#I AM THE WORLD SPINNING ROUND INSIDE OF YOU I AM THE ANIMAL THAT RIPPED YOUR HEART IN TWO I AM THE BLOOD FLOWING OUT THROUGH YOUR NOSTRILS

[transgenderastronovalite]

foot ox's album its like our little machine. i love you so much

[kenganparadise]

Okay my friend hear me out with this request please how about an Ohma x fem reader NSFW where like Ohma gets jealous of someone flirting with his s/o and he decides to take matters into his own hands when they get an excluded place he goes all out I feel as if he’s really dominant in bed but also likes positions like cowgirl and Doggystyle and if your okay with kinks could you include breeding and overstimulation of his s/o ~.~

YES YES YES. AHHH. TWO kinks of mine!!! breeding and overstimulation. FUCK. YES. I had a lot of fun with this one oh my GOD. :) 

Warning- major breeding kink, overstimulation, unprotected sex, dirty talk, slight Yandere, AFAB reader/gender neutral pronouns. Possessive Ohma giving into his animalistic side.

🔞WARNINGS!!! AFAB READER AND MAJOR NSFW WARNING!!!🔞

Ohma’s leg bounced with anger. His hands were in his lap, fingers tangled together- Knuckles white. His eyes gazed though his mop of hair. He glared at Okubo and Lihito. He normally somewhat enjoyed their company, But not right now. Definitely not right now. He wanted to tear them off of you. He knew they were both womanizers. Maybe they didn’t know you belonged to someone. Well, They were both completely drunk. It was supposed to be a party after all. Lihito slung an arm over your shoulders. You laughed a awkwardly. He took another sip of his beer. Okubo slung an arm over your shoulders, he already had an arm around Kaede who looked equally uncomfortable. “Want me to pour you a drink?” Kazuo slurred. The older man’s cheeks were dark red. He looked a lot happier than usual. Ohma was stone sober. “I’ll pass.” He replies dryly. “What about you Y/N?” He turns his attention to you. “Haha once again no! I’ve got things to do tomorrow! I’d rather not have a hangover!” You laugh. Lihito giggles, his head slumps over, landing on your shoulder. “Come ooooon Y/N, loosen up a little!” He giggles. You push on his cheek, trying to put distance between you two. “Nah I’m good.” You say rolling your eyes. Ohma shoots up to his feet suddenly. He’s never felt like this before. His whole chest is burning. His throat is tight. He wants to beat the shit out of Lihito. But he also wants to fuck you into oblivion. Maybe he’ll do both. He trusts you, he can see you're uncomfortable. He’s not angry. He doesn’t know exactly how to put this feeling into words. He feels jealousy. But he doesn’t know that. “It’s getting late. Let me walk you home Y/N.” Ohma says dryly. You gaze up at him. His whole body is rigid, he looks like he could kill. However, You can read him like a book, he pissed. You stand. Lihito’s hands fall to the couch. “Heeeey where are you goin?” He whines. “The party is just startin’!!” He slurs. You just chuckle, taking Ohma’s hand. He squeezes yours tight, he locks eyes with you. Oh if looks could kill, a shiver runs up your spine. He’s never looked at you like this before. You gulp as Ohma pulls you towards the door. You gather your things and wave your friend group goodbye, despite all of their protests.

The chilly night air hits you. You wrap your jacket around you. You walk hand in hand with Ohma. Though his walk is much more brisk with yours. His strides are wide, he’s in a hurry. “Sweetheart, slow down!” You laugh under your breath. He growls in response. You’ve only ever seen him like this before a fight. His whole body is tense, his brows furrowed. Normally with you he’s only got a gentle smile and his eyes are soft. Now he’s practically dragging you behind him as he makes his way briskly to your home. You’re concerned. You know he won’t hurt you, but he’s just being different. You stop walking. His feet stop as well. His hand is still in yours. He tries to tug you forward but you don’t budge. You stare intently at the back of his head. “What’s wrong Ohma?” Your voice is filled with concern. “You’ve been acting different since the party.” Your eyebrows are pinched upward with worry. “Did.... something happen?” You ask almost timidly. There is a silence in the air. Ohma remains quiet. He is frozen... unmoving. He finally speaks. “You.....” you blink at him. “Me? W-what did I do?” Your eyes are filled with worry. “You belong to me.” He speaks calmly. You blink again. You understand what’s going on now. “It was Lihito wasn’t it? And Okubo? Oh- You know they’re harmless. They were just-“ “Y/N.” He sighs. “Ah- Ohma! You have nothing to worry about-“ before you can finish. He spins around. His lips are smashed against yours. You squeak in surprise. He shoves his tongue in your mouth. He’s exploring your maw, you try to fight back but he forces your tongue into submission. His fingers are entwined in your hair. He gives is a harsh tug causing you to gasp. Your jaws open more for him. His wet muscle is dominating you completely. He’s practically fucking your mouth with his tongue. It’s sloppy and rough. He tugs your lips away from his by your hair. There are ropes of saliva connecting the two. Spit is dripping off of your chins, both of your huffing and trying to catch your breath. His dark eyes meet yours. You whine as his fist tightens on your hair. “They need to know who you belong to.... Everyone needs to know that you’re taken for.” He growls. He places his hand on your cheek, thumb stroking your soft flesh. “I am yours. I am yours and yours alone.” You state proudly. You see Ohma’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Yes. And I am yours. Forever.” He replies. Your heart throbs at the sweet confession. “Y/N?” You lick your swollen lips. “Yes Ohma?” You stare lovingly into his eyes. There’s a confident smirk on his face “I’m going to fuck you senseless tonight.” He growls darkly. You freeze. Excitement runs through you “H-Huh? What?” You stutter out. Did you hear him right? “I said I’m going to fuck you senseless.” He hisses with complete confidence. “Everyone. Everyone in the world will know that I’m yours. Everyone will know who knocked you up.” He snarls. You instinctively squeeze your legs together. You’ve never seen him like this before. Instantly there’s a sticky wet feeling between your legs. “Ohma.” You squeak out. There’s a wild look in his eyes. Suddenly he’s sweeping you off your feet and he’s dashing towards your home. He’s got a smirk on his face. He’s got a feral look in his eyes. He rounds the corner to your street. Ohma sets you down in front of the front door. You’re desperately fumbling the Keys out of your purse and to the lock. Ohma is breathing heavily. The second the door cracks open Ohma kicks it open, pulling you inside. Heat is pooling between your legs. Your desperate for him. He slams the door shut, locking it. Immediately he’s ripping of your clothing without warning. You barely have enough time to think now all of your clothing is in shreds. “Ohm-“ he smashes his lips to yours before you can speak. You want him to take this to the bedroom but he’s too desperate to breed you. The floor it is then. To your utter surprise he spins you around, you’re on all fours now. The two of you have never used this position before. Ohma’s pants along with his underwear pool around his ankles. Without prepping you he lines himself up and snaps his hips to yours. His sneakers squeak against the floor as he tries desperately to get as deep as possible inside you. He begins a strong pace right off the bat. His hips slap against your ass. His thrusts are strong and deep. You and Ohma usually used condoms, but here he was fucking into you bareback. It was a strange yet wonderful feeling of Ohma’s raw cock pummeling into you. It felt so fucking good being taken by him so roughly. Ohma loved the feeling so much. For the first time he was feeling how warm and wet you are around his dick. Usually Ohma was always extra gentle with you, no matter how many times you begged him to more aggressive. He wouldn’t budge. Now here he is fucking you like some feral animal. You press your cheek to the floor. You try to push back and meet his thrusts but your whole body feels like jello. All you can really do is scream beneath him- and you can use you words. You want to say so many things. They sound so wonderful in the heat of them moment but you always end up embarrassed later. When you’re getting fucked so good you can’t control your mouth. “Ohma!!” You scream. He growls behind you. “B-Breed me Ohma! Ah!” Did you really just say that? His pace quickens. He’s fucking into you aggressively now. You scream beneath him. “I’m gonna fill you up so good.” He groans above you. Your pussy quivers at his dirty words “I’ve got so much cum to give you.” He purrs as he sinks his teeth into your back. His heavy balls slap against your core over and over again. You groan. “I can’t wait to see you all round and swollen. Everyone will know who did that to you.” He growls in your ear. You’re close. You’re orgasm creeping slowly. Ohma notices the way you tighten around him and the way your thighs shake. He reaches around you to stimulate your clit, he rubs small quick circles. You arch your back. It’s too much! Your head was spinning, unable to think of anything besides Ohma pounding deep into you. The pleasure has taken over your mind. With this position, he’s reaching deeper inside you than ever before. The muscles in your pelvis tighten. You feel a knot forming.Then a snap. You lose all control of yourself when your orgasm hits. All you can do is writhe and scream as Ohma helps you ride out your orgasm. Ohma doesn’t stop he doesn’t slow down after you cum. Your toes curl, feet twitching possibly trying to kick him off. It’s too much- your eyes roll back into your head. Your brain is glitching. Your whole body feels like TV static. Finally Ohma buries himself as deep as possible. His load is huge. You whimper as you feel yourself getting filled up with hot virile cum. Ohma humps you softly though his orgasm. Your pussy milks out every last drop. Ohma pulls out and catches his breath. You collapse on the floor, also trying to catch your breath and hopefully regain a couple brain cells. You collect yourself. Then, You feel Ohma’s fingers on your cunt. You look over your shoulder to him. “Damn. Started dripping out.” He says sighing. He lifts you up, carrying you to the bedroom. He lays you down softly, he then removes the rest of his clothes and climbs into bed behind you. He pulls the thick warm blankets around you, making a perfect safe nest. You feel his foul thick cum beginning to seep out of your poor sopping pussy. But most of it is pushed back in when Ohma slides his cock back inside you. You whimper, feeling yourself get stretched out again. You’re deliciously overstimulated. You throb around his cock. His thrusts are short, just barely rutting himself into you. His muscular arms are wrapped around your waist. Your legs twitch as he holds you to him. He growls in your ear. He cums quicker this time, filling you up again. He doesn’t pull out. He keeps himself rooted deep within you, essentially plugging you up. You catch your breath during the long cockwarming session. Then the process repeats itself. You don’t know how many times he releases his load inside of you. You don’t know how many times you orgasmed. But by the time you hear Ohma snoring behind you your belly is swollen and you feel like you’re going to explode. His arms are still wrapped around you, flaccid cock still snug in your pussy. His sperm will most likely take. His seed is planted deep within you. You will become one. You can already imagine family life. You smile to yourself. You and Ohma have been bound together by love, and hopefully soon with a child. You feel safe in his arms. Exhaustion takes you over. You close your eyes and finally drift off to a deep dreamless sleep.

[natandwandaseries]

Yelena

Hi everyone, as promised when I reach 50,000 hits! We get to see a different side of Yelena, a bit softer since we hear her inner thoughts. I hope you enjoy!  (Also, unlike the other mini fics I post on here, this one is canon and exists within the series!)  _____________________________________________________________

           I am barely old enough to tie my shoes, I when I meet Natasha. She walks in first, leading a group of young girls like her- wet and frozen. But she holds her head high and commands the room, despite barely being up to the guards’ waist. It hadn’t been my first time seeing her, as I look down from my hiding spot on the stairs, but it is my first time noticing her. The next day, during our free hour, I seek her out.            She is in the courtyard, alone. We are never alone here, so this being the case is odd. It took a great deal of effort on my side to get out here without Fredrik, one of the guards for the younger girls, to notice me.            “Hello,” she greets me without taking attention off her task, “Yelena, correct?” She turns around now, her eyes bright and face kind. Kindness, such a rarity.            “Yes,”            “I am Natalia,” She sets down the stick in her hand, “You were watching last night, when we came home.”            “I heard some of the older girls, this is when they start to have less of us.”            “The trick is to take off your coat and keep your hands cupped.” She sits down on the grass, stick in hand once more. I walk over, looking down at her project. They are swirling lines, graceful, looking like art. “It is cursive English. I am practicing,” She explains.            “No one else would tell me about the water,”            “Everyone else wants you dead,” She states matter-of-factly. No deception or tricks.            “You don’t?” I do not yet understand the permanence of death, only that it was undesirable, worse than even the Red Room.            “No.” She wipes the sand from her palms, and then leans back to look up at the sky.            “Why?”            “I don’t want any of them to die. I can’t save everyone, but I’ll die trying.” Her mouth form into a hard line, and to most, it would cute, seeing a little girl seem so resolute. But that same look of determination, years later, would cause men to scream in fear.            “You talk like an adult,” She always spoke as though she lived a thousand lifetimes. I would joke later on that she was born serious. Though sometimes, later on, she would point out clouds in the sky that look like different animals, or weapons. And on rare occasions, we would spin each other around as fast as we could, to fall back and look at the sky spinning above us.            “See Yelena? We make the world go ‘round,” she’d joke.            And then, two days after our meeting, we are in a combined class. Three different years, all together, working on letters of different alphabets. My elbow knocks over a jar of red paint, splattering across a stack of white paper, like blood on skin. Last week, Svetlana tripped and broke a plate. Madame slit her arm with a letter opener. I stare at the pile of paint in fear, unable to move or make a sound. Natalia appears at my side. She stains the arm of her shirt with paint and begins to apologize loudly. Madame walks over, since that night, she seems to always be where Natalia is, and sees the mess.            “Did you knock over this paint?”            “Yes, Madame,” The woman strikes like a snake- her cane striking the back of Natalia’s knees, forcing her to the ground. “Clean it up. Then you clear her up as well,” I look down and see I am stained with paint, across my stomach like a bullet wound.            “Why did you do that?” I ask as Natalia washes my pinafore.            “I am going to protect you, like sisters.” Familial words like that are forbidden, even saying friend will get you a warning glare.            “Sisters,” I reply, watching as she wipes out the red.

           I am nearly eight when I first see Natalia crack, just a little. She is angry, furious. She tries to run away, without me. I heard what everyone was saying. She made her first kill. Secretly gentle Natalia, who once hid and nursed a baby bird back to health in her courtyard. The bird still visits, and I frequently find her smiling out the window when she sees it. Or not smiling. Just happier than the flatness she normally sports.             But in front of me now, she dances with glass in her shoes. A morbid part of me thinks of Cinderella’s glass slippers. Perhaps this is what really happened to her feet. When she finally stops, Madame breaks her cheekbone, for her pride, I think. For being unbreakable.            The last time I see Natasha in the Red Room, our courtyard days are long over. Both of us have graduated and sit at a table separate from the students. The number of adult Widows has dwindled as the KGB sends us on more dangerous missions.            Her spark has begun to dim. She is getting worn down, like they want. The first that burns with in her, that in explicably Natalia, should not be put out. That evening, for the first time in a long while, I slip into her bed.            She moves closer, so our shoulder touch, something she doesn’t normally allow anymore. Since she turned thirteen, she has grown more and more opposed, and I don’t need to ask why.            “I have a mission in America tomorrow.”            “Alone?” She nods in the dark.            “Don’t come back,” I request, daring to speak the words. She stiffens beside me.            “Don’t say silly things, Yelena. We are not children.”            “They are going to kill you.”            “It is what I was made for.”            “No. You were made for better things. If you get the opportunity, don’t come back.”            “There is only one way I don’t,” she whispers, “I will bring you back sweets, Little Sister. They’ll be hidden in the same spot as always,” Inside the rip in my mattress. It hadn’t occurred to me until now, that the reason she keeps coming back, might be for me.            Except she doesn’t, and I am grateful. They tell me she is dead, but I know better. The next time I see her, it is to burn this place to the ground.            In America, she has people who care for her. A best friend who takes me in, a nephew. And they welcome me in too. We celebrate Christmas together, spend time with one and other. Natasha, as she is now called, is finding herself again. That fire within her grows stronger once more, rising out of the embers that had begun to die out.            After Christmas, I leave for Europe, following leads about the Red Room. There is a rumor that Ivan is still alive, that he could resurrect what Tasha and I destroyed. I have to kill him, kill him before he can find out Natasha is alive, or get anywhere near her. His prized possession. That is what he used to call her. I step out of my taxi, heading into the hotel lobby, where the once lush carpets are worn down from years of suitcase wheels and feet. A bellhop smiles at me, and a man sitting at a nearby table, drinking coffee, catches my eye.  _______________________________________________________________

           “Yelena?” I blink, feeling nauseous. Clint, Tasha’s American, is sitting close to me, too close. He looks almost as though he has seen a ghost. A part of me, for some reason, feels like it has been a long time since we have seen each other, though it has only been a few weeks.            “You look old,” I tilt my head. He grins and squeezes my shoulder. “Where are we?”            “We’re on a quinjet, we rescued you,”            “Rescued?” He seems reluctant to answer.            “You were being held prisoner,” I feel pressure building up in my head, the feeling of hitting a wall.            “Where’s Tasha?” I get up from the cot, my legs unsteady, and pull back the curtain. Rather than seeing Natasha in the cockpit as I expected, there is a gaggle of individuals deep in discussion. A slight brunette catches my eye, blushing furiously and looking away.            “Yelena, they’re friends,”            “I don’t know, they not friends.” I growl.            “They are my friends, Nat’s,” Clint explains, “Tony, Sam, Rhodey, Bruce, and,”            “Wanda,” The girl offers, her voice timid and unsure. He looks at her with a particular tenderness that makes me inspect the girl closer. She has folded into herself, as if she is trying to disappear.            “Nice to meet a member of Nat’s family. I was always curious,”            “Not the time, Tony.” The American glares at the man. Though, they all seem American.            “Where is Tasha?” I try again.            “We’re on our way to her now. We were on a mission,” One of the men, Sam, explains. I look him up and down and give him a little smirk. The girl calls my attention again, however. She does not speak again, playing with the rings on her fingers.            We touch down on the tarmac and the gangplank drops. They do not handcuff me, which seems foolish on their part. Though, I suppose I am not a prisoner. But maybe I should be, I don’t know what I have been doing since I last saw Natasha.            “Hey Friday,” Tony begins, “When are Steve and Nat landing?”            “They are currently in the kitchen,” I break into a sprint. There is some kind of AI wired throughout the area, and I ask for directions. The AI, whom had been referred to as Friday, provides the answers promptly. AI, something that had seemed like a distant future just days ago, or weeks, months, years.            I skid to a stop in the kitchen. Her red hair shines like a beacon.            “Tasha,” I breathe, my heart aching. My mind may not know how long it has been, but my soul clearly does.             She spins around, along with the man she is with, gun drawn. I put my hands up, remaining passive. A piece of me fears she does not remember me, does not know who I am. But she has to, it is us.            Clint and his little friend run into the room, panting. They quickly take in the scene and turn their attention to Natasha.            “Nat, put down the gun,” He tries. She doesn’t take her hard gaze off of me, the gun steady.            “That isn’t, it can’t be, you saw, you were,” She speaks in half sentences, her words becoming lost in her head, in her memories. Whatever happened to me, she was there for it.            “Is me, Tasha,” I swear once Clint affirms who I am. She is beginning to become distressed, her hands starting to shake. I’m upsetting her.            “Mom,” The girl says quietly. Mom? I whip around, looking at her. She still sounds fragile, quiet. But she called Natasha mom. “It’s her. I looked. I saw her giving you a pair of ballet slippers and sitting with Cooper as a baby.” What the hell does that mean? I saw, how would she see? Home videos, maybe? How does that ensure I am me?            She comes between Natasha and I, gently taking the gun out of Natasha’s hand and putting it back in her holster. There is a quiet moment shared between the two, before she finally speaks.            “Lena?” Relief, elation. Elation is the only word I can use to describe the optimistic hope that lilts up at the end of my name.            “Hi Tasha,” I beam.            “How are you here?”            “I don’t know,” I feel pressure begin to build again, “I think it has been long time, yes? It feels like long time.”            Ten years she tells me. She tries to take the blame, as she did when we were children. Whatever happened, I know it was not her fault. She had begun to panic, believing none of this is real, that I am not real. I tease gently about her pulling a gun on me again, though it is a legitimate concern.            Then she properly introduces Wanda. The girl doesn’t meet my eyes, almost hiding behind her mother. Her mother. Natasha has a daughter. An adopted daughter, like how I am her adopted sister. Because that is what Natasha has always done, she takes in strays, people in need of help.

           The girl. Wanda. She sits next to me on my couch, while Natasha is on her date with Steve. This couch from Pottery Barn that we bought together, after she had shown me a particular episode of Friends. Clint informed me that she does not talk a lot to anyone but Natasha, even his own children and her best friend, a fellow superhero, get few words from her. So, whenever she says anything to me, I feel particularly flattered.            And the guilt for what I had done to her when I first found out about her past continues to eat me alive. Guilt is supposed to be Natasha’s specialty, but it seems as though I am taking on some of her traits.            “We order takeout?” I ask the witch. She looks up from her phone, where she scrolls through social media, a new trend that I am still trying to catch up with.            “Okay,” She looks back down.            “You can go home,” I offer, not wanting her to feel trapped. Her lips pinch momentarily, “You stay, I order food,” She raises an eyebrow before going back to scrolling.            I have no clue how I am supposed to be an aunt. Barton’s children, they refer to me as Auntie Lena, and that is definitely my familial position with Wanda. But I’m twenty-, no. I’m in my thirties. I pass a mirror on my way into the kitchen, catching a look at my face. Time has barely passed on my body, in my mind, but the world kept going while I was on pause.            “Wanda,” I call, coming to a decision, “We go out,” I come back into the living room, the girl craning her neck to look at me. “Put on nice dress, we go out. Have fun.”             She stares at me, considering for a moment, before nodding, hopping up from the sofa, her powers bursting.            “What are we doing?”            “Go to gala,”            “What gala?”            “I not decide yet. Put on gown and be back in twenty. I do your hair.”            She returns fifteen minutes later, donning a ruby red satin gown. It looks custom made. She also holds a makeup box and a red clutch, clearly well loved.            “I was supposed to wear this to a charity event in November,” she explains, sitting down at my bathroom vanity. I’m given no other explanation, and though I wait in silence for more information, unlike most people, she does not open up.            I sweep her hair to the side into a side bun. She leans forward, doing her own makeup. She glances back at me every few seconds, taking her attention off her eyeshadow.            “Do you want me to do your makeup?” She puts down her brush. She stands up, and I can hear the faint mechanical whir of her leg as she stands up. To anyone with unenhanced hearing, it would be silent. I don’t know how I missed it initially.                        I sit down on the stool and face her. Wanda’s eyes meet mine momentarily before looking away, going through her palette.            “You like doing makeup?”            “I used to wear it a lot,” She shrugs and continues to do her work, and then steps back to admire it. “Okay,” She picks up a handheld mirror.            “Oh, you should have been one to do Tasha’s makeup for date,” Wanda blushes to the color of her dress, ducking her head. “Okay, I go change, then we leave.”            When I come out of my room, wearing a dress the color of a night sky, Wanda is busy scrolling through her phone.            “There is a gala at 583 Park Avenue tonight, it is for one of the mayor’s pet projects.”            “We go,” She watches as I grab my beaded wallet, “I call us cab,”            “Uber, Yelena. No one calls taxis anymore.” She rolls her eyes, teasing, and we head down to the lobby.            We take the car to the venue, and the beautiful Greek revival is lit up by glowing pendants, the four pillars casting shadows down on us. Security stands at the front, checking everyone for a ticket.            “They are sold out online,” Wanda’s bottom lip juts out.            “Come on,” I grab her hand, pull her behind me as I round the corner, heading towards the back entrance of the building. “You watch and play along, da?”            “Okay,” I spy a pair of busboys sharing a joint, taking a break from the mayhem of the evening. I think of the whole song and dance I had planned to get us in. Fake being locked out, fight with my boyfriend who is a staffer for the mayor and got us tickets.            “Three hundred for each of you if you let us in.” The pair exchange a glance and stand up holding out their hands and opening the side door.            “That was watch and learn?” Wanda laughs as we head down the hall.            “Sometimes money speaks better than words,”            We enter the hall and I grab us each a glass of champagne. It is not very often, or rather never, that I get to attend galas without having to kill or torture somebody. However, Wanda seems to fit right in. She wears large diamond studs, each the size of a blueberry, and this custom-made gown. However, her anxiety is visible in the way she grips her clutch, almost like a security blanket.            “Is special to you?”            “Hm?” She follows my eyes to her wallet. “Oh, this is the first gift Nat every bought me. It was for my sixteenth birthday.” Her face softens at the memory.             “We find people to dance with, come.” She laughs as I introduce her as a foreign princess, and the man plays along, despite the obvious fact that she is her.            I, on the other hand, am still harder to identify. The world news has not been plastered with my face for the past two years as it has her. I am not burned into the collective consciousness. I dance with a woman is a white cocktail dress, keeping one eye on Wanda the entire time.            After two songs, the pair break apart, and I bid the woman adieu. Wanda takes an empty seat, and I next to her.            “Hello,” I look at the nametag, “Mr. Abbot,”            “Mrs. Pruitt,” She responds, eyes twinkling. We order more champagne, or rather Wanda does while I switch to vodka on the rocks, and take canapes and caviar off passing trays.            “And then, as Tasha in middle of mission, she stop to,”            “Stops to save a cat from being hit by a car,” A voice finishes. I turn around.            Natasha and Steve stand behind us. Natasha looks stuck somewhere between amused and stern, while Steve is doing nothing to hide how humorous he finds the situation.             “How did you two get in here?”            “I pay,” I reply hotly, jutting out my chin. She moves her gaze to Wanda.            “We bribed the busboys.”            “I not say who we pay,”            “Do you even know what this event is for?”            “Dogs?” “Children?” We both say at the same time, causing a fit of laughter. My sister pinches the bridge of her nose.            “Well, since you two are here, you may as well come to the after party,” She looks to Steve for agreement, who nods. “But you, Little Witch, will not be having any more champagne,” Wanda’s face, already flushed from alcohol, seems to redden even more. “Come on,” Nat leads us out the front door where a town car awaits.            “We are sorry for ruining date night, I had no idea that you were going to be there,”            “It was on the calendar in the kitchen, perhaps that is where your subconscious got the idea,” Natasha teases and fixes the strap on her daughters dress as we climb into the car.            We pull up at the Avengers Tower, and take the elevator up to the penthouse.            “There you are, and you brought company!” Tony cheers, “Good, I could use some of her expertise,” I expect him to be pointing at me, but instead he is at Wanda, “You are the expert at naming things, I have a list of baby names and need your help,”            “I thought you were naming her Morgan,” Nat calls, heading over to the bar.            “Middle names, Natalie!”            “Did he say names, plural?” Steve asks.            “Did he call you Natalie?” Natasha pours Steve a glass of whiskey and I another cup of vodka before coming around the bar with her own drink, a martini.            “You snuck my underaged daughter into a gala,” She leans back next to me, watching Wanda and Tony, while Steve begins to thumb through the vinyls next to the record player.            “Was either that or Chinese food again,”              “Maybe try bowling next time,”            “With ax throwing,” I grin.            “Galas, then,” Natasha laughs.            “Sorry for ruining date night,” I say earnestly. I hadn’t expected them to be there.            “Oh, please,” She waves me off, “Tony already did. Pepper called us saying Tony was here at the tower, working late, and you know,” She nods to the empty bottles, “Trying to develop a special crib or something. Asked Steve and I to check in. We ran into you two while we were heading out.”            “You can’t give her the middle name Una, then her name would be Morguna,”            “I like the sound of that, put it on the list!” Tony cheers, while Wanda scrawls on the glass screen.            “This is good life,” Steve finally selects a record, and the Beatles start to play. The first lyrics, Flew in from Miami Beach BOAC, cause Natasha to grin. “Is our song!” I cry out, tugging her out into the center of the room, kicking off my heels. She laughs as I spin her around, spilling her drink the process.             Tony, Steve, and Wanda join in as we dance to the Beatles at one in the morning, I can’t imagine a life any better.

[cherryyharryy]

Burning Words

Chapter Two: Lunch, Library, and Lady Liberty

WC: 7,400

Previous part

Songs for this chapter

The prickling scratch of my highlighter dragging across a strip of text reminds me of how naïve I really am. I hate the sound, hate how uneven the lime green line sits, jagged over the inked words, with a pool of color where the pen sat at the beginning of the sentence. 

It’s raining outside, and rain in New York is not like rain anywhere else. It’s purposeful, like a painting, like it belongs here. The only difference is that nothing changes—not like back home. In Georgia, people would come out afterwards, drive ten miles to the nearest pit and screw their trucks through the mud. Kids would run outside and look for worms and slugs, puddles to jump in. Dogs would dig holes in the softened earth. But here, no one stops. No one bats an eye, not even the people who forget their umbrellas. I wish rain was still life changing.

I sigh, close my notes, and cap my highlighters. “Any ideas for lunch?”

Jessie dips her head back in thought. I see her lashes flutter and her lips pinch, but then she shrugs. “We could order pizza?” She’s sat cross-legged on a patchwork armchair, laptop balanced across her thighs with a pen teetering between her teeth. I have to tip my head over the back of my chair to see her, upside down. “I’ve got a coupon for that place down the street.”

“We always order pizza.”

“We could learn how to cook.”

I click my tongue. “Bingo.” 

The far wall of the apartment has a generous sized window. The floor creaks like we’re torturing it every time we move across a room, the bathtub faucet leaks when it’s hot out, and I know more about my neighbors’ lives than I really need to. But the window....it’s like a movie. My chair sits beside it. I try to count raindrops but there are too many. 

“Chinese?” I offer. 

“You and your egg rolls.”

“They’re the only thing I want when I don’t really wanna eat. I didn’t eat breakfast. And I only had a handful of popcorn for dinner last night.” 

I can see a park from here, and in the winter when the trees are bare, a neighboring tennis court. Flowers hang limply from their stems along the sidewalk. A cat scrambles across the road, sporadic, and suddenly I envy the lack of knowledge animals have, lack of responsibilities, sense of time, unspoken contracts. At times I wish I were a depressed cat soaked to the bone, thinking if I move quick enough I’ll escape the rain. 

“What?” I miss half of what Jessie asks. 

“How’s your class been?”

“Which one?”

Jessie pauses her movements to assert me with a knowing glare. “You know what class. How’s the British babe?”

“Ugh, Harry.”

“Harry,” she tests his name before I continue. A few students have called him by his name, but he’s quick to correct them, surely enjoying his authority.

“He’s most definitely not a babe. A jackass. And he’s been as jackass-y as ever.” I join Jessie when she starts to laugh. “He calls on me every chance he gets. And I swear it’s just to humiliate me.”

“Well at least he’s nice to look at.”

“That means nothing when he’s a jerk.”

“True.” Jessie shrugs. “What about Truman’s...it’s near campus?”

I loll my head back and narrow my gaze. They don’t have egg rolls. “Yeah that’s fine.”

“My treat.”

***

In Hungarian, there are two words for the color red. Piros and vörös, with different times to use them, and should be used accordingly. When I was a kid I got them wrong; called my mom’s hat vörös, and got a slap on the wrist by my grandmother. 

I spent that evening hiding in my closet, using the sleeve of my Winnie the Pooh pajamas to soak up the cascade of tears. When my cousin found me, I begged him to explain what I’d done wrong. 

“Piros is blood inside the body. Vörös is when it comes out.”

That’s all I was left with. And I never did understand the difference. For years now that night resurfaces in my brain, and I think, I’m older now, I’ll be able to get it.

But now, as I stand on the sidewalk, peering through the window of Jessie’s lunch choice, I’m swarmed with the overbearing realization that age has nothing to do with it. 

Harry’s in a striped button down, a sea foam green that reminds me of how different candy felt when I was younger, and high-waisted navy blue pants that couldn’t decide between flaring out or forming to the shape of his legs. I watch him balance plates and glasses, stacking forks and knives, spoons and mugs, soiled napkins and empty Splenda packets. He shovels his tip into his pocket and then disappears out of view while someone else wipes down the table. 

“We can go somewhere else.”

“No.” I drag in the humid air, freshly washed, and hold it in my lungs until my head starts to spin. “This is fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. We’ll sit in the back. At Brigette’s table.”

I’m not sure if you can call Truman’s a restaurant. It isn’t fast food, fine dining, or even a bistro. It’s always dark. The chairs are pink and the tablecloths are green. There are flowers everywhere, I thought it was a flower shop and was sadly mistaken when I came in for the first time to buy Jessie a bundle of roses for her birthday. Strumming violins fill any silence between tables. It’s old but new, rooted woods, lamps from the 90’s, curtains from the 80’s, cooks from the 60’s and 70’s. 

“Brigette’s not on today, but that table is available if you want it.”

Me and Jessie both blink at the hostess, unintelligible utterances coming out until we give up, give in, and sit ourselves down at the small tea table under the back window. 

“I hope the rain doesn’t start again. I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

I hum, more preoccupied with trying to find a better distraction than my ripped cuticles. 

“He’s up front,” Jessie assures, “I think I saw that guy I dated the summer after freshman year...Mack something or other...busing these tables. I’m sure he’ll wait on us.”

“Whitaker.”

“What?”

“His name was Mack Whitaker.”

“Yeah, him. It’ll be fine.” She shrugs like it’s nothing. I can’t imagine being her.

The place is busy, rightfully so on a bleak Saturday afternoon. The sun pokes through the clouds occasionally, carving streams of golden light across our table, Jessie’s face, and I assume mine as well. She compliments my eyes and I thank her, then proceed to detail a hundred abstract thoughts as to why she must pity me enough to lie. Someone—who isn’t Mack Whitaker—brings us each water and apologizes for the wait. They’re swamped, understaffed, and had barreled through a visit from the health department early this morning. 

“Anthony’s pissed again,” Jessie mumbles, pursing her lips when I look up at her. I raise my brows so she’ll continue. “I missed his call the other night. But I was busy, so…” she shakes her head and scoffs a laugh. 

“It’s sweet though, that he wants to talk to you everyday.”

“Yeah, I know,” she sighs. 

“He’ll get over it,” I assure her. “He did the last time.”

“I just hope he’s over it before he comes up here.”

“Good afternoon, have you had a chance to look at the menu?” A girl from my class ends our conversation. She wears the same outfit as Harry. When she smiles I have to blink, her teeth whiter than heat, slightly crooked, and I imagine she overdoes the stinging gel against her gums to make up for it. It works. Her lips and cheeks look as if she’d became too friendly with strawberries; a character face, full and round, structured like magazine models with skin to match. I remember her from the previous year: pretty, even at eight in the morning. Boys like her, professors like her. Head of the Spanish club but I bet she can’t count past diez. 

“Two turkey on ciabatta with tomato soup. No mayo on one. Diet Coke aaand…” Jessie raises her brows at me.

“My water is fine, thanks.” 

“No mayo,” our server draws out the syllables while jotting down our order. ”Well my name’s Danielle, if you need anything just—” She points her pencil at me and squints, as if that clears my image and her memory. “You look familiar…” She hums to herself, taps the end of the pencil against her lips before her eyes light up. I gulp. “Oh! You’re in my class aren’t you? The early one on Monday and Wednesday!” 

I nod. “Yeah, World Lit.”

“Yeah! How are you doing on your book report?”

“Um, good I guess. Haven’t gotten too far into it yet.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty stupid right? I heard it was the TA’s idea. I mean, I haven’t done a book report since high school.” She laughs and rolls her eyes. “So—oh! Speak of the devil.”

My face feels as though I’m being stung by a thousand bees. Harry sidles up beside Danielle and nods to each of us. 

“Afternoon, ladies.” He’s holding a pitcher of ice water and flicks his gaze down to my glass.

I regret how much I drank when he fills it back up to the rim. I scrape my teeth against my tongue before I’m able to say anything. “Thank you.”

He nods, opens his mouth, but Danielle beats him to it. 

“We were just discussing our class.”

My veins are filled with wax, dripping at a pace so unoriginal, hardening, crystallizing. I grab my cutlery wrapped in a mauve pink napkin to occupy my hands, twisting and prodding and jabbing. 

“Yeah,” she continues when all he does is nod. “So what are we doing on Monday?”

“I have a surprise for you all, something I’ve been working on with Dr. Pierce—”

“Oh!” Danielle interrupts. “What is it?”

Harry raises his brows and laughs. “Well I can’t tell you, now can I? Won’t be a surprise.”

“Ohh, yes you can. We won’t say a word.”

Harry denies her once more. His eyes flicker down to me. “I’m sure you won’t. But you’ll have to wait for class to find out.”

“Oh my God! Your hand!”

I follow Jessie’s voice to see a small pool of blood decorating the table, my napkin having soaked up some, my skin a bit more. Red reflects in the sparkling silver of a fork and spoon, glistening on the blade of a knife I have carelessly sawed against the tip of my ring finger. I didn’t feel anything until I saw the cut, and now it stings. 

“We have a first aid kit in the back.” I hear Harry say but I look to Jessie. “Here,” he pulls a handful of napkins from his apron and cups them around my finger. “Is this okay?”

I nod without looking at him. He tells me to come with him, and I oblige, weighing my evils as the entire room is now focused on our table and the girl bleeding out right before their eyes. As I walk with him, I selfishly hope I do lose enough to earn a transfusion, amputate my finger, something, anything, so I can leave. If I get to stay in the hospital, I won’t have to go to class Monday. 

“Don’t worry!” Danielle whispers as she passes by us. “He’s great with his hands.”

I see vörös everywhere. 

***

It burns. Really burns. But I’m thankful. It’s the only thing keeping me aware that I’m alive, that I can’t hide away, that I need to mark my movements as always. He rinses my finger under an ice cold water bottle he pulled from a tiny fridge below the staff’s sign-in computer. Someone yelled at him—Ralph. His name is on the bottle. 

“This is cleaner than whatever comes out of the sink.” 

He slips his foot around the leg of a metal chair and drags it over by the sink; the closet door it had held open falls shut. With a nod he tells me to sit. I say nothing, just watch him care for the small wound like my life really is dependent on it. 

“Can I have your hand—er—can I see it? Your hand?” He rolls his lips in and clears his throat when I extend my arm to him. His touch is almost nonexistent. I barely feel his fingers splaying my hand flat and wide while he rinses the blood off. He uses a towel tucked into his waistband to dry me off, and then pops open the lid of the first aid kit. 

“This is just an antiseptic...don’t think it should burn.” He smooths a small bit of opaque gel over the ridiculously tiny split in my skin. “I think the head and the hand...always an extreme amount of blood. When I was a kid, my sister’s cat scratched me, right under my left eyebrow. It felt like someone poured water down my face. Mum thought I was goin’ to die.” He folds a purple band-aid over my finger, frowning when it’s not smooth so he starts again. “There. Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I whisper.

“Good. Okay. Um, well I guess I’d better get back.” His hand lingers on the bandage, running his thumb over it one last time, and then he finally pulls away. 

“Yeah.” I’m shaky when I stand, and curse myself when I almost trip over the chair when I turn to leave. I pause to speak over my shoulder. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

The walk back is long, and I have to fight the urge to look and see what he’s doing. I don’t hear the chair scraping against the floor or Ralph complaining about his water. I’m thankful I threw on my good jeans this morning. 

Jessie is bouncing in her seat when I return—the table beside ours. “Is it bad? It was a lot of blood! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It was really small. The cut I mean.” I look down at my bandage like it’s a secret. “Where’s my stuff?”

“They’re replacing it all,” she waves off. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it throbs a little bit—”

“No, not that! I mean him. Did he say anything to you? Was he mean? Because I’ll go back there if you need me to.”

“No—no, sit down, would you.” I hold back a laugh; she doesn’t need the encouragement. “He was nice.”

“Good. I tried to follow you but the manager came out and asked me what happened. We get our meal free, by the way.”

“Well then I guess this was worth it.”

Our food comes quickly, served by the manager herself. 

“Why aren’t you eating?”

I stir my soup. I can see the reflection of my eyes in the red pool, and I watch myself blink once before rippling my image away. “M’not that hungry.”

Jessie leans over the table and lowers her voice. “What happened?”

��What?”

“With Harry, in the back.”

“No, nothing.” I sigh and slump back into my chair. “I’m just tired. And I have a lot of work to do. That stupid report. And I have a quiz in another class on Tuesday. I’m fine. And he—”

“How are we doing? Is there anything I can get you guys?” Danielle looks prettier each time I see her. I shake my head while Jessie answers, keeping my focus on my untouched food. “Did Harry take care of you?”

It’s a good thing I wasn’t eating or else I would have choked. “Uh, yeah. He did.”

“I knew he would. He’s a sweet one.”

“Mhm.”

How easy it would be, to tell her my name. Tell her that her teeth are too white and her shirt is too tight. I could tell her that Harry’s sister’s cat scratched him when he was a kid and that’s where that tiny little scar above his eye is from. Did you know that Danielle? Or were you too preoccupied with what his hands were doing?

“Alright, well just holler for me if you need anything!”

I ignore her but she doesn’t seem to notice, waltzing off. Harry’s counting menus when she approaches him at the front. I think I hear her call him an angel, but I know I see him smile. I tell Jessie I want to leave. If I’m going to throw up it’s going to be in my bathroom with my best friend holding my hair back. 

***

I've had the Arctic Monkeys stuck in my head all morning. Every clink of the spoon against my bowl of cheerios, every step I took rushing to school because I decided to spend my time in the shower crying, every yawn from everyone stumbling into class. 

And I'll be yours until the stars fall from the sky, 

Yours, until the rivers all run dry. 

It’s five past eight. Dr. Pierce stands towards the corner, pointing at paperwork another professor is showing him. Each time a student cracks the door open they smile and hurry to their desk like they’ve won something. Freshmen. He told us twice that he doesn’t care if we’re late, it’s our grade not his, which I appreciate. My pen taps across my notebook. 

And I'll be yours until the sun no longer shines, 

Yours, until the poets run out of rhyme 

In other words, until the end of time

He is late, however. I try to refuse my need to look up at the door each time it opens. I want to dismiss the anxiety of waiting for him. 

I'm gonna stay right here by your side, 

Do my best to keep you satisfied 

Nothin' in the world could drive me away 

'Cause every day, you'll hear me say

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry apologizes, bustling through the door. He did his best to fix the upturned collar of his rose pink button-down, subtly, albeit he fails miserably when a smudge of maroon is revealed. “I uh,” he clears his throat, “had some things to take care of. Got carried away.” He directs his excuse towards our professor, scrambling to pull out today’s materials from his bag. 

Dr. Pierce bids the professor goodbye and welcomes Harry, offering him time to gather himself which he does rather quickly. His lips are pressed together until he’s the center of attention, scanning the room as he always does, finalizing on me and I swear his eyes glisten. 

“So, uh, today we’ll be—”

“So sorry I’m late.” Danielle hurries through the door and takes her seat at the front.

“Right, um, welcome.” Harry’s gaze is trained on the paper in his hands. His brows furrow and he clears his throat before continuing. “As I was saying, we’re doing something a tad different today. Dr. Pierce and I have been talking, and we decided to break up our usual routine And with your reports due soon, offer you all a little added support. So we’ll be heading to the library where you all can work, ask questions, get mine or Dr. Pierce’s advice—whatever you need to finish the final touches before you hand anything in.”

Most everyone appears pleased with this news, proceeding to sling their bags over their shoulders and get out of their chairs. 

“Hold on, hold on,” Dr. Pierce interjects the flow. “You must work on your report and your report only. This isn’t a free-for-all. And I don’t want to hear that you’ve finished it, because I can guarantee that there’s room for improvement from each of you.”

Danielle is the first to make it to the front. She passes Harry on her way to the door and straightens his collar. His face matches the rose colored stain she thumbs over and I think about how if I veer off and go home, no one will notice. 

And I'll be yours until two and two is three, 

Yours, until the mountains crumble to the sea 

In other words, until eternity 

Baby, I'm yours

***

Our library is something out of a medieval storybook. Rich, haunted woods and six tier windows where dust sparkles through the light pushing in. You can lose aged pennies against the floor and get lost behind dusty shelves if you want to. There are microfilms, typewriters, and a spirit machine downstairs and two velvet couches on the second floor. 

I spent the majority of my first semester here, back when Jessie brought a different boy home every Friday night. I’ve missed the smell, the quiet, the disturbed alteration of reality inside its doors. But when I look around at my class tossing their bags on tables and hollering for Dr. Pierce or Harry’s attention, I’m not sure if I’ll make plans to come back. 

Ms. Bortnick, the head librarian, is a stout woman who barely sees over the front desk, but somehow always knows when I’ve come in. When it’s raining, she knows the shake of my umbrella from everyone else’s. And when it’s spring, she knows my sneezes from everyone else’s. She is like a grandmother, only she’d never had kids, so not quite so in that you can’t get away with stuff. She has a bad eye and one good kidney, and sometimes she mixes these two things up, but I gave up on correcting her long ago. That’s how long I’ve been here. 

She is Ukrainian and her accent is thick and aged, much like her mind. “Hello nyuszi,” she says before I’m fully inside. It’s bunny in Hungarian. A nickname from my mom, who tells everyone because she thinks it’s cute. Everyone, including the tiny librarian during the campus tour we took forever and a day ago. 

“Hi Ms. Bortnick,” I say, lagging, like I’m embarrassed, because I am. 

She just waves with a big grandmother-like smile that makes you miss home. 

I take a seat at a small table, behind a section of Virginia Woolf. Most of the voices die down, the clicks of keyboards taking their place, and I  pull out the research I’ve started for my report. The Tropic of Cancer, slightly tattered and worn, lay open beside my notebook, and my laptop sits adjacent. 

“You coming along well?”

Shit. I jump, my ears ringing. “I’m fine.”

Harry nods and paces behind me to look over my shoulder. The air below his body weighs down against my back, so suffocating and harnessing that I’m sure I feel the waves and vibrations his heart emits. I try to swallow but my tongue gets in the way. I should’ve stayed home.

Harry nods and paces behind me to look over my shoulder. The air below his body weighs down against my back, so suffocating and harnessing that I’m sure I feel the waves and vibrations his heart emits. I try to swallow but my tongue gets in the way. I should’ve stayed home. 

“I actually did an analysis on Henry Miller a couple years ago. If you wanna pick my brain, you’re more than welcome to.”

“Oh uh, thanks.”

His voice is grumbly, like rocks turning over beneath tires. Yet smooth, like washing sand off your body. I’m perplexed for a moment, at how these two things meet together so well, but that’s always the case with people. Like how Ms. Bortnick can’t remember anyone’s actual name, but sews that wound up with a pet name she picks out just for you. 

“Yeah, I think I might even have an essay on my laptop. You can look over it if you’d like,” he says. 

“Thank you, but I think I’m fine with what I have.”

“Well if you need anything, just let me know.”

I nod. My eyes blink once he steps away, and it takes me a moment to remember where I am and what I am doing. I’m a bit separated from most of the class, at one of the outlying tables apart from the student section where Harry ambles around everyone. Whenever he bends over to look at someone’s work, the muscles beneath his shirt ripple and contract. I can see his shoulder blades from here, and I’m failing to recall a time when the definition of someone’s spine has ever called for my attention. 

I shake my head, naïvely expecting that to clear my mind. Google is pulled up on my laptop, but instead of searching for The Tropic of Cancer, I press the keys in Harry’s name. 

The first couple links that pop up are social media accounts. I avoid these and move on to the next option, a link going back to our school. It takes me to his name under the directory, nothing more than a profile picture and his credentials. 

Harry Styles

Received his Bachelor of Arts in English Literature at New York University in 2016. He completed a one year internship at the Ann Rittenberg Literary Agency Inc. in New York in 2017, and in 2018, spent a year abroad in France and Italy studying classic literature surrounding the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries. He is currently working on his graduate degree, assisted professional teaching placement, and his thesis on the cultivation of the Renaissance era in regards to English literature. 

I read over everything three times. That’s how long it takes me to grasp it all. He’s accomplished more in three years of his life than I have in my entire existence. It’s weird, being in my twenties and already feeding off the desire of wanting to be young again. It’s not fair how some people are prone to achievements and winning, while the rest of us are left to scramble around, years later to piece together a life that offers a sliver of satisfaction. 

I close the window and ineptly click on one of his social media accounts, and for some reason my stomach twists. There’s a picture of him on twitter, from this weekend. He’s at Truman’s with his arm around Danielle, a smile on his face, and a caption thanking her for getting him his job. They’re both pretty; perfect for each other really. The only thing I can think of being thankful for in this moment is that I was not included in their picture. No one needs to see that comparison; I provide myself with enough pity to feed an army.

And maybe it’s stupid, but I navigate to Danielle’s account. There’s a weird fraction in the self-loathing lifestyle, like my brain needs a reminder of where I stand in this world. It keeps me in check, I believe. I cannot imagine thinking I look good, only to be reminded that I don’t in fact, look anything close to good. That’s a big fall to take, and I prefer to spend my time at the bottom. I’ve earned my place here.

I zoom in to every picture. Have you ever compared your wrist to someone? Or the space where your neck meets your shoulders? She has a big, red birthmark on her hip, but she makes it look necessary. And I’m sure Harry probably likes it. And I’m sure she’s told him how she’s no longer ashamed of it, and she’s not afraid to wear bikinis because she doesn’t care what people think. And she probably thinks that’s what makes her different and that’s the story she tells, how she overcame insecurity and loves her body now. And she would probably tell me that I just need to learn how to accept my flaws and learn to love them and then I’ll finally be happy like her. But that’s stupid, even stupider then me scrolling through her account to find some awkward picture, maybe one where her nose and lips are less perfect and I can start saving up for surgery too. Because if I looked like her, I’d have no problem being happy. I’d post pictures on the beach, and find a boyfriend, and not feel like a pathetic loser who’s done nothing with her life.

“Are you writing your report on Danielle?”

I lurch with stiff bones, and now I can’t remember if I’ve had this headache all day or if Dr. Pierce’s voice triggered it. Shamefully, I close the browser. “No, I’m sorry.” I hope that’s enough, because it’s all I can afford to give right now. Maybe if he knew I was seconds away from crying he’ll leave me alone.

“Get back to work please.”

Just make it ‘til you get home. You can cry there. Not here. Not here. Not here.

***

I tediously lower my body so that the water pulses right below my chin. My knees are covered, but only if I remain motionless, or the water will break against my skin and then my knee caps will appear suddenly. I inch my feet further across the acrylic until they are hidden once again. 

There is a window extending from the floor beside the tub all the way up, over my head so I have a view of the street below as well as the sky, and it’s always quite a contrast. If the street is busy, then the sky is not. But then if the sky has a heavy to-do list, then it’s the road below me that becomes shallow, except when rain is falling in a race to its demise against the concrete. 

I suck in a breath that’s full of my shampoo and bodywash and the rose oil I dropped in twenty minutes ago. I can taste it in my lungs, so before it becomes too much, I push against my heels, my knees forming mountains as they break the surface and my head becomes consumed a moment later. The pressure is light, just enough; I’m more aware that I’m living than I did when oxygen was flowing through my lungs. I count to ten and then release the burn as I crash upwards. It’s a bit dramatic and cinema worthy, but there’s no one watching; even the city-goers are too far below me to care that I live here. 

“Is my phone in there?”

I drag my eyes open and sure enough, Jessie’s phone sits on the counter. “Come in!”

“Oh thank God, thought I left it at that party.” She picks her clothes from last night off the floor and throws them in the hamper. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“And why’s that?”

I shrug, but she doesn’t see me, now straightening up the mess she made of her toiletries, her back to me while she shoves everything into her drawer.

“Just one of those nights I guess.”

She peaks over her shoulder and hums. “You have a lot of those.” She turns fully, looking at me like she is a mother. I rack my brain for an excuse but I can’t find one. If I did, I would’ve tried it out on myself years ago. “Y’know I’m here to talk. I’m your best friend...that’s part of my job.”

I smile at the water, but turn away when I see my reflection. “I’m fine. Just getting used to the semester.”

She lets the defeat show on her face, and I’m glad I know how to mask mine. “Alright then. Well just text me if you need me. I’m always here for you.” Her voice is soft and patient and I feel guilty for lying to her. “I’m late for cello practice.”

“I’ll be fine. Gonna enjoy my day off.”

“And actually enjoy it! No studying, no flash cards!” She laughs when I roll my eyes. “I mean it. Go to the park, eat a pint of ice cream, masturbate, please, anything outside of those notebooks of yours!”

“I’ll add those to the list,” I laugh. “I’m probably just gonna stay home and relax. Watch Uptown Girls or something. Eat cookie dough.”

“And—”

“And masturbate I know.”

She kisses my head and grabs her phone, heading out the door, her voice fading as she leaves. “You can tell me all about it later.”

The tile is cold beneath my feet, and slick with warning as I pull the plug on the drain and take a moment to scan the world outside. The sun is in attendance today, some of its beams make their way into the bathroom and have crawled across the floor all morning. I decide to stand there, on the beams to warm my toes slightly. It’s probably more in my head, the warmth, but I’ll take it either way. The tiles are black and white, a classic checkerboard, and I gave up on choosing a color to step on not long after we moved in. 

The mirror is foggy and I work fast to wash my face and brush my teeth, keeping my towel tight around myself until the last possible second, trading it’s warmth for a sweater and jeans. I slip into my shoes. I haven’t read much for leisure, and pick up my copy of Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl from my bookshelf before I leave. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve read it, but each time never fails to reward me with something I didn’t catch the last time. 

***

There’s a park within walking distance from my apartment. I like to go there in the rain sometimes, under my green umbrella, and read literary magazines with a thermos of coffee Jessie made me. I look like the adult that I’m supposed to be. I don’t think anyone ever notices, which isn’t much different then the expectations I lay out for myself the night before. 

Today, however, I am not walking to the park. I am taking a train to the park. The park—Central Park. And it’s not raining and I forgot to bring coffee, but I need today. I need to do something for myself. Something outside my comfort zone. That’s how you become a better person, right?

We don’t have subways back home. There isn’t much of anything back home other than high school football games, car washes, and stray cats that everyone feeds. The first time I rode the train I cried. Jessie told me that it was okay, and that’s why I did it the next time, and the time after that. I’m not going to cry today, though. I am not going to get overwhelmed and worry about when to get on and when to get off and who’s looking at me and how I wouldn’t be able to help anyone if they get mugged or how if I trip and fall on the platform, I’ll start praying for death. 

Light flashes at a rhythm I’m unfamiliar with, but I manage to keep my focus on my book. It shakes in my hands but I keep reading. I’m not really reading, in its true form, that is. I’ve marked this book up so much I could use it as confetti, and those are the parts I’m reading. The parts that meant something to me at each stage of my life: I used a green pen at age eleven, red sharpie at fifteen, blue highlighter at twenty, and ripped sticky notes at twenty-three. It’s less of a commitment this way, but when the screeching travels up my spine and I can smell something other than people when I’m back on solid ground, I wipe my cheeks and they’re dry. 

When I lie in bed at night and think over the many sins and shortcomings attributed to me, I get so confused by it all that I either laugh or cry: it depends on what sort of mood I am in. Then I fall asleep with a stupid feeling of wishing to be different from what I am or from what I want to be; perhaps to behave differently from the way I want to behave.

I have a plan in place. One that I didn’t feel comfortable telling Jessie even though I know she’d be supportive. That’s the conundrum; having a best friend who loves you so much they want to fix you. She would have tagged along today, asked me how I’m feeling a million times and try to rationalize everything. She’d tell me all the ways I can be happy. But she can’t do that. No one should be allowed to, really. Because if you say can then there also has to be the option of can’t. And if people had the choice to pick what state their mind was in every day, I wouldn’t be strolling around parts of New York I’ve never been in, trying to scrounge up some off-handed version of self-love.

I bought a bath bomb and candles, stopped at a stationary store to pick up pens and notebooks that I don’t need, another Beatles t-shirt and chocolate. A farmer’s market was selling fresh fruit and I bought a tomato and ate the whole thing right there. I don’t care that it’s cheap retail therapy. It’s blocking out school and certain people and my age and my lack of success as an adult. And maybe it’s not working, but it’s New York—there’s distractions everywhere. And that’s exactly what I’m doing today. 

***

Liberty Island. That’s where the Statue of Liberty is. I am stupid for thinking Staten Island, but in my defense, that’s where everyone outside of New York thinks it is. When I moved here I wanted to see it. It was going to be this defining moment that solidified me in my new home, this incredible rebirth that validated me leaving my parents. I was going to buy cheap postcards and send them to my mom and I’d say See, I’m here and I’m happy. This was the right choice. I fit in. Please stop crying. At least I didn’t think it was Ellis Island. 

I’m on the right ferry heading towards the right island. Soon, I really see her and I start crying. She’s green but she’s not green, and she’s copper but also not really. She’s this woman and that’s fucking cool, except I know had she not been a gift, she would have been a man. There is someone with a microphone talking about her but the wind burns my ears so I pull up google on my phone. 

The Babylonian Ishtar, Imperial Rome’s goddess Libertas was Papal Rome’s “Mother of the Harlots and abominations of the earth” and the template for America’s Statue of Liberty.

I paid to visit the pedestal but not the crown. I don’t trust my body to climb twenty stories. I don’t wanna know what I’ll think about that high up. I saved up and bought a reservation and now that I’m here, I wish I’d brought Jessie along. I wish I had more people to choose from to bring along because this isn’t Jessie’s thing. But that was the idea, after all, to keep this day to myself, venture out, mark something off a bucket list I haven’t started yet. Distractions, distractions, distractions.

My bags are heavy and it’s hot, but I manage to read a lot of plaques and stroll around intentionally. I do, at certain moments, feel a sort of liberation with myself. Kind of like the first time you go out driving on your own. It’s scary, and a part of you still wishes your mom was behind the wheel, but that kind of being alone is freedom. It’s not the car or the license, it’s the option to be fully by yourself at any time. 

And I can’t help but wonder, compare, really, myself to the woman who I’m wandering around below her dress. She does lonely well. She does it right. All by herself she stands, a beacon, a purified symbol. And this is where I’m at, apparently, scrutinizing my abilities at making loneliness look mature and comparing myself to a statue.

Truly, this is my day. 

I take pictures of everything around me and it must be the sea air, because I do contemplate asking this dad of four kids to take one of me. I push that out of my head rather quickly. I switch the filter to black and white and angle my phone to get a photo overlooking the harbor once I’m back outside, but stop right in my tracks, when a familiar face is in the frame. 

“Oh my God! I can’t believe you’re here! What a small world!”

Dozens of names swim around my head, and my courtesy smile eases into a real one once one of them starts flashing, matching this person’s face before I make a fool of myself. 

“Devon, hey, s’been a while.”

“I know, God,” she shakes her head in disbelief, “high school feels like a century ago.”

She looks the same, only like a new version. Not exactly older or more mature, but like she stopped experimenting with makeup and her acne finally calmed down. All of her features sit on top of her face, warm, eyes just as piercing as when we were seventeen. She was always cute and that quality has followed her over the years. 

“So what are you doing?” she asks and I squint because of the wind, imagining her words rearranging in the breeze into something easier to answer. 

“Um, just sightseeing.”

“Well I figured that,” she laughs. “I mean, your life, what’s up?”

I know my face looks resistant. Everyone pulls the same look when your stuck explaining something that is going to automatically lower the standard in which the other person sees you: nearly closed eyes, barred upper teeth while your top lip pulls up in thought, sucking in a short breath before speaking, stiff neck and chest. 

“I uh, well I’m still in school,” I nod along and loosen my volume to sound like I’m happy. “And uh, working.”

“Oh are you working on your masters?”

“No just um, maybe one day, but not right now.”

“Okay.” It is that ‘okay’. The you-are-turning-pathetic-right-before-my-eyes Okay. She smiles anyway. “I’m thinking of going back next year to get my doctorate.” She shrugs. “So do you live here, or…”

“Yeah, yeah, I got a scholarship—”

“Oh well that’s good!”

“Uh huh.”

“We’re just visiting. Trying to hit all the hot spots though.”

“We?”

“Me and my fiancé. She’s—” she cranes her neck and points to somewhere behind her, “on a work call at the moment. Y’know it’s beautiful here, I wonder if we could have the wedding right here,” she laughs. 

“Yeah that would be something.”

“So, are you seeing anyone?” 

“Not at the moment.”

She gasps like she’s discovered something and points at the air between us. “Wait, weren’t you dating that guy, the uh, really smart one who graduated early? God, what was his name, Mark or Matt?”

“No that uh, that wasn’t me.”

“I could’ve sworn it was,” she laughs. 

“Nope.”

“Aw, bless your heart, well you’ll find someone. The city’s big!”

I am done with this conversation. I force a smile and excuse myself, heading off in the opposite direction so if any tears fall she won’t see, and keep to myself until it’s really cloudy and mist pricks my skin. Not soon enough, we’re boarding the ferry again. 

I wave to Lady Liberty and imagine her waving back when we leave. If I squint, it kind of does. Whether she’s saying goodbye or good luck, I don’t know.

***

Dinner is one of those meals that either means everything or nothing. Tonight it means nothing. I walk past Truman’s, slowly. Harry isn’t in there and I stop right outside the plated glass window, now decorated with orange and yellow leaves, and try to figure out if I would’ve gone in had he been there. A band is setting up along the back wall and that’s where I see Danielle. She’s got a tray of drinks that each member takes. When she spins around she’s smiling and she smiles as she walks towards the hostess’ podium and she smiles when she squeezes the hand of some guy that comes up and she smiles when she sees me. 

I wave because what else am I supposed to do. If I flip her off, she might strangle me with her extensions, or tell Harry that I was a bitch, or spit in my food the next time I come in. I wait till she’s distracted, and then I leave. I stop at a food truck and stuff my face with a taco. Nothing. 

Back down the street, back on the train, back to my apartment. 

“I didn’t cry this time.”

Jessie glances up from sliding the bow across the strings, the last note stinging the air. She looks so small next to the instrument. 

“On the train. I didn’t cry.”

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

Next Chapter

Let me know what you think!

Thank you to my wonderful beta readers @aileenacoustic and @bathrobesinparadise!!!!!!!!!

[writingkeepsmewhole]

Different Worlds

This is the first part of a new fic I’m writing. All of this was wrote on my phone in the car so if it sucks sorry. I really hope yall like it. It’s different then what I normally do. 

Y/n was a normal girl, normal life, family/friends. That all changes when she is kidnapped to a world she thought was only real on her TV screen.

Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: Angry Dean? Maybe blood.

Let me know if you want to be tagged.

I sat on the boat it slowly drifting down the river. My family was too distracted by the wildlife and scenery to take note of my silence.

Pushing myself from seat I went around to the small bathroom.

As soon as I was out of sight the sound of large wings flapping filled my ears.

Turning around I almost bumped into a large man.

"I'm sor-." I didn't get to finish my sentence before he cut me off by placing his hand over my mouth the other wrapping around my arm.

My vision blurred along with my stomach lunging into my throat.

When I opened my eyes again I was standing in a abandoned warehouse/prison.

The man let me go and took a large step away from me.

"Is this her?" Asked a familiar voice though I didn't know where I heard it before.

Walking from around the corner was a face I knew. A face that was on my wall in my bedroom.

I was looking at the face of Sam Winchester or Jared Padalecki

"Yes I think she will work." Says the unknown man.

"What the heck is going on?" I ask take a step back.

"It's alright you're safe here." He says taking a slowly step towards me and holding his hands up showing me he wasn't a threat.

"Is this a joke?" I ask looking around.

"I believe that Sam did not say something humorous." Says a deep voice directly behind me.

Spinning around I met bright blue eyes of a familiar angel.

Jumping away from him I looked at the both of them.

"Cas not helping." Sam- Jared says giving him a go away look.

"Okay I would really like to know what's going on before I start screaming."

"This human is loud would you like me to silence her?"

"No Dismas thank you." Sam says

"Everything is okay. I'll explain everything. Would you like I seat?" He says gesturing to a plastic white chair.

"No I want to know why I'm talking to people from a TV show."

"A TV show?"

"Yes a TV show. You are Jared Padalecki and you are Misha Collins from the show Supernatural." I say gesturing to them when I say there names.

"Supernatural? Like the books?"

"The books in the show?" I ask

"Is this some practical joke?"

"If it was a joke how do you explain getting here in the blink of an eye?" Sam asks glancing at the large man who grabbed me on the boat.

"That's a good point..." I say thinking about it.

"Now that that's settled I will take my leave. Call for me if you farther need my assistance." Says the man then disappearing

"You really are Sam huh?" I ask feeling like I was going to puke.

"Afraid so. You are?"

"Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N."

"Nice to meet you Y/N. As you already know I'm Sam."

'Where's Dean?'

"That's why you are here." He says softly.

"I said that out loud?"

"You didn't mean to?"

"No I umm didn't want to seem rude."

"It's alright. That actually makes sense if you are the right person."

"For what?" I ask

"I need your help. Come on you need to meet one more person." He says walking back towards the way he came I slowly followed him Cas behind me.

I looked around my heart racing. Once we rounded the corner we walked in another large room but it wasn't empty.

Towards the middle was a wooden table with jars and bowls full of different things. At the end bent over a book was a well dressed red haired woman.

At the sound of our feet she looked up at us.

I was not surprised to see Rowena.

"About bloody time you get back. He has been driving me crazy. It's bloody hard to think with him screaming like a madman." She says standing up.

"Sorry but I was trying to keep the only person who can help us from running out screaming."

"Is this her?" She asks looking me up and down.

"Doesn't look like much."

"It doesn't matter what she looks like as long as she can help Dean."

"What's wrong with Dean?" I say quickly blushing realizing what I did.

"Well seems like she cares for him. Maybe this will work." She says returning to her book.

"What is going on?" I ask trying to wrap my head around this halfway trying to convince myself it was all a dream.

Sam took a breath leaning on the table.

"Dean is under some curse. The only way to brake it is for someone to accept him and every mistake he has done."

"So why am I here? I mean you're his brother that should be you right?"

"I don't think so every time I try he gets worse."

"Worse? What is he sick?" I ask ignoring the way my heart ached at the thought.

"You could say that dearie. More like he is a raging mindless beast."

"He's not mindless!" Sam says smacking the table making me jump.

"Have you been in to see him today?"

Sam didn't get to respond before a loud scream carried over from a different room.

Quickly leaving the room we all follow him to a hall full of cells. Inside the first one is Dean or what use to be Dean.

He was pacing back and forth glaring.

When he realized we were standing there he lunged at the bars screaming. His face and any visual skin looked gray and rotten. But also had a scaly appearance as well. It pealing on his arms.

Reaching his arms out he yelled his eyes darting between the four of us. His nails long and black no doubt sharp enough to do some damage.

"Why is he like this?"

"We don't know." Sam says sounding hollow.

Looking at him I was right. He looked defected. I could understand why. This was his big brother someone he always looked up to and he was acting like he wanted to tear Sam’s throat out.

“Alright Missy get to work.” Rowena says pushing me towards the cell.

Instead of hitting the bars I found myself inside of the cell itself.

Dean looked around confused since I just disappeared from in front of him.

“What are you doing?” Sam says turning around to face her.

I don’t know what it was but it's as if Dean know I was behind him.

Turning around quickly it only took him a moment to slam me into the wall. I gasp when he presses his arm into my chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Get her out now!”

“Relax. Worse case he kills her and I can get rid of the body with a snap of my fingers. Let’s see-.” I stopped listening to what Rowena was saying when Dean wrapped his hand around my throat his nails digging into the skin.

“Dean, stop.” I say softly my heart racing so much I was shaking.

At the sound of my voice he cocked his head at me like a dog trying to hear better.

“Think about what you are doing.” I say my voice shaking.

Cocking his head the other way he leaned forward and met my eyes with him. There green color digging into mine.

With a frustrated growl like sigh he moved away from me to pace in front of the bars.

Taking a breath I lifted my hand to touch my neck. Pulling my hand away I expect blood but found none. Wrapping my arms around myself I watched Dean move more animal than human.

He watched everyone outside the cell waiting for his chance to strike. His body rigid every muscle tight.

“Y/N.” Sam says softly but Dean didn’t even look in his direction. As if he couldn’t hear him.

“Don’t tell him to fight what’s happening. He has to accept what he’s done. At least that’s what we think. He has to be accepted by you. Can you do that?” He asks looking at me his brown eyes looking tired.

I nod not trusting my voice to speak.

“Thank you. I’m right here just try to get him to talk.”

I nod again my gaze once again returning to Dean. He was still pacing something telling me he would do it until he was left alone.

“Dean.” I say barely above a whisper.

I at first I didn’t think he heard me but when he turned to face me after I didn’t say anything I realized he was waiting for me to speak.

“Can you tell me what happened to you?”

After staring at me for almost a minute he let out another angry sigh.

“Can you speak?” I ask slowly pushing myself up from the wall.

After another long pause he stalks to me pinning me to the wall. Wrapping his hand once again around my throat he tightens his grip.

“You can’t can you?” I ask softly it making his grip tighten even more.

When I felt a sting and a warm tickle run down my collar bone I knew this time he drew blood. Feeling it as well Dean looks down at my neck his eyes showing shock or pain I wasn’t sure.

My heart started pounding again when he bent his head and brushed my neck with his mouth.

I gulped when I knew for sure he was going to bite me or worse rip my throat out.

I was taken back when I felt him press his lips to my collarbone.

“What is he doing?” Castiel asked.

“Apologizing.” I say realizing his grip on my neck was barely there.

Lifting his head Dean looked at me with the same look he gave me before as if he was hearing me for the first time waiting for me to say something.

“You are apologizing aren't you?” I say softly.

Tilting his head he stares at me for a long time at least two minutes before he let out a sigh and dropped his gaze for a moment. It quickly coming back to met mine along with him standing up straighter as well.

“It’s okay.” I say softly keeping my gaze on his.

“I forgive you.”

He lets out a huff and pulls away from me to sit on the floor. Leaning against the wall he stares at Sam as if waiting for him to move.

“I’m sorry.” I say softly looking at the younger Winchester.

“Don’t be. That’s the most we have gotten out of him in the past few days.”

“When did he stop talking?”

“About four days ago.”

“How long has he been cursed?”

“Two weeks to be exact.” Rowena says

“He gets worse everyday. Though the trying to tough it out and fight the spell only makes it worse. As you can tell.” She says gesturing to Dean.

“How do we fix him?”

“Get him to accept his past sins. How every big or small they may be.”

“What are we going to make a list?” I ask her earning a slight glare.

“No Dearie. I’m sure the big ones will do the trick.”

“Like what?”

“Oh you know becoming a demon for one.”

“That wasn't his fault.”

“Is that so? Where you here?”

“He made a deal with Cain he didn’t know what the mark would do.”

“Well well looks like you are the right one.” She says smirking and walking off confusing me.

“What is she talking about?”

“Have you ever heard the story or beauty and the beast?”

“Yeah it was like my favorite one as a child why?”

“That’s the curse Dean is under. Though instead of making him ugly it’s his sins and wickedness you have to accept.”

“So why me?” I ask glancing back at Dean when he stood up to start pacing again. This time because Cas walked close to the bars looking at him.

“We told Dismas to find someone who could accept a flawed person. He said you knew our history. The show I’m guessing is close to the real thing, like the books. That you were in love with Dean.”

“Wait what?” I ask my voice cracking.

“Hey relax I’m not calling you out. You don’t have to love him I just want my brother back.” Sam says him sounding broken.

I nod.

“I’ll try my best.” I say softly chewing on my lip.

[whattheraintoldme]

On the first few mornings, he made me coffee. It was too strong, and thick at the bottom, but it read like admiration.

This morning, he does not.

The moon is still visible in the swelling blue of the six am window. The slats of the blinds are broken, so when he’s awake, I’m awake, the sky is awake. The hawk that lives inside the roof is chasing smaller birds, the flap of their wings like water slapping the edge of a boat.

The sting is in my throat again, and the acrid smell of cigarettes that lives in the walls. There are empty vessels everywhere, cooking in the June heat, making me feel sick to my stomach. I turn over on the mattress, under the dirty blanket, and try to smother the drumming in my head.

He’s at the restaurant today and he will be tomorrow, but when he leaves at six am and throws the key next to the tender curve of my skull - I won’t notice until it’s too late. Til I am trapped.

I don’t work, or I barely do, so mostly I drift. The place is full of books, but they’re all mean - except for her’s, which I cannot touch. This is a kingdom, 900 square feet in the sky, and I am a serf.

When he comes home, he will bring a box of warm white wine with him, the flour will be in his fingernails, he’ll be tired, and I don't know anything else about that.

Lately I’ve felt like everyone is a little bit afraid of me, because I am fragile, and they love me. It seems like if they told me the truth they might snap me in half. I feel heavy and burdensome in my body. He is not afraid to hurt me. He fights with me about whatever he can. I’m exhilarated when he does it, when he’s animated because he looks at me. He shoves a hand in my hair and calls me stupid, his little baby. He can’t decide if I am tough enough to take it, or soft like a flake of early snow. If you hold me long enough, I’ll melt. No one is an adult in this palace of sugar. We eat nothing but chips and salsa and pass out drunk in the swelter of July, listening to his favourite songs.

He is so slender. When he sleeps beside me I can see the bones stick out of his back. He has a perfectly round brown dot on the right side of his spine, which I fixate on. I watch his shoulder blades expand and contract, wondering if they will stop tonight. Since we came back together, he always falls asleep before I do, so I wrap my arms around him when I’m ready and hope this tenderness will shepherd him to shore. 

Tonight he tells me that his grandfather is gone. He threw his fragile, jaundiced body down a flight of stairs, all to follow his grandmother. He doesn’t know his father, his mother drank him all the way to term, and she and she and she is gone, so now he is alone, and all that’s left is me. A pallid version of a history of unsafe support. 

His face is smooth and childlike. He looks especially young when he picks up the roll of tape to throw, the glass to smash, or the empty pack to rip in two. He looks petulant. I hate this face of his, but dutifully I pick up the pieces. I cut my hands and teeth this way, or maybe I am ripping holes I will have to fill later.

When I was little this was what came easy to me. I used to dig in the dirt alone, I wandered from adult to adult, looking for a big hand to wrap around my little one. The first thing I was aware I could give away for love was my body. I fought the first time and paid for it. After that I let men come in and out of me without fussing, so even briefly I would matter. I could make the little sounds they liked, I could perform, and yet I saw them not need me. I saw myself reflected in the dirty mirror of his mother's house, telling me he’d call me a January cab, standing outside, used and no longer valuable, my hands turning white in the snow. I was sixteen and already ruined. If I spin hate enough, can I weave it into love?

His apartment is a similar shrine to history. When he was born, he was born inside out, he has the scars to prove it. This is the push and pull of the past I can feel forming a knot in my stomach when he says her name. “Everyone leaves me.” There is a little envelope on his bathroom shelf I don’t dare move. It says I love you. I greedily pretend it is for me.

There’s no endearment left between us but there is dependence, if I leave he will be lonely, he will punish me, and then I’ll be lonely - and loneliness feels like a prison too.

The apartment has two bedrooms. There is no furniture save for a desk, two chairs, and two mattresses we switch back and forth between each night when he wakes up and needs to steady the shakes with something harder. We barely touch each other anymore.

On Tuesdays, he takes me up the street to a restaurant, he buys me a pho and a beer. Everything is covered in black linoleum, the window gazes out at a string of bars, we’re far enough west and you can see it in the grime. I look at him like he is my ticket to salvation, and sip. I think about how I will hide him from the rest of my life, how we can annex ourselves in our little bunker, how no one has to know how he makes the bones under my skin shake like wet leaves. He looks at me like I could be anyone. I do not matter, I am a placeholder on a dance card. I am creative like Amber, I am needy like Megan. I will never be Heather. I caved to the comparison. I wasn’t strong enough to stay myself, and he noticed. The company that misery loves.

Today I am picking at my skin, and my bruises bloom. The sound of violence rattles behind my eyes. I roll from room to room, hanging my head out of the open window, my cigarette burns down to a stub. Boredom is a clandestine agent of chaos, a slow bleed from the belly.

I think I can feel myself dying. Sensation licking across my chest like kerosene. My fingertips tingle every day, and I don’t know where I am unless he’s home. I hate to be here and I hate to leave. I didn’t realize that I had no choice until he couldn’t stand the look of me. Pathetic, dwindling, a dog on a short chain. Evidence that had to be burned to its smallest common denominator, that had to be stamped out, disappeared. Proof of the space inside he couldn’t fill with anything. 

It takes a very short time for a person to be hollowed out. Did you know that? Less time than it takes to fall in love, but not by much. Did they tell you how hate could be couched in love? I knew one day he would hate me. I knew it by how much he hated my doctor, my friends, my body, my health, my happiness, my family, my home - but I didn’t know how much it would hurt.

I didn’t know how little consequence it would have in the wider world. How the earth would still turn while I laid on my back in a filthy apartment alone, with the knowledge that someone I loved could hurt me, could hate me. I didn’t know how much it mattered to me to hold his fragile bones in my arms and promise him forgiveness.

On the 365th night, since he left me, I am in the apartment again - it looks the same, or maybe it is different, maybe it is a composite of the places that have hurt me most. The sensation of carpet on my back. The sound of chattering objects against hardwood, less painful than the sound of indifference, or the sound of loathing. I shouldn’t be there; he wouldn’t want me, his hair was longer, he rolled over, he went to work, he didn’t see me - or he refused to look.

I left the dream-apartment in the dream-morning. I wandered through a party where I knew no one, I was surrounded by strangers who couldn’t see the empty. Scraped out like the place the thing we made together used to be. Raw and hollow. I was drifting again.

Then something shifted. Submerged in the deep, baltic ocean of sleep. The black profound and fathomless, love called out to me in the dark. It said, “all these parts of you are not failing.” The spring through that psychic window was bright. A composite of voices, the women who have always loved me, the man who made me, whistled through this chasm in unison.

That I do not need to accept him, or this, or any unkindness. That this is no longer my story. I hope it is not yours either. Softness is beautiful, and the strength we deserve to cultivate is drawn from it. Loneliness is a better prison, because we can live in it, and we can be alright. We can survive.

[4nonah]

Fiftysix , fiftyseven, distractions, hurry up, I'm out of breath, I can't breathe. The ugly sound of metal doors scratching over few rocks and concrete make the hair or my arms stand up. I am him but the cold air and my eyes are trying to adjust to the darkness. I can't see where the rooftop ends but I know I should be able to make a few more steps forward without coming to the end of it. It's nice here. I come here when I need to calm down. I lay down, hearing faded car sirens and motors , feeling the still warm concrete underneath me and the cold wind on my cheeks. I am fidgeting with the pocket knife. The sky is clear and I can see the stars. I am still restless tho, I am still angry. Trying to talk some sense into my parents is never gonna work. I can't stay still, the stars are not helping tonight. I go back inside, down seventy six steps, checking my pockets for my bus ticket. Good, I got it with me. I ran to catch the bus to the beach. It's not my first time catching the midnight bus to the beach. The bus finnaly stops next to the beach and I hop out. Why didn't he close the doors after me? Did I forget something? As I spin around to look back I bump into someone.

"Fuck, sorry I didn't see you." I mumble

The other guy just looked at me annoyed so I turned and started walking to the beach. I could hear the ocean waves washing the sand and I could smell the salty water, everything else faded out. I kept walking, I kept walking to the darkest part of the beach, it was my hiding spot. When I reached it I sat onto the warm sand, hands wrapped around my knees, and I cried. I am so tired of this world, of constant fights with my parents, tired of having to smile at people at work and be happy.

Suddenly i went quiet. You probably couldn't hear me breathing how quiet I was, eyes dry, focused on the dark figure standing few meters in front of me. I stayed quiet. They didn't move either.

" What do you want?" I asked calmly

" Are you okay?" I heard someone's soft voice say

" Who are you?" I asked

" I'm Noah,sorry, I thought I heard you cry." He said as he was turning back to leave.

He went a bit away, I could still see him, my eyes were adjusted to the dark enough to notice him. He was leaning against one of the old boats. Dumbass, the old boats are spiders favorite nests. I got up.

" Do you like spiders?"

He jumped when he heard me

" What? No? Why? You scared me!" He said confused and upset.

"Spiders love old boats" I said

He got up. " Wanna go sit on the swings?" I asked him

He looked at me unsure but started walking towards the swings. I noticed he was keeping his hand in his jacket pocket and fidgeting with something. " What do you have in there?" I asked.

" uhh, it's just this thing I have to keep my hands busy. " He got it out. It was not what I was expecting. It was a small rounded stuffie, some animal that I couldn't recognize in the dark. As we approached the swings the light was brighter and I could see him better.

He was wearing oversized sweater and blavk jacket, he had glasses and messy hair. I didn't want to stare so I looked away. I could feel he was now looking at me. I probably didn't look like the best guy to be with at the beach at 1am. Ripped jeans, black hoodie, beanie and a some scratches and bruises on my cheek and hands, worn out black converse shoes.

" what do you have in your pocket?" He asked, imitating the sound of my voice earlier

" a knife." That surprised him a bit, made him make a short pause with swinging. " A knife?"

" Yeah, I always carry one with me. "

He didn't say anything to that. But I could see him looking at me again.

" so what are you doing here?" I asked him.

" I , I don't know.." I could feel there was more to say but he kept himself from saying it. He looked sad, upset, like he needed a hug. I wasn't good with helping people with that so I just swinged softly on my swing. I think he started to cry, but I didn't know what to do so I just said that it's gonna be okay. Suddenly he stopped , he didn't move. "Whats wro?" "Shh" he said and continued whispering " do you see that person standing next to the tree on your left? Stop, don't look right now, slowly." I turned around pretending I was just looking at the surrounding. He was right. There was someone standing next to one of the trees, looking at us. The bus stop was few meters from where we were.

" listen, the bus is coming in ten minutes, we're gonna stay here and pretend we don't see that person and then when the bus comes we run to it.got it?"

" yes, okay. I'll keep an eye on him. You have an actual knife right?" He asked me. It made me smile a bit. " Yeah, I do have an actual knife in my pocket." " Okay good" he said and smiled.

Now that his face was visible under the street light he looked quite cute. Red cheeks and soft lips, he had a nose piercing and his hair was messy, he looked down, I think he blushed. Oh shit, I'm probably being weird just staring at him. Uhh, fuck, I should say something, this is awkward.aa.

" what's your name?" He asked, interrupting my panicking thoughts. For a second I forgot my own name.

" Dante, my name is Dante. And what did you say your name is?"

" Noah."

" it suits y, shit, run, the bus is here" I grabbed his hand while saying that and we got to the bus just on time.

" umm" I heard him hesitating to say something. I looked at him waiting for what he's going to say

" you're holding me." " Oh, sorry, I didn't realize, I didn't want you to miss the bus"

[generic-cleric]

Session 30: Curse of Strahd

Spoilers for Curse of Strahd below

The Feast of Saint Alexi Part IV: It’s the End of the World as We Know It (and I Feel Fine)

Top of the round goes to Bedlam, who decides to start performing as a precaution for Strahd’s charm ability. Next, Jander closes the heavy church doors left open by the fleeing civilians and stands in front of them. The group inside, after hearing the frantic singing of Bedlam and catching a glimpse of Strahd through the open door, is now quite concerned. Okrin was able to use his Turn Undead ability to send her spider climbing up the belfry of the church, so now they are mostly trying to protect Father Lucien from the bat swarms while he tries to consecrate the church.

Strahd approaches, sneering at Jander and says “You’re not going to be a problem, are you?” and casts Hold Person on him. Strahd is then able to move past him and into the church. The party rages at his ability to just stroll in here seemingly without an invite as well as succeeding his save for Okrin’s Turn Undead ability. He waits and watches for a round, the party positions themselves strategically around Ireena.

I should take this moment to explain, I am using a homebrew statblock for Jander.. I wanted him to have the potential to get stronger with the party (story reasons being he came out of hibernation not too long ago), so as of right now he does not have Legendary Resistance, but might get one on a level up later!

So Bedlam and Jander are still outside the church. Jander is still making rolls to escape the paralysis when Bedlam eyeballs Bucephalus. He went over, vibe checked the horse, then after casting a questioning “should I pet this horse” glance at Jander  gently pet her, and sang to her. Once all his horse girl dreams were realized, he decided to head into the church to join the party.

It is clear to Vondal that Strahd is making his way over to Father Lucien. Vondal tries to block the way.

“I’d like to gently push him- or to block him from going over there.” Vondal’s player tells me.

“Well, I don’t think there are gentle shoves, it’s gonna be a shove shove if you do that, are you still okay with that?”

“Hmm.” he says thoughtfully, “I think I’m going to Shillelagh him them.” 

I was really wondering who was gonna throw hands first, I shouldn’t have been surprised when it was the crotchety old dwarf. Vondal whiffs, but I appreciate the chutzpah.

Strahd moves past Vondal without a word and positions himself behind Father Lucien and under the belfry. He sends a Magic Missile Anastraya’s way, which snaps her out of her frightened condition. Next with a snap of his fingers, he ruins Okrin’s day.

Suddenly, Okrin’s helmet spins around, blinding him. His armor becomes stiff, restricting him from moving. He, Vondal, and Veledrel spend the next few turns ripping off his armor piece by piece, which was hilariously awkward. 

Strahd is able to grapple Father Lucien and take a really good bite out of him, knocking him down to 2hp. Anastraya makes her way back into the fray and tussles with Bedlam. Jander finally is able to break the paralysis, he charms two commoners and brings them as meatshields / invitations…. He’s chaotic neutral, ok??

At this point, I have no idea if Okrin’s Turn Undead ability was still active, but I totally forgot to have Jander make a save if it was. Oh well.

 Ireena takes up consecrating the church while Vondal and Veledrel try to heal Father Lucien. Strahd snaps his fingers again, bringing to life the armor that had been cast aside to the floor. The armor animates and begins attacking Okrin. Anastraya absolutely brutalizes Bedlam, stunning him for a round and bringing him down to 6 hp.

Strahd gives Lucien The Bite ™ and throws his dead and mangled body down into the pit where the consecration is taking place. Ireena cries out and Jander makes his way over to Strahd.  Though Bedlam stabs Anastraya real good, she takes a swipe at Jander as he passes them.

Veledrel and Okrin join Ireena in consecrating, in hopes that the power of friendship will be enough.

Strahd turns his attention to Jande and brandishes a very evil looking sword. He lands a nasty hit, skewering him and dealing QUITE A BIT of damage. 

The consecration is complete. A warm golden light erupts from the bones and whomp blast-radius ripples out from them. 

And with that, Strahd offers his hand to Anastraya and they walk out of the church together, followed by an animated suit of armor. On the way out, Bedlam delivers a sick limerick:

“Brutalized by a red lady fury 

My vision went a bit blurry 

She plays for keeps 

So hide under your sheets 

Or get out of town in a hurry! “

Standing at the doors of the church Anastraya calls in  “Keep the bones, we got what we wanted. The treasonous Dawnslayers are dead, and I think we’ve more than proven that there is nowhere you can hide.” speaking to Ireena, “No where you can go that will keep you safe, or keep others safe from the chaos that follows you.  Are you really selfish enough to let others die for you, my darling? Your friends die for you? First the attacks on the Village of Barovia, now you’ve set fire to Vallaki, what will it be next? Come with us to the castle and put an end to their suffering.”

Ireena is really hurt by this and looks to the party, they can tell that she would be willing if it meant safety for the others. Vondal shakes his head and Veledrel puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Don’t listen to them” he says “They’re the ones bein dicks, this is their fault, not yours. You didn’t do any of this.” relief washes over her as she decides to remain with her friends.

Bedlam trots forward “Well, I’ll go.” he offers.

Anastraya chuckles and pats his cheek, leaving a handprint of his own blood on his face. “Oh no,” she says, “I’ll be seeing you at dinner.” She turns with Strahd and they enter the cabin of their very fancy carriage. They pull away and casually cruise down the streets at Vallaki as the destruction begins to subside, leaving the party to stand in their wake.

Ireena explains that Father Lucien was part of a group of vampire hunters called the Darnslayers that were created in the name of the morninglord (lol). She supposes Strahd had found out about them and wanted to extinguish them for their treasonous ideation / actions. She doesn’t know if he knows that she is actually the last remaining member. 

Level up! Now they’re level 7! I offered them a very special re-spec opportunity in the event that anyone wanted to change their class for story reasons, so I’m interested to see what they decide to do!

I’m expecting the next session to be mostly them addressing the aftermath of the event and checking on their favorite npcs to see who survived. Blinsky, Stella and her brothers, Victor, the Martikovs are ones that come to mind that I feel like they’ll want to see. I think they had mentioned that they wanted to check on Arabelle as well, which is not terribly out of the way since Jander, Bedlam, and now Ireena are staying at the encampment.

It has been an incredibly long day for them, so I’m sure they’ll be resting soon too, after all, they have a festival to attend tomorrow!

[along-the-devils-backbone]

Ahhh last night was awesome <3 I’m staying at my bff’s house to babysit her kiddo since she’s running a fever and can’t school. So bff and I decided that since we’re both D&D nerds, we’re going to introduce her to a kid-friendly D&D experience (Nothing too traumatic, obviously). 

K (the kiddo) is 6, almost 7. She made a Drow Druid named “Mal” who lived in the darkest parts of the woods. 

BFF made a halfling rogue, named (Cora?), and I made an Aaracockran ranger named “Pickett” with her pet dire rat “Kree” (who proved to be entirely useless XD). 

We introduced our characters and where we lived/what we looked like, and then I played DM and told them that each of us has been given an important letter from a messenger, telling us to head to the nearby town for an urgent meeting with the mayor. When we arrive, the mayor introduces us to a tiny little woman with opal eyes that tells us she’s an Oracle and had a vision with the three of us in it. We were to stop a great evil from emerging from the ruins on the other side of the forest, or the world would be doomed. 

Immediately, K jumped in as party leader, and directed us where to go. We were going to head back through the woods to take a shortcut to the ruins, instead of taking the long road south through the mountains. But once we got into the forest, Pickett and Mal got lost (They’d never been to this side of the woods before, despite the forest being their home), and we got seperated from Cora. So Mal turned into a wolf, and sniffed her way to Cora, so we could be reunited -- just in time for a giant spider to attack. 

The spider took some time, but Mal stayed in wolf form for it and together we ripped it’s legs off and killed it. Then another spider jumps out to attack us, and attacks Cora, trying to spin her into a web -- but Cora cuts herself free. Mal turns into a tiger instead, and pulls the spider away. Together they manage to kill the second spider, and any spiders waiting around decide to leave because we’re obviously too tough :P 

So we find our way out of the woods, and decide to make camp for the night (we were going to stop there for bedtime, but K was FAR too excited and wanted to keep going, so we decided “yeah okay” and kept on going lol). When we woke up, we heard growling -- a HUGE wolf had appeared at the edge of the woods, and was inching towards us -- but it didn’t attack us. Mal decided that it was probaby scared, and turned into a wolf to talk to it. (which i’m SO PROUD OF HER FOR DOING HOLY CRAP! Momma even pulled out her bow and yelled “Let’s kill it!” and K goes “NO! LET’S TALK TO IT FIRST!”. Good RP’ing kid! <3) 

Well, Mal found out the wolf was just hungry and smelled our dinner from last night, and was hoping to scare us away so he could eat our leftovers -- he was starving! So Kay went to the fire and picked up some bones and brought them back to the wolf, who thanked her and asked if there was any way he could repay her? She asked him if he wanted to come with us to go fight the evil in the ruins, if she promises to feed him every day. The wolf happily agreed, and said his name was Roscoe. 

Roscoe helped lead the party to the ruins, where we met a wizened old gnome named “Ames” who was very sick and old. He told them that he was the guardian of the ruins, and he has been guarding it for hundreds of years! But he’s getting sick, and old... and soon he’ll have to “go home” and no one will be around to protect the ruins, meaning the evil can come out and take over the world! Would us heroes help him?? 

Mal decides since she’s a druid, she’s going to heal the old man and make him young again! But only does like, 7 healing lol. So it removes a couple of warts, but he thanks her, saying he does feel a little younger! 

Before they can decide what to do next, an evil laugh echoes from a mausoleum inside the ruins, and a gate creaks open to reveal the big bad boss guy named Valdette. He tells them he’s going to take over the world with his evil magic, starting with their puny little town! Before the evil guy can even cast his first spell, Mal turns into a pseudodragon and FLINGS HERSELF at his fucking throat!??? and sunk her teeth into him -- not only doing a ridiculous amount of damage, but also poisoning AND GRAPPLING him. He goes next, FAILS the grapple, and can’t reach his sword. 

Everyone takes turns hitting on him (including the dire wolf pet) and within the first round, he’s dead. Dead as dead can be lmfao. I was like “holy shit damn that was quick okay SHIT make this last longer uhhhh” so i grabbed a goofy skeleton that pops his head up out of the crypt like “Master? OH DANG YOU KILLED HIM! REVEEEEENGE!” 

So Pickett and Cora shoot him in his glowing red eye sockets, “blinding” him, the wolf rips his leg off and goes to bury it somewhere, the rat chews through his ankle bones, Mal tries to knock him over again and again but doesn’t quite manage, and then Cora shoots one last arrow and breaks his neck, making his head fall off and roll to the floor, saying “Well that’s VERY rude of you >:C” and then his eyes fade and he “dies”. 

The guardian of the ruins is so thankful, he allows them to go down into the crypt and salvage anything they find. (I generated a ridiculous amount of loot, because i wasn’t sure if we were going to keep going or not lol). 

Mal ended up finding a pair of spiderwalking slippers that allow her to walk on walls and ceilings and stuff. We also found some potions, some gold, and a few scrolls that nobody can use. 

When we asked K if she liked it, she was INCREDIBLY enthusiastic and asked if we could do it all week lol. So i told her absolutely, we can play it while I’m here this week, so now i’m googling other campaigns to play with her XD

We’re so dang proud of her though??? like, the only thing we had to tell her that she didn’t like, was she could only turn into two animals a day (because she kept wanting to change into different stuff over and over for each attack), and then i reminded her BEFORE the wolf appeared, that she could also talk to animals, so she could try to talk to them before attacking to make sure they’re not scared or sad first -- and as soon as she saw the wolf, she was like “I WANT TO TALK TO IT :O DON’T HURT IT” 

Fucking success \o/ 

[killushawn]

Killlua, Eren, and L... Fuck one, marry one, kill one...... GO.

Do you ever do something, and think to yourself, ‘Wow. Out of everything I’d imagined in my head, this is the worst possible scenario I could have possibly ended up with’? No? Just me?

Well…that whole ‘worst case scenario’ thing happened to me.

My name is Shawn. I’m currently in my early twenties, just living life and trying to get by, and work towards a better future. What we’re all doing, you know? Anyway, moving on.

It’s a typical Friday night. Nothing crazy. I’m out with friends at a local bar. Everyone’s drinking, and we’re having a great time. Nothing out of the ordinary happening.

…Until suddenly it is. The last thing I remember is a flash, a bang…and then black. All black.

I wake up a while later. Whether it’s been a few hours or a few days, I have no idea. I feel super groggy. You know when you fall asleep in the afternoon, and when you fall asleep it feels great, but once you wake back up, it’s a really shitty feeling? Yeah. It’s like that.

Anyway, I wake up, and once I’m able to get my bearings, I realize I’m strapped into a chair. Not a comfy one, either. One of those metal chairs you see in interrogation rooms. And hey, that makes sense, because guess where I am? An interrogation room. Ten points for you.

The room is very plain. Grey walls, a small table and two chairs, a light coming down from the ceiling, and a window (that I can only assume was a one-way mirror), next to a large, gray door.

I try really hard to think back to something I might have done. Something, anything that might land me in police custody. I’ve done some stupid stuff in my life…but nothing that warranted this.

I feel myself getting tired again. The room is the perfect temperature for sleeping. The silence was both terrifying and peaceful. And I find myself too tired to care. I’m in custody, after all.

Just as I start dozing off, the door to my left crashes open. A short, round man in a brown striped suit walks in. I can tell instantly that he meant business. The head of the mafia kind of dude, you know? The type that you’d expect to actually kill his daughter’s prom date. And wouldn’t you know it? His two henchmen waltz in after him. Even they fit the picture of ‘mafia boss’s henchmen’ to the T. Grey suits, glasses, identical looking faces, and looks that feigned an indifference that could kill.

The only difference in the two is the briefcase the one on the right is holding. It’s grey, and it’s handcuffed to his arm. I’m sure it’s filled with happiness and joy. Nothing horrible, right? Right?

So the main dude walks in. And he doesn’t just sit in the chair. He turns the fucker around, and sits in it so he’s facing me, sitting the opposite way the chair is supposed to go. I can tell it’s an intimidation tactic…and it definitely works. I’m terrified.

We sit in silence for a little bit. I feel the sweat dripping, pouring down my face.

More silence.

I get a nervous twitch in my leg that I can’t seem to quell.

More silence.

I feel my breathing getting heavier. I am too used to this feeling to not know the signs of a panic attack. Something needs to happen soon or I’m in huge trouble.

And then the man speaks.

“Mr. Hodson.” The voice is deep. It’s so deep. It’s not of this world deep.

“Y-yeah?” I manage to choke out. My voice sounds weak, pathetic in comparison.

“We’ve been watching you for some time. You caught our eye a while back, and now that we feel confident in who you are, all you’ve accomplished, and all you plan to do, we’ve chosen to act.”

“Watching me for some time? What I plan to do? Who the fuck-“

“And” the man continues, as if reading my thoughts, “Who we are is of little to no concern of yours. You might say we’re just interested in…having a little fun.”

“Having a little fun”…Thoughts are spinning around in my head. What did he mean by fun? Was this not the police? Who had this kind of power?

“O-Okay…” I say, my voice catching again. “What…what kind of fun are you referring to?”

If I wasn’t so tired, maybe I’d have more fight in me. More of my usual sarcastic sass.

“Be quiet. If I choose to tell you, I will do so when I deem fit.” His face is expressionless. A void.

A pause, and then, “I mean, if you’re referring to…that kind of fun… I’m probably too expensive for you.”

There it is.

He looks at me, and without so much as batting an eyebrow, pulls a gun out of his pocket.

And suddenly, I don’t feel so sassy anymore. Silence did always seem like more fun for me.

“My…team…and I have finally finished our little project. And you are who we’ve chosen to take part in our…experimentation.” At this, Mr. Smith with the handcuffed briefcase sets said object down in front of me, types in a code, and cracks the lid. I find myself a little disappointed, there isn’t even a hint of smoke when it opens.

He pulls out some wires with suction cups on the end, and places them on different parts of my arm. See what I mean? Happiness and joy. What else could they be?

He then takes out a helmet, which is quickly slipped on my head. What do you expect me to do? I can’t struggle, yell or fight back. I’m practically eye-fucking the barrel of a sleek, sexy black pistol. One that probably won’t return my calls after two or three dates. 

Anyway, Red Shirt #2 then presses a button inside the briefcase. Nothing noticeable happens to me physically, but I hear a strange sound in my ears. Like that high-pitched sound that only some people can hear. But now it’s everywhere.

“Now.” Mafia leader begins, “What I’m about to ask is very important. Fail to do so, and we…will find another test subject.” He waves his gun at me intimidatingly.

I’m practically shitting my pants at this point. It’s obvious to me by now that these are no police officers.

He continues. “Mr. Hodson. Like I said, we’ve been monitoring you a long time. We know what you like, what you hate, who you look up to, and who looks up to you. We know everything there is to know publicly about you. But this needs to come directly from you. Listen carefully.”

It’s almost as though when he speaks, I forget where I am. His voice is too deep…too…mesmerizing.

“I need you to think of your three favorite anime characters in existence.”

…What?

…Like…what the actual fuck?

“What the actual fuck?” I ask. I must have misheard him.

“You heard me.”

I guess I heard him.

“Why do you-“ He clicks back the hammer, cocking the gun. The question dies in my throat.

“Just answer the question. In your head. I won’t be saying another word from this point out. She’ll take over.”

“In my head? She? What the fuck is wrong with this guy. Anime? Anime?! I mean…I don’t want to die so…Here goes? If this is all I have to do… I guess…Killua from Hutner x Hunter…L Lawliet from Death note…and Eren Jaeger from Attack on Titan.”

The briefcase makes a whirring sound, and suddenly a female voice speaks.

“Cognitive recognition software is complete. Analyzing. Killua Zoldyck, Hunter Hunter. L Lawliet, Death Note. Eren Jaeger, Attack on Titan. Analysis complete. Please select a scenario from each of the following options with the characters you have selected: Fuck, Marry, and Kill. Please think your responses, voice recognition will not be necessary.”

“Fuck, Marry and- Are you fucking kidding me?”

The gun taps on the table, ever so slowly, and the man looks into my eyes, not saying a word.

‘What the actual fuck?!” I must be dreaming. There’s no other way to describe what is happening right now.

I can see the man growing more and more impatient, so I force myself to focus.

“Well…if I had to choose…”

The woman speaks up again. “Analyzing. L Lawliet: Kill. Eren Jaeger: Fuck. Killua Zoldyck: Marry. Analysis complete.”

Suddenly, my world turns black. Thousands of images start spilling into my head, and nausea threatens to take over. My whole world is turned upside down, and just when I think I’m going to pass out from the whirring of images, I find myself on a rooftop, late at night, in the pouring rain.

I try to move. I cannot.

It’s as though I’m watching a movie from behind a characters eyes. I am moving, but I am not dictating the movement.

I’m wearing a hood that does a poor job of protection from the rain. In my hands, I’m holding a long, sleek black sniper.

I raise it, slowly, and stare down the barrel. And there he is.

“L?!”

Suddenly, it becomes all too clear what’s about to happen. “No, no no no no! NO!” I scream in my head, but it does nothing. A harsh sound rips through the night. A gunshot.

L collapses. All around, people are screaming, running, and all the while, a pool of blood starts spreading around the corpse of the man I’d looked up to for so long.

Inside, I am broken. I am numb, shocked, and don’t know what to do.

Then, the images start flooding back into me, but this time, I understand them. News headlines reading ‘Kira is unstoppable!’, and ‘World’s greatest detective nowhere to be found!’, and other such articles zip around my head in a frenzied state. The pain inside is too much. Too much. Too much! TOO M-

Suddenly, I’m in a hotel. The emotions have been completely drained from me. It’s as though the last few fucked up minutes of my life have been torn away, leaving me as a slightly more broken clean slate.

The bathroom door opens…and there he is…I try to move, but again, I’m watching a movie, merely along for the ride and feeling every single emotion.

“Hey, are you ready?” Eren Jaeger says, and the words fall lovingly on my ears. They’re full of joy, passion, and above all, lust.

“No, but I don’t think I ever will be. Let’s do this.” I hear myself say, the words sounding more confident than I ever would be in a situation like this.

But hey, this one isn’t so bad. I find myself almost forgetting how crazy my day has been. And of course, the nauseating feeling starts back up, and suddenly I’m seeing flashes of it. It’s passionate, loving, caring, rough, and steamy. The disorienting feeling takes over, however, and again, just as I’m about to pass out, I find myself sitting in a room, alone. It’s a warm sunny day, and the room is completely silent.

I look down, and take a deep breath. I know what this is. My heart skips a beat.

I’m wearing a suit. I feel nothing but a deep, radiating joy. Today is finally the day. After everything, I finally get to marry him.

I stand up, and make my way out the door.

I can’t help but feel an extreme excitement at what’s about to happen. I’m walking towards a pair of double doors, and I know full well what’s on the other side. Music starts up, and all of the noise on the other side of the entrance stops.

This is it.

I push the doors open, and-

The nausea starts up again, this time worse than before. I can tell instantly that something is wrong. Suddenly, I’m back in the room with the three men, and I feel myself shaking, convulsing. The two henchmen are holding me down, while the main guy has his hands in the briefcase, fiddling with different knobs. He looks up, a look of panic in his face, and we lock eyes.

Suddenly, I’m holding a sniper, and killing Killua. My vision blurs, and L is on top of me, a look of deep passion and lust in his eyes. Eren is now standing next to me, holding out his hand, asking me to be his forever. The images continue, each one blurring into something more and more crazy, until…

Black. Nothing but black.

/Fin

[siren-dragon]

Long Live the King - (Ardyn Izunia x Reader) Prologue

Hey everybody! I have started a new fic again, hurray! Anyway, this fic comes curtesy of @maty-yami, who gave me the lovely prompt.

What if Ardyn had a family when he was king, and ended up losing them, which spurned his desire for revenge. But everything is not as it seems....

So here we go, hope you enjoy! ^_^

They say that every person suffers a great betrayal in their lifetime. And it is in that moment, one is often given a choice; a safeguard. A coin of Fate with salvation stamped upon it, to rescue those who were blind to the traitor of their trust when flipped. But when one gambles against the gods themselves, they should know that winning was never an option. A lesson you were harshly taught….

All your life, your family has tended to the gardens of the Citadel. It was hard work- but one you took pride in. And it was not uncommon for your father or the other servants to find you sitting amongst the flora and fauna, dirt across your face, playing a tune upon your ocarina. Your father often teased you, calling you his little nymph, a name that you carried like a badge of honor.

“Oh, my little nymph,” your father chuckled. “You could charm the Kings themselves with your sweet melodies.”

It never failed to make you laugh at the irony of your father’s words. For it was only a decade later that you would meet him: the one that would claim your heart.

The summer evening was uncommonly warm that day, causing sleep to elude you. And so, you left the uncomfortable warmth of your bed and walked the familiar hallways of the Citadel before coming upon the royal gardens. The scent of roses made you smile as you slowly walked through the grass to your favorite place within the garden. A simple gazebo, standing beside the edge of the garden and hidden by the roses that twisted around it. Sitting upon the bench that stood by, it allowed you to enjoy the view of the small lake and the cherry blossom trees that stood beside it like silent guardians.

Lifting your cherished instrument to your lips, you closed your eyes and played, allowing your mind to wander.

“You play beautifully.”

The sudden voice had startled you, causing the sweet melody you were playing to dissipate into the evening air. You turned to face the man who had caught you by surprise; dressed in fine clothes of black and grey he seemed as if he was part of the shadows themselves. His hair was a vibrant shade of crimson like that of a fine wine, surrounding strong features that surely belonged to an aristocrat. The man cocked his head to the side, frowning slightly at the abrupt end to your music. “I apologize, it was not my intention to frighten you.”

You stood immediately, dusting your skirt of dirt. “There is no need for apologizes. And I am sorry but, I must be going- “

“Will you continue?” The man spoke, causing you to halt in your tracks.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Will you continue to play? Your music…I find it soothing.”

You looked down at your ocarina before meeting the man’s gaze. His golden eyes seemed to glow in the evening light, making you flush slightly at the intensity of his stare. “If you do not mind….”

“Not at all.” The man smiled, sitting upon the bench and gesturing for you to sit beside him.

And so, your father’s words spoke true, for Ardyn had become bewitched by you, and you with him. So many nights you both spent in the company of one another, often ending with you playing music.

But all good things do come to an end……

“Please, no! Not him, not my baby!”

“Shut yer trap, witch!”

The force of the backhand sent you spinning to the floor, the swelling of your cheek promising a bruise there. A round of mocking laughter echoed around the large throne room, causing fresh tears to fall from your (e/c) eyes.

“Leave them be Izunia! I beg of you, do as you would to me; but spare my family.” Ardyn pleaded, his handsome face now bruised and bloodied from the force of his brother’s blows.

“What is this? The King of Lucis; begging for mercy! Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” Izunia sneered, gesturing to the guard holding your child. “Bring the boy here.”

“No!” both you and Ardyn shouted, the later collapsing from the force of a punch to the stomach while another guard twisted your arm behind your back.

Izunia took hold of the sobbing child, his cries echoing around the throne room. He smiled down at the child, it’s cries slowly dying down to mere whimpers of discomfort. “What a lovely child you have been gifted brother. He even has your eyes!” The elder prince laughed, cradling your son gently across his chest, “Tis a shame his fate was doomed from birth.” And in one swift motion, Izunia removed the dagger strapped to his thigh and plunged it into the stomach of your child.

“NO!” You and Ardyn both screamed in horror as the bundle fell to the floor, a crimson flower blooming across the ivory blanket. A cry of terror ripped from your throat as you collapsed onto the floor, tears streaming down your face as you tried desperately to reach your baby with the guardsman restraining you. Izunia walked down from the steps, bypassing Ardyn who thrashed against his chains like a wild animal, before kneeling in front of you. He yanked you up by your (h/c) hair, the dagger in his hands trailing alongside your cheek; the once silver blade now stained ruby-red.

“Do you not see, my dear? This is what that daemon has given you: nothing but pain and the corpse of your child. I hope it was worth it.” Izunia smirked before standing up once more. “Take her to the dungeon, she will stand trial for her association with this abomination.”

“No! Don’t take her too! Leave her be!”

Izunia turned to look at his brother, a mocking smile gracing his lips. “Oh, dear brother, what right do you have to give me orders? You could not save your child, and now you have damned your wife. Where is your power now ‘Chosen King’?”

“IZUNIA! IF YOU HARM HER I SWEAR I WILL KILL YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME!?” Ardyn screamed as he watched the guardsmen drag you away from the throne room. Your (e/c) eyes met your beloved’s golden iris’ one last time before the double doors slammed shut.

It was cold, yet the temperature did little to bother you. Curled into the corner of your stone cell you sat, your tears turning to dry, heaving sobs. Your poor child; the spark of light that was the proof of your love for Ardyn…was gone. Ripped away from your embrace before departing this world forever. He sounded so scared in those final moments, his cries still echoing inside your mind. You clawed at your hair as your sobs continued, begging for that accursed sound to stop as it taunted you.

“Do not despair little nymph, all is not loss.”

Your head jerked upward so fast, you felt a brief spell of vertigo from the harsh movement. Standing before you, opposite the bars of your prison cell, stood a black-haired woman; clad in a kimono of black silk with white and gold embellishing. Though her eyes remained closed you could feel them pierce through your flesh and gaze into your soul. “…Who are you?”

“I have many names, but you may call me Gentiana; a Messenger.”

You rose shakily to your feet, eyes glaring in outrage at the woman that stood before you. “How dare you…How dare you show your face before me”

“Your anger is justified, but let it be known-

“Justified!? I lost my SON! MY HUSBAND!” You screeched, the anger and sorrow becoming too much for you to bare. “He was murdered, before my very eyes and I did NOTHING! My precious boy....my sweet King…. gone…all gone.”

Gentiana watched as you fell to your knees, hands clenching the iron bars of your prison, drowning in the ocean of your sorrow. She knelt beside you, gently grasping your hands; her own as cold as ice. “Your son knows you would have taken his place if you could have. And it is the love you hold for him that he will always remember.”

You stared up at the woman in surprise, her kind words a lifeline in the storm of emotions you felt. She opened her eyes briefly at you and smiled, “sometimes we forget…how fragile mortals can be….”

“Yet you still forsook my husband.”

“In darkness the Accursed must walk, until that day when the King of Kings will come; purging our star of its scourge.” Gentiana gave you a sad smile, “you are brave little nymph. Though I ask you this: will you stand beside your King even in the darkest of times? Is your courage as strong as your love?”

You did not even ponder her questions, answering immediately with a nod of your head, eyes shining with the fire of determination. “Yes.”

“Then come with me, and we shall see if your words ring true.”

The door to your cell creaked open, before Gentiana spun on her heel, walking down the dungeon corridor. Quickly you followed, the once warm corridors of the Citadel feeling unbearably cold, with the temperature falling with every step you took. Your breath puffed out in small clouds as you shivered, following your guide throughout the place that was once your home. At long last you arrived at your destination: the royal gardens, frozen in ice. Large icicles clung to the cherry blossom trees while frost covered the ground; the roses you once loved now trapped in a prison of ice, forever frozen in a state of full-bloom.

“When the King of Kings shall come, the true test will begin. For now; sleep brave nymph....and wait for the dawn.”

You shivered in the frozen air as the Messenger placed to fingers to her lips before gently pressing them to your forehead. Instantly the world seemed to stop; your limbs becoming heavy as the winter air creeped through your veins. Soon the death-like chill consumed your entire body, causing your legs to fail you as you fell backward into the lake with a small splash. As you sunk deeper into the water you watched the moonlight fade away as darkness clouded your vision….

“Awaken, little nymph, the time has come….” The Messengers voice whispered into your mind.

“Dad, there’s someone in the lake!”

“By the Six! Someone call the physician, she’s still breathing!”

And there’s the prologue! I hope you all enjoyed it and please stay tuned for the next chapter (which I am working on as fast as I can). Take care everyone! ^_^

[brimbrimbrimbrim]

Hello! I just want to say I absolutely love your writing and your work and I am so glad I found your blog! I wanted to see if I could request like a mini fic if at all possible because you are honestly one of the few people who manage to capture Wrenche's personality perfectly? I'm having a lot of issues with depression today and it's particularly bad and I was wondering what a goofy adorable Wrench might do to try and cheer someone up?

Anon, I’m sorry to hear you’re having a rough patch. I’m glad I can provide something nice for you to read in the hopes it makes you feel a bit better. Thank you for your wonderful compliments! I have a larger Wrench fic in the works, but hopefully, this will work for now.

I have also posted this on AO3 for an easier read. LINK

Something was up. You only know that because the garage has been quiet for the past hour. At first, you hadn’t realized what that tickle in the back of your head had been, but you realize now that it’s the lack of power tools and robotic sounding ‘fucks’ coming from Wrench’s ‘special’ corner that troubles you. When that particular black cloud decided to hang over your head - which happened at random, lasting however long it wanted - you rarely paid much attention to the outside world. The fact that Wrench’s garage is dead silent, and that you noticed it at all, could only mean he’d stepped out when you weren’t looking or… more realistically, that a bomb was about to go off.

From behind your shoulder, you peer across the bright, dusty expanse of the hangar, spotting Josh’s green hooded-back, researching HaDoCk’s latest batch of emails in his own quiet way. You blink with a slow measure of bleakness, exhaling darkly against the blanket you had draped over your head for the past twenty-four hours. Saftey; you think morosely. The scratchy weight of the fabric doesn’t really help, but you feel a little less like falling into the floor with it blocking out the world around you.

Same principle as hiding under the blankets to escape the monster when you were a kid. The monster was gonna eat you if it wanted, and even as a kid you knew that, but you still hid under the covers anyway. Looking out across the messy garage, you realize why you were more able to keep your chin up in this corner than if you’d been camped out on the hood of the old caddy - the place was pure chaos. Like a grenade went off in here, you think, frowning.

It was Wrench’s garage after all. Maybe a grenade had gone off at some point.

Fuck it… you think, twisting back towards your computer screen with a loud, metal screech. You don’t startle, just wheeze at the animated sight before you - spikes, leather and mischief. There, sitting cross-legged on the desk is Wrench; emotes of double carets staring at you and one of those party crackers in his hands.

Please… no….

“Congratulations!” He exclaims, pushing on the plunger, showering you in confetti and cheap paper streamers. For a second, emotion flickers in your chest, but it’s definitely not the type meant to be in response to party favors. In a deep, mocking announcer voice, he continues, “What has she won Jimmy?! What’s that? Is it - it’s a neeeewwww… no, it’s not new, but it is handsome if not a little rough around the edges.”

Wrench gives you a tilde-caret wink as the last of the party fodder drifts down around you. Your heart flutters just enough to tell you you’re not completely dead inside, but your lips just don’t care to twitch, let alone smile. Poised there, on your desk, Wrench leans forward as if waiting for the laughter you must surely be about to rip.

With a heavy breath, you blink and part your lips, demanding, “What?”

Even to you, the question sounds dead. Not even your prescribed medication, meant for moments like this, have helped any. If Wrench wants some attention, then he’s better off finding it anywhere but here. You’ll only disappoint him and that, you’ve come to realize, is not something you want to do. Wrench won’t help, just like the pills haven’t helped and if anything, his little attempt at cheering you up just annoys you.

In all honesty, these past few days of feeling empty nearly allows you some perverse enjoyment in being frustrated by him. It’s something at least, though it sucks about as much as that raw, hungry sensation in your core.

Wrench clears his throat, double carets flattening out into underscores before he - inelegantly - reaches forward to sweep the confetti and crap off your blanket-covered shoulders. You side-eye his hand, watching the bones and veins flutter underneath his incognito dude tattoo.

“Well, I’ve done all I can. Time to take you out to pasture,” he tells you, voice chipper but hesitant as he flicks a bit of paper off the top of your head. Double x’s pop up and with a short huff of laughter, he kicks a foot up on the edge of the desk, throwing an arm over his knee before finishing with, “I bought a dozen donuts as a backup plan, you know… in case I had to raise this situation to a DEFCON two.”

As if to clarify he adds, “I’m not going to put you down… just FYI.”

Most of that passes through one ear and out the other. A voice in the back of your head whispers that whatever Wrench is doing is meant to make you feel better, but it’s not worth it. You sigh, billow out your blanket of shiny crap, rearrange it over your forehead and huddle back into code-compiling mode.

Left without a response Wrench twitches, shifting on the desk; legs collapsing over the edge. His ankles swing back and forth. He hums off-key, eventually whistling something that sounds like ‘It’s a Small World’  until you send a pointed glare his way.

Instead of leaving you alone to wallow in misery, his mask blinks double carets, “I know what you need!”

In a short second - so fast the computer screen shakes - he’s off the desk and darting away like a fucking felon, but he’s gone and that deflated part of you that was trying to be social sighs in relief, settling back into a dark pit; making itself scarce once again. Some part of you appreciates the effort, but a greater part of you doesn’t care at all about Wrench trying to ‘cheer’ you up.

He comes back five minutes later with a cardboard box in his hands. You watch with half-lidded eyes as he crawls up over the desk, knocking over a speaker.

“Oo, sorry,” Wrench mumbles, sounding… a little cute, but mostly you exhale, realizing he doesn’t sound like much of anything. He leaves black scuff marks as he skids up, standing on the desk with only a slight wobble. Your fingers pause, hovering over the shift key as he steps over the screen, legs spread with one foot on either side of the keyboard. Gently, Wrench lowers the cardboard box over the monitor with double zero’s and x’s flipping back and forth over his mask.

You blink slowly, watching him crouch behind the monitor, knees on either side of the cardboard box that happily reads, ‘SuNshiNE & PiZZa.’

“My treat, but if we don’t get pineapple on half, I’ll leave your ass at the Pier.”

It takes a lot of effort, but you manage a weak, “…not hungry.”

If you were capable of feeling any worse, you’d feel shitty for the dejected way Wrench plucks his custom made monitor cover off the screen, shuffles his way off your desk and accidentally kicks over the speaker for a second time, before hopping out of sight.

Two more times he shows up - once with a dirty apron on, holding a car jack like a dog while spouting off hammed up lines from ‘Silence of the Lambs.’ The second attempt at cheering you up ends with fire. You’re not sure how he manages to set the cement floor on fire, but it’s only sorta, not really amusing to watch him out the corner of your eye as he stomps out flames with ‘Come Sail Away’ on full blast behind him.

After the smell of burning rubber fades away and the garage is silent once again, you decide it’s safe to say Wrench has finally given up.

For ten solid minutes, you’re left alone… or maybe the time on the computer is off, and it’s been four hours. It feels like it’s been forever when the reassuring keys under your fingers rip away - someone is dragging you by the back of your chair. The computer screen grows smaller and smaller and stagnant air ripples the edges of your safety blanket. Without reason, a blush rushes into your cheeks as Wrench’s mask slips close against the back of your neck. You can hear his static-laced breath beyond the thick blanket as he drags you and your chair across the garage.

Fingers white on the armrest and knees tucked up; you hold on with muted surprise as Wrench spins you around. Your world swirls like a bad drunken night for a few seconds before he halts your chair; your body jerking at the sudden stop.

Laid out in front of you is his table saw, cleared of all the metal dust and plastic chips. For a moment it almost looks like he’s scrubbed it down, but you blink at the telltale smudge of oil and feel your eyebrows pinch.

“Voila! Welcome to Casa de Wrench,” the forced French accent doesn’t work when filtered through his mask. He sounds like if HAL and Mario had a baby… wait Mario was Italian… ugh, you can feel your brain literally sigh as a tattooed hand, sporting rubber black bracelets, starts waving across the ‘spread.’

“We’ve got these round things with sugar. These - these are… also round, but! - these are fitted with the choicest of dulce and sprinkles. Just imagine the poor unicorn that had to cry those things out for you.”

It’s nice - it really is but-

“I also got you a black coffee with two sugars and a shot of battery acid,” he rants off, so quick and… awkward that it actually throws you for a loop. With a curious expression, you peer up at him past the drape of the simple checker-print blanket and find him looking down at you with running ellipsis.

Say something; you’re more apt mind whispers.

With a frown, you look back at the mess of donuts - most of them crushed as if Wrench had accidentally sat on the box at some point - and the extra large paper cup of coffee.

There’s a little plastic seal sitting off to the side… you note that it’s been placed further away as if Wrench hadn’t wanted to make the little extra addition as obvious as the donuts and coffee.

Coffee and donuts were easy to pass off as a friend looking out for another friend, but a little trinket like that? With a careful hand, you reach out, crossing the spectacle of sugar and caffeine to pluck up the plastic seal. It’s cheap - one of the gimmicky things those t-shirt vendors by the waterfronts sell to tourists, but… it tickles your chest; makes you feel just a little bit lighter, and while you can just barely hear Wrench mumble excuses for the gift, your lips twitch upwards.

Beside you, Wrench goes quiet.

For the first time today, you slip the weight of your blanket off your head and smile. The gesture doesn’t even feel forced - it doesn’t hurt to make, and the soft sound of Wrench’s exhale only makes the faint smile curl further. There’s still a pit in your stomach - a heaviness weighing you down, but it doesn’t feel as dark. Even the world seems a little less gray and pallid.

When you turn towards him, he’s leaning back with two thumbs up, swaying them to and fro in a silent question. Better or worse?

“…better,” you whisper, eyes crinkling with a little wave of contentment.

Your weak response literally causes Wrench to jump for joy, arms in the air, releasing a loud ‘whoop’ of noise.

“Fucking awesome!” he shouts, turning at the waist just to throw a finger at Josh across the garage, who’s staring blankly at the two of you, “Fucking told you I had the magic touch.”

“I,” Wrench inhales dramatically, “am The Whisperer.”

“Usually that term is meant to follow a noun, also acting as an adjective-” Josh interjects.

Beside you, Wrench’s mask drops into underscores, followed by inward arrows of frustration, “Oh my god, shut’the’fuck’up. It’s an overall term.”

To demonstrate said ‘overall’ term, Wrench caresses the air into a circle, spiked shoulders hunched forward. It’s serious and yet not - much like Wrench’s personality is. He’s always full of piss and vinegar - rainbows and dynamite. It’s infectious.

An amused sound trickles into your ears as Wrench mimes his ‘overall term’ while Josh grimaces. It isn’t until Wrench is looking at you with question marks and Josh is staring wide-eyed that you realized you’d laughed. Giggles bubble up under your oversized hoodie, and they only rise into fits of laughter as Wrench’s fist pumps the air, whispering about how majestic he is.

By the time your throat is raw - breathless with laughter - it feels like all that black tar settled in your gut is gone. You shift in your chair, smiling, feeling ten times lighter with the little toy seal gripped in your hands. Colors come back - the world brimming with crisp edges and glitter. The tuned down thrashcore in the corner filters into your ears and as if on cue, your stomach grumbles.

When was the last time you’d eaten? Yesterday morning, maybe.

Only slightly oblivious to Wrench watching you eat - hiding the heart emotes under his hoodie - you take a sip of perfect, hot coffee and ready your tongue for a round hollow disk of deliciousness.

Wrench, you decide, is a fucking national treasure.

[jiawongwrites]

[Fiction] Alice

The great house where I grew up was always singing. A symptom of old foundations and the wind seeping in through every crack, my father told me. Dress warmly, Alice, and you’ll be fine. In winter I wore gloves over my stiff fingers, and in summer my face would be kissed by the gentle breeze no matter where I was.

I always thought it was mother caressing me; her feather-light strokes heavy with the love she could no longer give me. When she sung to me, I smiled and sang along with her. Our voices blended in the great house her father had left to Papa and I. He never liked our singing.

“It is improper,” he frowns, “For a respectable young lady to have such wild imaginings of a dead woman.”

“Your wife,” I tell him, but he is no longer listening.

Father’s friend is a physician. They talk in muted conversations and I am given medicine: tonics and phosphates. I am prescribed long walks in the country air until I am well again. I walk and walk but mother still sings to me.

Papa finds a house in the country for me to live.

It’s grand, certainly, far bigger than the walls where mother sings to me.  The people there smile at me and wear clean uniforms. They say they will take care of me until I am well again. The walls here do not resonate with mother’s singing. Instead, they vibrate with the sound of chatter; other respectable ladies who are waiting to be told they are well again.

My room looks over the green grass, and in the distance I can see the tree branches dancing in the wind.

I don’t see much of the house in the end.

They take away my books first, so I read pamphlets and announcements on the communal board. But when I ask for a newspaper- mother does love the advertisements after all- they whisper and say no. So I wander the grounds, chasing after mother’s voice. I’m far away from her but she comes to me still, and when I can’t hear her I lift my skirts and spin until she’s laughing along with me.

When they find us giggling on the grass, they put me back in my room and the door only opens when I bathe once a day. Two days.

But no matter, because I hear her still, when the window opens and she rushes in to kiss my cheeks. I tell her about the people here. They don’t like me reading, I say. They want me to learn sewing so I will be prepared when I marry. They don’t like me talking to you, I say.

They leave my room unfurnished now, because my imagination is too great. A wild thing never to be tamed! If I had a pen and paper I would write it down and send it to all the other women here. We could read them together after supper then sew great tapestries just like the stories of old. They keep mother outside the window, and she howls against the pane of glass. No matter, we will find a way.

I lift my skirts and spin, but the air here is stale and thick with dust. My brow runs with sweat and I fall as the room whirls. I breathe laboriously and imagine mother is pushing inside my lungs and forcing my life. Ah, that’s right. She always did like me rosy-cheeked and excited. The walls in my room don’t creak with her soft, soft, singing, even if I press my ear right next against the wallpaper.

There is a scratch in the wallpaper. The yellow rips to reveal the white paint underneath; a torn head pulled up into two white ears; he will listen to me. When I finish, he hops about the room, and I chase him.

“Eat, Alice,” he tells me. “Drink.”

So I do. To keep my strength, you see. It pleases them, and they tell me when I am well again I may take my meals in the hall with the other guests. The food makes me grow larger; they will give me small portions until my skirts fit again.

Mother, it has been some time since we last talked. I miss our singing. I try to sing by myself, but the tune is never quite right. I press my ear to the wall to hear you, but all I have now is the white rabbit; he hops around the room and so I follow. He always seems to be in a rush, mother. I wonder what world lies beyond the scratched paper- that blasted yellow that stains my fingernails so. The rabbit has friends, mother: birds who can’t fly and little mice who chitter French poetry to me. They race about the room, round and around and around and around-

They give me cake, mother. I am becoming a lady, you see, and one of them allows a small candle and wishes me many happy returns. I think one return is enough, don’t you think? A return by your side, just once, and that will suffice for me. The caterpillar has taken a liking to that orange flame. Perhaps it is a welcome change to the ghastly yellow. I’ll give it to him, mother, and he will curl up by the glow and breathe in the tendrils of smoke as we continue our conversations.

Who am I?

Why, I don’t quite know.

What am I doing here?

Papa brought me to live here.

Why?

Why, indeed.

When the candle burns out, he crawls away. I try to follow, but the yellow paper bars my way: I shall remain here. My cheeks are wet, from the sharp smoke that stung my eyes perhaps, or the unfulfilled yearning of reaching that wonder land beyond the walls, where animals play croquet and a tea party awaits. Mother, you would love it there, I believe. You could sing like a lark and those who listen would only smile and applaud you. Perhaps this room is far bigger than I realised! What adventures lie beyond the paper!

Yes, indeed, now I have something to look forward to! I follow the white rabbit and I am the treasured guest at his tea party, the swirling patterns and designs made only greater by the stained fungus that creeps downward. Mother, I didn’t see this before. They wouldn’t let you sing so you drew me an adventure on your walls! I am only sorry I didn’t notice before.

Let’s play croquet, shall we? No, I didn’t bring any of the mallets. This fellow- oh, a sweet flamingo, is he? Well, we can turn him upside down and use the hedgehog for a ball- he’s always curled up like that, anyway. You look far grander than I’ve ever seen you before. Although why won’t you come out when those smiling faces appear? They say they will help me, mother. Is it because you’re afraid they won’t let you come to me? No matter, I will go to you instead. The wallpaper is not so thick, mother, though it lies in shreds on the floor. Yellow dotted with red! My, that one does have a bright smile. From ear to ear, though it never quite reaches his eyes. He tells me he will call for Papa. What for? I am perfectly happy here now. In fact, I do not wish to leave! Let’s stay, mother, for we are together once more.

And why-! There he is, your husband and my father.

“Dear God, Alice,” he cries. “What on earth are you doing!”

“After our game of croquet, we are invited to a tea party, Papa!” Now why indeed is he crying like that? Such a noise- he’ll frighten off the sweet animals!

“Is this my fault?” he asks in between great heaving sobs.

“Father, you must excuse me,” I tell him.

And I, sweet Alice, return to you.

/end

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[99-16-01]

No offense but

In my head I do everything right could we ever be enough? baby we could be enough I traced the cord back to the wall, no wonder it was never plugged in at all why is my reflection someone I don't know? you're the only friend I need, sharing beds like little kids it's just like anti matter it's Dumbo's magic feather i've seen your flag on the marble arch, love is not a victory march I'm only honest when it rains, an open book with a torn out page I am the world spinning 'round inside of you I am the animal that ripped your heart in two you complete my fate, the world unwinds inside of me and yet I let you use me from the day that we first met you're just a sad song

[readbookywooks]

27 In the stunned reaction that follows, I'm aware of one sound. Snow's laughter. An awful gurgling cackle accompanied by an eruption of foamy blood when the coughing begins. I see him bend forward, spewing out his life, until the guards block him from my sight. As the gray uniforms begin to converge on me, I think of what my brief future as the assassin of Panem's new president holds. The interrogation, probable torture, certain public execution. Having, yet again, to say my final goodbyes to the handful of people who still maintain a hold on my heart. The prospect of facing my mother, who will now be entirely alone in the world, decides it. "Good night," I whisper to the bow in my hand and feel it go still. I raise my left arm and twist my neck down to rip off the pill on my sleeve. Instead my teeth sink into flesh. I yank my head back in confusion to find myself looking into Peeta's eyes, only now they hold my gaze. Blood runs from the teeth marks on the hand he clamped over my nightlock. "Let me go!" I snarl at him, trying to wrest my arm from his grasp. "I can't," he says. As they pull me away from him, I feel the pocket ripped from my sleeve, see the deep violet pill fall to the ground, watch Cinna's last gift get crunched under a guard's boot. I transform into a wild animal, kicking, clawing, biting, doing whatever I can to free myself from this web of hands as the crowd pushes in. The guards lift me up above the fray, where I continue to thrash as I'm conveyed over the crush of people. I start screaming for Gale. I can't find him in the throng, but he will know what I want. A good clean shot to end it all. Only there's no arrow, no bullet. Is it possible he can't see me? No. Above us, on the giant screens placed around the City Circle, everyone can watch the whole thing being played out. He sees, he knows, but he doesn't follow through. Just as I didn't when he was captured. Sorry excuses for hunters and friends. Both of us. I'm on my own. In the mansion, they handcuff and blindfold me. I'm half dragged, half carried down long passages, up and down elevators, and deposited on a carpeted floor. The cuffs are removed and a door slams closed behind me. When I push the blindfold up, I find I'm in my old room at the Training Center. The one where I lived during those last precious days before my first Hunger Games and the Quarter Quell. The bed's stripped to the mattress, the closet gapes open, showing the emptiness inside, but I'd know this room anywhere. It's a struggle to get to my feet and peel off my Mockingjay suit. I'm badly bruised and might have a broken finger or two, but it's my skin that's paid most dearly for my struggle with the guards. The new pink stuff has shredded like tissue paper and blood seeps through the laboratory-grown cells. No medics show up, though, and as I'm too far gone to care, I crawl up onto the mattress, expecting to bleed to death. No such luck. By evening, the blood clots, leaving me stiff and sore and sticky but alive. I limp into the shower and program in the gentlest cycle I can remember, free of any soaps and hair products, and squat under the warm spray, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. My name is Katniss Everdeen. Why am I not dead? I should be dead. It would be best for everyone if I were dead.... When I step out on the mat, the hot air bakes my damaged skin dry. There's nothing clean to put on. Not even a towel to wrap around me. Back in the room, I find the Mockingjay suit has disappeared. In its place is a paper robe. A meal has been sent up from the mysterious kitchen with a container of my medications for dessert. I go ahead and eat the food, take the pills, rub the salve on my skin. I need to focus now on the manner of my suicide. I curl back up on the bloodstained mattress, not cold but feeling so naked with just the paper to cover my tender flesh. Jumping to my death's not an option - the window glass must be a foot thick. I can make an excellent noose, but there's nothing to hang myself from. It's possible I could hoard my pills and then knock myself off with a lethal dose, except that I'm sure I'm being watched round the clock. For all I know, I'm on live television at this very moment while commentators try to analyze what could possibly have motivated me to kill Coin. The surveillance makes almost any suicide attempt impossible. Taking my life is the Capitol's privilege. Again. What I can do is give up. I resolve to lie on the bed without eating, drinking, or taking my medications. I could do it, too. Just die. If it weren't for the morphling withdrawal. Not bit by bit like in the hospital in 13, but cold turkey. I must have been on a fairly large dose because when the craving for it hits, accompanied by tremors, and shooting pains, and unbearable cold, my resolve's crushed like an eggshell. I'm on my knees, raking the carpet with my fingernails to find those precious pills I flung away in a stronger moment. I revise my suicide plan to slow death by morphling. I will become a yellow-skinned bag of bones, with enormous eyes. I'm a couple of days into the plan, making good progress, when something unexpected happens. I begin to sing. At the window, in the shower, in my sleep. Hour after hour of ballads, love songs, mountain airs. All the songs my father taught me before he died, for certainly there has been very little music in my life since. What's amazing is how clearly I remember them. The tunes, the lyrics. My voice, at first rough and breaking on the high notes, warms up into something splendid. A voice that would make the mockingjays fall silent and then tumble over themselves to join in. Days pass, weeks. I watch the snows fall on the ledge outside my window. And in all that time, mine is the only voice I hear. What are they doing, anyway? What's the holdup out there? How difficult can it be to arrange the execution of one murderous girl? I continue with my own annihilation. My body's thinner than it's ever been and my battle against hunger is so fierce that sometimes the animal part of me gives in to the temptation of buttered bread or roasted meat. But still, I'm winning. For a few days I feel quite unwell and think I may finally be traveling out of this life, when I realize my morphling tablets are shrinking. They are trying to slowly wean me off the stuff. But why? Surely a drugged Mockingjay will be easier to dispose of in front of a crowd. And then a terrible thought hits me: What if they're not going to kill me? What if they have more plans for me? A new way to remake, train, and use me? I won't do it. If I can't kill myself in this room, I will take the first opportunity outside of it to finish the job. They can fatten me up. They can give me a full body polish, dress me up, and make me beautiful again. They can design dream weapons that come to life in my hands, but they will never again brainwash me into the necessity of using them. I no longer feel any allegiance to these monsters called human beings, despise being one myself. I think that Peeta was onto something about us destroying one another and letting some decent species take over. Because something is significantly wrong with a creature that sacrifices its children's lives to settle its differences. You can spin it any way you like. Snow thought the Hunger Games were an efficient means of control. Coin thought the parachutes would expedite the war. But in the end, who does it benefit? No one. The truth is, it benefits no one to live in a world where these things happen. After two days of my lying on my mattress with no attempt to eat, drink, or even take a morphling tablet, the door to my room opens. Someone crosses around the bed into my field of vision. Haymitch. "Your trial's over," he says. "Come on. We're going home." Home? What's he talking about? My home's gone. And even if it were possible to go to this imaginary place, I am too weak to move. Strangers appear. Rehydrate and feed me. Bathe and clothe me. One lifts me like a rag doll and carries me up to the roof, onto a hovercraft, and fastens me into a seat. Haymitch and Plutarch sit across from me. In a few moments, we're airborne. I've never seen Plutarch in such a good mood. He's positively glowing. "You must have a million questions!" When I don't respond, he answers them anyway. After I shot Coin, there was pandemonium. When the ruckus died down, they discovered Snow's body, still tethered to the post. Opinions differ on whether he choked to death while laughing or was crushed by the crowd. No one really cares. An emergency election was thrown together and Paylor was voted in as president. Plutarch was appointed secretary of communications, which means he sets the programming for the airwaves. The first big televised event was my trial, in which he was also a star witness. In my defense, of course. Although most of the credit for my exoneration must be given to Dr. Aurelius, who apparently earned his naps by presenting me as a hopeless, shell-shocked lunatic. One condition for my release is that I'll continue under his care, although it will have to be by phone because he'd never live in a forsaken place like 12, and I'm confined there until further notice. The truth is, no one quite knows what to do with me now that the war's over, although if another one should spring up, Plutarch's sure they could find a role for me. Then Plutarch has a good laugh. It never seems to bother him when no one else appreciates his jokes. "Are you preparing for another war, Plutarch?" I ask. "Oh, not now. Now we're in that sweet period where everyone agrees that our recent horrors should never be repeated," he says. "But collective thinking is usually short-lived. We're fickle, stupid beings with poor memories and a great gift for self-destruction. Although who knows? Maybe this will be it, Katniss." "What?" I ask. "The time it sticks. Maybe we are witnessing the evolution of the human race. Think about that." And then he asks me if I'd like to perform on a new singing program he's launching in a few weeks. Something upbeat would be good. He'll send the crew to my house. We land briefly in District 3 to drop off Plutarch. He's meeting with Beetee to update the technology on the broadcast system. His parting words to me are "Don't be a stranger." When we're back among the clouds, I look at Haymitch. "So why are you going back to Twelve?" "They can't seem to find a place for me in the Capitol either," he says. At first, I don't question this. But doubts begin to creep in. Haymitch hasn't assassinated anyone. He could go anywhere. If he's coming back to 12, it's because he's been ordered to. "You have to look after me, don't you? As my mentor?" He shrugs. Then I realize what it means. "My mother's not coming back." "No," he says. He pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket and hands it to me. I examine the delicate, perfectly formed writing. "She's helping to start up a hospital in District Four. She wants you to call as soon as we get in." My finger traces the graceful swoop of the letters. "You know why she can't come back." Yes, I know why. Because between my father and Prim and the ashes, the place is too painful to bear. But apparently not for me. "Do you want to know who else won't be there?" "No," I say. "I want to be surprised." Like a good mentor, Haymitch makes me eat a sandwich and then pretends he believes I'm asleep for the rest of the trip. He busies himself going through every compartment on the hovercraft, finding the liquor, and stowing it in his bag. It's night when we land on the green of the Victor's Village. Half of the houses have lights in the windows, including Haymitch's and mine. Not Peeta's. Someone has built a fire in my kitchen. I sit in the rocker before it, clutching my mother's letter. "Well, see you tomorrow," says Haymitch. As the clinking of his bag of liquor bottles fades away, I whisper, "I doubt it." I am unable to move from the chair. The rest of the house looms cold and empty and dark. I pull an old shawl over my body and watch the flames. I guess I sleep, because the next thing I know, it's morning and Greasy Sae's banging around at the stove. She makes me eggs and toast and sits there until I've eaten it all. We don't talk much. Her little granddaughter, the one who lives in her own world, takes a bright blue ball of yarn from my mother's knitting basket. Greasy Sae tells her to put it back, but I say she can have it. No one in this house can knit anymore. After breakfast, Greasy Sae does the dishes and leaves, but she comes back up at dinnertime to make me eat again. I don't know if she's just being neighborly or if she's on the government's payroll, but she shows up twice every day. She cooks, I consume. I try to figure out my next move. There's no obstacle now to taking my life. But I seem to be waiting for something. Sometimes the phone rings and rings and rings, but I don't pick it up. Haymitch never visits. Maybe he changed his mind and left, although I suspect he's just drunk. No one comes but Greasy Sae and her granddaughter. After months of solitary confinement, they seem like a crowd. "Spring's in the air today. You ought to get out," she says. "Go hunting." I haven't left the house. I haven't even left the kitchen except to go to the small bathroom a few steps off of it. I'm in the same clothes I left the Capitol in. What I do is sit by the fire. Stare at the unopened letters piling up on the mantel. "I don't have a bow." "Check down the hall," she says. After she leaves, I consider a trip down the hall. Rule it out. But after several hours, I go anyway, walking in silent sock feet, so as not to awaken the ghosts. In the study, where I had my tea with President Snow, I find a box with my father's hunting jacket, our plant book, my parents' wedding photo, the spile Haymitch sent in, and the locket Peeta gave me in the clock arena. The two bows and a sheath of arrows Gale rescued on the night of the firebombing lie on the desk. I put on the hunting jacket and leave the rest of the stuff untouched. I fall asleep on the sofa in the formal living room. A terrible nightmare follows, where I'm lying at the bottom of a deep grave, and every dead person I know by name comes by and throws a shovel full of ashes on me. It's quite a long dream, considering the list of people, and the deeper I'm buried, the harder it is to breathe. I try to call out, begging them to stop, but the ashes fill my mouth and nose and I can't make any sound. Still the shovel scrapes on and on and on.... I wake with a start. Pale morning light comes around the edges of the shutters. The scraping of the shovel continues. Still half in the nightmare, I run down the hall, out the front door, and around the side of the house, because now I'm pretty sure I can scream at the dead. When I see him, I pull up short. His face is flushed from digging up the ground under the windows. In a wheelbarrow are five scraggly bushes. "You're back," I say. "Dr. Aurelius wouldn't let me leave the Capitol until yesterday," Peeta says. "By the way, he said to tell you he can't keep pretending he's treating you forever. You have to pick up the phone." He looks well. Thin and covered with burn scars like me, but his eyes have lost that clouded, tortured look. He's frowning slightly, though, as he takes me in. I make a halfhearted effort to push my hair out of my eyes and realize it's matted into clumps. I feel defensive. "What are you doing?" "I went to the woods this morning and dug these up. For her," he says. "I thought we could plant them along the side of the house." I look at the bushes, the clods of dirt hanging from their roots, and catch my breath as the wordrose registers. I'm about to yell vicious things at Peeta when the full name comes to me. Not plain rose but evening primrose. The flower my sister was named for. I give Peeta a nod of assent and hurry back into the house, locking the door behind me. But the evil thing is inside, not out. Trembling with weakness and anxiety, I run up the stairs. My foot catches on the last step and I crash onto the floor. I force myself to rise and enter my room. The smell's very faint but still laces the air. It's there. The white rose among the dried flowers in the vase. Shriveled and fragile, but holding on to that unnatural perfection cultivated in Snow's greenhouse. I grab the vase, stumble down to the kitchen, and throw its contents into the embers. As the flowers flare up, a burst of blue flame envelops the rose and devours it. Fire beats roses again. I smash the vase on the floor for good measure. Back upstairs, I throw open the bedroom windows to clear out the rest of Snow's stench. But it still lingers, on my clothes and in my pores. I strip, and flakes of skin the size of playing cards cling to the garments. Avoiding the mirror, I step into the shower and scrub the roses from my hair, my body, my mouth. Bright pink and tingling, I find something clean to wear. It takes half an hour to comb out my hair. Greasy Sae unlocks the front door. While she makes breakfast, I feed the clothes I had shed to the fire. At her suggestion, I pare off my nails with a knife. Over the eggs, I ask her, "Where did Gale go?" "District Two. Got some fancy job there. I see him now and again on the television," she says. I dig around inside myself, trying to register anger, hatred, longing. I find only relief. "I'm going hunting today," I say. "Well, I wouldn't mind some fresh game at that," she answers. I arm myself with a bow and arrows and head out, intending to exit 12 through the Meadow. Near the square are teams of masked and gloved people with horse-drawn carts. Sifting through what lay under the snow this winter. Gathering remains. A cart's parked in front of the mayor's house. I recognize Thom, Gale's old crewmate, pausing a moment to wipe the sweat from his face with a rag. I remember seeing him in 13, but he must have come back. His greeting gives me the courage to ask, "Did they find anyone in there?" "Whole family. And the two people who worked for them," Thom tells me. Madge. Quiet and kind and brave. The girl who gave me the pin that gave me a name. I swallow hard. Wonder if she'll be joining the cast of my nightmares tonight. Shoveling the ashes into my mouth. "I thought maybe, since he was the mayor..." "I don't think being the mayor of Twelve put the odds in his favor," says Thom. I nod and keep moving, careful not to look in the back of the cart. All through the town and the Seam, it's the same. The reaping of the dead. As I near the ruins of my old house, the road becomes thick with carts. The Meadow's gone, or at least dramatically altered. A deep pit has been dug, and they're lining it with bones, a mass grave for my people. I skirt around the hole and enter the woods at my usual place. It doesn't matter, though. The fence isn't charged anymore and has been propped up with long branches to keep out the predators. But old habits die hard. I think about going to the lake, but I'm so weak that I barely make it to my meeting place with Gale. I sit on the rock where Cressida filmed us, but it's too wide without his body beside me. Several times I close my eyes and count to ten, thinking that when I open them, he will have materialized without a sound as he so often did. I have to remind myself that Gale's in 2 with a fancy job, probably kissing another pair of lips. It is the old Katniss's favorite kind of day. Early spring. The woods awakening after the long winter. But the spurt of energy that began with the primroses fades away. By the time I make it back to the fence, I'm so sick and dizzy, Thom has to give me a ride home in the dead people's cart. Help me to the sofa in the living room, where I watch the dust motes spin in the thin shafts of afternoon light. My head snaps around at the hiss, but it takes awhile to believe he's real. How could he have gotten here? I take in the claw marks from some wild animal, the back paw he holds slightly above the ground, the prominent bones in his face. He's come on foot, then, all the way from 13. Maybe they kicked him out or maybe he just couldn't stand it there without her, so he came looking. "It was the waste of a trip. She's not here," I tell him. Buttercup hisses again. "She's not here. You can hiss all you like. You won't find Prim." At her name, he perks up. Raises his flattened ears. Begins to meow hopefully. "Get out!" He dodges the pillow I throw at him. "Go away! There's nothing left for you here!" I start to shake, furious with him. "She's not coming back! She's never ever coming back here again!" I grab another pillow and get to my feet to improve my aim. Out of nowhere, the tears begin to pour down my cheeks. "She's dead." I clutch my middle to dull the pain. Sink down on my heels, rocking the pillow, crying. "She's dead, you stupid cat. She's dead." A new sound, part crying, part singing, comes out of my body, giving voice to my despair. Buttercup begins to wail as well. No matter what I do, he won't go. He circles me, just out of reach, as wave after wave of sobs racks my body, until eventually I fall unconscious. But he must understand. He must know that the unthinkable has happened and to survive will require previously unthinkable acts. Because hours later, when I come to in my bed, he's there in the moonlight. Crouched beside me, yellow eyes alert, guarding me from the night. In the morning, he sits stoically as I clean the cuts, but digging the thorn from his paw brings on a round of those kitten mews. We both end up crying again, only this time we comfort each other. On the strength of this, I open the letter Haymitch gave me from my mother, dial the phone number, and weep with her as well. Peeta, bearing a warm loaf of bread, shows up with Greasy Sae. She makes us breakfast and I feed all my bacon to Buttercup. Slowly, with many lost days, I come back to life. I try to follow Dr. Aurelius's advice, just going through the motions, amazed when one finally has meaning again. I tell him my idea about the book, and a large box of parchment sheets arrives on the next train from the Capitol. I got the idea from our family's plant book. The place where we recorded those things you cannot trust to memory. The page begins with the person's picture. A photo if we can find it. If not, a sketch or painting by Peeta. Then, in my most careful handwriting, come all the details it would be a crime to forget. Lady licking Prim's cheek. My father's laugh. Peeta's father with the cookies. The color of Finnick's eyes. What Cinna could do with a length of silk. Boggs reprogramming the Holo. Rue poised on her toes, arms slightly extended, like a bird about to take flight. On and on. We seal the pages with salt water and promises to live well to make their deaths count. Haymitch finally joins us, contributing twenty-three years of tributes he was forced to mentor. Additions become smaller. An old memory that surfaces. A late primrose preserved between the pages. Strange bits of happiness, like the photo of Finnick and Annie's newborn son. We learn to keep busy again. Peeta bakes. I hunt. Haymitch drinks until the liquor runs out, and then raises geese until the next train arrives. Fortunately, the geese can take pretty good care of themselves. We're not alone. A few hundred others return because, whatever has happened, this is our home. With the mines closed, they plow the ashes into the earth and plant food. Machines from the Capitol break ground for a new factory where we will make medicines. Although no one seeds it, the Meadow turns green again. Peeta and I grow back together. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale's fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that. So after, when he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?" I tell him, "Real."