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Abigail….D’ya tink…?”

My voice is shaking, along with the rest of me. “I thought it was over for me – that I’m too old now. But…I think so.  It would add up, with how I’ve been feeling lately.”

The kitchen is utterly silent but for the pots gurgling away on the stove. I grab the pot holders and lift the kettle of water off the burner to the side, then reach for the teapot. Finn gently turns me back to face him.

“How…how d’you feel about it?” His expression is searching – afraid of the answer.

“Before you, I would have been absolutely petrified.” I had to be honest – bottling this up was going to hurt others besides me now.

“But now?” The search in his face has grown desperate. “I mean, I don’t want to fo-“

“Shhh,” I answer, gently putting my finger to his quivering lips. “I’m full of joy right now. I’m ecstatic – nervous but ecstatic. “We’re soulbound – you told me that. We’re together. This is what, I think, we’re meant to have now that we are together – what we’re meant to have.”                                                                                                                  

“Jaysus…we’re…we’re havin’ a baby.” The despair in Finn’s face has turned to a tremulous elation as he pulls me closer to him and wraps an arm around me.

I give his torso a squeeze and press a kiss against his lips before nuzzling against his neck. “And what a day to find out.”

Suddenly, I catch flickers of light as eight little bodies press themselves between Finn and me, their voices a chorus of whoops and squeals of delight. “How long were you listening in?”

Joe speaks for them all. “We kinda suspected when you went to the bathroom that something was up. One of us may have gotten some inside information.”

“Well, dis is quite an unexpected Christmas gift, I must say,” Finn says at last, squeezing me tighter and kissing my forehead. “Now for a bite of supper before Santa comes. And, Mum,” he looks at me. “You’re off de clock tonight.”

[faveficarchive]

Mayonnaise and Its Discontents

(The tres exciting third part of a "White Trash" trilogy)

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Zina and Gabrielle head out on a road trip, and trip up on Zina’s exes along the way.

1. Precious and Few are the Moments We Two Can Share

The firefighter filled out the broken-down plaid couch with her long body. A walkman lay against her muscular stomach, and a wire traipsed seductively over a swelling breast, galloped down into the valley of muscle, skin, and tendons around the neck and shoulder, blended into dark tresses, and climbed over the crevices of the ears, where it was attached to an earpiece blaring out beautiful musical dissonance: Black hole sun, woncha come, and wash away the raaaaaaaain….

Her eyes were closed tightly against the world. It had been a long, horrible day. Three fires in one day. Flames, dirt, near-death. She came right home after the third one, exhausted, took a bath, and flung herself on the couch. She craved the oblivion of loud music, so she put on her walkman, since she knew Gabrielle was upstairs studying.

And she calls me insensitive, Zina thought grumpily. I can be kinda sorta sensitive when I want to be. She had drifted off into a light sleep when she felt a familiar weight straddle her lap. The weight wriggled around suggestively. She smiled and opened her eyes.

"Hey stud," Gabrielle said. Her beautiful girlfriend wore a t-shirt that said FIREFIGHTERS DO IT WITH RUBBER HOSES (better than the last such shirt she saw, which said FIREFIGHTERS DO IT WITH DALMATIANS) and a pair of Daisy Dukes—the shortest of blue jean shorts. It's like she's takin' fashion tips from Callie or somethin', thought Zina. (Not that she minded that much.) Gabrielle held a dirty slip of paper in one hand. "I found this attached to the bottom of your work boot."

Zina peered at it. "Uh…looks like my pay stub."

"Thought so. You want it?"

Zina gave her a Look. Then she shoved the earphones back in her ears.

Gabrielle wriggled again. Zina opened her eyes again, and plucked the 'phones out of her ears…again. "What?" A thin line of patience was threatening to snap.

"Zina, do you ever look at these things?"

"Why should I? I know how much I get paid. Plus I really don't want to know how much money the goddamn government is stealing from me." Maybe I should join the Militia…her eyes darkened at the thought. Sure, they were all a bunch of fat wads who could barely pull a trigger, but give her two weeks, she'd whip those pussies into shape, and soon, they'd be chanting her name as they took over the county courthouse…

A slap stung her thigh. "Zina! Stop having daydreams about the Militia!" Gabrielle barked.

The firefighter sulked. Of course, I'm kinda whipped myself.

"Now listen to me. There's this column on your pay stub, says 'Vacation'…"

"Uh huh."

"And under it is a number: 1,055."

"Yeah."

Gabrielle blinked in astonishment. "So…you have over a thousand days of vacation coming to you?"

"No."

"Oh." The little poet hid her disappointment.

"It means I have over a thousand hours of vacation." With this, Zina placed the phones back in her ears, and her head started thrashing in a very Beavis-and-Butthead-like fashion to "Spoonman."

"Holy shit! Over a thousand hours of vacation???" shrieked Gabrielle. Alas, her beloved could not hear her joy. She wriggled again, but got no response from Zina. Then she yanked the earphones out of the lovely ears all by her own self.

She was rewarded with a glare worthy of the most disturbed serial killer.

"Sorry, baby, but I'm trying to talk to you. " Gabrielle replied patiently. Love means never having to expect social skills above a third-grade level, the poet realized.

Zina's black bangs flew as she released an air of exasperation. "All right," she growled.

"Since you have so much time coming to you, why don't we have a vacation?"

The blue eyes blinked at her in utter incomprehension.

"Oh, wow," Gabrielle breathed with awe. "You've never had a vacation. Have you?"

"Vacations are for wimps, Gabrielle," muttered Zina.

"Bull. Every summer, my parents took us on a vacation. Sure, it was usually camping, or Graceland, or something like that…but we always went, every year." And every year it was hell. Her parents always argued, they always got lost, and Lila always won every back-seat slugfest they had. But Zina doesn't need to know that.

"I guess that sounds nice. But my mother's idea of a vacation was following around the Grateful Dead." Zina winced, trying to quash the memories that flooded back: greasy smelly hippie guys pawing at her, portable toilets that—mystifyingly enough—smelled better than the guys did, spilled beer going rancid in the harsh sun, pot, acid tabs, and more pot, and those goddamned fifteen-minute drum solos.

Hmmm, Gabrielle thought. It sounds like we've both had sucky vacation experiences. "Hey, I've been thinking. Like, as a vacation, maybe we could go visit Effie and those guys. Whaddya say?"

"I've been to Memphis, though."

"And so has Lyle Lovett, baby doll. Well, they aren't in Memphis right now. They're out in the country, recording their second album, at some studio in Tennessee. It’s real pretty, Effie says."

"That sounds cool."

"Yeah, it would be fun, baby. I'm dying to see Effie. I miss her so much. And you—well, Hank would be there…"

"And we could go fishing!" Zina perked up.

"Yeah!" Gabrielle loved to see her happy.

"And then we could play horseshoes! And golf! And basketball! And football! And I'll beat him every goddamned time!!!!" shouted the firefighter triumphantly.

"Honey, I love you, but you are a fuckin' maniac."

Zina beamed at what she perceived to be a great compliment.

***

"Hey, what the hell you doin' on my Harley?"

—Serge Gainsbourg, "Harley David Son of a Bitch"

They simply could not agree on what vehicle to take. Gabrielle thought it too dangerous to ride a cycle all the way there, and Zina said that it would only be over her dead body that they would take the Escort.

"I can't be seen in an Escort. 'Sides, we'd be lucky to make it to the county line in that thing."

"Well, I'm not riding a Harley all the way there. We won't have room to take anything. And my ass will be numb and fall off by the time we reach the county line." Gabrielle rubbed her perfect posterior for emphasis.

The firefighter scowled, deep in thought. "I have an idea." She stood up. "Come on, we're going to Ed's."

***

Ed stood in his bedroom, thoughtfully examining the two bras that he held, one in each hand. He loved the black one, but the material was so scratchy, on the other hand, the red one was a little too red, but it felt so silky…

A banging on his door caused the entire house to shake. Only two people he knew were capable of that: Hank, who was not in town…and Zina.

A squeak of distress came from his lips. Frantically, he stuffed the bras under his mattress and ran downstairs.

Indeed, the sullen beauty stood at his door, wearing her trademark outfit: black shitkickers, a black t-shirt, and faded Levis. This time the t-shirt showed a mutilated cartoon figure and the caption I KILLED KENNY. Well, I wouldn't put it past her, Ed thought. But he sighed with relief when he saw Gabrielle peeking out mischievously from behind the tall firefighter; the thought of a tete-a-tete with Zina was simply too much.

"Hi Ed!" Gabrielle chirped.

"Hey, Gabrielle…hey, Z."

Zina raised an eyebrow. Her knew her well enough to know that this was her way of requesting entry into his home.

"Sure, come on in, guys." The happy couple sauntered in. Zina flopped down in his recliner. She raised another eyebrow. "Beer?" he stammered. She nodded. "Gabrielle?"

"No thanks," replied the poet. "Got anything to eat?"

He ran into the kitchen, grabbed a can of Bud and a bag of pretzels.

Gabrielle tore open the bag. "Got any mustard?" she asked.

He ran into the kitchen and came back with a jar of French's.

"No Grey Poupon?"

"What the hell's that?" Ed said, face pulled into distaste. Why anyone would want to put something gray on a perfectly innocent pretzel was beyond him.

"Never mind." Gabrielle cast a look at her soulmate, who was chugging Bud. "Shall I?" she asked. Zina nodded. She began. "Okay, Ed, it's like this. Remember when you hit the cow?"

He winced. "Oh…yeah."

"Well, you know, Farmer Draco came by the other day…"

"Shit!" Ed blurted.

"Yeah, and he was asking us if we knew who killed his little Bessie Sue…" Gabrielle shook her head sadly. "It just about broke my heart, to see a big ol' grown man like that cry." And it did, although on Zina’s part, the firefighter had giggled at the way the huge, dramatic feathers in Draco's cowboy hat bobbed up and down as he sobbed. "Right, Zina?" The big firefighter nodded dutifully. "And he cursed, and he cried, and he said, 'If I ever found out who killed Bessie Sue, I'll de-ball the fucker with my own teeth!' "

Ed blanched. His vision dimmed and he felt woozy. I won’t faint! I won’t!

"And do you know what we told him?"

Ed bit his lip in fear and agony.

"We said we didn't know. And you know why we said that, don't you, Ed?"

Ed nodded.

"Because you're our friend, and we don't want to see you de-balled. Right, Zina?"

Zina burped in the affirmative. She did concede to herself, however, that she wouldn't mind seeing Ed de-balled...it might be kinda fun, actually.

"And that's what friends do for each other. They take care of each other. They support each other—"

"They cover each other's stupid hairy asses after drinking half the county," Zina interjected.

"That's right," Gabrielle said soothingly. "So! That brings us to why we're here…"

"Whatever you want, take it!" he cried.

Zina bared her teeth in a feral grin. "We want the Impala."

Agony. He knew, someday, that she would ask. Years ago, he, Hank, and Zina had pooled their paltry financial resources and bought a decrepit 1968 Impala. Together they had rebuilt it into a gleaming icon of big, American simplicity. By the sheer good luck of having a garage, he was Keeper of the Impala. Hank was far too reverent of the vehicle to actually drive it, and would only come over and gaze wistfully at it every once in a while. Zina, however, had been "shut off" from the Impala after a particularly strenuous "test drive" that resulted in the tragic death of several chickens (property of the unlucky Framer Draco). But that was two years ago, and Hank had since declared his best friend fit to drive the beloved vehicle, if she chose to do so. And Ed knew that, one day, she would come around and ask to use the car that both he and Hank were too chickenshit to even drive to the Uni-Mart. She was that kind of woman. Fearless. Confident. Powerful. Perhaps a bit of a sociopath.

He sighed, and headed for the garage. The women followed him silently. When Ed flung up the garage door, he whispered reverently, "There she is."

The 1968 Impala, a dark, royal blue, glinted as afternoon sunlight hit its hood. It sat regally, patiently awaiting their ecstatic worship.

"Isn't she...magnificent?" Ed prompted, using one of the biggest words he knew. His eyes misted over.

"Oh…yes!" Zina gasped, delirious with joy.

Gabrielle shrugged. "It's cute," she said flatly, jealous that something other than she could make Zina gasp with delight. It was another annoyance; she already had to battle the Harley for superiority in the firefighter's affections: "Look, missy, what would rather have between your legs—that cycle or me?" she had demanded of her lover one fine afternoon.

The firefighter had frowned and contemplated the question for a long time.

"Let me put it another way," Gabrielle had interrupted the laborious mental process, "can that Harley give you an orgasm?"

Zina nodded vigorously. "It depends on how fast I'm going, and how bumpy the road is."

And now, she frowned at the harmless Impala. This thing probably does her so good she smokes a pack of Lucky Strikes afterwards, Gabrielle thought in a most discouraging way, while two pairs of horrified blue eyes stared at her.

"Cute?" roared the firefighter. "Gabrielle, this is, like, the Super Bowl of cars!"

"Yeah!" Ed cried. "I rebuilt this thing three times—"

Zina turned on him. "My ass! The second time Hank helped you, and the third time I practically did it myself!"

"No, you didn't!"

"Yes, I did!"

The poet rolled her eyes. She leaned against the car.

"Get off the car!" shouted the firefighters in unison.

2. The Ex Files

After procuring the Impala for their impending trip, they went to the grocery store.

It was not Zina's favorite place to be. The fluorescent lights gave her a headache, as did the canned music (currently warbling "I'd Really Love to See You Tonight" by England Dan and John Ford Coley), and Gabrielle wouldn't let her pop wheelies with the cart. So she leaned against the shopping cart while Gabrielle tossed box after box of Pop Tarts into the metal receptacle. "Blueberry, brown sugar, fudge, cherry…" she rattled off each flavor as they landed in the cart.

The firefighter sighed, and looked to the end of the aisle. What she saw there caused her blue eyes to narrow into such hardened blocks of ice that not even Sharon Stone in her Basic Instinct incarnation—armed with her trusty little icepick—could have cracked them.

Gabrielle was not totally oblivious, in her Pop Tart delirium, to notice her girlfriend's change of mood. "Zina…what's wrong?" she asked as Zina stormed past her, toward a display in the frozen food section. Pulling the cart behind her, she followed Zina to the end of the aisle.

Many plastic containers of a strangely colored liquid formed a small pyramid, which paid homage to an arrogant-looking young woman featured in the cardboard poster that loomed over the plastic cups. The poster read thus: "Julie Caesar, Olympus County's very own Martha Stewart and host of WAR-TV's 'Conquering with Cooking,' presents the latest delicacy from her kitchen: Barbecue-Salsa Mayonnaise!"

"Ya want some, Zina?" the poet asked.

The firefighter regarded her with eyes of rage and incomprehension. "Do I want some?" she hissed violently at her small companion. "Do I want some!!" she repeated incredulously.

"Baby, chill out, okay? If you don't want to try it, don't sweat it."

"Gabrielle, you don't understand," growled Zina, waving at the display, knuckles pounding the cardboard image of the smirking yuppie goddess, "this BITCH stole my recipe!!!"

The little poet blinked in disbelief. The only culinary effort she had witnessed her girlfriend perform had been to mix Rolling Rock, Heineken, and tabasco sauce together and declare it a "cocktail."

"She stole my idea! She betrayed me!" wailed Zina.

"Oh no…" Gabrielle moaned. "Don't tell me…another ex-lover, right?" How many were there? On top of Artie (loser!), Hank (can’t fault Zina here, the man is flawless), Ed (doesn't really count)…there was Callie (bitch!), Midge from the gas station (who kept calling Gabrielle "little lady," whenever she got gas—bitch!), Nancy, who managed the automotive section at the Wal-Mart and still gave Zina "discounts" not to mention lingering, lovestruck glances (bitch!)….

And then there was Lao Ma.

Lao Ma, the beautiful woman who ran the Green Dragon, the Chinese take-out restaurant, whose Hong Kong movie career did not take ("Don't even say the name Michelle Yeoh to me," she once murmured in her calm, menacing way to a customer who dared to ask), who always gave Zina vaguely obscene fortune cookies ("Lick a pearl every night to refine your oral skills") and who offered Gabrielle cryptic commentary whenever she would pick up their order ("Noodles are soft, but who could withstand the raging lo mein?").

Gabrielle sighed and seethed, hands on hips. "Well?"

I'm not talkin' about movin’ in...

Zina rubbed the back of her neck in that way she did when she was uncomfortable.

...and I don't want to change your life...

"Look, Zina, just tell me. Did ya lay her or not?"

...but there's a warm wind blowing and...

"Aw, shit, Gabrielle." Translation: Yes.

...blah blah blah blah...

"Jesus H. CHRIST in a frigging HAYSTACK, ZINA!!! How many are there? Will the REST OF MY LIFE be plagued by the PERIODIC UNCOVERING OF SOME PIECE OF ASS YOU SCREWED WHILE YOU WERE THE BIGGEST HO IN THE COUNTY?"

...and I'd really love to see you tonight...

"Uh, yeah, quite possibly," mumbled Zina.

***

"Oh, man," Cyrene moaned, burying her graying head in her hands. "Zina said I'd tell you everything about her and Julie Caesar?"

"Yeah, Cyrene, she's way too pissed to talk about it. We kinda fought about it." Gabrielle was in the farmhouse kitchen with Cyrene, Zina's mother, who sat at the kitchen table while Gabrielle put away groceries.

"'Kinda?'" Cyrene echoed sarcastically. When she had arrived on the scene Zina was tearing off on the Harley while Gabrielle was screaming after her, "You suck! And I don't mean in a good way either!" from the porch.

"Okay, you saw it. We fought. But just before she left she said you could explain everything." She tried to mask the nervousness in her voice. What would the raging Zina do? Would she get thrown out of "Hooters" again? Would more of Farmer Draco's errant livestock suffer at her murderous wheels? She needed the full story, so that she could help her lover rein in those sociopath tendencies. Not to mention her own jealousy.

"I need my bong," the older woman muttered, digging through her purse. With expert hands, she loaded the bong with pot contained in a little black plastic film canister. She lit up, and offered it to Gabrielle.

"No thanks, I only smoke when I study now." Gabrielle had decided to cut back on the pot-smoking for a while, ever since making the declaration in her Film Aesthetics course that Baseketball was "A Citizen Kane for the 90s."

"Okay," Cyrene sighed, "here we go. It all happened, oh, about 10 years ago. Or maybe it was 8. Or 5…."

Gabrielle rolled her eyes.

"Anyway, it was when Zina was still Bad." The way Cyrene said it, one automatically knew that "bad" began with a capital B.

"Oh…" replied the poet. While her voice retained a forced tone of neutrality, she squirmed in delight. Ooooh…bad = sexy. Sexy sexy sexy. Hello, my name is Gabrielle and I'm addicted to Bad Girls. I realize I am powerless over my addiction to sullen brunettes…

"Yeah, honey, she was Bad. What I'm about to tell you won't be pretty. But we Amphipolittis—like most Italians—have always been a honest, proud family, unashamed of our mistakes."

Gabrielle frowned. "I thought you guys were Greek."

"Whatever." Cyrene waved a bejeweled hand.

3. The Obligatory Flashback

As the Harley tore down the street, Zina was comforted by the cool .45 nestled against her trim waist. Ever since the last time she got out of jail, she had stopped carrying the gun all the time, just in case she got busted again, but whenever she saw her parole officer she brought it along. It was very effective to let the sweaty bastard catch a glimpse of the steel. It kept him off her back.

She pulled into the parking lot of the municipal building, where the his office was. She parked the bike and started to swagger toward the main entrance when an altercation near a white Volvo caught her attention. A grungy young man was trying to divest a yuppie-ish young woman of her ownership of said Scandinavian vehicle of marvel.

"C'mon, lady, hand over the goddamn keys. I got a gun." The dude had his back to Zina, who crept over to them, unnoticed.

The woman had a stylishly messy, Beatlesque haircut, and wore a blue rain slicker, chinos, and those very preppy LL Bean kinda shoes. Hey, is she a dyke or what? Zina thought, as she watched the woman arch an imperious eyebrow at her would-be assailant.

"I'm sorry," she replied in oily, unctuous tones, "but I'm unable to comply with your...rude request. You see, I just had my car cleaned, and I don't allow vermin inside."

"Vermin? What the hell are you talkin' about, lady? I ain't a deer!"

"Let me amend that. Stupid vermin."

The man gave a growl of rage, and as he reared back an arm to hit her, he found his limb ensnared in Zina's powerful grip.

"Hey, ya need this?" growled Zina, squeezing and twisting the arm painfully. With her other hand she pulled out the .45 and grazed it against his sweaty cheek. "I dunno if you have a gun, but I sure do, so I think you should get your sorry ass outta here right now."

Perhaps she only imagined it, perhaps it was wishful thinking, but Zina later thought that, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a rather fascinated—and pleased—look on the woman's face. Almost like she was turned on.

"Okay! Okay! Lemme go!!" he cried.

"No, no, wait a minute. First, you gotta squeal, like a pig."

"What? You outta your damn mind?"

She pressed the barrel into his cheek.

"Weeeee! Weeee! Soooo-EEEEEEE!!!"

Zina unleashed a demonic laugh. She released the sad man, this victim of her recent screening of Deliverance, and gave him a boot in the ass as he stumbled, then ran away. She was still laughing as she turned her attention to the woman who, despite the fact she wasn't blonde, was still kinda cute.

The woman examined her from head to toe, with no discernible emotion on her face except a detached yet intent curiosity. "Hmmm, I suppose I must thank you for your assistance," she murmured regretfully, as if she hated the thought of being indebted to anyone.

Zina transformed her smirk into a dazzling grin, as she decided to do the "aw shucks" routine, which usually charmed the pants off these suburban mom-potential-lesbo types. "Weren't nothin', ma'am. Glad to help."

The woman was not instantly charmed. She continued to look at Zina in that same dour, supercilious manner. "You're...interesting, for someone of your class."

"Class? I'm not in high school anymore, ma'am. But when I was, I would usually cut 'em."

"What's your name?"

"Zina."

"How intriguing. Like that strange alcoholic drink they market nowadays."

"Don't start with that." Zina dropped the cute act. She'd had enough Zima/Zina jokes to last a lifetime.

"I won't," the woman responded coolly.

Zina skulked a little. This wasn't going her way at all. "So, uh, what's your name?" she mumbled, striving for politeness.

The woman looked shocked. She smirked. "You mean you don't know who I am?" she asked, tone dripping with condescension.

Zina frowned. "No. Should I?"

"You should. For someday, the world of TV will be mine."

Zina wanted to roll her eyes. She'd heard this on a regular basis from Artie since his religion kick started.

"Tell me," the woman continued, "do you like steak au poivre?"

"Huh?"

The woman sighed. "Steak. Do you like steak?"

"Shit, lady, who doesn't?"

A business card was pulled from silver holder within the jacket. The card was handed to Zina. "Come to dinner this evening. We'll become aquainted." she nodded. "Until then." Then she was in the Volvo and driving away. Zina looked at the card. JULIE CAESAR. CHEF. CATERING. INTERIOR DECORATING. LIFE CHANGES.

The sexy felon gave a confident roll of her shoulders. "Damn, I still got the touch," she drawled to herself.

***

Usually she was reluctant to drive through the more affluent towns because she got hassled a lot by the local gendarmes. But she felt secure as she drove down a winding road in the scarily perfect village of Port Rome; she had a feeling that the business card nestled in her leather jacket would make any pig back off. This suspicion was confirmed when she pulled into the driveway of Julie Caesar's large, mock-Tudor home. She stopped the bike in front of the garage door, next to the Volvo parked there, and no sooner had she hopped off than she heard the furious barking of dogs.

Two large Dobermans rounded the corner of the house. The dogs paused and regarded her in the same supercilious manner that their owner had earlier in the day. Then, as if a light bulb went off over their collective little canine heads, they charged toward her.

Zina barely had a moment to jump, with unerring grace, on top of the Volvo. The dogs were deterred by this; they seemed reluctant to jump on the car, probably because she trained them not to, guessed the worried con. But they jumped and bounced around the vehicle unceasingly, barking, their jaws snapping. A vicious line of dog drool splattered angrily against one of her boots. Shit, I wish I brought my gun!

"Pompey! Crassus!" A woman's voice boomed from the walkway along the side of the house. Julie appeared, wearing a denim apron, frowning with disapproval at the beasts. "Heel!" she commanded.

Immediately the dogs were transformed into meek, whining creatures. They both sat down obediently, awaiting their mistress's next order.

Julie pointed toward the backyard. "Go!"

Tails between legs, the dogs galloped away.

Zina took a deep breath to calm her pounding heart. "Jesus, that's a real suburban kinda greeting."

"I'm sorry about that. They're angry that the steak I'm making is for you, not them." Julie smiled. Zina blinked. No, wait, she really smiled.

"Yeah, I guess they were just doing their job."

"They were. They don't get much excitement out here. They haven't attacked anyone in long time, poor dears." Julie sighed, and stroked her chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps I should go back to catching live rabbits for them...."

Zina's baby blues went wide with horror. "Rabbits?" Bunnies? Little fluffy bunnies? And people think I'm some bad-ass psycho?

"Yes," drawled Julie. "And once they kill them, I can make a lovely rabbit stew. Now do come inside."

"Okay." The con did not budge.

"Zina."

"Huh?"

"That means you have to get off my car. Please."

Once inside, Zina was sitting on the immaculate counter in the well-equipped kitchen, the kind she had only seen in magazines, where copper pots and pans hung from ceilings, where little chopping machines were neatly lined up like sentries, where there was a dishwasher...where everything gleamed. She fully expected her new friend to yell at her to get off the counter, but Julie merely smiled indulgently and handed her a cold bottle of beer. "Want a glass?" the hostess asked.

Zina's eyebrows furrowed. "For what?"

"Never mind."

Shrugging, Zina tried to read the label of the bottle she'd been handed. Except it was in French or something. "What the hell's this?"

"It's a pilsner."

"A what?" I thought she said it was beer.

"It's a kind of beer, my dear Zina. Try some. It's actually quite good."

"I will." She looked at Julie. "So, uh, you cook for a living?"

"Not exactly. I do many things. I cook. I entertain. I show people how to make their miserable lives worth living. I think it's useful."

Zina snorted. "Sounds like you got all the bases covered."

Julie raised a triumphant eyebrow. "I do. It's all one big marketplace when you look at it, but if you break it down, it's quite easy to conquer. Just remember, Zina: divide and conquer."

"Whatever." Zina sniffed the bottle suspiciously, and took a tiny sip. "Mmmm...not bad," she said with grudging surprise.

"I'm glad you like it. Now come into the living room."

Does she talk to everybody the way she talks to her dogs? wondered Zina as she followed Julie into the huge, rustic-looking living room. A fire blazed. The con stood and surveyed the living room with the same awe she did the kitchen. "Wow. Nice."

Julie indicated the couch next to the fireplace with a wave of her arm. "Sit."

"Uh, I'm okay standing."

"Really?" Another arching of the eyebrow.

I gotta learn to start doing that, it's kinda cool. "Yeah."

She wasn't prepared for the playful shove from the domestic dominatrix. "I said...sit." Zina landed on the couch with an oomph. Through much skill and experience, she managed not to spill the beer.

But Julie had a skill all her own. Before Zina knew it, her belt was unbuckled, then her jeans were unbuttoned, unzipped, and flying at half mast, around her knees.

Her body contracted in delight at her hostess's firm ministrations. I'm drinking beer and getting head all at once. I think I'm in heaven. If only the TV were on....Her eyes flickered to the remote sitting on the coffee table, just out of reach. She stretched out an arm in vain.

***

Gabrielle nearly choked on her fourth Pop Tart. "Ugh, Cyrene, she really told you...about the sex stuff?"

Cyrene had propped her weary head in one hand. "Yeah, honey, she did. Like, during that whole time period we both gave dysfunctional a bad name, you know? And she was so taken with Julie, so...she just couldn't help herself. I think she really dug the power trip Julie was on. She always liked chicks—and guys—like that: Powerful. So it's kinda surprising she fell for you."

Gabrielle scowled.

"No offense, honey. You know I think you're the best thing that's ever happened to her."

The poet was assuaged for the time being. "Thanks, Cyrene. But, uh, I was wondering—"

"What, Gabrielle?"

"Um. Well, Zina doesn't, you know, still tell you, uh, intimate details, does she? You know, like about her and me?"

Cyrene laughed and waved a hand. "Oh, no way, honey. We don't do that anymore."

"Heh." Gabrielle chuckled with relief. "That's good."

"I mean, she doesn't have to."

"What?" Gabrielle asked uneasily.

The older woman snorted. "Hell, honey, the fact that you have her limping and bowlegged about every week speaks volumes, doesn't it?"

Gabrielle buried her face in hands. Shit, I bet no one buys that "I hit a really bad pothole on my cycle" story....

There was a knock at the kitchen door. From the window both women could see red flashing lights. "Uh-oh," Cyrene mumbled, shoving her marijuana and all its accouterments in her purse, and making a mad dash for the upstairs. Gabrielle waited patiently for the older woman to make her getaway, then answered the door.

Zina stood scowling, arms folded, with a tall female police officer behind her, who was grinning under the penumbra of her big state trooper hat.

Gabrielle sighed. "Hi, Officer Minya."

"Hi, Gabby!" responded the cop enthusiastically. "I believe this big bundle of joy is yours." She tapped Zina’s arm with a nightstick. The firefighter snarled at her.

"Yeah," Gabrielle groaned, "it sure is. What was it this time?"

"Not drunk. Just disorderly conduct. Punched out some dude at the Saddle who said Sammy Sosa sucked."

"I’m tellin’ ya, McGwire is nothing but steroids!" roared Zina.

"Yeah, yeah, put a lid on it, smart ass. So whaddya wanna exchange for her this time, Gabby?" Two months ago, after a similar incident when Zina was accompanied home by Officer Minya, the policewoman delicately suggested that she would be willing not to let Zina sit in jail for a night if she could have something in exchange. Gabrielle had given her a chicken salad sandwich. Then another time it was left-over pizza. The poet frowned. This could not go on, she decided. Zina needed to be taught a lesson. "Okay, Minya. How about a whip?"

The cop’s eyes lit up. "Awesome!" she gurgled.

"No!" Zina wailed. "Not my whip!"

"Yes, missy, your whip!" Gabrielle cried triumphantly. "And if that don’t teach you to behave yourself and stop getting into fights, I’ll give Officer Minya your Harley next goddamned time!" With that, the poet stomped up to the bedroom, got the whip, and delivered it to Minya, who thanked her profusely and left.

Zina sulked at the kitchen table. "You just gave away my, my…pride and joy. My womanhood. My, uh…"

It always amused Gabrielle when her companion tried to get deep. "Lay off it, baby. You can always get another whip. Look, I know you’re pissed about this Julie chick, but let’s just try to think about this thing. Maybe we can get her to come around to our way of thinking." She grinned.

4. The Bimbo Bard

"I decided to be what crime made of me."—Jean Genet

"Consequences, schmonsequences. As long as I’m rich."—Daffy Duck

The usual suspects swarmed outside the studio where "Conquering with Cooking" was filmed every week. Julie eyed them with disdain: women, housewives old and young, mindlessly following her every dictate. She sighed with the burden of it all. When, she thought, will I see a fresh face, someone interesting, someone...

Her eyes fixed on someone near the end of the line. Like that. A young beauty. Strawberry blonde. Sucking a bottle of Nestle Quik through a straw. Young. Coquettish. Ah, my Lolita! thought Julie, as she surveyed the young woman, who was dressed like white trash, no doubt about it: green halter top, scandalously short shorts, little hiking boots from which gray and red tube socks peeked out mischievously. But her beauty easily defeated all those shortcomings. As her crimson lips wrapped around the straw yet again, her lovely gray-green eyes met Julie's.

With studied nonchalance Julie sauntered past the crowd, past the calls for her attention and the hands that tried to grab at her, to this nubile little goddess. "Hello," she greeted smoothly. "thank you for coming to the taping."

The girl nodded. "You're welcome."

"I don't think I've ever seen you here before."

"No, this is my first time," she replied with a charming giggle.

"Really?" Julie grew inquisitive. "Tell me why." Gently, she linked arms with the young woman and guided her away from the crowd. They turned the corner of the studio hallway, headed toward Julie's dressing room.

As soon as they cleared the crowd the woman had extracted her arm from Julie's. "I've become interested in you," she said to Julie, eyelashes fluttering like shadows of leaves against a sun-dappled window. Then she slowed to a halt and leaned against the wall, and resumed sipping her chocolate milk.

"I'm glad you've become interested in me, whatever the reason." Julie leaned with predatory possessiveness over the girl. She dragged a finger over the girl's taut abdomen, which rippled like a pond.

"You don't want to know why?" the girl asked, pouting slightly.

This should be interesting. She probably did my horoscope, and determined we were fated to meet. "Tell me."

"We have a mutual friend."

Julie raised her eyebrows: one in amusement, one in disbelief. Who could this waif possibly know among her acquaintances?

"You remember Zina, don't you?" The girl slurped at the drink again.

Julie's eyes narrowed and her spleen made a grinding noise, as if her intestines were mashing coffee beans. "Yes, I remember her very well. An exquisite lay, as I recall."

Gabrielle smirked. "Yes she is, isn't she?"

Julie sighed and straightened. "Now it all makes sense. All right, o concubine of Zina, what do you want?"

"I have a message from Zina: she wants half the profits from the mayonnaise deal, or she reveals your real name to the press."

Julie's nostrils flared. "She wouldn't dare," she rumbled.

Gabrielle smiled the smile of the triumphant. "Oh, wouldn't she, Hermoine Kaputnik?"

***

Zina's efforts at napping were futile. She lay stretched out in bed, staring at the ceiling, possessed by worrying. I never shoulda let Gabrielle go to Julie by herself. That crazy bitch probably cut her up and served her to those damn dogs…complete with a sprig of mint. Or would Gabrielle taste better with parsley? What the hell am I thinking?

She sat up expectantly when she heard the familiar death rattle of the Escort. A car door slammed. Silence. Then the front door opened, and Gabrielle's beloved bellow: "ZINA!"

"Up here," she called down to the poet. Then she heard Gabrielle galloping up the steps. And then she was there, in the doorway, grinning at her.

She melted. She always did, at that smile. Always would. Ever since I saw her across a crowded, smelly bar…and she smiled at me, without even knowing me. How the hell could I not love…that?

"I got good news and bad news," Gabrielle was saying.

"Bad first," the firefighter quickly replied.

"Okay. The bad news is that Barbecue-Salsa Mayonnaise is going under. They're discontinuing it 'cause of poor sales."

"Well, I ain't surprised," Zina snorted. "She probably didn't make it right!" Damn Julie. She musta put in too much salsa….

Gabrielle decided it was best not to go there. She continued: "But the good news is this."

She pulled a wad of cash out of the pocket of her Levi’s jacket. "Payoff. Your half of what she already made."

"How much?"

"Nine hundred." She walked over to the bed, and tossed the money, all 10s and 20s (Julie had gotten the cash from an ATM), into the air. As the bills fell and scattered like leaves, Gabrielle jumped onto her lover. They fell back on the bed in an embrace.

"Blackmailing is fun, baby. No wonder you love being bad," Gabrielle said, after a long and breathless kiss.

"Don't enjoy it too much, Gabrielle. I don't want you ending up in jail."

"I won't. I'm just kidding." The poet indulged in nibbling the firefighter's firm neck. "So can we go on vacation now?"

"Sure…with money like this, hell, we could afford a Holiday Inn."

"Hey, " she said, surveying the money-covered bed, "this is just like that movie…Indecent Proposal." She regarded Zina with lust-glazed eyes. "Which is pretty cool, stud…'cause I got a very indecent proposal for you…."

"Gabrielle, the way you walk down the street is an indecent proposal all by itself…."

"You always say the sweetest things to me!"

***

"Mom, get the fuck off the car." Zina tossed a duffelbag into the open trunk of the Impala. Cyrene was lying on the hood of the car, taking in the early morning sun and meditating…or falling asleep, depending on one's religious beliefs or lack thereof.

"Oh come on, man," the older woman grumbled, not moving.

"Let her go, Zina. She's not doing anything." Gabrielle said from the car’s interior, where she had been sitting for an hour: She was that excited. The passenger door was opened and her legs were stretched out. A curled, worn paperback copy of On the Roadlay in her lap. "Are we ready yet?" she asked her beloved for the millionth time.

Zina slammed shut the trunk. "Yeah, I think so." She walked over to the hood, where Cyrene, sun warming her face, had drifted off into half-sleep, half-sixties flashback: heeeeere comes…the Suuuuun Kiiiiiiing….But her daughter's gruff voice cut into her paisley and psychedelic subconscious: "Okay you, listen up," grunted Zina. She dropped a set of house keys on Cyrene's stomach. "Water Gabrielle's plants everyday."

"And don't forget the plant food," added the poet.

Incense and peppermint…da da da da…

"Right," continued Zina. "And make sure there's food on the back porch for the cats. And give them fresh water every day. Oh, and call the gas company about checking the meter. Cancel my fly-fishing trip with Ed. And cancel my dentist appointment too. Call Tommy Ray at the fire department and tell him that if anyone uses my ax while I'm gone, they're dead. And make sure you call Lila and tell her that Gabrielle can't babysit for her on Thursday."

Cyrene smiled beatifically.

"You got all that, Mom?"

Cyrene opened her eyes, blinking. Whether blinded by the sun or a hashish brownie, she realized that she was talking to Grace Slick, and it was 1967. But why was Grace calling her "Mom"? Oh, it was all so confusing sometimes…poor Grace, fucked up again. Just humor her, Cyrene. So she crossed her fingers for good luck. "Consider it done."

Zina stared at her dazed and confused mother. "Gabrielle, your plants are gonna die."

Cyrene sat up, and slid off the Impala. "Okay, time to get ready for the Filmore."

"Oh boy," Zina sighed, and quickly hugged her mother. "See you in a week, Mom."

Gabrielle stood up and did likewise, in addition planting a kiss on Cyrene's cheek. "Yeah, Cyrene, see ya."

Cyrene stared at Gabrielle. "And Julie Christie too?" she muttered, wandering back to the farmhouse.

"You think she'll be okay?" wondered the poet.

"Yeah, she'll sleep it off." Zina slid an arm around her lover's shoulders. "Ready?"

Gabrielle turned to face her. "Yeah. This is so awesome, baby. A road trip. Just like Kerouac and those guys." She looked at her book. "A trip into the heart of darkness. The heart of America. A voyage into self-discovery." She stuffed the book down her jeans, then took Zina's face in her hands. "I am Kerouac, and you are my Neal Cassady," she intoned solemnly. "Dig?"

The beautiful blue eyes were a tabula rasa. "Yeah."

"You don't know what the hell I'm talking about, do you?"

"No."

Gabrielle kissed her. "I love you anyway." Reluctantly she let her hands slide from Zina's face, and the firefighter walked over to the driver's side of the car.

"But you know," Gabrielle continued, "Kerouac, writing in his diary, called himself 'the buckeye bard.' I'd like to have a title like that, someday."

Zina eyed Gabrielle's tight halter top and skimpy shorts. "How about 'the bimbo bard'?"

As she sprinted away from the car, with Gabrielle close at her heels and threatening serious tickling, she thought, once again, damn, I am so whipped.

5. The Heart of Darkness

"American black hole…

Life’s too sweet to eat like candy"

—Girls Against Boys, "Black Hole"

It was like being in the Twilight Zone: Every rest stop was the same, except perhaps that this one had a Burger King, and that one had a Hardee's, and yet another one had a Sbarro's…Gabrielle fought her disgusted way out of the all-too-moist bathroom (everything seemed wet: floors, counters, toilet seats…) and into the parking lot.

Zina was leaning against the Impala, mirrored sunglasses firmly in place, growling at anyone who got too close to the car.

"Okay, let's go." Gabrielle tossed her purse in through the open window.

They both climbed into the car. The firefighter sat in front of the wheel, unmoving.

"Baby, you okay?" Gabrielle asked, touching her beloved's leg.

"Gabrielle, I want you to know…we're entering dangerous territory here."

The poet frowned. "Dangerous how?"

Zina took a deep breath. "We're in Tennessee now."

"Well, yeah, so what?"

Zina turned in her seat, and took Gabrielle's hand. "You've noticed the radio signals are getting weaker."

"Yeah…so?"

"Gabrielle, very soon…" The taciturn firefighter simply didn't know how else to put it. "Very soon we may be stuck with nothing but country music stations."

Her fair-haired companion, however, set her jaw in determination. "I thought so, Zina. I know it'll be tough, but…I think we can handle it."

6. Postcards from America: An Excerpt from Gabrielle's On-the-Road Journal

At first it was even kinda fun. We just kept making fun of the songs they played. Like on two-shot Tuesday they were playing Bonnie Tyler, and I made up lyrics to her songs: "I Need a Hero" became "I Need a Homo" and "Total Eclipse of the Heart" became "Total Eclipse of the Brain." Zina laughed and that was good. But as the day dragged on it got harder and harder.

And today was the second day without real music. If I hear another Clint Black song I'll kill someone. I hate country music for making me want to listen to Hanson again.

I'm writing this at a diner. Zina and I aren't really speaking right now, 'cause she did something really horrible. Earlier she had to make an "emergency stop" so she pulled over along some road and ran into the woods like a jackrabbit. While I sat there I decided to read a little of On the Road again and started looking for it. but I couldn't find it. It wasn't on the floor, wasn't in the back, or in the glove compartment. I was totally confused until Zina came back. By this time I was standing outside the car. As she walked toward me I noticed something sticking out of her back pocket: It was my book!

I'm not so naive as to think she really wanted something to read while doing number 2. So I said, "Why do you have my book?"

She looked nervous and just shrugged. "I dunno," she said. She is the worse liar ever.

I snatched it out of her pocket, and immediately noticed that a big chunk of the book was gone...then it dawned on me.

She didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed.

7. If You're Feeling Sinister

"So if you're feeling sinister

Go off and see a minister

He'll try in vain to take away the pain of being a hopeless unbeliever..."

—Belle and Sebastian, "If You're Feeling Sinister"

Zina parked in the furthest recesses of the lot. "I don't wanna risk the car getting scratched," she said to her sulky companion.

They were at a mall. A mall that had a Barnes & Noble. Zina knew that this was the only way she could get her girlfriend to start talking to her again: If she took Gabrielle to a bookstore and bought her a brand-spanking-new copy of On the Road.

But Gabrielle sat, arms crossed, unmoving.

"Come on, baby," Zina cajoled gently. "It'll be a nice new copy...I know the old one had your notes in it..."

Gabrielle glared at her.

"...And a love sonnet addressed to me..." the firefighter admitted guiltily.

The poet sighed melodramatically.

"Yeah, I know, I'm totally unworthy of you, but I am sorry, and I'll buy you whatever you want."

Gabrielle was out of the car and jogging toward the bookstore.

Feeling relieved, Zina locked up the Impala and sauntered toward the entrance. However, her satisfaction did not last long. A Barnes & Noble minion handed her a flyer as she entered the superstore, and normally she would not have even read it except for the photo of a certain grinning blonde psychopath: "Reverend Callie de Ash reads from her first book, I Didn't Find God But He Sure Did Find Me, today, at 3 pm."

A clock on the wall indicated that it was twenty till 3.

Zina cursed softly. Although not so softly that the underpaid lackey did not hear her say, "Son of a goddamn fucking bitch."

Quickly she paced through the maze of the monolithic store, looking for Gabrielle. She had wandered in the huge but desolate Art section when she felt a hand snag her arm and, with surprising force, pull her down. She flopped into an overstuffed chair. Why is this whole place like someone's goddamn living room, she thought irritably, as she looked up...into Callie's face. The blonde, wearing a dark brown skirt and matching suit jacket, grinned down at her. "Will wonders ever cease," she sighed. "Thank you, Lord!" she cried with a heavenward glance.

"Callie."

"Hello, precious!" Callie crooned, once again settling her eyes on her prey. The mad minister straddled Zina's lap. "It's so nice to see you again...even though the last time we met you tried to crush my foot." She caressed Zina's chiseled cheek with a finger.

"Stop it, Callie. It was an accident," replied the firefighter through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, yeah, just like burning down my house was an accident. But my time with the Lord has shown me forgiveness, and I do forgive you, Zina. Verrry much," she purred, grinding against a taut thigh.

"That's great...Callie," Zina whispered. Oh boy, if Gabrielle sees this I am in big trouble...not even all the books in the world would get me out of this jam. "Please...let me go."

"What? You're not gonna stay for my reading?"

"I, uh, Gabrielle and I are on vacation..."

Callie stopped lap dancing for a moment. "You mean...oh, of course the little tart would be along. Honestly, Zina, I don't know what you see in her. But I bet I could show you something much better..."

Even through her industrial strength Levi's, Zina could feel the heat of her desire, so much so that..."Callie?"

"Yes, my raven-haired wonder?"

"Are…you…wearing underwear?"

Callie giggled. "Panties are the devil's diapers, my pretty."

I just had to ask.

Suddenly, from the next aisle, they heard a man's voice: "Callie?"

"Oh great, it's my agent," Callie whispered. "He's coming this way." She looked at Zina. "Don't say anything, just play along." She clamped her hands to Zina's face much like one of those little monster spawn from the Alien movies. The firefighter’s head was immobile, thus, she could not turn to see his approach. "The power of Christ compels you!" Callie shouted as he rounded the corner.

"Callie, what are you doing?" demanded a male voice.

"Sweet baby Jesus, Bob, can't you see I'm in the middle of a healing?" she snapped, glaring at him. Then she turned her eyes to Zina once again. "Sister, let the Lord take away your torment and pain—I cast thee out, demons! Beelzebub! Mephistopheles! You are no match for me!"

"So, like, what's wrong with her?" Bob interrupted again.

"Brain tumor."

"Oh." Bob sounded disappointed, perhaps expecting something more exciting, like paralysis or leprosy.

Zina grew desperate. Callie's sweaty palms were suctioned to her head, and she had to find Gabrielle and get the hell out of this crazy place. "I feel it, I feel it!" she shouted.

"You do?" cried Callie, wrapped up in make-believe.

"Yes, I do, Callie! Praise God! I AM HEALED!" By sheer force of will, she catapulted herself out of the chair and Callie tumbled to the floor, legs up in the air, skirt revealing her valley of heaven.

"Oh wow..." Bob murmured appreciatively, as Zina galloped away.

She sprinted down to the first floor of the store, and spotted Gabrielle sitting, with a bag of books, slurping some fine overpriced coffee drink from the espresso bar. She smiled at Zina's rapid approach. "Hi, I just got done, and you know, these flappacinos aren't half bad..."

Zina snatched the large bag of books, grabbed Gabrielle's hand, and pulled her toward the door.

"Baby, I know you hate shopping, but don't you think this is kinda extreme?"

"Not now, Gabrielle, I tell you once we get to the car."

"Zina, what's that wet stain on your leg?"

8. Chuck Connors, Here We Come

The highway was endless. The driver was edgy.

"Zina, relax. We only got two more exits to go."

The firefighter sighed heavily. They were already doing 70, but it felt like 40. With the tiniest contraction of her foot, the speedometer approached 75. It made her feel better. Until she looked in the rear-view mirror, and saw the flashing red lights. "Shit!" she yelled.

Gabrielle looked up from her copy of The Dharma Bums. "Huh?" She turned around. "Uh-oh. Well what do you expect, Zina? You're speeding."

"Goddamnit, if they find out I have a record, I'll get hassled to no end..."

"Don't worry, honey, they won't," Gabrielle assured her as they pulled over.

Zina pounded her head against the steering wheel. "How do you know?" she wailed uncharacteristically, as the large patrolman lumbered toward the Impala. I swore I would never go back to jail….This would be just like one of those old Chuck Connors movies, Escape from Macon County or whatever. They'll lock her up on trumped-up charges, she'll get raped by the inbred deputy, Gabrielle will get sent to the mental institution and they’ll give her a lobotomy and/or electro-shock therapy, and…and…they’ll trash the Impala!

The state trooper's pink face was framed in the driver's side window. "Y'all speeding," he mumbled, eyes unseen behind the mirrored sunglasses.

Zina's own sunglasses mirrored his own mirrored visage. Her jaw clenched.

"Can ah see your license?"

She dug through her Levi's and produced her license.

"Huh," he snorted softly.

Gabrielle scooted closer to her lover. A little too close, Zina thought. Oh shit...what is she up to?

"Where you going in such a hurry, ma'am?" the officer asked.

"Just visiting friends," muttered Zina.

"And whut friends would those be, ma'am?"

"Is there a problem, officer?" Gabrielle drawled. She leaned forward a little, so that he could hear her clearly and see her cleavage. She wiggled provocatively.

"Not yet, miss." Hey, how come I get called ma'am and she gets called miss? wondered the perpetually pissed-off firefighter. "I'm just tryin’ to ascertain here, what the situation is," he said in ominous doublespeak.

"Aw, officer, we ain't doing nothing wrong, we didn't mean to speed," Gabrielle pouted. Oh, I get it. She’s just flirting with him, so he’ll go easy on us. Lessen the fine. "We can't help it. We're just excited."

"Excited by what, may I ask?"

Suddenly Gabrielle flung her arms around Zina's neck, and pressed her curvaceous form close to her beloved. "Why officer, me and sweet pea are gettin' married in Memphis!"

The closeness of her sunglasses prevented Zina's eyes from totally bugging out of her head. Okay, now I have no idea what she’s doing. Chuck Connors, here we come.

The patrolman sputtered. "Whut in Sam Hill you talkin' about? You're both girls! You—you—can’t get married!"

Gabrielle gave her best wide-eyed innocent look. "But officer, didn't you know? Tennessee now allows same-sex marriages!" she nuzzled Zina's hair. "Isn't that right, sugar booger?"

"Uh...huh," Zina mumbled the reply, wondering if there was some quick way she could simply kill the patrolman and be done with it.

"Aw, come on now, lady!"

"No, it’s true! Don’t you read your newspaper?" Gabrielle chastised.

He frowned. No, just the sports page, he admitted.

"See?"

"I'll be damned! This whole country's goin' to hell in a handbasket, I swear!" the trooper spat.

I know...whip off his glasses and stab him in the neck, just like the one guy did to the other in the Godfather Part III. Zina allowed her hand to stray out the window…

"Now, sir, that's no way to speak to a lady on her weddin' day!" Gabrielle pouted anew.

The power of the pout was one of the poet's greatest weapons. Duly chastised, the trooper apologized. "Look miss, no offense, but...I just don't get it."

"Don't get what?" Gabrielle asked.

He threw his arms up in frustration. "Y'all are both girls!"

Finally, Zina spoke. "Look, buddy," she said to him, arms around the flawless midriff of Gabrielle, "let me put it this way. If you were me, wouldn't you want to marry her too?"

"I...I..." he stammered, hypnotized by the green eyes of the beautiful poet. "Never mind. Just fergit it. Just fergit the whole damn thing. Have a nice honeymoon."

"Thanks, officer!" Gabrielle chirped happily. She lurched into the back seat, and brought forth a bag of Krispy Kremes. "Wanna doughnut?"

Well, he thought, warily accepting a powdered jelly doughnut, maybe homos aren’t so bad after all.

9. The Twinkie Defense

Several hours later, the Impala was creeping along a dirt road in scenic, rural Tennessee, in search of the elusive recording studio where Effie and the Amazons were holed up, recording their second CD.

The radio had been abandoned. Zina was so desperate for half-decent music that she permitted Gabrielle to sing every song she knew from Meatloaf’s "Bat Out of Hell" album. The musically challenged poet was currently winding her way through "Paradise By the Dashboard Light": "I gotta know right now, do you love me, will you love me forever—hey, Zina, doesn’t that guy up there look like Elvis?" Off in the distance was a figure standing on the left side of the road.

"Told you not to eat all those doughnuts, Gabrielle."

"No, look!"

Sure enough, standing innocently at the side of the isolated, back-country road, as if he were nothing more exotic than a sparrow, was an Elvis. He resembled 1970s Elvis: chubby, with the spingle-spangle-shiny white suit, lots of jewelry, an unnaturally jet-black pompadour, and big fat shades.

The Impala rolled to a halt beside him.

"Howyoudoin’, ladies," he murmured, index finger and thumb cocked, like a gun.

"Fine, Elvis, how are you?" Gabrielle responded politely.

Zina gave her a Look. Then she addressed Elvis. "Hey, uh, you wouldn’t happen to know where Jimmy Joe Bob Hightower’s studio is?" Jimmy Joe Bob was the Amazons’ producer.

"Youbetcha, ladies. Down this here road just another mile. First turn on the right. Can’t miss it."

"Thanks," Zina said with a nod.

"No, thankyou. Thankyouverymuch." With one fluid motion he flung the white scarf around his neck through the car window, where it landed on Zina’s lap. The firefighter bit the inside of her cheek in an effort not to scream in pure disgust. She let it slide off her legs, onto the floor.

"Bye, Elvis!" Gabrielle waved.

Zina put the car back into drive and they continued down the road. They were quiet for at least a minute.

"Maybe we’ve both had too much sugar," Zina conceded.

"Yeah. Maybe we should lay off the sweet stuff for awhile and just eat potato chips."

***

The sight of Effie waving frantically from the balcony of the large wood house almost sent both women into tears of relief. Zina allowed herself to collapse over the wheel—after the car was stopped and parked, of course.

Then the squealing began. Effie had sprinted down the stairs and ran outside to greet Gabrielle, who jumped out of the passenger side. Soon they were jumping up and down like rabbits on crack, shrieking with joy at the sight of one another. Pony and Sally had wandered outside as well, and contributed to the cacophony of camaraderie.

Zina, eyes closed, head pressed against the steering wheel, weary from driving 8 hours straight, moaned. And this is a goddamn vacation? She tried to block out the jabber of voices and relax for a moment.

She had almost succeeded, when a voice a scant three inches from her eardrum shouted: "HEY YOU DAMN OLD GOOFY-ASSED MOTHER!"

Her head snapped back and her eyes popped open.

Hank was leaning in the window, grinning at her. "Heh, got ya," he chuckled. He pulled away just in time to avoid the furious swipe of her hand. "Hey now, Z, take it easy." She was out of the Impala in a nanosecond. "Car looks great. How’d it drive?" he asked, trying to change the subject. But he knew, seeing the wicked grin on her face, that it was too late.

"Start running, you sonofabitch," she growled pleasantly.

And, with a whoop of joy, he did.

10. The Best Freaky Trip Ever

Sally placed a hamburger in front of Zina, who sat at the picnic table in the backyard. The friends were having a barbecue. Pony and Hank were at the grill, and Sally was serving while Effie made potato salad in the kitchen. "So, did ya see my uncle Pete out there?"

"Huh?" Zina was sufficiently distracted by the question that it afforded Gabrielle the opportunity to swipe the burger from under her lover’s nose. "Hey, you pig!"

"Is that any way to talk to the love of your life?" Gabrielle sniffled with mock tears.

"Yeah, when she eats all my food."

Gabrielle grinned. "So what’s this about Uncle Pete?"

"Did you happen to see Elvis on your way here?"

"Holy shit! Yes!" cried Gabrielle.

Sally smiled proudly. "Well, that was my Uncle Pete. Best Elvis impersonator this side a’ this Mississippi. I sent him out earlier to look for you guys, in case you got lost."

"Wow, it’s nice to know I wasn’t hallucinating," Zina said, who had earlier wondered if, due to her mother’s drug proclivities, she was genetically predisposed to spontaneous freaky trips.

"No, you weren’t," Sally laughed. "I just had to keep him occupied. He’s been driving us crazy, keeps doing his lounge act for us every night, wants to marry us all—"

"Marry?" blurted Gabrielle.

"Yeah, he’s a minister too. He wanted to get Hank and Effie hitched, then he even said he marry me and Pony." Sally rolled her eyes.

"Crazy dude," affirmed Zina, with a swig of beer; bored, she wandered over to the grill to hassle Hank and Pony. It was then that Sally noticed that Gabrielle looked as if she had been hit by a lightning bolt.

***

Zina was firmly pinned to the bed by Gabrielle’s weight. Her wrists were ensnared by the poet’s hands and pressed into the mattress. Gold hair tumbled in her face, and Gabrielle’s scent was sweet, intoxicating…

"Come on, Zina," purred the poet.

"Hmmm?"

"Make an honest woman out of me."

"You’re already an honest woman, Gabrielle."

"Don’t avoid the question."

"Who’s avoiding?"

"You are, bitch."

"It don’t prove anything. It’s not legal."

"I know, I know. But it’s symbolic, ya know? Like showing your love…"

"I love you."

"Prove it."

"Why do I have to?" A challenging arch of a black eyebrow. "Don’t ya believe me?"

Gabrielle paused. Well, that’s a good point. She touched her lover’s face. Oh, I do believe you. And I don’t need to hear a Celine Dion song to know it either. She smiled. Then she nodded slowly. She relaxed her predatory crouch and stretched along the length of Zina’s body, resting her head against a strong shoulder. So, it doesn’t really matter. But…what the hell? It might be fun.

***

Hank wrapped an empty can of Bud in one of Elvis’s disposable white scarves, placed it on the ground, and jumped on it. Up and down. Several times. "Mazeltov!" he roared.

Effie laughed. "You’re not Jewish, you!"

Hank smiled. "Come on, honey, you gotta get in the spirit of the thing."

She grabbed his arm and squeezed it. "I think…there’s been way too much spirit—or spirits—already, Hank," she commented wryly, surveying the twilight backyard.

The tape deck blared as Sally and Pony danced around, and Elvis—a.k.a. Uncle Pete—approached the newlyweds: Gabrielle sat in Zina’s lap, while the firefighter’s head lolled back on the lounge chair, as the two six-packs she drank before the ceremony were really kicking in and seriously impairing her ability to move.

"Congratulations," said Uncle Pete. "I’m sure y’all will be very happy."

"Thank you, Elvis," replied Gabrielle solemnly. "It was a beautiful ceremony."

"Yes ma’am, it was. The weather was perfect, and, you know, I don’t perform that special love medley for just any couple."

"Oh, I know, I know. It was just…great. I’m sorry Zina fell down during it."

"That’s all right, little lady. Y’all take care, now." And he went back into the house.

A pithy one-liner fought its way through twelve Rolling Rocks to Zina’s conscious mind. "Ladies and gentleman, Elvis has left the backyard!" she slurred. She peered at Gabrielle. Who had flowers in her hair. "Did I tell you how pretty you are?"

"About a million times. But keep telling me."

"And I said ‘I love you’ and ‘I do’ and all that stuff?"

"Yeah, Zina."

"So I got it all right?"

"You sure did, baby. Now I’d like you to sober up a bit so our wedding night is not a total bust."

"So we’re…married?" Zina gazed at Gabrielle in pure wonder.

"Yeah. Kinda."

"But not…really." Trying to wrap her drunken mind along the elusive concept was too much.

"Right."

"So we’re both married and not married."

"Gotta love this country, huh?"

"Yeah, but…Gabrielle?"

"Huh?"

"It’s not so bad, is it?"

Gabrielle looked around her. Her friends were happy, and their laughter rang out through the yard. The setting sun slanted and tinged the fading blue sky with gold.

Blue skies, blue eyes. "No," she replied softly. "It’s not bad at all."

In fact, it was pretty damn good.

THE END