#Moon’s hat is barely sewn on

[seven-thewanderer]

This is completely random, but I decided to draw the Sun & Moon plushies I have

[niallsgoldhoop]

CHANNING

a harry styles one shot seven thousand words cw - sexual content, alcohol, harsh language, spitting, spanking, choking,

“I can’t believe you almost missed this.” Looking over at me, the dark eyes of my closest friend shine under the overhead lights. “I mean, come on— It’s Harryween.”

Using my pinky to perfect the edge of the color as I look in the mirror, I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Okay well I couldn’t let this costume go to waste.”

“Honestly.” Adjusting the straps of her angel wings, she laughs. “It’s perfect.”

Tucking a lock of wavy copper hair behind my ear, the green foliage sewed to the leather top last minute contrasts against my porcelain skin in the best way.

As soon as the decision was made— the costume just happens to fall into place.

It took me less than a day to buy the ivy from a local craft store along with the needle and thread. Deep in the back of my closet there was a black leather corset, the kind that fastened in a line of delicate hooks up the front, one that pushed my breasts up even higher than normal. Pairing that with the black leather skirt that hit the middle of my thighs seemed like the only option that made sense.

Less than two hours sitting on my couch and watching Succession later and all of the ivy had been sewn into place. After a little maneuvering I even managed to turn the broad, verdant colored leaves to a makeshift garter for each of my thighs.

Standing here in this bathroom and looking at my reflection, the extra ivy twisting from the top of the high topped canvas sneakers on my feet, I can’t help but smile at how good it looks snaking over my toned calves and thick thighs.

Poison Ivy.

“We better get down to the pit before it gets too crazy.” With a wide smile on her face, I laugh along with her as her fingers tangle with mine, pulling me along. “If we’re lucky we can get close to the barricade.”

Staying close behind her, the two of us manage to squeeze through the sea of people, finding a spot in the pit good enough that we would be able to get a decent view.

I’d been to plenty of shows before but it felt like nothing compared to the pit at a Harry Styles show.

Even as the show eventually starts, it’s clear that everyone got the memo to dress up and seeing the man of the hour— I’m so glad this is where I ended up.

The way he looks tonight should be illegal.

The way he’s looking at me?

Criminal.

Up on the stage, I make eye contact with him again as he passes by, my body heating under his gaze for what feels like the millionth time.

“God, he keeps looking at you!” The girl with two boas and a pink cowboy hat next to me says, her eyes wide. “What the fuck?!”

I feel my lips as they turn into a smirk, raising my eyes back to the stage to see him in front of me again.

Being so close to the barricade was an accident. Somehow, someway we managed to make out way closer and closer as the night went on. Dancing with everyone around us all night has been the best part of the show.

Well… That and seeing Harry dressed in the most delicate and detailed costume.

A clown with the prettiest cream fabrics and lace along with the most perfect moon and stars offsetting the lighter colors with their darkness. Even his cheeks have the rosiest hue— complete with little pearl drops along his cheeks and above his brows.

Nothing too scary, but something just sexy enough.

As he plays the song everyone longs to hear, this time when lyrics roll off of his heart shaped lips in front of me, there’s no mistaking it.

‘And when I sleep, I'm gonna dream of how you —‘

Eyes set on mine, he brings the tip of each finger to his flattened tongue, a tease of how he would certainly be able to please between the sheets.

Rolling my eyes as my best friend grabs my arm, her fingers pressing into the bare skin of my bicep, I find his gaze lingering before he moves on — deciding to entertain the other side of his stage before making his exit.

It feels like the scene of a documentary as the end of the show finally unfolds and people make their way from the stadium, a mass of people all looking for something to get them as high as the feeling Harry Styles gives them.

Laughing on the way out, I give the longest hugs that I can manage before slipping out into the night to find the small bar that has always welcomed me on a night like tonight.

A night when I’m not ready to dream quite yet.

Between the way the city never sleeps and the people out for their own version of tricks and treats, it feels like hours before I find what I’m looking for even if it’s not terribly far away from where I started.

Still dressed in the costume I threw together at the last minute, I don’t even find myself caring much about that. People from all across the city are dressed in various Halloween get ups— making it that much easier to blend in.

Even if the majority of my skin feels like it’s on display.

Smiling as I grip the door handle, it’s the large hand that covers mine that makes my heart race.

The anchor tattoo.

The mermaid.

The cross.

Turning on my heel, the same eyes that looked into mine in front of thirty thousand people trace over my face — over my freckles, over my cheekbones… Over my lips.

“It’s you.” Low and raspy, the accent drips off his lips as they turn into a sinister grin.

Rolling my tongue along the inside of my cheek, I watch his eyes follow the movement as I press through the door and let him follow.

“It’s me.”

The bar is small and dimly lit, the best place to come if you don’t want to be found.

I’ve come here for years, a product of begging to be lost.

Turning my back on him, I make my way to the bar and sit on one of the stools, smiling as the bartender makes his way down to me. I can feel Harry’s presence as he slides onto the stool next to me, his thigh brushing against the skin of my thigh that my skirt doesn’t cover.

“Hey, babe.” Leaning over the bar and kissing my cheek, the familiar face behind the bar places a shot glass on the counter before filling it with tequila and placing a lime along the rim, sliding it to me. “How was your night?”

My face turns towards the man next to me, his features sharper in the low light as he studies me carefully before I look away from him with a shrug. “It was okay.”

A laugh falls from his lips as he leans into me, his lips brushing against my ear. “Okay? Is that all you have to say about me?”

“Maybe it is.” My shoulders lift in a shrug as I turn to face him, reaching for the shot and taking it, watching Harry as his eyes focus on my lips where I taste the lime. “Why? Are your feelings hurt?”

Catching the attention of the person behind the bar, those mossy eyes hold mine as he orders. “Can I please have four shots of tequila?”

“You alright with this guy, Chan?” Looking between the two of us, his eyes narrow in Harry’s direction.

I laugh. “We’re good. You can pull your best friend shit somewhere else.”

Rolling his eyes, he pours the shots out for the two of us. Leaving a small bowl of salt and limes before making his back to the other end of the bar.

“Chan?” Harry’s voice is rich and smooth, just like you always hear about. “Is that short for Chandler?”

I shake my head as I bring my hand up and flatten my tongue before running it across the back of my hand, eyes locked on his. “No, it’s not.”

“Are you going to tell me?” Watching my every move, his green eyes watch as I pinch salt between my fingers and let it fall to my skin.

“Should I?” Once again, I flatten my tongue across the same spot and taste the salt before picking up the small glass of liquor, tipping it back and letting it burn down my throat. “What’s in it for me if I do?”

Tension unlike I’ve ever known settled between us.

Somewhere my brain tells me to be careful, but the reckless part of me says that sometimes things are just meant to happen.

The odds of running into a man like him are practically zero. Yet here I am with flushed skin from the warmth of his proximity.

I reach for the lime but Harry beats me to it, holding it between his thumb and forefinger and pressing the acidic fruit to my bottom lip, eyes begging for me to open for him.

“Suck.”

Wrapping my fingers around his wrist, I flick my tongue across the broad side of the lime before wrapping my lips around it and following the simple instructions.

“So you do know how to listen.” Harry pulls his hand away from me before dropping the fruit back into the empty shot glass.

Tilting my head back, I laugh.

Pressing my hand on his thigh and leaning forward, this time my lips brush against his ear. “I only listen when I feel like it.”

“Hmm.” He hums as he leans back, eyes looking over my body. “Do you feel like listening tonight?”

I shake my head as he reaches for my hand and pulls me in close, his eyes burning through me as his tongue darts out and presses to my skin along my forearm. Holding me in place and using his other hand, he easily sprinkles the salt along my heated skin before flattening his tongue and tasting it.

My breath hitches in my throat as his fingers tip the glass back, taking the lime and holding it out for me. Taking the hint, I bite onto it and lean towards him letting him take it from me with a smug grin on his face. His lips brush against mine for only a moment before he leans away from me, sucking the juice out of the fruit to chase the bitter taste of the liquor. “Come on, tell me your name.”

“I’ll tell you on one condition.” Squeezing his thigh, I brush my lips against the base of his throat, smiling when I feel him swallow thickly.

“And what’s that?” Gripping my chin, Harry tilts my head backwards and grins at me, his notorious bunny teeth biting into his bottom lip.

I roll my tongue along my bottom lip, watching as his eyes drop to my mouth. “You keep staring at my lips like you want them to do something.”

“Yeah?” His grip on my chin tightens. “What if I want to put them to work?”

I lick my bottom lip as my breathing shallows, giving Harry the opportunity to press his thumb into the small bowl of salt and brush it along my bottom lip. “I’d say you talk a lot for someone who hasn’t made a move yet.”

Harry’s eyes darken as he leans in, flicking his tongue along my bottom lip and tasting the salt. Reaching for one of the last two shots that he ordered, I watch as he pours the liquid into his mouth before using his thumb to pull on my bottom lip in a silent request.

Running my tongue along my lower lip and opening my mouth for him, I can’t even be bothered to be surrounded by other people or the sound that comes from the back of my mouth when he spits the liquor onto my waiting tongue.

Grabbing the lime and holding it against the skin of my throat, I’m almost embarrassed by the whimper that falls from my lips when he squeezes the wedge and his warm tongue catches the juice as it rolls down the column of my throat as I swallow.

“That’s right… Swallow for me, pretty girl.”

I can barely register his words before his lips are on mine and I can taste the flavor on his tongue as it finds mine, one of his hands sliding back into the waves at the nape of my neck and the other slipping just under the hem of my skirt and past the dark leaves of my costume.

He kisses me hard and with no abandon, as if he wants nothing more than to devour me. Leaning closer to him and hooking my finger into the waistband of his pants, I moan lightly when his teeth drag across my bottom lip.

“I need to get you alone.” He mumbles, his hand sliding along the inside of my thigh as his fingertips dance across my skin. “Need you on your knees while I watch those lips wrap around me.

I gasp when he drops his lips to my neck, nipping and sucking my skin. “There’s a private bathroom in the office— fuck, down the hall.”

Leaving the last shot, Harry takes my hand and pulls me towards the hallway that leads us in the right direction. With his arms wrapping around my body from behind, once we stop just long enough for me to punch in the code for the keypad I can feel him hard and ready behind me.

“If you don’t hurry, I’m going to take you right fucking here.” Nipping my earlobe, Harry plays with the hem of my skirt as his hand grips my throat and turns my head to the side, giving him more access. “How many ways are you going to let me fuck you, pretty girl?”

“Fuck.” Punching the last number into the keypad, when it beeps twice and I turn the handle, it opens easily.

We barely make it into the room and slam the door before Harry turns on me, pressing my body into the door and pressing his thigh between my legs, pinning me in place.

His mouth is on mine in a messy and hungry kiss all while his hands take their time exploring my body. From my breasts to my ass, not one place goes unnoticed by his skilled hands.

“This fucking costume.” Bringing the skin at the base of my throat between his teeth only to soothe it with his tongue, I shiver when he drags his finger along the top of the ivy, digging behind it enough to trace my skin. “People think that it’s so bright on stage and that I can’t see, but I do — I fucking see everything.”

Kissing under my jaw, his hands work the hooks that line the front of the top, one by one. “Tell me what you saw, Harry.

“You want to know?” Dragging his tongue across the swell of my breasts, I reach up and run my nails across his scalp, making him moan. “I saw you, dressed in this—“ Releasing the last button and letting the top of the corset fall to the floor, Harry cups both of my breasts and squeezes them, pinching each nipple at the same time. “I watched you dance, seeing your perfect ass sway from side to side like you didn’t give a single fuck that I was on that stage.”

Dropping down, Harry runs his tongue across the sensitive peak a moment before taking it between his teeth, pulling back enough to make me gasp. “I didn’t— I was more of a Niall girl—”

“Beautiful and bratty, huh?” His fingers find my throat as I smile, pressing into my skin just enough that my lips part on an exhale from the rush. “The only name that's going to come off your lips tonight is mine.”

“You seem so—.” My thoughts all but disappear when I feel Harry reach down and slip his hand under the tight material of my skirt after tracing the edge of the garter along my thighs.

Taking my nipple back into his mouth and teasing, he pulls back to look at me as his knuckle presses into my clit over the fabric of my underwear. “I seem so what, Chan? You won’t even tell me your name yet here you are — dripping down the inside of your thighs for me.”

“So full of yourself.” I finally get out. “Maybe you really are an arrogant son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

Pushing the fabric aside, Harry doesn’t even pace himself, sliding two fingers deep inside of me and making me cry out as his thumb circles my clit with so much pressure it borders pain. “You have no fucking idea.”

“Harry—“ I moan.

Curling his fingers, I feel like my body is on overdrive as he works an orgasm out of my body quicker than even I’ve been able to do it. . “Come on my fingers for me, baby. Let me feel it.”

Reaching out and gripping his shoulders, I can see the dark evergreen of his eyes just on the rim of his blown out pupils under the lights as his breath comes out shallow, the muscles under his skin flexing as he works me even harder through my orgasm.

Once my body loses all of the tension I tip forward into Harry’s arms with a laugh. “Jesus.”

“Yeah? That good?” He smirks as he wraps my hair around his fist. Once, twice. “Chan, I need to ask you something.”

I nod, my eyes the only things he’s focused on. “Now you want to ask questions?”

“I’m serious.” His nose brushes mine before he places a soft kiss to my lips, a complete contrast to the way he just coaxed a release from my body. “I need to know that if you don’t like something or you want me to stop that you’ll tell me, okay?”

I nod, pressing another soft kiss to his lips, taking my time to enjoy the way his tongue feels moving with mine. “I promise.”

“Are you sure?” His eyes burn into my features looking for any sign of hesitance.

“I’m sure.” Getting impatient, I nip his bottom lip. “Now, are you going to fuck me or stand here and be a gentleman all night? Which one is it?”

“Such a fucking mouth on you.” Flexing his hand in my hair and pulling tighter, there’s no option but for me to sink to my knees as Harry guides me. “I hope you know how to use it for more than just your attitude.”

Sitting back on my heels, I lick my lips. “Only one way to find out.”

“Go on then.” Nodding towards his straining cock beneath the fabric of his pants, he waits for me to undo the button. “Let me watch you choke on my cock so that you can’t talk back to me.”

When my hands finally free him, I whimper at the same time Harry’s groan fills the small office. Leaking with precome, I flick the tip of my tongue to collect the pearly drops.

“Pinch my thigh if it gets to be too much, yeah?” Using his hand that doesn’t still have my hair wrapped around his fist, he cups my jaw and runs his thumb across my cheek as I nod. “Be a good girl and open your mouth for me.”

Taking Harry into my mouth, I wish I could take a picture of how he looks from this angle. His head tilts back as a moan curves around his lips, I swear to god I’ve never seen anything sexier in my entire life. Pushing his hips forward slowly, I hollow my cheeks as I use my tongue to feel every single ridge and vein he has to offer me. My hands rest on his thighs as he drops his head down and meets my gaze.

“I’m going to go harder, is that okay?” With his cock still in my mouth, I nod. “Good fucking girl, good girl.”

Harry pushes his thighs even deeper, groaning at the feeling of his cock sliding down the back of my throat and making the muscles constrict around him from the intrusion. It feels like so much pressure and not enough at the same time as he repeats the action. Tears form in my waterline as I choke over and over, the tears spilling out onto my cheeks.

“See how good you're taking my cock down your pretty little throat?” Sliding his hand from my cheek, I moan around him as his hand rests across my throat. “Fuck, are you going to swallow for me?”

I choke once more, nodding.

“Good.”

It’s one word that precedes his release, one that I make good on my promise and swallow every drop of.

Once Harry pulls back, I take a deep breath and look up to him for only a moment before he pulls me to my feet and spins us around. Lifting me up and sitting me onto the desk, stepping between my legs and tracing his fingers over the edges of the ivy still wrapped around me.

Instantly his lips are on mine, groaning at his own tastes as he reaches between my legs and pushes the material of the leather skirt up, his fingers finding the sensitive nerve at the apex of my thighs as my hips roll forward to meet the friction.

“Are you this wet for me?” Lips ghosting over mine, his fingers find my nipple, pinching. “Do you want a taste?”

“Yes, please.” I say, looking into his eyes as he brings his fingers up, smearing the arousal across my bottom lip before kissing me again.

It’s impossible not to feel crazed as his hands fall to my thighs and push up my skirt, watching as it bunches up around my hips. “Lay back for me.”

Placing his hand in the center of my chest, I fall back onto the desk and whimper when I feel his warm lips leaving lingering kisses along the inside of my thighs.

“Look at you, so willing to let me do whatever I want with you tonight. I don’t even want to unwrap this pretty package you’ve put on for me.” His breath ghost across my center, the anticipation making me feel like I could explode at any minute. “I guess I got lucky— finding you on a night where you want to listen. A night where you want to be told what to do. Am I right?”

Harry doesn’t give the time to formulate an answer, his tongue immediately pressing into my clit before sucking it into his mouth. The action takes me by surprise as my back arches off the desk and my hands search for anything to hold onto.

Dragging patterns across the nerve, I cry out his name as he devours me like he’s never done before. As he releases my clit, his tongue finds my entrance and makes a languid path through my arousal before reaching the place I want him the most.

Up and down.

Side to side.

The stimulation makes my thighs shake as he tugs my hips toward him until my ass hangs off the desk and he pulls my dripping cunt even further into his face.

“Harry, fuck.” My hands flip, nails digging into the wood of the desk no doubt leaving marks. “Right there, fuck. I’ve never— never been so close so fast—“

Pushing myself up to my elbows, I let my head roll back as Harry rolls my clit between his teeth before pulling back, delivering a harsh slap to my outer thigh.

“Do you want to come for me?” Pressing a kiss to the inside of my knee, he raises a brow in my direction and smirks when I nod. “If you want to come for me— if you’re going to scream my name— you’re going to watch me as you do it. You’re going to watch me devour you like my last meal, do you understand?”

I bite my bottom lip and nod, resisting the urge to roll my head back when he immediately finds my clit and brings two fingers to my entrance, pushing them in and finding my g-spot.

“Harry.” His name falls off my lips like a prayer as he keeps his eyes on mine. “Please, please let me come. I need it, I—

I feel it as my body gives into the pleasure Harry so willingly gives.

My back arches, my breast pushing up into the air and not even a sound is able to pour from my mouth. Reaching out to grasp something and knocking a cup of pens onto the floor behind me, I cry out.

“Let everyone know who makes you feel this good.” Standing up, Harry looks down at me as he fists his cock in his hand. “I need to be inside of you right fucking now.”

“Condom?” I ask, still trying to catch my breath.

Harry reaches behind him and grabs his wallet, pulling one out and ripping it open with his teeth before rolling it on his length. “Tell me what you want? Hard? Soft?”

“Give me what nobody else can, don’t fucking hold back.” I grit out, feeling him run his cock along my clit. “Prove to me that you can fuck as good as everyone thinks you can.”

Harry smiles down at me only a moment before thrusting his hips forward, burying himself as deep as possible, making me scream out for him. “How’s that for a start? You’re so fucking wet for me.”

“Harry!” I cry. “I need it just like that, so deep.”

Pulling his hips back, Harry leans over to kiss me as he thrusts again, the power behind it pushing the desk forward an inch. “Yeah? You like feeling like this? Feeling so fucking full that you can’t stand it. Fuck, you take my cock so fucking well, so fucking well.”

“You’re so big, shit.” I moan, my head lolling to the side as his hands spread across my waist and grip me before slamming into me. “God. It feels so— so fucking good.”

“You can take it.” Harry moans above me, his eyes going back and forth between my face to where he disappears inside of me, watching as I take every inch of him. “It feels like this was made for me. So tight, so warm.”

“Please, I need more—“

At my words alone, Harry pulls out and pulls me off the desk and turns me around. Pressing his hand between my shoulder blades, he bends me over the desk before pushing my skirt back up around my waist and grips the waistband to hold me in place.

“Is this what you wanted?” Peering at him over my shoulder, I open my mouth on a breathless moan when his hand cracks across the left side of my ass — quickly followed by the right. “Did you need me to fuck you from behind so I could spank you like this? Huh?”

I feel Harry as he slowly pushes his hips forward, filling me. Listening to his moans as they bounce off the walls, my own whimpers mix with the sound. Gripping my hips, he takes his time as he works so slow — each inch more agonizing than the last before his hips press against my ass.

“Are you going soft on me back there?” Looking at him over my shoulder, I smirk when fire flashes behind his eyes. “Is the guy from the bar all of a sudden gone?”

Harry rolls his tongue along the inside of his cheek, shaking his head before raising his hand and delivering a harsh slap, one that’s sure to leave his handprint behind.

“I know you fucking like that, don’t you? You’re squeezing my cock like it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt.” Fingers digging into my hips, I moan when he pulls me back onto his cock and buries himself even deeper. “Tell me — tell me I'm the best you’ve ever had.”

Gripping the edge of the desk, I try to ground myself as Harry brushes against my g-spot with every single thrust, the pull in the base of my spine getting so strong that I don’t know how much longer I'll be able to hold out.

“I’ve neve been fucked like this.” I cry. “Nobody has ever, ever made me feel so fucking good.”

My eyes roll back as Harry presses his fingers against my clit and works them in time with his trusts, making me push up onto the tips of my toes in search of the release that isn’t far off.

“Like that, oh my god.” Panting, I meet him thrust for thrust as he fucks me harder and harder. “I'm so close.”

“Come on pretty poison girl, soak my cock for me.” Gripping the back of my neck, Harry presses me into the desk and gives me everything he has until my body gives up, releasing around him. “Fuck. you feel so good when you come around me like that. So damn good.”

Slowing his rhythm, Harry sweeps my hair off of my back and leans over me, pressing kisses up the curve of my spine. “Harry.”

“Yes?” His voice is soft as he presses a kiss to my shoulder. “You are incredible.”

“One more.” The words fall from my lips even though I know that I'm so fucked, that I know I won’t last much longer. “I want one more.”

Stopping his movements, I feel Harry chuckle. “You think you can handle me again?”

“I want to see you.” I say, my eyes darting toward the door of the bathroom. “Let me watch you come undone over me.”

Harry grins as he pulls out, the loss of him more than I expected. “I never would have guessed the woman in the crowd would be able to fuck me so well.”

“You shouldn’t underestimate people, Harry.” I walk in front of him, listening to the way he moans when he sees my own release dripping down the inside of my thighs. “Do you like what you see?”

“Fuck.” Running his hand through his curls. He looks freshly fucked and I can’t wait to finish him. “Let me see you.”

Stepping into the bathroom and turning on the light, the sleek and modern design is perfect. Turning, Harry steps close and finds my lips with his, taking his time to kiss me as his hands once again wander my body.

When he takes my nipple into his mouth, I let my head tilt back. “Come on. Give me what I want.”

“So fucking needy.” Harry responds, turning me around and pinning me against the counter. “Bend over, you pretty slut.” Pressing my ass out and shaking it from side to side, I cry out when Harry strikes his palm across each cheek. “How many?”

The tone in his voice makes me moan. “Fuck.”

“I said—“ Cracking down his palm again, he steps up behind me, pushing just his tip inside of my throbbing center. “How many.”

“Until you think I’ve had enough.”

I arch my back when he thrusts forward, his hand connecting with my ass even harder. “What if I never get enough. huh?”

“Harry—“

“What if I'm starting to think one night isn’t enough for me?” He thrusts so deep and I’m so sensitive that it feels so good, I clench around him. “Fuck, when you grip my cock like that I never want to leave — I could fuck you all damn night.”

I moan as I meet his gaze in the mirror, looking at the tattoos on his arms as he slides his hands up my back, gripping my shoulders and pulling me back onto his cock. “Don’t say that.”

“What? Don’t say that I want you?” Bringing his palm against my skin, his gaze locks on mine. “This— fuck, this isn’t normal.”

“What?” I ask, biting my bottom lip and letting my head fall forward. “What isn’t—”

“Feeling like this after one night.” Thrusting into me so hard that I scream, I feel tears in my eyes over the way my body feels ready to give into him again. “I’ve never had sex like this, never fucked anyone this good.”

I let my head fall to the side as my cheek presses against the cool counter, the sound of our bodies meeting echoing through the small room. “That’s because you've never been with someone like me before.”

“Fuck—“ Harry is relentless as he searches for his release. “I need you to come for me again, please.”

Begging me, his eyes are hazy as he looks at me, gaze looking with mine until with one thrust, my body shatters around his. “Harry!”

“Oh, shit—“

I watch as his head rolls back and his body stills for just a moment before his hips slowly guide in and out of me, riding us through the orgasms we’ve given each other.

“There you go, pretty girl.” Running his hands up and down my back. I take a deep breath. “You’re so fucking good. So good, Chan.”

I take a deep breath as I try to center myself. “Harry, that was—“

Resting his forehead between my shoulder blades, his warm breath skates across my skin. “I didn’t know it would be like that when I saw you tonight, the woman dressed with ivy across her body— that the vines would wrap around me and pull me in.”

“I don’t know why you’re the surprised one.” I say, wetting my lips. “You’re the one that showed up here. How?”

Harry pulls out, a whimper falling from my lips at the loss of him. “I don’t know… I wanted to get a drink somewhere where I wouldn’t feel like Harry Styles — I wanted to go somewhere small and local.”

“And you ended up here?” I ask, looking up at him from under my lashes.

Grabbing a hand towel, Harry presses a kiss to my temple before running it under warm water and hoisting me onto the counter, laughing as I wince.

“I ended up here.” He smiles as he reaches his hand between my legs, kissing me when I gasp as he runs the warm cloth over my sensitive clit.

We both look at each other and it’s almost like Harry can’t help it when he leans down to kiss me, taking his time as his hands come up to cup my cheeks.

“Let’s get you dressed, okay?” He speaks the words against my lips but makes no move to let me off the counter to grab my top. “Maybe in a few minutes.”

I laugh. “Come on, we have to get out of here before someone comes in.”

“I hope they do.” kissing down the side of my neck, Harry rests his forehead against my collarbone. “I need everyone to know I was with you — that you’ve been fucked you harder than you ever have in your life.”

Resting my hand in the middle of his chest, I push him backwards and hop off the counter on shaky legs, Harry laughing as he rests his hands on my hips to guide me back into the office.

“Here, let me help you.” It’s a sweet gesture to see a man like him help me back into my top, watching as he uses all of his concentration to make sure every hook gets fastened properly while he doesn’t disturb the leaves.

“Thank you… For tonight.” I say, looking over his features. “I really had a good time.”

Harry smiles and brushes a lock of hair from off my face. “I did too.”

I give him one last smile, reaching for the door handle.

Before I turn it, Harry reaches for my hand, turning me and pressing me into the door one last time, finding my lips with his own.

Unlike most of the kisses tonight, this one is so slow, so gentle.

“I know I'm asking a lot, but I need to be able to see you again — I don't know what my brain is doing to me, but I just know that I need it.” The look in his eyes is so full of hope, so soft. “I’ll understand if you say no.”

“Here.” I hold my hand out, hoping he gets the hint.

When he does, he takes his phone out of his pocket and hands it over. I easily put my name and number in before giving it back to him, watching his lips curl up with a grin.

“Channing?” Looking from his phone to me, I smile as my hand grips the doorknob and finally push it open.

I wink at him as I step out into the hall. “It’s me.”

He steps forward and grips my hip one last time. bringing his lips down to mine.

“It’s you.”

💖

[sixty-silver-wishes]

For the Caligari fanfic ideas, maybe Jane’s thoughts after she runs from the tent/before Alan’s funeral or maybe Cesare doing the fortune telling act (it could be anyone’s question, not just Alan’s) from his POV?

yk what? you'll get both :) first one is here, and I'll do the second one tomorrow!

-

"Are you all right?" Francis asked, holding his hat in his hands. "What-?" Jane startled, looking up. She breathed, wringing her long hair between her fingers. "Oh. I'm- I'm fine; I just-" "I know," Francis said, putting a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened. "I'm not ready to go either; I don't think I ever could be. He was- he was everything to me, and..." He blinked back tears. "I'm going to find whoever did it. Tonight, after the funeral, I'm going back to the fairgrounds, and I'm not leaving until-" "Don't!" Jane gasped, louder than she'd intended to. "Please, don't go back there."

"And why not? I know that- that man has something to do with it; I just need proof." "Francis, you really shouldn't. Please."

"Our best friend was murdered. I don't care what may happen to me; I'm going to avenge him if it's the last thing I do."

She straightened her back. "But I care about what could happen to you," she said. "You're my only true friend left. My father is handling the case; we've already done everything we can to help. I miss Alan too, but if I lose you..." "You're not going to lose me," he said, and reached for her hands, when she flinched away.

"Oh- I'm sorry," he said, drawing back. "No, no," she apologized. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have- I don't know what just came over me..." But she did know. She knew why his touch suddenly frightened her, despite how much she trusted him. She knew the look the old man in the tent had given her; she'd seen it in the eyes of too many men in town before. When he leered at her from underneath the brim of his stovepipe hat, all his yellow teeth bared in a crooked crescent moon, she noticed how the saliva dripped from his lips like that of a wolf eyeing an unsuspecting hare. His theatrical gestures and showman's inflections barely disguised his ravenous intent, his wandering gaze leaving her feeling exposed, despite the heavy shawl over her modest dress. But even worse than him was the thing in the cabinet- it was so gaunt and pale, she thought it was a corpse at first. And yet, it wasn't its skeletal frame, or its spiderlike fingers, or even its piercing eyes that haunted her, but the way it had been propped up in the box like a mannequin in a display window, presented to her with a flourish of its master's hand. A frozen scream was trapped within its eyes, and she knew that the wretched creature, too, had been goggled at, paraded about and sewn up into silence. It was her greatest fear made manifest, suspended between life and death for all to see. "Jane?" Francis said, snapping her out of her thoughts. "Y-yes," she answered, still halfway in a daze. "I was listening." "Something's wrong," he narrowed his eyes, "isn't it? You don't look too good, and you haven't been acting like yourself. I know what happened to Alan is hard for both of us, but I'm getting worried about you." "I'm fine," she lied. "Where were you today?" "I was... I was preparing to go into mourning," she said, feeling her stomach twist with shame. "As is customary." She wanted to tell him where she'd been, but couldn't. If he found out what had happened, he'd only want to go back, and she wouldn't let him do that. And how would he feel if he'd known she had gone out on an investigation of her own? He'd want to protect her, she knew. To him, she was made of porcelain and silver threads, far too beloved to break. "I know you're scared," Francis said. "I'm scared too. I don't want to see the priest, or any of the people there, or the coffin- oh God, he's going to be in a coffin," he choked.

Jane stayed silent, afraid that if she said anything, she too would start crying. "We... we don't want to be late," Francis continued, wiping his eyes. "We're supposed to read some of his poetry there, remember?" "He would... he would like that a lot," Jane managed. "You're right," Francis nodded. He offered her his arm. "You- you don't have to take it if you don't want to. I understand." She reached out a shaking hand before taking it, and raised her other hand, suddenly remembering Alan wasn't standing on her left. They were never going to walk home together like that again, with her arms intertwined with both of theirs as they talked and laughed and never once considered the impossibility of forever. Alan would never again write another poem, or still her anxious nerves with his earnest optimism. There was an emptiness by her side, an imbalance that she could sense. The entire universe was off course, because Alan wasn't supposed to die.

As she and Francis walked towards the cemetery, it felt as if the sun itself had been murdered before its time, red-hot blood forever trickling from the fatal wound.

[fascination-street-writing]

Somewhere to Begin | Pannacotta Fugo x Ghirga!Reader

He has always adored you, like the sun and the moon and more - but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

- 200 Follower Giveaway Piece iii for @idontlikerisottounlessitsnero​ -

Content Warnings: Not SFW Content, Post Break-Up, Emotional Hurt & Comfort, Regret, & Explicit Sexual Content (Aged-Up Characters)

You had promised your brother Narancia to never involve yourself directly with Passione; even the occasional stay for a meal at Il Libeccio made him antsy, yet you failed to see the harm in sharing a plate of bruschetta with Fugo, or a pot of hot tea with Abbacchio – two of his closest companions. It was only fair that you ought to spend time with the men who gave you unbridled protection at the behest of nothing more than goodwill and magnanimity. Not that you needed such security, but it kept street thieves from picking your pockets, at least.

You had promised him indeed, and now that he lies in the casket before you – clad in the suit from your mother’s funeral that you never thought to see him wear again – you intend to keep it. Giorno had offered to have an outfit tailored for your brother, but you refused him with consternation that your he would not be buried in something from the boy responsible for his death.

“No,” you had told him, cold as the wall of ice that has crept around your heart, while clutching the woolly material to your chest. “This one will do nicely.”

And so, the mortician severed the seam along the back of the jacket and draped a silk sheet over Narancia’s legs so that no one would be wiser to fact that his ankles stick out past the bottom hem of his trousers. It was bad enough that you could not afford the casket on your own. You knew better than to believe it when Mista told you that it and the headstone were paid for with the money yielded from the liquidation of Bucciarati’s assets. If that were true, then why not pay for a new suit, too?

Trish snatches a single white lily from the memorial wreath and tucks it between your brother’s still, clasped fingers. She hides her grief behind a pair of sunglasses that do not match the overcast weather that looms above your heads. You had not wanted to wait so long for the funeral – for two months, Narancia’s body had been left in the morgue to chill on ice, par Giorno’s insistence that the service must wait until his transfer of power over Passione has finished.

Thus, for two months, you had lain awake at night, shuddering at the melancholy and its melody that reminds you how you your brother died without saying farewell – his platonic little soulmate. Giorno may have his victories and suffer for them, but you would not let him entomb Narancia in the mausoleum with Bucciarati and Abbacchio.

“He’ll be buried next to our mother,” you said to the new Don with indignancy. “After everything you’ve taken from me, let me have this. Lascia che mio fratello torni a casa – let my brother come home.”

Your wish was granted, though you suspect it only so because he was growing tired of fighting with you over burial rights and passages. The congregation is kept small, consisting only of yourself, Mista, Trish, a tortoise named Jean-Pierre Polnareff, regrettably Giorno, and a handful of bodyguards, though the latter kept their distance from the immediate service; it would not come as a surprise to you, should you learn that the men in black suits were employed to protect their Don from the mournful sister of the deceased.

The handkerchief clutched in your grasp is damp with past tears. Not even your father had come, despite your pleading that he ought to pay his respects to his only son. Too preoccupied with his floozy of a new wife and her children from two previous marriages than to love his own – you never needed him in your life anyways, because you had Bucciarati. Now, you suppose that you must be a proper orphan.

You do not weep when the casket seals and cleaves the line of sight betwixt you and your brother forever. You do not weep when the mechanical apparatus lowers the coffer made of Osage orange wood into the steel vault that already holds your mother in oak. You do not weep when the gravediggers shovel the dirt mound back over the crest of opened earth.

You do not weep until Mista clasps your trembling hand, pulls you to his chest, and embraces you amidst the anguish that burns you alive. His is the consolation that you needed, but never thought to ask for, though it is not his touch that you long for. One by one, the attendees disperse for the train of luxury cars and you remain alone with the gunslinger who had been courteous enough to come without his oddly patterned beanie hat.

“Why don’t we get going?” Mista urges to coax you away from the gravesite – away from yourself and the suffocating agony. “Giorno’s having dinner for us all, back at the estate.”

You pull away. Rivets of mascara stain his white dress-shirt. “You can go on ahead,” you tell him, not quite liking the way your voice strains in your throat. “I’m not hungry.”

“Then, let’s go grab some coffee or something –”

“I’m fine, Mista.” He frowns and averts his gaze. “I have some things I need to take care of.”

“Oh?”

You tug your cardigan closer to your chest. “I’m going to collect Narancia’s belongings from our dad’s house. Not sure what I’ll do with it all, but I know it can’t stay there.”

Mementos of life, from when things were far simpler and your brother far more alive. Family photographs with tattered edges and holes of where your father should have been, wedged between unread and abused schoolbooks. Worn out blue jeans with patches of fabric scraps from your mother’s old dresses that you had sewn on for him. A collection of empty glass soda bottles. CDs and cassette tapes of Snoop Dog, Tupac, and whatever other American rappers had appealed to his tastes.

“Alright, I guess. Promise me you’ll call when you get there.”

Soon to be packed away in cardboard boxes and to be stacked precariously in the living room of your studio apartment – another gift from Bucciarati – with nowhere else to go. You simply cannot afford to rent a storage unit downtown.

“I will.”

Mista does not offer to help, because he knows you will refuse it. With that, he takes his leave of you in the cemetery. Left to your solitary devices, you clench your fists and stew on hatred and loathing for none other than Giorno Giovanna. You do not blame Narancia for his eagerness to trust the boy so quickly; his charisma, as appealing as it entreats to the willing, is an infectious disease.

If not for Giorno, your brother would have been buried two months ago. If not for Giorno, your brother might still be alive. And perhaps you must resent Fugo too, for what he has done – or rather, the lack thereof of doing; yet for everything, you are incapable of such feelings, as you have always been fond of each other. The optimistic heart within you stands that he has saved you from suffering more – that in his choice to stay behind in Venezia, it only meant you would not have to bury him, too.

Because surely, his unrestrained anger would have gotten him killed – if not before, then certainly after Narancia’s death.

With a quivering sigh, you turn from this dreary place and meet his illegible violet stare. A row of crackling headstones separates you from the boy whom you love more than life itself. Fugo clutches a pretty bouquet of daffodils wrapped with parchment paper and a white-string bow – your favorite flowers, though you wonder whether they are meant for you or your brother’s fresh grave.

You do not know, nor will you ever, as he sets the flowers atop the nearest monument and makes off, as if on sabbatical to you.

And it fills you with nothing more than bitterness.

“Everyone misses you,” Mista confesses between a sip of tea and a bite of strawberry cake. “You should come around sometime soon.”

Nearly a year has passed since the funeral, and you have yet grace anyone from Passione with your presence, with the exception of Mista for weekly sojourns to Il Libeccio to catch up on life – because, as you have learned, much can happen in seven days’ time. With each occasion of crossing the archway’s threshold into the private dining room at the back of the restaurant, you find yourself preening for two heads of black hair – one neatly combed and clipped, the other a sprawl held in place with an orange headband –, taut lips painted in black, and Fugo. And every time, you are left with the kind of disappointment that curdles your soul like sour milk.

“Who misses me, Mista?” you reprimand, pointing your icing-lacquered fork in his direction. “I barely even know Trish, and I have no interest in ever speaking with Don Giovanna again.”

You wish Giorno would call off the bodyguard who trails you every waking hour of the day; it makes you feel like a child who has proven herself untrustworthy to her parent. But you have done nothing deserving of such punishment. You suspect that his intent is an extension of the olive branch treaty that does not exist between you two – a reiteration of Bucciarati’s protection that should not have to be reiterated, because he should not be dead, either.

Or, alternatively, he wants to irk you so far that you might barge into his office one day – fuming with unspent determination to admonish him regarding his dominion over your life – just to trap you in a conversation wherein he might attempt to suspend your animosity towards him. Alas, you are simply not interested; you will scorn him, because it is all you can do.

“Forget I asked . . .” Mista trails off, swirling a dollop of whipped cream with his knife. “So uh, by the way, have you seen Fugo lately?”

Just the utterance of his name has you perking in your seat.

“No.”

“Hm, well, rumor has it, he’s working at the public library. Shaking people down for late fees or something like that.” It is not implausible to imagine Fugo in the position of extorting old ladies and young children for overdue fines – but, you know that it is only a jest. Regardless, he has always been the type of boy to surround himself with books instead of people. “Why not visit him sometime? He’s not affiliated with Passione anymore. Or, not now, at least.”

You stab at a strawberry. It bleeds beneath the weight of your fork.

“I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Mista’s question is one that you ought to be asking yourself, as you sit here at the scratched pine desk of the library – pretending to study for an upcoming exam on the history of art in Pompeii – though you look up from your scrawl of notes every few minutes to see if Fugo should pass you by; perhaps pushing a cart of books to be put away, or branding return cards with a plush red stamp to mark the date in two weeks’ time.

You have seen him only once more since his implied attempt of reconciliation at your brother’s funeral. It was by chance that you should wander into the same café as him that day; and by extended odds that – while you stood over his table with a sad smile and a cup of coffee – he stood abruptly and left without finishing his own drink. He had not even bothered to wish you well.

Today, you catch him on your way to the reference section. The look of hurt in his eyes – like salt instead of sugar on the tongue – brings a scowl to your face. “Please, Panni,” you plead, and though your fingers ache to catch his hand with your own, you refrain for you know the gesture is a crossing of the line between you two. “Can’t we just talk?”

“No,” he says, so dry and unrecognizable. “I’m not getting paid to do that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Panni, I – Please, don’t do this. I already lost my brother: don’t make me lose you, too.”

A fuse switches in his head, and you have been the one to flip it. He clutches the encyclopedia in his hands with such fervor that his knuckles pale, and for a moment, you wonder if he means to hit you with it. And maybe he thinks it too, but he drops it atop the ground as soon as the thought crosses his mind. He takes a step back, as if you have scorned him – maybe, after all, you have.

The cover spills open, and the pages bend against the hardwood floor. You wish he would do the same to you – to disclose his grievances and let you in. Instead, it is the toxicity of acrimony “Don’t ever come near me again,” Fugo warns. “Haven’t you realized by now that I never want to see you again? Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.”

You will save the tears for when you stand in front of the bathroom mirror tonight before bed to wash away your makeup from the day, amongst other regrets. But you will never understand the guilt that suffocates him – a noose that is just taut enough to keep him breathing – each time he looks at you, and even when he does not. You are everything he has ever wanted and more.

And you are the emblem of everything he has ever done wrong.

“I still care about you,” you tell him with an affirmation that will not fix the desolation. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

He bites his lip and looks away.

“I know you’re hurting. I am too. So, can’t we heal together?”

“Are you stupid?” You grimace at his words. “I told you to go.”

There is no chance to dispute it, nor to bid him an aggrieved adieu, because he is gone again. Burying him might have been easier, after all; a corpse cannot remind you of what a fool you have become.

And so it seems to you that dying dreams are the best ones.

Adulthood is – as you have found in your years of treading its waters – a dreadful inevitability. You and your brother’s boxes have outgrown that compact studio apartment, though for years, you had made it work perfectly fine. When Giorno pulled the strings to terminate your lease and forcefully relocate you into a sizeable townhouse in the Chiaia district, you wanted to hate him for it – for his reminder that you cannot sever your connection to Passione. Yet, boggled down with university loans, you were in no position to turn down his assistance.

And he knew it, well.

A pretty townhouse located in one of the nicest regions of Napoli cannot bring Narancia back, nor can it attune for every bit of suffering incurred since his death; but if it is a strain upon the aging Don’s wallet, then it is all the better.

On the day of your fourth birthday spent in solitude, you treat yourself to a tub of gelato and a dress from the costly boutique across the street that you will never wear because you have no need to. It will hang in your closest amongst other unworn gowns, still pinched with price tags, that you have impulsively accumulated over the years – a hereditary habit of your mother’s that had caused more than a few spats between she and your father. You know your vice, but there is something so gratifying about it.

You sink into the tweed couch that does not quite match the architect’s vision for the living room – with its crown-mould white walls and hardwood floors the color of wenge; too clean and proper for what furniture you have kept from your former residence. Silver spoon clenched between your teeth as you page through television channel after channel, you balance that melting gelato on your lap. Perhaps you should have grabbed a straw from the kitchen as well.

The evening passes by, uneventfully so. You have spent it spoiling yourself and replying with fabricated enthusiasm to incoming text messages from study mates, who wish you well on this happy day – as if you have a reason to remember your twenty-first beyond the accomplishment of finishing the entire tub of would-be-frozen lemon curd without incurring a single regret or twinge a of brain-freeze. You have gotten rather good at knocking back shots without needing to stop for breaths, too.

At the ringing of the doorbell, you are torn from the real estate program that you have invested so much time these past few hours. Mista, no doubt – come to deliver a gift and takeout because he knows you have not eaten properly tonight. You have no room left in your belly, but whatever he brings will make for a decent meal tomorrow.

You do not bother to tidy up, and when you open the door, you wish you had. Illuminated only by the balcony light stands Fugo with a bouquet of daffodils, a bottle of sauvignon blanc, and a remorseful, sheepish smile upon his handsome face.

Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.

“Uh . . . “ He trails off before he has even begun, perhaps taken aback by the widening of your eyes and the disheveled appearance that, despite your own judgement, he thinks to be the most beautiful vulnerability in life. He speaks your name with the kind of tenderness that you have not felt since you were teenagers. “Buon compleanno.”

You need not ask how he found you, because you know without question that either Mista or Giorno had told him. “Why are you here?” you ask.

He clutches the flowers a bit tighter. You do not move to take them; however, you have already decided on which vase you will place them in. “I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. And give you these.”

The bottle of wine feels far too heavy in your arms – and the daffodils, as if they might float off in an unforeseen gust of wind. “And, to apologize. For too many things that I can’t ever make right; although, if you’ll let me, I’d like to try.”

“Fugo, I . . . I don’t know.”

“Please, [Y/N]. That day in the library, all those years ago . . . I never stop thinking about the horrible things I said to you. It killed me – it ate me alive; I thought for all this time and before that you hated me, because of what happened to Narancia. Because I wasn’t there to save him.”

“It hurt when you told me to get out of your life, but I listened, and I did it.”

He brings the heel of his hand to swipe at the tears in his eyes. The curling of his other fist is a gesture that terrifies you – although, not for your own sake. “I couldn’t face you. I was scared to look you in the eye, because I thought you hated me,” he mutters like a broken record as his voice cracks with agony. “I thought you hated me, because of him.”

He stops, throwing his head back with a groan. The apple of his throat bobs up and down as he chokes down a sob. He refuses to look at you when he speaks again – too afraid to come undone before he has made his peace with you, his greatest loss. “We were young. Probably too young to even understand what love really meant. But, dio dannazione, you were the most important thing to me, and I understood that more than love.”

His words have always held the capacity for swaying you, as if they replenish the empty spaces within. It is why, as you open the door wider, you let him fill you once again. Fugo contemplates the crannies of your living room, hovering above the couch that you insisted he take a seat upon – he remembers when you bought it, because you had dragged him to the furniture outlet that day. He pretended to be annoyed, though in truth, he was beyond elated that you had chosen him over Mista, or even your brother.

“I guess I should put these in a vase,” you say about the bouquet of flowers. “They’re beautiful, Fugo. Thank you.”

He nods, suddenly entranced by a photograph of Narancia that sits atop the fireplace mantel. You do not notice his unease.

“I’ll grab us some glasses, too.”

You find your vase in the kitchen cabinet niched into the alcove above the refrigerator. Its emerald swirls glisten under the twine of the recessed lights that add no character to the room. So much for a birthday spent in reclusion, you chide alone. Deep within you sits a fire that longs to ignite – to send Fugo away in some thwarted act of retribution for the very loneliness he inflicted upon you years ago; as if to say that the rejection suits you well.

Of course, you cannot deny that your heart leapt into your throat when you saw him standing before the front door, a vision of a man who still held those inklings of boyish charm that you fell for in your adolescence. They say you should not dote over the first person beyond your mother and father to call you pretty; it is weakness to complacency. Your life has never been one of convention – and so by that right, who there is to insist that you must abide?

Bearing a content grin, you trim the stems one-by-one to better fit the vase. In synchronous rhythm to the next, the green stalks bounce from the cluttered countertop to the floor. You have only just stuffed the flowers back into the vase when the shattering of glass resonates its way into the kitchen.

The photograph of Narancia lies amongst bits of broken frame and wreckage. Face buried in his palms, Fugo crumples until his knees meet the ground; he shakes, as if smothered by a chill. When his hands fall to smack the coffee table – baring his grief, in all its pandemonium – you catch them and force his arms around your waist instead; his fingers lock together, holding you in place. He whimpers against your stomach. Already, you can feel the wetness of tears through the fabric of your overstretched shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry, [Y/N]. I’m sorry.”

Your own fingers curl through his strawberry blonde hair – a means of stability as you too have begun to cry. “It’s just a picture frame,” you promise, and it is the grandest thing he has ever heard. But it is more than a box made of wood and glass – it is an impossible longing. “I’m not upset at you.”

“I . . . Okay.”

Mindful of the mess, you rock him backwards until he is lying down. You join at his side, take his hand into your own, and wait in silence for the moment when his misery will dissipate for clarity. Regardless of the circumstances that have brought him here tonight, you are grateful for it – even if your birthday is spent wallowing in irrevocable regret.

Above all else, you know that he has always adored you, like the sun and moon and more – but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

Your thumb coaxes over the back of his knuckles. “There’s a crack in your ceiling,” Fugo announces, nonchalant and monotone.

“Where? I don’t see one.”

He raises an unoccupied finger, and you follow its gesture to the corner of the ceiling, just above where the moulding meets. It is no longer than the length of hair from his head, and quite honestly, not an underlying issue of foundational complications. Still, you indulge him. “Oh, wow. I never noticed.”

In this hasty repertoire of patterns, you fall into stillness again. “Panni,” you whisper with the utterance of his endearing name. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He squeezes your hand.

“But it’s getting late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Truthfully so, you cannot send him on his way in such a state of disarray.

“I can make up the couch for you, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” he murmurs.

However, you do not make it far because he has – inspired by a need to express his devotion and apologia – pulled you atop himself, hands braced on your hips as you balance on bent knees and grasp his shoulders. Tenderness is becoming of the boy – no, the man – who looks up at you as if you are the embodiment of everything good that exists in one life to the next. It is a side that he has never shown to anyone other than you.

You covet it like a piece of cherry-flavored candy, even when you lean down to capture his lips and nip at his tongue that likewise explores the long-forgotten caverns of your mouth. It is a distraction of meaning and not; from the broken frame, loss, and perhaps everything in between. Every attempt to catch a breath of air is met with resilient protests of needier touches and not before long, you lie on the couch – shedding your clothing like the skin of the woman you no longer wish to be – and let him in.

Bare chest to bare chest, you cup his hardness as he places his fingers to your untouched folds. You mean to tell him that you love him, but the penetration of unpracticed digits to your core stifles the very thought from your scattering mind. In dark closets and empty rooms, you two have had your share of imprudent experimentation with one another’s bodies in the past – and nothing more than warm, tentative touches that lead to girlish giggles and boyish huffs.

Fugo pinches your nipple, drawing a plush gasp from you; it urges him to do it again until at last you are throbbing with need from your lower half, your pelvis jerking upwards to meet his for the stimulation of wanting. His breath ghosts your face, and you think you smell wine – a drink for good luck, you think, because despite the distress manifesting in his soul, his mannerisms are otherwise as habitual as you might recall from moments of normalcy.

It feels wrong – to be filled with such wanton, salacious desire within the very hour that you have both spent in mourning of your brother and everything else that has been discarded to the wind, to be picked up by someone else. Yet tonight, you will not sleep with Fugo to forget your blue heart, nor for celebration’s sake as you embark upon another year of being – you will sleep with him, because you have grown tired of learning how to end your days without him.

“I haven’t . . .” You trail off, mesmerized by the way his violet eyes look at you; though puffy and stained red from crying, you take them in as he cocks a brow, imploring you to finish your thought. “I haven’t been with anyone else since you.”

“Good,” he sighs, and you think he is trying to hide a smile. “Me neither.”

Braced by his arms, you are flipped onto your stomach. The tweed upholstery bites into the soft flesh of your breasts with each jostle elicited by the curling of a finger within you. You push backwards until you swear you can feel his fingers against your cervix.

“Oh my god,” he groans, flexing out as if to move deeper. “Ti senti così bene.”

“If it feels good, then do something,” you whine, hands dug between the cushions for support.

But, to your chagrin, he takes his time to admire the way your folds pulsate around just two fingers. You glisten like a gem – his gem. Indignant with petty annoyance, you pull away and straddle the lithe, albeit toned, legs that dangle off the edge of the couch. Arms thrown around his neck, you sink down until you have reached your fill of his manhood.

“I did tell you to do something,” you sigh at Fugo’s displeasure, biting your lip as you adjust to the size of his shaft. “Didn’t I?”

He kisses you once and moves grasp your backend. You savor the feeling of him ingulfing you. “I was distracted.”

You would laugh if not for the anticipated bulging inside you as Fugo buckles into your heat. The sight of your jostling breasts with each bounce of you on his cock is a page of some heavenly doctrine – one that he should study and commit to forever. He moves with strength that he reserves for moments of rage, and even his fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave bruises for the days to come. You do not mind; they will help you to remember the best night you have had in years.

With a cry that blossoms into a moan that tells him that he has treated you well, you ride out your orgasm and slump against his chest in your own exhaustion. When he reaches his peak, he slides out; you reach for him – dampened with your slick – and finish him until white pearls bead at the tip and trickle over your working fingers.

Foreheads pressed together, you flash tired grins before settling against the cushions, your head pressed to his chest and his arm braced around the small of your back while his fingers trace shapes against your perspired skin.

Panting, his heart skips every few beats – like a song, sung only for you. Content with that which has returned itself to you, you fall asleep to the sound of this lovely little love affair.

| 4966 Words |

[unholyhelbig]

Yassss my friend!! I loved your latest update of your werewolf fic with jealous Chloe!! I wish I knew what made Chloe so jealous and possessive! I love it so much. I have such a soft spot for jealous Chloe. It’s one of my favourite versions of her. Can you include more of it? Whether in your werewolf fic, or any of your other fics? Keep up with the amazing writing xoxo

A/N: Listen, this isn’t exactly what you asked for, but I just saw an advertisement for Malcolm and Marie and I was feeling angsty! Also, I’m so sorry I made you wait over a year for a response. Thank you for the kind words! 

Read on AO3  | Request prompts here [closed]

Chloe let the red wine wash over her tongue, a single line dripping past her lips and falling from her chin. She cringed away from the sour taste because it was cheap and from a cardboard box that sat at the back of their fridge for months on end. But it didn’t’ stop her from drinking it- no, it made her reach for a second one as she tipped the large container and watched the crimson color slosh around a soap-stained glass.

It didn’t’ matter, none of it mattered because her cheeks were already blossoming with blush and she had stripped halfway from her elegant dress that caught all the right edges of the moonlight. Her skin prickled from the cold on her bare arms and her ankles were sore from the heels she had palmed and then left by the door with her keys.

She stumbled to the large windows that faced the ocean and stared out at it. The waves were black like the ink on the pages strewn across the piano and the sand was bleached white like the paper it was written on. She could see a few blurry shapes crowded around the low light of a bonfire and two young girls screaming at the cold of the breaking water.

Chloe wanted to slam her fist into the window until it matched the color of her wine. She wanted to scream at them that they were foolish and that young love never lasted until her throat was raw and bloodied with distaste. But she didn’t. They wouldn’t hear her anyway.

Chloe turned from the beach and placed the half-empty glass on the top of the piano. She hit the shrillest note with her finger and frowned. Beca could make it sound so effortless; the way her touch would glide across the keys and make something more. It was the creativity that got them this house, that had won her gold records and even a few platinum ones. It got her a Grammy tonight too.

So did the light touches that she ran across her executives back, and the way she leaned in and laughed with alcohol on her breath. Beca Mitchell was Hollywood’s heartthrob and she could play into the role like a violinist that had the strings sewn into the pads of their fingers.

She wasn’t one for jealousy.

Not at first. Chloe had been secure in their relationship through college, and the years they lived in a shitty one-bedroom apartment above an Indian place that always smelled of spice and sweetness. She knew Beca would come home after her shift at the station, and pull her close after sliding a simple golden band around her finger. They were married on the beach, that shown of black waves and white sand.

But things were different now- things were glamorous and expensive and Chloe clung on as hard as she could. She taught with her maiden name at a local elementary school and wore sunglasses and low-bearing hats to ward off the people that hid in the bushes, and all of that was manageable because Beca was faithful.  

Chloe finished off her second glass of wine in three gulps.

She sat down on the piano bench and scratched at her bare collarbone. The sleeves of her dress hung low around her waist and touched the back of her ankles but she made no move to shift them. She watched as the fire down the shore dimmed and the girls moved their shivering bodies back to the warm sand, still holding the heat of the day.

She didn’t’ hear the door open or close. Her blood was rushing past her ears and her fingers were twitching as if she wanted to hit the strongest key again, but she could barely muster the softest. The moon was full and that meant something more.

“You’re sitting in the dark.”

Chloe didn’t’ dignify it with an answer. She wanted to reach to her side and pull another sip from the glass of wine but there was nothing to swallow but her own words. Her bones ached and her skin was cold and she didn’t shift when Beca sat down next to her on the piano bench.

Her wife hit the deepest note three times, right where the groove of her fingers usually fit. She balled her hand into a fist and swallowed and didn’t’ dare let out a sigh. “Chloe, I know you’re upset.”

She had half expected Beca to follow her from the award show and the after-party that was littered with white powder and little tabs that you slipped under your tongue. It seemed to go hand in hand with the gold statues and the bubbling champagne. Chloe had had four glasses and called a taxi and didn’t’ bother squeezing her wife’s hand before stumbling up their front steps and stripping, only halfway, out of the gown that was given to them.

Those six drinks were throbbing against her temple now. She gave a watery laugh “What gave it away?”

“I knew I fucked up the moment I said it. Or didn’t’ say it. And you were upset then, I saw it all over your face. You said you were fine and I knew you weren’t fine.” She took an even sigh “But I was caught up in everything… the lights and the drugs and,”

Chloe turned to face her. The woman’s cheeks were wet with tears and they reflected the color of her velvet eyes. There was a twinge of guilt that was outweighed by the pain and anger of earlier. That urge to grab her face and kiss the pain away was only there momentarily.

“Do you remember the first apartment we were in?” When Chloe didn’t’ respond, Beca continued softly. “You came home from work and looked exhausted, and I wanted to cook you dinner. But we couldn’t afford pots and pans yet so I promised the food place downstairs that we would pay them back.”

Chloe lifted her chin “We ate curry on plastic chairs with our fingers.”

“Yeah,” she smiled and sniffed “Yeah we did and it was messy, and kind of gross. But I- I miss that. I miss not having to fight every single day to fit in with these people. I never had to try to fit in with you.”

“Then why didn’t you say it?”

“Because I’m a fucking tool, Chloe. You married a douche bag that forgets to thank her wife in her awards speech even though she practiced it a million times in the mirror.”

Chloe stared at the way her face softened and then hardened again in thought. The way her fingers were twitching but not fully pressing the keys. Their bones ached and their breath mingled with the scent of alcohol and mint mojito gum.

Her heart burned with jealousy, and she still wanted to hit the glass that trapped them in this extravagant house. But instead, she intertwined her fingers with Beca and moved until her head was on her wife’s shoulder. They sighed into the slight touch, each of them for entirely different reasons.

[blueberrypossum]

No One Does It Like You Do Dastardly Danny x oc

Hi everyone! This is another Shiki x Danny fanfic that I loved writing (I love writing fighting scenes and also winter atmospheres because it’s so cozy! So this is Shiki again (because I love writing her it’s so much fun) I hope you guys don’t mind and hopefully you can just place yourself into it! @greaser-wolf and I just love going back and forth with her oc and mine and it’s so much fun and she is just so wonderful! I hope you guys enjoy!!

WARNING: There is usage of inappropriate words and adult themes ( such as sexual content that is pass making out)

(Also I know that the Hidden city doesn’t have a sun or moon or even weather but I want them to have an atmosphere XD )

Word Bank: 

Big Cheese: Big Boss

We’ve been had- Been tricked or deceived.

Yuck- A foolish or stupid person

Music:

You brought your overcoat closer to you as the chilly breeze started to become quicker and snow started to dart through your vision at an easy pace. You tried to start a match between your hooves as you awaited for Danny and the others to investigate the bar, but after each click there was nothing but empty silence of the mountain.

It has been a hot minute since you’ve done a job somewhere this cold, of course it snowed in the Hidden City, but not like this. With your genetics, the cold wouldn’t really bother you, but without harnessing the true potential of your power, you were left shivering under your several layers of clothes. 

The mountain side was gorgeous though, the glistening of the snowbanks shined in the afternoon sun and the yokai’s that lived in the hidden village were enjoying warm beverages and gentle conversations. The white layer under your boots crunched as you continuously moved back and forth to keep warm as your boyfriend was taking a little too long to ask where this polar bear yokai was. 

When you were given the opportunity to go after one of the most psychotic war lords by your boss, you just couldn’t say no. But you weren’t given a team in the progress, so one you told Danny about it, him and the rest of the Mud Dogz created a plan to help you, with a small price to pay as well. 

You were honestly glad that Danny and the others wanted to join you, not only were they your friends, but you couldn’t really trust your teammates in the force. Too bad that Mickey had to do other business and had to sit this one out. 

 You finally spotted the usual purple wearing rat in the distance, his long brown coat flapping behind him as a gust of wind danced into town, two thin figures close behind him as they made their way over. Frost dusted over Danny’s whiskers as he came up to you, his hands rubbing each other under his gloves as Nova and Leonard joined as well. Leonard was the most bundled out of all four of you, his green body shivering under the black coat he wore. 

Nova seemed to be the only one who enjoyed the weather, her nose twitching every time a flake landed on her. 

“Are you actually enjoying this?” The ogre asked, an eyebrow raised as she gave him a sly smile. 

“When you’re this hot the cold never affects you.”

“....”

“I’m kidding! I’m a Mountain Fishing Cat, this is my element.”

You rolled your eyes at Nova’s comment and looked up at Danny, who had curled himself up close to your side for any connection of warmth. 

“Did you find anything out?” You asked him as Nova and Leonard continued to have their fake argument. 

Dastardly Danny shook the excess snow off his shoulders and hat as you watched his breath roll out like a cloud.

“Apparently the Big Cheese is holding up somewhere not far from here, hidden within the mountain,” he said with a low huff, his voice going quiet as a family walked by, their children running around them as they played in the snow. 

 Till’ then we should rent out a nearby cabin, Len said that there is a renting inn nearby.”

You pulled your beanie tighter onto your head as you let out another quiver, the mountain’s thin air starting to get to you. The rat yokai took notice of your sudden chill and unraveled his large coat and then the smaller one he wore under it, his hands gently placing the toasty coat on you. 

“Danny I’m fine-”

“Yes, yes, I know, sugar. But I’m sweating like a hog-”

The look you gave him as you settled the coat on you made him stop in his tracks and an embarrassed look crossed his face and for the first time you actually saw Dan flustered. 

“Uh, I meant..What I meant to say-”

“Ha! Danny actually messed up on a slang. Maybe Leonard will be cheerful for once!” Nova purred as she joined the conversation, Leonard right at her heels as they joined in on the full group. It seemed that the comment struck a nerve in the ogre and he looked down at the feline, a low growl rumbling in his throat.

“Only in your dreams, kitten.”

Woahhhhhhh, where did that come from?

Both you and Danny were in amazement as a dash of red flared against Nova’s face, and it wasn’t from the cold. It was good to see your friend get bashful for once instead of you and you grinned at the sight, taking in the heat and smell from Danny’s jacket. His cologne was trailed with cigarettes and old spice, and the fur that was sewn into the inside rubbed comfortably against your fur. 

Danny placed an apology kiss on your head as Nova and Leonard continued to banter back and forth and you took in the soft texture of his mouth as you sucked in an icy breath.

“Alright you two, we’re burning daylight. Let’s rent a cabin,” you ordered, and you couldn’t help but giggle at the relief that flashed in Nova’s multi-colored eyes as she headed towards one of the wooden signs that showed the option of renting out an isolated cabin, her tail curled against her back. 

“This is gonna be a long weekend.”

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You four were able to rent a two bedroom cabin that was a few miles out and packed your bags into a waiting car that would drive you to the location. Leonard wasn’t the happiest to hear that they could only get two rooms, and commented that he would sleep on the couch, but Nova kept flinging comments that he didn’t want to cuddle with her. 

“We better hope dat’ our room is on the other side of the house,” Danny whispered to you as Nova would turn from her seat from the front to fight back with Leonard. 

“So we don’t hear them?”

Danny shot you a sinister smirk as the arm that was wrapped around you tightened itself. 

“More like they don’t hear us.”

The surprise that surfaced over your face only fueled the rat more as you squirmed in the car seat, the warm air that was blasted throughout the car was no longer nice, but overly steaming. 

The worker checked the cabin for food and cleaning supplies and left instructions if they needed anything. 

The wooden cabin was decorated with lemon and wine, candles and lanterns lit up the shack anda fire crackled in the fireplace. The front door brought you to the living room on the left and the kitchen on the right and the stairs were a few feet away right as you walked in. The only thing upstairs was one of the bedrooms and a door in the kitchen led to the other spare bedroom. After searching you all found that the bathroom was under the stairs. 

“I’m guessing the couple gets the upstairs room?” Nova asked as she took off her coat and placed it on the coat stand by the door. Danny sent the feline a cocky smile as his hand grazed over your lower hip. 

“You betcha.”

 Flustered words came out of your mouth as you moved your bags upstairs, almost tripping your way up to keep Danny’s wandering hands and him also trying to carry your bags.

The only thing upstairs was an open room and an extra bathroom, a large king bed laid up against the wall and furry rugs were enriched onto the wooden floor. Dressers and shelves were dotted around the room and all four of you started to unpack and get yourself settled. You undress yourself down from your layers until you only wear a black long-sleeve shirt with a maroon cardigan and elastic jeans to keep you warm. 

“Ya sure you don’t need help taking off the rest?”

“You know that Nova and Leonard are downstairs, right?”

“They gotta sleep at one point, darling.”

“And so do we!”

You dodged Danny’s hug attack and skipped down the stairs to the sound of light music humming throughout the cabin. A delicious smell had drifted into the air as you made your way to the kitchen and found Nova sitting on the kitchen counter while Leonard was behind the stove, his fingers working on dinner. You barely heard Leonard telling the feline to not get any fur into the food as Danny came up beside you, his body wrapped in grey long-sleeve and work pants. 

The tabby pulled her hair up into a ponytail and continued to read the book in her hands, the cream turtleneck she wore blazed against the fire’s shadow. 

You looked over Leonard’s shoulder and saw the rice, herbs, and sauces that were stirring in the pan while he separated an egg yolk from its whites. 

“So, can all members of the Mud Dogz cook?” You asked as you sat at the island of the kitchen. 

“Mickey is not good at cooking, never ask him to cook for you.”

“Oh come on, it can’t be that bad.”

“Nah, toots, never eat what that eel cooks up. Not after the meatloaf.”

“Oh don’t even remind me of that day! My stomach still doesn’t sit right after that.”

A confused laugh escaped your mouth as the ogre continued to make dinner, Nova handing him ingredients that he needed while flipping through her book. The melody that came from the bluetooth speaker from the living room swayed into the kitchen, and the cozy and friendly atmosphere made you loosened up as the conversation continued on without you, your body heading to the fridge in search of milk. 

The scent of dinner floated around as you dug through the cabinets, Nova moving over when you came around the area she sat. You finally found the hot chocolate packets as Leonard had just finished up the meal, the steam rising from the mixture of rice, vegetables, and potato chips made your stomach growl with hunger. 

You set the ingredients you were gathering aside as you four enjoyed the dinner, the cooked egg and spice made your cheeks spill with warmth. There were a few comments thrown here and there, such as going over the plan and what they were gonna do with the money. Your main concern was just getting the guy, Shia Albright, and he was on the top list of criminals for a reason; you just hoped that you and your friends could handle the polar bear yokai. 

Apparently your concern was noted because a hand under the table was placed over your thigh. 

You looked down and watched as Danny gave your leg a squeeze of reinsurance, his nails digging into the fabric. 

It had been several months dating Danny, and you were surprised that it was the most love and happiness you’ve had in a long while. Even with his open book personality, there was still a lot more to uncover from the rat yokai. It was pleasing to learn from Danny, to give him the chance he had been fighting for since the beginning. He was very open to you, with how he felt, what he wanted to do with you. And of course it made you squeal with exhilaration, but you both kept things slow. You were still a cop, and he was still a thief. 

After dinner, Nova and Danny did the dishes while you started to make the hot chocolate. Your hooves worked carefully to boil the milk and then get out the whipping cream, happy to find that they also bought the chocolate syrup you had placed on the shopping list.

“You are so washing that pot afterwards,” Nova commented, her paws drying themselves on a cloth after placing the dishes in the drying rack. 

“With how good it’ll taste, you’ll be licking the pan clean,” you joked back, pouring the creamy liquid into multiple cups before decorating them with the heavy cream and dark liquid. You found a platter to carry the drinks and you brought them over to the living room, Leonard was in one of the chairs, Danny on the couch, and Nova on the floor. Each of them gave you their own thank you as you let them grab a mug off the tray, leaving it on the floor as you got comfortable next to Danny, your legs curling up to you.

The soft guitar played in the background as snow drifted outside, Nova flipping her nails through her book, Leonard going over the plans notes in his hands, and Danny was holding you tight, one hand held the drink and the other held you. And within the guitar strings and the casual crackle of the fire, the dread that was growing on you was almost unnoticeable. Almost. 

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The summit air was brutal against your fur as you and your group headed up to the hidden factory, your boots making deep imprints in the white ground. 

The plan was simple, you had your laser and taser gun, and once you and Danny found the opportunity to get Shia, you would pounce while Leonard and Nova went after the gold they had been mining for in the factory, a lightness spell to carry it was placed on the bag the ogre carried. 

It almost seemed that it didn’t matter how many coverings you wore, the winter hands reached around into your body and gripped every nerve ending. 

Nova was the only one up ahead, her long legs carrying her easily through the snow as she led up to one of the broken areas of the factory; Leonard had scouted out in the blueprints, the metal and scrap of the building being torn away as if a large animal bit into it. The tabby hopped over one of the uprooted pieces of metal and plummeted into the darkness below and you followed, your feet landing harshly on the metal floor as the boys followed, the only light being seen was a glow stick, the orange glow outlining you and everyone else. 

The feline handed Leonard the light stick as he pulled out the layout of the workshop, his footprints leaving weak imprints of snow on the black floor. You tried to flick a flame between your hooves, but all you got was the snapping echo of the aftermath. Ever since the run-in with your dad a month ago, your powers seemed to bury themselves into your body, where you couldn’t even feel the swirling ball of warmth that usually danced in your veins. It almost made you feel useless in situations like this, when the group needed fire, it just seemed like you weren’t the match for it to light. 

But your feelings were gonna have to wait as you heard the slightest pitter patter against the metal and you pushed your friends up against the wall in a swift move. One of Shia’s guards walked slowly by, his body decked out in warm armor and a gun was strapped against his chest. The male yokai strolled down the hallway, the flicker of his flashlight slowly dying out and the staircase went silent. 

Once the cost was clear, Leonard turned to Danny and handed him a copy of the map.

 “Alright, once you have him, meet up at the F2 tower, he should be in his office,” Leonard ordered, even with being in an isolated area, his breath still collected in front of him.

Danny took the extra map and you eyed it at his side. Shia’s office was up several floors, and you both knew that there would be groups of henchmen on lookout. But, with stealth and silence, you and Danny could make it up there effortlessly. 

“Stay safe you two,” Nova purred quietly and her and the ogre dashed into the shadows, the only sign of them ever being there was the leftover snow from their bodies drifting off. 

You rolled your shoulders as your biceps tensed under the cotton shirt and Danny turned around and handed you the map. 

“Lead the way, toots.”

A grin leveled on your face as you took the map and started the walk up the first flight of stairs, your boots eagerly carrying you up, Danny right at your heels. You ran into your first guard at the third floor, the husky yokai let out a yelp of surprise before your fist came into contact with his snout, and then your knee into stomach, and with one single swipe you had your taser in his chest, a loud thud vibrated against your feet as he made contact with the ground. 

The next flight had you and Danny taking out multiple guys, both of you darting between crates and mining equipment and you took out yokai’s with your taser and Danny took his fair share out with a knocking out technique. 

After minutes of fighting and sneaking around, you both finally made it the top and final floor, the staircase leading straight to Shia’s office. 

The hallway that looped to the office was long and dark, the only sound the mirrored around was the old factory settling to its age. Dastardly was flanking you as your fingers grazed over the metal door, the bitterness of the cold traveled from the metal to the inside of your glove. The door was already unlocked from its handle and you pushed it open, the unholy light that dripped out of the room pooling over you like water. 

You pointed your gun through the doorway and you took in the large office. The room was cold and white fur littered the ground as you continued further in, Danny’s tail curled in dread as you got closer to the large office chair, the end of the laser gun pushing the leather seat to the side. 

No one was there, nothing was there except a half done cigar that sat in an ashtray. Your small brows furrowed in confusion as you placed the gun back in the holster on your thigh as your hands started to dart around his desk. 

“He’s...he’s schedule said that he would be here, if he’s not here, then where is he?” You asked out loud. The office had large windows and Danny peaked his head out to watch the soldiers quickly dart around, his arms crossing in question. 

You searched his drawers and file cabinets for any information, but even if you did find anything, you still wouldn’t have him in chains. 

And then the door slammed shut and the sound of a blockade over it blasted through the cracks. 

“Well dat ain’t good,” Danny grunted and the sound of hushed orders and then a slow, irritable ticking clicked throughout the room. Your ears snapped with the rhythm and then the sound of gunfire was heard in the distance. 

The clicking was getting faster, and with all the yokai’s running away…

“We’ve been had!”

Danny grabbed your hand and raced over to the furthest window on the left, his hand taking hold of your laser pistol and shot through the clear material until the glass shattered into falling pieces, like icicles hanging off the side of a house. There was a torn edge that led over to a large scissor lift and your boots scrapped over the broken glass, the grey outer layer held your stance steady as the beating of the hidden bombs continued. 

“Ladies first!” The rat exclaimed as you both looked at the jump ahead. You sent him a hot glare but got ready and pushed off, one of the blasts from the concealed bombs went off and the heat waved knocked you forward and you landed hard against the platform, the pop in your shoulder caused a grunt to escape your throat. 

You got up and looked up at Danny, whose figure was still against the window frame, the blast of the bomb sooted the side of his body. 

“Alright, your turn!” You screamed up at him and then let out a wail as the scissor lift groaned under you and the metal bars started to creak under the new weight.

The rat took a step back and with a graceful leap he landed right next to you, his hand instantly pulled the level on the side just as the rest of the bombs started to go off one by one. He blocked his body over you as flying debris exploded around you in a ray of black and orange. The impact of the blast knocked both of you over, sending Danny sliding next you and over the side. 

“Danny!”

The hanging platform whined as the weight was shifted over to one side and you scooted over to the ledge, your hand gripping Danny’s wrist before his claws slipped from the ledge. His mass was nothing you were used to, but you were used to him being on your back, not over the side of a dangerous overhang that could collapse any minute. The metal shafting and room was groaning with pain as the pillars and other rooms started to fall apart due to the explosion.

You pulled your other hand around him and stood up, your boosts digging into the black outline of the scissor lift as you brought him back up and before he could thank you the ramp gave way and dropped towards the first level. 

Curse words sprinted out of both of your mouths as you held onto the sides as the platform crashed into the floor, sending you both rolling to the opposite side as the destroyed roof rammed into the scissor lift once it hit the bottom. 

A fit of coughs lashed out of your mouth as the dust swirled around you, the light creaking of broken metal and fire ringing in your ears as your name was called out. 

“Shiki?! Shiki!”

You pushed yourself up and hissed at the small cuts and bruises that were scattered over your body, but you counted your blessings to find no major injuries. The rat’s voice continued to vibrate against the splintered mess.

“Danny?! Are you alright?!” You called to him and then took several steps back as more debris gave way, taking you further away from the wreck and Danny. His voice became muffled and you just had to tell yourself that he was fine, that you needed to meet him and the others at the tower. 

Hateful tears sprang in the corner of your eyes as you made your way through the factory, your legs dodging small piles of flames as you started to recognize the area you were in. Of course this plan had failed, this mob boss knew everything about everyone, and he wanted to make sure that the death of you would be a prime example to not go after him. That only gave you more rage, more strength to go after him as you crawled through a small hole created by shattered mining equipment. 

You reached for the door in front of you until two forms crashed through it, your body flattening itself against the wall as the two balls of fur ripped each other apart. A cat-like yowl came from one of the forms and you recognized the winter outfit that was torn from battle. 

“Nova?!”

The cat then swiped her claws across the wolf yokai’s face that made him let go of her. She pushed herself against the wall and used the hard surface to kick the yokai into one of the multiple holes that lead into the mines, his terrifying howls haunting the rocky surface. 

Nova turned to you with an astonished expression, a cut on her head bleeding a trail down her face.

“Are you okay? Where’s Leonard?”

“We got seperated, but he has the gold. What about Danny? And Shia?”

“This was a setup! They knew we were coming.”

Nova frowned as you both started to look for another way out, her tail whizzing back and forth like a strip of rope. 

“This wasn’t a setup, another revival gang showed up. Apparently that dumb polar bear thought that he would make his hideout into a trap so he can get rid of them.”

It felt wrong but joy pulsed through your body as you found a torn apart wall that led outside, the light snowfall was now a blizzarding storm. If Shia was fighting against a rival group, then he didn’t know that an officer was here, and you could still get the jump on him. 

The feline started to proceed over to the watchtower F2 but you grabbed her hand and tugged on it. 

“We can still get Shia! He’ll be so distracted that he won’t see us coming!”

Nova’s eyes flashed down to you and then over to the tower, her left ear flicking with concentration along with her tongue licking off the excess blood from the corner of her mouth. 

“Alright, if we can find him under ten minutes.”

You led in the opposite direction and towards one of the gaping holes of the mines, the echoes of gunfire and battle cries filled your ears like music.    

The snowstorm was slowly getting worse, the petals now turned into sharp splinters as your vision started to get covered with white. The crunch under your combat boots was barely heard and you could barely feel the metal pathway that was under you, your covered hands holding onto the side as a large gust of wind tried to push you over. The bellow’s of the yokai’s started to get louder and with one flick of your thin ear, you were spinning around to push Nova out of the way from a hidden attacker. 

“Look out!”

The female snow leopard leapt onto you, her claws shredding out of her gloves and into your coat and a low hiss growed out of her white throat. Your hooves wacked into her nose as you pressed yourself further into the railing and with the yokai’s extra burden of weight the rusted pipes gave way and folded over, taking you and the henchmen with you. 

“Shiki!” Nova called for you but it was barely heard as you and the snow leopard rolled through the snow and down the slope, away from the factory and the watchtower. Even with the smooth snow to impact your tumble, the frozen floor underneath still stabbed itself into you as you both came to a sliding halt. 

Your body was freezing now, the cold hands of winter grasping over your form and it took all your strength to raise yourself up. Far from the factory, you and the female snow leopard had landed over a frozen lake, ice holding your weight easily as the war around you continued. Not far from the lake were several military vans and henchmen shooting bullets and arrows at two hidden figures behind separate crates.  

“Danny! Leonard!”

The two yokai turned at the sound of their names and spotted you. Leonard had a few cuts scrapped over his body and his shirt was torn while Danny was covered in more soot than before and his hat was gone, but both seemed relatively fine. When the rat caught sight of you, a gust of comfort filled his hollow lungs to see that you were still breathing. His hand planted against the crate he was behind to get up but he instantly lunged back down when more ammo was shot at him. 

You made a step towards him but a blur of chalk pounced for you out from nothingness, her claws tearing up the ice surface like nails against a chalkboard. You dodged a swipe from her and then a kick with your hands, your hands going for the laser pistol from your thigh but the flexible feline broke it out of your grip, the weapon skating over the frozen water.

Jeez! Is every cat yokai like this? 

She drove you further into the middle of the lake, your boots having trouble keeping friction over the slippery exterior while the snow leopard didn’t wear any form of shoe except for her pants connecting with the middle of her paws, but it kept her upright as she continued to chase you. 

Nova, if you can hear me right now, know that you and I are having a fighting session once this all over! 

The woman jumped for you and you swiftly moved to the side, and with one kick of your foot it sent the leopard back to the bank of the lake, her face going straight into a pile of snow near the battle Danny and Leonard were in. You couldn’t help but smirk at the small victory, but a pair of azure eyes poked from the heap of white, fury marking the snow leopard’s face as she looked around. 

Near her was a minecart filled of pickaxes and safety hats and her paws swaddled one of the weapons, a wicked smile on her face as she neared the lake once again and with one hit she stabbed the axe into the frozen glass and millions of broken cracks surfaced and the watery hell took you down. 

“SHIKI!” 

Danny was on his feet as you disappeared into dark liquid, the clumps of ice drifted around the spot you had fallen into. Leonard was by his side now and as the rat started to race towards the lake, the ogre tackled him and rolled them both behind a tree as the polar bear’s henchmen started to make their way closer. 

“Are you crazy?! You can’t survive that temperature! You’ll also die before you get there!”

“Get off of me you bloody yuck! She will drown!”

Before Danny was going to elbow his friend right in the jaw, a pair of legs jogged right past them and they glanced up to see Nova racing towards the half-ruined lake, her arms quickly working off her two layers of coats and her cream turtleneck until her grey thermal showed. She then hopped over the snow leopard yokai and took the pickaxe from her grey paws, her momentum slamming the ax into the shattered ice until a large enough hole was created and the Mountain Fishing cat jumped in without another thought. 

“What is wrong with these girls?!” Leonard exclaimed as he let Danny go and knocked out a guy who came too close, his fingers taking control of the rifle the henchmen had in his talons. 

Danny could hardly hear the leader as he searched over the lake, trying to find your figure drifting in the cold liquid. 

He had never felt fear like this, as if he was the one drowning instead of you. He ignored the ongoing dogfight around him as every second that ticked by felt like lifetimes. With how shattered the pool of water was, the rat yokai saw how strong and recentless the current was underneath, the tide pushing up against anything it could get its grasp on. Including you. 

And then him and Leonard saw it. It was barely visible but a white paw came crashing out of the ice on the other side of the lake, the enlarged nails broke into the ice like an anchor and created long marks as the creature heaved itself out. 

Danny felt his friend next to him lose his breath as Nova broke the surface, water droplets falling down her hair and fur as she pulled herself out of the water, and in her arms was a waterlogged you, steam rolling off both of you as your friend dragged you out. 

 The men didn’t have to have sonic hearing to hear the feline’s grunts as she dragged you over to the shore, Nova’s paws working on your chest as she performed CPR. 

Danny’s body hurdled into action as he stole the gun out of Leonard’s hands and shot at the criminals crowding them, his dead-eye like aim taking out over four before he started to haul ass over to you and Nova, not even giving Leonard a heads up as the black-haired stared dumbfounded at the rat before joining the retreat. 

You couldn’t hear anything, you couldn’t taste or see anything, all you felt was the cold. It violated you and suffocated you as you felt the water slush around in your lungs. And then the pressure, something or someone was placing pressure on your filled lungs to the point your chest couldn’t take it anymore and you perked up, your head turning over to vomit up the lake water you had swallowed. 

You could barely open your eyes as you tried to take in your surroundings, but it was so cold, why was it so cold?

“Shiki! Shiki are you alright?!”

A bubbly groan came out of your waterlogged throat and you thought to yourself that you would never drink water again and that you hated winter. Your head was exposed to the elements and you realize that your beanie was gone. 

Your dark eyes were able to open to peer up, the flakes of snow coating your eyelashes. Nova was soaked leaning over you, her fur drooped with the soggy water and her whiskers started to become white. But another figure was coming into your vision and as you tried to warn your friend, all that came out was a backbreaking shiver. 

The cat then let out a cry as she was grabbed and tossed to the only unbroken part of the lake and all you could do was watch in horror as the snow leopard started to attack your friend, nothing protecting Nova except her thin thermal shirt and her own wits. 

Nov...Nova,” you shivered out and your hand reached up as the evil leopard took a hold of Nova’s neck and slammed her into the ice, the fragile solid breaking under her. Hands were wrapped around you now and your freezing hand went for your taser but the familiar and tender scent of Danny wafted your senses. 

“Dann...Danny?”

“I’m here, sweetheart, I’m here.”

“No..Nova needs..”

“Leonard has it handled, we need to get ya outta here.”

The yokai lifted you up easily, the crisp drops of water that fell from your clothes barely made it to the ground as they froze. Even with your head making contact with the rat’s soft fur, it was almost nothing against your frozen skin and stiff fur. 

As your boyfriend carried you deeper into the woods, you turned your head and spotted Leonard and Nova not far behind, the bitter color of crimson dripped from Nova’s claws and Leonard’s hands. 

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You all four made it back to the cabin in one piece and Nova was quick on getting her boots off and looking over at you. 

“Danny, I need you to go and take off her clothes.”

“I’m sorry? What?”

“Because if she sits in those wet clothes she’ll get hypothermia! And then she can die! So take her upstairs and get her undressed and in a new pair of clothes!”

You could tell Nova was panicking, when her voice rose over and past a joking manner you knew she was nervous and you could hear her dive into the kitchen and started to search. You wanted to argue that you were fine, but you found no power behind your muscles and all you could do was give a little cry of pain as your body was pounded with the cold. 

When Danny made it up to your room he sat you on the bathroom floor and started to derope you. His fingers scrambled over the black coat, and then the green overcoat, the maroon cardigan and then your black sweater was all off. You were cold to the touch and your brown fur was dyed to a darker oak. Even with the cold layers off of you your body reacted violently against it and your arms wrapped around yourself. Danny felt his heart shatter like the lake that consumed you and placed a small kiss on the top of your head, as if he was afraid you would break with just one touch. 

You had to help him take off the two layers of pants you wore until you laid almost nude in front of him and the harsh flush of warmth crossed your face, but it just made you feel a lot more sicker. The rat saw the temperature in your face change and he got up and to your dresser, not one flash of emotion came across his face as he headed a new outfit for you. 

“You got this, call if ya need me,” he whispered silently to you and then left the bathroom and leaned against the wall next to you. 

You couldn’t but try to roll your eyes as you tried to ease your bra off. Even in a life or death situation he was still going to be a gentleman towards you. It was hard though, the cold undergarment clinged into you like glue and it took you several minutes to even get both of them off. You threw the wet clothes aside and placed the ones Danny had handed you and the cotton grey long-sleeve and black leggings under sweatpants were on after drying yourself off. 

You could still feel the sickness trying to settle on you and a sneeze blew out of your face. 

“Gesundheit.”

“You..you speak german?”

“And french, if you’re catching my drift.”

A laugh curled out of your throat but it came out in a fit of coughs. From the restroom you heard Nova call for Danny and his light footsteps drifted away from the room and down the stairs. 

Nova and Leonard were in new clothes and the only evidence of Nova falling into the lake was the dampness in her fur and the silent shiver that drove through her body every few minutes. 

“Okay, keep her warm and under blankets. No placing her in hot water either.”

“Rag-a-muffin, why are ya telling me this?”

“Leonard is coming with me to find elderberries, it will help make a beverage that will make her feel better and push away any case of fever. But you need to bring her temperature up.”

“And how am I supposed to do dat’?”

“You’re her boyfriend, figure it out.” The feline joked and slammed the front door. 

Danny, for the first time in his life, felt an awkward hotness in his stomach as he headed up the stairs to find you curled up in the bed, the vicious shakes that erupted under the sheets made your boyfriend worry, and then Nova’s words came in mind. 

The snowfall had slowed down to a gentle delay and the cabin was sprinkled with the light sugar. Danny started the fireplace that was settled in your room, his calloused hands throwing the pieces of firewood into the hungry flame.

His frame floated over to your trembling form and joined you under the blankets, his hands wrapping around you and you instantly curled into his chest, your hooves digging into his back as you tried to absorb every ounce of warmth he had to offer. A rough chuckle vibrated against your head and you buried yourself into his exposed chest fur. Danny placed a soft kiss on your head, and then your cheeks, and then the tip of your snout, and he waved his hand under your chin to look up at him and he kissed you. 

The contact from his lips sent a jolt of fire into your throat and you took in the kiss with every pint of strength you had left. But when his body jostled to where he was hovering over you, one hand holding himself up next to your head and the other holding your head up to meet his, you realized the eagerness behind each kiss and release. 

His body was over you now, his legs tangled with yours as you sunk further into the mattress, his fingers playing with the tufts of fur behind your head as you felt your heart rate pick up rapid speed.  Your hooves held onto his back as he continued to tease you with each feverish kiss, with each touch over your curves and muscle. And as he peppered kisses up your jawline and near your ear, a growl full of R’s rolled into your eardrum.

You instantly had to close your legs as your very core was rocked and you no longer felt cold as heat traced itself throughout your body. He had never growled to you before, especially rolling his R’s like that. This man always had something under his sleeve, but at this moment, you couldn’t think straight, as if every peck of his mouth and the hands that advanced over you made you braindead. The keenness in his movements as his snout started to make its way down your neck created a moan out of your mouth, your voice raspy and needy. 

Another hust growl went against your throat and you shivered, and your heart bounced in your ribcage when you realized that it wasn’t from the cold, and that this male was going to heat you up like a oven. His hands were slowly riding up your shirt, his nails tenderly digging into your fur and his thumb doing slow and taunting circles under your chest. 

He was teasing you and you squirmed under his hold, but a feather-like moan popped out of your mouth as his teeth grazed your throat and shoulder.

“Danny,” you breathed out and you felt the mammal over you tense up and he stopped, a savage-like look in his eyes as he took in the shameless sight of you. The redness was peaking out of your fur and your chest heaved with pressure and he took a large notice with how your legs were crossed. 

“Say it, doll.”

You knew what he wanted you to say, you knew exactly what he wanted you to do. 

“Please.”

He was on you like a cat on a mouse, his large build practically swallowing you whole as he took full control. The rat was a sucker for you, almost like a kid in a candy store, wanting to have every single bite. He effortlessly started to mark you as his, the small little squeals that started to rise into the house made his blood pump and you were pushing up against him now, chestnut fur flushed against oak fur as you both tried to get closer to each other. His hands were fully under your shirt now and your neck was covered in small little black spots, all perfectly lined up as the rim of his mouth went for the hollow of your throat and your spine bending to give him full access to your body. 

You honestly didn’t care if Leonard and Nova came back early, the heat that rushed through you like water through a pipe was almost too much to bear and you felt himself bump up against you and a heartful gasp came out. 

Oh gosh he was too much for you, the senses he spiked within your body was a remedy you never thought you needed. 

His warm hands felt good against your chest and you groaned into his mouth, his own vocals sending a growl in return. You were sweating now as you escaped to get a breath of air and you could feel the hot pants from Danny as he left more love marks on you, much lower than your neck. You had to bite your lip to keep yourself quiet and your tail wiggled with ecstasy as his hands spread your legs apart so he could get closer, his large mitts now explored your back and your rump. 

You both were burning under the blanket and the fire felt like nothing against your heated fur, you felt like you could be rubbing up against the sun for all you know. 

Danny had you pressed against the headboard now, and every vibration from your thighs or your arms when he touched you made him want you more, he desired you more. The hunger and ache he had for you was beyond unbearable and having you to himself without work or anyone getting in the way was paradise. 

The bruises under your skin ached but Danny’s hands were gentle over the purple areas and he was gentle with you and... The emotion that roared in your heart was stabbing you, pinching at your lungs as you continued to kiss Danny, his tongue sneaking its way into your mouth and you gladly accepted it. And between the kisses and the cries of pleasure that was spilling out both your mouths, you let out the holy words that he had wanted to hear from you since the day you started dating.

“I love you, Dan.”

The male rat stopped in his tracks and looked down at you, surprise spinning in his eyes as he looked down at you and you swore you saw his eyes flash with heartache. You were so out his league, he would always believe that you were better off without him. You wouldn’t have to worry about your job, you wouldn’t have to stress over the idea of being caught with him, but you stayed with him, you cared for him, and now you loved him.

His hand caressed your cheek and you were practically putty in his hands as he said against your mouth. 

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

And he told you that over and over as he undressed you once again.

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The next morning was hard to wake up too. You woke up the burning glint of the sun over the snow and you went to roll over but you were held as if prisoner. Strong arms were around you and soft snoring was brushed up against your back. Flashes of last night danced through your head and the heat between your legs started to flicker again. You unraveled yourself from his hold and placed his forgotten long-sleeve shirt over yourself and your sweatpants and headed downstairs. 

It was quiet in the lodge and there was no sign of Leonard on the couch, you walked over to Nova’s door and the shocked gasp couldn’t stop itself as you saw the ogre curled up with the feline, her body rolled up in a ball next to his sleeping figure. 

You could only imagine the awkwardness once one of them woke up and you tiptoed back to the kitchen to find a wine-colored drink on the counter with a note. 

“Dear Shiki, drink this once you wake up, but by how the cabin was shaking and how you were hollering like you were dying, I’m guessing you might not need this ;). Love, Nova”

Humiliation rolled in your stomach as you took a few sips of the drink, your fist pounding against your chest once you realized that it was an alcoholic beverage. You would give anything to just have a cup of coffee. 

You headed back upstairs and for a split second, you remembered why you were truly here. Shia had gotten away, and even though it was a successful heist, it was a failure of a bounty hunt. You felt shame hit you as you failed your mission to get the polar bear. But once you made it up the stairs and saw Danny laying in the spot you had been sleeping in and his hand hanging off the side of the bed as if going after you, waiting for you. 

It might’ve been a failure of a job, but you won something today, you won him. 

And as you opened up the blankets and let his arms once again entrap you, you felt like the only thing you failed at was not telling him sooner.

[fictionadventurer]

The Dust That Falls From Passing Stars: Part 1/3

Snow clouds covered the midnight sky, but it seemed the stars were all down here tonight. Stars poured light from street lamps onto snow-covered cobblestones.The glowing heavenly stones glimmered from the coats and necklaces of the wealthy theatre patrons who bundled into plush carriages.  A star even glowed at Lorenz’s throat—a bright green star in a cloak pin that would grant him entry to the House Diriks ball. Once, such a pin would have been an impossible dream, but in his year of fame, wearing it had become almost routine.

In a crowd as grand as this, there was no chance of finding a cab in the after-show rush. Better to walk the eight blocks than stand like a beggar in the snow.

A voice from the street called, “Fortuin!”

Snow crunched beneath Lorenz’s boots as he stopped in white glow of a star lamp. He lifted his top hat and saw a hatless man in a blue silk suit leaning out of a carriage caught in the crush of traffic.

Lorenz acknowledged him with a wide-armed wave. “Evening, Coeman.”

The star jeweler’s son’s eyes had an alcohol glaze. “Look at you!” he crowed. “All dressed up for a party!”

Lorenz and Coeman were both shopkeeper’s sons, but that was like saying a hovel and a palace were both houses. Lorenz came from a long line of grocers, while wealth fell from the heavens onto Coeman’s family lands. Coeman was ever amused by those who worked for their living.

Coeman cried, “Did the lady unchain you from the piano?”

Lorenz gave a thin smile. “Even genius needs refreshment.”

Coeman laughed. “Only you’d call a walk in a snowstorm refreshing.”

The light dusting of flakes could scarcely be called a shower, much less a storm, though it probably seemed like one compared to the plush comfort of a starfall family’s carriage.

Lorenz shrugged, then smiled, pretending indifference. “I’ll get there faster than you.”

He strode away, leaving Coeman and his carriage stuck in the crush of traffic.

From the street, voices shouted, horses wickered, wheels clattered upon cobblestones, and Lorenz wove among the hoop skirts and overcoats of his fellow sidewalk pedestrians. As Lorenz turned a corner, his cloak billowed, and a hand caught upon the hem and held him fast.

He stopped, then looked down into the dirt-covered face of a ragged young girl, a small, shapeless form somewhere between eight and eighteen, who sat in the gutter holding a small jar of glittering dirt.

She lifted it toward Lorenz’s hand. “Stardust, sir? Two pennies a pinch.”

Even if he had a cigarette to light or needed his hands warmed, the girl’s stardust wouldn’t have done anything—it was ten times more dirt than dust. Incompetent even for a dustgirl.

He yanked his cloak out of her hand, but pity soon overcame his annoyance, and he dropped a silver krenin in the girl’s lap.

Her eyes shone as if he’d tossed her the star at his throat. “God bless you, sir.”

Lorenz tipped his hat and strode away. A bit of blessing and a lot of hard work had brought him to his current heights. He loved that success gave him the means to become one of those towering figures of generosity that so lifted up the downtrodden.

That lofty feeling carried him all the way to the entrance of House Diriks. The house’s towering gray façade dominated the street, a castle within the city limits, built to with all the embellishments of current architectural fashion. Crystalline windows gushed starlight into the cold and dark of the city, illuminating the arriving guests. The carriages were like wheeled palaces, and the people coming out of them wore silks and velvets and furs that glistened in the glow of the stars they wore on their necks and ears and hands.

In that colored crowd, there was one spot of brown. A ragged girl, older than the one Lorenz had seen near the theater, held a small clay jar that faintly glimmered with stardust. Yet she didn’t offer the ladies stardust to adorn their faces and necks, didn’t approach the gentlemen with an offer to light a cigar. Instead, she scurried away, her eyes on some distant destination.

Very strange. What dustgirl would waste such an opportunity? These people would carry her week’s salary as pocket change, and would likely throw a good portion of it at her feet just to keep her from coming too near. She hadn’t been chased away, and she hadn’t so much as looked at the crowd. Leaving could only mean she had better plans in mind, and Lorenz, his curiosity piqued, decided to discover them.

He trailed her along the house’s western wing, sticking to the shadows between the glowing windows. Wide balconies extended from all the rooms on the upper floor, all filled with laughing, chattering party-goers who glowed in the light of the stars they wore. Aestus stars glimmered like flames to warm their lightly gloved hands. A hundred colors of decorative stars adorned necklaces, tiaras, earrings, cuff links, and were even sewn directly into ball gowns and suit coats. A thousand captured constellations that made it look as though their wearers had fallen from the heavens.  

The winter winds blew scraps of stardust from their finery. It whirled in the wind, blew over the balcony, and scattered on the sidewalk below. This shower—not the spectacle above—drew the dustgirl’s eyes, and she knelt on the snow-slicked stone beneath it, scraping with cold-chapped hands on the ground as she raced to gather as much stardust as possible into her battered clay jar.

Lorenz found himself entranced by the tableau—the bright and laughing elite above and the earthy desperation below. There was cruelty here, but also beauty, something that pierced deep into the true nature of things in a way that he rarely considered. He could make a lyric out of this—not one of his light, theatrical pieces, but a real and honest piece of poetry. The complacent rich who wore the heavens at their hearts without a thought, and a girl who thought herself fortunate to gather up the crumbs. A downtrodden soul who scratched in the dirt, yet came up covered in the dust of the stars.

When the ground had been cleared of its heavenly bounty, the girl turned her attention to the still-falling flakes. Could she capture it all, Lorenz wondered. How would she separate the stardust from the falling snow?

As if in answer, she unwound her ragged cloak from her shoulders and spread it like a net between her arms. Half the flakes faded within moments of landing on the fabric. Lorenz’s heart flared in admiration as he caught the trick of it. Her body-warmed cloak melted the snowflakes, leaving her with a haul of pure stardust cleaner than anything that could be gathered by any other dustgirl in the city.

He felt a strange connection to this girl, who took such pride in doing such a humble job so well. He’d never looked at a dustgirl with anything other than pity, or perhaps relief that his family had never fallen so low. But here was courage, enterprise, intelligence, and Lorenz found it more inspiring than anything he’d seen from tonight’s crowd of starfall elites.

As the girl bobbed and weaved beneath the stardust shower, a deep-voiced shout shattered the peace.

“You! Girl!” A thick-limbed guard in the blue and silver of the House Diriks staff raced toward her, boots clattering. “Get gone, you filthy scavenger!”

The tableau shattered. The girl crushed her cloak to her chest and tried to run, face white with panic. As she pivoted, her foot slipped on a patch of ice and she landed on the ground in a tangle of limbs.  

“Get gone!” the guard shouted again. “We don’t need rat-thieves crawling ‘round!”

The girl scrambled into a sitting position, but still failed to find her feet. The guard removed a thick cudgel from beneath his cloak and drew his arm back for a blow.

Before Lorenz could think, he stepped out of the shadows, grabbed the girl’s shoulders, and pulled her out of the path of the descending club. She slid easily on the ice, and the guard stumbled as his cudgel met empty air. As the guard flailed to keep his balance, his weapon caught Lorenz on the shoulder.

Lorenz barely felt it through his anger. He unbent himself and demanded, “What do you think you’re doing?”

The guard found his feet, but his tongue faltered, stunned as he stared at this unexpected gentleman. “My…apologies, sir. I didn’t see…”

“Is this how you treat innocent women? Beatings and blows?”

The guard snapped, “She’s a thieving scavenger, sir.”

At his feet, the shivering girl looked at the ground, ashamed in a way she hadn’t been while gathering the stardust, as if the guard’s words had the power to turn her into the very thing he claimed she was.

It reminded Lorenz of some of the things that had been said about him in his early days in high society. It softened his heart and hardened his resolve. He’d do what he could to make the guard look at this girl with the respect she deserved. With all the indignation he felt, he shouted, “A thief, sir? She is my guest!”

Lorenz squared his shoulders, straightened some folds in his cloak, and loosed the cloakpin at his throat to show it to the guard. The silver setting bore the crossed swords and crescent moon of the House Diriks crest, and the center of it held a polished fragment of a glowing green star. “I am Lorenz Karel Fortuin, and my patron is Lady Diriks herself.”

The guard gazed at the pin, his face growing white. “That’s real.”

“It is.”

“And this girl is your guest?”

Thankfully, the night’s shadows hid details. Lorenz draped his now-unfastened cloak over the girl before the guard could get a better look at her clothes.

Lorenz murmured to the girl in soothing tones. “I told you to dress warmer, Anya.” Anya was a good name—vague enough to apply to peasant or princess.

As the shock passed, the guard grew more truculent. “Why was she gathering stardust?”

Lorenz asked, “What girl could resist a glittering starshower? It’s not illegal—fair falling stardust is public property.”

The guard didn’t seem quite convinced, so Lorenz turned his attention to the girl. He examined her face, crusted with sweat and snowflakes, cheeks chapped red from the cold. Her mouth was hanging open in surprise, and her brown eyes were wide with shock and hope. “Has he hurt you?” Lorenz asked.

“No,” she said.

“I’m glad of it,” he said gently. Then he turned back to the guard and snapped, “You ought to be glad of it, too. Harming a guest of House Diriks? Your lady would not be pleased.”

The guard’s pale, slack face suggested that he understood all too well what he’d escaped.

Lorenz helped the girl to her feet. She was taller than he’d realized, but impossibly thin. Swathed in his cloak, she looked breakable as glass.

“Stand tall,” he whispered, and when she stood more like a frightened lady than a battered street urchin, he escorted her past the baffled guard.

The guard watched them go with narrowed eyes, and Lorenz cast one cautious glance back toward the balcony. Most of the crowd stood heedless of the scene below, but a few sharp eyes followed Lorenz and his guest. Fortunately, he had plenty of experience in crafting scenes for balcony crowds.

Lorenz led the girl toward the house’s main doors and urged her toward the white silver-veined marble of the main staircase. “Let’s get you inside.”

She gave him a sharp, shrewd glance, more like her old self with the guard out of reach. “What are you doing, sir?”

Her words held a hundred other questions. Who are you? Why are you helping me? What are your intentions? He couldn’t hope to answer them with the eyes of House Diriks upon them.

“I’m helping you,” he whispered. He gestured in the guard’s direction with his eyes. “Until he’s out of the way.”

She took a step away from his side, and for a moment, Lorenz thought she’d bolt with his best cloak. But she merely examined him, top to toe, and seemed to come to some internal decision. “Thank you, sir,” she said, and started up the stairs.

The great blue doors opened before her, granting them entrance into the warmth and light of the House Diriks foyer. Lorenz bustled his guest past the outstretched hands of the attendants and toward a fireplace set between the curving staircases. She stared wide-eyed at everything they passed.

Lorenz smiled at her. “What do you think?”

“So bright,” the girl breathed.

Hardly fine poetry, but not an uncommon reaction upon entering the Dirik’s family’s city home. The Diriks House starfall was the prime landing place for solara stars—the largest and brightest that fell to Earth, with the purest, whitest light. Their decorations emphasized it on this dark midwinter night, with the crowning glory of a silver-limbed chandelier, holding half a thousand stars. Their light glinted off the silver veins in the marble flooring and the gilding in the deep blue wallpaper, sparkled on the bits of snow that swirled through the doors and brightened the eyes of the dustgirl guest who stared in wonder at it all.

He brought her to a wooden chair near the fireplace, hidden behind a marble pillar holding a bust of a House Diriks founder.

Here in the light, he could finally get a good look at her. She was thin and slight, but she was older than he’d realized—twenty at least, with softness to her face but a shrewdness in her eyes that hinted at experiences that had aged her further. Her hair was that indeterminate color between yellow and brown, wrapped in a ragged crown around her head. Her nose was dripping from the cold—he offered her a handkerchief before she wiped it on his cloak—and her eyes were as bright and green as the star in his House Diriks cloak pin.

“Are you well?” Lorenz asked her. “You took a nasty tumble.”

“He didn’t hurt me,” she said, speaking for the first time in more than a whisper. Her accent flattened and elongated her vowels—as stereotypical a specimen of the city’s lower classes as he’d ever heard. Lorenz had worked long and hard to train similar—though never so strong—tics out of his own voice.

“Did you keep the dust?” he asked.

Her dark eyes flashed. “It’s mine by right. I didn’t steal it. It fell fair, right to the ground.”

He dampened a smile. “I don’t plan to take it from you. The law’s on your side, so long as you didn’t knock anyone down to shake it loose.”

“I didn’t,” she insisted.

“There you go.” He couldn’t keep a lilt of amusement from his tone.

The girl caught it and scowled. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I told you. To get you away from the guard.”

“What’s that matter to a gentleman like you?”

He understood her suspicions. Many among the upper classes had little patience with their inferiors. “I guess I’m not as much of a gentleman as I appear.”

She went white, and seemed to try to fuse herself to the back of her chair.

“No!” Lorenz gasped, realizing the double meaning too late. He felt ill at the thought. “That was not an innuendo. I have no ungentlemanly intent toward you.”

The terror in the girl’s eyes changed to something livelier and more glittering. Almost as though she was laughing at him. “Don’t fret, sir. I believe you.”

Gruff with embarrassment, he said, “I only meant that I wasn’t born to this world.” Wasn’t much above a dustgirl myself when I started out.”

That amusement changed to interest. “That so, sir?”

He puffed up a little. “Rose through my own merit.”

“And you got a starfall lady’s crest. Is she sweet on you?”

Lorenz tried and failed to imagine Lady Diriks feeling tender emotions toward anyone, and felt ill at the thought of her pursuing someone so far her junior. “Lady Diriks is my patroness. I’m composer and lyricist at one of her theaters. I write showtunes, operettas.”

“They’ll pay you money for anything, these starfall swells.”

Pride wounded, Lorenz squared his shoulders. “They’re excellent songs. I’ll bet even you’ve hummed a tune or two by Lorenz Fortuin.”  

Her dark eyes stared into the distance before brightening with recognition. “That song about the lady!”

Lorenz wanted to point out this didn’t much narrow down the canon of music, but then she softly sang the first bars of a tune that was clearly “Nightingale’s Lament.” A surprisingly smooth alto.

“One of my better ones,” Lorenz said.

She smiled. “It’s pretty. I sing it to the little ones sometimes.”

“You have children?” he asked in surprise. She was old enough for it, he supposed, but not by much.

“Sisters,” she explained. “Three of ‘em. Oma watches them when I’m working.”

Supporting three young girls—and possibly, a grandmother—on pinches of stardust. It was poverty he couldn’t imagine.

He couldn’t think of anything to say in response. “I suppose,” he said, brushing the toe of one foot on the marble floor, “that you’ll need to be getting back to them.”

“Eventually,” she said, settling into her chair with a sigh. “But it’s cold out there and this fire’s so warm.” She closed her eyes, languid and content.

Her few minutes in the warmth had transformed her. The hard-edged desperation of the street had softened, and her pale, cold-chapped face had taken on a warmer glow. By now, the guard would be long gone, the balcony crowd distracted by their own amusements, but he couldn’t imagine forcing her back into those freezing streets so soon.

The girl looked at the fire, the star-filled chandelier, the skirts and furs and star necklace of a passing duchess.  “I’ll have one hell of a story to tell them at dawn.” They won’t believe the things I’ve seen.”

The words sparked a wild idea, more brilliant than the stars around them. Following the impulse, he asked,  “Would you like to see more?”

She looked at him warily. “How do you mean?”

“I really am allowed to bring a guest to these events.”

Her expression became hard and skeptical. “You want me to stay?”

“Why not?” Lorenz asked. His mind supplied a dozen answers, but his showman’s side and his romantic side teamed up against his more practical inner voice. Even a dustgirl had a right to see a glorious spectacle once in her life, and what could compare to a midwinter House Diriks ball?

The girl tugged Lorenz’s cloak around her snow-stained clothes. “For one thing, I ain’t dressed for it.”

Caught up in the excitement, his imagination spun glorious possibilities and leaped over obstacles. “House Diriks provides fully-staffed powder rooms for these parties. The maids can clean you up. Your dress will be a charmingly rustic costume.”

She looked up those stairs with longing. “Do you think so?”

A significant part of Lorenz didn’t, but it was tackled and sat upon by his more optimistic side.

“Just picture it,” Lorenz said. “The finest music, the most illustrious people. Food from the finest chefs on the continent. There are people in the city’s oldest families who can’t enter a House Diriks ball, but you could be an invited guest.”

He was drunk on the drama of it. It was madness, but such glorious madness. A melodrama fit for his finest operettas. The downtrodden dustgirl, pulled from the gutter to experience one night of luxurious enchantment. He would be her generous benefactor, her benevolent guide to this elegant world.

Her eyes sparkled in the starlight. His enthusiasm was infecting her. “You really mean it, sir?”

“I do.”

She grinned. “I’ll stay.”

He clapped his hands together in satisfaction. “Excellent! You won’t regret it.” He put his hand behind her back and began to lead her away from the seat behind the pillar. “I’ll be Lorenz to you, if you’re to be my guest. You’ll need to be Anya for the night. Those on the balcony may have overheard us.”

“That suits me,” Anya said.

He led her away from the fireplace and toward a yellow-papered door in a small alcove. “Very well, Anya. Let’s get you ready for the ball.”

[brideofcthulhu10]

Behold another Lost Boys holiday special! It was between this and Valentine’s day, but honestly I love writing Christmas specials, its such a cozy time despite the high suicide rates, but lets not get into that. A BIG SHOUT OUT TO @imlostinsantacarla FOR HELPING ME EDIT MY FINAL DRAFT!

Fun Fact! My husband, David (yes, that is actually his name) actually does have the bah humbug hat I mention in the head canons. He’s a heavy metal goth so when I found it at the store I had to get it for him. And you just know if our David found that, he wouldn’t be able to resist it!

Christmas with the Boys

Alright, so the whole touchy, feely and mushy feelings that surround even the topic of Christmas time is not something any of the boys will ever openly admit to enjoying. After all, they see themselves as these bad ass brutal killers who thrive off of death instead of holding hands and caroling with the goodie goodies of this coastal town. 

Yet, it's challenging for them not to get sucked into the glitz and glam of the holiday season. Everything is a big deal in Santa Carla. Dia De Los Muertos, Halloween, Thanksgiving- everything! But especially Christmas.

Christmas in Santa Carla dwarfs the frenzy craze of Halloween. The entirety of the boardwalk is decked out with red and green lights that are tightly wound around palm trees, red bulbous bows are wrapped tightly around street lamps, the reds and whites of velvety fabric swirl down the posts, creating the effect of candy canes. All the store windows are painted to appear frosted, or covered with painted snowmen whilst several rooftops are covered with white felt in which mimics the texture and sight of snow. Even the boats in the harbour are all extravagantly decorated in a sea of lights that parade around brightly at night in every color imaginable.

Between the dates of the 30th of November all the way to the 24th of December the city of Santa Carla hosts a plethora of wondrous events in it's annual Holiday Festival. Large green, white and red kiosks are erected, selling a wide range of baubles and treats, from delectable chocolate coated rice krispy Santa Clauses, elf candy apples caked in a plethora of dark chocolate and peppermint, to a variety of Holiday hats, masks and even hand made costumes by the many local artists. Even hand carved candles in wondrous scents of pine, mint, or spice.

Currently, David possesses a black fur Santa hat which he acquired on a night out that boasts the words "Bah Humbug" proudly sewn over the front. It's the only holiday attire he'll even humor. Last time Marko attempted to place reindeer antlers on his head, David had set them on fire roasting atop a pan of chestnuts. Now it's not to say that he's a grinch persay. Rather, the complex and intense emotions that come hand in hand with Christmas can leave him perpetually indifferent at best, disdainful at worst. The whole occasion leaves him displeased. After all, he was an orphan who had been almost eagerly abandoned by his hooker mother left to fend for himself from the beginning, and  of course never met his father. Even she could not identify which of her many clients may have been responsible. Most of his mortal life he had lived as a street rat, barely making ends meet by picking the pockets of tourists and Santa Carla citizens oblivious to the true dangers of the lower side of town. The rich and uppity classes who often snubbed their entitled noses his way would never suspect as he lurks between alleyways, leaving them cornered at knife point. It was scarce that he ever did see a kind face in the sea of those who had little interest for anyone that was not themselves. Back then it was rather uncommon for anyone to step outside their own little lives, which led to most interactions, outside of the other boys, having been met with great hostility, thus he had learned to be just as equally hostile in turn. Even the mere thought of anyone suddenly dawning a false kindness due to a certain time of year simply agitated David. It rattled him to the very core in a way very few other things did. Why bother with the lies? Couldn't people just face the very basic fact that they weren't nearly as charitable as they often deemed themselves to be? I mean, the young man had seen firsthand a family having previously snubbed a dirty homeless man with appalled disdain at the sight of his muddied clothes and dirt stained skin, only to then begin volunteering at a soup kitchen to purge whatever guilt they carried on their conscience once the holiday season began. The whole ordeal was pitiful! Nevertheless, - more so for Paul and Marko's sakes than his own -, he did humor these traditions amongst the holiday's festivities. Ruining a good time just wasn't his style. Unless they started fucking singing.

Most traditions David could tolerate, some he even enjoyed slightly; although he would never be caught dead admitting something as embarrassing as that! However, he just couldn't stand Christmas carols! They were the bain to his immortal existence. The repetitive nature of these overly cheery jingles left him covering his ears lest they nest in his brain leaving him humming the same damn melody for weeks. This was the case because the dynamic duo of dumbasses were well aware of his hatred for Rudolph the Red Nosed fuckin' roadkill! Stupid red nosed abomination. 

“OOOOOOH-,” Paul begins with cheerful mischief.

“Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare.” David seethes through tightly clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut in indignance. 

Paul hesitates. He looks at Marko. Marko looks at Paul. Wicked grins of agreement spread wide like wildfire across their faces as their master plan comes into play. Full throttle. What’s more fun than annoying the shit out of David? One on the left, the other on the opposite side of the cave on the right. This was nothing but Divine perfection if you asked the two troublesome vampires.

“OOOOOH DASHING THROUGH THE SNOW!” Paul belted out at full volume.

“IN A ONE HORSE OPEN SLEIGH!” Marko followed in suit, the widest eerie grin plastered on his face.

“OVER THE HILLS WE GOOOO” Paul howled enthusiastically. 

“I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU BOTH!” David's voice hit a whole new octave it had never in all his life so far. All the while Dwayne had opted to vacate the room lest he be caught in the middle of the escalating madness with Laddie in tow. He loved these guys, but not enough to dive head first into their fuckery.

Paul thrives during the Christmas holidays! How could he not? The food, the punk rock covers of Christmas songs, the absolute babes prancing around the town in Santa hats under mistletoe?! He loved it all! You can find him sneaking under mistletoe with many sweet honeys on a constant basis, regardless of whether or not he's acquainted with them. Most do roll their eyes or laugh it off, but every once in a blue moon the guy will get a little lovin' from a beach babe in the Yuletide mood. What else could he ask for? You can bet he’ll run into the woods December first, and quite literally RIP a pine tree out of the ground to bring home like a wee carrot being plucked from the ground. The bigger the better! He may even drag Dwayne or Marko along with him if it's too big for him to carry himself. And all the boozy drinks he can concoct up? This boy is in his element! Mulled wine, spiked eggnog, candy cane vodka, butterscotch bourbon hot chocolate?! Yes! David straight up refuses to try anything that Paul creates himself (remember the concoction he made in Max's kitchen? Those poor goldfish....) which is also another reason why he has Dwayne help him. Or rather, the other boys insist the most responsible of them monitors the blonde lest he poison them with some sickly brew. That, and the fact that Dwayne's the least likely out of all of them to blow up the damn kitchen!

Dwayne is indeed the designated cook during the holiday rush, albeit a field even he tends to struggle. Avoiding the kitchen catching aflame, perfecting his craft lest he blow up the stove, leaving only a pile of ash in its wake. As previously mentioned, ever since the dreadful chain of events that lead to the unfortunate destruction of Max's kitchen, this raven haired vampire has attempted his hand at learning to use a stove properly: Although he often finds himself forgetting ingredients either in the midst of cooking or after the final product is done and he's taken a big bite. 

“Shit! I forgot the milk and eggs!” Dwayne grumbled with a mouthful of dry crumbs, a true disgrace of a cookie.

Paul always gives him crap for it of course.

“Oooh I just thought you were going for a sandy, dusty dry cookie kinda thing.”

"Yeah man, these taste like ass!" Marko would cough out in midst of choking. 

"And what, like you dumbasses could do any better," Dwayne retorts with a huff. Only Star manages to have any manners when testing his failed baking endeavors.

"Well I mean, the taste isn't that bad. Just a little dry is all."

"At least Marko wouldn't be choking to death." David would mutter from the darkest corner of the room, a little late in the conversation.

In all honesty, Dwayne's biggest motivation when it came to improving his skills was obviously Laddie. The kid never got much of a Christmas whilst living with his mom, so now that he was with the boys, he wanted to ensure that Christmas's were something that Laddie would remember for all eternity. Though granted, it is quite the mess when he was helping in the kitchen. But when the mini vamp grins from ear to ear whilst coated in flour and rapidly stirring an overflowing bowl of chunky cookie dough--the sight is too freaking cute!

Since Laddie joined the boys, they participate in Secret Santa every single year, which definitely includes Paul bursting through the entrance of the hotel as Santa on Christmas day. We won't talk about the fact that each year he almost falls flat on his face and swears, ruining the surprise for the kid. 

"Santa where are your reindeer," he'd question, to which Santa Paul scoffs

"Pff, reindeer, I don't need any fucki- Ow," cut off by a firm and covert kick to the shin from Star, Paul quickly changes his response. "Oh! Ho ho, well, you see little boy, Santa can fly too! On his, uh, uhm… magic motorcycle! Yeah, that!"

But it's okay because Laddie already KNEW (he figured it out a year or two ago after Paul's beard fell off not once, but three times), he just doesn't have the heart to tell any of them because, well Paul really gets into it. And he knows the others are playing along for his sake. But to be fair, Laddie would have to be pretty dumb to believe it was Santa. I mean, the beard Paul's wearing is hanging half off his face by this point! But anyway, just like Paul's style, the entirety of the goody two shoes schpiel is thrown out the window, replaced with sleeves that have been ripped off, muddy boots, spiked bracelets and his Metallica shirt in full view beneath his flared red coat. He calls this BIKER CLAUS!

Laddie is not a squasher of traditions! But there was the one time that David had to intervene when Paul and Dwayne thought it would be great to use Laddie as the star at the top of the tree. David practically had a heart attack. Well, that's impossible but it still felt like he was having one!  

“Ho ho ho! Now, don’t be a bitch, little David or Santa will have to give you coal.” Paul stated mockingly to David, brows furrowed. 

“Well, Santa,” David scolds, a wry smile developing on his face when setting down the eight year old now off to shake his presents beneath their behemoth of a tree. “You best be careful. You never know what's in those milk and cookies, hm?”

Each year Marko buys bird toys for the pigeons in the hotel. Well, buy is probably the wrong word. More like he liberates the stores of their stock. And then for the next six months, David has to hear the agonizing jingle of bells. David almost roasted one pigeon in particular that kept flying over him to drop the ball with a bell in it on his head. That was Paul's entertainment for the next five hours, hell, he'd try to find it if the bird lost it and give it back. Marko defends the pigeon. Between running through stores buying up surprises for his friends, he's helping Paul throw out decorations for the cave. The dollar store has some surprisingly unexpected treasures, allowing him to deck the fucking halls to the max. Tinsel here, ornaments there,  tiny light up trees to hide around the caves, a butt ton of cinnamon pine cones which he ends up throwing back and forth with Paul.

And Paul often steals his gifts or goes dumpster diving for any hidden gems. He forgets to take the tags off of them the majority of the time, which is always an indicator whether or not its new. Any time Star asks where he got them from he refuses to answer. Just gets up and walks away. But for David's gift? Well this lucky bastard has found coal in the dumpster and chucks it to David when he's not looking and he sighs deeply in disappointment because this is the third year Paul has done this. 

 "Huh? What? Who did that? Wasn't me. Somebody's throwing stuff."

Other than that he'll find a fat bag of charcoal and just tape the name David on it. David is certainly not amused. Dwayne will actually try to figure out what the others want, and has the sense to save the money taken from their previous meals. After all, they're dead, they wouldn't have much use for it anyway. He's not about to waste his hypnosis on some poor cashier. That would be a waste of time in his eyes. 

When Christmas did arrive the tree was piled with mysterious boxes crudely mashed and taped together with bows and ribbons underneath it. It's obvious which ones are from Star since those gifts are wrapped in neatly pressed paper, wound tight beneath curled ribbons that remind the boys of her hair. Marko often goes on a food run rather than allow them all to be subjected to a potentially charred turkey, no offense to Dwayne of course. So, with a table covered from end to end with copious bowls of gravy, potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, a beast of a turkey in the center packed to the brim with cornbread stuffing, the boys cram into their chairs knocking back beers and spiked cider. Keeping to their own traditions, after fattening up, they gather around the tree and play card games, just as they had over eighty years ago on that frigid night. David still slays them in poker, and Marko is an utter dark horse when it comes to blackjack. Paul insists they try Go Fish. No one ever wants to play Go Fish. Closer towards the end of the night Dwayne will slip away to Jasper's shrine and bring him a fresh glass of rum as well as unwrapping what he got him that year. While Dwayne is there, the other boys will join him - omitting Star and Laddie left unaware of the Lost Boy they'd never met - in celebrating the last hour or so of the Holiday season with their fallen comrade.

Although Christmas time is often about uncomfortable mushy moments and emotions that create deep, unfamiliar times for David. The entire ordeal becomes that for everyone of the boys and Star. But God forbid anyone who even mentions it! I mean, it's kinda obvious though considering he's spending it with the people he always called family, knee deep in traditions that are sentimental to himself and the boys. There's a fluster of emotions running rampant during this particular Holiday Season, and although the blonde brooding vampire decides to squint at it with skepticism he savors these moments, knowing like Jasper, it could all be swept away with a single ray of light or the foolish hand of a hunter. So as they sit, drunk, full, and laughing beside Jasper's grave he can't help but smile at the sentimentality of it all. Christmas is a pain in the ass, but… it's a pain he'll gladly sit through for his brothers.

[mysteira6]

FukaFlower - Holding Your Left Hand

~*~*~*~*~

Summary:

She wasn’t gonna let him feel bad for holding his left hand.

Setting: Fukase and Flower are in the same high school grade and are around 17 - 18 years old. Also, they’re already a couple in this one-shot. Read on for fluff, angst and a little sweet moment at the end. ^3^

~*~*~*~*~

Autumn-coloured lamps decorated the streets, surrounding the many stalls by the pathway in a warm-coloured glow. Young adults in ankle-length yukatas and young children with bags of candy and treats in their hands littered the road before them, the small-talk between groups of teens and squeals of delight amongst children filling their ears. Stall owners left and right were hollering customers over, hoping to catch their attention to play their games or buy their fun-coloured snacks.

The white-haired teen blinked at the sight. “Wow,” She muttered. “I know Miku was warning us when she said this year’s carnival would be ‘packed as sardines’, but I wasn’t expecting it to be this… crowded…”

She heard a light-hearted chuckle from the young man standing beside her. “Welp, I guess that’s a lesson learnt,” He said jokingly.

“What lesson?”

As he turned to her, his scarlet right eye sparkled jovially. “That we should actually listen to the ‘popular diva’ instead of assuming that she only talks about rumours,” He noted, another laugh emerging from his mouth.

The thought of that made her narrow her eyes a little. “I’m not so sure about that, Fukase,” She murmured skeptically, shaking her head. “She talks more about gossip than anything remotely useful-”

“But if we had listened to her, then we wouldn’t be caught in this human traffic jam now, wouldn’t we?” The redhead replied, though soon after, he heaved a sigh and shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. “Oh well, we’re here anyway and the night is young, Flower! Hopefully, the crowd will thin out in a bit,”

Despite her initial disappointment of not having a peaceful stroll with him, the optimistic grin on his face was enough to wash her negativity away. Of course he would try to cheer her up like this. After all, this date was his idea, something that he came up with during their lunch hour when all the other students were talking about the upcoming summer festival and how carnivals were being set up in dozens of neighbourhoods. Given that they had just finished their school term, it seemed like a perfect time to start their summer break with a fun little getaway with just the two of them.

Flower puffed in mild annoyance. When Fukase asked her to go to the carnival in their neighbourhood together, she got giddy with excitement as she always was when it came to their dates. That was one of the strangest things about being with him; somehow, he had managed to break down her curt demeanor and unpack her sweet side that very few people saw. All it took was him being a cheerful jokester who not only tried his best to make everyone smile, but also possessed a kind heart to help anyone he could. Funny then, that he would be interested, and eventually fall in love with, a pessimistic girl who was essentially a stoic emotional wall.

Oh well. Life can be that weird sometimes. In fact, what was more weird was that as he talked to her everyday, cracking a joke here and there, Flower found herself becoming more conscious of how she presented herself in front of him. The little things that she barely cared about before gradually took priority in her appearance as he tried everyday to make her smile a little. Smoothing out her skirt and brushing her hair behind her ears were only two of the dozen things that crossed her mind as soon as she heard him talking to her.

Tonight was no exception to her new routine of fussing over her appearance; as soon as she got home, Flower immediately made a beeline for her preppy younger sister, Xin Hua, who was lounging on the sofa and scrolling through the feed on her phone as usual. However, after Flower explained her situation, the cobalt-haired teen quickly placed her phone aside and partook in the giddy excitement that her older sister was feeling. One trip to Sachiko’s yukata gallery and another to Mizki’s hair accessory treasury was enough for the aspiring fashionista to dress her sister up for her special summer date.

“Flower? Flower!” The sight of his bandaged hand waving front of her was enough to snap the short-haired teen back to reality, her violet eyes blinking a few times to readjust her field of vision. “Hey, are you okay?” Fukase asked her, a worried frown inscribed on his lips as he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“O-oh, sorry, I… I’m okay,” She stuttered in embarrassment, slightly ashamed that she spaced out in the middle of nowhere. Her instinctive reaction of looking down whenever she got awkward got her looking at the yukata that Xin Hua had picked for her. It was of a deep violet shade, accompanied by prints of lavender and white coloured cherry-blossoms and outlines of round lanterns scattered across her sleeves and skirt. She had a grape-purple obi tied around her waist to keep her outfit together and Ms Sachiko even gave her complimentary wooden sandals and a hickory-coloured basket for her necessities to complete the ensemble. ‘Cherish your youth’, she had said with a warm smile after Flower had told her the reason for her purchase.

Meanwhile, Fukase chuckled at her quiet response and quietly slid his right hand under her chin, gently lifting her gaze to look at him. There wasn’t an obvious height difference between them (except for a few centimeters that Flower had but Fukase didn’t) but even then, Flower felt rather small under the gaze of his right eye, his left one being concealed under his white eye patch. Having him stand close to her also allowed her to take in his outfit for the night; a muted red yukata with black lines resembling tree branches drawn on its cloth all held together by a thin bright red obi.

“You sure?” He smirked at her like a cheeky devil would, the jokester side of him showing. “You’re blushing, you know,”

His words rooted her to the spot. “No, I am not!”

“Sharp response. I thought you were a kuudere, not a tsundere,”

“I-Does that really matter right now?!”

Her flustered response was met with a fit of laughter from Fukase, his red curls dancing in the air as he shook his head jokingly. “I kid! I kid!” He sang out as he held his hands up as if surrendering. “Please spare me from your silent treatment, Hana-chan~”

She puffed her cheeks. “You’re only lucky that I decided to dress up for tonight and I don’t want to ruin our date,”

“Oh right, I was gonna say,” His expression lit up as he continued. “You look… as pretty as a flower tonight,”

He half-heartedly expected a startled response and was unsurprised when she only snarkily replied: “A pun-related flirt isn’t going to get to me, Fukase,” Of course she’d say something like that.

“Darnnit, that didn’t work as well as I had hoped,” He pretended to be upset for a moment before raising his right hand towards her, cueing the snow-haired girl to blink at him a few times.

“Well anyway,” He began, tilting his head at her cutely. “Now that we’ve been chatting here for a while, I believe it’s about time for us to head down there, yeah?”

She found herself beaming as she accepted his hand. “Yes, let’s,”

~*~*~*~*~

“Come and catch your own kingyo! Only 200 yen to bring one home!”

“Fresh shaved ice and candied apples for sale! Come and get them before they’re gone!”

As their evening continued, the crowd really did grow thinner as most of the younger children were brought home by their parents and some of the teenagers were heading home as well. Since the both of them were night owls on a daily basis, the moon climbing up the sky did not bother them. Fukase’s enthusiasm for them to visit every stall did not falter even as the night went on. Beside him, Flower held tightly to his right hand, a small smile on her face as she witnessed him bring her all around the carnival. She could tell that he was excited for it.

“Are you hungry? We should get some mochi here,”

“I think those pinwheel headbands would look cute on you,”

“Hey, this fruit tea tastes great! Try some!”

Perhaps it was a little selfish for her to say it, but Flower really liked the attention that he was giving her tonight. It wasn’t odd for Fukase to treat her so kindly (he was literally known for being the kindest person for a lot of people) but hearing him talk to her alone made her feel warm and fuzzy inside, a feeling that only he could generate. However, tonight it felt like Fukase’s gentlemanly nature was much more prominent than usual… Was it because they were wearing such fancy clothes?

Whatever the reason was, she didn’t really care about it. After all, who would turn down a kind, pampering boyfriend like him? Even though Flower was slow to understand social norms as a wallflower, she knew enough to recognise that Fukase was kind of spoiling her (not that she was complaining, mind you).

Her train of thought was interrupted when something at a shelf on her left managed to catch her attention, silently motioning her to get closer to the stall with multi-coloured stacks of cans lined up in pyramidal formation behind its counter. She couldn’t take her eyes off one of the prizes at the game stall; a small lavender rabbit with a translucent maroon ribbon wrapped around its neck and a top hat sewn onto its head. Its subtle resemblance to Fukase’s normal outfit was probably what caught her eye.

“Whatcha looking at?” The very person she was thinking about turned his head in the same direction as she was facing, his eyes scanning the game stall for whatever had caught her attention. “Do you see that little rabbit on the shelf?” Flower whispered to him while leaning close to his ear. “It’s kinda cute. I just thought that it looked like you in your coat, doesn’t it?”

The redhead has his eyes trained on the stuffed toy that had caught his girlfriend’s attention. It didn’t take him long to mutter a ‘let’s head over there’ as he brought them both over to the stall, his hand never letting go of her despite her initial surprise. After he forked out some coins for the stall owner, a basket with brightly coloured plastic balls was placed in front of him, the challenge of knocking over all the cans in three hits now laying before him.

“Fukase, you don’t have to do this for me,” The white-haired girl standing behind him said timidly, a bit uneasy that he decided to play this game just for her.

The redhead smiled at her. “But I want to,” He simply said, picking up the first ball from the basket. “Besides, you like that rabbit doll, right?”

“Well, yeah, but-”

“Then just sit tight and watch me win it for you!” He gleefully replied as he aimed for the base of one of the can pyramids before hurling his ball at them, nailing a hit on the cans at the bottom for his first throw. The coloured cans tumbled onto the table with loud clatters and clangs as the pyramid fell, knocking down all the obstacles quickly. He grinned at his victory.

“Wow, you got them all in one shot!” The stall owner commended, lightly clapping her hands to his success. “Congratulations! You’re welcomed to choose any prize you want for winning,”

“Any prize?” Fukase glanced over to her as the lady nodded, her satin pink hair bouncing up and down. He soon turned his eyes back to the little rabbit that Flower had been eyeing this whole time, the smile on his face widening. “Can I have the little rabbit over there? The one of that shelf, please,”

“Sure thing!” She replied as she gently lifted the rabbit doll off the shelf and handed it over to him. “Thank you for playing!” The store owner sang out as Fukase received the doll from her, turning back to his girlfriend. Holding out the lavender rabbit doll in his two hands, he smiled warmly at her. “Ta-da! Here you go, Flower,”

Her face shone as she held the doll in her hands, now able to marvel its cuteness up close. It really did look similar to Fukase in his fancy outfit. “Thank you,” She unknowingly broke into a wide smile as she petted the rabbit’s head the same way she did to Point, Fukase’s pet doll. “It’s really cute…” She giggled.

He grinned at her, a warm feeling washing over him at the sight of Flower’s smile. It never failed to make him smile back at her, or to make his cheeks feel a little warmer than usual. Deep down, he wished she did that all the time, but he also understood her take on it; it was better to let her slowly get into the habit of smiling instead of forcing it on her.

Instead, he raised his hand towards her again, hoping to continue their stroll through the carnival until he noticed which one he was holding up to her. In a hasty maneuver, Fukase swiftly relocated himself to be standing on her right side as he offered his hand to her again, disregarding the confused expression on her face. “Shall we go back to the path, milady?”

She giggled again at his formal demeanor. “You don’t have to be so formal,” She quickly packed her new rabbit doll into her basket as she accepted his hand again. Although she was already well aware of his odd behaviour from before, Flower knew better to not bring it up and make him embarrassed.

Unfortunately, the more she thought about it, the more it started to bug her. Especially when she started to realise how often such situations would occur multiple times that night. Upon closer inspection, there was one thing that they all had in common; the fact that Fukase had never let her hold his left hand.

As much as she didn’t want to sound like some prissy girl complaining on their date, the urge to ask him about it was stronger than those worries. “Hey, Fukase?” The white-haired teen began, tugging a little on their interlocked hands to get his attention. “Can I… ask you something?”

He eagerly turned to her. “What is it?”

“Can I hold your left hand?”

The question alone was enough to wash his bright smile away, replacing it with an astonished frown on his face and a startled expression in his eye. His footsteps immediately stopped in the middle of the pathway as his grip on her hand tightened a little. For a while, Flower started to regret asking that question; she would’ve not done so if it meant that she was going to be subjected to him staring at her, downright baffled at her words. Now, she felt as if she was riveted to the ground by his gaze, feeling her heart climbing up her throat as she gulped loudly.

Fortunately for her, he broke their staring contest by turning his head away from her for a bit, his left hand covered from top to bottom in bandages rising up to cover his face. In a low, apologetic tone, he muttered: “Uh, sorry about that,”

She was speechless. “Eh?”

“I know you don’t like it when people stare at you, so… sorry that I was doing that just now.” He hastily apologised before continuing. “A-anyway, why do you want to h-hold my left hand? I mean-! Is there a reason? N-not that you have to tell me, wait I mean-!”

As the redhead stumbled over his words, the gears in Flower’s head started turning. A line of stuttering dialogue from Fukase convinced her that her asking him about it was the right thing to do; in a normal everyday conversation, he would never ever trip over his own words. As far as she could remember, his confidence in speaking has never failed him, only faltering a little whenever Flower managed to sneak a sweet, unintentionally affectionate line of dialogue to him. So to hear him uncharacteristically stutter so much while talking to her normally… Flower quickly realised that something was up.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, Fukase,” She tried to ameliorate the situation, hoping that he wasn’t too embarrassed. “I’m really sorry that I asked it so randomly-”

“It’s not that, it’s just…” He trailed off as his eyebrows furrowed, his gaze shifted to the sight of his left, bandaged, roughly-surfaced hand. A sigh left his lips; he was gonna have to tell her something eventually, so why wait?

“The truth is,” He started, hoping that he didn’t sound too nervous. “No one… has ever held my left hand before…”

“Why?” She blurted out as her curiosity overrode her politeness.

“I never offered it to them,” He explained slowly, gaining a bit more confidence as he confessed to her. “I mean, you know how my hand looks; it’s a mess. And even with these bandages, it’s still really… you know, coarse and rough,”

Flower found herself frowning at the mention of what his left hand really looked like. It called back a past memory of their time together, when Fukase had told her the events that caused him to look as he is now. That day, he even slowly, very gingerly, took off his bandages and eye patch to show her the scars he had hidden from everyone for so long, the damaged side of him that he refused to show in public in the fear that he would be met with disgust and disdain.

But on the contrary to his fear of Flower leaving him, Fukase was embraced by her love and adoration for him, the emotions in her that he managed to call out now being gifted to him instead as some form of mutual bond. In the same way that he helped her break down her emotional barriers, she had helped him overcome his trauma-induced obstacles. It was a relationship between them that nothing in the world could break.

And tonight was just another testament to it, Fukase realised as Flower quickly shook off his hold on her own hand, instead reaching for his left, roughly-surfaced one covered in white straps of cloth. Her fingers brushed across his as she matched them to line up with hers, a small yet ever-so-kind smile on her face encased in her lips. Fukase unknowingly gulped at the sight of his girlfriend looking at him with so much kindness and care, her beauty brought out even more tonight with her neatly combed tomboyish hair and lilac-coloured butterfly pin.

“Fukase,” She broke the silence between them as she whispered softly. “Does it feel any different when I hold your hand like this?”

He averted his eyes at her question. “Well, for me, it feels the same but for you-”

“It’s the same for me too, you know,” She interrupted him gently, shifting her right hand to the side a little as she interlocked their hands together. “I know you’re always worried about how your scars might change how I see you, but… You know that’s never gonna happen, right?”

As soon as she spotted the skepticism in his eyes, she took it as a sign to continue. “Whichever hand I’m holding doesn’t matter to me so long as it’s yours, Fukase. You don’t have to be worried about how you look when you’re with me; I don’t mind any of it at all,”

“ … Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Besides,” She chuckled as she recalled another memory. “Didn’t I already tell you before that I liked your scars?”

“W-well yeah, but…” After baring out the truth to her, the red-haired boy felt unnaturally vulnerable, the somewhat playful tone in her voice making him blush. He still wasn’t used to her telling him that she liked the permanent markings on his skin. For a long time, he hated them and wished that they would just disappear, especially since they were a reminder of that dark side of him. And yet to listen to her words when she said that she liked them… it felt like letting go of a breath of air that he’d be holding for a long time. ‘Because they’re a part of you too’, Flower had told him back then. ‘That’s why I like them’

Meanwhile, the girl standing before him gently pulled their interlocked hands back down, her left hand holding tightly to her basket as she turned back to the path. “I really don’t mind holding your left hand, Fukase,” She reassured him again with a soft smile. “So… let’s keep this date going, okay?”

Flower hadn’t even taken one step forward before she was tugged back towards the red-haired boy, his uncalloused hand cupping her face as he pulled her closer to him. Just like the beginning of their date when he had commented on her blushing cheeks, the snow-haired teen found herself hypnotized by his armour-piercing gaze, his right red eye staring intently at her for a short while only to soften as he leaned his face close to her, closing his eyes and landing his lips onto hers. As her cheeks heated up like red-hot iron, she knew in absolute certainty that she was blushing now.

It seemed as if time stood still as Fukase kissed her, the action and noises in their surroundings seeming to pause as her eyelids slid shut in conjunction to his daring public display of affection, his head tilting slightly to deepen their kiss as Flower mimicked his actions. It felt like hours had slipped by them as they parted from their kiss, the commotion from the carnival returning to their field of vision and awareness.

Fukase’s face was almost as red as his hair as he chuckled lightly, his iconic bright smile back on his face. “Hana-chan, thank you,” His voice was teeming with gratitude as he thanked her. “You always seem to know exactly what to say,”

Flower was blushing equally as much, her wallflower shyness emerging from her. “I’m just being honest,” She humbly replied.

“How in the world did I get a girlfriend as amazing as you?”

“I could say the same for you, you know,”

“Me? What did I do?”

“I mean, how in the world did I get a boyfriend as sweet and funny as you?”

“Hey! Don’t copy my words!”

“But it’s true!”

The both of them laughed at each other’s antics, their hands interlocked with one another as they continued to stroll down the dirt-trodden path.

~*~*~*~*~

A/N: GAAAAAHHHH these two make me soft~ ;-;

[myfeetkeepdancing]

Judge, Jury and Peter  | AU!Peter Parker x Male!reader

Words: 4360

A/N: This is something I’ve always wanted to write. The setting and characters as a whole are something I hope to explore more in the future. But for now, this is it. I hope you enjoy nonetheless!

———-

The wooden beams creaked eerily as your leather boot rested on the last step of the staircase. Your eyes scour into the leading corridor. Vigilant of your surroundings, searching the darkness for the slightest movement. Through the red and orange tongues of fire that were consuming the floor. Crackling, as the fire hungrily fed itself on the wooden construction. Rapidly climbing up the wall, gripping every opportunity to expand.

From your point of view, you could easily sense the nefarious footprints, mismatched, and each foot of different size. The dark energies that brought forth this wicked evil radiated from the blackened wood. Its tracks leading further down the hallway. With the wide brim of your hat, you shield yourself from the dancing flames consuming the roof, casting an orange glow down the hall. The damage was insignificant compared to the innocent lives lost in previous days.

The horror was unforeseen. Slaughtering the innocent. Unnecessary bloodshed because of an incompetent Burgomeister. Your blood boils warm by the thought of the many lives there could have been saved if they acted quicker. 

Yet you need not any guidance nor clues to know where to move next. The terrified screams of a man echoed down the hall. With keen senses and sharp of mind. You cautiously stride down the hall—the flames licking at your boots and long black leather cape, hanging from your shoulders. Eyes fixated on the heavy oak door down the hall. You are aware that the heels of your boots announce your arrival. With every step, the hard leather thumped against the wood.

You let your gloved hand slide from the sheathed rapier. With such close quarters, it would only limit you. There was only one option.

One shot.

Reaching underneath your cloak, the palm of your hand meets the butt of your flintlock pistol. Carefully drawing it from its holster. With a click, the thumb of your hand cocks the hammer backward. The index finger resting on the trigger, teasing the spring of the mechanism. With the other hand, you clutch the symbol of your god, dangling around your neck. Closing your eyes for a brief moment, you mutter a quick prayer to yourself. Bolstering your courage. Heighten your awareness and quicken your reflexes. Preparing you for the worst. As for the last twelve moons, you had witnessed enough horrors. Making you even more determined to end this.

Little light came from within the room itself. And as the door creaked open on its heavy hinges. You sight the abomination. The repugnant stench catches your nostrils. Sickening you. Revolting you. Even in your studies, you had never seen such cruelties. Patches of rotten skin, bulbous heaps of flesh, pulsating, hairy outgrowths, dripping with gory substances, sewn together by the fabric of ruinous magics. In horror, you watch its pseudo-corporeal body slump away from the desk. The creature had extended its arm, contorting its limb in inhuman ways, right through the desk to snatch the man. Indicating by the splinters and books scattered across the floor. Loathsome sounds came from its jaw as it animated in unusual ways. Before gaping wide open. The screams of the men, dangling in the monster’s grasps, brings you back to your senses.

Its head snapped towards you. Forcing you to meet it otherworldly gaze. Its sockets were devout of any life. Instead, deep, menacing orbs of humanlike size started glistened with a fiery green spark as it takes you in. Insane gibbering laughter cackled from its jaw. Revealing a set of malformed serrated fangs of various sizes. Raising its other arm, you gaze as the skin rips open, protruding claw-like blades from within the flesh. Gradually growing outward. 

You could feel it’s green light seep into you through your eyes. Clouding your thoughts, weakening you. Paralyzing your every nerve. Numbing your will. But with a quick prayer, you shake the blasphemous magic from your mind. Feeling the warmth radiate through your body. The strength returning to your arms and legs. 

In that time, the creature had taken steps towards you. Bringing it’s clawed arm up in such swiftness. Before striking it downwards on you. It seemed impossible that such a voluminous abhorrent lumping creature could move with such deadly swiftness. You lunge to the side, barely escaping the sword-like talons. Shaking the floor as the claw crashed with an unstoppable force. Trapping its claws into the hardwood floor.

A thunderous boom from the pistol echoed through the room. Drowning every other sound for moments. Covering the entity in a large plume of smoke. You would not allow the creature to take advantage of the situation any longer. It’s supernatural strength and speed were no match for you. But your weaponry was unmatched. 

And as the bullet tore a gaping hole through the rotten malformed flesh of its face. You discard the smoking pistol to the floor. Not giving the creature a moment to react. With great finesse, you surge forward, drawing your rapier. Striking across its unnatural arm holding the man. A searing purple mist erupts from the cut. Sizzling and burning, giving off a horrid stench. Before it disconnects from the body. Unnatural twitches shake and shudder the creature. It’s body writhing in agony. Stinking fluids gulp from the wounds onto the floor. As the man frees itself from its decapitated arm. You bring your rapier back to guard yourself and the helpless man behind you. Slowly stepping backward, as you asses the damage. The blubbering mess stumbled back and forth, careful not to get hit by its other arm. Still swinging around, its dark magic still bound to the heap of rotten flesh. Controlling its limbs in unnatural ways.

An uneasy feeling crept over you as you watch the skin grow and stretch. The dreadful sound of bones breaking and snapping intensifying it. All over its body, swollen masses of flesh began growing, stretching the skin. Horrifying gurgling noises become louder from the gaping hole of its once intact face.

“Get up!” You order to the man scrambling to his feet behind you, the horror painted on his face. Frozen to the spot. “Move!” Sheathing the blade, you turn to the man and dragging up him to his feet. Shielding him the best you can of what came next. Storming towards the door. Only a few meters away. You take the gamble and jump with the man in your arms. A gory explosion enveloped the room. The blast pushing you both the down into the hallway.

Gathering your breath. You raise yourself onto your feet. Dusting yourself down, as you slowly begin to regain your senses. Noticing the scenery behind you. Nothing but red smear painted these walls. Everything drenched in the horrible fluids of the accursed creature. The sight was one thing, but the smell was another. Nothing but death and decay.

On closer inspection, you counted yourself lucky, seeing the countless bone splinters burrowed into the walls. The more of the scenery you observe, the more questions arise. The extensive collection of books and parchments, shattered vials of herbal equipment.

A growled groan behind you draws your attention. Coming from the man lying on the floor. Facedown to the floor, groaning. Fortunately, still alive. A minor victory in your book.

You didn’t give the man a good look in the first place once you entered. But now with him seated against the wall. You can’t help but notice the young features. Under all the blood and bruises, you see a young, lively man. A kind face, “T-Thank you…” He stammers. “Stranger.” His voice was somber and rough. Doubled over in pain. Coughing heavily. Clutching his hands to his side.

“That’s not looking good.” Observing the crimson red-stained fabric between his hands. You’ve seen enough injuries by know to know that was a fatal one. Even without a proper look. That amount of blood loss was impossible to heal even by priests. The nearest would take at least half an hour to get there. Especially without your trusty steed.

“I’ll be fine.” He coughed out the words. Slowly rising to his feet. He couldn’t be much older than you. Mid-twenties possibly. Yet, he had a refreshing, optimistic atmosphere to him. Something strange. Handing your brim hat that lay beside him. Blown from the head by the blast.

“No, you’re not.” You snap angrily, taking the hat from him. Restoring it back on your head where it belonged. Straightening your coat and cape. Tightening the belts of equipment around your torso. “Priests are up far north. Without a proper steed, it will take you an hour to get there.”

“You’re quite young for a witch hunter.” He smiles thinly. Waiting for a reaction. But your mind is occupied elsewhere. Your face painted grim and dark with anger. Losing another lead wasn’t something to report back. The Order wouldn’t tolerate such results. Especially on your first mission alone.

“I’m Peter.” Extending his hand towards you.

“I need not know a dead man’s name.” Scoffing his enthusiasm away. “I require answers. Why did that monstrosity target you? Out of all the citizens in this town. You were the one. I can hardly believe that’s a coincidence.”

“It’s a long story. Allow me to-”

“I need answers, not bedtime stories.” You growl, interrupting him mid-sentence.

“Alright, then see for yourself.” Lifting the blood-drenched garments from the wound. You were surprised by the size of the cuts. But even more so by the fact that the three large gashes on his side had stopped bleeding. The tissue was torn open pretty badly. Normally, the blood would gush from these kinds of injuries. But not in this case. Your mind raced to conclusions. Magic.

“What… How is that possible?” Taking a step backward, your hand ready on the stock of your remaining pistol. “Explain yourself.”

“It’s difficult.” Turning his side towards you. “Look…” Your eyes widen in disbelief. In all the years of study. This was unheard of.

“What the…” Your hand reaches for your mouth, drowning any remaining cursing words that wanted to spill from your lips. The torn tissue was slow but gradually growing back. “Enough! What heresy is this!?” Reaching for your shackles on your belt. “Others have been on the pyre for less!.”

But instead of the expected fight, he puts both his arms forward. Lining up his wrists. Ready to be shackled up. A moment of hesitation stops you from continuing. An uneasy feeling washed over you as you see his smile stretching.

“Go for it.” He encourages you.

In a swift motion, you shackle both his wrists up. With the key put away safely, you turn your attention to the room. Motioning him to wait.

Sharpening your senses, focussing on the details. Perhaps you were able to find some clues about the origin of the monster. Its reason for being here. Instead of listening to a lengthy story from that unusual man. And of course, recover your flintlock pistol.

The thoughts of reporting back to the Order without results send a shiver down your spine. Determined to find something. Any lead. There must be a pattern somewhere. You gather some samples here and there. Make a note in your tome. Sketch a few drawings of leftovers from the monstrosity. And gather evidence.

The witchcraft that was at work here was another level. It was a shame the person that put this thing into the world made it disintegrate. Leaving less to investigate. After careful consideration, you accept the fact you can’t recover anything noteworthy. One positive observation, the dark magic seems to have evaporated with it. You mumble a quick prayer of cleansing.

But the sound of metallic crunching, twisting and snapping, disturbed your moment of prayer.

“By the Gods!” You watch in awe as the man had freed itself from your shackles. It’s metal rings torn apart, bent and broken. No sweat on his forehead to be sighted. You look on in fear as he breaks open the shackle on his wrist with little effort.

“We can help each other.” He says calmly while undoing the other. “But in order to, you have to understand I’m your only lead on your quarry.”

“As an ordained servant of our most holy lord, and templar knight of his sovereign temple. I certainly need no-…”

“I can walk away if you want.” He interrupts you, crossing his arms. A smile curving his lips. He knew exactly what his position was.

The daunting realization hits you that no matter the banter, you had nothing to show for. You may have saved his life, but that’s all.

“I saved your life.” Crossing your arms. “So, to settle that debt and convince me, you will share information about the-…”

Meanwhile, you hear a fleet of stamping boots run upwards. Facing the stairs, you spot the embroidered tunics and shields of the local guards. “Sir?” The guardsmen ask. “Are you alright? We heard-…”

“I’m fine.” You waved him away.

The soldiers lined up behind him all look at you, before noticing the gory scene. Revolting in horror. Some run down the stairs, hearing them spill their guts downstairs.

“Make the arrangements to burn down the house. I also require any information on the owner.”

“Aye, will do, Sir.” Bowing down to you. Huffing a few orders to his guardsmen before setting his eyes on the two of you. “And who’s this?” Pointing out the mysterious man standing opposite of you. “He didn’t accompany you when you entered.” His hands reaching for the pommel of his sword.

Peter gave the guard a kind smile. But he was having none of it. The grip tightening on his sword. The tension was noticeably rising. Outweighing your every option. Peter staring at you, awaiting your response.

“He’s with me.” You grumbled annoyingly. “We’re staying at the inn.” That was further from the truth but saved you hassle from any explanation. You nudge Peter to follow you, taking the first few steps down the stairs. But halt before the guard, turning in to face him up close.

“See to it that this place is torched before nightfall.”. You snarled to the guard’s face. Before moving on.

“But… Sir?” You hear the guardsmen trying to protest.

“That’s an order!” You growl and turn onto the street. Leather boots sinking deep into the muddy ground. The rancid smell of horse shit and nearby pigpen hang poignant around the area. Navigating down the narrow streets winding up towards the town square. Lined by timber walls and plastered houses, the faces withdraw hastily. Closing shutters and doors. And the few passers avert their gaze. Its lanes became eerily quiet for the time of day. Only the sounds of nature, chirping birds, and cackling chickens.

“That man was merely doing his job.” Peter stated while following close behind you.

“So do I.” You snap back. Sucking on your teeth as you fought to contain your anger. How you wish you could give him a reprimand.

“Are you always like this?” He asked, picking up with you. From the corner of your eye, you see his kind features waiting for a reaction. But by now, you knew when to speak. And when to keep things to yourself.

In the distance, you spot a building that resembles a tavern. A low stone wall surrounding it, stables to its side, and swaying sign at the porch. Its colors faded and worn, the letters spelling ‘The Grey Goblet’. The image below the Gothic letters depicting two spilling goblets. No peasants nor traders inhabited the outdoor tables. Only a faint light coming through the small fogged up windows showed signs of life.

With hesitation, you open the heavy oak door. The common room opening up to you was spacious. A cluster of tables strewn about with an occasional group of peasants and farmers sharing there drinks and stories. To the left, a long oak topped bar ran along the wall, an older man standing behind it. The men looked up from their hushed and subdued conversations, narrow-eyed studying the newcomers with suspicion. You return their stare with a cold and expressionless look around the room. Taking in each and every individual. They know what kind of person they were dealing with. And so they return to their subdued conversation. While keeping one eye on you.

The barkeep didn’t seem pleased with your arrival. His brow furrowed while he tapped two steins of beer. “I suppose you want a drink.” He groveled.

“Not the warmest welcome I’ve had.”

“Whatcha expectin’? Shaking his head. "Your kind bring nothing but misery with ya…” He said with annoyance in his voice. “Take what ya want and leave.” Eyeing the two of you with suspicion.

“Mind your tongue…" 

"Well, need I remind ya’ of that family you lot send to the pyre four seasons ago. A whole bloody family. Ripped from our midst. Even the little girl…!” The man bursted out in anger. Clearly your kind have made their mark on the region.

“It’s the few for the many.” You turn your relentless gaze to the peasants listening in. Turning their heads to their respective table out of fear. "Heresy ran deep within this region…” Your eyes scan the crowd for any troublemakers. Making sure the fear set in. It occurred before, rebelling against the Order and their Templars. But they know by now, that such actions have dire consequences. “And yet it seems their roots haven’t been properly eradicated.” You turn to the man. “Have they…?” Its face turning pale.

“N-No… I mean Yes… I… Please… I-”

You let the words do the rest. “Now, I need your best room for the night. Serve us a good meal with your best wine, and ready a bath for this one here.” Jabbing a thumb over to Peter. “We’ll talk later.” You nudge to him, while you climb the stairs beside the bar. Intend on picking the room yourself.

“God has forsaken me…” The man muttered to himself. But loud enough for you to overhear. As he ordered the maiden to the kitchen.

“Your contribution to the Church and the Order is duly noted, my good man.” The words drip with sarcasm. “Serve my meal in my room. I do not want to be disturbed. And keep those blasphemous thoughts to yourself. Or I will see to it myself.”

As you inspect the rooms, door by door, you hear the commotion downstairs. Like in most places, you think to yourself. Peter’s voice sounded several times, followed by the rattle of coins. It takes a while before quiet and peace to return.

The room was adequately furnished. A dining table accompanied by a small seating area. The bedroom situated through a set of doors. And a large desk standing in front of the window. You relieve yourself of all equipment and brim hood. The holsters of your guns hanging on the backrest. You seat yourself down in the chair opposite the window. From your view, you could see the sunset. As the flames of the burning house reached high into the sky. You reach for a small prayer book on the inside of your coat. Beautifully lined and adorned with a gold symbol on the crest. You shut your eyes and intertwine your fingers. Resting them atop the booklet. Mumbling the words to yourself. A moment of prayer. A moment of cleansing. A moment of reflection. Asking your god to lead you. Lead you on the right path.

A knock on your door disturbs your prayer. The interruption putting in you in an even blacker mood. “Put in on the table, and leave me be.” You snarled at whoever stood at your door. The door creaks open, slow footsteps walk across the room before they halt. Your nose could tell who it was. That smell. “Peter…”

“You look troubled.” A bit of worry sounded to his words.

“I said we’ll talk later.” You look over your shoulder, seeing him stand in the doorway. “Take a bath, you reek of filth.” Pulling one gun out of the holster. You bring up one canister of bullets hanging from your belt, and the satchel with cleaning equipment. Maintaining your equipment is vital. They were your tools of the trade. A proper tool for protection. And order.

Cleaning the barrel. Weighing the gunpowder. Oiling the mechanism. Polishing the metal. It requires precision and care. And if you spend that time. Took that time. The tools will return that favor to you. All the while, Peter still stands there. Observing you.

“It’s a meal for two.” He says. From your chair, you notice the platter with what seems to be a whole goose or duck. “Will you wait for me?”

“Yes.” You say icy and cold. Pulling the other pistol from your holster. Preparing it for cleaning. “Be quick.”

For once, your nostrils were teased by the lovely odors of a roasted duck or goose. Herbs and spices richly strewn with. Whatever it was, it smelled delightful. This sure was a pleasant relief from all the horrid smells of the past few days. A bowl of cooked vegetables and potatoes to the side. Two cups of soup. A carafe of wine and two gray goblets. A lavish meal for these parts. You pour yourself a one, putting it to your lips. Letting your senses overflow by the rich pallet of flavors of the sunbathed grapes. Carrying you back to memories of a better time.

“Good wine?” Peter asks as he entered the room without noticing, ruining your moment of joy. “I thought I saw a smile there.” He chuckles softly. You open your eyes to a refreshed looking young gentlemen. Dressed in elegant red garments, embroidered with tints of gold.

“How are you feeling?” Taking a seat on the table, Peter sitting opposite you. On the stool beside you, hang your sheathed rapier. The black leather brim hood sat on the table, underneath it, a holster sticking out on your side. For those entering the room, barely to be seen. For you, at the ready in a flash.

“I’m doing good.” He smiled, doing a quick check on his injuries. “Thank you for the bath.”

"It’s the least I can do.” Pouring him his wine. “But why’d you pay the man?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because he must serve a knight of the temple at no cost. So says the law.”

“But I’m not one of yours.”

Unsettling enough, he had a point. You weren’t going to admit he was right. But this man had an answer to your every word. It didn’t feel like arguing, yet the experience of being spoken up against you was unnerving. 

“We usually don’t get these kinds of… lavish meals.”

“I know why.” He snorted. Aware that you were struggling to regain your composure.“But I hope you enjoy it. I certainly do.” Giving you a smile. “You know… I still don’t know your name.” Taking a sip from his wine, leaning back into the chair. “If we’re going to work together, that might be useful.” He joked. You kept your gaze to your plate the whole time. Questions were burning in the back of your mind that required answering. And he was your only option.  

“I’m (Y/N).” You look up, meeting his gaze. A look of kindness and grace met yours of irritation and disdain. Receiving a simple smile in return.

You don’t fancy these odds. Everything was depended on him. Even if he bluffed, even if he was lying. There was no other way. You sought to get an answer out of this man. One way or another. Not ruling out a confession of the sorts. If it wasn’t for those healing powers, then you would twist the rules to your liking. You weren’t going to end up empty-handed. Most certainly not.

“Well… nice to meet you (Y/N).” He smiled kindly, bringing you back from your scheming thoughts. “That house you ordered to burn down, could have been mine.”

“It wasn’t.” With the napkin, you wipe away the residue from your meal. Meeting his gaze again. “The lock was forced. That monster would have gone straight through the door. You were trying to sneak in. To what purpose might I ask?”

“Good eye.” He compliments you with a broad smile. Moving to the edge of his seat. “You know, I’m in the same boat as you are.”

“Just answer the question.” You snarl, gritting your teeth out of frustration. “You have a lot to answer for. And as long as you’re treading through these lands, you’re falling under my scrutiny and jurisdiction.”

“You’re angry with yourself, aren’t you?" 

The blood started boiling deep inside you. This man was driving you insane. Jaw clenched tightly and nostrils flaring. You sat there letting him roll over you. Something was holding you back. In any situation, you would have scolded the man with every possible vocabulary in the book.

"I can see it in you. You got that fury in your eyes.” He continues. “You don’t want to admit it. But deep down, you know, I’m your only shot at success. Am I right?”

In what position did he think he was in to speak up to you in such a manner?

“You’re not the one in control. That’s it! That infuriates you. You’re powerless. Something you’ve never experienced until now.”

The words he spoke came closer to the truth you ever wanted to admit. Your hands shudder from rage. That hot burning anger seeking to harm. Insulting a servant of the Order like this. This was unheard of. Your hand clamps around the wine glass, shaking as you bring it to your lips. Gulping it all down.

“This is going to be fun. (Y/N).” He smiled happily, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he continues eating. A glint of excitement glared in his eyes as he glanced up at you. Steam was literally fuming from your ears.

You were beyond anger of these acquisitions. Yet something wholesome about him kept you from bursting out in rage. As you looked at him, there was something about him that you couldn’t get angry about. Soothing almost. Calming.

[randaccidents]

Attack 5: Skye

God fuck why are people so fast writer can only type so fast

Attack on skye!

TW: uhhhhhhh mob rain go brr

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Skye panted, the phantom pain of sewn shut eyes and mouth stinging through her as she ran, weaving through the tree line. She really should have known, this was Demise, even in teams no one was truly trustworthy. Panting, she turned a corner, spotting an open ravine that cut into a mountain. The insides were dark, no sign of any other teams setting up base inside. Good. She needed somewhere to hide, go dark, and not be found for at least a few days while the bloodthirsty hunters lost their desire for murder. 

Speedily, she chopped down a tree, ever cognizant of the fact that there were eyes potentially everywhere, searching for her. Having finally collected some wood after respawning, she looked around, body coiled tight, ready to jump and flee yet again at the first sight of another player, no matter whether they were on her team or not. Seeing no one nearby, she snuck around the trees, diving for the ravine and sprinting until she hit the furthest wall, deep in the dark where no one could see her from the outside. Still, they remained tense, quietly placing a small barrier of dirt blocks so that no hostile mobs could attack her.

It was only when night fell that she finally dared make a noise louder than the small breaths she had been using all day. Uncurling from her spot, she let out a sigh of relief. Relative safety was finally had she knew. No one would enter an open cave at night lest they get surrounded by hostiles. Pulling out the few logs she had, she got to work making a crafting table and the tools needed to survive.

If only she had looked up, she would have seen hostile mobs congregating on a cobblestone platform, their beady little eyes looking down hungrily at their next prey. Among them, a bright neon smile looked on, placing down yet another cobblestone block.

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The caves were suspiciously empty of mobs for how dark they were, Skye thought, ducking under yet another stalagmite while holding onto her hat. It had been a few days now, not another player to be seen but also not another mob to be seen. While she may not be aware of the time passing, the lack of the sky or sun or the moon throwing off her sense of time. Even so, even she knew that at least one mob should have crawled out of the dark to attack her by now.

Shrugging, she continued mining, failing to notice the eyes in the dark following her every move, purple particles just barely obscured by the rock formations around it.

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

She was certain she had placed half of her valuables in a chest, yet when she returned to her new base there was no chest. Was she going crazy from the lack of interaction? How many days has she been down below? She didn’t know. She really didn’t know. How long-

She slapped herself. Now was not the time to question reality. Now was the time to prepare for attack. Looking through her inventory, she decided she could smelt the iron that she had just mined.

Above her, on the cobblestone platform, a singular chest sat, twelve diamonds innocently stolen and abandoned. The cave spiders would love this new decoration in their mines.

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

Skye stared around, sword held up as she struggled to buckle the iron armour over her half-half coloured shirt. Shit shit shit shit. Something’s out there. She could hear the scuffling of feet. Someone had found her. Her time was up.

Gripping the handle of her iron sword, feeling the heat from the freshly smelted metal, she readied herself. Now or never, and she had to run. She had everything on her. No diamonds (didn’t she mine some?) but enough iron, although she was running low on food without any zombies to kill.

The sound of blocks being placed. She tensed up. Someone leaned over the top of her wall, grinning wolfishly. “Hello Skye.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Dory. You’re alone?”

The hybrid scoffed, her enchanted bow giving off a soft glow. “Who said I was ever alone?”

“You brought the Hitmen?”

This time, the smile was deadly. “Who said I brought the big guns? I don’t need them to take you down. In fact, I’m not even the first to find you.”

Skye felt her blood freeze. “....not the first to find me?”

Dory pointed up, Skye following her gaze just in time to see cobblestone begin to break away, creepers and zombies and skeletons and endermen and spiders falling onto them. Over the sound of her screaming, Dory spoke. “Enjoy the monster party!”

Skye’s heterochromia eyes met a pair of glowing yellow ones as the mobs advanced, the tiny smiley face letting her know who had found her first.

[DEFLECTED]

[mtraki]

 “They don’t have any riding skirts in stock…” Catherine explained, doing her best to hide her disappointment.  The tailor apologized again, saying something about shipment schedules, but Jenny’s attention was fixed on her beautiful and proper friend.

 “That’s a shame,” She said without inflection, then shrugged, hearing Karen and Mary-Beth giggling in the dressing room, “... Really, Catherine, I don’t know why you bother with those silly riding skirts anyway.”

 “I only have the one petticoat, my dear, and it won’t support riding astride, even if I were to have a skirt that might-- which, I remind you, I do not.”

 Jenny snorted, “So buy some trousers.”

 The tailor stared at her.  Catherine stared at her. Jenny gave the tailor a dirty look, making clear it was wiser he find his own business to mind, and he scuttled over to fuss with one of the hanging outfits.

 “Jenny… I’m a lady…”

 “So?  Your legs split in the middle like everyone else, don’t they?”

 “Well, yes, of course--”

 “--So they’ll fit in trousers, which, as it turns out, were made with ridin’ horses in mind.”

 “You cannot be serious…”

 The pale-eyed lady looked at her, then around at the tailor shop, the primary reason they’d come all the way to Blackwater, despite the risk, and then back at Jenny, “...It’s… highly unorthodox, my dear. A woman of my status wearing trousers… it would draw a lot of attention…”

 Sneering, Jenny teased, “You’re right.  Maybe you ought ask yer daddy first?”

 Catherine startled like she’d been slapped, “What!--"

 “-- Or your man--”

 Straightening, the lady’s hands went to her hips and her voice turned ice cold and sharp, “--I don’t need anyone’s permission to wear anything, Miss Kirk, let us have that understanding first and foremost!”

 “That’s more like it!” The other woman laughed, “Now come on, just try a pair on!  I’m sure you’ll like ‘em once you do…”

 Slowly lowering her hackles, Catherine sighed and shook her head, “... Oh alright…”

 The tailor had her measurements already, so despite any opinions on the matter he might have (which he wisely kept to himself) he provided a selection of trousers in various colors, fabrics, and styles in sizes that would best fit her (with minimal alterations).  Leaving the pale-eyed lady to her decisions, he gratefully left her to assist Mary-Beth with the vast selection of shawls.

 Jenny started to step away also, apparently intrigued by the new hats on display, when Catherine called, “... I just realized… I don’t think I’ve ever seen-- Jenny do you wear trousers?”

 “I own a pair I’ve worn once or twice.  Does it make a difference?”

 The lady gave her dark-eyed friend a look, “Here you stand, taunting me about trousers when you hardly wear yours…?  It isn’t kind to make fun of me, Miss Kirk.”

 Sighing her exasperation, the outlaw said, “I ain’t, either.  Do as you like, Miss Fancy! Wear your tore-up ridin’ skirt until you can buy a new one.  Or buy a less fancy petticoat, a new crinoline, and a skirt to wear. Or go nekkid for all I give a damn!”

 They looked at each other a few moments, then Catherine said, “... Why do these have leather sewn on the backside?” holding up a pair of warm brown work pants.

 Jenny laughed, “Oh, those’re padded work pants.  I think the leather is so you stick to the saddle better.”

 Laughing also, the pale-eyed lady said, “... I might want to consider them, then… it might help save me from falling off another time before the year is up.”

 “If anything can.” The other teased.

 “How unkind!” But Catherine laughed still.

 “You gonna try ‘em on?  Won’t be long before them Callander boys get bored-- or too drunk-- and start makin’ trouble.”

 “Yes… Let me try these few, then…”

 Karen stopped them on their way to the dressing room, on her way out from trying on a new blouse that had caught her eye.

 “... Miss, what’re you doin’ with those trousers?”

 Jenny ushered Catherine forward again, “She’s gon’ try ‘em on.  What you think she’s doin’? Keepin’ ‘em company?”

 “... But they’re trousers…”

 “That’s what I said!” Catherine laughed as Jenny pushed her into the dressing room.

 Reaching over, Karen grabbed the curtain before the other outlaw could close it, and pushed her way in, “This I have to see!”

 With a scoff and roll of her eyes, the pale-eyed lady handed her selections to the other two women, “You might as well make yourselves useful, then, if you insist on teasing me the entire time…”

 The blonde ended up handing the pair of trousers she was holding to Jenny to help Catherine out of her coat and riding skirt, “You gonna wear these trousers with your corset?”

 Jenny burst out laughing at the open bafflement on the fancy lady’s face.

 “I… I hadn’t planned on taking it-- should I not?”

 “You and Grimshaw are the only ones who wear one every day,” Karen told her, “Hell, I’m only wearing one because we’re in town and not at the saloon!”

 “Trousers waist ain’t gonna work well with your corset if it comes down proper…” Jenny warned between laughs.

 Catherine sighed, muttering something in one of her foreign languages, “...Well… alright, help me take it off, then… If I’m going to scandalize the town and the camp, I might as well do it right the first time.”

 “Oh, we’ll call the papers,” Jenny rolled her eyes, “‘Miss Catherine’s got her tits out’…”

 Karen snorted laughter, “The men’ll like that!”

 “I’m still wearing my combinations and blouse, thank you!”

 The blouse did have to come off first, to facilitate the removal of the corset.  Jenny and Karen both admired her combinations. Karen announced an intention to get some of her own some day, while Jenny shrugged and said she didn’t have a desire for ‘lacy fancy things’.

 Catherine grinned as she pulled her blouse back on, “Maybe Mister Summers has a desire for lacy fancy things?”

 “Did Mister van der Linde?” Jenny needled back.

 “Yes.” Catherine shrugged, “As you might have guessed.”

 “What about Mister Morgan?”

 Shrugging, Catherine reached for the first pair of trousers, the padded work pants, “I don’t know.  I suppose we’ll have to ask him.”

 Karen and Jenny exchanged a look before the blonde outlaw blurted, “You mean he didn’t see in Tumbleweed?”

 Before the lady could answer, the curtain was suddenly drawn aside, and Mary-Beth was standing there, “I had wondered what you ladies--Miss Catherine are you wearing trousers?!”

 Karen dragged her in and closed the curtain again while Catherine rolled her eyes and sighed long-suffering.

 “Almost… certainly not enough for the public eye, Miss Gaskill…”

 “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…  But… trousers?”

 Finishing with the donning and fastening, the pale-eyed lady regarded herself in the mirror, smoothing her hands against her hips, turning this way and that, “...What do you think, Jenny?”

 “You look fine.  How do they feel?”

 “Strange.” She looked at the blonde in the mirror, “... What about you, Miss Jones?”

 “They look alright, I guess,” Was the answer, then she grinned, “Nice to know you got a bit of a rump there and it ain’t all crinoline and paddin’...”

 “Not all of us are blessed with your commanding, womanly physique, my dear.” Catherine smiled, “Mary-Beth?”

 “... I think the boys are goin’ to have some things to say…” She answered, “... Not to mention Miss Grimshaw.”

 “... I’ll deal with that when the time comes, I suppose.”

 Jenny waved the pairs she was still holding, “You trying these on or am I just holdin’ them for show?”

 “No, no… Here let me…” Catherine laughed as she worked the button-front, “... You think I’d know as often as I’ve done this for men… but it really is easier to get in and out of…”

 Once again assisting, Karen grunted, “... Maybe.  But doin’ a necessary is gonna be a pain… Men can just open and pull out.  Yer gonna go bare arsed to make water.”

 The lady blinked, apparently not realizing herself until it was said, “... That won’t be pleasant in the cold at all…”

 The ladies laughed together, and Catherine put on the next pair of trousers, this one a dove gray pair of wide-legged pants.  Jenny didn’t like them, but could tell right away that Catherine very much did from her expression and the way she held herself straighter as she turned to admire them in the mirror.

 “You want to get those, then?” She asked, wrinkling her nose.

 “No…” Catherine started to open them again.

 “No?  You liked those!  I could tell-- are they expensive?” Mary-Beth cried, “I can lend you a bit of money…  You looked so nice in them, really!”

 “They’re lovely,” The lady said, “but not as practical as the other pair.”

 “Get the ones you like,” Jenny told her, “These will do fine.”

 “I’ll get those others.” Announced Miss Schofield stubbornly.

 Karen looked at Mary-Beth and said, “... Keep your money, girl.  We’ll just let Arthur know…”

 “Oh!”

 Catherine looked over, “... Let Arthur know what…?”

 “Oh, nothing,” The blonde grinned, “just how you was mooning over these pants you didn’t see fit to get for yourself.”

 “... I don’t understand.”

 “Yes you do.” Jenny told her, tugging on the sleeve of her new coat hung on the wall hook.  The one Arthur had bought for her. It was a nice coat-- certainly worth some good money, with thick fur on the inside and around the lapels and collar.

 The reaction was immediate: Catherine flushed a dark pink from her hairline all the way down to what could be seen of her decolletage, “You will not!”

 Mary-Beth giggled.  Karen and Jenny couldn’t help but cackle wickedly.

 “There’s nothing wrong with letting a man treat you now and again, Catherine…”

 “I’ve found that very much depends on the man, Karen…”

 Batting her eyelashes, the freckled brunette said, “Oh, but Arthur’s a good sort…”

 Jenny rolled her eyes.  Karen scoffed, “Grumpy sort… but he does try to take care of us girls, I suppose…”

 The lady frowned at the three of them, “... I’ll buy these two then, if only so you don’t try and put any ideas into anyone’s head that he should get them for me.”

 “Fine,” Jenny laughed, “Is that you decided, then?  Can I go look at hats now?”

 “By all means,” Catherine answered, “Before the tailor wonders what we’re plotting in here…”

 “‘Ent roight fer a lass t’ware trousers.” Mac professed with all the blunt sagacity that could be expected of him at the bottom of as many bottles as he was.

 “My dear, Mister Callander,” The pale-eyed lady sighed, “where were you ten minutes ago when I was being harangued by these brigands?”

 “Wot?”

 “Nevermind,” Laughed Miss Jones as she sashayed herself over to the bar next to the drunken outlaw, “I wouldn’t take any advice from this fool.”

 “You hush, wench!” Scolded the man, “‘Ent roight, oi say.”

 To be fair, the nature of the looks Catherine was getting were a little different from the usual.  Though she was often turning every head in any place with her looks and gracious mannerisms, it was clear her current apparel was giving them something to chew over they didn’t seem to much like the taste of.

 “... If it’s all the same to you,” She said quietly, “... I’d rather we were on our way.”

 That Mac didn’t answer, and his brother hadn’t even looked over a second time from his poker game in the corner, made clear that they weren’t for leaving any time soon.

 Jenny didn’t often turn down a drink, but she was eager to get back to camp and see if Lenny had come back from his ride south, looking for leads. “Yeah, alright.  We’ll go, then. Miss Jones? Miss Gaskill?”

 “I’ll keep an eye on these two,” The blonde replied, waving over the bartender.

 Mary-Beth fidgeted a moment before letting out her breath, giving Catherine a hopeful look, “... I should head back too.  Miss Grimshaw wanted me earlier for something…”

 The lady was, as ever, quick to catch on, “Best come with us, then.  I’ll just have to let her know you were helping me.”

 Miss Kirk knew that they were betting on Susan’s good opinion of Miss Schofield to come through as it usually did-- the lady had a way with her, there could be no doubting-- but she didn’t put much stock in the old nan-goat’s ‘good opinion’.  Susan Grimshaw was a moody old bitch, and with the camp’s opinions turned against Catherine, Jenny suspected that the girls’ reliance on her to get them out of trouble would only get Catherine in more trouble.  Already she could hear the harsh voice cracking out about how ‘Miss Schofield fancies herself a lady with maids to help her spend up all their money’.

 Nevermind how the money had been earned by Catherine herself.

 Out by the hitching posts, the two more-experienced thieves mounted up while Catherine checked her leathers.  She’d grown even more strict about it since some mysterious incident where her latigo and one of the headpiece leathers of her bridle had needed replacing-- fortunately, more than one man in camp knew how to cut and stitch leather to suit, and there had been spare hide around.  Apparently finding everything in order, she too mounted up and they were on their way.

 “It is strange how that happened…” Miss Gaskill observed, “your bridle and your latigo…”

 Catherine shrugged, “Bad luck, I guess.”

 “Maybe,” Then the curly-haired brunette looked at her, “... How do your trousers feel in the saddle?”

 “... I’m not sure I want to say,” Was the answer with a grin, “as I’d rather not listen to Jenny’s ‘I told you so’s the whole ride back.”

 “Ha!  I did tell you so!  They ride nice, don’t they!”

 Susan had an earful for them when they got back.  Something must have happened, for she was in a temper, and could find pleasure in nothing.  Tilly had apparently rushed off in tears and was in hiding somewhere after being on the receiving end of the matron’s sharp tongue most of the day.  With new victims, she was quick to scold Jenny and Mary-Beth for being gone so long, for leaving Karen behind, for returning without the men, and for letting all the chores pile up.   Catherine quickly came to their defense, and though Susan quieted long enough to hear her, her hands were firmly on her hips and a scowl deep in her face.

 When Miss Schofield was finished, the camp boss informed her sharply that if she wanted to be treated like a proper lady, she ought to dress like one.  Laughing at this, Catherine said that wearing trousers didn’t make her less of a lady.

 “Ladies don’t wear such things.  You look foolish.  How can anybody take you seriously-- I don’t know how you can expect me to!”

 “Well,” Catherine smiled, “if the way I dress dictates my treatment, will you treat me like a man, Miss Grimshaw?”

 Mary-Beth slapped a hand over her own mouth.  Jenny didn’t bother and cackled loudly before catching sight of Lenny and heading over.  The old nan-goat was still gaping at Catherine’s retort.

 Behind her, Jenny heard Catherine call loudly in a sugary tone, “What do you think, Mister Morgan?  Do I still look fine?”

 From her peripheral, Jenny saw Arthur staring openly alongside Hosea where they had apparently been discussing something.  The big outlaw chuckled and shook his head, either bashful or embarrassed or both, “... Miss, you could be wearin’ a potato sack an’ still look fine…”

 “... Your idea?” Mister Summers was saying quietly, taking her hands with a smile, clearly hearing the victory in her laugh.

[kindofwriter]

Feat. a supernatural circus, 19th century Paris, and a face you never thought you’d see again

A request from someone feat. their really cool characters [more details after the story]. Thanks for the request and sorry it took so long!

-

A soft hand shook Amelie’s shoulder.

As she stirred, unfurling from beneath the blankets, Amelie tried to recall whether she’d actually been asleep or had simply been roused from a stupor. She couldn’t recall falling asleep; instead it felt like she had spent the past few hours floating in oblivion. It was dark outside the window, but in winter months the sun set long before Amelie retired to bed.

Perched on the edge of Amelie’s bed was her father, candle holder in hand. In the flickering light she could see that he was dressed in a heavy coat and top hat which obscured his eyes. He smiled, drawing his lips into a line without baring his teeth.

“Amelie,” he whispered. “Réveille-toi.”

“I’m awake, papa,” she responded quietly. “What is it?”

“We are going somewhere special.” Placing the candle holder down on the bedside table, Amelie’s father gathered up an armful of material and laid it on the bed: her mourning dress.

Pushing the covers back, Amelie was immediately swarmed by icy air. She hesitated to don the dress, it hadn’t been worn since the funeral, but her father was also swathed in dark fabric. She slipped it over her nightdress.

Her father’s eyes flicked between the full moon that hung outside the window and Amelie’s shuffling movements. His stance was relaxed, slouching almost lethargically, but the bite of his voice and apprehension in his eyes gave away his need for haste.

Amelie combed her fingers through her hair and tied it into a black ribbon, then turned expectantly to her father.

“Allons-y,” he murmured, retrieving the candle and extinguishing the flame without, as it seemed to Amelie, a single breath.

Clinging to her father’s hand, Amelie was swept through the house, unfamiliar without the glow of gas lamps. Moonlight spilled through the windows, casting weak shadows that Amelie hesitated to step into, but her father seemed immune to the darkness. He guided her effortlessly to the front door, stepping out into the street with a confidence Amelie hadn't seen in a while.

Amelie’s father was a school teacher. He was kind, softly-spoken, and, after the death of his wife, had adopted the macabre fashions of the British aristocracy. Despite his winter coat giving his shoulders a substantial bulk he wasn't an intimidating man; his presence was almost ghostly.

The streets were quiet, caught between closing hour at the bars and sunrise, when merchants began to deliver their merchandise. As they approached the centre of Paris the roads gradually became illuminated with street lamps, and more frequently apartment windows glowed with light. Amelie drew closer to her father as a drunken man stumbled off the pavement, but he continued, unperturbed.

They crossed the Seine, peering down into the writhing water below. There was a flicker beneath the surface, something silvery and quick, but it was gone before Amelie could get a proper look. Her father had told her all about the marine life that inhabited the river: it was probably a European smelt, or Atlantic salmon. Amelie wasn't a whimsical child, she didn't even entertain the idea of mermaids.

As they continued along the side of the river the Eiffel Tower loomed, a midnight vortex against the murky sky. The base of the tower, however, seemed to glow. Not brightly, or warmly, but with a dull light reminiscent of dusk.

This seemed to be where Amelie’s father was heading, and as they drew nearer Amelie saw that the light was emanating from a tent, tucked beneath the tower. Its fabric - black and white stripes - dulled the piercing beams of the spotlights inside.

The tent itself was like none Amelie had ever seen. It was void of posters, and guy ropes, and, it seemed to Amelie, a top. The tent stretched up through the centre of the tower, far higher than Amelie could see in the darkness. It was twisted and lopsided in places, though showed no danger of collapse.

The surrounding grass was littered with carriages, though lacked sufficient horses to pull them, and each one was pained black and crimson red. They were all deserted, curtains drawn shut; without a soul to guard them.

Amelie’s father guided her into the tent.

It was cold inside, colder even than it had been outside, but still Amelie prickled all over with an uneasy heat. The atrium of the tent was dim, the only light source a crack in the curtain that lead into the main tent. Shadowy figures bustled around, carrying scenery, hoops, and chunks of paraffin. There wasn't light enough to make out their features, but their silhouettes seemed ever so slightly misshapen; ever so slightly not human.

Amelie brushed it off as tiredness and stuck close to her father, letting go of his hand to cling to the tails of his coat. He wove through the pressing crowd with ease, his attention uncaptured by their strange surroundings. It seemed as though he was searching for one particular person, and nothing could deter him from this.

A sudden flare of light caught Amelie's attention. Turning her head, she saw that someone had cracked open the curtain, allowing light from the main tent to flood in. Haloed by the glow was a young girl.

She allowed the curtain to drop a little, lessening the blinding light, and Amelie got a good look at her features. A tangle of hair folded into something resembling a plait fell down her back, and matted to her forehead was a pair of welder’s goggles. Beneath the goggles her eyes were white. Her skin was a ghastly green, littered with sores and held together with rough stitches.  Between her chapped lips was clamped a fat cigar.

Amelie blinked. The girl, this thing, had to be a trick of the light. She had never seen anything like it in her entire life. It had to be stage makeup. Or some horrific nightmare.

“Que?” A shout from the girl startled Amelie. “What are you looking at, little girl?” Her cigar flopped against her lower lip as she spoke.

Amelie found herself at a loss for words. She looked to her father for guidance, but found he wasn't there. He stood near the curtain, deep in conversation with a tall, slender woman.

Amelie began to work her away towards him.

“Yes, you better run away, little girl,” the girl snarled after her. She gathered up her frilled dress and pushed back through the curtain.

Amelie heard her father’s words before she reached his side. He spoke softly and firmly, head ducked so he could see his companion below the rim of her wide-brimmed hat.

“… Je sais, I know it's dangerous. But I know she'll want to see her. And Amelie-“

Amelie tugged on he father’s sleeve.

He cut his sentence off quickly and stooped to pick Amelie up. “Amelie! Viens ici! You have not seen your aunt since you were a baby.”

From her new vantage point Amelie got a better view of the woman, her aunt. Her hair was obsidian black and fell in one straight wave to her waist. Her lips were painted red, a stark contrast with her pale skin, and held millimetres away from them was a smoking cigarette holder. In the darkness her skin took on a strange hue, almost pale blue.

“Oh, Amelie.” She smiled, but with her lips drawn tightly shut. “Quel âge à tu, maintenant?”

“Six ans.”

“Six? You are such a big girl now!” She laughed a toothless laugh. “Do you know that your father is going to be helping with the show tonight?”

Amelie looked up at her father. “Oui, papa?”

“Ah,” he chuckled, “oui.”

A low, rumbling drum sounded from the main tent. Her father’s head jerked up.

Amelie’s aunt reached out to grip his arm. Her fingernails were long and coated in a layer of the night sky. They sunk into her father’s coat.

“Sit Amelie down,” she murmured. “I will meet you later.”

Her father brushed aside the curtain and Amelie was blinded with a stunning glow. Four huge limelights were positions on top of frames, all directed at the sandy floor of the ring. Rising up on either side of the pair was the metal frame supporting the stalls, beneath which was a deep, impenetrable darkness. Amelie turned her attention to those occupying the stalls instead.

She immediately turned away again.

A man, or more accurately a creature, with a misshapen face sewn together with rough stitches, had stared right back at her. One of his eyes was bloodshot and swollen; the other socket was empty.

She turned rapidly to her father, but another strange creature in the second row caught her attention. It’s face was ashen, cracked, and as eagle-like features. It looked as thought it belonged on the roof of Notre-Dame.

With a quick glance around the audience, Amelie decided that she was dreaming. Beings like this - sharp teeth, pitch black eyes, snouts like a wolves’, legs like a spider’s - belonged in fairy tales, not in reality. For as long as she could remember, Amelie's father had told her stories about the uncanny and supernatural. He didn't read them from books; it seemed as though he'd committed them to memory. But he also stressed the fact that Amelie should never go looking for these creatures; that they were things of fiction. She didn't even believe in Papa Noel.

It wasn't an altogether unpleasant dream, though, so Amelie allowed herself to be seated in the stalls. With a caress of her cheek, Amelie's father left her alone, causing an all too realistic pang of longing. Seeking comfort, Amelie turned to her neighbour, hoping to be offered a friendly smile, but when the woman turned her head her face was smooth and featureless. Amelie stared down at the ring.

Gradually the limelights bearing down at the sand were covered, quieting the audience and darkening the ring. A singular spotlight remained, centre stage.

Behind the ring the curtains parted, shedding some light on the obscure silhouette that lurked behind them. The figure stepped forward until it lingered at the edge of the limelight and - no, it couldn't be, but who else? - Amelie recognised the familiar features of her father. His clothes were sharper, complete with frills and red trimmings. His top hat was taller and wrapped with a length of the same crimson silk that lined his suit. It was now pulled so low that his eyes were obscured from sight.

When he spoke, his lips didn't move.

“Bonsoir, mesdames et messieurs,” he rumbled, in a commanding tone Amelie had never heard him use, not even in the classroom. “It brings me great pleasure that you have all journeyed to be with us tonight.”

He started forward, then looked down into the centre of the ring. “No pedestal?” A smirk flashed across his face. “That is not a problem.” Then Amelie’s father took a single step up onto the air. There he stood, perfectly still, as if supported by a pedestal. The audience granted him the standard applause, but no one seemed as awe-struck as Amelie.

Her father chuckled. “An old trick, non? You want to see something more mysterious. Something grander.” Amelie found herself with the sudden awareness that the big top was growing darker and darker, until everything but the solitary beam of light seemed opaque. “Something more… magical.” Gradually soft, glittering lights emerged from the darkness, banding together into formations that weren't unlike constellations. Amelie reached a hand out and allowed the stars to run through her fingers. They tickled like feathers.

“But-” With a click of his fingers the darkness lifted and the stars winked out, “Enough from me. Without further ado, I would like to introduce les jumeaux acrobates!”

The limelight flickered out and when it returned it was focused on a spot near the bigtop roof, where a leotard-clad woman stood on a platform. Amelie waited for another limelight to illuminate the parallel podium, but none such came. Instead, the light simply split into two identical globes… at the same time as the acrobat split into two identical people.

Amelie gawked as the second acrobat began to twist, contort, and shrink inwards until she was no longer a person but a small, colourful bird. The bird fluttered to the next platform of the ladder, followed by a limelight all the way, where it gripped the trapeze in its talons. Then it tossed it back down to the second acrobat who, by the time the trapeze drew level with her hands, seemed to be made of the night sky.

A star-speckled hand snagged the trapeze from the air and it whisked the acrobat out over the ring. She tucked her knees and hung them over the bar, dropping backwards with her hands extended towards the floor. The trapeze continued to swing wildly.

Now high above the centre of the ring, the bird began to transform again, feathers smoothing and fading to become a dusky blue skin until she was almost identical to her twin. Then she began to plummet.

Instead of swinging in to save her, as was customary, her sister simply allowed her to drop past.

Amelie held her breath.

She drew nearer and nearer to the floor, but now something was happening to the other acrobat. Her arms became elongated, stretching towards the floor - and her sister. She caught her effortlessly, centimetres from the ground. The audience roared with applause.

The second acrobat was catapulted up to another trapeze up by the platform, then they proceeds to perform a fairly standard routine. However each time one of the acrobats flipped from one trapeze to the other they transformed into different shapes; a summersaulting seal, a leaping leopard, a minute moth flickering across the limelight, only its shadow visible to the audience.

The scenes unfolding before her seemed surreal, but the emotions Amelie was experiencing were far from dream-like. Excitement bubbled in her chest like a brook, and each time a performer almost fell, no matter how confident Amelie grew that their partner would catch them, her heart plummeted.

When the pair stood in the centre of the ring and took a final bow Amelie stood with the rest of the audience, cheering and applauding violently. She felt dwarfed by the towering adults around her, but she wasn't afraid as she had been when they'd entered. This was just a dream. A wonderful, surreal, realistic dream.

The ring went dark.

Through the darkness Amelie heard a high, metallic screeching, moving from the back of the ring to the centre. It slowed, halted, and a blue-filmed limelight suddenly filled the bigtop.

In the ring was Amelie's father, head bowed and hands clasped behind his back. To the side of him was a cuboid-shaped object shrouded in navy cloth and placed on a trolley. Steadily, Amelie’s father raised his right hand, and as he did the cloth rose to reveal a water tank and-

Oh! That was the same iridescent silver Amelie had caught a glimpse of in the Seine!

The silver scales lined a long, sleek tail which was connected to the torso of a beautiful, silver-skinned woman. Her hair was knotted with seaweed and her nails - more like talons - ingrained with mud. She looked to Amelie as though she was a mermaid; that is until she opened her mouth.

The siren’s teeth lined her mouth like a picket fence; viciously sharp and pearly white.

A quick glance around told Amelie that her father had vacated the stage and the act was about to begin.

The siren opened her mouth wider, separating her ghastly teeth, and blew gently into the water. Three bubbles floated to the top of the tank, but as they reached the surface of the water they began to transform. The first because a small crab, which scuttled its way through the air towards the top of the big top. The second because a puffer fish, and the third an angel fish.

A few meters above the tank the bubbles popped, and as they did each emitted a beautiful, clear musical notes.

And with that, the siren began to sing.

She blew bubbles in quick succession, each one transforming into a different sea creature and each one forming part of a melody. Some of the music Amelie recognised from the ballet, or from her father’s piano playing, but other tunes seemed utterly foreign to her ears. That was strange, Amelie had thought dreams were only capable of mimicking real-life experiences, but she thought no more on it. She was mesmerised by the show.

When the final song was over Amelie raised her hands to applause, but the audience were still holding their breath. A drumroll trilled throughout the tent and a spotlight was directed at the platform, where a man in a trench-coat stood. He removed the trench-coat and Amelie gasped.

The man had no eyes. No lips. No features at all. No skin, in fact. He was merely a skeleton. And one that defied physics at that, because instead of collapsing into a pile of bone he took a leap from the platform and dove towards the siren’s tank.

To Amelie’s horror the siren unhinged her jaw and prepared to swallow him whole. As he flew past her knife-like teeth Amelie suddenly wondered how he had lost all his skin to begin with. She shuddered.

For a moment the stage was still, and Amelie feared they had just watched the live demise of a poor skeleton, when he burst through the curtain and into the ring to take a bow with his partner.

Amelie looked over at her father, who winked. He’d obviously had some part to play in this.

As the ring was cleared a disembodied voice announced that the next act would be the finale. It seemed like the show had barely started, but Amelie noted that the tent was beginning to glow softly; outside the sun was rising.

A huge, patterned canon was rolled onto the stage by Amelie’s aunt, who in the light did in fact have blue skin. When she awoke, Amelie thought, she would ask her father if he actually had a sister. She thought she would quite like to meet her, having just lost her mother.

Amelie’s aunt smiled, grinning widely for the first time, and revealed two sharp, elongated canine’s. “Please welcome to the ring, mon bebe, le boulet de canon humain!”

The curtain was thrust to the side and through it barrelled the young zombie girl Amelie had encountered earlier. Now her goggles were pulled down over her clouded eyes and a helmet was wedged over her tangled hair. In lieu of her cigar she chewed on her lower lip with rotten teeth.

“Ladies and gents,” she announced with a strong Parisian accent. “Are you ready for an explosive show-stopper? The act you’ve all been waiting for?”

The girl hopped up onto a box in front of the canon. “I recommend you cover your faces if you don’t want to get covered in decomposing flesh.” The audience chuckled. “I’m just kidding! I know you guys love it!”

Grabbing the top of the canon, the zombie swung her feet inside and wriggled her way down. Her mother took hold of the barrel and, with surprising strength, pointed it towards a hole Amelie hadn’t noticed in the big top roof. Removing her cigarette holder from between her lips, she lit the canon.

On a whim Amelie hid her face. The explosion echoed around her head.

When she opened her eyes again little had changed, but a charred arm was half-buried in the sand at the side of the ring. Outside the big top there was a loud thud, then a shout, “Someone get my arm!”

The audience whistled and cheered loudly enough to wake the dead.

A moment passed and the lights dimmed, gentle music beginning to swell. Amelie squinted to see what was happening, but could only make out misty wisps in the ring. No one else in the audience seemed to be reacting to the music. The curls of smoky substance grew, rising and writhing until they took on the familiar shape of a woman. Amelie watched with equal parts awe and scepticism as the shifting figure became more defined; features hardening in the mist.

Two fistfuls of Amelie’s dress were clutched in her hands. Her throat tightened. She was aware of uneasy mumblings among the audience. Out the corner of her eye Amelie caught sight of her father; slack-jawed, frozen with fear.

It was a year since her mother had died. Consumption. A month before her death Amelie’s father had locked the bedroom door and forbid Amelie from entering. “She wouldn't want you to see her like this,” he'd said.

Amelie had understood, but Amelie hadn't listened. At night she had taken the key from her father’s beside and snuck into the room. The air had been thick with death.

Amelie had crept over to the bed and peered down at her mother’s sleeping form. Her lips had been blue, stained with red. Her skin had been ghostly pale.

Unsure of what to do, Amelie had stood frozen by the bed.

Every moment she expected her mother to stir, launch forward and startle her, but she didn’t. She just lay there, as if she was already dead.

Eventually Amelie had gone back to bed.

The next day the coroner arrived; her mother had died in the night.

Thinking back now, Amelie couldn’t recall whether she had seen her mother clinging to life or freshly arrived at death. She couldn’t recall whether her chest had heaved up and down or pain still. Whether her eyes were closed in sleep or death. She didn’t know if she wanted to recall.

Now, suspended before her in the air, see-through and ghostly and shrouded in mist, was Amelie’s mother.

Amelie rose; stepped tentatively towards her then stopped. She was too scared and too hopeful. Too unaware of the fact that this was a dream, obviously a dream, clearly a dream, because if it was reality Amelie knew she couldn’t deal with that kind of pain.

Her mother beckoned, translucent hand reaching out for Amelie. She found herself moving forward again, but not consciously. Her legs seemed to be forcing her forward without her consent of her brain.

In her peripheral Amelie was aware of shouting, screaming, actually. Her aunt, across the ring at her father. But her ears seemed dull to the words and all she could do was keep moving forward.

Almost there now. Amelie reached her hand out, fingertips almost touching her mother’s and-

“Arrêtez! Faire quelque chose! Do something!” Suddenly Amelie could hear again: her aunt. And her father was by her side, tears in his eyes, arm shakily outstretched above his head.

Amelie gasped and tried to take a step back, but she was frozen.

Above her head, capture mid-fall and held aloft by her father, was a limelight: huge and heavy and perfectly poised to crush her.

“Que tu fais?” Amelie’s father demanded, dropping his gaze from the limelight to stare right at Amelie’s mother. “What are you doing?” His voice shattered. His whole body shook with the strain of keeping the limelight from crashing to the ground.

More figures joined them in the ring. Amelie’s aunt and the young zombie girl, now sans one arm. She was smiling still, and once again chewing on a smouldering cigar. She held her solitary hand out to her mother.

“Stick me.”

“Are you sure, ma petite? It is risky-“

“I know what I am doing, mon dieu. Stick me.”

The vampire removed her hat, and from the bowl removed a thick stick of purple dynamite. Amelie panicked, more desperate than ever to back away, but she was still frozen stiff.

The zombie lit the dynamite on the tip of her cigar.

Amelie tensed. She glanced her father, in case this was the last time she would ever get to see him. “I love you,” she thought to herself, because she was unable to say it aloud.

Then she looked to her mother. They locked her, her mother’s now a soulless grey, and  single thought forced its way into Amelie’s mind. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Je suis désolé. I’m sorry.”

“Goodbye,” Amelie thought.

Then the dynamite exploded.

-

Amelie awoke in her bed, blankets spread across the floor and water glass spilt on her bedside table. She felt hot and tingly, overrun with emotion from some kind of nightmare. She recalled a circus, and her father dressed as a fancy ringmaster, and her mother’s dead body rolling towards her like a ghost.

With tears pricking her eyes she rose, tiptoeing across the landing and into her father’s room. He was sat by the window, clad in a dressing gown and reading.

“Papa, I had a nightmare,” Amelie whispered.

“Ah, Amelie,” he responded softly. “I am sorry. Venez ici. It’s nearly morning.”

He opened his arms and allowed Amelie to curl up on his lap. As she lay her head on his chest she noticed something. Hung on the back of her father’s door was an intricate suit complete with frilled lace and lined with red. Atop the hook also sat a top hat, not trimmed with her father’s usual black silk, but with red. It looked almost like… a ringmaster’s costume.

Amelie closed her eyes and pretended it wasn’t there, because to acknowledge that it was meant acknowledging that her father was a magician, that supernatural creatures stalked the night, that siren’s swam in the Seine.

Because acknowledging that it was there meant acknowledging that her mother had tried to kill her.

-

Thanks for reading! The circus setting, the siren and her partner, and the zombie girl and her mum (as well as their acts) are all courtesy of the requestee :) I’m sorry that it’s missing a few aspects of what you asked for, but it’s over 4k words, I really couldn’t add any more! Sorry!

[drabbleitout]

Chapter 4: Clowns to the Left, Jokers to the Right

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Myghal was starting to wonder what “Ira having a good time” entailed.

Yet, the more he thought on it, the more he realized it was probably for the best he didn’t know. Either way, being in a tavern wasn’t on the list.

Ira disregarded the crowded bar and sat them by the back window, away from mostly everyone else which took the skill of a true misanthrope considering it was packed. The table they found was barely big enough for the both of them, in the corner, and near the nook entrance of the kitchen. The smell had Myghal’s stomach growling.

Ira was leaned back in his chair, hood on and boots cross on the window sill. His hands fidgeted with one of the thin sleeve darts that Myghal discovered were sewn into the hem of his cloak. It twirled between his fingers with careless elegance. The only bit of his face visible was his usual unimpressed frowning mouth.

“Anything I can get you gents?” a young boy in an apron asked, pausing briefly with a tray of drinks hoisted on a shoulder.

“I’ll have the chicken.” Myghal offered him a smile but his face changed as little as Ira’s.

“With the neeps and tatties?”

“Uh, yes?” Myghal had never heard of either of those, but it was enough of an answer as the barhand looked to Ira.

“And you?”

He didn’t as much as offer a snarl. The barhand turned away towards another table. The small tavern was a tight fit in the muddy village outside of Galenia. Smashed between a cobbler and a candle maker, it was the only main attraction.

“So, who should we ask first?” Myghal rubbed his hands together.

“About what?” Ira growled.

“About the dragon. That’s why I wanted to sit at the bar, to get elbow to elbow with locals and see if they’ve heard any rumors.”

“A dragon?” Myghal jumped as a chair clattered down at the other side of the table. It was spun about allowing the tall woman dressed in a vest and slacks sit with her arms draped over its back. She had devious eyes, lips pulled into a crooked grin from under her wide-brimmed cavalier hat. “Name’s Kee,” she offered a hand out to Myghal.

“Nice to meet you,” He shook it, “I’m Myghal.”

“And who’s this charming manifestation of midnight dangers?” She boldly stuck her hand towards Ira, leaning across the table.

“Get any closer and I’ll take it off at the wrist.”

“Heel boy,” Kee laughed, settling back into her chair. “You’re an odd pair, ay? Not from around here, that’s for sure.” She nodded towards Ira’s boots. “Asking about a dragon, what’s that then?” She gave her attention to Myghal, situating on his side of the table. “You really looking for dragons?”

“Yeah, have you seen any?”

“Gods, I need a drink.” Ira murmured, twirling to his feet and slipping off. He stepped behind a patron and disappeared into the crowd.

“No’ alive, anyway.” Kee had turned to watch him go but kept speaking. “No one’s seen many of them since, gads, a hundred years ago? May I ask why the interest?”

“It’s a long story, but we need one of their eyes.” Kee stared at him, eyes blank as if she had just entered a room and completely forgotten why she was there. Her brow knitted, head tilted, and she came back to herself with a scowl.

“Just its eye?” He nodded, “what kind of goon wants a dragon’s eye? You making something?” she laughed, glancing over her shoulder. “Are you in with the Jakes? Making some of the drugs?”

“No. We need it for… well—”

“Hazewash.” Ira announced, both of them jumping having not heard him return. “Here, no one else seemed to worry rats were eyeing it,” he slid a plate of chicken and two piles of mashed mysteries to Myghal before flopping down in his chair. The dark wine in his cup hardly sloshed. Kee eyed him, glancing to Myghal as she leaned back in her chair.

“You’re no’ making hazewash. You’re no’ a witch.”

Ira hummed, kicking his feet back up in the window as he took a sip. Myghal stared down at his plate, sure he recognized one pile of mush as potatoes but wasn’t sure of the other.

“Hazewash needs a dragon eye? Don’t believe it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you study at the Imperial Court of Faraday?” Ira had lost his bite and was now condescendingly acidic. “Myghal took up the spoon that was shoved in the potatoes, unsure how he was supposed to use it on the chicken, but chiseled at some of the yellow pile. “By that choice of hat, I’m going to go on chance and say no.”

“No’ a witch.” Kee matched the hateful smile, “But something tells me neither are you.”

“Myghal,”

“Hmm?”

“Am I a witch?”

“Yeah. That’s why you wear that creepy cloak.” He tried what he guessed were the neeps, and instantly smiled at Ira. “They’re turnips.”

“Would a guy like that lie to you?” Ira thumbed at him, peering over his glass at Kee. “I need to make hazewash for my exam.”

“Trying to get into the Emperor’s entourage, ay?”

“So badly.” Ira had that smile again.

“Do you know about any dragons, Kee?” Myghal used his hands to take pieces of the chicken. “We’d really like to know if you do.”

“Maybe,” she crossed her arms on the chair’s back. “Need some payment. How much you pay is how much I’ll tell.”

“Figures,” Ira sighed, glass resting on the table as he pulled his feet to the floor. “But if I pay you, and you don’t know where a dragon is, I will make you a public decoration at the main gate.” He said this as if explaining the weather. Reaching into his cloak he pulled out the smaller purse of coin, letting her see it. “Do you know where a dragon is?”

Kee sat there, eyes on the coin, silent and still. Myghal worried that she didn’t know. She clearly hadn’t known Ira, challenging him the way she did, but he feared her bluff had been called and was sure Ira would hold up his end of the bargain.

“An old man who works a mountain orchard west of here says he’s seen one near the top of the Barren Tips. Says it makes a ruckus on the full moon.” She went quiet again, stare locked on Ira. He set the coin between him and Myghal, leaning over taking a swipe of potatoes on a finger.

“What do you think? Sounds like a tall tale to me.” Myghal watched him sit back, surprised.

“That actually adds up some.” He paused in thought, making sure he remembered correctly. “The Ophtenka always attacked on a full moon, so if there is really an orchard farmer, and he says it makes noise on the full moon, that sounds right.”

“What’s an open..penka?” Kee’s face soured.

“Witch talk –mind your half of the conversation.” Ira ate the potatoes off his finger, scowled and leaned in on an elbow to whisper. “You think she’s telling the truth?”

“Yeah.”

“So, we shouldn’t kill her?”

“We shouldn’t kill anyone.” Myghal glanced around.

“You said your name was Kee? What do you do for a living, Kee?”

“I’m a witch, as much as you are. But on days off, I’m a smuggler.” Her feet took her weight as she leaned over the table, “But the only part Imperial you are is as stolen as that coin you’ve got. Just like them hawk feathers, ay?” She gave a humming laugh, “Hawks were outlawed after the Empress was murdered by a Hawker. Ain’t no one in the Empire going to have you wearing hawk feathers.”

The air grew cold.

Ira pulled off his hood to give her full view of the feathers and his glare. Pressing back his chair he leaned closer, locking eyes and lowering his voice.

“You lost your leg in the siege, didn’t you?” he tilted his head with a nod to the floor. “Foreigners didn’t go quietly when you took their homes, did they? Riots tend to get out of hand even for the Imperial Guard. But you did what he asked because you were his good, little soldier. And he liked that about you, so he enchanted you a leg, didn’t he?” There was something sour about the sweetness in Ira’s tone, like poisoned nectar. “You were important, so he had you fixed up with a metal limb that almost feels right.”

Kee’s eyes narrowed, the smile melting from her face into something hurt and angry.

“But it wore on you. Those people did nothing wrong and you know that. But you thought it was behind you, that he wouldn’t ask anymore from you. And you were wrong,” Ira nodded. “He kept asking and you had nothing more to give. So, you ran. You ditched. You abandoned your post. And, now, he wants his leg back.”

“You’re not from the Empire, are you?” Kee hissed, rising to slide her chair away. “You’re not with the Imperial Court. You’re an assassin. You killed Empress Sarika, didn’t you?” Myghal pressed his plate aside at Ira’s glare, feeling as if he were watching two dogs; hair hackled, teeth bared, ready to fight. “Are you the Hawker?”

“How would you like the left to match the right?” He pulled at his dagger, Myghal shoving it back into the sheath.

“Alright, enough.” He placed a hand on Ira’s shoulder never seeing his eyes so dark. “We have our lead on a dragon. Let’s pay her and go.”

“What do you think they’re going to do to you when they find you?” Kee ignored the glare and Myghal.

“I have a pretty good idea already. And I’m sure when they get that leg from you it’ll feel the same. He won’t forget about you. He won’t give up and let you go. He can follow that magic like a dog to scent. If I were you,” Ira slid the coin purse towards her, “I’d find someone else to enchant it. Lose the scent and the hounds.” With that he stood, tossing his hood back on. Myghal followed him to the door, regretting looking over his shoulder finding Kee behind them.

“Well, you’re a witch, aren’t you?” She exited as they reached their horses.

“Let’s just go,” Myghal whispered. Ira turned as he freed Berma.

“Now you want to believe me?” He shook his head, mounting as she scurried down the steps. “You’re a maze of turned around ideas, aren’t you? An Imperial turned smuggler.” She shushed him, making a short, swiping motion in the air.

“What if I take you to that old man with the orchard, help you find that dragon?” She had steel nerves, grabbing Berma's tack as if that had any control over horse or rider. “Even if you don’t know enchantment, you’re a witch, you know someone who does, right? Maybe we can strike a deal.”

She was crafty, head tilting with a fearless smile. But, just as shocking, Ira hadn’t pulled away or moved Berma. He checked over his shoulder to Myghal. If she knew as much about the farmer, and where he was, she was their best lead. With a shrugging nod, Myghal saw no reason as to why she couldn’t help out.

“If there is an orchard farmer, and if there is a dragon, and if we get the eye, I may be able to help you.” Ira managed to still sound threatening. But it didn’t hinder Kee, grinning as her hand reared back giving a sharp clap against his leg. Ira jolted, lips pursing.

“You’re a belter! What do I call you?”

“Rook,” Ira  gathered the reins, backing Berma away. Kee’s face went slack, watching him with a faint sway in her stance. Ira motioned down the road, “we're following you, smuggler. It’s a deal, remember?” She glanced to Myghal, as pale as if she had just seen death. Almost tripping on her own feet, she hurried over to untie a brown quarter horse.

“Right,” she hopped on, moving the hanging rapier to get both boots in the stirrups. “Galenia isn’t far. We can find him there.” Her horse paced anxiously, turning one way and then another before she directed them down the road.

“You could, you know, not scare everyone.” Myghal shook his head as Berma passed, Ira grinning ear to ear.

“I could, but where’s the fun in that?”

“Looks like you picked a busy time to show up,” Kee called back, almost lost in the chatter of the crowd around them. The walls blocked them from the sun, Myghal taking the chance to steal a glance up to the battlements were guards paced. They were towering, sandstone walls, banners of red fallen from each crenel like draped tongues. Each was embroidered with an extravagant but clear design of a crown.

The deep rhythm of drums bloomed into a mixture of swaying strings and the joyous chant of voices. The traffic also slowed. Sunlight spilled down from the other side of the arch, a group of young women throwing fistfuls of yellow and orange blossoms into the crowd. Large strips of fabric had been hung from one roof to another over the road, providing shade and decorating the sky with the theme of warm tones.

“Welcome to Galenia.” Kee had to yell to be heard, riding beside Myghal.

“Is it always like this?” He laughed, glancing over as someone tapped his leg. He was passed a single stemmed, orange daisy. The little girl who had given it to him giggled before rushing to the person behind Nepi, giving them one as well. “Thanks!” He called back, unsure if she could hear.

“Not always this busy, no,” Kee answered as he turned back. “This is the Festival for the Mother of the Empire. It’s a spring thing,” she waved at the air as if searching it for something. “It’s the biggest celebration of the year.”

“Mother of the Empire?” Myghal glanced ahead to make sure Ira hadn’t left. Berma was in front of them, the dark pink flower standing out from his black cloak. “Is that a Goddess?”

“No,” Kee laughed. “Well, depends on who you ask. She was the Empress, the Emperor’s wife.”

“Who was killed by the hawk?”

“You’ve got it. But this is a celebration of her life, what all she did for the Empire. She was a beloved woman.” Another shower of petals fell over them, “You couldn’t find a living soul in the Empire who disliked her. She looked out for the poor, the lesser off, and kept her husband in line. After she died,” Kee shrugged, “they were forgotten again.”

“So, why would anyone want to kill her?”

“I said inside the Empire. Outside of the Empire, any Imperial is an enemy. My guess is they wanted to start a war. Which would’a happened, if the Emperor knew who killed her. That’s why there’s such a high reward on the Prince. You find him, you can find who’s responsible. The Emperor would probably make you a Lord for that.” She knocked the back of her hand against his shoulder, “There, that’s Empress Sarika!”

She pointed ahead, to a fountain inlaid in the side of a building. Myghal leaned in search of a person, a reenactor, or a tomb, but found a statue. Traffic slowed to an almost halt as everyone paused to look or bow. They inched along, chatter lowering to silence.

The large statue was of a woman, realistically carved of brown soapstone, seated above the elongated fountain of white tile. Berma slowed to a stop, Ira twirling the flower between his fingers before tossing it into the pool. It floated alone among the babbling ripples. He stared at the face of the Empress, people moving around him as he took his time. Then, just as slowly, he lifted two fingertips to his forehead, bowing and dropping the salute in a low hook.

If Myghal hadn’t seen it himself, he wouldn’t have believed it.

Berma moved along and by more habit, Nepi strolled up to take their place. No one else threw their flowers, placing them instead on the fountain wall or at its sides. Myghal dropped his with the others, finding himself lost in studying her face. She was thin, chin lifted with a strong jaw and a sleek nose. There was something about her, familiar, as if he had seen her somewhere before. Had she visited their council? Was she an ambassador? Had he seen her among their elders?

In a daze he pressed his fingertips to his brow—

“What are you doing?” Kee grabbed his wrist, tugging it away as she nervously laughed, “Are you trying to pick a fight?”

“What?” He nudged Nepi forward as she pulled at him. “What did I do?”

“Saluting like that. Don’t do that. The guards will think you’re mocking them and you’ll get tossed out.”

“It’s a salute?”

“You just do things without knowing what they are? Yes. The Emperor's salute. It’s supposed to mean loyalty in thought to the Emperor, but no one but the guard really use it. Unless you’re trying to pick a fight.” She laughed, nudging him with an elbow. “Civilians don’t do that, so… don’t.”

“Oh, alright.” He stared at Ira, wondering what it meant. If he hated the Emperor, why salute the Empress? Or was it as sarcastic as his entirety? Was that the reason for tossing his flower as he did? Even as loved as she was by everyone, did he hate her as much as the Emperor?

Leave it to Ira to hate a motherly, charitable person.

“The farmer always sells on the square,” Kee moved up beside Ira now that the traffic had thinned. People swept into open stalls and shops, road splitting off and widening. “He’s the only one with apples so he’s not hard to miss.”

Myghal was still stuck on Ira, the salute, the Empress. He couldn’t make sense of it –not that he had any luck before in unscrambling the shadowy conundrum of the cloak and hood. He was like distant stars in the sky, to look directly at them you saw nothing, but watch from the corner of your eye and there he was.

“Myghal,” he stopped at the stall, not remembering getting down from Nepi. Ira stood beside him, eyes darting to the owner in signal. It finally caught up to him that they had been discussing the dragon.

“You’re sure it’s a dragon?” He asked, hoping it was congruent to the conversation.

“Pretty sure,” he was so old and thin Myghal wondered how he brought his apples down from the mountains. “My grandfather used to tell me stories of the dragon on Barren Tips. He was a sheep farmer, you see, like his father and them. Used to eat his flock. I was smart and grew apples. Dragons don’t eat apples.” He laughed at this like a tireless joke.

“What was that you said about the full moon?”

“Oh, I hear it. All screams and barks like nothing I’ve ever heard. Saw it once, was pretty sure.”

“What did it look like?”

“Great winged thing. A shadow, with a long neck and tale.”

“Antlers? Horns?” Myghal asked gaining a scowl. “Was it long and thin, like a serpent?”

“No. Great and big, like a dragon. No bird or snake like it. Far too big.” Ira looked at Myghal, expecting and waiting for a verdict.

“It doesn’t sound like an Ophtenka,” he glanced to Kee who took a step away. Ira grabbed her sleeve with a blind snap. “But, that doesn’t mean it’s not a dragon. It can’t be far if he lives near it –no offense,” he gave an apologetic glance to the old man, “but if he brings apples to town he can’t live far from here.”

“You can get there by nightfall,” the old man patted Myghal's shoulder. “And it'll be a perfect night for it!”

“Of course,” Ira grumbled, “It’s a full moon.”

“Oh…” Myghal hadn’t considered they’d have found their lead so soon, and possibly a fight for their life to go with it. By the idle pause, Ira seemed to be considering the same. “Well, we better stock up.”

“You’re in the perfect place for that.” Kee reassured, passing him a sympathetic pat, “I’m sure you can find everything you need here.”

“Then let’s hurry up,” Ira sighed. “If we need to get there by nightfall we don’t have a lot of time to waste.”

“Want me to look after the horses? You’ll be able to get what you need a lot faster.”

“You?” Ira scoffed.

“I’m not going to run off with them! We had a deal, remember?” Offended she snapped at him. “Besides, I know who I’m dealing with. Heard enough bedtime stories about you.”

“It will be easier to go about this crowd with out them,” Myghal gave Nepi’s reins over to her. Ira remained cemented in place,

“Where am I going to take them, to the Emperor?”

“Give me your sword.”

“What?! No!”

“We trade until we’re done.” Ira held out a hand, egging her on with a wave of fingers, “My horse for your sword.”

“Be glad he isn’t asking for your leg.” Myghal shook his head. With a dramatic sling of her head she turned, unfastening her sword and handing it over.

“If you trade it for anything, I will ruin you.”

“Charming,” Ira tied it to his belt beneath his cloak. “I don’t have to tell you what will happen if my horse goes missing.” He gave up the reins and turned.

“What about Nepi?” Myghal smirked, “you’re not going to make a threat for him.”

“If something happens, you better hope you can keep up with Berma.”

Ira gave up on lecturing Myghal. It was clear he wouldn't listen, or refused to break any habit. He was going to do whatever he wanted, either way, and Ira concluded he didn't have the breath to waste anymore. If it was a real dragon they were facing, their chances of survival were slimmer than the rapier on his hip. He worried more over haggling for supplies. Myghal stayed out of it for the most part, or, rather, avoided it.

Ira noticed the way he busied himself with people rather than searching for items. At first, he assumed it was nerves, but later discovered it was more the way he was than anything. He kept drifting off, rushing out of line to find someone to interact with in the crowd. Someone’s dog or child. Almost getting himself killed to catch someone’s falling tower of packages. Helping an old woman reach what crowds wouldn’t let her access.

Every time Ira turned around, Myghal was in someone else's business.

"Ira," Myghal leaned over his shoulder, whisper a worrying contrast to the bustle. "Can I have a few coins?"

"What did you break?" Ira expected to turn and find Myghal frowning but found a gentle smile instead. He had those bright eyes, excited and warm. Ira slipped a few from his purse, barely setting them in Myghal’s hand before he darted off.

Finishing with buying enough rope, Ira stepped aside to search for him. He noticed Myghal at a stall further down the road, buying food. It was odd considering Ira had previously gotten enough to last them to the mountains and their possible trip back. He had also just eaten. As to why he bought an apple, a slice of bread, and jerky, Ira had to know.

What is he doing? He decided to follow Myghal who hurried off in the other direction. He left the square. He left the market. He left the festivities ending up in a quieter, older area of the city. Backstreets became dirt instead of brick. Windows shuttered or boarded. And everything reeked of urine. Myghal trotted on, winding his way down to an alley that looked more fitting for dumping a body than a lunch break.

Ira slowed, slinking towards the alley entrance hearing voices. Pressed to the wall he peered around the corner.

Myghal had found a pile of garbage, some thrown out table that had become a kingdom of strewn forgottens. Crates, broken barrels, tattered sheets, and countless bottles. He was crouched before it, opening the linen his goods were wrapped in. Tearing off a bit of bread he held it out towards the garbage pile. Rage boiled up, Ira starting to wheel around the corner, when a small, dirty hand drifted out from the rubbish.

"It's alright," Myghal smiled, head tilting as he watched them. "Aren't you hungry?" He leaned closer.

The little fingers snatched it from Myghal's hold, retreating into their hovel. He chuckled, as warm as ever, tearing off another piece. "See there?" Another hand reached out, larger, thin and frail. A woman leaned out from the pile, wrapped in rags with a sunken face smeared in dirt. "Here, there’s plenty."

Myghal didn't scowl or flinch at their condition. He didn't grimace if their hands accidentally touched. He didn't even belittle them in his offering with fake smiles or pity in his eyes. His smile was genuine, completely him, and it only brightened as he offered jerky next. "This will last longer. Go on, you can have it."

The mother stared at him, wide eyes beginning to run with tears as her shaking hands took the food. Her son emerged from his thin blanket, sniffing heavily. A child, mostly bone, his keen eyes caught sight of Ira and looked.

Staggering back from the corner, Ira pressed his back against the wall. He didn’t understand. Growing up on the streets of Felmire, no one had ever given him a scrap of anything. People sneered and kicked as if he were some mangy, wild animal when he was just a boy. He had seen people drop scraps to rats and care less than allowing any street urchins to have it.

Yet, Myghal... Myghal used his share for strangers.

If Ira had met Myghal sooner, would his life be different? Better? Was now too late? He leaned his head back against the wall, letting the air out of his lungs and shutting his eyes. Did it matter now? Scraps and smiles wouldn’t do them any good facing down a dragon.

"I know you're mad," Myghal was there, pleading. "But just take it out of my part. I've still got some left, and I can cover the extra. I'll take an extra job. Maybe someone needs some firewood cut around here or something." Ira grimaced trying to clear his thoughts, like mentally swatting flies. “I know the coin won’t last forever, but if a dragon is anything like an Ophtenka we might not even have them time to spend—”

"I'm not mad." The words came out gradually, one at a time, opening his eyes to stare up into the blue sky.

"Wait... you're not?"

"No," Ira wanted to say something more. Something about what Myghal had done, but he wasn’t even sure what he would say. Or, really, what he even felt.

"Are you sick?"

A chuckle broke from Ira, helpless and biting, "Yes. I am."

"Do we need to go find a doctor?"

"Don't worry about it." Ira stepped off the wall, huffing as Myghal pressed him back against it. The smile was gone, eyes dark and brows low keeping a heavy hand against Ira's chest.

"What's wrong?" It was a strange way to sound caring, low and dangerous.

"Nothing."

"It's something. Are you really sick? You don't have a fever do you?" The hand moved up to Ira's face, trying to check. He panicked, a twisting, bolt of a feeling shooting through his chest. Knocking Myghal's wrist aside he slipped away.

"It’s nothing! I was… worried. That’s all. You ran off and I thought maybe you saw that smuggler take off with our horses.” Myghal didn’t let the stare go so easily. It took him a moment to give in. “I’ve got enough, I think. At least for if we don’t survive this.”

“Let me have that.” Myghal took the bag with an effortless tug, shouldering it. “If you’re sick, the last thing you need to do is haul all this around. Dead or not, if we’ve got to fight this thing you need to be at your best.” A finger prodded into Ira’s chest, that dark look still in Myghal’s eyes. “If it gets worse, we call it off.”

“What? No. Myghal, I’m not really sick.” Ira scoffed, following him. “Are you listening? We’re getting the eye. I’m not waiting anymore.”

[officialleehadan]

Unspoken Words

 The crash was what woke her, and Reinette sat upright in bed, looking around to see what could have caused it. Only she and her mother lived in the huge house, although there were a couple workers who came in once in a while.

The sight of someone in full armor laying on her bedroom floor, soaking wet, was not what she expected.

Not sure what to do, she held very still, trying to decide if she could make it to the door or not before he, she thought it was a he, could make it to his feet.

On the plus side, he probably wasn’t dead. Hopefully. She thought.

He was breathing, anyway.

Slowly she edged out of her bed and towards the door. Before she could make it, he struggled upright, brandishing a sword she hadn’t seen before. His eyes were hidden behind his visor, but it wasn’t hard to see that he was deciding whether or not she was a threat.

Not knowing what else to do, Reinette raised her hands so he could see she didn’t have any weapon and tried to look as non-threatening as she could.

He coughed painfully with one hand curled around his chest, just over a huge dent in his breastplate. His armor looked well-made. The sword he had certainly was. Water poured out of the cracks in his armor and left a growing puddle under his feet.

Now that she considered it, his coughing sounded like the kind that usually followed an unexpected, and unpleasant, swim.

She couldn’t quite tell, but she thought maybe he was bleeding too, which probably wasn’t helping matters.

“It’s okay” she said softly for lack of anything better to say. What could she say? There was a man in wet armor brandishing a sword in her bedroom. “I’m not sure where you’re from, or how you got here, but it’s okay. You’re safe here.”

After a long moment, he let the tip of the sword drop almost to the floor and seemed to relax a little before saying something in a flowing language she didn’t ecognize.

“I- I don’t understand what you’re saying,” she told him uncomfortably, and considered her options. There was a translation app on her phone. If she could figure out what he was speaking, she might be able to translate.. “Let’s try- let’s try and find something else. French? No? Okay… Romanian? German? Hebrew?”

It was hard to tell, but she thought maybe he was confused by her barrage of different languages. After a minute before he replied with a couple of phrases that sounded different enough that she thought he was trying out his collection of languages too.

Unfortunately, nothing sounded even the slightest bit familiar. Talking would have to be off the table, at least until she found some way to get him dry, probably bandaged, and hopefully out of the armor.

The sword wasn’t going anywhere, and she would have to be okay with that.

He tensed up when she climbed out of bed, but stepped back to give her room. She smiled up at him in a way she hoped was reassuring.

The first order of business was getting him somewhere that was at least a little more suited for dealing with mystery men in full plate armor. Since language was out of the question for now, she pointed at herself, then him, and then to the door.

Time to relocate and hopefully, maybe, find out how a knight in full armor landed in her bedroom.

It was unnerving how quiet he was as she led him through the house. Amor was supposed to be noisy stuff, but all she heard was the occasional cough, and muffled footsteps against the hardwood. Even her own bare feet were louder.

Maybe it was time to start considering magic as a real option. The impossible things were adding up in a hurry.

The laundry room was a beautiful, glassed-in room that housed not only the laundry, but also Reinette’s collection of sprouting plants for the garden, and a well-stocked first-aid kit.

When you lived on a working farm, injuries happened sometimes, and not all of them were bad enough for a doctor. Now it would have to be good enough for this as well.

When she turned back around, the knight was fumbling with his gauntlets in a decidedly frustrated way.

Figuring he could use some help, armor usually took more than one person to manage, Reinette offered her hands in the universal sign of ‘gimme’. He hesitated before offering his own, turning them wrist up to show her the series of tiny buckles holding each gauntlet on.

As she went to work, Reinette kept up a stream of soft chatter.

“Wow, I see why you couldn’t get this off yourself,” she said as she tugged at the buckles. “These are pretty tight, but I guess you weren’t planning to be out of this stuff any time soon. Maybe you have a girlfriend or a squire back home who helps you when your battles are over.”

When she managed to get the tight little buckles undone, she tugged the metal plates off, only to reveal leather gloves under it that looked to have some padding sewn into the back. His voice caught her attention again and she looked up. With his un-armored hand he pointed at his helmet and repeated himself.

“You want your helm off?” Reinette asked, pantomiming taking off a helmet. He nodded, and held very still as she puzzled out the clasps hat held the complicated helm onto the rest of his armor. It really was a fancy set, all made of heavy blackened steel with a silver-etched lion on the chest.

When she managed to lift it off and set it aside, she looked up again to meet a pair of green eyes set on the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

“Well at least now we can see each other. That’ll make things a little easier,” she commented, suddenly shy now that she was faced by an actual person, and not the fearsome helm. “I wish I could figure out your language. This would be a lot less complicated.”

The knight only smiled and tugged his glove off so he could undo a tie holding a second hood, this one padded like his gloves. His hair turned out to be gold-blonde and as wet as the rest of him, and he sighed in relief once the hood was off.

After giving him a moment, Reinette pointed at his other hand and he let her help him get the second gauntlet, and the glove under it, loose.  

Reinette was glad he had decided to cooperate with her, because he had to be as strong as anything to wear a suit of armor like that one and still fight, or even move.

Hopefully that wouldn’t be a problem. His sword was still well within reach, and while he seemed to be behaving himself, there was always the chance for that to change.

He was still coughing once in a while, and she wondered if he had broken ribs. Once she lifted the heavy breastplate away, she was sure of it. The silver lion was badly marred by a serious dent that must have nearly killed the man housed under it.

It was a risk when she leaned forward and carefully felt over his ribs. After a lifetime of animal injuries, and some people injuries, she knew how to tell if a bone was broken, or just badly bruised.

When he nearly lunged out of the chair under her questing fingers, she knew that bruises were the least of their worries.

“Relax and breathe,” she told him firmly and fixed him what she hoped was a determined stare. “These are broken and need to be wrapped. I wish I could take you in to a doctor, but that seems like a terrible idea.”

Between them, they managed to wrap bandages around his ribs, punctuated by the occasional hiss, and once, a sharp word that was definitely a curse.

In his defense, he muttered something after that Reinette thought was probably an apology for the language. She only smiled and finished bandaging him up.

When they were done, she sat back on her stool and considered him.

“My name is Reinette,” she said, and pointed at herself when she had his attention. Intelligence glittered in his eyes, and she thought he was listening as closely to her chatter as she was to his occasional words of direction. “Reinette.”

“Reinette,” he parroted back to her, and bowed his head lightly even as he pressed a kiss to her hand. The gesture was more one of practiced habit, but it made Reinette blush anyway. “Edion.”

“Edion. Okay, nice to meet you,” Reinette said, and wiped her hands on a towel. “I bet you’re dying for a wash and some clean clothes.”

 +++

Uncollected Fantasy:

Below the Fog

Glitter Bold

God-Touched Tide

Into the Darkness

Turn Me

Wolf Moon

Blood Moon

Hallowed Halls Memorial

A Kiss to Heal a Broken Heart

Cursebroken

Nothing but Trouble

Build a House of Paper

+++

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[winterscream4]

No Works and No Days (Part 1)

“Love me a good mystery! Tra-la-la!”

The toy soldier advanced forward, climbing over a cake of burned out Pal-Mals, layered with a crust of ash at the top.

“No one can stop me now! I am at the top! And the New York Ripper will soon be in my gr…”

“AHAH!”

Another toy soldier landed from the sky, his spruce green face crudely washed over with pigments of white. Black circles enveloped his eyes and red paint was smudged round his lips.

“No, my dearest Marlowe! The world belongs to me! You better Hyde up or play dead! Not even the devil himself, can save you now!”

“Damn you Hyde! Run back into the gutter where you dragged your stinking ass from! Pew! Pew!”

A third soldier figure arose from behind the ashen pile. Threads of black cloth had been crudely sewn round his torso, ending in a double tail meant to resemble a 19th century frock.

“Time for you both to face the Music! Your Meister has arrived! Your pathetic strife shall serve as fine material for my new sonata!  Ha-hah-hah-hah!  John Martin, you are nothing but a hack! As for you detective, I shall strike you on the back! KABANG!”

Ding-Ding!

Marlowe dropped his toys and rushed to the microwave. White fumes and the scent of crackling meats met his nostrils, as he dragged out what some may called a club-sandwich but what most cardiologists would call the back road to an early grave.

Six slices of bread, the first filled with bacon and cheddar cheese, the second with barbeque sauce and potato fritters, the third with tomato, pork sausage and ketchup, the fourth with mayo and chicken nuggets, the fifth with beef and sour sauce and the sixth with grated parmesan and two fried eggs. A gruesome pile of carbohydrates and animal fat, self-humorously named by and after its inventor.

The Marlowe Sub. Also known as the shortest possible route to the emergency room.

With that monstrosity in hand, Marlowe hauled his newly acquired twenty-pound-extra beer-belly to the dining table, where he rested on a night-sky themed chair, made in 1924 as a gift from Clara Winter, to her son Robert, a few months before she perished from pneumonia. Marlowe, had spent the last two years of his life in the Winter manor, first setting in the Fall of 2018, when he attended the funeral of Christopher Winter’s housekeeper, James Krumphau.

James was diagnosed with liver cancer the previous year but kept it a secret from everyone he knew, including Marlowe. Yet again the people James knew count scarcely be counted in the fingers of two hands. James was never exactly the socialite, having spent half of his life serving the Winter family and the other half, being Christopher’s right hand man during his Music Meister years.

The housekeeper was always nice to him, albeit a little distant. Marlowe had garnered suspicions, that there were certain dark spots in James’ private history, albeit he paid no regard to them for long. After all, since his 2012 brush with Martin and the Black Glove, the classic detective novel mystery of “Who’s the criminal” had been reversed into “Who isn’t?”.

Even if James had claimed his literal pound of flesh, by the time they met, he had become one of Marlow’s handful of allies. In retrospect, James was the one to inform him that Christopher had willed him the Manor and half his fortune on that 2013 night that came to be known since as The Storm of the Century. James was also the man, who facilitated Marlowe by providing him with the passwords for all the Winter-family bank accounts and trust funds, including the house in Wilbraham, where Marlowe discovered the existence of the Black Glove and the spawn of their abandoned experiments. In the ensuing years, Marlowe would even receive letters from James once in a blue moon, typed in a code they had pre-agreed upon. James would share a few notes about his routine, but for the most part he inquired on his welfare and progress in rooting out the organization that had destroyed the life of Winter and Marlowe alike. Upon hearing the news in 2018, Marlowe rushed back to Midvintersville, where he made arrangements for James’ inhumation. Marlowe was not surprised to find himself alone during the ceremony, lest for James’ Asian-American nephew Lee, who had apparently visited his uncle a few times during Marlowe’s hunt for the Black Glove. Meanwhile, James had apparently spent his last years in prosaic retirement, tending the Winter manor and its grounds, interrupted only by a short adventure involving a Pleistocene fossil, his nephew had drawn him into.  Upon its closure, Lee had gifted his uncle with a Chinese pine Bonsai, that James never failed to prune and water and love as if it was the child he never had.

No tears were shed during the funeral, just a merciless silence occasionally interrupted by the uncanny echoes of the maple leaves dancing in the wind, before collapsing on the freshly mowed cemetery lawn. A single line from Homer’s Iliad was read by the Catholic pastor, before the mahogany casket with James in it, was swallowed by the dirt.

Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men.

In the following day, when Marlowe read James’ will, he couldn’t do otherwise but take a moment to weep for James but maybe more so, for himself.  James had bequeathed his share of the Winter fortune to Marlowe and Lee alike, although the Winter Manor was left entirely under Marlowe’s custody. His sole request was for Marlow to care for the tree and be there for Lee should the need arise.

The little pine now rested against the oval window of the Winter Manor’s second floor ballroom. Marlowe would remind himself to water it each day, even when his ruminations became too self-consuming to let him rise from bed, he’d still force himself up to tend the Bonsai before burrowing under the sheets once more. Marlow had even employed the tree in reenacting vignettes from his life, using a vintage toy-soldiers set he had unearthed from the Manor’s old storage, that since 2008 had become the Music Meister’s center of operations. Under its upward pointing branches, lay three soldiers whose faces he had charred against the hearth’s embers and then placed in horizontal position, each marked with the label: Prospero, Driskull, Boisette. Three powerful men who sought immortality, and left mountains of bodies in their efforts to achieve it. And yet the last beheaded the rest and he was in turn penetrated to death by the very man whose cruelty he envied. A much coveted eternity, cut short by the razor-sharp fangs of a monstrous always.

Marlowe often starred at the pine’s, fallen needle-sharp foliage, drying and dying and rotting over the toys representing the inhumane leaders of the Black Glove. And he would often take pleasure in the thought, that his actions, in part, made sure that men like them deserved to have no place on earth, or beneath it.

Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men.

 The once detective, now close-to-obesity recluse, however had little clue on how to care for anything living. Youtube channels on botany and gardening tutorials came to be of great help, teaching him the delicate arts of trimming, soil enhancing and of course, the spiritual and medicinal value of plants across human history.

In his early days at Winter manor, Marlowe attempted to dig deeper into plants, immersing himself into books about foraging and gathering as well as the transcendental aspects of the natural world, he found in the pages of Henry Thoreau’s Walden. Marlowe even attempted to conduct Thoreau’s experiment for a while.

In early 2019, he had moved to a tightly-spaced lodge not far from the Manor, where he spent his days, wandering across the forested lands surrounding the property, ensuring the well-being of James’ child as well as the much larger: mountain planes, black spruces, white oaks, balsam firs and the bonsai’s towering cousin, the white pine. His diet consisted solely of wild apples, grains, dried nuts and a variety of fungi, weeds and berries like the newly sprouting cattails he’d heat and serve with dandelion and purslane toppings, and the salty morels he’d sizzle on the campfire with elderberries and meadowsweets. Sumac and dog-rose teas became his daily refreshments, while his wonderings provided daily inspiration in the shape of new discoveries of various shapes, size and species.

Alien-looking British Soldier lichens, multicolored lady-slippers and processions of various insects and parasites growing out of severed tree stumps were but a few of the curiosities he’d encounter as the woods themselves seemed to come alive throughout spring. Vireos, wobblers, whippoorwills and the occasional grouse, would often surround his lodge for scraps, while in the still of some King’s Country summer nights, a barred owl would descend like a shadow of times long past, a demon-winged silhouette against the silver moon, snatching the avian visitors away from the camp and into scalpel-like talons that promised an one-way trip to the spectral realm. Marlowe witnessed it in full only once, yet he did not fail to see the semblance between the majestic and terrifying grace of the ancient bird and the thing he had seen John Martin transform into, a few years ago.

Reflecting upon that night’s experience, Marlowe started putting bizarre sketches into paper. While finishing the lines of two shadows, facing together at an endless ocean formed of teeth, gloves, hats, scarves and corpse-baring owls, he felt a sharp pain cutting across his stomach. At first, Marlow lifted his flannel shirt, glancing at the ten-centimeter line of still healing flesh, outlining the area below his ribcage. Marlowe gnarled as memories of Stephen Boisette slicing right through him with a double-edged saber, gifting him a scar the size of a pencil, were returning. The Alchemist, the Black Glove’s personal bulldog. The man that framed him for the murder of a girl at Cambridge all those years ago, turning him into England’s scapegoat for a decade. The man who gloated after his mother’s death from cancer. The man that got an inch away from sending him to join her. Now dead, by Martin’s dick and teeth. Served him well.

But the ache returned, stronger now, more penetrative.

His gut began turning ferociously as Marlowe crawled on his knees, pushing himself to and fro against the moss-covered stump of a severed birch.

The last thing he remembered when he woke up in the E.R., was dialing 991 and watching a cauldron of bats with a barred owl, savagely screeching at their tail, breaking away from the canopy and into the evening sky.