#AND THOSE GREY BOXES THAT POP UP SAYING ‘SOMETHING FUNNY’ OR WHATEVER

[dirkzcest]

My internet needs to stop tricking me into thinking my account got termed ☠️

[jessiebanethedragon]

White Sands Warm the Cold Sea (pt 10)

Summary: the reader, betrothed to a disgusting Coruscanti Lord flees her home world and lands herself in a plethora of trouble, a ship of clones, and one pirate captain whose cold exterior needs much more than the tropical seaside sun.

Chapter one

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Warnings: Swearing, takes place in time periods where women have dowery's and suchlike. The readers' dad and betrothed are asses.

Chapter Ten: The Echo

Greeting your companions the next morning was just as awkward as bidding them goodnight after the debacle last night. You’re stiff, bruised, and the dirtiest you’ve ever been in your whole life. Lightly retying the corset to support yourself, you collect Gonk from where she’s curled in the Hammock and brace yourself before heading out onto the deck of the ship. It’s already very bright out, and the crew is as rambunctious as ever. With the Captain throwing orders around here and there, Tech and Wrecker working the sails, and Crosshair shouting back down to Hunter. It’s marvellous how they work together when they're not disagreeing about something.

You feel Gonk leap off your shoulder with a curious noise before bounding away, her speckled wings bouncing behind her. She looks clumsy for a lizard, but then again, how many lizards did you know that have feathers?

“Good Morning!” Wrecker shouts to you when he notices your figure. You give him a smile and a small wave. Tech returns your smile and watches you as you glance around. Appreciating the sea and the vessel you’ve found yourself on.

The water of the Corillian run is a rich blue with just enough green to look magical. And the waves the churn underneath you look more powerful than any carriage or speeder you’ve seen before. Just as you’re wondering how deep it is, there's a commotion behind you. Hunter is glaring deadly at Gonk, who’s held by her neck feathers in front of his face. And from the way her wings are flapping and her front claws grab at him, it's no mystery where she was, or where she’s trying to go.

“I’m sorry!” You say, gathering your skirts and rushing over. The Captain glares at you as he shoves her into your arms, her grey feathers bunching up as he does so. His tunic is rolled up again, and in the morning light you can see the symbols on his forearm more clearly. Traitor.

When the wooden ruler collided with your desk you yelped in fear and surprise. Was it the first time this had happened? Absolutely not, and if these lessons continued this way, it certainly wouldn't be the last.

“Pay. Attention.” The Pantoran woman growled at you, she was very smart. You could just tell, and the fact she was instructed to dumb down your education infruiated the both of you. “As I was saying…” She eyed you - a dare to look out the window and start daydreaming again.

“Teach me about the war.” You blurted out the statue of the emperor they were erecting, catching your eye again.

“This is a language class.” She said with a sigh, before placing the ruler down. “I’m guessing you want to know about the Clones.”

“How did you kn-”

“It’s all anyone ever talks about.” She interrupted you, which was shocking in itself, but not unwelcome. Perching herself on the birch coloured desk, you found her staring out the window as well.“It’s well known that there was scarcely a better soldier than a Kaminoan Clone. And so when the war came to its end, and the Jedi went rouge, well they hardly stood a chance. Those who sided with them were caught and killed or branded traitors. Why they let any of them survive is beyond me, but those clones were so fiercely loyal. Some of them just couldn't shake that. No matter how hard the Kaminoans or the Emperor tried, there were millions of them, and some…” She paused for a moment, glancing back at the door as if someone was watching you through it.

“Well even if an inhibitor chip is 99.99% effective, out of one million, there will still be one hundred defects.”

You try to stop staring, you really do. But by then Hunter has caught your eye, and is glaring even harder than he was before. Cautiously you take a step back, finding yourself in the company of clones is one thing, those willing to defy Nython, another. But enemies of the Galactic Empire was a different kind of dangerous.

“Courtesy of your betrothed.” The Captain grits out, and whatever softness was there from the night before is gone. Scared, you clutch Gonk to your chest like a child would a blanket. “What did you do?” You ask, looking him up and down. Even with the scars on his knuckles of cuts and burns, He didn't look like the horror stories you’d been told as a kid, in fact, he didn't look dangerous at all. But the symbols were there, scared into his skin some time ago. Something flashes in his brown sugar eyes, like the ping of a blaster bounces off of his iries in the heat of battle. Like he relives combat right in front of you.

“What we did was rescue a prisoner of war.” He spits, walking towards you and backing you into the banister that overlooks the pain part of the deck. “That hammock you’re sleeping in belongs to someone.”

“I’m sorry.” You say trembling. Looking to the side to see Wrecker place a firm hand on his sergeant's shoulder and pull him firmly away from you.

“Echo’s was in the hands of the Techno Union for some time.” Wrecker explains defusing the situation. “He’s waiting for us on Alderaan, after some much needed rest.” Hunter, who’s now swatting Tech - and whatever device he’s trying to scan him with - away, seems to be ignoring you.

“I-I didn’- I didn’t mean…” You tell Wrecker shakily.

“I know, and it’s okay.” He says with a smile, but Hunter's words resonate with you. Haunting you of acts you have had nothing to do with.

In his cabin Hunter throws his hat as hard as he can against the wall. He hates you, he hates the Empire and most of all he hates Nython. And what’s even more infuriating is how innocent you are, how your morales are driving you away from your betrothed, and how you saved the shit disturbing reptile that seems to like himself and yourself too much. And no matter how much Hunter wants to despise the empire, if it’s still filled with people like you, it means there’s still something to fight for. But if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t know how much fight he's got left.

☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠

“What did he mean, courtesy of my betrothed?” You have to walk quickly behind Crosshair in an effort to keep up, his long legs easily outpace you and even though you’re both still injured he moves quickly. You follow him into the storage area that you’re all too familiar with, nearly bumping into him when he stops to look for a specific crate.

“Why don’t you bother Tech with your questions?” Crosshair says pushing boxes around.

“Because you’ll tell me the truth, no sugar coating.” You tell him, nudging him aside with your boot as you lean over to grab what he couldn’t reach. Perhaps being smaller wasn’t a disadvantage after all. Proudly you hand him the strange looking fruit.

“I need the whole crate.” Crosshair tells you unimpressed, before giving you the singular Meiloorun fruit and leaning over the stack of crates again. “And to answer your question, he was talking about the scars on his hand.” You lean against the tower so you can try to read his face as he yanks the crate forward.

“The burns or the wounds?” You ask, mulling over the fruit in your hands.

“Same thing.” Crosshair explains. “From a mission on Kashyyyk, Nython had the whole forest alight, and Hunter got trapped behind a blast door.” He watches as you cover your mouth with one hand as you remember the boasts, the gloat, the pride Nython had when he recounted the battle.

“You should’ve seen it,” There’s awe in Crosshair's voice now. “The Regs wanted to label him MIA, but that's not Hunter, not the Sergeant of ‘Force 99. When the squad hoisted him into that medical bay, he was barely alive.”

“No wonder he hates me.” You breathe, looking at the clone in front of you who shrugs.

“Don’t take it personally, he hates mostly everyone. We all do, it’s…” Crosshair stops and composes himself, like being honest or genuine with you is a weakness. “Nython decimated everything in his path. There’s what? A handful of Wookies left, half of those are thanks to him and all he can think about is how many he didn’t save.” You gently place your fruit on the box Crosshair is standing before you with. “It’s all a bit narcissistic if you ask me.” You smile at Crosshairs sass.

“You’d know.” You counter, trying to ease the tension in the room. “Thank you, for being honest.” You tell him, catching a smirk as he starts up the stairs.

“It’s one of my many endearing qualities.” He says, before shouting to his brothers about something that you don't even bother trying to understand.

With a look back at the hiding spot that you had chosen when you boarded the ship, you start up the stars and get back into the daylight. The captain is still gone, but Tech, Crosshair and Wrecker are each peeling a Meilroon fruit. You smile at them, they look so picturesque right now. The sea in the background and the three of them scraping the tough skin off of the fruits with knives. You’re reminded of children's picture books of pirates mulling over gold.

“Hey! What’s so funny?” Wrecker calls when he sees your big smile. Walking over, You plant yourself on the floor leaning against the banister.

“I half expected you all to break out into a sea shanty.” You tease reaching up to pick up a fruit.

“Ha ha.” Crosshair said dryly, giving you the handle of the knife to take from him to peel your own fruit. “Try not to chuck it at Tech again will ya?” you nod and very carefully start running the blade along the fruit.

“So no sea shanties then?” You ask, popping a piece into your mouth.

“We don’t sing.” Tech states.

“Yeah we do!” Wrecker argues, jamming his knife into the lid of the crate, “we know that one from-”

“Ferrik if you start singing that again.” Crosshair grumbles.

“THERE ONCE WAS A SHIP THAT PUT TO SEA” You all cringe when Wrecker starts shouting rather than singing, both of his brothers shout back simultaneously for him to stop, while you giggle from your spot on the floor. You could almost get used to their company, that and the fresh salty sea air, you are already beginning to enjoy the life of sailing. On the second floor, emerging from the captain's quarters, Hunter generally steps. Even someone without enhanced senses would have heard Wreckers incessant shouting and he has every intent on giving the three of them a lecture when he hears something else entirely.

“There was once a soldier who carried a mighty sword, and he had saved the village, oh lei, oh lai, oh lord.” Your voice accompanies soft taps to the wooden boards to create some kind of beat. The sound stops as soon as it starts.

“Don’t stop on our account.” He hears Tech's voice, and a stealthy Hunter moves to try and get a better view, he wants to know what you’re up to, and if you’re still trying to manipulate his crew.

“I’ve been told I have an atrocious singing voice.”

“It’s better than Wreckers.” Both Crosshair and Tech comment simultaneously. And Hunter hears you let out a half laugh. Some kind of reserved dainty thing that has him rolling his eyes.

“There was once a sailor, he had travelled the globe, his love he was chasing. oh lei, oh lai, oh lord.” You continue tapping again, “And there will come a captain who’s heart is completely pure, he will find those who are lost, oh lei,...” He hears you stop. As something catches your attention. And Hunter takes the opportunity to make an appearance.

You hear the captain’s footsteps before you turn your gaze away from the birds flying alongside the ship. “Who let the Aaray get a’ hold of a knife again?” He says looking down at you, the fruit and the blade. Hesitantly, and with only half of the Meilroon fruit peeled you give the knife back to Crosshair the same way he had originally given it to you. Pointing the handle towards him whilst gently holding the blade.

“I wasn’t going to…” You start.

“Going to what? Try and kill one of my crew again?” Hunter raises an eyebrow as if he’s daring you to disagree. You take a deep breath in, and hoist yourself onto shaky feet. Wrecker gives you a hand when your legs shake still in pain. Letting out your breath you lock eyes with the captain.

“I understand your hatred for that man,” You begin softly.

“No.” He snaps, “you don’t” You plead with his unforgiving eyes, and the way his half tattooed face scrunches in annoyance.

“You can’t be reasoned with.” You say hopelessly, knowing that whatever you say, it won't be enough.

“I should not have to reason with the likes of you.” Hunter bites. And at this point even Wrecker has given up trying to reason with him. Behind you, Tech’s Holopad beeps.

“I am not my Fiance!” You exclaim. “And yet you attribute all of his crimes to me, even the crime of trying to rid myself of Ny-”

Before you can react, Hunter moves fast as lightning, a hand on your throat, his own vibroblade dangerously close to you, bending you against the banister that stops you falling into the abyss alone. The three others brace themselves and when they move to help you, stop at the growl of anger from their sergeant.

“You do not. Say that name. On. My. Ship.” He tells the trembling woman beneath him.

“What happened to you Sergeant?” You breathe out, searching for the man that his brothers seem to think he is. Everything they tell you about him, every ‘he’s not like this.’ All of his actions point to the fact that he is like this. Something changes in his face, like he remembers where and who he is. And like Hunter is on fire, he steps away from you. The second there's room, Wrecker forces you behind him protectively.

“Sarge.” Tech says, his voice echoing like blaster fire in the mountains. “I think you should come with me.”

Tags: @the-mandalorian-clone-lover @peacefulwizardfox @rex-meshla @s1st37 @and-claudia @kamino-mermaid @thelambandthewolffe @starwarsmeninhelmets

@bronvin @myeternalsin @sweetsunflowerkisses @loverofclones @beizm @gunsmoke-blu

@logina6 @wondergal2001 @lafy-taffy @lafy-taffy @m-o-o-n-s-g-o-o-n-s

@starskenobiwan @lordellbell @kaetavlos @violetjedisylveon @​​vergol @Lackofhonor

[hughiecampbelle]

omg congrats on reaching 5k followers, enna!!! you absolutely deserve each and every one of them 💕

for your shipping event, could i get shipped with a guy from deadly class?? i started rewatching it this week and i just- my heart 🥺 anyway, i’m an isfp slytherin, and i think i’m an enneagram type 6 personality?? idk i’ve had some tests tell me 4, but the last one said 6.. i guess that just means i can’t be put in a box which is good because my individuality complex wouldn’t have it any other way lol. my hobbies include accidentally leaving people on read for 3 months at a time bc i forgot to hit send, popping every joint in my body at the worst possible times, squeezing toothpaste out from the center of the tube, and ghosting guys whenever they start to catch feelings bc i prefer them to be emotionally unavailable- ok but actually, if i ever have any free time on my hands, it’ll usually be spent doing something creative, like writing or drawing. i like to skateboard, too, but i don’t know any cool tricks :/ i have the attention span of a fruit fly, which makes finding new interests really hard because if i’m not absolutely smitten within the first fifteen minutes, i move on to the next thing. when i’m in the zone, though, time doesn’t exist. i’ll be working on something for hours only to check the clock and see it’s almost dinner time and i didn’t eat lunch. i’m almost always listening to music, but i couldn’t tell you a favorite band if my life depended on it. my playlists are all over the place, but they’re based on moods and very specific themes as opposed to genres, so it’s fine- one of my favorite songs at the moment is Love Today by MIKA and i have no idea why. it just scratches an itch in my brain i guess lol. i’m really bad at math, like, embarrassingly so, which is why i’m majoring in english. most of my friends are from out of state, so i spend the majority of my time alone but i actually kinda like it. i’m one of those people that has to recharge after socializing for an extended period of time, so i have plenty of opportunities for that lol. somewhere down the line, i think i accidentally picked up a bad bitch persona like idk where she came from but it means that based on looks alone, people usually get the wrong impression of me. like, me and my friend were talking about it the other day, and while she was complaining about being mistaken for innocent all the time, i, the innocent one, always gets mistaken for being the “bad girl” for whatever reason. she said it was because i just kinda give off that vibe, whatever that means. idk i’ve had people tell me that when they first saw me, they thought i was gonna be either really mean or really cool but that it ended up being the latter so i must be doing something right. i guess that makes me the scary dog privilege of my friend group?? who knows lol i sure dont bc i overthink everything. this isn’t to say i can’t be mean when i need to be, though. calling people out on their bullshit when things get out of hand and protecting my friends from creepy men are some of my specialties, but on most days, i’m the chaotic, funny one of the friend group. i love watching horror movies for the sake of making fun of them, but i’m also scared of almost everything, so there’s a really small grey safe area in the middle where i operate. like, gore doesn’t bother me too much unless it has to do with eyeballs. and clowns?? absolutely not. they’re the reason i don’t stick my feet off the end of the bed at night, even if it’s too hot. i’m not taking any chances 😤

wow. that was a lot lol. in case you can’t tell i also ramble a lot. for your ship, i ship you with either billy bennett or hear me out.. maría salazar. i don’t know what it is, but i’m definitely getting power couple vibes there. i feel like the two of you have very different personalities, but they balance out well.

What trope are you? New Girl In Town 💕

Marcus was the new kid. Everyone knew him for that, even if they didn't really know him. He was targeted because of it, still learning the social norms and rules of Kings. He stepped on toes, and made enemies, and put a target on his own back. For a while, he was convinced that's all he'd ever be known for. Sometimes he hoped a new kid would appear so the attention could be brought on them. Other times, he was sure he never wanted anyone going through what he was now. The hazing by the Legacies, the stupid rules put in place to "protect" them, all of it was BS. As thankful as he was for a place like this, a bed and a hot shower available at all times, he was sure the place was cursed. Or at least it had been until you showed up. Out of nowhere, his eyes met a new face in the cafeteria. Yours. Headphones in, scribbling in your notebook, lunch tray pushed aside. Whether you were writing or drawing, that was as good as any guess. All that mattered was somehow you'd cracked the code to this place. Flying under the radar. Not even Viktor or Chico had taken any notice. He needed to know who you were. Maybe it was the fact that you stick to yourself, maybe he was desperate. Marcus made it his mission to get to know you.

You did not make that easy. He wasn't the most subtle person in the world. You could feel his eyes on you in the lunch room, though you chose not to give him any attention. You hoped he'd get the hint. Of course, he didn't. It seemed like he was suddenly around every corner, in every doorway you were passing through. You knew who he was of course. Gossip traveled fast here and he liked to make problems for himself. Even his friends had something to say about his sparky comments or pessimistic attitude. Normally, that kind of attention, that kind of drama would have been a turn off. There was nothing worse than someone full of themselves. Hell, maybe he was exactly like everyone said. Or, maybe he wasn't. People had a habit of coming to quick conclusions about you, most of them wrong. That made you like him a little more, though it didn't stop you from dodging him every chance you could. You had your friends, your close group who wasn't front and center for others to target. That's all you needed. As far as you were concerned, a boy in your life would only mess that up, especially one like Marcus. Sure, he was cute, but you preferred to keep them at a distance. Nice to look at, but that's all. Once they got attached it was all over.

Finally, Marcus found his chance to talk to you, though of course it wasn't the ideal situation. Not even close. Viktor and his friends not only took over the dorms, but the school. Master Lin is nowhere to be found. All of them dressed up, wearing Halloween masks. From Frankenstein to zombies, they rule the dark halls with all kinds of weapons you know they're not allowed to use on other students. Still, it doesn't stop them from scaring you. Nowhere in the rules does it say scaring isn't allowed. You, like the rest, are aimlessly trying to get to your rooms, wanting to lock the doors and hide. You know it's behind you because of course it is: an idiot in a cloen mask. You want to question why, of all the things on this planet, it had to be a clown, but there's no time. You reach for the nearest doorknob, thankful it's unlocked, and slam it in their face. You don't realize until you've opened your eyes whose room you're standing in. You seriously consider going back out there, but you can feel them waiting. It's easier to face him. Marcus is more than welcomed to wait it out with you, jamming his desk door under the handle. You don't want to, but because there's nothing else to do, you get you know one another. You ease up a little when he shows you his own drawings, talking about the indie comics he loves, the music he cares so deeply about. You have a lot more in common than you imagined. You tease him for never seeing the classic horror movies, and he can't help but admit how lame it is. Hours you wait it out, taking effortlessly to one another company. He even promises to show you a few tricks on the skateboard, once you're able to get out. You hate to admit it, even to yourself, but maybe, just maybe, he isn't so bad after all. . . .

- Leela!!!! 1.) We are Major besties!!! English Mahors are superior no one will ever change my mind abt that ever :P 2.) Ahhh I hope you like it!!!! I really had to stop myself because ya'll would be so cute, I could write a book!!!! Don't mind me, I will be *sobbing* over both Billy and Maria!!! Omg she's gorgeous??? And perfect??? And me with her??? I'm head over heels in love!!!!! Thank you!!!!!! Xoxoxo 💜💖💜💖💜💖

[artificialqueens]

Modern Love, 1/12 (Branjie/Scyvie/Ninex) - Ortega

fic summary: Brooke Lynn is a 23 year old graduate writing boring, uninspired pieces for the fashion department of a newspaper and living in a city all her friends have moved away from. Silky is living at her parents’ house and spends her days applying for jobs she’s promptly rejected for. Nina and Monet are struggling through their first year as teachers whilst being sickeningly adorable girlfriends. Akeria is pursuing her dream of being a badass lawyer, even if her master’s degree is slowly crushing her soul. Plastique is acting like the second coming of Paris Hilton, so nothing there has changed. Scarlet is overworked and Yvie is underpaid and their relationship isn’t all it appears from the outside.

And Vanessa? Vanessa is nowhere to be seen.

(A story about a holiday, a breakup, friendships and relationships in a post-graduate world, careers, navigating life after university, figuring out what it means to be an adult, and coming to terms with the fact that we really are not nineteen forever.)

a/n: welcome to the sequel to Not Nineteen Forever!!! i should say it’s not *~ mandatory ~* to have read the original before this but it’s encouraged huehue xo hope u enjoy and please feel free to reblog, like and send love!!

***

Brooke felt the all-encompassing sense of dread wash over her as her alarm went off, the sounds of the radio that were gradually fading in doing nothing to make the experience of waking up for another day of work any more palatable. She groaned loudly as she stretched, her arms flying out to the side and hitting the edge of the double bed. Brooke starfished a little, stretching her legs out as long as they would go and trying to put off getting up and showered for as long as she could.

Rolling over in bed she reached for her phone and stopped when she saw the rose-gold rectangular frame beside her on the bedside table. It caught her by surprise every day, almost a sort of routine in itself. A picture of her and Vanessa from when they first moved in, standing at the doorway having just popped a bottle of champagne. Brooke’s face was in a funny contorted sort of smile as she yanked the cork out of the bottle and Vanessa was clapping her hands in excitement, a brilliant white moonbeam painted across her face. Brooke remembered the day well. Monet had taken the photo with Nina beside her, both of them still in their work clothes after they’d visited straight from a hard day full of teaching. Akeria, Silky, Plastique, Scarlet and Yvie had all been inside, shuffling through the huge variety of Domino’s pizza boxes that had just arrived at their door like a deck of cards. That night had been so special. Whatever had happened since then, Brooke would probably treasure that memory forever.

In spite of herself she smiled as she looked at the photograph, then turned her attention to her phone screen.

No notifications. She didn’t know why she expected anything more.

With a cloud over her head that matched the ones in the uncharacteristically grey June sky, Brooke brushed her teeth and peeled her pyjamas off before stepping into the shower and adjusting the dial to somewhere between tepid and warm. Vanessa’s shower gel sat in the corner, the tropical fruit and mint one with little tiny sloths all over the front. Brooke found herself hurting as she looked at it, still loath to use it as she took her own from the opposite side and splatted a huge dollop into her shower puff. Sometimes she used it indulgently, like a secret she shared with herself. She didn’t know whether she’d buy more when it ran out. That was something she still needed to think about.

Once she was clean Brooke briskly dried herself with a towel, sitting on the edge of the bed wrapped in it as she carefully blow-dried out her hair. She picked out her outfit: smart black work trousers with a fabric belt that pulled her in at the waist, a black and white patterned shirt, black stiletto heels. As she painted some minimal makeup on her face in the hope it would make her look less like a sleep-deprived zombie and more like she had her life together in some way, Brooke checked the clock and cursed as she realised she was running behind.

Leaving lipstick for the moment, she grabbed her bag, shoved her feet in a pair of black pumps, and left hurriedly for the train. Breakfast wasn’t a priority; she knew she could grab an iced coffee and a croissant from the cafe in the station in between changing trains, as it took her two to get into work. It was times such as these that she wished she knew how to drive like Monet, Plastique and Akeria, or had learned since uni like Nina or Scarlet. But then again, cafe food for breakfast was one of the very few perks of public transport.

Brooke eventually arrived at the huge concrete block with windows that held her offices, taking the elevator up to the fifth floor, clocking in, shooting a lacklustre “hi” to the girls she sometimes chatted to and settling herself in at her desk. As office positions went, Brooke supposed it wasn’t awful- it was beside the window looking out onto the streets of the city below and it provided some much-needed light to her day. Logging on to her work laptop, she checked her emails (one from her boss about the article due for Friday, and one from Cheryl about money for flowers for somebody going on maternity leave that she’d never met or heard of and might not even have worked there).

Her working day had started.

University hadn’t prepared Brooke for graduate life. It hadn’t prepared her for the fact that friends moved away for jobs and houses and flats, internships and apprenticeships and postgrads and masters. It hadn’t prepared her for the fact that her group chat, once flooded with about a hundred messages if she so much as left it for five minutes, gathered dust as everyone’s lives took over. It hadn’t prepared Brooke for the feeling of missing out on something…Christ knows what. Perhaps living, making memories instead of simply swiping through ones already made on a Saturday night spent alone in bed with a bottle of wine to herself. It hadn’t prepared her for the yearning, the regret at having taken those days for granted when they were the happiest of her life and she hadn’t even realised it. If Brooke had known how soul-crushingly boring her life would be once she got that rolled-up piece of paper in a little tube she would’ve been dragging the girls out every single night. The all-encompassing sadness and longing for something better hit her harder on days like these, sepia ones with big clouds that hung ominously in the sky but never gave her the satisfaction of raining. She supposed that feeling had only been exacerbated by…

She didn’t need to remind herself of that.

It was ten o’clock in the morning and Brooke was staring out of the small office window stupefied with boredom when her phone vibrated. She jumped, pouncing on it as she always did whenever a notification went off. Her phone hadn’t been on silent for a full month. It hadn’t been the person she’d wanted or expected, but it was a pleasant surprise nonetheless.

Silk: HEY GIRL LONG TIME NO SPEAK! I’M GONNA BE IN TOWN THIS AFTERNOON FOR AN INTERVIEW BUT I’LL BE FREE AFTER AND I’VE GOT A COUPLE HOURS TO KICK ABOUT UNTIL MY TRAIN. YOU WANNA GRAB DINNER? XXXXXXXXX

Brooke frantically made plans as if she was under a time limit, as if the moment would slip through her fingers like sand in an hourglass. She suggested some restaurants that she knew wouldn’t eat into either of their fragile graduate salaries and they settled on an Italian in the city centre, where the portions were big and the meals were tasty.

Brooke spent the rest of the day looking forward to meeting her friend. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Silky. Maybe it had been as long ago as New Year. Brooke smiled as she remembered the occasion; all of them cramming into Scarlet and Yvie’s flat to see in the year. Silky and Akeria had got too drunk off prosecco and screamed along to JLS, Scarlet and Yvie had both made a buffet to rival a hotel’s, and Nina, Monet, Vanessa and Brooke had all been tangled up in an almost relationship-ruining game of Articulate. Plastique had brought her new girlfriend Naomi to introduce to everyone and the girl had looked ever so slightly alarmed by the sheer chaos of everyone put together, but she’d laughed and joined in all the same.

That had been another happy memory. Those seemed to be hard to come by these days.

Work dragged. It always did. Brooke managed to write three sub-par articles that she sent to her editor at the end of the day anyway because hell, it was their job to turn carbon into diamonds. So when she hopped on the train back into the city, Brooke felt a little buzz in her veins that she hadn’t felt in a while.

It took her until she saw Silky standing outside the restaurant- hair in a bun full of flyaways, eyebrows still Sharpied on, in a pair of smart trousers and a floaty top- that Brooke realised that part of the reason she was so excited was because she’d been so lonely for such a long time. Well, only really a month, but it felt like a year. It had taken her living on her own to realise just how boring her life was without all her friends so constantly part of it, and now they all had their own lives and schedules it only served to show Brooke how empty her own was without…

Well. Without her.

As soon as Silky looked up from her phone and spotted Brooke her face lit up, and she fixed her with a smile and a screech that Brooke never thought she would have missed hearing but by God, she had.

“BROOKE LYNN!” she screamed, followed by lots of squealing and babbling as she wrapped the taller girl in a tight hug and refused to let go for at least twenty seconds. Brooke didn’t mind and she found herself clinging back, Silky suddenly the loudest anchor she’d never known she needed. When Silky finally pulled away she grabbed Brooke by both wrists, shaking her back and forth a little. “Oh my God, BITCH! Oh my God. FUCK! It’s so good to see you. How the fuck are you?”

Brooke appreciated that- Silky asking how she was. Yvie tiptoed around Brooke’s feelings when they texted and Brooke tiptoed around her and Scarlet’s perfect domestic bliss, both of the subjects too touchy for Brooke and the pair of them instead choosing to communicate via meme. Nina barely had time to breathe these days let alone text back, and Plastique…well, Plastique wouldn’t get it.

None of them would, she supposed.

“I’m…I’m surviving! I’m being an adult, I guess, and this is what life is now. How’re you?” Brooke swiftly moved the conversation on, and Silky took the hint and dropped both her wrists, pushing open the door.

“I’m on cloud fuckin’ nine girl. C’mon, let’s get some vino an’ I’ll catch you up on the world of Ms. Ganache! Think of it as a free episode of the reality TV show that is my life.”

“Let’s be real, Silk. If anyone’s life’s like a reality TV show right now, it’s mine,” Brooke raised her eyebrows, not quite committing to her own attempt at being lighthearted and instead couldn’t have sounded more bitter if she’d eaten an entire lemon with its rind on.

Silky, for her part, shrugged and let out a small sigh. “You ain’t wrong, girl, you ain’t wrong. But the offer of wine still stands, so let’s get sat. Where the damn hell is a waiter?”

They eventually got shown to their table and the conversation flowed frantically and excitedly, mirroring the wine. Silky filled Brooke in on every last detail of her life- most importantly, Brooke thought, was that Silky’s parents who she was back living with had adopted a cocker spaniel puppy called Pooch. Graduate life had been tough on Silky; she still hadn’t managed to get a job and so therefore couldn’t afford to rent a flat, so she’d moved back to her sleepy and uninspiring hometown. Living with her parents, she’d groaned, was beginning to chip away at her; the constant pressure they put on Silky to find a job, move out, get a boyfriend, and lose weight was beginning to grow wearing in the extreme, and Brooke didn’t blame her for being fed up.

“You know you’re always welcome to come chill at mine, you know. If it’s getting particularly rough,” Brooke suggested not-quite-casually, glad of the fact that loneliness didn’t have a scent because if it did she’d be reeking of it.

Silky gave a bashful smile, looking down at her half-eaten plate of spaghetti bolognaise in front of her. “You’re a doll, B, but you know I can’t do an hour on the train any time my Mama tuts at me buying a size XL of anything. In fact therapy’s probably cheaper than a train ticket here but realistically I don’t got the money for either, so…thanks, but in the words of Simon Cowell, issa no from me.”

“That’s okay. I get it, Mums are simultaneously the worst and the best people,” Brooke pulled a face. Thinking about her Mum made her wonder when the last time she texted her was. She felt a little ashamed for not knowing off the top of her head. “But hey, at least you got that interview, right? How did it go?”

“Alright,” Silky muttered in a non-committal way. It was the most un-Silky response Brooke thought she’d ever seen her friend give. It was weird and unpleasant; the Silky from uni would’ve yelled the place down about how she’d aced it, how they’d make her the chief editor right there and then, how she could write an article for them entirely in Wingdings and it’d still be the best thing they’d read all day.

Seemingly picking up on Brooke’s discomfort, Silky gave a small laugh. “I don’ know, boo…I used to be so sure of myself, I used to be so set in the fact that writing was somethin’ I was good at. When I was a kid I used to write these fuckin’ huge stories…pages an’ pages long that my teachers would pull big overexaggerated smiley faces at an’ squeal over an’ put big glittery star stickers on. I thought I was somethin’ special. An’ then uni, y’know…I was a small fish in a big pond- hell, a big fish in a big pond- but I still thought I was the shit even when I got bad grades. I thought my markers just didn’t get it, that they were the ones that were wrong. But now it’s like…”

Silky heaved a sigh and put her fork and spoon together neatly on top of her half-full plate. “…I can’t even get a job at a fuckin’ local rag, so why the hell am I even tryin’ with the big city offices?”

There was something about it all that made Brooke’s heart break all over again, the way that life after uni had worn Silky down to the extent where she didn’t even know if she was good at anything any more, didn’t have much visible self-worth left. Silky had always been the heart and soul of their group; she, Akeria and Vanessa, and in the time it had taken between now and graduation Akeria had become the polar opposite of Silky- so completely embroiled in her quest to become a barrister that she barely had time to reply to any of them any more.

And Vanessa…well. She knew where Vanessa was. Or rather, she didn’t.

Greece was a big country.

“You’re trying because you’re Big Silky Nutmeg Motherfucking Ganache,” Brooke said with a determination she’d not felt in a while. “Come on Silk, you’re you. If grad life has broken you then what the fuck hope is there for any of us?”

( Any of us sounded better than me , Brooke thought.)

“Kiki’s doin’ okay for herself,” Silky shrugged, her downtrodden tone counteracted by the way she picked up her fork again and twirled a single strand of spaghetti around it, eating it once she was finished speaking.

“Kiki’s vagina-deep in a hellish and all-consuming masters degree that’s probably eating her up from the inside out just as much as everybody else’s jobs are. I mean, are any of us doing anything we actually like?”

“Nina an’ Monet? They’da quit by now if they hated teaching so much.”

“Nina West would join the fucking scientologists and stick it out just so she could say she didn’t give up. She’s the final boss of the term mama didn’t raise a quitter . They’re having a hard time, Silk. We all are. It’s just tough because we’re all so busy and shit at keeping in touch that everybody thinks each others’ lives are perfect but…they’re really not.”

“Yvie and Scarlet seem pretty happy.”

Brooke’s face took on an involuntary look of distaste, so irritated and bitter was she at the image of them and their perfect flat and their perfect jobs and their perfect coupley life. “They’ll have something up, nobody’s life is that perfect. Maybe their relationship’s secretly falling apart or…something, fuck, I don’t know.”

There was a beat of silence in which Brooke finished the last little pocket of tortellini she’d ordered and Silky twirled another mouthful of spaghetti around her fork. She chewed, then shrugged thoughtfully, her head tilting a little. “Y’know we should go on holiday. Fuck all this shit off for a week, get away from it all.”

Brooke’s eyebrows raised in appreciation of the idea. She and the girls had never been away together before and the prospect of lying on a beach doing absolutely nothing under the blazing sun was an inviting one. “What, a girls’ trip? Like in Sex and The City?”

“Mhm. ‘Cept we go on an all-inclusive to the Med ‘stead of Mexico ‘cause ain’t none of us can afford that shit.”

“Except Plastique.”

“True. Fuck that bitch. She could prolly buy Mexico.”

Brooke laughed and for the first time in a good few months she felt a little flicker of excitement lick at her heart, so much so that she could see her pulse race at her wrist. She couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face. “Oh my God. I’m so in. Let’s do it.”

“We have to get all the girls on board, though. Otherwise there ain’t no point.”

“Definitely. Where should we go? Spain’s always good.”

Silky had her phone out and was typing furiously. She paused as something presumably loaded, then her face lit up. “If we go the week after Nina an’ Monet finish up school for Summer we can get flights to Crete for £20 return.”

“Twenty, what the fuck? That can’t be right,” Brooke screwed up her face in disbelief, and Silky cocked an eyebrow at her as she showed her the proof on her screen. Conceding, Brooke shrugged. “That’s so good. I don’t want to know what that plane’s like though. They probably just stuff you all into a tin can and ping you into the air with a giant rubber band.”

Silky howled with laughter and thumped the table so hard that the wine sloshed about in their glasses, little tiny red tsunamis. As Brooke snorted in response purely to Silky’s own mirth, a small thought set off a little drip of dread that threatened to put out the excitement that had only just begun to burn in her chest.

“Where is Crete again?”

Silky let out an unimpressed breath from her nose. “Bitch, you got all the geography skills of a Love Island contestant. It’s just off the Greek coast. Kinda near Turkey too, but it’s Greece.”

Brooke felt her heart drop, Alton Towers Oblivion all over again. She blinked quickly, tried to hide her discomfort. “Well, we’re not going there.”

Silky gave a small sigh, a little hint of resignation or long-suffering to it that Brooke didn’t appreciate. But when she reached over the table and patted her hand on top of Brooke’s, she felt a little bit more understood, a little bit more validated.

“B, Greece is a big place.”

It was the exact same thing Brooke herself had thought earlier, except now it didn’t seem true. Now, with the prospect of going there, it seemed like the tiniest microcosm of society. The world was simultaneously too big and too small, and Brooke felt the cold drip in her heart get worse. “Silky…”

“Look. We ain’t exactly gonna pick the same place she’s at, are we?”

Brooke put her head in her hands and sighed. “She’s not there anymore.”

“What?”

“I phoned the hotel a week ago to try and speak to her. I was going to fly out, try and talk to her and fix things. They said she didn’t work there anymore. So I don’t even know where she is at all.”

Silky huffed, frowning and concerned. “I’m sorry, Brooke, this shit must’ve been hell.”

“You’ve got no idea.”

There was a pause as Silky pushed her food around her plate. “Crete’s small, but it ain’t that small. We still got a one in a million chance of bumpin’ into her if we go.”

“That’s still too small for my liking. Both the island and the chances.”

“Aight, one in a billion. Trillion. Point is, it ain’t gonna happen. An’ besides…” Silky waggled her eyebrows, flashing her phone screen at Brooke again. “Twenty pounds for the first week of the school holidays. This shit’s like gold dust.”

Brooke smiled slowly in spite of herself. Maybe Silky was right. And maybe it would be fun to swan around Greece, eat seafood and pretend to be in some knockoff version of Mamma Mia. Scratch that, it would be fun. She’d get to spend a week surrounded by her friends in the sun, which was what she badly needed at the moment.

Brooke was nodding before she knew it. “Okay, fine. Crete it is.”

“YES, bitch!” Silky cheered, loud enough to be heard by the entire restaurant and possibly the chefs in the kitchen too. “Now let’s get dessert. All this wine needs soaked up by a big slice of sticky toffee puddin’.”

It was easy to feel optimistic with Silky back being her loud and just-the-right-side-of-obnoxious self, and with a plate of tiramisu in front of her. But after they’d finished up, paid their bill and she’d hugged Silky goodbye at the train station, Brooke found the endorphins wearing off as she got back to her dark flat and into her cold bed. Maybe it was because she was finally coming down from the high of meeting up with a beloved friend, maybe it was because she knew she had another monotonous, greyscale day of work to get through tomorrow.

Or perhaps, Brooke thought as she turned over in bed, caught sight of the familiar rose-gold frame and blew it a kiss, she was simply missing her girlfriend.

If she could even call Vanessa that any more.

[livvywrites]

[ ID: the image depicts a knights helm with a pointed face looking to the right. it’s been edited to look like an oil painting, and overlaid with a pale grey-green color. over the image is written ‘a conspicuous lack of dragons’ in a script front, and beneath that, ‘livvy moore’ in a serif font. /end ID. ]

i posted an excerpt of this with the placeholder title “the perils of taking quests from little old ladies who live in the woods.” i’m still rather fond of that title, but it’s a little too long xD

this was written mostly as an exercise to kind of... shake the mental cobwebs off, after seeing a post about accessibility + princesses in towers. i really liked how it came out, so i decided to polish it up and post it :D i meant to have it up sooner, but... life :p

you can also read this on my website :)

a conspicuous lack of dragons

The tower is exactly as the old woman described. White brick, with a deep purple roof, standing on a mountain at the edge of a prosperous kingdom. Only a few windows adorn the top of the tower. The rest is bare, and unadorned. You are… a little relieved. The old woman had said that this tower belonged to a dragon. You weren’t particularly looking forward to fighting it—and though you’re sure you still might have to, at least you have time for a little more reconnaissance.

Save for the base, where there is a plain wooden door.

You… cannot say you were expecting that. You swing off of your mare, and stow your more important belongings with her, keeping with you only your sword, shield, and medicine kit. You examine the door carefully, and find that—at least from this side—it is as plain as it appears.

You open the door, and step inside.

The base of the tower is rather bare. There are a few crates and boxes, covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs. There is a conspicuous lack of traps. You frown, step further in, and wait for the door to slam behind you.

It does not.

Suspicions piqued, you start up the twisting and winding ramp (not stairs!) that lead to the top. You draw your sword as you do, ready to strike if anything—or anyone—pops out at you.

Nothing does.

There are still no traps; no guards; and no hints of magic. The most arduous thing about it is the trip to the top. Another plain, wooden door is there; though it has been painted a pale lilac. There is a small peephole near the top.

You see no strange mechanisms. No glowing runes. No door knockers with faces, ready to entice you into a battle of riddles.

Your frown only deepens. You push the door open, fully expecting to be greeted by the most heinous monster you’ve ever faced.

Instead, you find a young woman. You can only presume that this is the princess. She is seated on a plush couch, reading a rather thick book. She looks up at the creak of the door, and gives you a brief once over.

One brow raised, she asks, “Well? What are you doing here?”

“I’m… here to rescue you?” you say, but it comes out as more of a question. You feel dumb. Also numb. Off-balance. You aren’t sure what’s going on at all. Nothing here is what you expected it to be, and you’re not sure how to take that at all.

“Oh,” the princess says. She looks disinterested again. “Mm. Thank you, but no thank you. I am perfectly content where I am.”

“I… but…” You stop. You’re not really sure where you were going with that.

The princess sighs. She marks her place, and lays the book on a side table. She gestures to one of the chairs. “Let me guess,” she says. “A lovely little old lady hired you. Very sweet, greets everyone with a plate of cookies. She shuffles more than walks and leans on a cane. Very harmless. Very unassuming. She told you a sob story about a poor princess, shut in a tower for… Oh, I can’t imagine what she used this time. Someone was jealous? They were afraid I would be stolen away? I’ve been cursed?”

“Um.” You’ve taken a seat now. “A dragon had taken you and hid you here, to hold you for ransom.”

The princess rolls her eyes. “Ah. We’re stereotyping dragons, now. Lovely.” She rearranges the blanket on her legs. “The truth, then. I am a princess, she did not lie to you about that. However, I am not in this tower because of dragons, curses, jealousy, beauty, or whatever reasons she can dream up. This tower was, in fact, my idea.”

“Why?” you blurt.

The princess smiles. There’s something a little secretive about it, like she’s letting you in on something. “You see,” she says, “I was born a little different from the rest of the world. Not much, mind, but enough to make it hard for me to function in your world. I’ve got a touch of power in me. I can, of course, cast spells. But that is not why I am here. I am here because I also have a touch of the Sight. And that… well. It makes me a little… sensitive.” She drums her fingers on the arm of the sofa. “It is hard to explain, because I can do so many different little tricks, but I will try. Since you came all this way.

“The main one, I think, is being able to sense emotions. This one is not something I can turn off. Being in a crowded room is… overwhelming. I can feel what everyone else is feeling, and they are hardly ever feeling the same things. It is enough to drown my own emotions out, and it is—I am sure you can imagine—unpleasant.

“I can also sense surface thoughts, sometimes. When they are very loud, or when I care to turn an ear to them. When I was younger, I could not control this, and… thus, crowds of people were, once again, very uncomfortable.

“And, of course, I can predict things. With an object—clear or mirrored, preferably—I can see things going on in other places. It takes focus, and practice, and it helps if I’ve been there or have a clear idea of what I am looking for, but it is possible. I can catch glimpses of things that will happen, or could happen.

“I can also see the future of an object, if I touch it. Or look into its past, see where it’s been. This was another thing I could not control as a young one, and made things very, very unpleasant.

“There are other things, too, but these are the three that made me seek solace here. I get visitors. I leave sometimes. But, yes. My being here is very much a choice. I thank you, again, for your concern. But it is not warranted.”

“I…” You bite your lip, and shake your head. “I do not understand why I was sent here, then. If you are not in danger.”

“Ah. Well.” The princess smiles wryly. “The old woman who sent you here is not an old woman at all. That is the disguise she dons, when she sends people to me. I believe because it makes her seem more trustworthy… or perhaps because she thinks its funny. I don’t know.” She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. She sent you here, the same way she did the others, because she wants to use you to get past my wards.” She turns her gaze from you, and looks at the door you came in. “Isn’t that right, Muriel?”

In the doorway stands a woman who is nothing like the little old lady who plied you with cookies and a sob story about a kidnapped princess. She has long golden hair that shines in the window light. She walks with a finely carved staff; a glowing orb at the top. When she gets close, however, you can see her eyes. And those—those are the eyes of the old lady. Warm brown with a touch of humor. She sits in the empty seat.

“You turned the last three away at the door,” Muriel says. “I was beginning to think that you were angry with me.”

The princess hums. “I don’t know why you bother with the pretext,” she says. “You could just have them deliver a letter.”

“I could. But then however would I test their virtue?”

“Virtue?” you ask, before you can stop yourself. You are still so terribly confused. You lost the plot somewhere around when you opened that first door—and you don’t think you’d ever quite caught back up.

Muriel looks at you, as if she was surprised that you were still there. “Well, yes, darling,” she says. “First to see if you were willing to face a dragon to rescue a princess you’d never even met. And then to see if you could get through the doors. They don’t let you in unless you’re pure of intention.”

That doesn’t really clear anything up.

“But why?”

“I presume to keep the princess safe.”

“That’s not what our good knight is asking, and you know it,” the princess chides.

Muriel grins. “Because I’ve need of you, good knight. We’ll get to that. For now…” She looks back the princess. “What do you think, dear? You know I trust your judgment more than anyone else’s.”

“Speak more plainly, Muriel,” the princess says. “I’ve no idea which scheme you’re speaking about now. I can’t possibly keep track of them all.”

Muriel huffs. “The knight, dear.”

The princess gives you another once over. “Depends,” she says. “What is it you’re needing?”

“The gryphon, I think.”

The princess seems to consider that, then sniffs. “No. You’d be better off asking one of the other three.”

You feel indignant.

“I would send this one for the unicorn.”

Less indignant. But only just.

“Oh, truly?” Muriel looks at you again, and there is a new appreciation in her eyes. “Well. You know best, on the subject of unicorns, I suppose.”

“It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the flattery, because I do. However, I really must ask you to drop the pretense. You didn’t come all of this way to ask me that. Speak true, Muriel.”

“Perhaps I just wanted to see you.” Muriel’s tone and expression goes coy, almost coquettish.

A ghost of a smile appears on the princess’s mouth. “If you wish to engage me in courtship, Muriel, there are far less roundabout ways to go about it. Which, mind, I would appreciate far more than the games.”

Muriel flushes, almost imperceptibly. “Ah. Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

The princess inclines her head, and in a gentler tone says, “Your affections would be welcome.”

“Truly?”

“I would not lie to you, dear,” the princess says. “However, once again, I must ask you to speak the truth. Why have you come?”

Muriel sighs. “Your perceptiveness grates, you know?”

“So you have said.”

“Fine. I have come to steal you away again.”

“Ah. Where to?” The princess looks remarkably calm at that comment, though your hackles have raised. Wherever Muriel wishes to go, you do not think the princess should have any part of it. You have a feeling, though, that if you said anything, the princess would—kindly—tell you to mind your own business.

“The Wilds,” Muriel says.

This means nothing to you, but the princess nods.

“Of course,” she murmurs to herself. ��Right, well. When do you wish to leave?”

“Once I’ve gotten this one packed off,” Muriel says. She gestures to you.

“Do I get a say?” you ask. Demand.

“Well of course, dear,” Muriel says. “You’ll either take the mission I give you or… go off to do whatever you do when you’re not taking quests from strange women. Either way.”

You huff, but nod.

“Very well,” the princess says. “I am agreeable.”

“Excellent.” Muriel sends her a quick flash of a smile. The glimpse you catch is soft and subtle. The princess’s own lips quirk in response… and then suddenly, both their eyes are on you again.

Muriel is looking at you like she’s a cat and you’re… something small and skittering. You don’t know if she’s going to pounce, or if she just wishes to watch, but either way—you’re more than a little unnerved.

The princess, on the other hand, looks kind and a little amused. “Any questions?” she prompts.

“Why did she—you—need my help to get in the tower? If you two are friends, I mean.”

“Because Muriel practices dark magic,” the princess says plainly.

You start; sitting up right as if a rod has just been plunged through your spine.

The princess laughs. “That does not mean that she is evil. Your knightly virtue is still intact. Dark magic is simply a tool, like any other, and Muriel wields it well.”

“But…”

The princess reaches out, and lays a hand on yours. You can feel the weight of it through your gauntlet, though not much else. “Muriel is something of a trickster, it is true. She lies. Sometimes for a good reason, and sometimes simply for her own amusement. She does not mean any harm when she does it… and so, she will never quite be sorry for it. It is her way. But let this be a lesson to you. If you work with her—or, truly, anyone else—do your research before blindly following what they tell you.” She pats your hand, and withdraws. “Now. Muriel will explain what she wants you to do, if you let her, while I get ready.”

She stands, folds the blanket she had been using, and takes her book off to another room. You are left alone with Muriel, and you eye her warily.

Muriel does not seem to mind your distrust. If anything, it seems to amuse her more. “So,” she says. “Unicorns.”

“I won’t kill one,” you say, immediately.

Muriel laughs. “Nor would I ask that of you,” she says. “I do not wish for you to kill one. Nor maim one, capture one, or any other nasty thing your mind has conjured up.” She reaches into a satchel, and pulls out a small vial. Inside is a beautiful, shimmering liquid. “You are familiar with Eaton’s River, yes?”

You nod. You’d been, once.

“Mm. If you follow the river north, to its source, you’ll come to the mountains. More specifically, to the forest at the base of those mountains. Keep going, and you’ll reach a waterfall—and, of course, a lake. The lake has a dock… and likely, a rowboat. Do not take the rowboat, though you may be tempted. Instead, pour the contents of this vial into the lake.

“When that is done, make camp by the lake. You may drink from it, but do not bathe in it. Go further down the river for that—past the ring of trees surrounding the area. You shouldn’t have to stay for long. No more than three days. Eventually, you will see a unicorn. Do not worry about missing it. Its presence will wake you up.

“Do nothing to it, unless it does something to you, first. If it speaks to you, those words are yours alone. If it lays its head in your lap, that moment is yours to keep. When it leaves, you are free to go as well.

“However, there are things I wish you to keep an eye out for. First, a white deer. Stag or doe, it matters not. Only that is pure white. Do not kill it, but if you see it, I wish to know about it when both you and I have returned.

“Second, the unicorn itself. I wish to know the color of its horn; whether or not it has any markings; and if it is alone or not.

“Lastly, the water. Tell me if there is anything built on the mound in the middle; if there is anything strange about the boat beyond the urge to get in it; whether anything happens when you pour the water in; and most importantly… whether or not you see anyone or anything inside the water during your time there. Even if you believe it is a hallucination.

“Am I clear?”

You blink, but nod.

“Excellent.” She pulls out a piece of paper, and she hands that to you as well. “These are the instructions I have just stated. Now. Tell me, knight. Will you do this?”

“Why?” you ask.

“A vested interest in magical ecology,” Muriel says primly.

The princess emerges, a bag slung over her shoulder. She approaches you both. Whatever she sees on your face has her smiling. “You’ve gone and confused the poor thing, Muriel. Are you allergic to explaining yourself?”

“Yes,” Muriel says. “You can’t see it, but my arms have broken out into terrible hives.”

The princess snorts, and looks at you. “The unicorn needs to be checked on. They’re quite rare, you know, and it’s good to make sure they’re still healthy. I imagine Muriel also wishes to know if it has made any friends, or reproduced.”

Muriel inclined her head.

“The lake has its own creatures within. They’re not friendly, so do not engage with them. They’ll drown you. The potion she’s given you is… highly magical. In this case, it does many things. It will… the closest I can think of is ‘get them drunk.’ They will still overpower you if you get in the water, but they won’t actively pursue you.

“It is also power enough to attract the unicorn, to ensure that you get a look at it. And, it has the added bonus of cleaning the water out a bit.” The princess shrugged. “An ingenious little vial.”

“And the deer?” you ask.

“Attracted to the presence of the unicorn,” the princess says. “Or perhaps caused by the unicorn’s own magic—I’ve never been quite sure. Either way, it means that the land there is responding to the presence of the unicorn. It’s a good thing. A very good thing.”

Muriel said you had a choice in this, but… the way they spoke, it sounded like you already decided to go. Which… you will, of course, because while this is not the quest you had envisioned for yourself, it still sounds important, and befitting of your training. They way they assume is a bit grating, but… Whatever. Your instructor had once told you that, of those who give you quests, magical folk rank just behind nobility in how grating they could be.

“Right then,” Muriel says, at your nod. “Time for the lot of us to be off. We’ve got things to do.”

You stand. “I still don’t quite understand who the two of you are,” you admit. There is more going on here than you understand—context that you’re lacking.

“We’re a Seer and a Witch,” Muriel says, as if this makes things plain. “A trickster and a truth-seer. A commoner and a princess.”

“We are what we are,” the princess says, laying a hand on Muriel’s arm. “And what we are works very well together. That is all that matters.”

“But… I mean… what do you do?”

“What needs doing,” the princess says. “Whether that is relocating unicorns, closing portals to the abyss, or removing curses.” She shrugs. “Don’t worry about it too much. Either it will become clearer to you one day… or it will not.”

“Then you mean to see me again?”

“Well, that depends on you, doesn’t it?” Muriel asks. “Whether you decide to work with me again.”

You suppose that’s true. You give a nod, and this time it is Muriel who smiles at you.

“Off we go, then,” she says.

The three of you exit the tower, and part ways at the door. You retrieve your things where you left them, and look on towards the horizon. It’s a long way from here to the river.

You shoulder your pack, and start walking.

[frankchurchillsaysrelax]

Malex week day seven: au day - I needed a few days before I felt good about posting this but here it is. I’d be happy to add on to this au so feel free to send prompts! I have plenty of ideas but not enough time to write them all right now.

Welcome to Roswell

Michael had never really felt welcomed anywhere. He certainly didn’t feel welcomed by the alien theme sign mocking him as he drove into the city limits. He hadn’t spent enough time here as a kid to form much of an opinion, but from everything he’s heard, he’s fairly certain he hates it already.

The drive from Albuquerque was full of doubt. Who’s to say Max and Isobel even still lived there. He’d spent the last ten years trying to call on the connection they’d once shared only to be met with silence. Who’s to say they’d even remember them.

Driving past that sign, everything changed. What came on as a ringing in his ears gradually faded to a gentle hum full of warmth and an anxious excitement as he continued down the streets littered with alien attractions. They were here and they could feel him too. They hadn’t forgotten.

Knowing it was a school day, Michael makes a list of things to accomplish before the reunion that would have to be postponed a few more hours. Now that he knows they’re here, he’ll need to find a job and a place to park his truck at night. If he can manage to squeeze in a shower somewhere, even better.

He drives around for almost an hour before finding the auto shop on the outskirts of town. It’s a small, run-down garage sat on a large yard full of beat-up cars and other miscellaneous parts. He thinks his truck might blend in nicely, the peeling red paint and rusted hubcaps sitting nicely amongst the other junk. First, he needs to convince them to give him a job.

He drives onto the dusty lot, parking behind an old jeep. His boots hit the ground for the first time since he’d left his foster parent’s house that morning, dirt wisping up around his heels and a dull ache running up his legs. A cursory look at the front office window shows no help wanted sign, so Michael prepares to lean into all of his charms. He doesn’t have many other skills outside of taking things apart and putting them back together so this place is pretty much his only shot.

The bell above the door gives a feeble ring as he enters. He takes an involuntary step back as a kid around his age brushes past him at the same time. The guy has black hair worn in short spikes and a nose piercing, not to mention the all black wardrobe despite the desert sun shining high over their heads. Michael thinks he even spots a bit of eyeliner as he passes. Even so, there is really no other way to describe him than pretty, and Michael can’t keep his eyes off of him as he gets into his jeep and tears out of there without even a glance backward.

Shaking his head, Michael turns back to finish entering the crowded space made narrower with the endless piles of invoices and precariously stacked boxes of car parts. A man looks up from the front desk, his greying hair falling onto the patch covering his right eye while the left scrutinizes Michael from head to toe.

“You Sanders?”

“Who’s askin’?” The man goes back to his paperwork but something in the gruff tone of his voice tells Michael he’s intrigued enough that he should continue.

“I’m looking for a job; wondered if you’re hiring.” With nowhere to sit, or even anything to really lean against, Michael shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels.

The man glances up again, eye narrowing as he thinks. “You got any experience? I don’t have time to be doing any teaching.”

Michael smiles, standing tall. “I built my truck out there,” he nods over his shoulder toward the glass door. “I know what I’m doing.”

The man, who Michael assumes is Sanders, moves quickly toward the door. Michael spins to follow, hurrying to pop the hood when he’s directed to do so, fidgeting again as Sanders assesses his work.

“Where’d you come from kid?” The hood slams under Sanders’ hands. “I’m the only yard around and I’ve never seen ya.”

“Albequerque.” Michael can appreciate that this is a man of few words.

“Hmm,” Sanders leans against the truck, his good eye looking him over again. “Your parents ok with you havin’ a job?”

“Wouldn’t know,” he challenges. “I aged out of the system today. I don’t have anyone to report to anymore.”

“And your first thought was to come on down to Roswell?” Anger settles into the lines of his face. “You’re not one of those alien fanatics are ya?”

Michael can’t help the surprised laugh that bubbles up in his throat. “Definitely not. I’ve got friends here. Seemed as good a place as any.”

“Alright,” Sanders nods, straightens up, and heads back toward the door. “You start tomorrow.”

Startled, Michael swings around to face his retreating back. “Really? Thanks.”

Sanders waves a dismissive hand, the bell ringing as he opens the doors. “Yeah, yeah,” Michael hears as the door swings shut.

-:-

Alex pretends to listen as Mrs. Perez drones on about whatever author they’re covering right now. He knows he should care, knows he shouldn’t be mentally counting the days until his birthday when he can finally leave this town behind him. It doesn’t stop him from sitting despondently in the back of the classroom writing lyrics instead of notes in the margins of his worksheet.

“Mr. Evans,” Mrs. Perez says with such disappointment towards her star pupil that even Alex looks up. Max stands in the doorway looking genuinely sheepish. “Nice of you to join us.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Perez. I was picking up our new student from the front office.” Max steps inside as the room comes to life with the news of a new student. Small towns are nothing if not cliched after all.

Following Max is a guy with wild curls and a smile that does something to Alex’s gut. Alex stomps down on it as soon as it takes root. There is no time for fun stomach feelings when he is so close to bailing.

“Ah, you must be Mr. Guerin,” Mrs. Perez smiles; her kind, motherly face now welcoming. “Thank you, Mr. Evans, please take your seat. Mr. Guerin, come here.”

Max bumps his shoulder against Guerin’s in a friendly and familiar gesture that causes the whispers to grow louder as he moves to take his seat in the front row.

“Class,” Mrs. Perez calls, “class, please give Mr. Guerin your attention. Mr. Guerin, why don’t you tell us something about yourself.”

“Um, hi, I’m Michael,” he starts, eyes wide against the curious gaze of their peers. “I just moved here from Albuquerque.” An awkward silence settles over the room as Mrs. Perez unhelpfully nods for him to continue while the poor guy is clearly searching for more to say.

A smile crosses Michael’s face that has that funny feeling valiantly shoving against Alex’s resistance. “I’m really into physics and math but both of those APs were full so here I am.”

Alex smirks as the rest of the class, mostly the girls, laugh. The new guy is smart, funny, and cute; a combination that will ensure his popularity, and when his eyes meet Alex’s across the room and his smile only grows, Alex knows that all his plans for indifference and coasting by until graduation are no longer a viable option.

He is so screwed.

[k7l4d4]

Blood for Blood: An Owl House Story Chapter 1 Part 4

Here’s part 4! Everybody clap your hands!!

As Luz was whisked back to the tent, and the stand, she had fled earlier, the words of the crazy lady rang through her head. 

‘Customer.’ 

This woman was a saleswoman, and, going by the state of her wares and how she most likely acquired them, probably not a legal one. A soft smile climbed up Luz’s face. Okay, she could work with this. Maybe.

As she was plopped down in front of the stand, Luz finally got a good look at the stand, and it was indeed a huge mishmash of stuff of dubious quality and durability, but the most striking thing was how severely mislabeled some of the things were. 

“NOW!” 

With a jolt, she turned back to the woman, who she was starting to get the hint wasn’t actually crazy, leaning forward expectantly, giving the kind of grin Luz had been told repeatedly never to fully trust when shopping or making a deal. 

“What can I offer a fine specimen such as yourself?” So she knew flattery, good start, but she was laying it on just a shade too thick. “How about a decapitated human foot?” She held up a crock. What? 

“A torture device that forces you to chase it forever?” She plopped a slinky on the table. Again, what? 

“I know, how about a shadow box that reflects only sadness?” She finally brought over a portable mini-TV, like from the 70′s or 80′s. That’s when it struck Luz, as she glanced around at the stand, taking stock of everything in the blink of an eye. 

She literally has no idea what ANY of this stuff is or what it does! While that brought up further questions as to where exactly she was, it also brought up that spirit of adventure and generosity that just wouldn’t disappear.

As Luz couldn’t fight off the soft chuckle, she decided to throw the woman a bone. “That’s not all it can do.” 

Glancing around to refresh her memory, Luz spotted a pair of batteries stored in a bowl labeled ‘Human Candy.’ Shudder. Here’s hoping no one was stupid enough to actually buy something from that particular part of the tent, especially when she spotted both a stick of deodorant and a thumbtack within. 

Grabbing the batteries, and moving before the lady could protest, Luz deftly opened up the TV and slipped the batteries in, watching as a cringy Disco-exercise video started playing, probably whatever was put in last. As the video blared, a crowd of figures rapidly were drawn to the tent, each and every one clambering for the TV, desperate to buy it, and whatever else was available at the now much more interesting market stall.

As bids flew with greater and greater intensity, the lady turned an impressed glance Luz’s way, a slight hint of gratitude in her gaze; business must of been going pretty slow. “What did you say your name was?”

Realizing she and the strange lady had never exchanged names, which would honestly be common sense because, you know, stranger danger and all, but now Luz just felt embarrassed at her own poor manners. “I’m Luz. Luz Noceda.”

Well, Luz,” The woman began, shifting her weight to better move the goods being sold and the funds being received, which Luz noticed were definitely not dollars, “That was pretty impressive. For a human.”

Hello. If that wasn’t a flag, Luz would eat her lucky knife. It might’ve sounded dismissive, but Luz heard the note of interest, and well, she didn’t have anything better to do. Why not play along? 

“That’s a funny thing for another human to say?” Yeah, this lady was definitely no human, but why spoil the fun she was having? Both of them, that is.

“Oh, I’m not like you.” With a dramatic sweep, the woman whipped off her headband, letting her impressive mane of wild grey hair run free, exposing her sharply pointed ears to the world. An elf? Sweet! 

“I am Eda the Owl Lady! The Most Powerful Witch on the Boiling Isles!” Okay, so she was a witch. Even Better! This was like every fantasy she had ever had since taking her first life rolled into one! Or, at least, it felt like it could be. “I am respected. Feared!-”

“Busted!” Before Eda could build up her monologue any further, a pair of massive arms crashed onto the stall, goods flying and customers scattering, screaming about the guards. 

“Eda the Owl Lady, you are under arrest for contraband, illegal potioneering and enchantments, and demonic misdemeanors!” Ooo... witch criminal! No wonder Luz found herself liking her! Welp, better see where this was going. Not that she would drop her guard. Huh, she punned! 

With that thought, Luz quickly palmed one of her knives, ready to spring at a moment’s notice. She grew slightly more agitated at the sight of the guard roughly grabbing Eda by the arm. 

“You are hereby ordered to come with me to the Conformatorium.” And there it was, that name just screamed bad news.

With a harsh jerk of her arm and a scowl, Eda easily broke the larger man’s grip on her. “Would you bozos quit following me? I haven’t done squat!” 

Luz doubted that, but she wasn’t getting any genuinely bad vibes from Eda, so she thought it was safe to say that the charges were either bogus, or blown way out of proportion.

“And you are coming with us..” Say what? The guard leaned over and grabbed Luz by the back of her hoodie. This was a limited edition darn it! 

Steadying herself, Luz, despite not being able to see the face, instantly recognized the type of law enforcement this guard was; corrupt, but not in the way that could be bribed, but the kind that reveled in their power and frequently abused it, seeing themselves as above criminals. 

Yeah, she was gonna make this punk hurt. “... for fraternizing with a criminal.” Yep, corrupt, right on the money.

Seeing how this was going, Luz prepared herself to strike, waiting for the opening she knew in her gut Eda was gonna give her. “Ugh, fine, all right, you win. Just let me get my staff.” 

There it was. As she reached below the Booth, Eda whipped up in a flash, clocking the guard in front of her. Spotting her opportunity, Luz whipped herself on top of the guard’s arm, knife flashing forward, the guard avoided an interesting scar by the skin of his teeth by leaning back in the nick of time. 

As Luz flipped onto the ground, she was quickly scooped up by the overhead Eda, her staff soaring through the air, her stall compressed into an easy to carry sack slung over her shoulder.

Seeing the guards running after them, Luz decided to summarize the situation. “This is crazy. And not the fun kind! My mom is gonna kill me if I die!” 

The amused look Eda sent her way was oddly more comforting than Luz thought it should.

Luz looked down, gazing at the rapidly shifting landscape, idly tracing the environment as Eda replied. “Don’t worry, I won’t let those morons hurt you. A human like you is worth more to me alive than dead!” 

A bolt of fear rushed through Luz, one she quickly tamped down once she realized Eda would have no understanding of the true significance of what she just said.

Still, she had to ask. “Just what is that supposed to-” Any further words were cut off as the Staff and passengers took off into the sky, leaving the guards to curse in frustration, one in particular bemoaning how Eda got away again.

Eda gave an amused snort at the sight of the human girl’s eyes screwed up shut, but she supposed it was natural considering the sudden acceleration. Didn’t mean she wasn’t gonna tease her though. 

“You can open your eyes now, human.” She watched in amusement as the girl’s eyes slowly peaked open, and smirked as the awe at the sight before her came into view. Seeing newbies react to their first taste of the view was always a treat.

As Luz tried to process the sheer bizarre majesty spread out below her, she decided to, once again, summarize her thoughts aloud. “Flying staffs, crazy monsters, YOUR A WITCH!! Just what is this place?”

Eda turns and gives a fierce grin, proudly flashing her gold fang. “This is the Boiling Isles, located in the ever scenic Demon Realm! Every myth your world has is a result of some of our world interacting with some of yours.”

Luz was a little dubious of that, but she wouldn’t start up anything, this was way too awesome to pass up after all. Before she could reply, she caught sight of something overhead. “A griffon!” 

And it was, specifically a griffon with a pigeon head spewing spiders from its mouth. Huh, so that book on griffon breeds was right!

Eda smirked, feeling some measure of Isles Pride at the human’s amazement. “Yep. Griffons, vampires, werewolves, giraffes-”

Luz had to question that one, she knew for a fact that giraffes weren’t a mythological species. “Giraffes?” Noting the shudder and creeped out look Eda got at the mention of the long-necked beasts.

“Yep, we banished them a long time ago. Bunch of freaks.” She muttered the last part, easily climbing off the staff with the ease of long practice, not noticing the hand that popped off.

Luz had some questions there, but nothing pressing. Instead, she gently pried the hand off the staff, presenting it to Eda. “Here. You, uh, dropped this.”

Blinking lightly at how nonchalant the human was being about handling a severed hand, Eda had honestly thought they were wimpier than that, Eda never the less graciously accepted, popping hand back into place. 

“Thanks kid. That tends to happen every so often these days.” Luz filed that away for ‘Things to Ask Later,’ before turning to the impressive home before her. It wasn’t the biggest or most fantastic she had ever seen, but it was definitely one of the most unique and fascinating in appearance.

Turning to Eda, Luz decided beating around the bush. “So. Earlier you said that you had a use for a “human like me.” I am taking that to mean you want something, either or object or a task, but you need a human to actually get it done. And I also assume you are gonna hold that portal door of yours as leverage. Am I right?” 

Luz was a lot of things, but a fool wasn’t one of them. This whole thing smelled shady, but not the kind that she couldn’t get out of.

Eda blinked, both surprised and impressed at just how fast Luz had pieced it together, and how utterly unconcerned she was. It was, frankly, a little scary to the veteran witch how easily the girl was taking this. 

But let it never be said that Eda couldn’t roll with the best of them. “Indeed. Let’s take this inside though, make ourselves comfortable before we get into the nitty gritty.”

With her piece said, Eda took the human up to her house, waiting for Hooty to respond. “Password please!” 

Ugh, that voice of his! Not wanting to deal with this, Eda lightly jabbed Hooty in both eyes, just hard enough to hurt, but not enough for him to be angry. Hooty was an annoying idiot, but he was a loyal and powerful annoying idiot, and it wouldn’t due to endanger that, not to mention she did actually care about the menace. 

“Never mind that Hooty, just let us in!” As Hooty grumblingly did as he was told, Eda noted how Luz never once reacted to the whole exchange. Thist just kept getting more and more interesting, eh?

“Welcome.” Eda intoned, dramatically setting off the lights inside. “The Owl House!” What could she say, she loved dramatics, and she was never gonna be ashamed of it. At least the human looked impressed.

Luz let out a low whistle, taking stock of the beautiful home, cluttered with garbage and knickknacks as it was. “I gotta say, this is a sweet place. I’m assuming the talking door knocker is your security system?” 

Sure, its voice made her want to draw blood, preferably its, but it seemed loyal to her if it let her stab it in the eyes.

Once more blinking at how perspective the human child was, Eda quickly smirked, pleased that she didn’t have to explain as much. 

“Yep. His name’s Hooty, and he’s as loyal as they come. Here, I hide away from the stresses of modern life,” She plopped herself down in one of her comfier chairs, “Also the cops. Also Ex-Boyfriends. HA!” Luz cracked a smile, appreciating how feisty the older witch was.

Taking a sharper look around, Luz admitted it was a very nice place, even with all the stuff cluttering everything. It honestly kept it from feeling to spacious. 

“So, you live out here, all alone?” She was honestly curious, because if anyone could keep up with someone as spicy as the witch in front of her, she wanted to meet them.

Smirking in mischief, Eda decided to have some fun with this, subtly casting some spells that would screw around with the sound and echoes just a bit. 

“Well, I do have a roommate...” With her piece said, Eda turned to the sight of said roommate’s seemingly hulking shadow skulking down the steps, footsteps thudding all the way. She looked at the human out of the corner of her eye, expecting at least some nervousness, and was a little put off that all she saw was excitement. 

This girl really didn’t scare easy, did she?

“Who dares intrude upon I?” As the deep, rasping voice echoed down, the footsteps rattling, shadow hanging across the walls, Luz leaned forward in anticipation of the majesty about to appear before her. Her expectation slowly shifted to confusion, than curiosity, as the steps seemed to get lighter, and the shadow got smaller. 

“The KING OF DEMONS!?” She would not lose control. She would not release her emotions. She would not run over there and hug that adorable little wolf thing for all it was worth. “

QUE LINDO~!” Okay, so she would do all those things.

As she eagerly snuggled the fiercely struggling creature in her arms, Luz couldn’t help but coo. “Whose a widdle guy? Whose a widdle guy? Is it you? Is it you!?” 

Luz idly noticed the face of badly suppressed laughter across Eda’s face, and guessed this was something of a trick on both of them, but she didn’t really care.

“GaH! Stop! I don’t know who your little guy is!?” Still struggling, the tiny demon, still clad in his bath supplies, turned to Eda. “Eda, who is this monster?”

Finally getting her laughter under control, Eda decided to bring the situation back under control. Moving over to Luz, and marveling at how someone so composed could get like this so quickly, she deftly pulled her away from King. 

“This is Luz, the human. She’s here to help us with our... situation.”

At that, the annoyance faded finally, and King cheered. “Oh, hooray!”

Getting herself under control, if only barely, Luz decided to address the situation. “Yep. But if I’m gonna help, I will need some more info to work worth, you understand, right?” No way was she going into this unprepared, whatever it may be.

Eda grinned, excited at the spunk being shown by the human, and decided to get things going. “Alright!” 

With a twirl, she manifested a spell circle, which would detail King’s ‘Story.’ “King here was once a mighty king of demons,” gesturing to the fierce picture in the circle, “before his crown of power was stolen and he became” she turned, and caught sight of Luz snuggling King, an annoyed but resigned expression on his face, “This.”

Luz was having a little trouble believing it, and not just because of how cute King was, but she couldn’t deny she was intrigued. Ah well, better play along and see how this plays out. 

“You mean this bundle of joy!?” She made sure to inject just the right amount of skepticism amid her cooing into her voice.

Eda was amused, feeling that the human was more aware of this whole deal than she let on. Still, she could make this work. 

“The crown is being held by the evil Warden Wrath, kept behind a magical barrier that prevents anything magical from crossing it. And what do you know, we just happen to have a magic-less human right here!” 

She was really glad story time was done, the less she had to talk about that creep Wrath the better. “A human like you. If you help us retrieve the crown, we’ll return you to your realm safe and sound. What do you say?” Feeling she would need a little extra punch, she decided to bring out the big guns: King. “And really, who could say no to this little face?”

King squirmed in outrage; he hated it when Eda tried to weaponize his appearance, it was so demeaning! “No! Please don’t encourage her!” The less time he had to spend in that monster grip, the better, thank you very much!

Luz was far less worried than she probably should be. This whole situation was shady as hell. She was still concerned she might actually BE in hell. But, she couldn’t deny, this was way too fun to stop now! “Where do we gotta go?”

Eda grinned. She knew there was a reason she was liking this kid! “Somewhere super fun!”

Because I am starting to get tired, I’ll upload the last part of chapter 1 tomorrow, peace!

[amyscascadingtabs]

paper cut stings from our paper-thin plans

Rosa Diaz has never been dumped before. She thought she would be better at it.

(Or, Rosa's first twenty-four hours post being dumped are a bit of a rollercoaster.) Set pre 7x04.

read on ao3

Rosa’s never been dumped before. She thought she would be better at it.

 Rosa knows how to break up with people. She doesn't start unnecessary drama. She's not overly emotional. Ever since her relationship with Marcus, she actually lets her exes talk about their emotions. She's never been dumped, but she's seen firsthand how people act when they are and knows she’d never make the same mistakes. She would have seen it coming - she wouldn’t be caught off guard, like Marcus. She wouldn't be crying, like Adrian. She wouldn't have kept asking what she did wrong, like Kaitlin, who she dated for a short bit before she came out. She wouldn't be insisting they try again, try just a little bit longer, like Alicia.

 Then Jocelyn breaks up with her and Rosa does all of the above.

It would be ironic if it wasn't quite so painful.

She doesn't see it coming, although in retrospect, maybe she should have. There were warning signs. There was that time when Jocelyn came to the precinct before her trip, that time at brunch when Rosa raised her voice at a remark about it being a shame they don't do this more often and Jocelyn turned all quiet. There were more conflicts and petty arguments after that. Always about the same things - Rosa's job taking too much time, Rosa having to cancel last minute because of a case, and in the end, Rosa not being fully there when she was there. Those arguments were resolved, though. Rosa would apologize, promise she'd be better in the future. She’d make an effort and things would improve. They were happy, and Rosa’s ashamed of how baffled she gets when Jocelyn says no, it's for real this time.

 She cries. No desperate screams or hysterical bawling, but there are tears in her eyes from the first word Jocelyn speaks and she hears her voice breaking as she tries to form apologies, protests, stop whatever is happening before it's too late. She asks what she did wrong, if there's anything she can make better, and Jocelyn patiently explains how their needs just don't work together and Rosa says but I want them to and Jocelyn shakes her head. She insists they try again, promises she'll work less, be more present, if only she can get another chance. Jocelyn says she's given Rosa too many chances. Then she leaves without even slamming the door, pretending like she didn't just become the first person to dump Rosa Diaz.

 Rosa drinks two glasses of whiskey and a shot of tequila. It burns, but it numbs, and it gets her through the quick process of collecting all the things from her apartment that either belonged to Jocelyn, were given to her by Jocelyn or just remind her too much of Jocelyn, and putting them in different bags. A spare makeup bag, a collection of travel-size hair products, various items of clothing Jocelyn kept in one of Rosa’s drawers. Old gifts - a mug that says Certified Nancy Meyers Expert, a hand-crafted photobook, matching jewelry that Rosa made for them. The items that are Jocelyn’s go in a bag to be dropped off outside her house, and the gifts, in a moment of fury and frustration, go in the trash. After that, Rosa goes to bed, allowing the numbness lull her into a false sense of security that lets her sleep.

 Her first thought the next morning is that her head hurts. Her second thought is that the bed’s too cold, and she’s spread out in a way that feels wrong. She reaches for her phone and is two seconds away from sending Jocelyn a text message to say good morning and tell her she misses her before she remembers.

She deletes Jocelyn’s contact picture - a cheesy selfie of them both - and the double pink heart emoji, not added by Rosa, from her name. Suddenly, phone contact Jocelyn Price with a grey-and-white avatar could be anyone. An old acquaintance, a neighbor, or someone entirely unimportant. Rosa pretends it’s true.

She’s grateful she’s working a double homicide. A tough case is exactly what she needs, something to take her focus and let her dive deep into figuring out someone else’s problems rather than her own. She’s also grateful she’s working with Charles, who is observant enough to tell something’s off but too respectful slash terrified to ask what, and instead tells her every detail about Nikolaj’s school performance whenever there’s a moment’s silence. Rosa loses herself in the case, working their final leads until she knows which suspect did it, and through some miraculous twist of fate, one hour later they have a confession.

It’s barely past three in the afternoon.

 “Fantastic work, guys,” Terry applauds them, and Charles looks pleased with himself while Rosa just shrugs. “You know what? You can go home early today.”

“But why?” Rosa spits out, and Charles narrows his eyes at her before leaving.

“You solved the case - excellent job, Diaz - and the precinct seems calm. Go ahead, take the night off.” Terry smiles. “Have a date night with Jocelyn! Make dinner! Buy her flowers! Whatever you guys like to do!”

“Fine,” she wheezes, but Terry seems oblivious to her bitterness.

“Have a fun night!” He grins, and Rosa fantasizes about grabbing his suspenders and snapping them against his pecs hard enough for it to hurt.

 She goes to the gym instead. Rosa usually prefers workouts that keep her flexible and agile over anything else, but today she needs to let out the anger. She warms up, gets gloves and finds a punching bag and then she’s hitting it with strike after strike until she’s dripping with sweat. It’s probably cliché to release anger through boxing, but it works and it’s legal and better than trying to feel her feelings. She lets the anger and frustration come out through the cross-punches and side-kicks, lets it leave her body as she tires herself out, and she exercises until her arms and legs are shaking and she realizes that she’s not just mad at Jocelyn, she’s also mad at herself.

 Jocelyn broke up with her, implying Rosa’s the one who made mistakes. Rosa’s her own reason she lost something so precious and important to her. She’s heartbroken and humiliated, and apparently, it’s her own fault for not trying hard enough. It’s her fault she lost her first stable relationship after coming out, her fault she lost a person she could imagine a long time, maybe even forever with. She lost her girlfriend who was funny and genuine and the best snuggle partner, lost long mornings in bed talking about everything and nothing, lost late nights drinking wine and making out. She lost surprise dates and sweet texts, going out to dinner and having company at Shaw’s, lost a life they had built together.

 She lost the person who was there when she wasn’t talking to her parents. Jocelyn listened to her when Rosa confided in her about all the times her parents had let her down before, kicked her out, ignored her cries for help until she didn’t believe she was worthy of support in the first place, and then she told her she deserved better. Rosa hadn’t known what to say to that, but Jocelyn didn’t seem to mind, and Rosa had loved her more for it.

 She lost the first person after Adrian she could see herself getting married to. Even doing the whole white dress and fancy reception thing, if Jocelyn wanted that. Rosa's never been sure about kids, knows she doesn’t want biological ones, but Jocelyn had made her picture a future where they could adopt or become foster parents. Rosa likes the thought of offering someone the safe and supportive home she never had herself, and Jocelyn seems like a good person to do that together with.

 Seemed. Not seems. Because everything they had, and everything she thought might be in their future, Rosa lost.

 She leaves the gym when her whole body’s weak from exertion and tears are burning behind her eyelids. It's still just four-thirty p.m.

 She buys dinner from a poké bowl place to go and eats it in front of The Holiday. Rosa’s a firm believer that a Nancy Meyers movie can cure just about everything, and although she remembers watching this one just a few weeks ago with Jocelyn, it does a good job of serving as a comfort blanket. No ex gets to ruin Nancy Meyers for Rosa Diaz.

 She keeps checking her phone for texts throughout the evening, and then stopping herself from sending them when there aren’t any. Once she finishes her meal, she archives Instagram pictures where Jocelyn appears, trying to reaffirm the removal of this person from her life. She thinks of deleting them entirely, but something stops her. The posts are left archived.

 The end credits to The Holiday have just started rolling when a text message pops up from presumable stranger Jocelyn Price.

 Hey. I packed your stuff. Can I come drop it off and get my things? I can be there in half an hour.

 There are no hearts or emojis. There always used to be. Rosa used to joke about them, say she wonders how Jocelyn communicated at all before they existed, but now the lack of them is a sharp sting in her chest.

 She can’t imagine seeing Jocelyn right now, so she turns off the TV and leaves a key under the doormat.

 It hits her as she gets in the car that she has no idea where to go. She doesn’t want to talk to her parents, so home’s not an option. She could go to Shaw’s and drink in silence, but she’s not feeling like hiding from chatty coworkers. She’s already been to the gym and she doesn’t need groceries. She supposes she could let the car radio blast death metal and just drive, but she’s got work tomorrow and Brooklyn evening traffic sucks, so there’s not much point to that either.

 She figures Gina will be busy, because she’s always busy nowadays, but it’s worth a try. She texts a simple Can I come over? and waits.

 It takes fifteen minutes before the reply comes. In those fifteen minutes, Rosa has stared at her currently violet-painted nails until she's convinced they’re the ugliest thing seen to date, booked an appointment with her nail technician the next day, and played five levels of Candy Crush.

 Sorry boo, Gina's text reads. Milton just came over with Iggy and I haven't seen her in a week so I really wanna spend some time with her. We should hang out soon though, I miss you!

 It hadn't occurred to Rosa that Gina would be with Iggy. It makes her feel guilty - what sort of friend doesn't remember her friend’s kid? - but she figures that's a direct effect of not having a family of her own to prioritize. Hell, she doesn't even have a partner anymore. What does she know?

 Rosa thinks of the comment Gina made upon her coming out as bi. In another lifetime, you and I would have made a hot-ass couple. Maybe she’s right, but they're in this lifetime, where even Gina, who used to go about relationships so similarly to Rosa, has a family of her own. Everyone in Rosa's friend group has at least a serious partner to accommodate for. Everyone, except as of twenty-four hours ago, Rosa herself.

 She's not the jealous type, and she certainly doesn’t see her life as being worth less without a partner or children, but the distinction stings nonetheless. She hadn't realized how much she valued at least being in a serious relationship when it came to that feeling of inclusion, something giving her a sense of not being completely behind in the race to society's ideal life. It doesn't seem to matter how much Rosa tells herself she’s never cared for it; the race exists anyway, and she just took a big jump backwards while everyone else keeps racing ahead.

 She texts Amy next.

Hey. Can I come over?

 The phone vibrates in the next second, but it’s not Amy who replies - it’s another text message from Jocelyn.

 Got my things and left yours, key’s under the doormat. Thanks.

 No emojis again. Whatever’s happening seems to be for real, and Rosa clenches her fists and presses her nails into her palm to avoid smashing something. Then she writes Amy a second message.

 Jocelyn broke up with me.

 The reply comes only a minute later.

 Of course you can come over. Are you okay?

Rosa doesn’t bother answering before driving.

   “Jake's with Charles,” Amy explains as she lets Rosa in. “Sorry about the mess - I’m working on a binder for the new car.” She gestures to a neat setup on the kitchen table. Not exactly what Rosa would call a mess.

“You can finish it, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no, it’s fine! Honestly. I should try to do this with Jake anyway,” she explains, already starting to put away the papers. “Try being the crucial word, but still. Anyway, I guess you want to drink in silence? I shouldn’t really have alcohol, but I can get you something.”

Rosa raises an eyebrow, and Amy gives her a timid smile. “Just trying to keep that egg quality up.”

“It’s okay. I drove here anyway.”

“Right. Well, I also have… tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate? Wait, do you drink hot chocolate? ”

“Tea’s fine.”

“Great!” Amy shines with a little too much enthusiasm before bundling the last of the papers together and holding them to her chest. “I’ll put away these. You can put on some hot water, there’s tea and mugs in the cupboard left of the sink. We have way too many, so pick your favorite.”

 She disappears into the hallway with her papers as Rosa looks through their tea collection. It's pretty bleak. There's a jar of random tea bags that seem to have been collected from various restaurants, a package of Earl Grey, a green tea with lemon and something called conception tea which looks expensive and apparently tastes like sweet mint. Rosa opts for the regular green tea, choosing a mug at random and taking a new one once she realizes her first choice has Team Peraltiago written on it in Charles’ handwriting. There’s one painted in the colors of the bi flag, possibly by coincidence - she’s never been sure about how much self-insight Jake has in these things - but she goes for it anyway. She nearly knocks over two tiny jars of what look to be fertility supplements, one with a pink label and one with a blue, as she takes it out.

 She reads through the papers on their fridge as she lets the tea steep. There’s a wedding invitation for someone named Santiago, maybe a cousin. An invite to Nikolaj’s birthday party, grocery store coupons, and a printed list of foods that boost sperm count and egg quality. Walnuts. Spinach. Broccoli. Salmon.

Gross, she can read Jake’s scrawly handwriting on the paper. I’m not eating any of that.

Yes you are, she recognizes Amy’s neat writing beneath.

Fine, it says below that in the messy writing. But it’s just because I love you. An uneven heart has been drawn next to it.

Love you more, reads the neat handwriting after the heart. Rosa gets a sharp pang of missing Jocelyn and checks her phone again. No new messages.

 Amy comes back without the papers and Rosa looks away from the fridge, pretending like she wasn't just reading their personal conversations. She sits down on the new couch instead, waiting as Amy makes her own cup of tea before joining her.

“I don’t want to talk about my breakup,” Rosa says, a little snappy. “No emotional questions. No asking why. No asking what happened.”

Amy nods slowly. “Can I ask if you’re okay?”

“Sure.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t know,” she grunts, and takes a sip of the tea. It tastes too bitter, like the cheap kind you get in waiting rooms where it’s been bought in multi-packs and everyone’s already picked out the good flavors. She makes a note to buy Amy some better tea for Christmas. “Just forgot how bad breakups were.”

“You didn’t see it coming?”

Rosa shoots her friend a warning glare, and she mumbles a quiet apology.

“No. I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” says Amy, and there’s such a genuine level of care and sympathy conveyed in her tone that Rosa accepts it.

“So am I.” A wave of regret follows the confession, or maybe it’s just pain. Either way, it makes her grimace. “Can we talk about something else? Please?”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Rosa’s gaze falls to a thick book about pregnancy on the coffee table, a pink post-it note sticking out from a few pages in. “Tell me about how the trying to get pregnant thing is going.”

Amy scrunches her forehead. “You really want to know about that?”

“Well, I don’t have to know the details about your sex life -”

“I wouldn’t tell you those anyway -”

“- but yeah. How’s it going? I know Jake’s over the moon, but how are you?”

 Amy seems to consider the question for a bit, moving her hands around the teacup and chewing on her lip. “Scared. And excited,” she’s quick to fill in, as if she feels guilty to admit the former on its own. “So excited. But nervous. It’s impossible to prepare for, and I hate not being prepared.”

“You bought a car.”

“Bought a new couch, bought a car, researched OB-GYNs and preschools,” she lists off, nodding. “I made a checklist, so we’re going through as much of that as possible before. There’s a lot left, though.”

“That stresses you?”

“A little. It all got so real so quickly.”

“I get what you mean,” Rosa says, although she's not sure she does. “Does Jake know you're stressed?”

“He suggested we make the checklist so I could feel in control. So he knows. He helps. I would've been a lot more stressed without him.” Amy twists the rings on her left fourth finger, adjusting the stone on the engagement ring.

There’s a faraway look in her eyes, and Rosa can see her friend's lips form the content, somewhat secretive, smile that used to follow the double tuck, but now comes in a stronger, more obvious form whenever she talks about Jake. It’s one of the few things Rosa’s never been tempted to make fun of her for, too full of complete and unadulterated love for it to be worthy of laughter. Tonight, though, it makes her jealous.

 “You know what’s weird?” Amy doesn’t wait for Rosa to reply before launching into an explanation. “I’m scared about a billion things. Like whether or not I can get pregnant in the first place, if the baby will be healthy, whether or not I’ll be a good mom to them. That’s not something you can read about in a book! I could learn everything there is to know about infants and I could still be unsure of how to take care of my own. That terrifies me.” She takes a deep breath.

“But I still want it so much. Even more now, because seeing Jake so excited about it makes me so much more excited. I can’t wait to take that step in our life. So even though it’s crazy, and there’s so much left to do, and every month I think it’s okay if it hasn’t worked yet because it means I’ll have a little more time to prepare - I’m so disappointed when I get my period, I swear I want to punch something.”

“Wow.”

“Mm-hmm.” Amy chuckles. “I mean, I haven’t. Punched anything yet. But I really hope it works soon.”

“Hence the supplements and weird tea?” Rosa eyes her friend’s teacup.

“Yeah. Probably all placebo, but it can’t hurt, right?”

“I guess not,” Rosa mumbles.

 A comfortable silence settles between them after that. Rosa’s reminded of late nights in the same apartment three years ago, when Jake and Holt were in witness protection and Adrian was hiding somewhere. Amy and Rosa had begun a tradition of drinking tequila and watching Nancy Meyers movies together on nights when both of them felt a little too lonely, and sometimes Amy would vent and Rosa would listen. They’d been in the same place then; existing in the no man’s land of being in a serious relationship with someone you loved so much, but unable to speak to them, forced to lie to your friends and family if they asked. It had been a comfort to know someone out there who got it when nobody else did, and it made them grow that much closer. They were living identical nightmares, after all.

 Now Rosa can’t imagine their lives looking any more different. Amy’s married, to the same person she was already with at that time, and they’re trying to have a baby together. Rosa almost got married to Adrian, then she didn’t, then she went to prison and they broke up. She came out as bi, had two short relationships before meeting Jocelyn, and now she’s just been dumped for the first time in her life.

 Rosa doesn't have a problem with her life being different from other people's. It always has been.

She didn't grow up with the safe, supportive parents all her friends seemed to have, and at times she thinks she's never searched for or expected that love from someone else, either. If she survived without it then, she can survive without it now.

She didn't know she wanted to become a cop at first, so she tried to put herself through med school and business school and aviation school before finding her calling. It was confusing, cost her a small fortune and made her wish she could just decide, but it also gave her enough of a variety of skills to make sure she would never have to depend on anyone for anything.

She’s not against marriage with the right person, can imagine adopting or taking in foster kids in the same situation, but neither has ever been the end goal.

 She's not jealous of Amy, or Jake, or the life they're currently living. Rosa doesn’t need marriage or kids - all she’s jealous of is the clear path. Amy speaks about her future with security, a confidence of knowing something about what’s going to happen next and believing it will turn out okay. She might be worried and a little stressed, but she’s not lost.

 Neither is Jake, who Rosa always expected would be like her, not following the beaten track. She’d found a kinship with him in that aspect. Both of them were outcasts with crappy families who dreamed of being heroes, taking down mafia bosses, dying heroically on the job. Neither of them imagined long-term partners, marriages or kids. It’s strange to think about the guy who once claimed he was definitely going to die alone being married to the love of his life, and stranger still to picture him adding sperm count-boosting foods into his diet because he’s trying to have a baby with her. Jake’s found his path. Rosa doesn’t have a clue of what hers looks like anymore.

 Amy’s phone buzzes on the coffee table. She picks it up, making a noise like a quiet chortle and smiling before she starts typing. Rosa checks her own phone again, still feeling like there should be a message from Jocelyn there, but there’s no notifications other than Candy Crush telling her she just got new lives.

 The empty screen hurts more than her jealousy of any beaten track, she realizes. Most of all, Rosa just misses Jocelyn already, because she should be picking up her phone at the same moment as Amy and there should be a sweet message there and she should be replying to it with that same smile on her face. Anything else feels wrong, despite the fact that it’s real, because she didn’t see it coming. She doesn’t feel like she got a say, and a familiar, ruthless voice in her head keeps whispering you fucked up and it’s your fault and now you’re suffering the consequences.

 In all her earlier breakups, no matter how painful they’ve been, she’s been in control. Without that dimension and mental preparation, the missing is sharper, like the stab of a knife pushing deeper once she thought the worst was over. She’s angry, because if she’s not angry she doesn’t know how to survive, but beneath the anger lies a layer of shock and loneliness that hurts more than she thought a breakup could.

 She thought she would be better at being dumped. Instead, she’s clutching her phone while tears take shape in her eyes, making their way down her cheeks before she can stop them.

“Rosa?” Amy’s biting her lip, quickly pocketing her phone and reaching for a packet of tissues on the coffee table. Rosa accepts one, wiping the tears away before crumpling it to a ball. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“I haven’t been dumped before,” she confesses, staring at the tissue to avoid eye contact. “Does it get easier?”

“Yeah.” Amy looks at Rosa in a way that makes her feel a bit like she’s a child being taken care of. It’s a little humbling, but it’s not an all bad feeling. “Yeah, it does. It just takes a while.”

“It hurts like hell.”

“I know.”

“I hate it,” Rosa mutters. “I didn’t get a fucking choice. I never knew how much of a difference that made.”

“Well, now you know. It sucks. But...” Amy leans her head to the side. “Maybe that’s a good thing, too?”

“What’s that’s supposed to mean?”

“If it hurts, that means it mattered, right? If you miss something, then there was something to miss in the first place. It means you opened yourself up and built something of meaning with someone. I know that doesn’t make it easier -”

Rosa snorts. “No, it doesn’t.”

“But it might mean that something can matter again,” Amy says, fixing her eyes on Rosa’s. “Someday. Even if it feels impossible right now.”

 Rosa's not sure what to say, so she sits quiet instead. Amy coughs.

“That was cheesy, sorry. I can just get you a drink instead -”

“I thought I’d be better at this,” Rosa repeats, ignoring Amy. “I mean, I’m great at dumping people.”

“Not as great of a brag as you think.”

“I just don’t know why it feels so different. Is it because I wasn’t prepared? Is it because I didn’t do it myself? It doesn’t make sense,” she spits out.

“It could be that,” Amy shrugs. “Or it could be that it meant a lot to you. It was your longest relationship after coming out, and you don’t really talk about things like these, but… sometimes it seemed like the happiest you’ve ever been with someone, too. Maybe that’s what makes it painful. Not that you got dumped.”

 A couple of tears fall again. Rosa dries them away with the crumpled tissue. She thinks of last weekend, when Jocelyn stayed over and they woke up in the same bed next to each other. They’d stayed there for hours, needing nothing else in the world except each other’s presence. Jocelyn had wrapped her arm around Rosa and kissed her forehead and she’d snuggled into her girlfriend’s chest, and it had been safe and warm and she’d thought of how, in a perfect reality, she’d want to wake up like this every morning for the rest of her life.

She’d never pictured forever with someone before. In bed that morning, it hadn’t even scared her.

 She doesn’t care about the beaten track. She doesn’t mind that her life is different. In the end, she doesn’t care that she’s in the middle of her life and just got dumped while everyone around her kept on getting married and having kids and trying to fit into the perfect mold. She cares that she lost a person she didn’t want to lose, and it didn’t feel like she had a choice in the matter.

“Maybe,” she mumbles. “I… thanks. I should leave.”

“You can stay if you want,” Amy offers, nodding to the couch. “This folds out into an extra bed. Jake’s on his way home, but you know he wouldn’t mind.”

Rosa shakes her head, already standing up. “I should head home. But, uhm, thank you. Really.”

“Anytime. Sorry - I don’t know if anything I said helped.”

“It did.”

“Oh.” Amy blushes. “Wow. I’m glad?”

“Amy?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re going to be a good mom.” Rosa puts her teacup in the sink before going to put on her jacket. “Seriously. I know you’re scared, but you don’t need to worry about that. I mean it.”

Amy opens her mouth as if to say something, but Rosa holds up a hand to stop her and she nods instead.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Rosa says, and then she's out the door before Amy can say anything back.

 It's still a lonely experience, getting the key from underneath the doormat and seeing that all of Jocelyn’s things are gone. Rosa doesn't expect that feeling to disappear for a while, but maybe she’ll learn to live with it.

 Rosa may not have been dumped before, but she has been left alone to fend for herself. She sends a text to Gina to ask if they can schedule something soon, and reminds herself as she goes to bed that this is different. She might not have a partner or kids or a perfect relationship with her parents, but she has her friends, and she may be lonely right now but she’s not alone.

 Then she opens the anonymous-looking contact that used to be her favorite, and types in five words.

I’m going to miss you.

 She waits for five minutes, but there’s no answer. She hovers over the block-button for a moment, wondering if it’s immature, then presses it anyway.

 She’s just turned off her bedroom lamp when her phone buzzes again, and for a second her heart is in her throat until she remembers she just blocked Jocelyn. Jake’s sent a gif of two kittens hugging, and Amy’s written another message.

 Thank you. ❤️

You’re going to be okay, Rosa. Call me if you need anything? Even if it's just someone to talk to.

 Rosa sends a heart emoji back.

 Rosa’s never been dumped before. She thought she would be better at it, but for now, she’s doing her best.

[antihero-writings]

A Touch of Song and Salem 

Fandom: Hetalia (Firefly Crossover)

Summary: Earth got used up. They got used up. So the nations of the world had to flee into the black...but they'll only ever be half alive now.

America forgot how to smile at the academy...but maybe a day out planetside is all she needs. Hopefully the people on said planet won't try to burn her down.

(A fusion-style crossover with fem!America and Canada from Hetalia in the Firefly universe, cast as Simon and River during the dance and witch scenes of the episode "Safe.")

Notes: Written for my friend @ladynephthyss’ birthday!! The characterizations of the Hetalia characters are based on her characterizations of them!! (She plans on posting some Hetalia stuff soon, please go check her out!!)

We both love Firefly, especially Simon and River, and as I love writing fusion-style crossovers I thought this would be perfect!!

If you enjoy this fic, please consider commenting and/or reblogging!! It really means the world to me!!

Chapter 1:

She’s dancing.

God, Matthew thinks, how long has it been?

How long has it been since he last saw her dance?

When the war ended in some distant year—when German tyrants, and a bullet or two, were all they had to worry about? When they were children, and Earth was whole and they were more than ghosts flying through the sky?

She dips and twirls, like a mermaid in an ocean of sound, her blonde hair flickering, her pink dress fluttering, her cargo boots pounding like a heartbeat on the makeshift stage, her petite form tossed and turned with the waves.

He doesn’t know the song. Neither does she. They don’t have to.

There’s a fiddle, and a flute, and the stage is full of people whirling and beaming, like they’re on a ride at the state fair, like the world didn’t foreclose all those years—(too soon)—ago.

It sounds like an old folk song back home.

Home, the ground, without inanimate metal clanking beneath their feet every time they tried to walk.

Home, where there was a whole lot of dirt and magma between them and the dark. Now the only thing keeping them from endless, breathless vacuum is a piece of rusty metal and a dream.

Home, with it’s borders, telling you where to go, where not go, what’s me, and what’s you. Not here. Here there’s nothing to say ‘keep out!’ but death itself. And there’s no me, no you, when, where we walk. Just lawless, mindless black.

Home, where the sky was above their heads.

Home. Them.

She looks like she’s home too. The ground may not be her own, but any ground feels like a reunion with an old friend, and she can allow herself to—just for a second—breathe again.

She looks like she’s home.

She looks like home.

She is the only home he knows now. The only ground he can count on. The only safe place to rest his head.

How long has it been since they’ve heard music?

When the wars ended, girls in pretty dresses danced and sang, and everyone waved their flags?

When Papa took them to the opera and they fidgeted in their seats, trying to play games without getting caught?

When Arthur took them to see a famous singer or two, and they started to see what all the fuss was about?

It’s been so long since they heard music. Not a single, lonesome melody. The black didn’t provide much as far as records, radios, and mp3s go. All they had were their own voices out here, the echo swallowed by the stars.

Amelia would sing, sometimes, on the ship. He knew it. In the lone hours of the morning when she thought no one could hear her, she would sing Serenity to sleep. The witching hour when the nightmares and all-too-real-mares kept her awake.

The witching hour, when all the best witches were up.

A man in a brown jacket and sash comes to dance with her, and a smile holds her up, as if pulled on strings, pulling her back, back, tethering her to a time when she was an eager-to-please American girl. Well, no, not quite. There was something fake there, then. Something plastered on. This isn’t made of stitches, and glue, and expectations.

This is America.

This is free.

A smile begins to break across the Canadian’s face too, like all the masks they’ve put on—(and there are many layers to get through)—are cracking, and for a brief moment she is America again, and he is Canada, and it’s them against a world that still exists.

Wild thing. Wild, wild girl.

She didn’t like being caged. Didn’t deserve it. Being cooped up in a tin can hurtling through nothing but the dark, gravity a distant memory. She didn’t like being away from her land.

None of them did. It felt like taking a drug you’re allergic too—not allergic enough to stop breathing, but allergic enough to never feel right, to always feel a little sick, so long as you take it. And she wasn’t the only one who had bouts of not-quite-sanity because of it.

How long has it been since they’ve been out?

The others went on missions—(a funny image: the Nations of the earth, stealing from the very people they once called their own, once called themselves, in order to survive…what a sorry lot they were). But the Captain regarded America as a bomb two ticks from going off; he didn’t dare think that going out planetside would bring her back down to, well…Earth. Or what passes for it these days.

It is at this point that she catches sight of her brother, standing out in the grass—so much greener when your world has been grey for so long. Those eyes, glittering, reflecting the sky—blue here, now, not black and white…(Dorothy, do you think we’re back in Kansas now?)—that smile is for him now. It makes her face shine, and he doesn’t think he deserves that smile, this golden girl…

…How long had it been since he last saw her smile? Really smile. Not an ignorant, or a plastered, or a not-quite-sane smile, but really truly smile?

It always seemed to go back to wars ending. A nice president maybe. No personal happiness. Just that of the world, and being told we can stop fighting our friends now. We can stop fighting…because we made them too weak to stand.

Was there anything personal to speak of?

England and her remembering, in a house in the moors, like a childhood dream, they still cared about each other.

Papa and her baking pastries. Matthew and her eating them all by themselves.

There was them. Her and Arthur. Her and Francis. Her and…him.

They all smiled before. She smiled.

He has a photograph from some year starting with nineteen where he managed to get that million-dollar-sighting, of his million-dollar-girl, and that more-than-a-million-dollar smile. A gentle, flickering thing, like catching a sunbeam with a net.

She smiled when they ran into the forest at their borders, smoking weed, stealing moonshine, running from the rest of the world, and all their bottled happiness.

Whenever their world was about something greater than pursuing happiness…that’s when they seemed to find it.

But you can’t chase a negative, can you? And we always must be chasing something. So let’s chase a smile all the same.

They were children once. Before all the wars and all the victories. Before they needed herb and liquor to laugh. Before they were used up, stripped for their parts, they and their people shipped out, the address on the box a blot of ink.

“We’re in trouble!” a little golden head pops out from behind the coffee table.

Matthew continues writing.

“We got cut off!” she gets closer.

“Cut off? Cut off from what?” he asks with the air of someone who isn’t really paying attention.

“Our platoon, Matthew!” she says like they’d been over this a hundred times. “We got outflanked by the independent squad and now we’re never gonna make it back to our platoon.”

He doesn’t respond.

“We need to resort to cannibalism.”

Matthew still doesn’t look up, unfazed by the should-be-alarming phrase, as if they resort to cannibalism every other day.

“That was fast,” is all he says. Like the only difference from all the other times is it took longer before. “Don’t we have any rations or anything?”

“They got lost. We’re gonna have to eat the men.”

Matthew looks up now, impatience leaking into his tone. “Aren’t you supposed to be practicing for your dance recital?”

She pouts.“I can’t practice without a partner…But maybe…if a kind nation were to offer his help…” she twirls her hair, trying to make herself look like the pretty girls in the books and paintings.

“Papa’s in the other room.” He flicks his pen in that direction.

She jumps up on the couch like a cat, swiping the notebook out of his hands with the same air—

“Amelia—!”

“Dance with me!”

The Great White North blinks up at his sister.

They are small. So small they could follow foxes into their dens, and fit into hollowed out trees in neverlands.

He glares at her. “No,” he picks up the the book, brushing it off. “I need to work on this.”

“You can work on that tomooorow.” She puts her chin on his knee and blinks, giving him those puppy-dog eyes. “don’t you love me?”

He lifts up his knee, trying to get her away. “No, you’re the worst.” He says, sounding very much like a nine-year-old boy.

She starts crying, like any self-respecting nine-year-old girl should.

At this he casts the notebook away, looking at her with pleading eyes “Wait—no! I didn’t mean it! It was just a joke!”

“Mon dieu!” Francis deigns this as the moment to walk into the room. “Whatever is the matter mon petit cheri?”

“Matthew won’t dance with me!” she points accusingly at him, her other hand rubbing her eye.

“Aww...But, my dear, is that a crime?”

Amelia pauses, thinks for a second. Matthew can almost see the gears turning in her head. “Yes! I heard the king say so!”

“Is that so?”

“Yes! He said ‘by my decree, all brothers must dance with their sisters’!”

“Well, if the king said so, then there isn’t much I can do, is there?”

“But Papa!” Matthew stands to protest.

France is already setting the needle down on the old record on the desk. Amelia holds out her hand, smirking, checkmate, written in her eyes.

Matthew snorts, taking her hand.

They were children once. And she smiled, and she danced, and she joked, and she cried and made up laws to get what she wanted.

They were children once. They were happy once.

But that was before. Before the world burned, and the sky turned black. That was before the Academy broke her into bits and made weapons out of the pieces.

Now dancing, music, Earth, happiness, are distant memories. A memory within a memory, until you can’t remember what’s the dream and what’s real, if you made it all up, and what’s your dream, after all.

They were children once. But they grew up, and the earth got used up. And they traded their souls for smiles in dark alleyways and cramped quarters.

She looks so small. So weak. Sitting in the cargo hold of some ship with a name like ‘Dauntless’ or ‘S.S. Elizabeth’—(they all hated people who gave unbreathing things names that breathed). So small. But no trees and fox dens to hide in this time. Just a room full of boxed-up lives, in this purring, creaking bus, taking them to new universes where the grass wasn’t greener.

Their governments provided nothing but the best for their nations’ transport to new worlds. But they could never understand what it’s like to be ripped from yourself. And people could get insensitive at even the best of parties.

So small. Nineteen-but-not-nineteen-years-old, and she looks like she hasn’t eaten in months—(though he has eye-witness accounts that she ate more than one burger in the same sitting a few days ago). Her dress, hanging off her, bones that look like they could snap at any moment. She shivers.

They all look like this; like they’ve been used up.

They say it will be better, out there. Americans will be American on other Americas, and Canadians will be Canadian on other…well, you get the gist. But they know that while their people keep them alive, and their land keeps them alive, because it’s still there…their land is still there. America will always be America, on Earth, Canada will always be Canada…and these are just distant moons, and half-baked dreams.

And they will always only be half-alive now.

She asked them once, she asked them with a child-like yearning in her eyes, and a woman’s anger in her closed fists, if they would die. If, when their feet left their ground, they’d just float away. If this was what dying felt like, and they’d all been fading for a long time now.

Father said he didn’t know. That he hoped not.

Papa said softly that it might be better if they did.

And Matthew said if they did, they would die together.

So now she’s here, worse than dead; undead. A zombie, shaking in the cargo hold of some ill-named ship, because some politician said something stupid—like most of them do.

“Great party, huh?” Matthew spits as he rounds the corner.

Amelia looks up, then puts her head back on her knees. “Great party.” She repeats in the same tone.

“Good cake though,” he offers her the plate he brought from upstairs.

She blinks up at him, then shakes her head and lowers it again.

He sets the cake down on a nearby box.

“Dance with me.” He holds out his hand.

“W-What?” There’s something real in her eyes when she looks up.

“Amelia Jones, may I have the pleasure of dancing with you?”

She rolls her eyes. “There’s no music…Idiot.”

“Then…I’ll sing for you.” He swings back and forth on the rails.

“Really? You? Last time you sang it sounded like a dying cat.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes.

“Come on.” He holds out his hand. “Do you have any other plans?”

She takes a deep breath and stands. He puts one hand on her waist, the other on her shoulder. Her head falls easily on his shoulder, like it took all her effort just to hold it up, and he’s the last safe bit of land that hasn’t been taken from her.

And he sings a new song:

“Take my love

“‘Take my land

“Take me where I cannot stand.

“I don’t care, I’m still free

“You can’t take the sky from me.

“Take me out

“To the black

“Tell ‘em I ain’t coming back

“Burn the land

“And boil the sea

“You can’t take the sky from me”

And she cries.

They were children once. They grew up once. And they were used up, once. And all it takes is once to make it hard to smile, hard to dance, hard to sing, hard to find any solid ground to stand on, to hold on to.

But not today. Today is different. Today she’s found ground. Today she can dance. Today she can smile. And maybe, just maybe, things will be okay.

She holds out her hand to him, Come dance with me! written into her features, and he moves forward to join her—

And the black comes crashing back, pulled over his head.

And she isn’t smiling anymore.

[roseelise]

The Weather // Dylan O’brien

Reposting all my writings from @r0s3mm, my main blog, it is not stolen or plagiarized. All my works on my masterlist are main unless stated otherwise.

Hello! Welcome to 2-h, the back up account of @r0s3mm, I’ll be posting my works on here too until (hopefully) my blog gets restored and if not this will become my main blog.

Pairing: Dylan O’Brien x ofc!Alice

Word Count: 5129

Author’s note/warnings: break up? Swearing? Reader and Dylan talking about their relationship, a series of voicemail reader sends Dylan at different moments after their relationship ends.

Based off of the song: Lawrence - “The Weather”

Come say “Hi!” Wattpad

Masterlist

***********************

“Hey D’, it’s me, leaving you a message on your voicemail… again. Listen, I know we agreed to give each other space but I just wanted to let you know that your change of address probs didn’t go through because I got your new script at home- hum, at my place. I’ll just send it to Liz’s office… Oh, also I wanted to know if you wanted me to box up and send you the rest of the stuff you have here, there’s a few sweatshirts and other clothing items, as your mom would say. Okay, so you don’t have to call me back, you can text me, maybe even email me. I can leave your stuff at your mom’s house, I’m seeing Jules on the 23rd, so yeah … whatever you feel good with. Ok, bye.”

“I won’t talk about the weather Not with you, we’re not together ‘Cause even when the sky is grey, I’m feeling blue And though the winds are always changing And the clouds are rearranging A part of me will always be in love with you”

I hung up the phone and placed it in my jeans’ back pocket and turned up the volume from the TV.

“A heatwave this week turned the city of Anaheim, home to Disneyland, into the hottest place in theUnited States. The Tick fire forced 50,000 people to flee their homes, many in the mid…” The weather man on the tv announced as I picked up the package with Liz’s name on it from a tv or movie set in LA, taking back my cell phone, I texted Liz, Dylan’s manager telling her I’d be sending her the script in the next few days, putting the block of pages on the bench next to the front door, I sat down next to it as the news kept playing as a background noise accompanied by the rain falling down harshly on the large windows.

It had been a little bit over 5 months and I still hadn’t tidy up from his big move, a lot of empty and piled up boxes were on the floor next to the sliding door, there were empty spaces on the wall and people who would be coming in the apartment could easily guess that the large white wall used to be full, filled with baseball jersey’s, many pictures, music record, stickers of liquor brand, some posters and a few music instruments.

“Hi Jules, it’s me, are we still on for the 23rd? Ok great then, I’ll pick you up. You got any news from your brother? Yeah, I know, I asked you to refuse if I asked but I just wanna make sure that with his new place he’s good and away from the fires and that he’s … that he’s safe y’know? Ok great then, just maybe tell him to- actually you know what? Never mind. I gotta go, but I’ll text you this week… alright bye!”

“There’s a fire in LA Since you moved there back in May I wonder, should I call to see if you’re alright? Yeah, you’re a million miles away But I still think of you each day And hope the weather doesn’t keep you cold tonight”

After picking up what was on the floor and actually tidying up the apartment, I put on my rain boots with my coat and an umbrella before going out the door with the trash and some things that I wanted to get rid of. I walked the streets of the city, listening to the chaotic sounds, the loud voices and the fast steps of those who wanted to escape the rain. Walking to the Blue Ribbon Brasserie, I turned left to get to Sullivan St and passed the convenience store and got myself a few stamps and envelopes for the thank you notes I still had to write after the home warming gifts I received a while back. I put my earphones in my ear as I gave the cashier the money and put everything in my purse. As I entered the restaurant, I took off my coat and held it tightly against me, my eyes falling on a couple sitting at the bar, both a drink in hand and completely enamored with each other.

“Table for one miss?” The host asks taking a menu.

“Yes, thank you.” I smiled at the young man.

I followed him to a table near the windows. He pulled my chair for me to sit. I smiled at him and thanked him.

“What would you like to start with?”

“Glass of white wine, if you have it. Actually no, I’ll get a G&T, please”

“Right away, ma’am” The waiter’s New Yorker accent came through and I smiled at him as I picked up the menu and swiftly looked through it, already knowing what I wanted to eat as soon as I had left my apartment.

The rain was still pattering against the window and it gave a nice ambient sound to the restaurant that for once was almost empty on a Monday afternoon. A few minutes later, the waiter came back with my drink, putting a squared napkin underneath.

“Would you like to order now, or would you like a few more minutes?”

“I’ll order now, thank you. So, I’ll get the chicken barley soup with the steak, please.”

He smiled, took the menu from my hands and left to another table. I watched the other waiters walk around with platters of food as people started to come in. Usually the restaurant would be busy from opening to the time it closed but today felt different. I held the glass in my hands as I sipped it slowly taking the wedge of lime off of it and biting into it and letting it drop on the piece of paper after draining it of its juice.

As the waiter approached my table and put my soup down my phone’s screen lit up with Dylan’s name and contact photo. I had taken the picture when we were out one day and waiting to cross the street. My finger swiped the screen to answer.

“Ali? Hey, it’s Dylan…” His voice rang through my ear, it was hoarse and dry. He had been smoking.

“Yeah, I know. Your contact info popped up.” I said, silently slurping my soup.

“Oh, wasn’t sure if you had gotten rid of it. Hum, I- I thought it’d be better to call you rather than text you and I don’t even know the last time I sent an email that wasn’t for work.” He chuckled quietly but didn’t hear a sound from the other side. “So, for my stuff you can keep it, I won’t really need it, but if you really wanna get rid of it, I can transfer you the money for the delivery and stuff. It-It’s however you want it.”

“Yeah, no. I’ll send it to you or Liz, I wanna start over with a clean slate. I also found a few caps of yours earlier when I was cleaning up, so I’ll send those over as well.” I said finishing the rest of my soup. It was silent on the other side of the line for a few seconds before I heard him sigh.

“A, maybe we should talk? Y’know, actually have a conversation. The only times we’ve talked in the past few months were through voicemail and-”

“Sounds good Dylan, just right now isn’t the right moment. I’m out at a restaurant and I don’t think I can actually do this right now and in public.” I said dryly my voice full of emotion. A waiter came to pick up the now empty bowl and I smiled up at him.

“Yeah okay. Is everything good up there? Are you feeling good?”

“Yep, I’m fine, we’re all fine.”

“That’s good. I feel a bit far away from everyone, y’know ?!”

“Yeah, are- are you okay? I’ve seen the news on the TV about the fires. I was worried.” I said the last part quietly.

“I’m fine too, yeah, you don’t have to worry. Pretty sure Jules or my mom would have rung you up if something had happened.”

“Yeah probably…” I whispered. “Did you start smoking again? Your voice sounded funny when I answered.” I said catching the eye of the waiter that was bringing me my steak. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome, miss. Hope you’ll enjoy” The small exchange between the waiter and I was soon over, and I picked up a fry.

“Yeah, a little. It was weird being in LA, felt nervous at first and I couldn’t shake it after. Are you at Blue Ribbon?”

“You were nervous? Dyl’ you’ve been to LA a hundred times for filming and shit and yeah I am.” I said, picking at the veggies in my plate.

“I never actually lived there for more than four or five months, and usually I’m not alone.”

“Don’t.” I said loudly, I lifted my head and looked at other costumers. “Listen I gotta go.”

“Alright, I’ll talk to-”

I hung up and went to eat my dinner and finishing my drink quickly. After paying my bill, I put my coat back on, the weather would be a little chillier than earlier. Halloween was approaching and carved in pumpkins were starting to make an appearance on people’s doorstep and balconies. The rain from earlier had stopped and had been replaced by clouds and sun light.

“So, I won’t talk about the weather No, I won’t talk about the weather I won’t talk about the weather Not with you, we’re not together 'Cause even when the sky is grey, I’m feeling blue And though the winds are always changing And the clouds are rearranging A part of me will always be in love with you”

Music was playing loudly in the apartment, the vacuum loud over it and it felt as if the sun had disappeared from the sky. Halloween was even closer now, only 8 days away. I checked the time, 10:37, Jules would be here in just under two hours. There were two boxes full of clothes, pictures, sports’ games tickets and damaged drumsticks, that I will have to leave in Jules’ car at the end of the day. The two of us had planned to get lunch and then hang out. She told me that some of our friends and her were planning a Halloween party and that they insisted that I come “You gotta get out of your hiding place, Alice!” They had screamed at me through the phone almost a month ago. Even if the weather wasn’t really great, Julia insisted we leave her car at my place and walk.

I had gotten ready slowly, music still blasting through the small speaker when it suddenly stopped. Thinking it was Julia texting me she had arrived I jogged to get to my phone in the other room, it was the other O’Brien child.

“Hello?” I answered the phone, putting it on speaker while I walked back to the bathroom to finish brushing my teeth. “Ali, are you busy? I tried calling you a couple times.” I looked at the screen where I had missed a few phone calls. “M’getting ready to spend the day with your sister actually. Can you make it quick?” I said spitting in the sink and rinsing my mouth. “I just wanted to know if right now would be a good time to have that conversation I talked about last week…?” I stopped and looked at my phone and sighed. “Your sister’s supposed to pick me up in ten minutes, think you can finish in ten minutes?” A silence was heard before light chuckling and I swear I could picture in my mind how he looked in that exact moment. “What?” “���Nothing. Look, why don’t we try to set up a date and time for us to talk? I think it’d be good. Maybe clarify things up a bit.” “Yeah sure.” The doorbell buzzed, I sighed, picked up the phone putting it against my ear and taking it off speaker mode. “Listen Jules here and I’ve- wait a sec” I told him before shooting Julia a one letter text to tell her I was on my way and putting on my shoes and coat. “Ok, so your sister’s here. I gotta go but if you call me back tonight at around 5, your time I should be back home and mentally prepared to have that conversation you want us to have.” I locked my door and ran down the steps to stop in front of the blue car with my friend resting against it, excitedly waving at me, I walked to the car. “So, I really gotta leave now, but don’t think I’m excited about this. I’m doing this for you.” “I don’t want to make you do this if you’re not ready A’.” He says, guilt overflowing the other emotion in his voice. “It’s fine, I’ll talk to you tonight.” I hung up and put my head in my hand, scratching my hairline and walking the rest of the distance to Jules.

“So, I won’t talk about the weather No, I won’t talk about the weather I won’t talk about the weather Not with you, we’re not together And it’s hard to say if we will ever be But I’ll admit my greatest fear is that The air will never clear So I just wish we could talk like you and me”

“Who was that?” Jules asked me as we started walking towards the larger and busier streets. “Damn you, O’Brien’s.” I mumbled as I pulled her into a greeting side hug. “Oh my god, was it Dylan? Are y’all talking again?” She was too excited for her own good. “Not really, I just wanted to know what he wanted me to do with the stuff of his left at the apartment and he started saying how we should talk about what happened.” “Yeah, I’m not still a hundred percent clear on that, by the way. I don’t think any of us expected you guys to break up after 4 years.” “Don’t remind me, please” I begged as I opened the door to the small café.

When we entered, I looked around for either an empty table or counter seats. I nudged Jules and pointed to a small table at the very back near the window and looked at her, watching for an answer.

“Sure.” She shrugged and took a newspaper off the stand we were standing next to.

We sat down and she opened the menu, looking through it as a woman brought us glasses of water.

“Hello ladies, how are you today?” “We’re good, Jane, thanks.” I asked sipping the iced water. “What about you?” Jules asked putting the cardboard menu down. “Oh, I am very good thank you” She said a huge grin on her face as she extended her left hand, on it a very beautiful diamond engagement ring. “You are fucking kidding me! Oh, my fuck!” Jules exclaimed jumping up and down. She and Jane were college friends, I had met her through Jules at a party a few years back. “Congratulations Jane!” I said leaning in for a hug and sitting back down.

Jane and Jules were standing up and talking in loud whispers as to not fully disturb the other customers. I picked up my cell phone and opened the messages app and clicked on Dylan’s conversation as a reflex before making the screen turn black and setting it back on the table.

“Hey Alice, I haven’t seen much of you in the past two months, but you and Dylan are so invited! Maybe you’ll be in my situation in a few months!” She said cheery, my head snapped up at the mention of my ex-boyfriend and I looked at Jules.

“What? What did I say?” Jane looked back and forth between us. “Y’know when I told you that my brother went to L.A to film a new project?” Jane nods, “Well it wasn’t fully true, yes he is filming something, but he also moved to L.A” Jane’s eyes go from Jules to me. “Dyl and I broke up 5 months ago …” I said picking my phone up again to play with something. Anxiety filling my body and making my fingers shake at the mention of the break-up.

The waitress just sits down next to me and pulls me to her and squeezes me telling me encouraging words before she is called back to the counter.

“The usual?” She asks and Jules and I nod with a smile. “I think we’ll take it to go, if you don’t mind.” Jules says as she finishes her glass of water, Jane’s eyes go over one last time before going to the kitchen.

When we leave the little café/diner we decide to walk through a park that’s nearby, eating our paninis and drinking our mango and strawberry smoothies.

“Hey,” Jules nudges me. “They added something to your bag…” I look at her a put my hand in the bag. “It’s a muffin?” Jules says unsure. “What?” My word stays stuck in my throat. “Pretty fucking sure Janey didn’t tell Henry that Dylan and I were broken up” “Henry? The cook?” I nod and put the muffin back in the paper bag. “Yeah, hum, when Henry started working there Dyl and I went there to get you a smoothie and Henry was there and he just started hitting on him and like he knew that we were together but I guess it was a running gag between them and whenever I went Henry would put a muffin in the bag for your brother with a note” I laugh remembering the memory. “Once,” I laugh stopping us from walking further. “Dylan went to pick up our order to bring back to his apartment, before we moved in, and he actually gave Henry his number … Anyway, yeah.”

Jules looks at me and pulls me to her side as I hold the bag tightly. “You miss him, huh?”. I put my head on her shoulder, “you’ve got no fucking idea”

We keep walking and talking, and I can see that she is trying really hard to change my ideas. We go into stores and try on stuff without buying anything, we just spend an afternoon hanging out and it feels so good.

At around seven thirty we part, and we walk back to my apartment, I put the boxes that I left in the lobby in her car and wave her off. Clutching the paper bag, I grab my keys from my coat’s pocket, unlock the main door before going to the building’s mailboxes, gathering my mail and going through the lobby’s door to wave to Sam, the receptionist, before going up the stairs since the elevator hasn’t been fixed in 4 months. As I get onto my floor, I wave at my neighbor who exits his apartment as he looks at my door. I turn the corner and see that my door is opened, fearing the worst I grab a baseball bat sitting near the door that my father forgot last weekend when he came over. I hear soft music coming from the record player sitting in the living room, the smell of ham and cheese stuffed chicken filled the place and for a moment I thought my mother had come to New York … I entered the kitchen with the bat lowered down knowing who was in my apartment from the humming they made.

“I made dinner” Dylan says turning around and leaning his back on the counter, he pushes himself off of the counter.

“I can see that.” I huff out not looking at him. “What are you doing here?” I ask him, putting my coat on the back of the chair and my purse on the table.

“I- I wanted to talk.” He says taking a step towards me.

“Yeah, I know I was about to call you … We said we would talk tonight, on the phone” He nods slowly and turns around to put food in two plates. He hands me one and gesture for me to sit.

“I’m not a fan of phones.”

“Yeah I know that, we could’ve facetimed or something.” I pick at my Brussel sprouts, usually loving the way he made them, but seeing here tonight caught me off guard.

I actually look at him for the first time tonight, he hasn’t changed that much, his hair is a little bit longer though, he is hungrily eating the food and nervously keeps his head down.

“What happened?” He suddenly says, his head lifting and eyes connecting with mine. I take in a short breath and can’t look away.

“What?” I shake my head and look down. I stand up and put as much distance between him and I as physically can while still being in the same room.

“What happened between us?”

“I can’t say that I honestly know. We weren’t on the same path; we didn’t want the same things … I don’t know” I mumble picking and my chewed-up nails, a habit I had taken up from him.

“Ok so why didn’t work, it’s not distance because god knows we’ve done that before, none of us were unfaithful” I grimace at the thought of him with another woman and look at him, he notices, and pain quickly passes behind his hazel eyes. “I- I don’t think, hope not, we’ve fallen out of love… So, what happened Al’?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say right now, showing up at my apartment at fucking 8 …” I say my voice low and full of emotions.

“We agreed to talk” He says standing up and talking another step closer.

“I agreed to talk to you on the phone because even if it’s been five months, I can’t look at you right now!” I say looking at the shirt he’s wearing

“Did you send my stuff yet?” He asks changing the subject and taking another step, now only at an arm’s length from me.

“I actually gave the boxes to Jules earlier. Left em’ in the lobby and gave them to her when she left.” He nods silently, turns around before starting to put away the food, knowing we probably would not be eating tonight. The domestic choreography started as we moved around each other with ease and habit, but I still tried to keep a distance between us. Without having to consult each other I bent down to a cupboard to grab a few Tupperware’s and set them on the counter as he passed me the now empty pots and pans ready to be rinsed off. While we were quietly washing the dishes, the music in the back changed, but still fit the ambiance perfectly. He walked to the furthest and lowest cupboard where the large serving plates used to be and opened it to now find the spices.

“You changed the plates?” He asks over his shoulder.

“Hum, yeah didn’t have much of a choice, I couldn’t reach the spices from where they were, and I don’t use the serving plates all that much.” I shrug as he picks up the utensils and dries them off. He walks around me to the drawer where they’ve always been and opens it slowly, his hand supporting underneath.

“Oh no, I got fixed, it’s fine”

“Oh okay… Did your dad came all the way from Oregon or did hum…?” He asks and I smile at what he’s really asking me.

“No, I actually asked Pat to come over a month ago, he repaired a few things here and there” I smile warmly at him and his expression that went from sad to relieved.

“You- you called my dad?” He asks as he turns around to look at me and rests against the counter.

“I mean, yeah, is that okay?” I ask him, giving him a pot to dry off.

“Of course, yeah, no- no worries, heh.” He chuckles. “I’m just happy you guys stayed in contact. They adore you, y’know, my parents. Almost like a second daughter.”

“Well that’s just wrong” I mumble quickly my eyes large, falling back into the familiarity that is Dylan.

“What why?” He asks

“That would make us “brother and sister”” I finish washing the last dish and hand it to him.

“Oh yeah, so wrong. So, fucking wrong” He says under his breath and I laugh a little as I help him put away the plates. I open a cupboard and look up to see that it is far beyond my reach and I make a noise that attracts his attention. “Oh wait, I’ll get it” He says before taking large strides towards me. I quickly move to the side and put the plate on the counter so that he can pick it up.

We finish putting everything away in silence and I go sit on the couch as he washes his hands. A few seconds later he joins me and sit on the other side of the couch. Tears pool at my eyes and I sniffle, I can feel his eyes on me, I hear him shift on the couch, so his front was towards me.

“No, I won’t talk about the weather Not with you, we’re not together But I wonder if we’re ever really through 'Cause if we’re talking about whether You and I shouldn’t be together Oh, I know I’ll always be in love with you Oh yes, I know I’ll always be in love with you”

“It hurts so much” I whimper as I wipe away a tear that’s fallen on my cheek. “I don’t know what fucking happened. We didn’t get to talk, we-“

I freeze when I feel him starting to get closer to wipe away more tears that are now falling down my neck. I nuzzle my head into his large hand.

“I’m so sorry, for everything” He says his face in my hair.

“Don’t. It is not your fault. No, the situation was not ideal you having to leave for filming after the initial event, but it is not your fault. I think we just thought we were untouchable.” I say never facing him, my eyes fixed on the stickers stuck on the wooden table.

“But still, if I hadn’t talked about me moving back to L.A we could’ve talked and work things out.”

“Stop it.” I lick my lips attracting his eyes to the area as I turn to really look at him for the first time in months. “Dylan, it is not your fault, we had a weakness, we miscommunicated something got lost in what we told each other. I feel like I might’ve thought I was ready to leave the city to go to L.A but I wasn’t and maybe-“

“Say it again.” He suddenly says, cutting me off in my version of the events.

“What? Say what?”

“Say my name again, please.” His ton is full of hope and desperate at the same time.

I lock eyes with him and chuckle.

“Dylan” I enunciate each syllable.

“God. I missed you” He says, tears filling his eyes.

He grabs me by my waist and pulls me on his lap.

His face nuzzles itself in my neck and I feel a single tear rolling down my neck followed by a few soft kisses.

“I just got used to you not being there and knowing you wouldn’t come back. I didn’t like that.” I mumble against his temple. “Don’t say that. You know I’ll always come back to you.” He takes my hand in his and kiss the silver band around my pointer finger.

We part and I just stare at him, his eyes fall on me with the softest look I have ever seen.

“You almost didn’t come back once” I say softly thinking back on probably the hardest year of my life. My finger tracing the soft and ragged scar on his forehead and nose area, his eyes close at the sensation of my finger going around his face.

“I know. But baby I swear to you, you are stuck with me until the day I die, even then.” “Yeah okay, I’d be cool with that. But I want to take things slow. You have to go back to L.A for a few months.” “As soon as I’m finished over there I’m coming home.” He smiles at me and I stand up quickly from his lap and walk over where I put my stuff when I came in. “Oh my god I forgot.” I say quickly grabbing the object and walking back to him and plopping myself hard on his lap. “What’s that?” He looks at me with a smile. “It’s an impromptu welcome home gift, it might have gone stale a little though.” I give it to him and pull his face to kiss his moles that I missed oh so badly.

He opens the brown bag and puts his hand in and gets out a blueberry muffin.

“Oh Henry! My man” He says as he splits it in two and share half with me.

___________________________________

The morning after, I wake up at 9:45 in my bed, alone. I squeeze my eyes shut, not believing that I actually dreamt this whole thing. I check my phone to see if I have any messages and only one from Julia saying that she would be at my place around 11. As I text her to bring the boxes back I hear my bedroom door open and a smile stretches on my lips as I turn around to see Dylan walking in with freshly made hot cocoa and buttered toast.

“Oh, you’re too good to me, O’Brien” I smile and lean against him as he sits on the bed. “What makes you think that’s yours? You’ve got the good homemade bread and I fucking missed it” He says taking a bite.

Seeing him bite into the grilled piece of bread I only think of his lips.

“Dylan?” I say grabbing his face in my hand. “Hmm?” He swallows his piece of toast. “What’s up.” “You haven’t kissed me yet. I didn’t get to kiss you welcome back. Please, do it” I say in the most desperate tone I’ve ever heard myself talk. “Anything for you my love” He leans in and kiss me.

(ALSO HIS FUCKING TONGUE OMF)

[komakitigerdrop]

I can't decide if Kirishima is actually greying or if his hair is just never fully shaded. So many different frames show different things. Also if Suoh is biracial or just dies his hair which is so funny to imagine. Like big bad employee of Asami dies his hair. bc vanity. In a salon. Or at home trying to not get bleach on anything. wild.

Yes. YES! YeSss!!!

I really love to think about how those gentlemen take care of themselves. When they go to the salon to get a haircut, do they also get a manipedi and a massage? Maybe some horribly expensive facial treatment? Do they lowkey pick up gossip magazines and read them when no one’s looking? And I don’t know about Kirishima’s hair, but I am 200% obsessed with Suoh Kazumi’s hair choices just because I think he totally dyes it. Totally, just like Akihito, and the two of them meeting in a hair salon in one of my top five headcanons. 

So much so that I wrote a ficlet about it. (Hiding it under the cut in case not to clutter anyone’s dash.)

Washed-Up Blonde

The worst part of joining Asami in his criminal shenanigans was, without a doubt, the toll it took on his daily routine. Lunchtime? A memory of another lifetime. The man made it a habit to skip meals and he was beginning to follow suit. Going out for a beer with friends? Forget it. Going to a salon to get his hair done? He just didn’t have the time.

Akihito let out a defeated sigh as he stared at his reflection on the mirror. Those dark roots were just wrong, but as usual they were supposed to leave Sion in a couple of hours and it would take him at least half of that for him to get to Minami-kun, his hairstylist of preference in Tamagawa.

“If it is bothering you so much, just go to the salon on the 70th floor,” said Asami, without lifting his eyes from his computer screen. “It’s employee-only but they will obviously make an exception.”

Akihito made a face. He, going to that pompous place, crawling with Asami’s men? Not to mention the staff didn’t even look at him in the eye when he walked past the other day…

“Hmpf,” he snorted, stealing another glance at the mirror. 

But those dark roots were really bad.

“Fine,” he relinquished at last, heading to the door with a displeased frown. “But you’re paying the bill!”

Slam!

With a smirk, Asami lifted his eyes to the door for a moment, and then continued to type.

******

The place was every little bit as snobbish as Akihito had envisioned it was. What kind of hair salon served foie gras to its customers?! Certainly not the ones he usually went to. And was it… classical music playing in the background?!?

Ugh.

He shifted on the chair, drawing in a long breath as the hairstylist, once again, looked at a box of Beeline Honey hair dye with no amount of hesitation.

“About this color, sir…” he finally whispered. “Are you sure? I think the Diamond Starlight would be a better match, a lighter shade would make your eyes pop, so to speak.”

Akihito’s nostrils flared as he looked at the fancy catalog the man was holding up. He wasn’t sure if his increasing annoyance was due to the fact he could hear people whispering and chuckling somewhere behind him, or if it was because the man was obviously making him second guess his color preferences, the ones he had had for almost ten years now!

No..  It wasn’t any of that. He was annoyed because that stupid color was eerily familiar… too familiar even…

When Sudou Shu’s face flashed before his eyes, he clutched the chair’s arms until his knuckles turned white.

“This one?” Akihito scoffed angrily, grabbing the catalog and pointing to the picture in question. “Well, Washed Up Blonde here, or “Diamond Starlight”, as you call it,” he ranted on, “is a color for hoes. Very cheap hoes, by the way.

And then, the entire salon was swallowed by a loud, collective gasp, and the uncomfortable silence that followed made him blush. 

"I bet that’s the color Sudou had on…” he whispered, almost apologetically, as if trying to justify the harshness of his words.

“Sunflower Blonde,” the hairstylist behind him responded.

“Huh?”

“That was Sudou Shuu’s hair color,” the man explained, a subtle little smile curling the corners of his mouth. “Sunflower Blonde.”

When he looked at the image of said color, he noticed that it had a yellowish hue to it, and that was exactly what Sudou’s hair looked like. Unwilling to acknowledge defeat, however, Akihito remained silent, and merely watched the man begrudgingly open the box he had been holding.

Not even five minutes later, a wave of respectful greetings swept the salon, and Akihito turned his head to the side just in time to see Suoh Kazumi take the chair right next to him.

‘So Asami’s bodyguard gets his hair done here too, I should have known,’ he thought.

“Takaba-san.”

“Hey… What’s up?”

As usual, there was no response.

And then, the uncomfortable silence was back. All eyes seemed to have turned to the lady that was standing behind the bodyguard, and Akihito noticed she showed no little amount of hesitation as she grabbed a box from one of the shelves.

Diamond Starlight.

His eyes shifted to Suoh’s hair, and from there to the reflection of the hairdresser on the mirror, then back to Suoh’s hair.

All around him, people seemed to be holding in laughter, and of course it didn’t take long for Suoh to suspect something was off.

“What?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing!” Akihito exclaimed, before someone had the brilliant idea to share what he had said earlier. “It is… uhh… a n-nice color. Looks good on you, makes your eyes pop,” he quickly added, just to hear the hairstylist scoff behind him. “Say, what do you say we grab some lunch after this?”

Instead of answering, Suoh looked at him as if trying to evaluate what kind of brain damage he had suffered.

‘Whatever…’ Akihito told himself mentally as the Beehive Honey concoction was smeared on his scalp. As long as the bodyguard didn’t ask why everyone around them had begun to giggle, he would succeed in getting back to Asami in one piece.

[batdaddies]

Madreperola

warnings: explicit content, violence

pairing: orm x reader

about: im rusty, been AGES since my last time writing, tried to post this into orm tag for three times now, hope now works, after you are done and still want more, leave a prompt at my askbox, i need some more orm around, patrick wilson killed and now i should write kinky smuts about the ex-king of atlantis, this is not that kinky yet, kinda wanted, kinda dont, whatever, the whole Y/N looks funny because I made it into a scenario in an extra page on my tumblr that you can actually insert your name into it, but it wasnt working so yeah, i just wanted to post it so i can write another one. You are not a surface dweller, you are a badass atlantis warrior, a lot of canon made by myself, sorry. Enjoy!

MADREPÉROLA - MOTHER OF PEARLS

Orm is made out of duties, ideas, strength, pain and pieces of a man who once thought he could die alone.

EYES

They were cheering, loud within the dense water, they had music, excited with drums and bubbles around the instruments. Atlantis was painted of those sparkling jellyfishes all around, all the citizens with hands up, waving. Happiness was a strange feeling, how deeply it was, he had been going around for some minutes now, and everytime his eyes flashed around the faces of his people, the smiles were pure, how could they not notice the way his father’s hand on his mother was a little too hard? Were they not seeing through, was it too dark?  How could they not see their smiles didn’t match their eyes?

He could sense on his skin, the hair on his arms, right under his royal armour, his hands holding the ropes with a tiny shake. The image of his mother yelling, back and forth with his father had been disturbing; he could hear from the corridor, a strong impulse and he was by the door, opening just to see her beautiful form on the floor, the silver trident on her hands, pointing into his father’s neck, who had his own trident against her belly. They all shared a quiet stare between, his mother soon being the first to give up, she had called his name, throwing the trident behind her, a sign of peace for the time, she didn’t try to explain anything, instead her long arms circulated his torso with care, love. But he was stuck with the situation, with his parents obviously fighting, hard, to the point of fists. His father spoke first.

“Tell him, Atlanta,” the voice husky, dark, capable of investing fear in any being under the seas. The wrinkles on his eyes showed the age, showed the tiredness, the madness, and the hard pupils, they were black unlike his own, his traces only from his mother. A trembling hand came for his mother's back, holding her to protect her, to protect both, specially himself from that tone. “Tell him about your time in the surface…”

His mother pulled him out of the room in that same minute, feet pushing the water, mouth rushing his concerns, not that she actually could, however she tried, whispered what she normally did. Don’t listen to your father. You know he is out of his mind. I love you so much. A help with his hair, a kiss on his head, and they were separated for the parade. He watched his father soon joining him with the soldiers behind, the tridents on hands, watched how he whispered something into her ear before impulsing her trident to her hand so she could have, they all sat down on the animals. He had a shark for once he was young, small, only a prince. His father and mother in front of him, on a pedestal on top of a tylosaurus.

The parade was for pride, the kingdoms together for the solemn purpose of existing after the Great Fall. The royal families, the respected generals and war heros, all lined up to celebrate another year. Atlantis was first of course, the Xebellians behind, followed by the Fishermen, and the Brine. The occasion was peaceful, for what Orm wasn’t in peace at all, he wasn’t a man yet, couldn’t understand the factors of marriage, couldn’t let go of the incident, he was smiling at least, because at some point his father turned behind to take a look, and his lips moved. Smile. As his king wished, he did, an order he wasn’t exactly fulfilling, the white teeth where showing, his mouth opened, but it was crooked, and fake. So lost inside his own head, inside his own thoughts.

Focus! Focus! The voice inside yelled at himself, what kind of Prince he would be if he couldn’t complete his duty? When he finally took his eyes off his father’s grip on his mother’s hands, they averted to the side, searching on the crowd a will to go through all that. All the faces, all the shouts. Nothing. He felt nothing. Until his head moved up, and there, far away, on the higher platform for important, high-borns families, on the privilege views. Someone who had the same serious face as him, unbothered gaze, hair swimming, adorning the shape of her cheeks like a crown with a gold ornament on the side, the lips closed on the rigid line of her jawline. She wore purple and suited her well.

Orm tried to recall when he had seen her before, failing. A strange face. But she was sitting somewhere he would known everybody. By the sides, a man and a woman, he also tried to recall their faces, nothing yet. She entertained his stare until the platform was left behind, until his neck couldn’t turn anymore to watch her.

Seemed there were actually two sad atlanteans that day.

EARS

Once, the worst part of his birthdays was his mother, not herself. Not her caring, soft hands, or her hugs, or kisses. Not her smile. Not her blue eyes. Not the blond hair swinging in the entire room in pretty waves. Her absence. The first year without her presence was disturbing, the second was awful, and the third was fading. It was a shame to say, Orm didn’t remember her that well, now. Some years had passed, along memories, and longing. Sometimes he was ashamed to say he didn’t think of her that much, the grieving had a funny way with him, he was locked away in his own room for days, yet no tears. His father had kept the secret until the very last moment, he didn’t know what was happening until the trench was close enough, besides the entire kingdom knowing, he was oblivious, seemed his father had even funnier ways to mess with him.

Forced to look, forced to watch, and fight against his own mother being sacrificed, she had shouted for him, and Orm had yelled back, but his father was stronger, he was right there, holding him still, hands on his biceps, face on his ears, like a spirit from the past, he felt the lips on his earlobe. A bastard. He stopped immediately, shocked, body failing to keep fighting. The bastard. His senses numbed as she was slowly disappearing from his sight. She had a half-breed, treason.

For months, he didn’t know if he was grieving his mother, or her secret. A powerful queen like herself, to subjugate, accept, cohabit with a human… She had lost her mind, yet the more he thought about it, the more he lost his. The thin line of love, and obeying was starting to fade. The King’s speeches were beginning to make sense, the new ideas of a different future were settling right inside his brain, almost able to recite them one by one, the strongest was the King’s wish to make Orm Marius the best yet. The whole attention, devotion and energy should be spent on his training, on his lessons, on Atlantis that had been suffering with the surface for decades. It was showing then, Orm was becoming the man his father wanted him to be, who took pride on the pure-blood son one day not being only a great king, but a dangerous threat to his enemies.

That year was even decided there was no party, Orm needed to train, needed to study; the only thing it happening was people bringing gifts. He didn’t want that neither, but the King said this costum couldn’t stop, it was necessary. They needed to be spoiled, they needed to be known, to be superior. Vulko was on his right, while the King was on the throne, he was just floating in the warm water in the room, his hands together in front of his torso that was getting bigger, a shape of broad shoulders. He wasn’t small anymore, maybe still young, but not that young, not that innocent. If anything, Orm’s blue bright eyes had a colder shine, the traces on his skin starting to look more like his father than his mother.

“And this is the family of Y/L/N,” Vulko’s voice was distance, low, only for him to hear. “Their ancestors served the crown once, before the second war, they were habitating in Xebel, but decided to come back to Atlantis now the patriarch is dead.”

A woman and a girl were swimming close, stopping to greet. Who he judge as the mother was carrying a box with an aquamarine as lock, the attire of same shade, silver bracelets and a kind smile.

She was placing in front of him with the pile of many others, but he never saw her doing so, instead, he was intrigued by the weapon the daughter was holding, dark grey, utterly curvy on the edges which were five, the handle adorned by arabesques circulating until the extremes along the battle marks, seemed old, however powerful. The girl held it with a straight posture, a warrior. Different from what he reminded, but it was her, he was sure. Purple dressed her too well. The hair had four or six braids floating around her face, much like a halo, adorning the cheekbones, the still rigid jawline, and still hard lips. Her eyebrows were up high, pearls on top of them, matching the color of her eyes. And this time, the purple was tight, admitting both of them had grown up, the cleavage was revealing her popping clavicules, the extra skin of her breasts, the curves continuing to her waist, and hips. Almost a completely woman. An attractive woman.

“You bear a trident,” he stated to her, blankly, forgetting to thank for the gift. His face with no emotions, but it didn’t mean the shiver he felt in his spine wasn’t there, a trickling feeling on his skin that Orm couldn’t name it. It was somehow disrespectful, like a question, taking off her right to carry it.

Her left eyebrow lifted even higher, pearls sparkling along in shades of green, purple and yellow, the trident suffered a whirl, and a thug on the ground, sound echoing, “it belonged to my great grandfather, he fought in the war, died for Atlantis.”

The voice match her looks, daring, a reckon, the water danced on her tone, which meant she was not intimidated by him, ready to prove she was worthy of carrying it. A strong presence with a strong sound, even she was smaller than him, not passing his chest for a fact. All the lessons of reading the opponent was handy in a moment like this, her body language was of someone always alert, someone confident, her breathing was calm, indeed not caring who she was facing. The Prince Of Atlantis. She’d be a good adversary.

“Were you trained with it?” the question now didn’t have any second intentions, rather just curiosity. His face finally moved, just a curl of lips, a blink of lashes, and the feeling stopped by his neck, where his hair was standing on the ends.

“By my own father who had it before me,” she said, noticing his icy eyes were staring down at her, a little movement of her feet, floating higher to fix it. They were on the same level, in an uncomfortable silence, if any noticed, the others accompanying them were alert.

“Good,” Orm said, with a nod of his head. “One day may Atlantis need you as a soldier.”

“My honor, Your Highness,” her tongue hit the back of her upper teeth when talking, which he saw slowly, the feeling going down his shoulders, under the armour, to his hands, the tip of his fingers. It didn’t fade until she turned and left the room, legs swinging in the water with her mother by her side.

The day remained boring, nothing pleasing Orm, neither the training later, or the studies, for what his mind couldn’t stop remembering itself of a purple attire, a trident, and a ringing voice.

My honor.

My honor...

Your highness...

NOSE

The passages of his life were made of deaths, every critical decision, every choice given, every chance made only after losing a life. Queen Atlanna had been sacrificed, only then he was able to decide who he wanted to be, a traitor like his mother or a powerful king like his father, he decided to be none, to be better, to be the best in every way he could. Accomplished. The King Orvax had died, only then he was able to rise to his purpose, finally giving him the freedom of being just a Prince; the chance of serving his people, of succeeding his plans for the future. For what, Orm wanted to great, a legend perhaps, there was no insecurities for the throne, no doubts of himself, he knew he could, he knew he would, Atlantis wouldn’t know a better King.

Sometimes, Orm would even forget he was a man of needs. Yet the truth always found a way to slap his face, shouting to be recognize, yelling louder than he ever could.

It wasn’t a subject his father spoke with him about, he was just given a wife and nothing else. Mera, the xebelian. It was a deal, an arrange, and Orm had grown up with her for far too long to know he wasn’t able to love her, he could respect, offer his loyalty, be a good husband, but never love. She was beautiful, he knew, he always did, since they were kids in the adventures through the oceans, when the lights hit her just right, her long red hair waving, she was pleasing to look at, but something was lacking, something was off. Love wasn’t made of attractive faces or colorful hairs. Indeed, Orm believed he wasn’t capable of love. His biggest duty was to Atlantis, to its preservation, to its protection.

Mera felt the same, he knew. She would never love him. They had consideration for each other, it was even good on a side to have her as a future wife, he wouldn’t pretend to be somebody to gain her admiration, she wouldn’t force herself into a unhappy marriage with somebody else. At least, they were friends when young, and time only could help them to have an heir, as he hoped. Because it was issue he decided to mind after the marriage, after the ceremony, when it in fact happened, not now when they are only betrothed: touching her. She didn’t excite him. He didn’t fantasized about her. Rarely were the times he actually fantasize about a woman, even when it happened, his body curling in his bed, the water dense on his torso, thick on his lungs, and the spasms asking for it, there was not a face, or a body, it was just the feeling. Sometimes he would close his eyes and think of purple. Sometimes he would force himself to fight the feeling away.

Vulko tried to talk to him about that subject, voice taken back, an apprehension on how to approach such matters. Orm stopped him, noticing what that was about. “I am not an animal, this alone should be enough for your concerns.”

It did had a toll on him lately, when his young years were gone, and Orm was what others would call proper age. His body at its peak, his physical appearance established, and the looks it brought to him. The servants passing by, their pupils heavy under the lashes, not reaching his own gaze because that would be reaching, but piercing through the armours, on his neck, and lips. They would be intense when it was time to train, when his body was left to feel the water without barriers, they usually had his armour on hands, or food, or bars when it was time for a new lesson. His feet felt the ground under, his torso circulated in cold water, fighting. The muscles lines were changing according to his moviments, too many of them, back, abdomen, arms, chest, all the stares on him. Orm felt he was giving a show, not training. When it was time to try the bars, the servant came with a bowed body, delicate hands offering the new instruments of battle, and his hand lingered against hers to get it. She moved her head to him, the hair moving in the way, able to cover her entire face but an eye. Desire.

That night had been hard to get through, he wanted it. He needed it. Skin twisting in his bed, the water gaining a new temperature his body failed to adjust to, his neck couldn’t even shallow it properly. It was the first time desire won against him, he thought about searching for her, but what humiliation would be for a Prince around hallways, impulsing himself to seek a servant for satisfaction. He couldn’t sleep, the pain on his lower abdomen asking for release, for the torture he putted himself through, his mind didn’t focus on any other matters besides an atlantean’s body.

His journey through this path had been somewhat disturbing after that, women knowledge his presence, his beauty, his appeal of a sleek blond hair with big, blue eyes, a straight nose and a rigid jawline. He discovered what he liked as well, what made him ask for more, not many times, maybe just three or four, enough for him to be satisfied for months, or years, they were usually high-borns, discreeted, not interested in stealing him for his duty, rather having a night with Prince Orm while they could. He always felt bad after, dressing himself and his mind going for Mera, felt like a betraying act. Guilt overcame pleasure easily after.

But the ironies of life were much deeper than his oceans, even with his future wife by his side, so close to him, sensing the water running through her mouth, nose, and lungs, he couldn’t control the desire when it drowned him, it started as an impulse in the back of neck, growing into a itching on his palms, to a tightness on his stomach. The surprise made him lean forward, eyes wide, a predator watching.

She came dashing in whirls, the bubbles forming a tail behind her feet, the tip of her trident ripping the water, and she stopped, arms opening, trident rising on top of her head, the armour was composed of hard golden scales on the shoulders falling through her breasts and hips, her feet had the protection boots coming to her knees, under of course, as usual, the purple hugging her curves. The braids on her hair this time were the ones for war, from the roots of her forehead to the back where they were loose, no helmet, but a huge choker on her neck, with pointed ends curling out of her face. She shouted with the crowd, they cheered for her, they loved their champion. To savour her congratulations, the body swag around the platforms, trident in circles, everybody had their hands up, and she was rising. Until she stopped again, higher, close to the Royals.

Orm regretted missing the battles, he had better matters to attend to, but his presence in the deliver of the medal to the champion was important, only he could deliver it, when his vizier said the champion that year was a she, he never thought that she was the one, he should have known, all his years and she was the only he could recall who had a trident, and was willing to take it to battle. Also, he regretted not participating that year, he would be very pleased to fight against her, test to see what she was capable of. Of course much, for what she had won.

Closer, it was easier to see the scratches on her armour, only a glove on her right hand, the left with blood floating in tiny bubbles, the bruise on her cheek, a line of red between purple and green, but she was fenomenal, the posture straight, not losing the high class, her beauty had grow older just as his. The traces of her nose and lips were softer, those are a shade of red almost purple, and her eyes batted against the top of her cheeks in long, thick curtains of lashes, the height hasn’t improved though, still smaller, and Orm couldn’t describe exactly what he felt when she entered the platform, pushing herself to the ground, kneeling with her entire being, trident resting on both hands, and hair in waves. It was desire, so much desire the water around him became heavy, a pressure on his shoulder he hadn’t ever felt before.

“Your Highness,” she greeted still bowing for him, fulfilling his memories of her voice, Orm had dreamt of it once, or twice, perhaps more times he wanted to admit, and the electricity inside his veins almost choked his voice out to answer.

Mera or Vulko none existed by his side, or the crowd, or the cheering. Only the atlantean kneeling for her King, offering him her trident, paying her respects. Orm held the medal high, swinging his legs to stop by her front.

“My champion,” his voice was raw, and she looked up to his cold eyes, an abyss of darkness, her lips twisted, but in what he identificate as his effect on the opposite sex, and Orm knew right away he could touch her face and she would let him, but he didn’t, not because he didn’t want to, but because she had the right to obtain what she came for. His hands switched quickly and the pearls around the medal fell from her head into her neck, until it rested between the choker and the armour. “Congratulations.”

She finally stood up, and Orm had been so close, the threads of her hair waved close to his face on the movement, almost a caress on his nose, she smelled of the deep currents when they pass the lava and the texture of both were meet in the fire and water, of fresh seaweed in the old city, sweet like battle, like duty. He was private, he was against any public touch, yet the King himself drowned in that smelled and wished to take her right there, uncover her curves, learn about her flesh, and listen to the graceful music her sounds would be on the water. He didn’t fantasize, yet he was, flashing question of what she liked, of how she was once nude, if she had another men in her bed, lost in the color of her eyes, in the halo of her hair, in the fierce beauty. Behind her glory class, he also saw the imagination flowing, of him, his lips, his hands, his body.

“I must know your name,” his upper lip, slightly meatier than the lower, moved and caught her gazing. For the Gods, Orm wanted her.

“Y/N, I—” she whispered slowly, fixed on the mouth, but was interrupted by Vulko, carried the King’s trident to him, Orm woke up from the tantalizing moment when the cane was presented.

“It was one of the best battles I've ever seen,” he said, cheerful, letting the heaviness of the trident fall on Orm’s hands.

“Thank you,” she bowed again, and Orm wished she didn’t, not for anybody else, only himself.

“Go present Atlantis your medal, champion,” he sent her away with good intentions. Go feel your glory. To what she nodded, with a last look at her handsome King, heavy lids, heavy heart, then Orm smiled, a malicious manner, corner of his lips rising, no teeth, superior to all.

Y/N circulated in the ocean, the trident shining, the crowd cheering even more with the medal adorning her neck, and Orm was left with his vizier, with his betrothed, and the unspoken understatement, both knew what it meant, and it was enough. She would come back for him, he just had to wait.

That night, desired had won, and Orm didn’t fight against it, closing his lids and thinking of the smell of her hair.

MOUTH

Orm would never forget the first time he laid his lips on hers, Y/N had a tight grip on his golden armour, nails crawling up between the scales to find any piece of skin she could, it was more a press than a kiss, strong for what both wanted to feel for too long, desperated. They were soft, so soft, and so eager for him, there was no space for anything else as he held her head with his both hands, prisioning the hair between his gloves, pulling her closer if possible. But Orm wanted more, always.

His life was made of conquering, of ruling, they were his first extinct. The times in the past when the shivers in his spine passed through when seeing her were nothing compared to the hammering urge to own her. To be owned by her.

Y/N had parted the lips, her tongue advertising between in hunger, licking his mouth, and inviting his own to taste it. Her flavour was of warm waters, of longing, of desire, and pleasure. Of betrayal, of treason, of unloyalty, and guilt. A perfect mixture of everything Orm had been craving for his life. They kissed as two creatures, humming into each other as battling for more, for survival, knowing they didn’t have time to go slow, to take it somewhere. They only had that moment, and it had to be enough. His teeth came for her lips, crashing down on the lower one as his hands pulled her head back, wanting to both have her and destroy her.

I am not an animal, he had said to his vizier. But the lines of desires were blurred, Orm couldn’t recognize himself when his teeth bit into her neck, the flesh gently bending over, the veins pumping blood under his mercy, and she moaned, body pressing on his armour, pushing her into his torso. Orm lost it then. The first sound of her was the same as winning, the thrill of it. He was addicted to that, to devour her. He knew he whispered something into her ear as his hands helped her to strip himself from the armour, from the crown, groaning when her fingers ran on the muscles on his back, unplugging the attire, that fell on water and then the ground. Her purple attire was torn before she could have the chance to undress herself to him, Orm had grabbed the sides and pulled hard, for he couldn’t wait to touch her skin.

The curves were a sight to touch, the rough hands squeezing her being with want, too fast to remember, enough to feel, they filled with her breasts, then her hips, and his mouth joined, kissing and biting the way down. He had her laid on his own bed, the King’s bed. Almost a Queen. He drowned under her, on the edge of the bed, his tongue discovering her real taste as she wished. Orm could stay there forever, watching her swishing her hips harder on his face, the warrior strength forcing him deeper. Her moans were delicious, outraged, feeling his tongue entering, her eyes had searched for him, watching his tongue licking all the way from the crack, to the entrance to the point of pleasure. Orm sucked her intimacy with his opened, and was also able to watch the effect it had on her face, the eyebrows high, the flashing of color on the cheeks, and the pearls adorning their bones, sparkling. His thumbs seeked into her, opening the lower lips for more. He wanted more. He wanted everything.

The orgasm took a time, showing Orm both she had been done this before and she was not shy. Her feet stopped on his back, the jewelry on her ankles scratching his muscles, serving the support to thrust her hips toward him, and she rolled them many times, moaning his name, sucking water, loud and needy. Orm ate her up, helped her to the limit, took her there and admired the beauty in an atlantean’s cry. Her back curling, hands messing the bed and chest expanding His arms held her entirely, thighs, waist, ass, the skin hot, delicious. Y/N grabbed him immediately by the shoulders, eyes blinded by carnal thoughts, and kissed his lips, impulsing herself into his lap. They were sitting the floor then, and she cried again, the suffocating stretch for her King. He was big, thick, pulsing. Clutching into her back as the groan left his throat, she was tight, and wet; different from the sea, dense, heavenly.

No rhythm, no nice and easy pace. Orm groaned on her lips as rode, hands squeezing her back, pulling her hair, eating her moans, and cries like he had been starving. The breasts rubbed on his chests, the nipples hard, the thighs hitting against his own, and tides of water circulating them. At some point, he took control on the moviments, stiffening her body still, thrusting up into her. Y/N had let go then, nails digging behind on his knees, and back curled in the way her breasts followed his control. A hand came for her neck. Orm gave it a light thug to make it noticed, and didn’t know who enjoyed it more. Him, feeling her veins and the shape of it, or her, rolling her eyes and crying for her King.

Beg for me. He managed to let out, between all the mixture of emotions, all the creatures actions. Beg. And before she could, his feet pushed the floor, they ended on the wall, Y/N was turned and her head rested there. Give me the pleasure again, Your Majesty. She said, overwhelmed by him, their legs circulated together and they held on the glass. The sea outside with the purple and pink lights, gardens of seaweeds, corals, and Y/N inside offered herself to him, a tilt of waist. Make me worthy. Orm invaded her again with power, hitting her hips on the glass with a sound overflowing the room. He held her neck, disappearing his face into her hair, smelling the freshness, the sweetness, taking her from behind with the same strength he used to fight with. She accepted, she wanted it, she could take it. Muffed pushes into the wall with their many others noises, the fleshes of both collapsing into each other, easily mistaken as they could become one, and Orm never felt like that before. Fulfilled. Her lips caught him in ways he had never been kissed before, her body engulfed him in ways he had never been touched before; she was a beast of domination, and the track of who was the one in control faded, of course he gave orders and she listened, however how could he be sure she wasn’t exactly doing what she needed to do to make him follow the path she wanted?

They had each other for hours, and hours, Y/N had been bending for him in every position, and Orm had worn himself out in her arms. Their bodies floated around the room, back to his bed, Y/N on her knees and elbows, on the table with holographic lights that reflect on her skin in colorful maps and letters as she once again managed to get on top, terrifyingly holding his neck, laying on water, on the ceiling, soaring on the sides, clapping on the white material. He had come undone four times with her that night, stamina dripping from the pores, dancing between them in the drift, and Y/N wasn’t done, not yet. Laid on his chest, kissed his muscles and let his fingers entry her core, there was nothing left to do, but watch the perfection of how luxury stripped on her face. It was the moment he saw the future of wanting it again, searching for her again. And for the first time in a night of betrayal, Orm didn’t feel guilty. Instead, he felt peace, closed his lids and explored dreamlands.

Many were the nights Orm passed through the guards on the palace and dived into the dark, using the ruins of the Old City to arrive at her home, more times than he would like to admit. His emotions were always the same, every time seemed the first time. Y/N would greet him into her chambers, they would kiss and succumb into each other greatly, like warriors waiting for battles. She would wear purple, blue and even white; some nights the pearls on her face were on top of her cheekbones, highlighting the sea, some nights on the back of her hand, embellished into the dress, some nights her hair was braided from the roots, not letting him touch it, some nights she would wear diademas of precious stones, and gold. And some nights Orm wasn’t a creature, neither was she. Some nights he would trace her features with his finger tips before a kiss, some nights he would talk, of the throne, of Atlantis, of destiny, of her.

She was far more interesting than he could imagine. Her family came from a line of high borns since before the Great Fall, her great grandfather became one of the King’s vizier at his lifetime, but died in the second war, the trident was a gift passing through generations, her descendants were always proud of it, making the tradition of every heir being trained, guided to, when the Crown needed, they would fight by again. Her mother was from Xebel Royalty, what could and would explain when her fingers moved in circles creating bubbles and weak currents, however not always, she was quite unsure of it. Y/N was trained and educated there, coming to Atlantis when her father died, and her mother insisted she finished her training where he finished his own. His last words were be brave, and never ashamed. Before that, the only time she had been to Atlantis was on the celebration, the parade, many years ago when Orm remembered as the first time he saw her, sadness locked on her lips. He enjoyed the opportunity to ask why then, and her words trailed off, confessing she had an older brother, who by right, would be the one trained with the trident, and he was until he decided to swim too close to the surface, and never came back, Orm remembered his mother for a second, and it faded. Y/N was filling his space when the trident were passed to her, at the beginning, never seemed good, her father pushed to much, compared too much, she preferred the spells, preferred learning about the water, plants; after his death was the moment she stopped practicing the gifts from her mother, to honor him, it was her passion now. That night, they didn’t have any intimacy, Orm slept on her chest with her fingers curling his blond hair, most of his armour still on. A feeling easily to get addicted to.

“13,” her voice was quiet, as if telling a secret, the ringing a massage on his ears, he turned his face and felt her soft lips touching his cheek, they formed a smile. The fingers on his rib cage were gently tracing a scar there, the skin was rough unlike the rest of his torso, the muscles flexed in a shiver when only the long nail finished the drawing, obviously she referred to it. “I counted, you have 13.”

Silence.

It had been one of those night, where just lay together was enough, the warmth of somebody else’s body to press against was what he craved. He was nude for what Y/N had took his armour off piece by piece, unplugged his attire from behind and left a trace of kisses his spine. Orm floated on her silky sheets and she sat by the edge, admiring his bare beauty.

“Kiss me,” Orm said, his tone the same husky, grave, intimidating kind he used to give orders to General Murk, on his eyes, there was an abyss of coldness, the blue not transmitting any emotion, however his upper lip curled, asking for hers, and Y/N trailed off to accomplish, wondering if it was the closer her King ever got to ask for something.

She sealed his mouth with a first peck, then a second, and a third when the ends of her hair decided to play along his cheeks, until Orm had with her games, the tip of his tongue coming to line the shape of her bottom lip, calmly entering between the teeth, licking the inside inviting her to follow, and Melissa did, kissed him like promising to break him into pieces.

MIND

The yells came from outside, not perceived exactly what, seemed more of roars of sea beasts, and soon, knocks on the walls, loud thugs happening closer and closer to the entrance, then guns, the shots took always echoed of metal on the end causing everybody in the room alarmed into a group of protection, the guards pointing and waiting for the riot reach them while Murk and Vulko impulsed into a barrier for their King, who, for the sake of his own good, wielded his trident, and floated in a higher level, the black cape hem waving in water, covering the vision of Atlantis behind the huge glass. A final thug when the last guard outside bumped into the ground unconscious and, with the body light, stopped into the water, arms opened.

When she came, which he expected her to, she wasn't the type to be tamed down, her trident came first, the five edges crushing the fiber the door was, her body seen finally, the curves wrapped up in a gray suit, the boots had the famous scales of an armour, in the same of shade of white she cared on the scales of her shoulders, her hair whipped with the strength her arms up her head, the fingers were interlaced holding the weapon on the middle; the usual pearls where forgotten in the bubbles, disconnecting from the skin, her jawline was a rigid line along the lips, showing the ranger of her teeth, and the eyes… Oh, her eyes were revenge, demanding blood, they were never this insane before. Her biceps recoiled with the trident, and from her throat, they all heard her roaring, when in a first succeed try, the prongs breached the fiber isolation.

“Do not let her pass!” Murk shouted, sword ready to be used, but before the guards could follow, the trident entered the hole, twisted into a straight line and pulled back, having both of their heads bumped against the walls by the necks on the cane. The general was about to attack when, the last three remained noticed the same eyes asking for war were red, and bubbles of tears formed in the threads of her calm path to the middle where they were found.

Y/N stared at him, trident ceasing by the side, loose on her palm. She stared at his blond hair free in the water with the crown of a King, at his rosy lips that had no smiles for that specific moment, at the broad shoulders carrying the whole kingdom upon, and at the blue eyes, where she found nothing, no care, no compassion, no pity, no empathy, just a freezing immensity the Seven Seas could envy its depth. His posture was unbreakable, risen up above her, taller, stronger, with no mercy.

Orm saw on her face the confusion going through her ideas of to say, he knew when she was thinking, her lids blinked fast, he saw her sucking of water through the mouth, she was also out of herself. It wouldn’t be easy to invade a royal ship, all the degrees to finally reach him would cause even exhaustion on the most praised soldier, what was impossible in fact for her was just another task. He had to admit though, he expected her to come to him alone, somehow in private, not that way, not in an one atlantean crusade.

Her hand unlocked a plug from her silver belt, throwing it at his feet, the object a red flashing message. It had been sent last night, at her home, right at her by a soldier who didn’t identify as anybody, simply leaving it and going away.

“A year,” she started, voice trembling in both anger, and sadness, minding not at all Vulko or Murk glaring at her. “A full year and can’t my King at least deliver the news himself with me?”

There were seconds of anticipation, and waiting, when Orm spoke, it was in a misery. “I do not wish to see your face no more. Wasn’t I clear?”

“Orm…” she pleaded, intimacy wearing off in her, the old, caring way she’d greet him at her chambers, waiting for talks, waiting for kisses.

“Your Majesty!” she was corrected by Murk, who snarled with the scar on his face twisting in disgust.

Y/N left a single sick laugh, from the redness of her eyes, bubbles kept falling. “Of course, Your Majesty. I demand an explanation.”

“Leave,” Orm commanded, tone higher, mouth opened in anger, the teeth rangering, and his trident touched the ground under his feet in a warning. The shock on her eyes was not mistaken, she was about to pronounce herself again, but he stopped her, “Leave!”

It was her turn to impulse herself up, eyes on the same level as his, separated only by the vizier and the sword pointed at her waist, and her trident gave the same thug on the floor, for now her face were only anger. “I will not!”

Orm swimmed through the barrier of the two in a motion of arms and floated by her front, close enough he could see there were only three pearls left on top of one eyebrow, and only one on the other, the shine of her cheeks, the beauty of her traces which were harsh at glaring back at him, and could almost feel the softness of her lips. He was glad she came this way, it was easier to send her away in front of others.

The edge of his weapon trinkled in the movement of elapsing it to her neck, a real threat.

“It was an order,” his tongue clicked in every word, unforgiving, the voice raw and collected again.

Y/N blinked slowly, looking down at the edges on her trough, not being able to hold the strong posture any longer, when her pupils stared back, defeated, she whispered. “What was I to you?”

Orm didn’t expect it, there was not something he had prepared for before, his lungs had a tighter grip on their own, the water was too thick for the second, and he gulped, not answering.

Everything.

It was the real reason he had to leave, not for the lack of interest, or for what she could possible think of, no. Not at all. By the Gods, Orm didn’t wish for it. But, six nights ago, when he found himself between her arms and legs, gaining her comfort, he longed for what he didn’t know what.

A lie, he did. Orm longed of her eyes every morning, staring back at him on his bed, longed of her voice calling his name in the afternoon, longed of her smell when he was sitting on his throne, longed of her lips, kissing him at nights. He longed for her profoundly, feeling home only into her arms, feeling freedom only when she was close. It was new, the seconds counted to meet her, to lost himself into her, the way his body begged for her in the nights he was away. In that same moment, Orm thought for a minimum amount of time of a life with her, of how could be to have her as his Queen, present her as his, and valued as hers. Fantasized about not only for that, but much more. Showing her the other kingdoms she didn’t know, allowing her study knowledgement  available only for a Queen, swimming the rest of the seas together, helping Atlantis to grow.

The day next to when it happened, Mera and her father had been with him for a mere hour, to discuss matters of Xebel. Her red hair coloring a guilt, a mirror Orm saw his own reflection as his mother. Treason, he repeated at himself. Traitor, he accused himself. Because he was ready to break the deal with the King Nereus, for his own sake, forget the huge plans he had for his people, for their future, he did not wish a betrothed, and he was ready to put his own kingdom at risk for it. Then he knew he had to leave Y/N before doing so, even if in the back of his mind, the vision of his father and mother fighting each other flashed non stop.

What was worst? A loveless marriage or two kingdoms splitting to fail the Rise of Atlantis?

Loveless.

Orm thought he was not able to, he thought it would never come to him, however there were her, the prove. He didn’t know sadness like that until she gave up, trident floating by itself in front of him and left, swimming away. In his chest, a heart he had dedicated only for Atlantis, arching.

His life had never been the same since then, but a Great King would never let life distract him from the duty.

HEART

“Orm,” his mother called, the long hair a whole wave of blond in the very clean room, her voice sweet and delicate. It felt strange in the beginning, it seemed more of a mirage, a memory lost in years, the point between dreams and sleeping where it was blurry to tell the difference, until her hands came in a gentle touch, to hold and hug, it was when the point of real reached higher than dreams and she was there. There. Alive and well.

He was quiet, not for ignorance, but for the animal on the other side of the glass, the small turtle was the first to appear that week, it was the season of year the higher water changed the temperature and fishes were claiming for the warmth, traveling from another part of the sea. It was utterly tiny, and it swang in a circle, legs clapping bubbles, definitely showing off to him for what he was close, the fingertips touched where the turtle was, in an attempt to reach it somehow. A small sound to communicate with him, and it spinned again. There was envy spreading inside his chest when seeing it, floating free beyond those clear walls where he was trapped with only a bed to rest, and a view to mourgue.

“Orm,” she called again, still calmly, noticing what had happened. Months had gone by since the last time he was able to swim in open sea and of course, he would miss it. Her son turned his head, ears in her direction, but not the eyes, still locked with the friendly turtle, one of the only companion he had in days.

Of course,  Atlanna would come almost everyday to see him, informing when she would be gone for more than two days, she didn’t say the reason, yet it was obvious it had to do with the human on the surface. Mera came twice only, said very little, for what her eyes had a sense of shyness when seeing his state, then she had come to say sorry, and was asked to never come again, pity was not something he wanted to hear. Vulko came after a long time, both not having any words for each other, it was out of consideration for before, when he was young and knew better. Arthur never came.

“Yes, mother?” Orm profered, quietly. Hand falling at his side, and feet switched in, slow, almost not moving, small inches above the floor. The boots he wore were black, a special shade reflecting the coral lights, and on the ends by his calves, a detail in blue contrasting with the white suit adorning his body, no hardness of armour, no jewelry on the shoulders, the ordinary kind, the ones that, when the light hit right, sprinkled baby blue on the scales texture.

“I took liberty to go into your bedroom,” she started, cautiously, making him turn complete at her over his shoulders, the once rough features of his face were nothing more than plain now, emotionless like the last months had dragged the life out of them, they were still ever so breathtaking, just lacking even the slight feeling to prove he was not dead inside.

As a mother, she wanted to find something, could be anger, could be pain, could be failure, anything she could use to help him heal, would be easier to know what Orm was thinking and feeling when she wanted to talk, but he was a barrier, one of the strongest, like the bridge outside Atlantis, surviving decades with no moving, in the ruins of once a empire. She had heard stories of Orm as a King, not about the war against the surface, the other ones, how he helped the technological advance in their soldiers, the study of the new plants presented in the capital, and news philosophies for their culture, the people had an enormous respect for him, an intimate relationship for what he was always watching his kingdom close. His ideas of change, of growth was supported by them all, Atlantis joined him in the attack on the Brine without second thoughts, and there were the whispers around.

King Orm. King Orm. The real King Orm. He still had support, for what Arthur had the Atlan’s trident, however was oblivious in a degree to Atlantis, to the people, and the costumes, for what Orm had grown up in those waters, under the kingdom’s eyes, won championships with them as a crowd, built new places, expanded the homes and knowledges, and gave a hope of saving their children, once for all. She wondered if Orm knew he was forgiven, not by the Fishermen, but by Atlantis and Xebel, and by his brother. Wondered if he knew the agitations presented in the few last weeks outside his cell was not just guards yelling at each other by another prisoner’s fault, it was in fact a failed attempt of freeing him.

Little they knew, Orm didn’t wish to be rescued, at least that Atlanna knew, because when she brought him some spare suits and some holograms to read through, he dismissed, saying he was just like any other in those prisoners cells, then shouldn’t be treated specially. The only favor he accepted was the window to the depth of the sea, to remember, to still have the contact with the land he was trying to protect. And to remember, that part of him who failed, lost his throne, hundreds of soldiers, his betrothed, and his glory.

“Mother, I told you I do not want special treatment,” he said, the last bit of hoping of making her understand, he wasn’t rude, however definitely bold.  

“I found the trident, Orm,” Atlanna stood from the bed, body hovering up in the middle of the room, the crown on her head rather small than he remanded from his young years, when she would play with him, and put it on his head, promising he would be great. From the way she spoke, she knew somehow, though Vulko, the only one present in that room who didn’t die or vanished, Murk was gone, never came back from the surface, and he didn’t tell.

Actually, it was a part of the beginning of his reign, Orm kept locked deep inside the back of his mind to never remember again, a hard task he had fulfilled like any other until months ago. It began with a struggle, when his hand closed around the trident left behind, the silence of the room sucked him into an abyss of despair, there was no need to excuse himself, Orm left right away, feeling the bubbles of her impulses breaking on his cheeks for she had been in the same path not long ago, but he went straight to the palace, two tridents and only one heir; he knocked her weapon down under his attires, under the studies on the tables, where no one could see, cracked the wall and hid there, the only vestige of its existence was a scratch on the material being taken off and placed back again. It hunted him like a spirit in nights, when his body arched for her, painfully, and he still felt the taste of her mouth on his, nightmares invaded his sleep, the weapon shaking the cabinet, shining through, it would break it at some point, align on his neck and take his life, Orm always woke almost drowning. He had missed her in the morning, for when he had opened his eyes for her smile, the curve of her lips an enchantment of their own, he had missed her in the afternoons, her voice of talks, of stories about her life, of Xebel, of her mother and father, and gone brother, how many details she could give when describing what she thought Atlantis could improve. He had missed her, completely, even losing in rare occasion the control of himself, opening the crack on the wall and staring at her trident. He doubted it was capable of calling her into the Seven Seas, calling her back home. He never tried, pulling the wall back into place and scolded himself to never even think of doing it.

And love didn’t fade like that, he grieved her for her death to him, and suffered quiet when he saw pearls, when he saw purple. Tried twice harder, and harder to forget her, focusing on his kingdom that was worth the sacrifice, for only years later, he was able to push her back into the darkness his brain made just for her to dwell, a coffin of black arabesques and red scales, her name adorned on the visior. Yet, Orm, with an extend acquaintance in atlantean behavior, should had know that kind of happiness simply wouldn’t be replaced like that, didn’t matter how much he succeed in his duties, that kind of happiness not even Atlantis could bring back.

The irony was the sacrifice he offered to the Gods passed by as nothing, for there he was with nothing left on his palms. Nothing.

Atlanna saw what that did to her son, saw the eyebrows falling, the lower lip curling, the pupils longing into the ground, and an awful sigh leaving his mouth. What did on his body, sinking into the floor with heaviness, the broad shoulders falling in an inferior posture. The first feeling coming from him. It was sorrow.

“Please, mother,” he begged, trembling. “Leave.”

She didn’t, instead went for him, staring at the ghost of a warrior who had no strength, she smiled in grace, empathy, denying with her head. “The writtens on it allowed me to find its owner. She is back in Atlantis, my son.”

Orm widened his eyes, heart skipping a beat with the revelation. “No, please, mother…”

“Yes,” Atlanna nodded then, careful with the words, whispering into his cheeks, the same ones her hands came to hold, to not let him shatter across that depressing cell. “Do you wish to see her?”

The mere thought of her in front of him, seeing his state, what he came was a shame of its own. Gods, the things she must heard of him already, the fallen, miserable thing he had become, locked away in a prison, no crown, the humiliation it brought to Orm was a reason to never leave there again.

He finally broke, shattered around, his blue eyes red of insanity, pushing his own mother’s arms away, impulsing himself into the ceiling, where his back hit with a loud thug, the roar leaving his throat was enough for the whole building to hear, if not, outside too. No! He impulsed to the glass then, hitting with his left shoulder in a chance to escape that room, go to the Trench himself and be gone, there was no way to bear the emptiness the news created inside. Orm wanted to disappear.

Atlanna yelled in his behalf, trying to get him, calm him down when he tried to divide the glass again, shouting with all his being. The guards outside were moving already, to contain him. Orm didn’t care, he kept trying, again, and again. Until he stopped all of the sudden, his senses captured the attack seconds before, and his body shifted to dodge it. It was no plasma, no shot, just five curved edges piercing the glass. He was definitely drowning when his neck betrayed his commands and followed from where it came from.

As the sun that long ago shined through Atlantis, Y/N was found by the entrance of his cell, hovering like a goddess ascending, if years had any affect on her beautiful traces, the only difference able to be shown would be her hair, longer than before, a big halo around the face, her own crown of braids dancing between the threads. The attire was purple, scales trickling green and blue, defining the curves of a body he knew like the lines on the palm of his hand in the past. Her wrists contained silver bracelets, a match to the silver boots up high on her thighs, where the ends branched gills. And, as the memories, on top of her high eyebrows there were the pearls, the biggest one between them, and the smallests following the shapes, her pupils under the thick lashes were harsh, the same superior posture she had when she was gifting in his birthday, the lips in burgundy color. She didn’t seem happier, neither sad. Neutral.

Orm was speechless, stuck. Emotions he had buried deep down forcing their way up against the barrier he built to protect himself, the water in his lungs missed the automatic suck and felt like he wasn’t breathing at all, he was drowning in everything she was and represented. How lower he had to reach to be enough?

“Orm,” she called his name as a firm song from the Fishermen, tenting to a side, speeding to enter the cell and hovering by this presence. It was a clue for every guard and Atlanna withdraw for privacy. He still couldn’t believe she was in his front, judging his defeat as the rest of his people was, the  disgrace he had fallen into, the strongest burden any could carry.

He retracted without noticing, to the corner, head low, his voice tried to get out, ask her if she had any pity left for him, she would leave. Melancholy, his legs curled, and he knelt on the floor, cheek resting on the surface, not capable of looking into her direction. Her shadow engulfed his being demonstrating she was not leaving, her soft hands came soon later, to his face, the palms pulling gently his cheek back. When Orm felt the scales of her attire on his face, realised it was true, relived the nights and nights her chambers were an escape, and before he knew, his eyes closed in a sob, his hands implored around her, grasped her hips, clutching closer, supporting his weight on her stomach, where he ultimately cried, tears mixing in the ocean.

Y/N hugged his head, caring, letting him lament all his lost, to assume him that, in the end, there was still hope.

[artlessictoan]

Hi. Could I request some butch!yodo/fem!chou (i know you had that one before but I can't imagine anything else for those two)? Maybe in that rivaling music shops AU from that other time you did requests? Thank you very much!

nonski.. i literally screeched when i saw this tHANK YOU (here’sthe other req referenced in the ask!)

(requests open)

(ao3 mirror)

---

She carefully examined her reflection in the shop window,brushing some stray hairs back into place, adjusting her miniskirt to show offa little more leg, before pushing open the poster-laden door and steppingthrough it with the practised confidence of a supermodel.

As embarrassing as it was to practice her strut in themirror at home, she had to admit, the effect was well worth it.

The door creaked slightly as it closed behind her andChouchou was immediately hit with the increasingly familiar scent of sweat,leather and – weirdly, for a store dedicated to all things grungy and hardcore –sandalwood. She had been told by Sarada, that Yodo always lit incense as soonas she got in, while they were getting ready to open the shop.

It was discovering little things like that that kept hercoming back, time after time, in the hopes that maybe she’ll find yet anotherexcuse to fall just a little more in love with the tiny ball of chaos,verve and idiocy that was Yodo.

As usual, the shop was empty. She glanced around, idlywondering how the hell they were still in business when, in all the times she’dvisited, she’d never seen more than three people browsing the aisles at once. Yodoinsisted that metalheads, while not overly abundant in the general population,were extremely dedicated to their genre, however Sarada had explained that Yodocame from a wealthy family and had a doting adoptive father who was very generouswith his money and would do anything for his children.

Just another surprising discovery and another butterfly inher stomach.

When a thorough search of the shop floor revealed no Yodo, shecasually hopped over the counter and poked her head in the storeroom.

A smirk immediately spread across her face. The short blondehad her back to her and apparently hadn’t even realised that anyone was there,judging by the bright wires trailing down from her ears; Chouchou could hearthe muffled drumming the earbuds were emitting from across the room.

She stepped closer. “You know, it would be really easy forsomeone to rob you right now,” Chouchou said.

Yodo didn’t respond, just kept sorting through CDs andnodding her head along to whatever she was listening to. Raising an eyebrow,Chouchou snapped her fingers experimentally. Yodo mumble-sang a fewincomprehensible words and started tapping her foot.

Oh, she’s just asking for it!

Hovering just behind her target – who was still utterlyengrossed in the bass thudding through her earphones – and before she couldthink better of it, she lightly pressed a finger to the middle of her spine andran it all the way up to her neck.

“HAH!” Chouchou barely registered the surprisingly gruffshout, before Yodo spun on her heel, fist already swinging.

Incredibly, she managed to land her hard, bony knucklesright on Chouchou’s elbow.

“AGHHH FUCK! WHAT THE-” Yodo ripped out her earphones “-Chouchou?What the fuck are ya doing? I nearly beat the shit outta you! Fuck, my fist.”

Gripping her arm like it was about to fall off, she had tofight through the shudders racking her entire body before she could reply, “Howdid you hit me right on the funny bone? Fuck.” They were both still swearingand groaning, clutching their respective aching body parts tightly.

Chouchou sucked in a sharp breath as the last of the shakes fadedto nothing. Elbow still hurt though. “Ok, learned my lesson, never doing thatagain,” she said, laughing through the pain.

“What were you even expecting to happen?” Yodo asked, ajustifiably annoyed look on her face.

“I dunno, was kinda hoping I might get a cute little squealout of you or something-” which she still desperately wanted to hear, but waswilling to accept that she would have to find a different tactic in the future;maybe she was ticklish? “-I’m sorry, I promise I won’t sneak up on you anymore,but you do realise that your shop is open, right? Maybe you should turn downthe volume enough that you can hear when the door opens.”

Cheeks puffing up like a hamster, Yodo replaced the earbuds,picked up the box of CDs she had been sorting and pushed past her, shoutingbehind her as she disappeared through the door, “Y’know I don’t come into yourshop and criticise your work habits.”

Trailing behind her, Chouchou leaned against the counter andwatched her friend return to her task, occasionally glancing at the empty store.

“You should at least turn down the volume a little, my earsare hurting in sympathy.”

“God, you’re worse than my dad,” she mumbled, thoughher hand did drift down to her phone and the loud, heavy beat faded to a faint,tinny noise. It was mostly drowned out by the clacking of plastic cases as Yodomoved albums into incomprehensible piles. Chouchou stared at the band names tryingto find some link – or even a single familiar name at all – but came up blank.

She picked up the top CD in the pile closest to her and casuallybegan reading through the track list. “So, what’re you listening to?” she asked.

“Oi, don’t be messin’ up my system.” She didn’t try to take itback though. “And none of your business.”

“C’mon, tell me!”

“You wouldn’t know them anyways.” For someone who wasgenerally down-to-earth, Yodo had an amazingly pretentious streak in her.

She raised a brow, but Chouchou was still grinning uncontrollablywhen she said, “Wow, music snob much?” Dropping the CD back on the appropriatestack, Chouchou turned all her attention to her new game. “Gimme a hint, rock?Metal? Punk?”

“You’re not gonna get it-”

“Just because I’m not hugely into this stuff, doesn’t mean I’mcompletely ignorant.” In fact, she had quite a good knowledge of classic rockand metal; her dad played it all the time when she was a kid and she still hada nostalgic soft spot for the genre, even if she had mostly gravitated towardpop, funk and soul as she’d gotten older. “I’m not going to stop bugging youuntil you tell me.”

Yodo gave her an unplaceable look and silently picked up apile and quickly stomped toward the ‘grindcore’ aisle.

She wasn’t about to give up that easy. Chouchou followedher, playing a very one-sided game of twenty questions as she went, pushing thelimits of her knowledge of Yodo’s favourite music. Outside of the occasionalgrunt and assertions that she was never going to find out who it was, Yodoremained unresponsive.

Well, she couldn’t be having that, the whole point ofher teasing was to get a reaction, to get her attention, with the nebulousend goal of eventually kissing her and hopefully things would just carry onfrom there.

Disaster gay she might be, but she was at least self-awareabout it.

But, until she found the courage to confess, she had anurgent mystery to solve and she’d just thought of a brilliant plan.

Asking what decade the song was from in her whiniest voice,she pulled her phone out and tapped out a quick message. Just a few secondslater, Yodo jumped and frowned down at the pocket of her tight jeans, the onesthat were ripped to the point of being non-existent. Chouchou was veryfond of those jeans.

Leaning over her shoulder, Chouchou snickered at the textYodo had just received – a simple ‘hey girl’ – and, before she could ask whatthe hell she was messaging her for when she was literally right next to her,she reached over and snatched the phone out of her hand, tugging the wire ofthe earbuds with it.

“Hey!” Yodo spun around, glaring up at her with thosebeautiful eyes, that could look anything from green, to blue, to grey,depending on the light. But, right now, they just looked… apprehensive?

That gave her pause, just for a moment, but when her friendgave no sign that she was truly angry, which she knew from experiencewas a valid concern, she decided to push her luck and grin. “Hey, you weren’ttelling me, so I’m just gonna listen for myself to find out.”

“NO!”

She held the phone high above Yodo’s head – not exactly adifficult feat, she barely reached her elbows, even when she wasn’twearing six-inch heels – and stuck her tongue out at her, before catching oneof the dangling earbuds and sticking it in her own ear, all the while, nudgingYodo’s grasping hands away.

The tone was an immediate shock, much softer and lighterthan what she’d been expecting, as was the perfectly clear, lilting voice ofthe female vocalist.

It was also very familiar and she found herself singingalong for half a second before slowly saying, “Wait… I know this song, this is…”Suddenly, it all clicked together and she was biting her lip trying not tolaugh. “Awwww, the scary punk rocker likes sugary bubble-gum pop!”

Yodo slapped a hand against her mouth and glanced around the– still empty – shop. “Not so loud!”

She raised her brows and gently peeled the hand from herlips, maybe revelling in the skin contact a little longer than appropriate. “Seriously?You’re that embarrassed?” she asked, watching in mild amusement as her friendkept looking over her shoulder, as though a horde of metalheads was going to materialisebehind them any second to mock her taste in music.

It was a little cute, in all honesty. Or maybe it was justthat Yodo was so cute that everything she did gained an air ofadorability.

“No, I just…” She bit her lip and, god, thatwas just unfair, because Chouchou really wanted to lean down and try it forherself. “You were raving ‘bout her new album the other day, figured I’d checkit out, see what the fuss was about.”

Literally clapping her hands in joy, she released the mostgirlish squeal she’d probably ever made in her life. “Oh, that’s so sweet ofyou! So, what do you think?”

“It’s-”

Chouchou unconsciously leaned forwards, eyes almost poppingout of her head as she waited in terrified anticipation for the verdict. Shedidn’t know when Yodo’s opinion had become so important to her, but she was silentlypraying that her taste in music had impressed her crush; or at the very leastthat it hadn’t made her decide that she was absolutely not cool enough to behanging out with her and could she please leave the shop before her glitterypop songs scared off any customers.

“-really good. The middle’s a bit weak, but that guitar workis surprisingly solid for a pop artist and that song Paradise Sunsets probablyhas some of the best lyrics I’ve heard all year.”

She didn’t release a sigh of relief, mostly because she wasalready spewing out a rush of words that even she herself only half understood,so rushed and tripping over her words was she. “Right? I dunno that she’llever make another song that good, but it’s definitely one of my all-time faves.”

“Yeah, I’d never really paid much attention to her before,but I did skim through some of her older stuff too, there’s some really greatstuff in there!” Those ever-changing eyes were shining with the same kind ofexcitement she always got when she spoke about discovering a new band, or whenshe sang on stage in front of a crowd of dozens, as though it were a crowd ofthousands.

Music was such a huge part of her life – Chouchou’s tooreally – and seeing how much she loved and cared about a singer she hadintroduced her too…

“You know, I can think of a few similar artists I couldrecommend you, if you’re interested.”

Yodo gave her a blank look for a second, before her cheeksdarkened and she gave a wide grin. “Sounds fun, but if you’re subjecting me to themainstream, then I’m gonna be giving you a crash course in the history of metalin return.”

Even more time spent in the company of the cutest, coolestwoman in the world, bonding over their shared passion for music? Yeah, shecould live with that.

---

[your-iron-lung]

No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross 10

aka ‘The House That Dripped Blood’; available to read on AO3 HERE

Story Synopsis:  Some weird low-key occult parties start popping up that Steve can’t in good conscience ignore and takes it upon himself to investigate. Billy gets caught up in the consequences of his meddling, and isn’t it funny? For all the strange things the Upside Down has thrown his way, it’s werewolves that Steve has trouble accepting exist.

Chapter Word Count: 7927

Pairings: Eventual Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington

Genre: Supernatural/Drama/Horror-ish

Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

Next Chapter: 11

Notes: if you follow me you may have noticed i havent posted in a while- this is bc i spend all my time playing ffxiv instead of setting aside determined amounts of time to spend on writing/drawing and i have a bunch of artist alleys coming up that im ill prepared for and im terrible at budgeting UH YEP bad excuse but WHAT CAN YA DO here we are

(ive also set up a ko-fi account if you want to give drop me some tippy tips if u enjoy the word things i do) ((no pressure tho))

"Bigfoot."

Hopper leaned back in his chair; let it creak and groan under his weight until he knew it was at its limit, and then pushed it a little more. He studied the no-nonsense expression on the hunter before him, and intrinsically knew that the man was speaking truth.

"Bigfoot," the old man said again, speaking a little sterner than he had before once he recognized Hopper's amiable expression of disbelief. "I seen't him out in the woods just the other day."

The aging man had lumbered into the police station almost immediately after Hopper came in, bundled in some worn hunting gear that looked almost as old as he was. The deputies had offered to speak with him after hearing his initial claim, but they'd been refused when Callahan couldn't stop smirking. The old hunter had insisted on speaking with Hopper, who leaned forward now, taking the stress off of his chair to take a sip of the coffee Florence had brought in for him. He didn't look at the old man as he drank.

"So let me get this straight," Hopper began, setting his coffee aside to rub at his forehead, "you came in first thing in the morning worried about a missing friend of yours, but now you're telling me you're worried about Bigfoot."

"You know me, Jim," the hunter said, a slight hint of pleading desperation edging out of his voice. "You know I ain't some crazy old coot. I ain't seen Lamm in a long while, and yessir I'm worried 'bout him, but when I went out to his cabin to check on him I seen it: I seen Bigfoot!"

As incredulous as the claim was, Hopper believed him- not about it being Bigfoot, exactly, but he believed that the man had seen something out there in the woods, and it had the possibility of being that something he'd spent the last two weeks fruitlessly searching for.

Regardless, he didn't want to let the old hunter know he was taking him seriously. The last thing he needed was for his community to think he believed in this sort of nonsense, but people in town were going missing, and people he knew were getting hurt: if his only lead should turn up in the form of an old man believing he'd caught sight of an urban legend, then so be it. He'd follow it through, but he'd be subtle about it.

"You sure it wasn't just a trick of the light or something, Wes? You know your eyes aren't what they used to be," Hopper remarked casually, softening his voice to let him down easy. "And this isn't the first time Lamm's gone missing; you know he's one of those types of shut ins. Remember those weeks he was gone hunting 'vampires'? He's the kind of guy who lives in his own head more than he lives out here, he'll turn up again on his own time."

The hunter's lips twitched into a frown. "Alright, maybe Lamm is a little off kilter," he relented, averting his eyes for a second, "and maybe it weren't Bigfoot, but the tracks it left were huge 'n mighty, by God, and I ain't seen nothin' else like it before. If it weren't Bigfoot, then at the very least it had big feet, Jim, and I ain't never seen feet quite like 'em."

Interest piqued, Hopper became more attentive. "How's that?"

"Well, they was stretched out lookin', for one." The hunter paused, tilting his head slightly as he tried to recall the details of what he'd seen out in the woods. He held his hands up, spaced apart in an approximation of how long the prints he'd found had been. "Human lookin', almost, which is what had me thinkin' it coulda been Bigfoot. They weren't the tracks of somethin' native 'round here, and I only caught but the barest glimpse of it, but it was tall, Jim; taller'n you or I."

That sounded right; the prints he'd found and unsuccessfully tracked were, as the hunter said, 'huge 'n mighty' and matched the description of what he'd just been told. It didn't take an expert's opinion (though he had consulted one) to discern that the markings just weren't natural. Hopper set his mug of coffee aside and pulled out a notepad from one of his desk drawers. He uncapped a pen and held it to the page for a moment before writing down a few preliminary notes for himself on the top line.

The hunter cocked his head and leaned forward to look at what he was writing and said, "That don't look official."

"Because it's not; this one's just gonna be between us, alright?" Hopper said, looking up to meet Wesley's blue, watery eyes. He held the stare long enough to get his point across, waiting for a sign of affirmation before looking back to the notepad and pressing the tip of the pen to the paper. "Tell me where and when exactly you saw this 'Bigfoot' of yours."

The day was cold and grey at its start, with harsh, biting winds ushering in thick clouds that blocked out any hope of the sun ever making an appearance. Steve eyed the sky apprehensively as he made his way back to his car, wary of the way the clouds looked as though they might start dropping hail on him at a moment's notice. Billy feigned disinterest as Steve opened the rear passenger door and leaned in to shove the box of things he'd bought at the Hunting & Camping store into the backseat. Even with his vision obscured in part by the sunglasses he'd elected to wear, he didn't miss the strong look of annoyance that graced Steve's features when he came around to the driver's seat and entered the car with a pout.

"That guy give you a hard time or something?" Billy asked as Steve buckled in and put the BMW into reverse, turning in his seat to hastily jerk the car out of the parking lot. "Why do you look like someone shit in your cereal?"

Steve clicked his tongue. "He just kept asking what a 'kid like me' needed with a bunch of chains and rope and shit. My god, he just would not let it go, like he thought I was trying to build my own sex dungeon or something. Fucking annoying."

"You mean that's not what we're doing?" Billy asked, grinning a bit at the way Steve's face pinched up in disgust. "What'd you say?"

"I told him the truth; said it was to tie up a werewolf. 'It's a full moon tonight, y'know? Gotta tie 'em down or they go all crazy on you', I said to him, and you know what he said to me then?" Steve asked, speeding out of the little downtown shopping area Hawkins played host to and sounding every bit as gossipy as Carol did when she caught wind of a scandal.

"How the fuck would I?" Billy drawled, turning away from the conversation to watch the scenery pass by disinterestedly.

"He said, 'Damn fool kids will never learn'," Steve said, ignoring him. "'Damn fool kids will never learn', like, what the hell does that mean?"

Billy shrugged. "Who knows? As long as he accepted daddy's plastic then what does it matter?"

Steve clicked his tongue again in annoyance and rolled his eyes. "Fuck you."

Feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on, Billy declined to retort. They rode on in silence, the chains in the box Steve had bought clinking together softly in the backseat before the radio was finally turned on to mask the sound.

Regardless of whether or not Steve actually believed something was going to happen to Billy that night, he couldn't deny that the whole day leading up to that evening just felt… off. From meeting up with Billy earlier that afternoon to go by the camping store, to grabbing lunch together before heading over to the Henderson's house, it all felt wrong.

It was something Steve had difficulty pinpointing the origins of, but as they began work on clearing out enough space in the cellar for Billy to do whatever it was he thought he was going to do, he soon came to realize that the feeling of wrongness seemed to stem from Billy himself.

Few words could better describe Billy than 'annoying' or 'smart-mouthed', but he'd been uncharacteristically tight-lipped all day. He'd become a remarkably dull version of himself, and Steve wasn't sure quite how to handle that.

Usually one to argue and bite back at everything Steve said, when he'd begun dishing out instructions on how best to clear out some floor space in the cellar, Billy hadn't talked back to him a single time; merely lit a cigarette and blinked at him slowly, silently acknowledging what had been asked of him before getting on with it.

It was unsettling. Steve could almost say that he hated how submissive Billy was because of how used he'd gotten to the back-talk and smart-ass remarks Billy usually had ready for him, and though, yes, there were times he had wished for this kind of attitude from him, the silence and absolute subordination coupled with all of the other behavioral changes Billy was exhibiting were enough to set Steve on edge.

Billy kept tonguing the gaps in his teeth where they'd fallen out over the course of the week, and he never seemed to realize he wasn't alone. Sometimes he'd jump at the sound of Steve's voice, or shake his head and crease his brow in confusion when he turned around to see Steve moving stuff somewhere behind him, but arguably the worst part of it all was that he stank.

He'd tried to mask it with an overabundance of cologne that had nearly suffocated Steve when they began working in closer quarters, but buried beneath that was a hint of something that smelled awfully rotten. If he had to, Steve could liken it to the stench of the monster they'd encountered in the woods, but he chose not to, instead chalking it up to a severe case of nervous b.o. or something. The implications that the scents could be related bothered him too deeply to believe, and even then he wasn't sure he really wanted to know what the source of the smell was.

The stench of decay emanating from Billy's person was worrisome enough on its own, but with so much to do in order to get ready before sunset, Steve had a hard time figuring out where to primarily apply his focus: there were simply too many things going on for him to worry about one thing more than another.

The giant hole in the wall that Dart made to tunnel out of the cellar was his immediate concern, but Dustin had done a good job of hiding it from his mother by placing a tall shelf in front of it, essentially blocking it off. That didn't mean it wasn't entirely inaccessible, but Steve wasn't sure what more he could do about it. In all honesty, he'd forgotten about it until he'd tried to move the shelf aside and then found himself peeking into the eerie tunnel. He'd knocked over several things in his haste to put the shelf back in place, but Billy hadn't seemed to notice it, and if he didn't, maybe he wouldn't think to use it if- or when- he lost himself to whatever supernatural effects he was experiencing.

"Big if, though," Steve muttered aloud to himself. Turning away from the shelf, he looked over to where Billy was inspecting some old power tools, turning a nail gun over in his hands before setting it back in the box he'd pulled it out of. "So, are we good or what? This baby-proofed enough for you?" Steve asked, startling Billy out of whatever ruminations he'd been lost to.

Billy looked at Steve blankly, face impassive and emotionless. He frowned, and then looked around himself as though he'd forgotten where he was. When he spoke, his voice was monotone and devoid of his usual arrogance as he said, "I don't know, Harrington; is it?"

"You tell me, man, this was your idea." Steve watched as Billy returned his focus on the box of tools he'd originally been rummaging through. Picking up a hammer, Billy balanced its weight in his hands before gripping the handle tightly. Steve distrusted the look in Billy's eye as he held it. "What are you, a child? Quit rifling through their shit, put it back," he said.

Billy didn't reply or even acknowledge that he'd heard him. Ignoring Steve's demand, he stepped up to the abandoned work bench to splay his left hand out over the wood and lifted the ballpeen up.

"What the fuck are you doing? Put it down," Steve said again, his voice rising slightly in pitch when he understood what Billy was doing. He started towards him in an effort to stop him, but halted when the hammer was brought crashing down.

It missed his hand, but the force of the impact splintered the wooden table's surface. Steve gaped as Billy turned around, a cocky little smile turning up his lips.

"Someone could get hurt real bad down here if they weren't careful, huh, Harrington?" he said, a fierceness that Steve hated to admit he'd missed charging his voice. "But we've been real careful cleaning this shithole out, haven't we, pally?"

"You sick piece of shit, give me that," Steve snapped, snatching the hammer away from Billy's pliant grip. "Fuck you, Hargrove; you could've just said you wanted to move this shit out of here."

"Had you pegged as being more of a visual learner," Billy sneered as Steve threw the hammer back into the box of tools. "Your concern was touching, though, really."

"You're the one who came asking me for help, fuckface. Begged me, almost, if I'm remembering right. 'Oh, Steve, help me, I'm so scared of fake movie monsters!'"

Steve hadn't meant to rise to the taunt, but Billy's insufferable attitude had him stooping to his level as he hoisted the hefty box of tools in his arms and lugged them over to the stairway. Billy laughed dryly at Steve's mocking tone.

"We both wish that fucking thing had been fake," he said as Steve placed the box on the ground at the foot of the stairs beside the box of supplies he'd bought earlier. They were both quiet for a moment, their attempt at a conversation dying as quickly as it had been brought on.

"Only one thing left to do then," Steve said morosely.

Billy blinked and turned to face the stairway, eyes rising slowly up to where the cellar doors were propped open wide. Steve felt the guilt of having to lock him in prematurely and had to remind himself that he wanted to be locked in.

"Better hop to it then, Harrington," Billy said lowly, lips curling back into a familiar grin, but without all his teeth in place to flesh it out, Steve found the display to be more unsettling than annoying. "Let's get this sex dungeon set up."

Steve grimaced. "Not even in your wildest dreams, Hargrove."

"Nothing's off the table in my dreams, pretty boy." Billy breathed out a small laugh at the disgusted look on Steve's face, but the grin he'd been displaying slowly fell away. "Is it getting dark yet?"

"Uh, kind of, but the sun hasn't set yet," Steve replied, stepping up into the stairwell to check the status of the sky. It was as dull and grey as it had been all day, the overcast weather acting as a harbinger for the snowfall the local meteorologist had foretold was coming. "If you took off those fucking sunglasses you'd be able to tell."

"These are for your benefit as much as mine," Billy snapped, frowning suddenly.

"Yeah, okay, whatever that means," Steve said dismissively as he began to fish out the cords of rope from the box, letting them spool out onto the ground before gathering them into his hands. "How do you uh, how do you want to do this?"

"Aw, is this kitten's first time tying someone up?" Billy purred, not moving from where he stood in the middle of the cellar, directly under the light. "Who knew 'King' Steve's favourite flavor was vanilla."

Steve rolled his eyes as he brought the ropes over, wrinkling his nose at the mixed smell of rot and cologne that got stronger with proximity. "I've dated girls kinkier than you'd know what to do with," he retorted as he gestured for Billy to hold out his hands.

"Oh please," Billy said with a snort, "there are no kinky girls in Hawkins or I would've found them by now."

"You're obviously not looking hard enough," Steve muttered in response, gesturing again for Billy to hold out his hands.

Shrugging out of his leather jacket and tossing it over the work table he'd splintered, Billy held his hands up obediently and watched stoically as Steve wound the rope around his wrists, binding his hands together roughly.

"What's should our safe word be?" Billy teased, smirking as Steve wound another, longer length of rope over the original knot.

"There is no safe word because this isn't a sex thing!" Steve insisted angrily.

Flustered, he sighed irritably as he wound the long part of the rope around Billy's waist, hating how close he had to get in order to make sure the rope was tight enough, though Billy seemed to be enjoying how close he'd gotten. He kept shifting his weight around, trying, it seemed, to get Steve into a more compromising position. Annoyed, but determined to finish, Steve did his best to ignore Billy's constant movement and the disgusting, rotten musk that was wafting off of his person to finish tying him up.

"Why do you fucking stink so goddamn badly?" Steve finally asked with a scowl, repressing the urge to gag as he tied the ropes off into a clumsy knot. He stumbled away from Billy, reaching up to pinch his nostrils shut so he wouldn't have to smell the rot anymore, but the rancid scent seemed to have lodged itself deep into his nose. "You smell like a dead Calvin Klein model or something, holy shit, did you use a whole fucking bottle?"

The amusement Billy had held while taunting Steve left his face. His smirk shrunk into an awkward grimace as he looked away in embarrassment.

"I don't know, alright?" he admitted bitterly. "It doesn't matter how much I bathe, and between that and my eyes I have no idea what the fuck's going on with me."

"What about your eyes?" Steve asked hesitantly, unsure if he really wanted to know the reasoning behind why Billy had insisted on wearing sunglasses all day.

Billy faltered for a moment, hesitating briefly before reaching up and plucking the sunglasses off his face. With both hands bound together, he awkwardly folded the legs against the lenses and tucked them into the collar of his button up. He turned his gaze to Steve, who couldn't help but suck in a slight breath of surprise.

His eyes were so bloodshot they looked ready to start bleeding straight out of the sockets. There were hardly any whites left in the sclera to be seen as Billy winked at him, looking immensely uncomfortable at the way Steve was gaping openly at him.

"Do they- hurt? Or whatever?" Steve asked, unconsciously taking a few steps forward to get a better look. In the dim lighting of the basement, even the blues of Billy's eyes looked reddish.

"What's it to you if they do?" Billy snapped, suddenly irritable. He squared his jaw and looked away, unable to face the amount of concern Steve was showing him.

The worry Steve felt for the both of them in that moment grew stronger as he backed off, letting the matter of the changes in Billy's physicality drop, despite how alarming they were. "If I don't hear anything an hour after the sun goes down, I'll let you out," Steve said abruptly as he walked backwards towards the stairwell, grasping for the hand rail behind him blindly, unsure why he was so reluctant now to let Billy out of his sight. It was what they'd agreed upon earlier, and he said it meaning for it to sound reassuring, but the way Billy's lips twitched made it apparent he didn't interpret it that way.

Billy didn't respond.

"Well, uh, I guess that's it then," Steve said as he bent down, placing his box of chains atop the box of tools Billy had been messing around with before lifting them up together to carry them up and out of their man-made dungeon.

The cellar doors shrieked loudly as they were closed, a high pitched agony that erupted when the metal grinded against itself uncooperatively. Steve didn't mind that so much as he hated the sound the chains made as he wove them through the door handles, reminding him of what he was doing and who he was imprisoning as the steel rattled sharply against the doors. He winced at the commotion, but continued to loop them through the small door handles until no more could be fit between them. He tested their sturdiness by attempting to pull them open, and to his pleasure, they remained shut. The doors were secured; the cellar, as far as he was concerned, was now a suitable prison. All that was left of him now was to play the role of the jailor appropriately.

He stared down at his handiwork for a moment before the cold, blowing winds prompted him to seek shelter. Already a few snowflakes were fluttering out of the sky, flying into his cheeks as he turned away, re-gathering the box of tools in his arms and headed for the door Dustin promised he'd leave a key for.

Searching under the backdoor mat, Steve found the promised key, and true to the rest of Dustin's word, the entire home was empty, save for the cat that chirped a greeting for him from atop the kitchen counter. With a deep intake of breath Steve glanced at his watch, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him, wondering if he really was prepared for the worst. In the trunk of his car his bat waited for him, ready to be put to use just in case shit really did hit the fan, but he found himself questioning if he'd really be able to use it; bludgeoning monsters to death was one thing, but turning it on a boy he knew was only a monster figuratively was something else entirely.

For both his and Billy's sakes, he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Shrugging out of his thick coat, Steve set it down beside him as he took a seat on the Henderson's couch. He glanced at his watch again, dismayed by the fact that time wasn't progressing as fast as he wished it was and sat in anxious worry about what the rest of the night might have in store.

But at least he was comfortable and warm.

The cellar was not.

It wasn't the cold that Billy minded, so much as it was the anticipation: when would the transformation start? Exactly at sundown? A little before? A little after? Would he actually end up transforming? And why the fuck did the word 'transform' make him so damn uncomfortable? The unknown factors surrounding his circumstances were almost worse than any of the physical symptoms he'd been experiencing as of late, and he'd been experiencing a lot.

Anxiety wasn't something Billy had a lot of experience with, but it was the only thing he could think of that explained why his heart had been beating oddly all day. It was running at a notably higher rate, as though he'd been playing basketball or working out extraneously, and brought on palpitations he wasn't used to dealing with at the elevated speed.

In short he felt terrible. His whole body ached like it was going through puberty again. Both his arms and legs were sore in ways that mimicked the aches that came with growing pains when he'd had them, but he couldn't understand why he would begin to hurt in that way again. He hadn't had the energy to work out in two days despite eating practically anything he could get his hands on, so the soreness in his limbs was unwarranted. Either his body was preparing itself for the coming night, or he was having an incredibly drawn-out heart attack.

Standing at the foot of the stairwell, Billy felt the cold permeating in through the closed opening and moved away to find a better spot to wait. He wanted rub his arms to bring some warmth into them, but couldn't with the way they were bound. Already the ropes were beginning to dig into his wrists, rubbing uncomfortably against his skin as he realized he wasn't actually that cold anyway, despite the frigid weather; his body temperature had been on a steady incline leading up to now, leaving him with a rosy complexion and a near constant fever, the long-term effects of which left him feeling severely disoriented.

He could barely remember meeting up at Steve's house only a few hours ago to carpool to his kid friend's house, riding with the windows down in spite of the severe wind-chill as they went into town to get lunch and buy rope. Even though they'd ridden together, he couldn't remember now if they'd actually talked about anything or not. All he could remember were the low tones of the radio and the resonating throbs of the wind as it swooped in through the open windows, rushing to fill the audial space between them. It was as though his mind had been steeped in a fog, and he couldn't accurately think through it: everything was clouded over, incomprehensible, like waking up the morning after a bender and being unable to remember everything he'd done the night before, but knowing all the same that he'd taken part in some memorable shit.

Would there be pain, he wondered, and would it come on as suddenly as it had to the character in the movie he'd made Steve watch? Even though 'American Werewolf' was just a movie, stories like that had to spawn from some sort of truth, didn't they?

The dim little lightbulb that hung overhead flickered briefly, drawing Billy's attention to it as he took a seat at the work table's bench, wishing his eyes weren't a dry and sore as they were.

Coming from above, he could hear the muffled sounds of a TV show permeating through the cellar's ceiling. He couldn't help but think ill of Steve in that moment, but if their situations had been reversed, he probably would have been doing the same thing; he couldn't fault Harrington for finding a way to pass the time, though he wished he had something similar to do for himself. There was nothing interesting to hold his attention, and time passed at a dreadfully slow rate.

Stretching out on the bench, he laid himself down slowly, mindful of which parts of his back hurt the most, and gazed up at the cement overhead disinterestedly. He listened to the muffled sounds of the distant television, trying to conjure an image in his mind that corresponded with what little dialogue he could hear, but the rapid beating of his heart overpowered the noises coming from the TV. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing in an attempt to lower his heart rate, but it just kept going, pounding in a determined rhythm that seemed to be quickening with each passing minute. A bead of sweat trickled down from his scalp and over his ear as he wondered if the tingling he felt in the tips of his fingers was because of the cold or from the ropes being tied too tight.

He flexed his fingers, opening and closing his hands into a fist to try and bring sensation back into his fingertips, but to no avail. They remained numb, and the cause of which eluded him.

Frowning, Billy stiffly sat up and began to pinch at his skin, belatedly realizing that the numbness was spreading slowly down the lengths of his fingers, a sensation that sent a chill running down the length of his spine.

"Oh," he said. "Oh shit."

The pain, when he finally did begin to feel it, started in his feet. There were still thirty minutes before the sun went down.

Billy licked his lips nervously as he tried to get his boots off, his numb fingers and bound hands fumbling uselessly with the laces as the pain centralized in his toes and grew in sudden intensity. He was no stranger to pain, but this was unlike anything he'd ever felt before: it was sharp and stabbing, with each throb of pain stemming from the bones in his toes, as though they were growing more pointed in an attempt to pierce their way through his skin as they elongated. He could feel them cracking; each joint slowly popping free of itself as the bones began to push themselves forward.

"Oh, shit," he repeated, and could hear the muffled sounds of a laugh track from whatever sitcom Steve had turned on upstairs roaring in delight as he struggled to finally pull his boots off.

The stabbing sensation didn't relent, even once his shoes lay discarded by his feet. He peeled away his socks with shaking hands and stared down at his toes.

They'd turned a bright, beet red and were bulging like they might burst apart, his skin bubbling up around toenails that were already starting to peel off. He couldn't help the whimper as he tentatively felt them, a pain like touching a freshly popped, skinless blister causing him to draw his fingers back.

It was real. It was happening.

Sweating freely now, he reached away from his feet to brush his dampened hair away from his forehead as sweat rolled down the sides of his face. He paused when he felt his hair pull free from his scalp, clinging to the back of his hand stubbornly. Billy stared at the loose, curly strands with a horrified expression and reached up with a shaking hand to grab more. When he pulled, a handful of his hair came away easily, eliciting another whimper from deep within his throat. Disgusted and frightened, he threw his hair away to the floor.

Breathing quickly, he hastily rubbed his hands free of the loose strands in a panic and tried to calm himself. His whole body trembled as he breathed in deeply through his nose, wondering if he should try to call out to Steve to alert him that the worst case scenario was indeed unfolding. Another laugh track from upstairs came through the ceiling as he felt a sharp, sudden stab of pain in his ribs, prompting him to gasp loudly and curl forward over himself. He could actually feel some part of his ribcage shifting inside his torso as he tucked his arms in to his sides. Any lingering thoughts of trying to remain calm left him as he transitioned from panic to full on fear.

He stood up not knowing what he was going to do, but regretted it instantly: as soon as he put weight on his foot, his ankle collapsed in on itself and brought him to the floor. A shout almost came out with his fall, but he managed to internalize the pain as he was used to doing and grit his teeth as his foot essentially broke itself in half.

The central part of his foot that arched snapped without warning. Billy swore loudly and reached for his foot instinctively, wanting to hold the break in place, but he couldn't bear the agony that came with the contact. Warm tears leaked from his eyes, and when his other lateral arch also split in half, he couldn't help but cry out.

From up above, the noises coming from the television ceased. Steve must have heard him and was listening for him now, trying to gauge whether or not he should intervene. Billy clenched his jaw tighter, determined to keep quiet, but gasped loudly when two of his molars gave out under the pressure, snapping to the side and coming loose of his gumline. The copper taste of blood filled his mouth as he spat the teeth out, shuddering uncontrollably when he felt the vertebrae in his spine begin to pop, one by one, pushing up against his skin that was quickly beginning to feel too tight.

Huffing in great breaths of air, he panted heavily as the bones of his tones finally pierced through his skin, causing most of the flesh surrounding them to burst open like little balloons. Blood splattered across the floor in gruesome, miniature arcs and Billy finally, finally became undone. He shrieked, unable to keep silent any longer as new appendages could be seen inside the flayed bits of bloody skin, slowly growing outward, already a part of him.

Warm tears of pain streaked down his face in thick lines as the skin of his feet continued to be ripped apart, making way for more muscle, new flesh. He wiped at his eyes helplessly and thought he could hear Steve's voice distantly calling out his name, asking if everything was alright.

He blinked, his vision blurred by the tears that would not clear away as he pulled himself over to the stairway.

Shaking wildly all over, Billy stretched out on the floor, realizing belatedly that the waistband of his jeans was growing tighter and tighter. Hissing sharply, he cursed himself for not having the foresight to undress himself as he hastily tried to undo his belt. A pain similar to the initial agony he'd felt in his toes was beginning to manifest itself in his fingers as both of his hands slowly began to turn red, swelling up under the bonds of the rope as he fumbled with the buckle, desperately trying to get it to come free.

"Fuck!" he shouted in frustration, his clothing growing ever tighter as his body continued to bloat. He felt like he was being pinched in half with his belt acting as an unneeded tourniquet. "Fuck! Fuck!"

"Hey! Talk to me Hargrove, what's going on?"

Steve's worried voice trilled down through the cellar doors as he continued vocalizing his frustrations. Billy felt an organ in his abdomen shift out of place before popping, prompting him to groan and curl in on himself before he threw up. His couldn't undo his belt as his vision began to darken.

"Hargrove!" Steve shouted, banging a fist against the steel door. "What the hell's going on? Talk to me!"

"Fuck you!" Billy screamed, unable to articulate anything else as he tried to rub the blackness out of his eyes, but the more he pressed his fingers to them, they more they began to hurt.

A pressure was building up behind them the more he rubbed, and as it increased, his vision grew ever darker. He kept blinking, over and over, feeling his eyes bulge out of their sockets and against his eyelids, trying now to keep his eyeballs in place. He was hyperventilating when he finally went blind, the pressure behind his eyes becoming intolerable eyes before it finally came too much, and his eyes popped free.

He felt them slide out onto over his checks and onto the floor, the slimy, blood-slick nerves leaving tracks of blood on his face as he became totally and completely blind.

"No," he whispered to himself, retching again on the floor as he scrambled across the cement, trying to find the stairs, unable to see. "No, no! This isn't real!"

Beyond the cellar doors, Steve had his ear pressed against the slight crack between the panels, desperately trying to understand what was going on. He wasn't sure what to make of the noises he was hearing, unable to determine if Billy was just trying to mess with him or if he was in actual distress.

"Hargrove," he said impatiently, turning his head to try and peak in through the crack to get a glimpse of what was going on, "you gotta start talking to me, man; what the hell's going on down there?"

"I'm fucking blind," he heard Billy shout, his voice rife with fear. "I can't see anything!"

His voice was shaking as he spoke, and Steve knew then that whatever was happening was legitimate; Billy wasn't one to openly show weakness.

"Okay, stay calm," Steve stammered, but he wasn't sure if that was actually sound advice or not. "It's- it's going to be okay, okay?"

Billy howled, and Steve understood that the pain that carried with his voice must have been terrible to get him to shriek like that. He licked his lips anxiously, not knowing what support he could possibly offer him. He continuously opened and shut his mouth, words of encouragement dying on his tongue before he could manage to speak them.

And then, all at once, the cacophony of agony ceased.

Steve couldn't hear anything over the rapid sound of his breathing for a moment before he finally spoke: "Hargrove? Is… are you okay?"

"Hurts." Billy's voice, quiet, strained, and barely audible over the sounds of things (flesh, fabric) slowly tearing, sounded disconcertingly like he was speaking with a throat full of water. It was gargling and grotesque; completely unlike the smooth, honeyed voice he'd become known for.

"Okay, what, uh, what… what hurts?" Steve whispered in response, fear quieting his previously urgent tone.

"Everything."

"Shit," Steve said to himself, backing away from the cellar door panels as the sounds of something large and heavy being knocked over made him jump. "Just, uh, stay calm," he said, though he wasn't sure if he was saying it to himself or Billy. From down below, he heard Billy groan loudly before going silent again.

Steve's heart was pounding as he hesitated, unsure of what to do. All the details of Billy's haphazardly concocted plan fled his mind as he tried to think back on what they'd agreed to do if something ended up happening, and his first instinct was to open the doors to go down and check on him. He looked at the chains wrapped tightly around the door handles and bit his lip before crouching down and pressing his eye to the crack.

The overhead light wasn't bright enough to reveal much, but at the base of the stairwell there was a small circle of illumination. Steve squinted, ignoring the cold of the steel as he pressed his face against the door, trying to see all that he could.

Blood stains. Torn bits of… something he couldn't quite make out. Dark masses on the stairwell; lots of evidence that pointed towards Billy transforming, but no trace of Billy himself.

"Hargrove," Steve whispered, and then shook his head to clear himself of his cowardice. "Hargrove," he said again, louder and with more emphasis, "dude, you have to talk me through what's happening down there."

He waited, unconsciously holding his breath as he waited for a reply. It was steadily growing darker as the sun slowly sank, making it all the harder to see into the cellar from the tiny slit. Frowning and unable to see anything, Steve turned his head and pressed his ear against the door. From somewhere in the depths of the cellar he could hear something breathing heavily. It was moving, too; he could hear something shuffling, moving around the floor space cautiously.

When he turned his head again to see through the crack, he caught a glimpse of... something large and hulking cross under the light, tall enough to set the lightbulb swinging. He couldn't help but suck in a sharp breath of air, his lungs and throat burning with the sting of the cold weather. The thing- whatever Billy had become- halted just outside the rim of light. Entranced, Steve found he couldn't move as it emitted a low, threatening growl that sounded more like a man impersonating a dog than an actual beast.

From his limited viewpoint, he couldn't see the way the muscles in its legs were tightening, or how it had begun to crouch; he didn't have time to react as it sprang forward, jumping up the stairs in a single leap to ram itself against the doors.

The chains held the doors shut, but the sudden impact smashed the metal against Steve's nose and soon all he could smell was blood as it drained out of his nostrils. He fell backwards, holding his nose as the Billy-creature growled again. Horrified, Steve could only sit in the snow and watch as the doors lurched forward when Billy rammed against them again, trying to escape. The second impact loosened the restraints, and all Steve could do in that moment was watch as they rattled uselessly in place, beginning to slip through the handles as they hadn't been properly locked into place.

Cursing to himself, staggered to his feet and rushed to grab the chains, but as Billy threw his body against the doors again it soon became obvious that even if the doors stayed shut, they were about to pop free of their hinges entirely. Blood dripped down over his lips and onto the metal panels as he tried to think of what he could possibly do to counteract the damage Billy had done. In an act of desperation, he threw himself against the steel and hoped that his added bodyweight would be enough to keep them in place.

If it managed to do anything, he couldn't tell. Almost immediately Billy was throwing himself against the doors again, nearly bucking Steve off.

"Stop!" Steve cried out, grasping for the chains to hold them in place. His fingers scrabbled against the cold steel links even as Billy let out another deep, throaty growl. With the doors as loose as they were, Steve was almost certain the doors wouldn't survive another body-slam. "Give it up, Hargrove!" Steve said again, desperately. "Just- fuck, Billy, stop!"

He braced himself for another impact, but it never came. Eyes closed in anticipation, Steve blinked them open and exhaled shakily, his fingers trembling as he let the chains go. Crystalized air puffed out in front of his face over and over as he rolled off the doors and stood up unsteadily, trying to wipe away the blood that had already frozen over and turned to crust on his upper lip. Somehow, miraculously, his pleading had worked, but before he could take comfort in that fact, other disturbing sounds began to creep back up to him from down below.

Things were being tossed around; the metallic clang of old paint cans being bounced off the floors and walls mixed with the hoarse, angry vocalizations of the creature Billy had become made his blood run colder than the air currently was. The noises Billy was making were at once both animalistic and human, deep and throaty and more akin to the bellows of a moose than a man or wolf.

Steve stood in front of the cellar doors not knowing what to do. Already their plan was falling apart, and he was quickly becoming aware of how vastly unprepared he was to handle the situation. He wanted the security of the bat in his trunk, but didn't trust himself to leave the doors unattended for the length of time it would take him to run back inside and grab his keys to get it, but he felt so weak without it.

Another loud, crashing noise came from within and Steve stilled, listening intently. Faintly, he could hear Billy snuffling about, and after the sun finally completely descended, all was quiet. His nose was throbbing as he stood attentively, but when nothing more could be heard, his stomach sank.

With trembling hands and his mind screaming at him to stop, he knelt by the doors and slowly unwound the chains from the handles. The fact that he couldn't hear anything coming from within didn't sit well with him; he had to make sure Billy was still down there.

He tried to shift the chains as quietly as possible, but with how nervous he was, he had a hard time keeping his hands steady. They rattled noisily against the door, grating on his already frazzled nerves as they slid free. Heart pounding madly, Steve carefully pulled the doors open and took the first step down into the cellar.

It was silent. He couldn't hear anything as he hesitantly took a second step, mentally berating himself over and over for being stupid enough to walk defenseless into the lion's mouth. He had no idea what Billy was capable of now, or if he'd even recognize him enough to (hopefully) have enough sense to not harm him. The lightbulb that dangled freely from the ceiling was swaying, throwing its light around erratically, showing him glimpses of the gore that lined the steps.

Eyes wide, Steve gagged at the sight of the flayed strips of bloodied skin that were splattered near everywhere. He had to avert his eyes as he took another step, making slow progress as he was careful not to step in any of the mess. At the bottom of the stairs he warily peered around the walls, hoping he'd only stuck his head into the lion's mouth figuratively. To his immediate relief, but long-term dismay, there was no trace of Billy to be seen in the space of the cellar.

Exhaling deeply, Steve tried to even out his breathing as he came to stand in the middle of the room, looking around to assess the damage. As the swinging lightbulb steadied, he turned towards where the shelf that was hiding the tunnel had been and found it on the ground, knocked to its side and several feet away from where it had originally been positioned. His shoulders drooped at the realization of Billy's escape.

He went and stood before the opening of the tunnel and felt all hope of remedying the situation vanish. A numbness overtook him as he recognized his responsibilities of keeping Billy captive had changed; he was the only one who knew about Billy's circumstances, and he was the only one who could do anything about it now. Distantly, and much further away then he would've liked, he could hear the muted, labored sounds of Billy's breathing as he escaped confinement through the underground system.

The burden of his responsibilities threatened to overwhelm him in that instant, but instead of letting himself be overtaken by despair, Steve took a deep, steadying breath and rolled his shoulders back. He hesitated for only a minute before he took charge and ran in after him, disregarding his urgent need to turn back and get his bat out of the car. There was no time, he thought; no time to get a weapon, no time to get a flashlight. If Billy was now as the werewolf in the woods was, then he was capable of speeds greater than Steve could muster, and every second mattered. If he lost his trail now, then it would be lost to him entirely. There was no time; he had to go now or he wouldn't go at all.

Alone and unarmed Steve ran, chasing after Billy into the dark, cold tunnel, hoping he would be able to catch him in time, and dreading the repercussions that would come if he couldn't.

[raitrolling]

The Best Gift Ever

Your wriggling day has never been something you’ve celebrated. You don’t really see why it’s so important to make a big deal out of being another sweep closer to conscription, and you really don’t care to throw a party over something so unnecessary. While you felt obliged to tell your neighbours when your wriggling day was back when you considered them your friends (and you definitely don’t wish to spend any time ‘reminiscing’ on those days), when it comes to the people you met later in life you never mentioned it.

Meaning that the box wrapped in childish gift wrap with a hideously oversized blue bow that was left outside your door could have only come from one person. And that person is casually leaning against the door to his apartment, not even bothering to hide the stupid smirk plastered on his face.

“Wow, looks like you got a secret admirer, huh? I’m jealous,” Aiolos quips, folding his arms and letting out a small chuckle. You roll your eyes.

“What bullshit prank is this? I know it’s you who left it here,” You retort.

“Me? Psh, no way. Why’d I ever leave you a gift? I just deliver the gifts. Like, I know you try your best to give as little of a shit about your neighbours as possible, but I know you know I have a delivery job. Besides, check the tag. It says it’s from ‘Your Secret Admirer’,” he grins. “So, spill the beans. Who’s the probably-not-very-lucky guy? How’d you get someone to tolerate your sourpuss attitude? I bet he’s a real lemon-sucker-”

“What the fuck does that mean.” You kneel down to examine the tag left on the gift, and sure enough, it says ‘from Your Secret Admirer’, or at least that’s what you can interpret from the sad attempt at handwriting. Clearly whoever wrote it isn’t someone who cares to take their time when it comes to shitty pranks they most likely thought of at the last minute. You glare up at him. The air slowly starts to chill as you clench your fist.

The other blueblood pays it no mind. Or he’s pretending he doesn’t notice. You suppose he’s used to your anger issues by now, given both how long he’s known you and how often he goes out of his way just to piss you off.

“A lemon-sucker, you know? Someone who sucks lemons. Or, since you want some boring ‘simple’ and ‘literal’ definition-” Stated with air quotes, “- It’s someone who enjoys being around people with shitty personalities because, I dunno, they’re some sort of freak I guess.” He shrugs. “Anyways, just open the gift already. I wanna see it.”

You’re pretty sure he just made that word up. And you’re pretty sure you’re going to do the exact opposite of what he tells you to do.

“No. Why the fuck would I open a gift someone’s left at my front door when I don’t know what it is? And I know you left it here so I know whatever it is, it’s going to be fucking stupid. It’s a collection of the godawful excuses for music you listen to, isn’t it? A bag of ice? Some other braindead ‘joke’-” You copy his air quotes, “- that took you an entire two minutes to come up with because your brain cannot handle thoughts more complex than “haha, let’s make yet another ice joke about the troll with ice psiionics”, since all that hideous pop garbage you play melted any grey matter you might’ve had left?” Your tone lowers to a growl, much like how the air temperature lowers to an uncomfortable chill. Enough to make the other blueblood shiver.

“Man, that was a good one for someone who hates funny comparisons and all that jazz. Did someone give you the gift of a decent sense of humour earlier? Damn, I was hoping my gift was gonna be the first.” He sees no point to hiding that he was the culprit, prompting you to roll your eyes once again. He snorts. “Jeez, calm down. Fine. I left the gift. You got me good, Sherlock Holmes. But trust me, your ideas pale in comparison to what I really got you. So are you gonna open it or what? You know I’m just gonna stand here and keep asking until you give in. I’ve got all night.”

And you know that he can and will stand there all night until you open this stupid gift. You know him way more than you’d ever want to know anyone.

“Fine,” you grumble.

You look back at the present. God, the wrapping paper makes you want to throw this stupid thing down the fire exit. The cheesy, smiling snowmen taunt you. Haha, get it? Snowmen. They’re cold and made of ice. Just like you. Isn’t that hilarious? And they’re playing random instruments too. What the fuck kind of stupid ensemble requires a recorder, a marching bass drum, and a trombone? Who designed this? You’re going to tear this stupid paper to shreds.

You grab one of the shoddily-taped down folds and yank it, making sure some of the snowmen are decapitated in the process. Perhaps it’s as childish as the wrapping paper itself, but it’s the only satisfaction this stupid gift will bring you.

“Jeez Mikiel, calm down.” Snrk. “I know no one gives a shit about saving the paper unless you’re a cheapskate like Velour, but I did put in the effort to find something you’d like. Like damn, I actually thought about your interests and everything! I spent entire minutes on putting this thing together, which I bet is way more than what anyone else has.” He puts on a mock-offended tone, which you see through immediately.

You don’t give him any attention, instead focusing on the gift in front of you. The wrapping paper concealed a gift box, the pattern only slightly less infuriating than the last. It’s pink and covered in cupcakes, presumably the only thing close to a food pattern he could find at the dollar store. You still hate it. Thankfully, it’s the last layer of bullshit made to stall you from getting this stupid scene over and done with. You pull the present out of the box as you stand back up.

It’s a toy for wrigglers. It’s a blue ball of fuzz, it’s face contorted in a disgruntled scowl that matches your own (Aiolos is already laughing at the similarities). A single tooth sticks out of its mouth in a way that reminds you of a stereotypical pitbull, or of a troll you’re on much better terms with than the blueblood in front of you. You’re fairly certain he was going to the former idea, rather than the latter. The packaging refers to the creature as a ‘Grumblies’, and that it is a toy recommended from trolls two sweeps and older. The words ‘DON’T MAKE THEM MELT DOWN’ are plastered on the packaging as a warning, with the word ‘DON’T’ having been crossed out. Other warnings include ‘Do not shake, do not poke, do not flip’ and ‘push them too far and they rumble and jump around!’, but these warnings are immediately counteracted by the big ‘TRY ME!’ sign next to them. What’s even worse is that the toy has been tampered with in the form of adding a pair of glasses to it, handcrafted using bright red pipe cleaners. The craftsmanship on such a simple addition is insultingly good, meaning that he must’ve gotten someone else in on the joke to do it for him.

You cannot possibly be any more unimpressed by this ‘gift’. Aiolos, however, is grinning even more like than idiot than he usually is. You’d compare him to a madman if you were the type to use similes.

“So? What do you think? I think he’s great. Honestly you should sue whatever toy company made this, cuz they clearly ripped off you. I mean, come on, he’s got glasses and everything. Picking this was almost too easy. You just gotta shake him a bit and he starts going full feral. Try it!”

…

… You’ll admit, as stupid as the present was, the satisfying thunk it made when it collided with Aiolos’ skull is the best gift you’ve ever been given.

[room-on-broom]

Hi, your vampire!hb drawings are amazing! For the au ask: What do you think about hb on a (your favourite) space ship?

I’ve only just saw this ask this afternoon I am so sorry! here we go!

The Tuesday had been normal. Extremely boringly normal… until it got really weird. One moment Mildred had been nipping to the shops for her mum, then she swept along in the adventure. And not a fun one. Sure she’d made a new friends in Maud and Tabby at least. But Maud was purple. Tabby was actually Kit-10, a robot. And people had DIED. Aliens. Witches. Robots. The woods coming to life. An angry lady in an almost Edwardian black dress. Magic…  Mum would be back at the flat (if there was still a flat!) wondering where she was.

Right now though, they need to be going. Earlier she’d seen the witchy looking lady ( Maud had said she was her teacher, but she looked like no teacher Mildred had ever seen) had given Maud a bottle of red stuff then vanished. Later cornered the green alien tree thing, Maud had thrown a bottle of red stuff at it and yelled “Run!” 

Mildred had done as she was told but not knowing where to go had followed Maud. The potion had given them a head start on the monster but not much. Mildred could hear it not far behind them as they tore down the back alleys, roaring and knocking over wheelie bins.

“It’s a dead end this way!” Mildred gasped. They were zigzagging toward the scrap yard Mil knew the gates where high and locked. Normally. Someone had left them open and Maud dragged her on regardless. Then Mildred saw what they were aiming for. It was wooden and blue and had not been there this morning when she’d cycled past.

“But it’s box!”

“Just Come on!” Maud urged. And yanked her inside and slammed the door. Mildred put all her small weight against it barricading it shut. “Hover! Up and AWAY!”

Mildred was almost thrown back at the lurch. The alien must have hit the door.

“How will this help? It can smash though walls!”

“Not these ones! We’re not in that place in time and space anymore, we’ve moved.” Maud grinned. “Or are moving?  HB was ready with a transfer at any rate-“

“Why is there a human in here?!”

Both Mildred and Maud jumped at the voice and turned around.

“Mistress!”

Mildred fell to the floor as Maud  ran up to her teacher. A teacher stood with her arms folded looking even more cross the she’d done earlier.

“Let me re phrase that,” she said coldly. “Why have you brought that particular untidy and clumsy non-magical human child in here on to my ship?”

But Mildred wasn’t paying attention. Instead of the inside of a shed or a cupboard like she’d expected the inside of the blue box was- well it was hard too describe. But it was enormous!

A stone cavern that had been built into, Metal and brass and wood and glass floor runways. but as if it had grown up from the rockface, lined with shelves of books and bottles and jars and cupboards looking Like a ancient library and a laboratory all in one. Candelabras hung High above from a Ceiling like hallowed hall dotted with a galaxy of stars, lighting the place in soft oranges and blues. In the centre, where Maud and the ‘HB’ stood, There was a large pink and silver crystal Colom stretching from the floor below to almost the roof. It moved slowly up and downas if the very place was breathing.  A big table or alter hugged the middle of it, covered in instruments and strange systems.

“Maud Warlock Moonshine Spellbody There is absolutely no excuse-!”

“But she is magic! I saw her! She’s what Agatha’s cronies, were after not me.”

“So you brought her here?!”

“She was in trouble! I couldn’t leave just her. And she helped me earlier! I think she knows where the others are.”

Mildred blinked, turning back to her new friend. Maud was apparently trying to vouch for her. Judging by glare, the Time Witch was not impressed.

“Think? Is this some kind of joke?” she said approaching Mildred.

“it’s -it’s-“ Mildred stammered.

“Bigger on the inside. Yes, I’m aware, heard it all before.” Snapped the stranger. Suddenly she grabbed Mildred’s hand and dragging her up the steps to the middle of the room, and held her hand onto a handle forcing it down. “Hold that down. Do not let go under any circumstance.”

She then addressed Maud stalking around the console. “Humans are trouble. That one will be trouble. You can’t keep them. Why isn’t it in a school? They have compulsory education in this era.”

“ ‘She’. Millie doesn’t have school Mistress.” Maud shrugged. She was taking the collection of things out her bag and carefully measuring them out into smoking pot that had sprung up from somewhere. ‘Tabby’ was next to her curled up on the table, his silver wire fur reflecting the light around it. If it was wasn’t for the cable plugged into his belly, he would look like he was asleep. “It’s something they call ‘sommer holladay’.”

“Oh, those. I don’t believe in them.” The lady scoffed and pulled a screen around to her, studying whatever gibberish it was saying intently.  But said nothing else.

No one did for a while.  For the first time since the high street had exploded, it was quiet. And time was slow. Mildred could catch her breath. Mildred could only hear Maud as she worked, tabby’s whirring purr. and some far away hum deep and rubbling. She Feel the vibrations up through her feet as if this big place were flying.

The woman didn’t relax, although she’d shed her elegant black cloak from earlier. Mildred took a better look at her. She stood as straight backed as ever, even more Tall and thin and all angles now without the robes. She wore a Black blouse with a high collar, its funny cuffs rolled up her for arms and a embraided black waist coat with matching- Mildred wasn’t sure if it was a tight long skirt or a pair of trousers but it matched. And Pocket watch too. but its chain went twice around the women waist with a bunch of keys attached, then looped around her neck so the watch hung down like a necklace. Hair piled up high on her head, and a pale profile with burgundy lipstick.  She wasn’t pretty. But there was something handsome in her face, like the old paintings. There was the energy about her too, like a crouching panther or an oncoming snow storm…

A large book had popped into existence and hovered helpfully at the teacher’s side. She kept switching from reading it to adjusting the controls. All the while carefully watching Maud doing whatever it was Maud was doing and offering up the occasional instruction.

“Stir it three hundred and forty three degrees withershins. Then leave it half an witching hour and it should be done.”

“Will it be enough Mistress?” Maud asked, putting away her bits and bobs. A wave of her hand  had the pot, precious contents and all stored neatly under the metal flooring.

“It’ll have to do.” Her teacher sighed. “It reverse some ot the effects at least.”

“Excuse me? Miss?” Mildred pipped up timidly. The lady’s head snapped up, as if she’d forgotten Mildred was there. “What’s going to happen to Rowen?”

“Who?” the stranger said.

“Her next door neiabour. He’s a frog.” Maud added helpfully.

“You live next door to a frog?” Her mistress said frowning at Mildred.

“No, he wasn’t a frog he was Rowan Webb but that thing-!” Mildred said. Suddenly she felt her eyes watering, the day catching up on her. “It- It turned Rowan in to a frog! He saved us but-! And the others-!”

A hanky on sprung out of the console , thrust in her face by a claw. Followed by a glass of water. Maud came around and hugged her tight.

“they’ll be fine.” The time witch said after a pause. Awkwardly. And possibly lying. “there there. don’t cry. You’re no use crying. Tell me exactly what you saw today.”

Mildred did albeit with a sniffle.

“Was that an alien?” She asked afterwards.

“Technically not for you. It originated from earth.” The lady sighed.

“Have we really moved? From the junk yard?”

“Yes. We transferred.”

“How?” Mildred asked.

“You would even understand if I told you so I’m not going to waste my breath.”

“So where are we?”

“No where yet I haven’t decided.”

“What about home? My Mum? All the people?” Mildred asked. “Who are you?”

“Oh will you stop asking questions I’m trying to concentrate!” the lady snapped standing up to tower over Mildred.

“Now now, HB.” Said a voice. A soft laughing voice that echoed  around the console, the grey pink light flickering with each syllable. “She’s a child, be gentle with her.”

Mildred shrieked in surprise letting go of the lever.

Aliens. Witches. Robots. The woods. Magic. Up till now she’d coped quite well but now spaceships that talked was really far too much on top of everything else!

“I said Not to let that go.” ‘HB’ scowled. “It was a very simple instruction.”

“What will it do?” Maud asked helping Mildred to her feet.

“Absolutely nothing. I just needed her away from the door and not to wander off or break anything.” Maud’s teacher said.

The voice made a disagreeable noise. HB made one right back.

Only it sounded like a name.

“Ada...”

“Don’t worry. It’s only the CACKLE.” Maud reassured to Mildred in a stage whisper. “Part of the TARDIS interface. That’s what we’re in by the way. It stands for Time And Relative Dimi-”

HB glared at the girls, stopping Maud mid flow.

“Moonshine go make yourself useful and make some calming tea or something.”  she  grumbled. “The stray you’ve picked up is in shock!”

Maud shot off into the belly of the TARDIS with “Yes Miss Hardbroom.”

“You can’t keep calling the poor girl things like that!” CACKLE admonished.  Mildred felt as if, even with no visible eyes, it was peering at her. Kindly at least. “…What is you name my dear? Maud called you ‘Millie’, is that correct?”

“I’m not calling her by Millie.” Miss Hardbroom insisted then addressed Mildred. “Haven’t you a proper name?”

Mildred was too stunned to speak. HB rolled her eyes and came around behind her; seizing her jumper by the scruff of her neck.

“Mildred Hubble.” The Time Witch read aloud from  the  sewn in name tag. with a sneer. She turned back to the console. “Fine. Welcome aboard Mildred Hubble. But you’re not staying! You’re here on a trial basis till I-”

“with our help.” The Cackle added.

“Till We Save your silly little planet.” HB finished but while still very grouchy when Hardbroom spoke again, her face and voice had gone all soft. “Once this is over, Mildred we’ll take you home to you mother. You’ll be safe here. Now. Hold on tight…”

(my fave ship is the tardis so allonsy!)