#all i did was screech over your brilliance

[letters-unsending]

No. 37

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There’s a new Superhero in town and Hero, now demoted, is trying his best to handle the change.

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Before the battle, Hero pressed his ‘super’ pin into Superhero’s palm. The insignia was bronze, but the edges were buffed into a brassy shine from years of pressing it as it sat on his chest, reminding himself in metal grooves his duty to his city and fellow heroes.

“Hero, this…” Superhero curled his hand around the pin, considering Hero with a deep breath, “this is incredibly kind, but I do not want to take this from you. You earned this through many years and I have just begun to lead.”

Superhero went to uncurl his grip, but Hero stayed his movement, folding both hands over Superhero’s fingers.

“Do not think of this as a gift, then,” Hero said, “let it be a weight you must bear.”

“I do not-”

“Please, Superhero, this is more a consolation for me than it is for you.” Superhero already had a pin, gold and gleaming on his collar, and Hero swallowed, squeezing Superhero’s hand one last time before stepping back. Behind Superhero, the other heroes began to file into the room. Hero stiffened and started past Superhero.

“Thank you.” Superhero called to Hero’s back.

Hero paused and turned his head, smile brief but gleaming. His next words were lost to the crowd piling in and Superhero watched as the heroes enfolded him into their mass with happy touches and exclamations of reunion.

////

Jealously curled up his spine as ardently as wonder filled his chest and left no room for breath. Hero sunk back into his seat as Superhero gave his final address to the Organization Council and inclined his head, giving thanks to his audience as if he did not deserve their attentions, as if he had not held them hostage with his brilliance.

After a stroke of silence, the room erupted with praise. Hero did not join the clamor. Instead, he stared at the maps and charts behind Superhero, recalling the masterful plan he had proposed. Hero had known of Superhero’s strength and brazen courage—he’d witnessed it with equal parts terror and fascination on the battle field—but to find his mind was just as sharp and ruthless left Hero reeling.

When they first announced Superhero would be taking his place, Hero was furious. Furious that his men would have to follow a fresh-faced upstart that knew nothing of their city. Furious that they all would suffer due to the Organization’s misplaced confidence in a man who only had brute strength and fame to offer.

But that heated fury was only bitterness now, a slow-acting poison that stirred in Hero’s gut with each successful mission Superhero led. Hero smarted each time his heroes turned toward Superhero in admiration and wondered if it hurt more because he admired Superhero just as much.

“Hero.”

Hero blinked and found that the room had emptied. Scattered paper and pens were all that remained of his coworkers. His own notepad laid rumpled and creased in front of him, so full of scrawl he’d penned notes along the margins to keep up with Superhero’s presentation.

“Sorry,” Hero’s chair screeched back as he stood, “I was lost in thought.”

“Did you have any issues with the strategy?” Superhero asked, nervous though he had no right to be.

“No,” Hero stuffed his notes into his bag, “you—it was brilliant. More than brilliant.” He began to round the table, but Superhero stopped him with a hand at his shoulder. He’d seen that hand crack ship hulls, but there was none of that force now, only a tentative curl of fingers, a weight so slight that Hero wished it heavier.

“Hero,” at his name, Hero tensed, “I want us to be allies. You know this city and organization more than I could ever wish to, and I would appreciate your counsel. I do not want to be alone in this.”

Hero clutched his bag to his side and turned toward Superhero in disbelief. “You have thousands in your command. How could you feel alone?”

“Do not confuse my meaning. I care for every person I lead, but I do not need more followers. I need someone to contest me.” He cleared his throat. “I am terrified by the power that has been given to me and you are well acquainted with it. I just need someone to speak to who is not obligated to listen.”

The bitterness, the acid, welled up from Hero’s stomach and onto his tongue. He loathed the sag of Superhero’s shoulder and the openness in his eyes; this emotional underbelly was too soft to strike. At first, Hero had desperately sought for weakness, for error in everything Superhero did, but now that it was offered up before him, he felt no pleasure at the prospect of tearing in. He looked down.

Superhero’s chest held two pins: one tarnished, one glinting gold. Hero sighed and mirrored Superhero’s hand, placing his own on Superhero’s shoulder.

“You’ve taken my position with much more grace and skill. I believed you to be beyond the want of my help.”

The tension in Superhero’s shoulder bled out beneath Hero’s palm. “I would be a fool to deny help where it can be given.”

“Then you are wiser than me,” he patted Superhero’s shoulder before stepping back, retreating from Superhero’s slight smile.

////

Hero staggered into Superhero’s tent on a freshly bound ankle and slumped onto the rug beside Superhero, splaying himself before the fire. Superhero shifted, frowning at the papers crumpled in his lap. The red light from the fireplace brightened the blood splattered across his neck and darkened the furrow in his brow as he turned his cheek away from Hero.

At his expression, Hero collected himself. He tucked one knee in, but as he attempted to pull in his injured leg, his ankle throbbed and he settled it back down with a shaky breath. Bristling, Superhero turned toward him.

“You should still be with the medics.”

“It’s a small break,” Hero pulled a bag of ice from his pack and dropped it over his ankle, “and I’m still superhuman, even if greater powers such as yours exist. I’ve always healed quick.”

“You shouldn’t have been injured,” Superhero sighed, setting his papers aside.

“Better my broken ankle than your pierced liver.” Perhaps lunging off a building to ward off the spear aimed at Superhero was not the wisest course of action, but it had been the quickest. There was no harm done except for the sickening crunch of bone, tendon and his own pride as he crumpled behind Superhero with a groan.

Superhero leaned forward and skimmed his fingers across the Hero’s shin. Between his rolled pant leg and wrapped foot, the skin was purpled and swollen, and throbbed in ticklish pain as Superhero’s hand wrapped gingerly around it. The animal part of him wanted to kick the touch away from his wound, but Superhero’s profile was severe, so he leaned further back on his palms, stomach folding and breath shallowing.

A thin film of ice crackled out from Superhero’s palm, delicate as a fly’s wing. Hero would have laughed at the incredulity of it if not for the gentle retreat of Superhero’s fingers. Why, he’d seen Superhero turn rippling lakes white. He’d seen him render flesh dark and dead, but almost as soon as his touch left, the ice had begun to crack and melt, trickling cooly over his welt-hot skin.

“You are a wonder,” Hero breathed, “truly. I could not even begin to use my power as finely as you have.”

Superhero dropped his hand into his lap, staring at Hero with raised brows. “Do not undermine your power for my sake.”

“I am telling the truth.” Hero replied, spreading out his fingers and calling fire to his skin. It burned a low, deep red but still encased the entirety of hand and the bone of his wrist. “This the smallest fire I can summon. What you did would be like commanding smoke and I have only seen it done by the masters who have taught me.”

Superhero cowed at that, shoulders hunching, “and yet, even a spear can take me unawares.”

“It did not take you. I was there.”

“I did not ask you for your friendship so that you could shield me.” Superhero muttered, staring at the blistering fire and ice melt pooling around Hero’s foot.

“Any hero, friend or not, would do the same. And you, you would do the same for me. I have no doubt.” Hero reached and placed his hand over the twin insignias on Superhero’s chest. Beneath, Superhero’s skin bloomed with feeling and warmth, and he half wondered if Hero had chosen to burn him instead.

[racingtoaredlight]

More non-oboe stuff after the jump...

This guy starts this video of going "if you put 10 musicians in a room, and asked them who the greatest living musician, more than one would say Keith Jarrett."

And if you're an occasional peruser of this noble blog, you'll know that I am one of those. I've said it many times over, to the point where I've had numerous "Keith Jarrett spells" over the lifetime of this place.

This is another great example of just how brilliant of a musician Jarrett was in a prime that lasted about five decades. The clip he's alluding to is below, and while it might not seem incredible on the surface, let me tell you...as a musician?...it reveals a depth of knowledge and skill that has few peers.

What we have here is another of Jarrett's many improvised performances. Completely off the cuff, no preparation.

But what's special about this one is his left hand. The technical term is "ostinato," but most musicians call them "vamps." He's changing the dynamics in his left hand, but aside from that, he's using the same repeating riff the entire time to improvize off of. Without ever dropping it, missing a note, missing a beat, lagging, pushing...

Half of his brain is as perfect as any machine. The other half is improvising. Do you have any fucking idea how hard it is to control two parts of your brain distinctly, yet harmoniously, like this?

Then there's the speed at which he's playing all this. If you watch the first vid, you'll notice the host saying he's going to TRY to play a simplified style of his...and does successfully...at about half speed.

This technicaly brilliance never once overshadows the beauty of the piece or obscure any melodies the audience can latch onto. Which is the point of all technique...to make the music better, not the process.

I didn't even intend to write about this either...I got diverted when looking for the other Keith Jarrett brilliant clips I wanted initially. But it was a good diversion...

And since I've got two videos left in my limit, so lets to a quick breakdown of a couple licks of his that are just jawdropping...

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1:19-3:20 or so

The incredible lick I want to focus on occurs at 1:48...but you gotta hear how he gets there, and then where he goes from that. The melody comes in at 2:16, sneaking its way into the overall piece...almost an afterthought after what Jarrett did as an intro here. Just insanity.

But listen to that incredible lick at 1:48 again a few times. Listen to it as a whole, then try to focus on each hand individually and try to pick up the different patterns each one is executing. Combined, it's a cascading staircase of beauty...but when you look in more detail, you see that each hand is working independently, and the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts.

***

2:19-2:40

First off, this clip gives you a great example of "Keith Jarrett, vocals." Yes, he moans and screeches and grunts really loudly while playing...after awhile, you tune it out because the piano is so brilliant. It's just...one of those...things. Listen, I don't like it any more than you do, ok?

But that lick at 2:30...whoooboy...that's why you're tuning in. Well, I should say, that's why you stick around.

When Jarrett does his funky grunting, it's really a sign of him desparately trying to find something in the music. He's searching, probing, trying to find that spark...

And then you hear him find it at about 2:27. The rest of the band is following his lead, plodding along with him...you can literally feel this shit change at 2:27. That one little grasp of something undefineable...and when he kicks into full gear, the band follows suit immediately.

Listen to how this little "footing finding" at 2:27 springboards into that absolute buttfucking monster of a lick at 2:30...these things don't happen in a vacuum, improvisation has context. After this? The rest of the song is absolutely cooking...but they had to find their way through a little darkness first.

Here's a good link breaking this lick down. It's a real mindfuck of a lick, man. Like, I've learned it on guitar, and my brain is telling me there's a distinct pattern here...but I can't find it when I break it down. I have no idea where he pulled this from, no idea how he logically came to put it together...and that right there is a sign of a great lick.

***

That's it for today.

[365runesoftheamalgamations]

Find The Words [ 16 ]

Thank you to the lovely and adored @lockejhaven for leaving us with a tag! You can find her response right here! :D

Our Words: decade | sketch | brilliance | bottle | blue

Tagging: An Open Tag; if you see this and want to, tag us and answer the tag! I would love to see your words and your works! c:

Your Words: format | study | photograph | species | jewel

Decade(s) | Old & Forgotten Works

They hold the winds in their hands, which should be more than enough to kill more than a fair share of the King’s Guards. The thought makes him shiver a little, the phantom sensations of the winds rolling over his face and through his hair. He remembers all of the lessons that his tutors drilled into him, all of the texts explaining the decades of instability within the Realms of Magicks. Nothing holds truth to what he laid witness to.

Sketch(es) | Old & Forgotten Works

She takes a small breath, lets her brain fill the blank canvases she always stares at before she paints. She nods once the canvas is there, tiny dots of her plan forming like sketches before she throws the paints onto it. Her focus holds steady to Melissa before she takes a small breath and immediately internally screeches as loud as she can imagine. But Melissa doesn’t react, at least not to the scream that Emma can somehow sense echoing in her head as it empties itself. Everyone in the classroom seems to react to it, but Emma knows that it isn’t her scream that brings everyone’s attention to one point. Ash, who Emma had momentarily forgotten about, had slammed his chair back, his hands slamming over his ears as he yelps.

Bottle(s) | The Plague Begins With Me

“Looks like the Raiders found our spots. The peroxide is empty and everything is doused in blood.” Zero tenses with the words, sparks of anger coming with Damien’s choice curses for the idiots. Raiders were more stupid than a Sleeper, and anything they didn’t take, they sabotaged without a second glance. She steps forward to look through the bottles herself, finding most of them either dumped unceremoniously onto the ground or cuddling with blood in their containers.

Blue | A Knight's Honor

He waits for a beat, focus lifting to see slight courage hold themselves in blue eyes before the Lady is bowing herself, hands extending to hold the books to him. The Knight straightens, confusion raising a brow as he stares at the books. “My Lad-” “I have brought you reading material! I did not mean for such insults, I simply wished to share some of the stories I have been quite keen about, since I do not normally get to share them among the other Ladies!”

[clapperboardtalk]

TAXI DRIVER (1976)

Taxi Driver (1976): Where De Niro Goes Psycho in a Filthy Paradise

Strap in, cinephiles, for a dive into the grimy underbelly of 1970s New York with Martin Scorsese's neo-noir masterpiece, Taxi Driver (1976). Buckle up, this ain't your grandma's road trip.

Plot twist: This ain't your typical noir detective. Meet Travis Bickle (De Niro, channeling his inner psycho like a boss), a Vietnam vet and insomniac extraordinaire who navigates the city's moral abyss as a cabbie. Think neon lights, seedy characters, and enough urban grime to make a sanitation worker cry. As Travis spirals deeper into sleep deprivation and existential angst, the line between vigilante justice and, well, just plain crazy starts to blur faster than a disco dancer doing the hustle.

Genre bender alert! While Taxi Driver checks the neo-noir boxes (think shadows, femme fatales, and morally ambiguous choices), it throws in a healthy dose of psychological thriller, making you question Travis' sanity along with his cab fare sanity. Don't expect a clear-cut good guy vs. bad guy fight. Here, the darkness lurks within, and it ain't afraid to party.

De Niro's performance? Forget five stars, give him the whole Milky Way. The man embodies Travis' descent into madness with chilling brilliance. You see the sleep deprivation etch itself onto his face, hear the paranoia drip from his words, and witness the simmering rage finally boil over. It's a masterclass in acting, leaving you both terrified and oddly sympathetic.

The cinematography? More like grime-atography. Scorsese paints a portrait of New York City as a living, breathing organism, pulsating with neon fever and moral decay. The gritty close-ups, the claustrophobic car interiors, and the dizzying nighttime streetscapes all serve to amplify Travis' psychological turmoil. It's like watching a fever dream come to life, and honestly, it's kind of beautiful in its own twisted way.

Sound and music? Buckle up for an aural assault (in the best way possible). Bernard Herrmann's iconic score is a symphony of saxophones and brooding strings, perfectly capturing the film's unsettling atmosphere. The dialogue crackles with tension, and the sound effects - from screeching brakes to muffled gunshots - plunge you deeper into Travis' chaotic world.

Themes? Think alienation, violence, and the thin line between sanity and madness. Taxi Driver doesn't shy away from exploring the dark side of humanity, questioning the impact of societal decay and the potential for redemption. It's a film that stays with you long after the credits roll, making you ponder your own place in this crazy, mixed-up world.

My verdict? Four out of five stars. This film is a cult classic for a reason. It's not for the faint of heart, but if you're looking for a cinematic experience that punches you in the gut and lingers in your mind, Taxi Driver is your ride.

Bonus trivia: Did you know Robert De Niro actually drove a cab for a month to prepare for the role? Talk about method acting! Also, the film had a budget of $1.9 million and raked in a cool $28.6 million at the box office. Now that's what I call a profitable descent into madness.

So, hop in Travis' cab, but be warned, the destination might be darker than you expect. Enjoy (or don't)?

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Birthday!! I would love to see more of Ed as an alchemist in the Ishvalen War, pretty please! (The one from the last round of prompts)

a continuation of 1

They’re all assembled to receive Elric with the state alchemists front and center, which leaves Roy in the unenviable position of sandwiched between Grand and Kimblee. There’s a rapidly approaching glimmer in the distance that scouts reported to be Elric’s car.

“How does that thing even run in all this sand?” Kimblee mutters.

Grand would shout at him for speaking out of a turn normally, but apparently even he’s thrown off kilter by Elric’s arrival. “He modified it himself. Apparently.”

“How versatile,” Kimblee purrs and Roy twitches. Of course he and Elric will get along, because they’re both deranged, but personally he wants himself as far away from the two of them as possible.

Maes is right. He should stay away from Elric. There’s nothing about him worth seeing.

The car is close enough to be recognizable and it’s not slowing down. Several people shift uneasily, but Grand doesn’t order them to move, so they hold the line. Well, if Elric kills them all through vehicular homicide, at least it’ll be over quickly.

The car comes to a heaving, screeching stop in front of them, kicking up sand that lands on Roy’s shoes. A second lieutenant stumbles out of the back of the car, which shouldn’t be a surprise, except that Roy recognizes him. It’s Denny Brosh.

He clutches his stomach and moans, “Why do you have to drive like that?”

The person Roy would expect to least be in that car after Denny steps out of the driver seat. Maria Ross shakes her head and comes around to whack Denny unhelpfully on the back.

Maria and Denny were Armstrong’s subordinates. What the fuck are they doing here, with him?

“You think you’d be used to it by now,” a new voice says and all their attention is on the car door that swings open.

The infamous Lieutenant Colonel Edward Elric slides out of the back seat, standing and looking them over with impassive eyes.

The first thing Roy notices is gold.

The sun glinting off his hair and his eyes, highlighting them with the brilliance of a precious metal. Golden tan skin against stands sharply against military blue, and he should look ridiculous, he’s seventeen, only a few years younger than Roy, but the Lieutenant Colonel uniform fits him like a glove and he wears it like a birthright.

Roy is used to power. Roy has power. But even now, there’s something about Elric that’s different than the other alchemists he’s met. It’s coiled and dangerous, his stance that of a crouching lion right before the pounce.

He’s the most beautiful man Roy has ever seen. Clearly looks aren't everything.

“Never, sir,” Denny groans while Maria rolls her eyes.

“Lieutenant Colonel Elric,” Grand barks, “It’s an honor to meet you.” Fuck, this is weird. Grand outranks him, but no one’s under any illusions here. Now that Elric is here, he’s in charge.

They all snap immediate salutes. Elric returns it lazily, mouth quirked up at the corners. “Thank you, General. That’s very kind of you to say.” He shields his eyes against the sun and looks out. The Ishvalan city of Tsarr is just visible in the distance. “So, that’s it then? I’m assuming you have maps of the city. I’m going to need maps.”

“Yes sir,” Grand says. “Our weapons arsenal contains–”

“Don’t waste your bullets,” Elric cuts him off, “or whatever else you have. By this time next week, Tsarr will be gone.”

“Yes sir,” Grand says uncertainly, unable to hold back his frown.

Elric laughs. It’s not a nice sound. “You don’t believe me, but that’s all right. They never do. You’ll learn, just like they did.”

Just like Armstrong and Marco did, Roy thinks.

For a split second that predatory golden gaze locks onto him and he’s terrified he’s said that out loud, but then Elric turns away, continuing to speak with Grand as Denny and Maria trail behind him.

[fictionadventurer]

I like your post about the Hunger Games and agree with most of it, but I still think the love triangle was unnecessary and people are right to criticize it. Collins could have very easily written Gale as the best friend and Peeta as her main love (based on endgame choices) or vice versa I don't even care since I'm not a big shipper of either. But she did introduce the unnecessary drama that overall did not add much to the plot, and it only took away focus. So I think I understand that crit.

Once upon a time, I might have agreed with you. These are good books, important books, and we don’t need to defile this war epic by shoving in teenage-hormone love-triangle dramatics. Then I reread the series, and I was astonished at how, for the most part, the love story is inextricably intertwined with the action-adventure elements. You can’t take out the love-triangle elements without creating a very different book with a very different message. That love-triangle, far from defiling the war story, elevates it into something better.

It starts almost immediately in the first book. We see how Katniss has a deep friendship with Gale, something that could turn into romance, except that she doesn’t dare to go down that path. There’s no place for marriage, and definitely not for new children, in their broken world. She only has energy for day-to-day survival. And once Katniss goes into the Hunger Games, romance is definitely off the table. She needs to harden her heart and make no human connections with the people around her if she wants to have even the slimmest chance of making it back home to her family. In a lesser book, she’d be right–there’d be no goopy romance to distract us from the hard-bitten survival epic that the Hunger Games is supposed to be.

But then Peeta declares his love for her. Suddenly, she’s part of an epic romance on national television. She wants nothing to do with this strategy–love makes you look weak. (And doesn’t that sound a lot like people who criticize the YA love triangle?) But Haymitch counters that it makes her desirable to the audience, and suddenly the thing that had seemed so burdensome becomes necessary to her survival. She needs to play the game–and once they’re in the arena, she needs to figure out if it is a game to Peeta. Peeta has already shown himself capable of manipulating the emotions of all of Panem–is it possible that he’s manipulating her?

This is the real brilliance of the first book’s romance. It doesn’t distract from the main conflict–it is the main conflict. Like so many other teenage girls, Katniss asks herself, “Does this teenage boy like me?”, but in this case the answer is literally a matter of life and death. If he loves her, she can trust him to help her survive. If he doesn’t, he could kill her at any time.

By the time she finds out that his love is real, she has to fake romantic feelings toward him to draw in sponsors. Now she’s manipulating his emotions to survive, and she can’t hope to untangle what’s real and what’s fake in this manufactured mess of a reality show. But Peeta’s influence has shown her that love isn’t pointless in the Hunger Games–it’s the only way for them to truly fight back. She chooses love for Peeta–whether romantic or not–over her own life, and that’s the only reason that, for the first time in history, two victors manage to beat the Capitol at their own game. Katniss won not by being the best warrior, but by showing love. The love story wasn’t a distraction–it was the solution.

It’s only in Catching Fire that she has to deal with the consequences of that. She was willing to die for Peeta, but she’s not sure she wants to live with him, especially since their relationship started under such unreal circumstances. She’d much rather leave the Games–and Peeta–behind and return to the life she knew before. That life included Gale, and Katniss is, for the first time, willing to consider him as a romantic partner. If her romance with Peeta was fake, is it possible that she could have real romance with her best friend?

This is the point where the love triangle comes into full swing, and I’ll admit this is the book where it’s integrated most clumsily. It seems like Katniss is taking some unnecessary risks in pursuing a relationship with Gale, and the plot sometimes comes to a screeching halt so Katniss can think about her emotions. But even if the plot integration isn’t as smooth as it was in the first book, the thematic relevance of the love triangle is still spot-on. Katniss has to think about what she wants–cling to her old life or dive into this new post-Hunger Games world? Does love have a place in this world at war? And when we think about the question in that way, the sloppy integration of the love story into the main action plot is kind of the point. Katniss may be instigating a war, but she’s still a teenage girl. She still has emotions, but she’s being forced to hide or fake so many of them that she doesn’t know who she is, what she wants, or who she wants to be. How can she discover her identity, hold onto her humanity, in the middle of a war?  

Mockingjay is where we get the answer to those questions. With Peeta imprisoned in the Capitol and the war underway, Katniss is saved from having to make an immediate decision about her romance. She echoes every romance-hating fan’s thoughts when she says:

The very notion that I’m devoting any thought to who I want presented as my lover, given our current circumstances, is demeaning.

There’s a war going on! There’s no time for love triangles! But it’s only when she’s not being forced to pursue romance with Peeta that she can really evaluate her relationship with Gale–and she’s finding that it’s not as strong as she thought. When she needs advice, she gets it from Prim, not Gale. When she needs someone who understands the trauma of killing, she goes to Finnick or Johanna. Now that Katniss and Gale don’t have the shared bond of having to care for their families–who are kept safe and fed by District 13–they’re finding that they don’t have much else in common. Katniss is mistrustful of Coin, while Gale is part of her inner circle. Katniss kills only when she has to during the war, while Gale treats weapon design as a fun challenge. This exploration of their relationship isn’t a distraction from the main plot. They’re what make the main plot mean something. This is the lens through which Katniss considers her views on violence, on war, on life, on what the point of their fight is. She and Gale literally have arguments about utilitarian principles! It’s only by exploring and then severing this leg of the love triangle that Katniss finds out who she is and what she really believes.

Collins couldn’t explore these issues in the same way if either Gale or Peeta wasn’t presented as a romantic interest. The nature of eros is desire, and the whole point of the Peeta vs. Gale question is Katniss figuring out what she wants out of life. She needs to be drawn to both of them, in the same kind of relationship, if the question and answer are to mean anything. Does Katniss want her old life, with Gale as the most important person, with his anger driving her to fight for survival by any means necessary? Or does she want a new life with Peeta, where they live for something beyond mere survival? Which man, which philosophy, does she want to devote her life to? If Peeta was the love interest and Gale was only the best friend, she could have both in her life. But you can’t resolve the trilogy’s central question by having Katniss compromise. Choosing one side means she can’t choose the other–and the only relationship that requires such an exclusive choice is a love triangle. Far from distracting from the main plot, the love triangle is what elevates it, takes it beyond a war story where the only question is how the characters will survive, and makes it into a story that tells us how the characters are going to live.

[intheticklecloset]

My Hero Academia Sentence Starters #81-90

A collection of the MHA sentence starters I’ve done, compiled for the sake of ease. These are all stand-alone stories.

~~~

81) Lee Kirishima, Ler Deku

“How can you hate something that makes you laugh so beautifully?” Deku asked, poking and prodding at the pudge below Kirishima’s belly button, along his waistline. “Squish! Squish! It’s so cute, and it makes you giggle like crazy!”

Kirishima’s neck and ears were as red as his hair. He squirmed on the ground beneath Deku’s pin, his arms trapped at his sides, unable to do anything but lay there and endure the tickly pokes and pinches the greenette gave his pudge. “Nohohohohoho,” he whined, turning his head to the side to try and hide his wide smile. “It’s nohohohohot cuhuhuhute…”

“It is cute!” Deku insisted, taking a tiny bit between his fingers and pinching gently, drawing a “yeep!” out of Kiri. “Squish! Squishy! Squishy-squishy! Tickly squishy squish!”

“Stohohohohohop it!” Kiri giggled, clenching his teeth against his own giggle fit. “Midoriya!”

“But it’s so cute! And look at that big smile! I love that it’s so tickly-ticklish that you just can’t stand it!” Deku beamed, continuing his playful torture. “Come on, Kirishima – you have to admit you love how much it tickles you. Squishy-squishy! Tickly-squishy!”

“Plehehehehehease!” Kiri squealed, unable to hold back his flood of helpless giggles any longer. “It tihihihihihickles so muhuhuhuch! Midoriyahahaha!”

“And?” Deku smirked, enjoying playing with his friend this way. “What else?”

“That’s ahahahahahall!”

“Liar~”

“Nonono please dohohon’t – don’t do thahahahahat!” Kirishima begged as Deku’s hands closed around his wrists, pinning him in place while he settled in for a new kind of tickle torture. “Nohohoho, plehehehease – PLEHEHEHEHEHEASE, MIDORIYA!!”

Deku blew raspberry after raspberry along Kiri’s pudge, occasionally nibbling on it as well, keeping his friend in stitches and teasing between each round until the redhead finally gave in. “Tickly-squishy! Tickle, tickle, little squish~ Your pudge is so ticklish, it’s adorable~”

“STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!! PLEHEHEHEASE!!” Kiri tossed his head back and laughed hysterically, completely defeated by the gentle, loving, ticklish treatment. “IT’S CUHUHUHUHUTE, OKAHAHAY?! IT’S CUTE JUST STAHAHAHAHAP IT!!”

Deku giggled, blowing one last raspberry before sitting up and patting Kiri’s tummy affectionately. “And don’t you forget it.”

*

82) Lee Deku, Ler Kaminari

“I’ve been meaning to try this again!” Kaminari laughed as he hugged Deku tight against him, pressing his fingers into his friend’s ribs and igniting his famous “tickle-shocks” to make him squeal and giggle uncontrollably.

“Stohohohohohop! Plehehehehehease, Kaminahahahari!” Deku shrieked with giggles, squirming desperately in the blonde’s hold, trying to push away but unable to do so. Kami could be really strong when he wanted to be, and right now Deku had a feeling he wasn’t going anywhere until his friend was good and satisfied with this spontaneous tickly attack. “Ehehehehehehehe! Kamiehehehehehehehe!”

Kami chuckled. “What’s the matter? At least I’m not tickling your hips…yet.”

“Nohohohohohoho! Plehehehease, don’t! Kami, plehehehehease!”

“I only threatened to, Midoriya,” Kami laughed, squeezing his sides and igniting his shocks there. He was surprised when Deku arched his back, a laugh being ripped from him before settling into another long string of giggles. “You act like it’ll really tickle or something~”

“It wihihihihihill! It will – plehehehehehehease, Kaminari!”

Kami began to slide one hand down to the aforementioned hot spot, grinning wickedly over Deku’s shoulder. “I’m just giving you a hug, Midoriya – why are you getting so worked up?”

“B-Behehehecause you’re tihihihihickling me!” Deku cried, squirming even harder now. He knew where Kami was going and the thought of his hips being subjected to the strong tickle-shocks made him weak in the knees already. “Plehehehehehehease, dohohohon’t!”

But Kami did, grabbing his hip, pressing his thumb into the hollow, and lighting up his tickle-shocks once more. He couldn’t help but laugh along with his friend when Deku tossed his head back and screamed with hysterical laughter, his struggling growing wild. It was all he could do to hang onto him with his free arm.

“Heh! Tickle, tickle, little Deku~”

“PLEHEHEHEHEHEASE, STAHAHAHAHAHAP!! IT TIHIHIHIHIHICKLES!! IT TICKLES – GAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

Kaminari laughed, finally releasing him and ruffling his hair. “All right, I suppose that’s enough for one day.”

Deku clutched his stomach as he bent over with leftover giggles, gasping for breath, smiling so big as to blind the world with its brilliance. “T-Thank you…”

*

83) Switches Todoroki and Kirishima

“Nothing better to get your mind off of it than a good old-fashioned tickle fight!” Kirishima declared, tackling Todoroki to the couch and going straight for his thighs, which he knew was a hot spot.

“WHAHAHAHAHAT?!” Todoroki squealed, grabbing Kiri’s shoulders and pushing uselessly, head thrown back in surprised laughter. “HEHEHEHEHEHEY!! STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!!”

“Tickle fight!” Kiri replied with a laugh of his own, not straddling his friend on purpose so he had a chance to fight back. “Unless you want me to just tickle it out of your mind instead?”

“NAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” Todoroki plunged his fingers into Kiri’s ribs. “TAHAHAHAKE THIHIHIHIHIS!!”

Kiri screeched, instantly bringing his arms to his sides defensively, toppling onto Todoroki’s chest as he laughed and kicked. “NOHOHOHOHOT THEHEHEHEHERE, YOU MEHEHEANIE!!”

“Meanie?” Todoroki laughed. “What are we, five?” He managed to push Kiri onto the floor beside the couch, still standing but leaning over to get a good grip on his ribs and underarms. “You started it. Tickle, tickle!”

“GAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” Kiri indulged himself for a few moments openly before desperately scrambling to grab onto any part of Todoroki that he could. Unfortunately for the half-and-half hero, that meant his ankle was the closest thing he could reach, and after using his hardening quirk to make himself immune to tickles, Kiri pulled on his leg to knock him off balance.

Todoroki yelped and stumbled to the ground, falling onto his back in the same moment that Kirishima ripped off his sock and started scribbling over his bare foot. “Ha! Who’s getting tickle-tickled now, Todoroki?”

“CRAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!! NOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!” Todoroki collapsed weakly onto the floor, too overcome by the ticklish feeling to do much more than lay there and take it. “NOHOHOHOHOT THEHEHEHEHEHEHEHERE!!”

“Not where? Not here?” Kiri scratched his finger up and down his arch, enjoying how his usually stoic friend completely exploded with laughter, flopping on the ground like a fish out of water. “Ooh, your foot seems to be really ticklish! I wonder what would happen if I tickled the other one, too…?”

“NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO—!!”

*

84) Lees Deku and Bakugou, Ler All Might

“AIIEEHEHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! ALL MIHIHIHIHIHIGHT!!” Deku screamed with laughter, desperately trying to dislodge his mentor’s firm grip on his hip.

Bakugou lay to his left, also roaring with laughter, legs kicking wildly. “STAHAHAHAHAHAP YOU IHIHIHIHIHIHIDIOT!!”

All Might knelt easily on one each of their legs, keeping them pinned in place while he tickled each of their worst spots. They’d been fighting all morning, and he’d had just about enough of it. “I’m not stopping until you two can get along.”

“I’M SOHOHOHOHOHOHORRY!!” Deku pleaded immediately.

Bakugou growled around his hysterics. “I’M NOHOHOHOHOHOHOT!! FRICKING STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP IT!!”

All Might considered for a moment, then said, “You both need to learn to work together. You, especially, young Bakugou. So when the two of you can break away from me by working together, I’ll let you go.”

“NO WAHAHAHAHAHAHAY!!” Bakugou yelled.

Deku squealed when All Might found the hollow that really got him hysterical, pounding his fist on the ground in submission. “KAHAHAHAHAHAHACCHAN, PLEHEHEHEHEHEASE!!”

“WHY AHAHAHAHARE YOU BEHEHEHEHEGGING ME?! I’M NOHOHOHOT TIHIHICKLING YOU!!”

“WE HAHAHAHAHAHAVE TO WORK TOGEHEHEHEHEHETHER!!”

“FORGEHEHEHEHEHET IT!!” Bakugou’s laughter suddenly went silent when both of his sweet spots were attacked at once, and Deku’s cackling died down to breathless giggles at the brief respite. All Might used both of his hands to focus on tickling the angry blonde into submission, which didn’t take long thanks to his ruthless plan of attack. “OKAYOKAYOKAY I’M SORRY TOO JUST STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP IT!! PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE!!”

Deku weakly sat up and used One For All to jerk one of All Might’s arms off of Bakugou. “L-Leheheave him alone, he said he’s sorry…”

“Oh? Back for more, young Midoriya?”

“Nonono – GAHAHAHAHAHAHA NOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!” It was Deku’s turn to go berserk while Bakugou recovered. “PLEHEHEHEHEHEASE, ALL MIHIHIHIGHT!! KACCHAHAHAHAN!!”

Bakugou groaned, igniting sparks in his palm. “S-Stop it – we both apologized, now let us go!”

“Not until you learn to work together.” All Might held firm, but decided to give them a chance by tickling both of their stomachs in tandem, which he knew were lesser spots on them both. “Fight me off as a team, and I’ll let you go.”

Deku and Bakugou learned a very important – albeit silly – lesson that day.

*

85) Lee Iida, Ler Todoroki

“It feheheels nice, okay?” Iida admitted through a couple of choked giggles, clenching his fists in his lap as Todoroki gently prodded into his side.

Todoroki stared at him in surprise. “It – it does? Really?”

“Yehehes.”

Hesitant but curious, Todoroki applied more pressure by adding more fingers than just his pointer to the mix, gently squeezing Iida’s side. The class rep squeaked and brought a knee up instinctively, but still didn’t move to fight him back at all. “I thought you didn’t really like being tickled. And I wasn’t even trying to tickle you just now.”

“I knohohohow.” Iida put a hand over his mouth to cover up his snickers and his blush at the same time.

Todoroki quirked a brow. “None of that. I’m the dorm’s resident tickle monster, you know. If I see you covering up I’ll just make it worse.”

Iida’s hand shot back down to his lap.

All Todoroki had tried to do was practice his anatomy homework by seeking out the vertebrae in Iida’s spine and each of his ribs. He’d intended to do it as lightly as possible so as not to cause his friend any discomfort, since he knew – or at least, thought he knew – that Iida hated being tickled. But now the class rep was giggling up a storm and not even fighting him back.

“I – I guehehehess even I neheheed a lahahahaugh once in a whihihihile…” Iida managed, turning his face away from Todoroki, arms shaking from the effort to hold still.

Todoroki smiled gently. “Well, you know I’m always happy to oblige. Just let me know when you really want me to stop, though, okay?”

“Okahahahay.”

Todoroki kept practicing and – by extension – kept tickling for another couple of minutes before Iida finally asked him to stop, having had enough for now. Neither of them said as much out loud, but they still agreed to keep this anatomy practice session between them for the time being.

*

86) Lee Todoroki, Lers Kirishima and Bakugou

“Relax, baby, just enjoy it~” Kiri purred into Todoroki’s ear, lazily scribbling his fingers over his boyfriend’s bare ribs.

On the other side of him, Bakugou chuckled. “Yeah. You love it, don’t you, icy-hot?”

Todoroki was absolutely melting under their double tickle treatment. He was lying between them on the bed, and they were each snuggled up to one side of him, leaning on his arms to pin them above his head as they scraped and scribbled and teased the skin of his bare torso. He whined through his giggles, blushing hard but loving the attention.

“Tickle, tickle, tickle~” Kiri teased, gradually beginning to circle his belly button. “Poor, ticklish little Shoto~”

“Can’t take a few light tickles, huh, baby?” Bakugou added, kissing the shell of his ear for extra tickly emphasis. “Poor thing~”

Todoroki couldn’t even speak at this point; he was far too flustered to do anything but lay there and giggle and squirm and enjoy every second of this impromptu, loving tickle torture.

Kiri dipped his finger into his navel at the same time that Bakugou sat up, gripping his arm to keep it above his head while tracing the outline of his underarm with a fingernail. Todoroki squealed and arched his back, pushing himself further into Kiri’s tickly embrace while trying to escape Bakugou’s. Both of his boyfriends were being completely ruthless tonight, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t absolutely love it.

“Plehehehehease,” he finally begged after several moments, after Bakugou finally began scribbling in his underarm with purpose. “No mohohohohohore…”

“You don’t really mean that, do you, Sho?” Kiri asked, kissing his cheek and raking his nails along his waistline in tandem. “You don’t want us to stop~”

“Nohohohohohoho…”

Bakugou shot Kiri a smirk, and both of them suddenly pulled a necktie out of their back pockets, beginning to bind Todoroki’s wrists to the headboard of the bed. Todoroki’s eyes widened in surprise and excitement.

“Good thing, babe,” the blonde said, finishing up his handiwork with a flourish. “Because we’re not even close to done with you yet.”

*

87) Lee Todoroki, Ler Momo

“You’re just so ticklish, I can’t stand it!” Momo grinned.

Todoroki clutched his shirt with one hand, giggling so hard he could barely speak. “You cahahahahan’t stahahahahand it?! H-How do you thihihihihihink I feel?!”

“I think you’re having fun with it,” she replied, gently trailing the paintbrush along the lines in his palm. “You haven’t tried to pull away once.”

“Gah!” Todoroki grabbed onto the nearest thing he could find – a throw pillow – and pulled it to him, hugging it tight against his chest. The soft bristles of the brush against his palm were driving him completely insane. How could one person have such ticklish hands?! “Y-You cohohohohohould stohohop anytime you wahahahahant to, you knohohohohow!”

“I know.” She began trailing the brush across the heel of his hand, over his wrist, gradually up his inner forearm. “But this is more fun, don’t you think?”

“Ehehehehehehehehe!” Todoroki couldn’t help the high-pitched, happy giggles pouring from his mouth at this point. He kicked his legs, doing everything in his power to stay still and take it. “Momohohohohoho!”

She giggled at his ticklish reactions, dragging the brush back down to his palm, then ditching it entirely and replacing it with her nails. This seemed to get an even stronger reaction, as he actually struggled against her for the first time, his giggles turning to laughter as she neared his elbow again.

“Plehehehehehease, stahahahahahap!” He begged. “It tihihihihihickles so bahahahahad! Momo!”

Momo beamed but stopped as requested, picking up the paintbrush to twirl it in her fingers with ease. “You’re cute, you know? You must really love it if you can stay still for so long.”

He blushed so hard his whole face matched his scar. “Shush.”

“What do you say we try your ears next? I bet they’re pretty ticklish, too~”

“F-Fine,” he stammered, lifting his gaze to meet hers with a confident – if a bit wobbly – smirk. “Bring it on.”

*

88) Lee Bakugou, Ler Kirishima

“I’m going to count down from one minute,” Kirishima said as he settled himself on his boyfriend’s hips, grinning. “And during that time I’m not going to let up on your sweet spot. Not one little bit.” He placed his hands on his upper ribs. “Ready?”

Bakugou’s eyes widened. In a blind panic, he stammered, “W-What – no! No, I’m not ready! Ei – NAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” He tossed his head back and screeched, clamping his arms to his sides, kicking his legs violently. None of it helped him; he was still just as stuck and just as ticklish. “FRICK, NOHOHOHOHOHOHO!! EIJIROU, PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE!!”

Kirishima was beaming, counting slowly backwards from sixty. “Fifty-five…fifty-four…”

“COUNT FASTER YOU JEHEHEHEHEHEHEHERK!! KIRI I CAN’T – PLEASE STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!!”

“Fifty-one…fiiiiifty…”

Bakugou screamed through his laughter, already feeling hoarse and on the verge of mirthful tears, and it hadn’t even been ten seconds yet.

Kirishima kept his word, curling his fingers into his boyfriend’s ultimate ticklish spot with relentless precision, never stopping or letting up once no matter how loud he shrieked or laughed or begged for mercy. By the time he got to thirty seconds poor Bakugou was red in the face, tears streaming down his cheeks as he laughed himself into a kind of ticklish stupor. He was too far gone to even protest at this point; all he could do was endure it.

“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! GOD, PLEHEHEHEASE – FRIHIHIHIHICK – AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

Kirishima couldn’t help but giggle along with him, tickling just as hard and just as fast as he got down to the twenties, the tens, and finally the last five.

“Five,” he said, really going for it now.

Bakugou was screaming bloody murder at this point, his kicking weakened but just as frantic. “STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!!”

“Four…”

“PLEHEHEHEHEHEASE, EIJIROU!!”

“Three…two…”

Bakugou let out what sounded like a wail of distress when his boyfriend didn’t immediately say one – the final number that would end this ticklish torture. “ONE!! ONE, ONE, OHOHOHOHONE!! KIRISHIMAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

“One!” Kiri finally let up, removing his hands from Bakugou entirely, letting his poor boyfriend gasp for breath and shakily try to wipe the mirthful tears from his eyes, his face dark red. He chuckled. “Good job, baby~”

“Shut up…you f-fricking…s-sadist…” Bakugou tensed when Kiri grabbed his wrists, pinning them above his head. “N-No, wait! No more, please! Eiji—mmph!” He was cut off with a kiss that made his heart race in an entirely different way.

Kiri chuckled. “Maybe I am, but you didn’t say the safe word, now did you?”

*

89) Lee Todoroki, Ler Iida

“I…I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Todoroki hedged. He sat on the couch in the living room of the Class 1-A dorms, averting his eyes from his class rep as he spoke.

“Why? If you let them go untreated it’ll only take longer to heal,” Iida insisted gently. “Perhaps it’s a bit odd, but I’m very well-versed in massage therapy. I’m confident I can help you.”

Todoroki hesitated. After a long day of training, he’d complained that his feet were killing him, and Iida had offered to massage them to help him feel better. The peppermint-colored boy knew for a fact he wouldn’t be able to handle a massage of almost any kind. He was far too ticklish. But at the same time, he didn’t want to disappoint his friend. He was stuck.

“Fine,” he finally mumbled, cringing a little as he placed his feet in Iida’s waiting lap. “But…the socks stay on.”

“Of course.” Iida nodded, assuming Todoroki simply didn’t want his bare feet touched. He could understand that. He got to work pressing his thumbs into his arches, massaging small circles up and down the sole. He was so focused on his task it took him a moment to realize that rather than relaxing, his friend only seemed more tense. “Is something wrong?”

“C-Can’t…I d-don’t think I can…hrk!” Todoroki slapped a hand over his mouth to hide the growing smile threatening to give him away. He said his next words all in a rush. “I don’t think I can do this!”

“I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“N-No, it – aiieee!” Todoroki squealed, yanking his right foot away from Iida’s grip. The class rep had lightened his touch, thinking perhaps he was applying too much pressure, but the softer strokes only made his friend burst into giggles, finally revealing what exactly was bothering him about this whole situation.

“Ah, I see. You’re fairly ticklish, then?” Iida asked, unable to help but scribble his fingers over Todoroki’s other foot. He got his answer when said foot was also jerked out of his reach. He laughed. “You could have just said so, you know.”

*

90) Lee Deku, Ler Kaminari

“Izuku, stohohohop,” Kaminari whined, hugging his boyfriend close even as the greenette kissed and nuzzled his neck, tickling him.

“Don’t wanna.” Deku smirked into yet another kiss.

“Ugh, fine, I’ll make you stop,” Kami shot back, chuckling as he rolled over, quickly switching their positions so he was on top. Before Deku could fight back, he plunged his fingers into his ribs. “Tickle, tickle, little Deku~”

“Aiehehehehehehehe! Kamiehehehehehe!” Deku squealed, his face lighting up in a huge smile as giggles poured out of him. He squirmed but didn’t entirely try to get away; both of them knew he rather enjoyed being tickled, especially gently like this. “Ehehehehehehehe!”

Kaminari chuckled, leaning down to do exactly what Deku had been doing to him moments before. He nuzzled and kissed along his neck, making his boyfriend shriek and kick his legs. His neck and ears were far more sensitive than Kami’s were.

“Denki, plehehehehehehease!” Deku begged, but it was obvious he was having a ton of fun. “Not my neheheheheheheck!”

“Aww, is someone a little ticklish here?” Kami teased, switching from kissing to nibbling. Deku spasmed beneath him, but the blonde merely let his body weight pin his poor, giggly boyfriend to the mattress as he continued his ticklish treatment. “Seems like you are~ Poor, sensitive little Izuku~”

“Stohohohohop teheheheheasing me!”

“Never.”

“Ehehehehehe! Dehehehenki – WAIT NO NOT THEHEHEHEHEHEHERE!!” Suddenly a loud screech ripped from Deku’s throat and he started thrashing in earnest. Kaminari had snuck one hand down to pinch at his hip, making him really laugh. “DENKI, NOHOHOHOHOHO!!”

“Denki, yes~” Kaminari teased into his ear, kissing and squeezing in tandem, making his boyfriend go crazy with hysterical giggles and laughter. “I’ve got you right where I want you now, baby.”

[cinebration]

Water-breather (Din Djarin x Reader) [Request]

I saw that at your request were open and was wondering if you’d do a mermaid au of din djarin x female mermaid reader ? — Requested by anon

Fun fact: Star Wars has an actual mermaid-like species known as Melodies. They are native to Yavin 8 and are known in the Legends “canon” of Star Wars.

Warnings: creature violence

Gif Source: djarsdin

The Mandalorian hadn’t expected to chase his bounty clear to Yavin 8, a tundra moon orbiting a gas giant. His bounty, a human by the name of Cornelis Offkin, had taken a beating from the Mandalorian’s Razor Crest, forcing the man to crash-land on the arid moon near the purple mountains ridging the surface.

Din didn’t have time to appreciate the dry beauty of the place. His bounty was somewhere here, his tracks plain in the scanner built into Din’s helmet. He followed the illuminated footprints through the dense wood at the base of the mountain range, rifle slung over his back, blaster at his hip. Strange, cloying smells wafted up into his helmet as he stepped on dense underbrush.

As he neared the base of the mountain range, Din slowed beside a small pond, confused by the footprints he was seeing. Offkin had seemed to stop, then spun around quickly, scattering dirt and detritus. Then a mad scramble deeper into the trees before sprawling to the ground.

Din scanned the area. Had Offkin been attacked? The ground beside the bounty’s footprints had been smoothed by something that had either remerged or entered the still pond. The surface of the water remained smooth.

Din reached for his blaster.

Water sprayed in all directions. Din glimpsed green-black eyes and large fangs before he was on his back, half in the creature’s mouth. Rearing back, it dragged him off the ground easily. Pain lanced up Din’s thigh, excruciating. Stifling a scream, Din tried to pull free his blaster.

The serpentine creature tossed its head back, opening its jaw wider. Din felt himself slipping further into the creature’s throat. He had never considered that he might die to a creature rather than some bounty. At least he knew the fate of Offkin.

An ear-piercing screech blasted the Mandalorian’s ears. The serpentine creature writhed, hissing.

Din glanced up to see huge wings spreading from behind the creature. Oh great, it flies, he thought.

A giant beak peered over the top of the creature’s head, followed by the predatory eyes of a raptor. Din caught his own reflection in the volucrine creature’s pupils before he was suddenly falling.

The serpentine creature rose above him, borne aloft by the avian animal.

Din hit the water hard.

~~

Din gasped for air, choking up water in his helmet and inhaling it in again. Sputtering, lungs screaming, he shoved the helmet up a fraction and spewed the water out and down his chin, breathing air. It burned in his throat, but he sucked it up greedily, only distantly noting the musty mildew smell and taste of it.

When his lungs stopped aching, he breathed easier and took stock of his surroundings. Dimly lit by bioluminescent plants, the cave in which he sat appeared endless. Stalactites hung down from the ceiling, reflected vertiginously in a dark pool to his right.

Eyeing the water warily, he slowly rose to his feet, checking his weapons. Everything was where they were supposed to be. He tried to make sense of how he had arrived in this place, the last thing he remembered being the water engulfing him.

The stalactite reflection rippled. He tensed, ripping out his blaster from its holster. The ripples slowed near the edge of the pool. Din aimed, ready to kill.

A head tentatively emerged from the water, humanoid. Din found himself staring into your eyes as your chin lifted above the waterline. In the bioluminescent light, your face was limned in soft green.

“Hello.” It was all the Mandalorian could think to say.

“Hello,” you echoed. Your voice sounded like a trickling waterfall.

“What is this place?”

“Home.”

“Okay. How do I leave?”

You shook your head. “The reels are out. They hunt.” You spoke in Galactic Basic haltingly. “Not safe.”

“I have to get back to my ship.”

“Wait here.”

Din frowned. He wouldn’t be able to collect the bounty on Offkin, which meant he needed to find a new bounty as soon as possible. He couldn’t wait around losing credits. “How did I get here?”

“One of young ones found you. Brought you here to safety. The reel was not alone in the water.”

He pictured the serpentine creature writhing in fury and pain above him. Shivering, he suddenly remembered the wound in his leg. Glancing down, he found it wrapped in some kind of plant, covered thickly in a dark paste. The latter smelled atrocious, but the wound felt cool, his leg flexible.

“How long do I have to wait?” he asked.

“Sunrise. Reels and avrils sleep.” You made a motion with your hands, imitating wings.

Sighing, Din sat back down, trying to think his way out of the problem. The snake-like thing—the reel, he corrected—had caught him in the water. Looking around the cave, all he could see beside the smooth rock walls was water.

“How do I get out?” he asked again. “How did I get in?”

You patted the top of the water’s surface, sending ripples across the water. “Through lakes.”

It took him a long moment to realize what you meant. One of your people had dragged him through a system of underground lakes to this hidden cave. The only exit was through the reel-infested water.

Sighing again, he leaned up against the rock behind him and gently massaged feeling back into his wounded leg. He felt your gaze on him trying to bore through his helmet.

She may think it’s my actual face, a little voice inside him said.

“Why here?” you asked, propping your arms on the shore of the pool. He watched in disbelief as something crested the surface of the water behind you: a fin.

“I was…tracking someone. The reel got him.”

You frowned but nodded. Din was mesmerized by the fin, watched it slowly move back and forth like a woman moving her legs.

“Rest. I come later to take you to your ship.”

“Thank you.”

With a smile, you pushed back from the edge and slipped back into the water, your fin flashing. Din thought about it for half an hour before sleep took him under.

~~

He wasn’t confident about being dragged through interconnected lakes. He didn’t have a water-breathing apparatus built into his helmet, and he wasn’t sure he could hold his breath long enough.

When you reemerged from the water, the water hovering just below your collarbone and no further, you hefted up a handful of blue-green algae.

“What is that?”

“To help breathe in water.” You mimed placing it over your mouth and nose. “Breathe little.”

Anxiety slithering up his spine, Din took the algae and turned away, lifting the helmet to plaster the slimy material over his mouth and nose. His heart stuttered in his chest, telling him he couldn’t breathe through the pond scum. Fighting it, he resettled the helmet over his head.

He found you had searching a hand from the water, reaching for him. Hesitating, he looked into your deep eyes, looking for deception. He found only an open and honest expression. Taking your hand, he let you lead him into the water. The chill sent a shiver through him as he went deeper into the water, his clothes and armor weighing him down.

You held onto him easily, wrapping your arms around his torso. Panic seized him again as you kicked hard, sending you both careering through a hole in the cave wall beneath the water. He blinked against the burn of it in his eyes as you maneuvered through the tunnels connecting the lakes.

He fought the urge to breathe despite the ache in his lungs. The algae stayed firmly in place despite the water sloshing up under the helmet. He felt stuck in a fishbowl, watching as the world rushed by, dragged along in a current with you acting as pilot and rudder.

At last, he gasped in a breath. No water entered, only a small puff of oxygen pulled off the slimy algae. He held his breath again, focusing on the feel of your arms around him, trying to lose himself in the comfort of being held for the first time since…ever.

Then you were breaking the surface, emerging into a sunlit glade. Kicking gracefully over to the shore, you pushed him onto the ground. Din turned and yanked off the algae, breathing fresh air. The Razor Crest stood a little ways off, its surface gleaming dully in the morning light.

“Safe,” you assured him, gesturing up at the sky. “No avril.”

“Thank you.”

You nodded. “Travel safe.”

He almost laughed. “I try.”

You flipped back into the water, your finned tail arcing behind you. The light glittered off your scales in a flash of brilliance.

Din didn’t leave until the water returned to stillness. The image of you disappearing beneath it would haunt him for years.

[hnychn]

𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀 [𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍]

summary : armin stood on the beaches shore as the salty breeze cradled his face, and his mind could only wander to you.

warnings : character death, mentions of blood

word count : 2300+

a/n : i am so sorry to armin for writing this, but i love him sm

navigation || attack on titan masterlist

"Let's see the sea together, Armin!"

Armin got off his horse and relished in the feeling of the salty ocean breeze cradling his face, and his mind could only wander to you. 

The two of you grew up together. Your mother had introduced you to a shy blonde boy when you were younger, he hid behind his grandfather’s leg with only half of his face showing, but it was enough for you to see his brilliant blue eyes. There was something about them that gave you hope, despite his timid and recluse nature, whenever you looked into his eyes you felt like you could take on the world. 

It was easy becoming his friend, especially after you found him reading one of your favorite books in an alley. The two of you bonded over your shared interest in books, admittedly Armin had a stronger interest than you and would often ramble for hours about the plot of books and the underlying meanings behind characters and their developments, but the shine in his eyes whenever he spoke filled you with a feeling your seven year old mind couldn’t put a word to; but if there was one thing clear to you, it was that you liked the feeling. And you’d do anything to feel it until your last dying breath. 

Eren and Mikasa were another easy addition to your duo. It was easy for you to bond with Mikasa over your shared protection over the two boys, and Eren was overall an easy person to get along with. Armin introduced the idea of seeing the sea to Eren one afternoon near the river during sunset.

Armin had brought the book he borrowed from his grandfather and told Eren all about the beauties of the outside world, the same excited blush and shiny blue eyes filled with hope and wonder on his face when he told you the exact same. 

Of course, Eren hadn’t believed the ocean was filled with salt, and neither had you. It seemed too far fetched for a body of water as large as Armin claimed to be filled with never ending salt. But the excitement and hope in his eyes stopped you from arguing with him, only nudging Eren with your elbow, a cheeky smile on your face. 

“C’mon now Eren, you’re telling me you don’t believe in that when there’s literal titans walking around our world?” 

Eren only scoffed and nudged you back a bit harder, “Well it’s better than believing dead people become butterflies.” 

Your ears burned in embarrassment as you crossed your arms, a pout on your lips as you sent Eren a half hearted glare out of the corner of your eyes, turning back to the sunset the two of you were watching, “I happen to like believing in it very much.” 

Eren shrugged, “what was the story again?” 

You smiled, “My mother told me our souls are all butterflies and when we die, they’re set free into the world. She said that when a loved one dies, their butterfly will come visit you to say goodbye before flying away and they visit you again when you need it the most.” 

Armin stared at you as you retold the story for the millionth time; but no matter how many times you told it, he always paid close attention. Your eyes would shine brightly and there would be a smile on your face he rarely ever saw, so every time you would smile, he committed it to his memory until the next time he saw it. He never told you, but he believed in the story too, sometimes he finds himself wishing he had told you.

The four of you joined the Training Corps together after Wall Maria had fallen and later the Survey Corps. There were many hardships and surprises as the four of you fought for the freedom of humanity and raised in the ranks of the military. 

You teased Eren relentlessly after everyone found out he was a titan, which only led to play fights and roughhousing in the middle of the Mess Hall. Mikasa never broke these fights apart and Armin stopped worrying about either of you getting hurt, they knew this was your own curious way of encouraging the other to fight their hardest. 

But it was during the retaking of Wall Maria that changed everything. 

Before everything had started, you and Armin snuck out in the middle of the night to stare at the stars and just talk. Peaceful moments like those were few and far between, the weight of jsjdf weighing heavy on both of you. 

“What color do you think the ocean is?” 

You never looked away from the stars above you, your head tilting to the side at Armin’s sudden question. You could feel the build up of hesitation in your chest as your mind went to war of how to answer. Would you allow yourself to speak with your heart and answer his question truthfully? 

You shrugged, “Maybe it’s clear like the rivers.”  

You could tell Amrin was a bit dissatisfied at your less than creative answer, you were disappointed in yourself. You should have been honest. Perhaps you’ll tell him what color you think the ocean is after you retake Wall Maria. 

It all went to hell. Most of Hange’s squad had died when Barthold had turned into the colossal titan and you had been heavily injured when you pushed Sasha out of the way of Reiner’s attack. Nobody had been able to get to you fast enough, and you felt your bones crack when you collided with the ground. 

You heard your friends call out to you, Mikasa’s voice louder than the rest, and your body ached for rest, but you got up. You refused to die by the hands of a traitor. 

You couldn’t die. Not here. Not now. Not after promising Armin to see the sea together. So you fought on. You fought against Reiner, the screeching of your nearly destroyed gear fed into the dizziness you felt from the impact; you fought against the ache in your bones and soul that pleaded for you to stop, to rest; you fought against the pull of your body into unconsciousness, you couldn’t pass out, not here; you fought against the searing pain you felt when you were once again slammed into a building, your body meeting the familiar crunch of the ground; you fought against the tug of your eyelids and the sleep that threatened to consume you whole and never give you back. 

You fought against it all - for Armin. 

The rest of the squad continued to fight, sparing you glances every now and then, but they fully expected you to get up again. They knew you were a fighter -  knew you had plans for after they retake Wall Maria - but after agonizingly long minutes of your body laying still on the blood stained floor, blood of your own beginning to pool around you, panic set in. 

Mikasa was at your side in an instant after a desperate call of your name. You hadn’t responded. When she got to you, she could hear your shallow, desperate attempts to fill your lungs with air, only to choke on the blood pooling in your throat. Hastily placing her hands against the gaping wound on your stomach, she tried to stop the bleeding, her eyes hazy with unshed tears and fear for your life. 

You could just about make out her figure above you through the combination of the bright sun blinding you and the haziness of sleep threatening to overtake you. 

“C’mon, y/n, stay awake.” Her voice was muffled, almost as if your head was underwater, “don’t die, don’t die, don’t die.” 

Weakly, your hand wrapped around her wrist, pulling slightly to remove her hands from your wound. She shook her head, her tears now falling in clumps down her face, landing on your blood stained cheek, “You can’t die.” 

You smiled up at her. She had always cared for you like a mother would, making sure you were fed, making sure you were safe, making sure you were loved. It brought you comfort, especially now that your gasps became louder and your heart pounded loudly in your ears from the lack of oxygen. You would have preferred not to be in this situation at all, every memory you had since birth flashing before your eyes as your body grew cold, but her presence made the process just a bit easier. 

Your eyelids bobbed as you tried to keep them open, but your energy was fading and so was your life, and the only thing you could think to say to the girl sobbing above you, pleading for you to just stay with her was, “thank you.” 

Mikasa could only sob harder as your grip on her wrist went limp and your eyes dulled. She sobbed for her lost friend, the friend she swore to protect the moment she laid eyes on you. She sobbed for Armin, and she couldn’t bear the image of his reaction to your death. 

It was only after the fight, after Armin had been turned into a titan to save him, did Mikasa feel a foreign clump in her pocket. Her hands were still stained with your blood, but she pulled it out nonetheless. It was a letter.

 A letter addressed to Armin. 

Armin pulled out the worn paper from this pocket of his trousers. The edges were frayed and the paper browned with age, but he still kept it. 

Dear Armin, 

If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t survive the battle. As I’m writing this, you’re asleep next to me, having fallen asleep on the roof during one of your star gazing nights. Nights like these are what keep me going. Everyday before an expedition, I always think back to these moments, and they fill me with determination to experience another with you. 

But tonight was different. You asked me what color I think the ocean is. I laughed and said I had no clue, they were probably clear like the rivers. I lied. I don’t think the ocean is clear like the rivers. It’s blue. 

I say that because whenever I think of the ocean, I think of you. I think about how you always get excited to tell someone about the outside world and what that book your grandfather had hidden said. I think about how blue your eyes look when you talk about it, and how they shine with such brilliance and hopefulness to see it for yourself. I think about how deep and emotion filled they are, how some parts of your eyes are a darker blue than others, how they change shades depending on your mood or the lighting. 

How they fill me with a feeling that terrifies me. 

I know I probably shouldn’t write this, especially if you do end up reading this because it might cause you more pain than my actual death, but I’m going to be selfish for once, and I hope you can forgive me. 

Armin, I love you. 

And I know that’s such a shitty thing to say in a letter you’ll receive after my death, but I do. I love you, and I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner. I’ve felt like this since the moment I met you when we were seven, but I couldn’t figure out why my tummy felt all weird around you. It was when we got into the Training Corps, we were doing hand to hand combat training and you gave me a big hug later that night, proud of yourself for finally being able to take down your opponent. It was then that I could figure out what I was feeling. And it terrified me. Because there we were, training to give our lives to humanity, training to fight against the very beings that took our families from us. 

 And, call me selfish, but i don’t think I could heal from losing you, but I know you can heal from losing me. So I didn’t tell you. I lived with this secret for years, and sometimes I felt like telling you and getting this weight off of my chest, but just the image of you not coming back from an expedition plagued my mind, and I never could tell you. 

Do you remember the story I told you? The one about the butterflies? I hope you do, because I’ll be visiting you and you better not squish me, or I’ll haunt you. 

I’m sorry I broke my promise. I’m sorry we couldn’t see the sea together. Maybe in another life, where we don’t have to worry about titans or being eaten or fighting for our lives and our freedom - maybe then, we can see the sea together. 

Forever yours, 

    Y/N L/N

A teardrop fell on the browning paper. Armin hadn’t even realised he was crying. After he woke up on top of the newly reclaimed Wall Maria, he first inquired about you, hoping to celebrate taking back your hometown with him. That’s when Eren told him everything. Armin was sure he had never cried as much as he did then, never felt pain as painful as losing you. 

They were able to recover your body, Mikasa made sure they did. Armin only sobbed harder when he held your hand, its usual comforting warmth replaced with a coldness that still haunts him, even three years later. 

Mikasa and Eren stood a few paces behind him, giving him some space to take everything in while they reminisced about their own memories of you. 

The salty breeze of the ocean cradled his face, and his salty tears tasted bitter against his tongue. He felt something soft flutter against his cheek, and gasped when he saw a blue butterfly land on the frayed end of your letter. Armin smiled for the first time in a while. 

“I guess you were right, y/n. . . the ocean is blue.” 

The salty breeze of the ocean cradled his face and the butterfly flapped its wings and flew off after a strong gust of wind. Armin was a bit sad to see it go, but he smiled nonetheless. 

Because he knew, you had seen the ocean, too.

a/n: sorry if it doesn't make sense in some parts this is my first time writing a full imagine work thing, and actually publishing it, so i'm a bit worried this hadn't come out the way i wanted it to. either way, i hope you all enjoyed this :)

[skywingknights]

Slow Dancin’ by Rena Redhead (For RobStar Week 2021)

For @robxstar 's RobStar Week 2021. This one is based on Day 6's prompt "Formal Night". Previously did “Ikebana” for Day 1 and “Pretty” for Day 3, both posted on my tumblr page, along with a blog on my website (www.skywingknights.com) for “Ikebana” detailing thoughts on the writing process for that one. (Hope to have one for “Pretty” and “Slow Dancin’” each as well very soon, but the priority is to get these out first!).

Overall, I have to say RobStar week has been a wonderful get away from the woes and stresses of life. Yeah for romance, fluff, drama, and true love! <3 <3 <3

Oddly though, for some reason I’m really nervous about this one... But it’s time to throw nerves aside and to finally take a leap of faith, trusting the meanings will come through and that expressions of love with surpass any barrier, even that of language. Below is the first part of the story. Read the full story at the link following this first part. Hope you like it!

Later,

~Rena

PS. For some mood music, I suggest “Slow Dancin’“ by Yuya Matsushita, the inspiration for this little fan fic. ;)

-NxS-

Slow Dancin’

The taxi came to a stop. Jason had told her it was probably best not to fly in, since technically this wasn't a solely superhero event. Actually, that's not what he said. It was more along the lines of "Bruce would let me get killed again if you flew in" or something snarky like that. Kory had only grinned awkwardly. She really wasn't all that comfortable with this set up. She felt rather… out of place.

But Jason had begged, "Come on Kory, if I go with no one, I'm going to have to deal with all the mockery from those losers the whole night."

Said losers were the other young members of the Wayne household, Kory could infer, though she didn't really think those were necessarily accurate descriptions based off of her own interactions with them. Though to be fair, they were his adopted brothers. And there was really no telling what kind of antics took place behind any family's closed doors. But at the mention of… well, at their mention, at the possibility, Kory had felt her stomach tighten.

"Your brothers are going?"

Jason's tongue almost retracted down his throat unnaturally at what he deemed a deep insult. Almost, but not quite, "Well, Damian will be. Tim probably. Dick won't be."

The lump in her throat subsided slightly and after a pause, she finally relented, "Okay."

The cab driver opened the door and she stepped out. Yes, this feeling was… most certainly one of being out of place. Again. Everyone else was arriving in limos. Or Hummer SUVs. And everyone else looked… normal. She was on the other hand "a golden skinned beauty"… That's how Roy put it. But really, she was an alien and people gawked from the corners of their eyes as they quickly turned away from her, though that wasn't really why she felt so…

She couldn't finish her train of thought. She didn't really want to.

She looked around for her escort who came up the road on his motorcycle with it screeching to a halt, kicking up gravel and dirt. Many of the guests gasped and coughed, thinking that he was going to crash into them. But Kory didn't move. Jason wasn't that stupid.

"Hey babe, thanks for coming."

Okay, maybe he was at least a little stupid. Kory smiled tightly at the name. She still wasn't sure how she felt when people called her that. As she had "matured", she had found many people began saying that she was beautiful, whether to her face or behind her back. But beauty wasn't everything and right now, she much rather just wanted to kind of fade into the background. That's all.

"It is no problem," She told her friend.

Jason jumped off the bike, put it into park in the middle of the road and extended an arm for her to take. She sighed and took it while valets glared at Jason angrily. If he wasn't Wayne's son… the fact he was making trouble for them in forcing them to deal with his obnoxious bike would have landed him on their unfriendlies list which would have gotten him barred from the gala.

The two however walked into the main hallway of Wayne Manor without any problem. It was lit up so brightly that even the sun's brilliance seemed challenged. Fountains of drinks, chocolate truffles, waiters carrying hors d'oeuvres around for the guests, the decorations of silk and glamourous diamonds wrapped around the banisters and hanging from chandeliers, all at least over a century old… Kory had almost forgotten what a party at Wayne Manor was like, but this brought it all… all of the memories back.

-NxS-

Read the full story here:

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13921820/1/Slow-Dancin

[pedros-mustache-main]

baby, it’s cold outside

summary: for too long you’ve been cooped up. perhaps they will be the ones to change that...

word count: 12k

warnings: mostly tropey-wintery goodness, however: accident related trauma and nightmares, language, innuendo, brief suggestive content, absolute timeline inaccuracy but i don’t care!!!!, could also be described as queen x reader but we’ll ignore that

a/n: this is a little different from my normal, but i hope you enjoy this slow and gentle fic as much as i do. happy holidays, dear ones!! 

also thank you to @dancingdiscofloof​ for your help with this one! (if you aren’t reading rove’s deaky fic, you are sincerely missing out.) 

december, 1981. montreux, switzerland. 

day zero.

in the aftermath of the accident, the cabin in the alps has been your saving grace. though the home is overly large for just one person and a cat, you cannot imagine living anywhere other than here. it is a balm to your weary soul, having nursed your broken bones and shattered spirit better than any modern medicine. it is here you began again, rising like a phoenix from the ashes, and it is here you will remain—happily.

you cherish the cabin and all the memories etched within the handcrafted walls and sturdy pine beams. each morning as you make your tea and scratch behind marmalade’s ears, you hear the laughter of your childhood echoing through time and space to reach you in the here and now. each evening as you shut off the lights and secure the doors, you smell your grandfather’s pipe smoke, though the artifact is tucked away on the fireplace mantle, now cold with neglect.

your mother, father, grandfather—they’re all gone now. it’s just you and marmalade. you’re content, though, even as you crawl in bed and snuggle beneath the covers night after night and wake up morning after morning with the promise of another solitary day.

truly, the isolation does not bother you. after the accident, it’s people—crowds and gatherings and meetings—who have become the irritant. wherever people congregate, so too does danger. you’ve experienced your fair share of hazardous situations, so you prefer the quiet mountainside now. there’s less peril, less chance for heartache.

each year, after the last of autumn’s leaves have fallen and snow begins to blanket the alpine hills, you tuck yourself away in the cabin until the end of winter. the larder in your basement remains well-stocked with all the essentials—human, feline, or otherwise—and the weeks come and go without issue. you play your records in the afternoons to fill the silence and watch the television as you eat your suppers. marmalade makes for a good conversational partner when the loneliness creeps in—and it does on occasion. still, the orange tabby cat, fat with laziness and all the love you have to offer, tilts her head when you speak and meows softly when you lift your eyebrows in expectation of a response. she’s all you need, really; but the infrequent calls you have with your boss do make up for your lack of human interaction. editing manuscripts can be done anywhere, and, so long as you meet your deadlines, your boss doesn’t care where you get the work done.

early in december, on a dreary evening, the radio encourages all listeners to batten down the hatches in preparation for a nasty snowstorm due to sweep through the mountain and the valley overnight. you look away from your mug of steaming hot cocoa and shoot marmalade a grin.

“sounds fun, yeah?” you ask her, wiggling your eyebrows.

from her place on the yellow laminate tabletop, marmalade pauses her grooming session. her paw hangs midair, the tip of her tongue hanging over her small chin. she drops her paw as you move to curl your hand beneath her stomach and lift her to your hip.

“i know you like snowstorms just as much as i do,” you say.

leaving the kitchen in favor of the open living room, you nudge the overhead light off with your knuckle. it flickers before shutting off, but soon leaves the cabin illuminated solely by the lights of the christmas tree in the corner. the cocoa trembles along the lip of the mug, so you step gingerly. your socks snag against the faded carpet, but you make it to the sofa in one piece. marmalade hops from your arms and curls herself on the far side of the couch, her tail tucked snug around her body.

knees against your chest, you sip your cocoa and bounce your eyes between the christmas tree and the bay window overlooking montreux’s city-center at the base of the mountain. both the lights of the tree and the lights of the city twinkle in the darkness, rivaling any of the brightest stars. tree branches scrape against the roof, following the path of the wind, and, if you squint hard enough, the first of the snowstorm’s flakes are visible through the pale beam of the floodlight outside.

a sigh rattles your chest, and you smile.

it’s a quiet life. some might say a lonely one. but even if they’re right, you wouldn’t change it.

not for anything.

day one.

you wake up late.

normally, you rise with your alarm and keep to a consistent schedule. it helps with the monotony of your life and stops you from wasting time lounging in the comfort of your bed. some days, though, you allow yourself a few extra hours, and the morning after a snowstorm seems the perfect day to sleep in a tad longer.

it reminds you of childhood—the mornings you listened to the radio beneath your bed covers, fingers crossed your school would be announced as closed due to inclement weather. when the inevitable joy came, you would snuggle back in bed; though by then, the glee of a surprise day off of school was all too much too bear, and you were up and moving within moments.

you smile to yourself at the memory, at the way your mother made pancakes every snow day, without fail. you miss her pancakes.

when marmalade pounces onto the end of your bed, meowing sharply, you sit up. “what? are you hungry?” twisting, you glance at the analog clock across your bedroom. “it’s only nine, marmy.”

she presses your foot with her paw, meowing again.

“fine.”

slipping from bed, you cross to your dresser and drag a brush through your sleep-rustled hair. as always, a sliver of cold seeps in through the skylight overhead, and you lift your face, smiling at the sight of snow obscuring the heavens. your smile only widens as you hurry down the stairs, elbows fighting against the arms of your robe.

the world is drenched in snow. you trip to the bay window, press your hand against the cold glass, and grin. a layer of fluffy white powder clings to every nook and cranny of the mountainside. hints of evergreen peak through as the only spots of color in an otherwise white world. even the sky reflects the dazzling brilliance of the snow, and you have to blink rapidly to keep from going blind.

marmalade’s bell collar jingles as she makes her way down the stairs. she stretches at the bottom step, meowing again when she sees you.

“okay, okay, miss impatient.” you shake your head as you turn from the window. “we have the whole day, you know? ‘s not like there will be much else going on around here.”

you turn on the radio as you enter the kitchen. a soft melody—“merry christmas darling” by the carpenters—sets you to a gentle sway as you pour marmalade’s food and set about making your own breakfast.

karen’s warm voice distracts you from the first knock on your door.

keeping marmalade away from the bacon in the cast-iron skillets hinders you from answering the second.

the third, though—the third knock makes you scream.

it’s not so much of a knock as it is a hand slammed against the outside of the bay window, dark eyes peering into your sanctuary, winter cap pulled tight over any discernible features save a thick mustache. you screech, dropping the spatula in your hand to the floor. marmalade drives for the grease-covered utensil, and you trip over her in your haste to hide in the narrow closet beneath the stairs.

perhaps he hadn’t heard you? perhaps he hadn’t seen the streak of multi-colored fabric as you rushed across the living room in your purple robe and bright yellow socks?

who are you kidding? the bay window offers a glimpse into the majority of your home: the small living room, equally as small kitchen, stairs leading to the bedrooms on the second floor. he probably even saw you fling open the closet door and close it. if he did make it inside, he wouldn’t have to search for long in order to find you.

you press a hand over your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut, at the sound of another bang against the door.

this—this was why your aunt in sheffield had pleaded for you not to take the cabin after the accident. she was so afraid you’d be murdered by a crazed hiker or wayward bear. you’d laughed at the thought back then.

but here you are now, cowering in your closet between a hoover and a winter coat, preparing to make her worst fear a living reality. you only hope marmalade enjoyed the bacon grease as a parting gift.

a muffled voice drifts through the walls after a beat of silence. “for god’s sake, we know you’re in there!”

we? your heart rate triples at the simple, two-letter word. we!

drawing in a deep breath, you root around in the darkened closet for a makeshift weapon. this is your home; you will defend it. or at least do your best to scare off the intruders with whatever fake bravado you can muster.

finding nothing, you inch out of the closet and crawl on your hands and knees toward the kitchen. you pause long enough behind the sofa to peer over the arm. another man has his face pressed against the window, his eyes narrowed as he looks over the room. he looks to his right, long curls bobbing with the motion. his mouth moves, but only garbled sounds meet your ears. while he’s distracted, you crawl into the kitchen and grab the cast-iron skillet. it feels hefty in your palm, and you judge the weight with a turn of your wrist. it could do some serious damage if handled correctly. flicking the oven off and dumping the burnt bacon in the trash, you curl both hands around the handle of the skillet and slink toward the door.

no one stands before the window as you make your way through the living room. no one bangs against the door. yet you can feel their presence on the other side of the flimsy piece of wood separating you from them.

you swallow hard as you grasp the cold doorknob, twisting the lock to the side.

steeling yourself, you grit your jaw, and, in one quick motion, throw open the door, brandish the skillet overhead, and roar like a lioness.

“oh fuck!” one of the four men on your front porch stumbles backward in surprise. his arms pinwheel as he loses his balance and drops to his backside on the snowy ground.

the one with the cascading curls can only stare at you with wide eyes and parted lips, stunned to frozen. for his part, the one with the mustache shields himself behind the one with the curls, shouting for someone named deaky to get her to understand.

it is the one with the straight, grecian nose and storm cloud eyes—deaky, you surmise—who speaks to you first. he holds his arms out in defense, his long fingers splayed wide. he glances between the skillet over your head and your face.

“we’re not here to hurt you,” he says. his voice is even and calm, though more unique than you would have originally guessed. you thought all bad guys had deep voices. his voice is too pleasant, and it sets you further on edge.

you deepen your frown, drawing in another breath. “isn’t that what they all say?”

he frowns. “i don’t know who they are.”

“thieves. murderers. criminals!” you lift your skillet slightly higher, and he flinches backward, hands raising a fraction. “i’m not afraid to use this!”

“i don’t doubt it!” he shakes his head, and his eyelashes flutter when a wayward snowflake catches in his vision. “really, though, we just want to use your phone.”

“my… phone?”

with an exasperated sigh, the blond who’d fallen to his rump in the snow shoulders past deaky. “yes, your phone. you do have one, don’t you? we need to get down this godforsaken mountain before our tits freeze off!”

deaky twists and scowls at his friend, hissing, “roger!”

roger waves him off with a dark look. “deaky, i nearly broke my ass with that stunt she pulled. i’m cold, my trousers are wet, and i want to go home. you’ll have to forgive me if i’m a little terse, you twat.”

the one with long curls and sharp facial features gently moves roger out from under deaky’s increasingly cold stare. he places himself between the pair, towering over the other two. despite his height, he holds his shoulders in a noticeable hunch, as though attempting to make himself smaller. he offers you a wry grin.

“sorry for startling you,” he says. his voice is soft and decidedly unthreatening; your tight hold on the skillet goes slack. “i’m brian. these are my friends—roger, john, and freddie. we’re kind of in a bind, and we’d really appreciate it if you lent us your phone. just for a quick call. then we’ll be gone.”

you glance between the foursome. though roger’s face is still shadowed by frustration, they seem harmless enough. maybe a little cranky, but mostly harmless.

unless, of course, that’s what they want you to think.

your aunt’s warning that you trust too easily plays in the back of your mind, and you consider that she might be right. you bite your lower lip, prepared to turn them away, when marmalade jingles her way into the conversation. she curls around your ankle, head lifted to stare at the four men on her porch. the bell around her neck sounds as she turns from side to side around your leg.

“you didn’t say you had a cat!” the one with the mustache—freddie—coos in delight. he crouches, clicking his tongue to gain marmalade’s attention. after a beat of hesitation, she inches forward to sniff the proffered hand. you watch, and when marmalade nuzzles her nose against freddie’s palm, the tension in your shoulders dissipates.  

you sigh with a conciliatory smile. “well, if she trusts you, i suppose i will too.” stepping to the side, you nod to the living room. “come in and warm up.”

the men mumble various forms of gratitude and shuffle past you, sure to stomp their snowy boots against the welcome mat outside the door. they crowd around the low fire in the fireplace, and you hurry to toss a few logs on the dying embers. deaky takes the fire poker from your hand when you grab it from its place nestled along the extra pile of wood. his fingertips skim your knuckles, and you’re struck by how warm he feelings despite the weather outside. you meet his gaze, your eyes wide as you wait for him to explain.

“i can do that,” he says. “maybe you can show brian the phone?”

now that he’s shed his overcoat, you note the way his pale blue sweater brings out the pale blue of his eyes. he really is quite handsome. they all are, and it’s been a long time since you were in the presence of a handsome man, let alone four. who can blame you for being a little tongue tied?

you blink when you realize you’ve stared a bit too long. heat rushes to your cheeks, and you turn away, scanning the small room for brian. “right, yes. the phone.”

you find brian stood between the living area and the kitchen, his hands in his pockets, stiff while his counterparts make themselves comfortable. roger lounges on the sofa, his legs spread toward the fire. freddie sits at the kitchen table, marmalade snuggled beneath his chin. and with the fire now flooding the cabin with warmth, deaky drops to the single armchair facing the kitchen.

you motion to brian’s wet coat. “would you like to take your coat off, brian? you look awfully damp.”

he shakes his head. “i’m alright.”

you decide not to press and instead point to the phone attached to the wall. “the phone’s just there. do you need a number? or do you have what you need?”

“actually, do you have a number for the gondola lift?”

“yeah, of course.”

you step past him to pull open a junk drawer. apart from a winding, perilous road, the gondola lift is the only way down the mountain for the few people who live mountainside year round.  you’ve gotten to know the owner and operator—jimmy schmits—well after your several years living in the cabin. he or someone on his staff is only a phone call away should you need travel assistance, and you prefer the gondola ride to taking your beat-up car down the rocky, poorly paved road.

you hand brian a small, cardstock business card. “that’s the number there.”

he glances down then gives you a tight smile. “thanks.”

turning to allow him what privacy you can in the cramped space, you glance around the room at the three pairs of eyes staring back at you. the laugh that escapes from behind your lips is decidedly nervous, wavering and forced. “sorry. i just—this is a bit weird for me. i would have dressed the part had i known people were coming over.” you suck in a breath and nod to the refrigerator. “have any of you eaten?”

roger opens his mouth to say something, but deaky hurries to speak first, leaning forward in the armchair. “yes, thank you. we ate early this morning.”

roger’s face contorts to a frown, and, in what you assume is supposed to be a surreptitious move, deaky kicks his friend’s shin to silence any further protest. you look away when deaky’s eyes find yours again, his gaze apologetic.

“i’ll just make some tea, then,” you mumble.

the quiet in the room is thick, save for brian’s soft voice coming from the hall as he talks on the phone. you keep your back to the three men as you prepare a kettle for tea.

you spend much of winter in solitude, and truly, you like it that way. this sudden influx of company has you on edge, especially considering your less-than-becoming attire, bedhead, and sleepy eyes. you don’t know what to say to alleviate the discomfort in the room, aren’t really sure if it’s your job to make them feel comfortable.

really, you aren’t sure about anything this morning.

as you wait for the water to boil, you lean against the kitchen counter and cross your arms over your chest. the fuzzy neck of your robe rubs against your chin as you duck your head, and you study the worn tile floor beneath your long socks.

“what’s your cat’s name?”

you look up. it’s the one with the mustache—freddie. his brown eyes are warm, and he scratches beneath marmalade’s chin as he waits for your answer. for marmalade’s part, she purrs happily in his arms, seemingly more comfortable with your guests than yourself. “marmalade,” you say.

freddie grins, and you can’t help but find yourself smiling back. “perfect name. yet we seem to be missing one important thing…”

“what’s that?”

“your name. if we’re going to intrude upon your cabin and make you uncomfortable, i think we should know who to send the gift basket to once we’re rescued.”

your brow pinches slightly in confusion. freddie speaks with a certain air that you can’t quite place—one of regality, you think. you glance at deaky across the room, and he moves his eyes to the fire as he gnaws on his lower lip.

you look back at freddie, give him your name, then say, “and you’re not making me uncomfortable.”

“please,” freddie deadpans. “i know discomfort when i see it.” he lets marmalade go, who jumps to the floor, padding her way from the tiled kitchen to the carpeted living room. he stands from the table and points to the stove. “the kettle is ready, love.”

you hadn’t heard the sharp whistle, so engrossed were you in your own thoughts.

“oh!” spinning on your heel, you flip the stove-top off and remove the kettle, the whistle dying to a light trill. freddie arranges a ramshackle collection of mugs along the counter, pulled from the spinning rack in the corner. “thank you,” you whisper, as you divvy out the hot water and he drops the tea bags into the mugs.

freddie gathers the milk and sugar, making himself both useful and right at home, which you find you don’t mind too much, though it surprises you how he moves with such ease and command around a home not his own. he must be comfortable anywhere and with anyone, and you envy him that.

he carefully sets the tea tray on the low coffee table in the living room. “how do you take your tea, darling?” he asks you, bending over, his ass pointed near the fire, as he makes to prepare your cup.

you skirt into the living room, shaking your head. “oh, you don’t have to—”

he arches an eyebrow, and his voice is firm when he speaks. “how do you take your tea?”

with a small smile, you lower yourself beside roger on the couch, careful to keep a large space between you. “more sugar than milk, please.”

freddie prepares your cup then passes you the steaming mug. your smile widens in gratitude as you take the warm ceramic from his hands. he prepares his own tea before dropping to the brick ledge of the fireplace. he waves his hand in dismissal at roger and deaky.

“you two make your own,” he quips. “you’ve thoroughly pissed me off this morning.”

from behind the lip of your mug, you pull your mouth into an amused line. your eyes dart to deaky, who is bent forward, frozen as he reaches for a mug of tea. he skewers freddie with an unamused look.

“this isn’t my fault, fred,” he says.

from beside you, roger’s deliciously high voice pipes up. “nor mine!”

“no, of course it isn’t your fault, roger. we wouldn’t dare accuse you of—”

before freddie can finish his sentence, brian returns from the side hall. you shift, turning your head along with the others to hear what came of his conversation with the gondola lift owner.

brian rubs the back of his neck, his eyebrows tilted upward in apology. “well, the gondola is down today.”

“all day?” you speak a little too quickly, and you wince, dropping your eyes to the pale liquid in your mug.

brian nods. “yeah—at least until tomorrow. i guess a tree fell after we were dropped off this morning and struck a line on the lift. and the road isn’t clear, so… we’re stuck.” he glances between his friends, the hunch of his shoulders growing as the weight of their predicament sets in.

“well…” you start. you lean forward to place your tea on a worn coaster. “i certainly won’t turn you out with nowhere to go.” for what feels like the tenth time this morning, you draw in a deep breath through your teeth to steady yourself. “i suppose you lot can stay the night, then. that is, if you want to...”

there’s a beat, a moment of heavy silence, before brian says, “we couldn’t impose like that.”

you frown. “where else would you go?”

roger snorts. “brian would sleep beneath a tree if he thought it might make your life a little easier.”

you glance at roger, uncertain if his words are more jest than jab. the half-smile on his face fades under your questioning gaze, and he shifts. “i just mean,” he continues, “that brian is the most chivalrous out of all of us. not that we have any ugly intentions—”

“roger.” it’s deaky this time, and he sounds more than a little perturbed. “stop talking.”

you hesitate before explaining your offer further. “it’ll be a squeeze,” you say. “but we can make it work. i would rather you spend the night here then wander around in the cold and freeze to death. my closest neighbor is four kilometers off, and she doesn’t have electricity. you won’t be able to find her cabin if it gets dark.”

freddie shivers, though you’re sure his backside is nice and toasty from where he sits close to the fire. “oh good god,” he mutters, bringing his tea close to his mouth. “you people are insane.”

deaky catches your eye, and his brow arches. “if you’re sure…”

you nod. “i’m sure.”

“thank you. honestly, you’re a life-saver.” brian’s shoulders seem to straighten as a smile eases the lines on his forehead. he offers you his hand, which you shake, as he says, “and i’m sorry, but i didn’t catch your name while i was on the phone.”

you give him your name, and he grins, nodding to his friends. “in case you forgot: i’m brian may, and that’s roger taylor, john deacon, and freddie mercury.”

there’s something vaguely familiar about the names, particularly freddie’s, but you can’t quite put your finger on where you’ve heard that lineup before. frowning, you glance between the four men, who stare back at you with expectant sort of faces, as if they’re waiting for the lightbulb above your head to illuminate. you run through the rolodex of names in your brain, but come up short.

“are you performers or something? i swear i’ve heard your names before.”

“we’re in a band,” roger says.

you cringe in apology. “i’m afraid i don’t know bands very well. my radio—i only get one station up here, and it’s mostly yodeling. christmas is the only time of year i can pick up anything worthwhile. got any christmas songs?”

“no, and i’m not sure we will.”

“what band, then? maybe i’ve heard of you on the off chance, but don’t take it to heart if i haven’t.”

freddie leans forward in expectation. “we’re called queen. ring any bells?”

you consider before nodding. “i think so. there’s only one song that comes to mind, though. another one bites the… something? dust, maybe?”

with a laugh, freddie slaps his hand against deaky—john’s knee. “that’s deaky’s song!”

you find yourself smiling—and easily—for the first time since waking. “really? i like it!” shrugging your shoulders in time with the bassline, you do a poor imitation of the song’s opening. beside you, roger laughs, shoving john’s shoulder when a flush creeps up his cheeks. “it’s fun!”

john nods once, mumbling, “thanks.” he drops his cheek to his hand, eyes falling to the carpet, and your smile softens.

you look away, sparing him further embarrassment. “so, i’m in the presence of royalty, i guess, but all i have to offer you is my parent’s old bed, which can fit two, a trundle mattress in my bedroom, and a military cot in the basement.”

brian squeezes your arm in reassurance. “anything will suit us fine. we’re just glad we found you.”

“i’m glad i can help,” you say, and even if it were for this moment alone, you’re glad you never listened to your aunt in sheffield.

day two.

you wake the next morning with a gasp, panic shooting straight to your heart when you roll over and see a man lying on the floor next to your bed. your first instinct is to scream, to call for help, but then the fogginess of slumber lifts from your mind. you recognize the man on the floor, and your defenses drop in relief.

you’d forgotten.

the previous day’s events seem more like something out of a dream than reality. four men—four famous men—appearing on your doorstep? getting stuck in your cabin after a technological malfunction? challenging one another to a game of rock-paper-scissors in order to determine sleeping arrangements? surely you’d made that up, a dream produced by an overactive imagination and too much time alone.

but no—the presence of one john deacon, asleep on the trundle bed extended from beneath your mattress confirms your current reality. you run your eyes over his sleeping face and note the stillness with which he softly snores, one arm tucked behind his pillow. he looks peaceful.

you hope you didn’t disturb his sleep during the night. ever since the accident, nightmares tend to plague your dreams. at least twice a week, you shoot out of bed, drenched in sweat and crying out in the empty darkness of your room. you can’t remember if you’d dreamt at all last night, but you’d shrivel up and die of embarrassment if any of your frantic kicking or mumbling had woken him.

“do you always stare at people when they sleep?”

“shit!” you crash backwards against the wall in surprise at the sound of john’s sleepy voice. your head connects with the paneled wood behind you, and you curse again, rubbing the sore spot on your skull.

“do you always have such a dirty mouth too?” he’s propped up on his elbow now, eyes gleaming with a mischief you hadn’t seen yesterday. his curls lay askew on his head, and his shirt—a flannel pulled from the depths of your grandfather’s belongings—swallows his torso.

continuing to rub your head, you frown. “do you always insist on asking so many questions this early in the morning?”

“only when people stare at me while i sleep.”

you drop your hand, wrinkling your nose in embarrassment. “sorry.” although the tip of your nose is cold, your cheeks feel warm with a flush. “i didn’t think you were awake, and i was… thinking. i wasn’t really staring at you.”

half-truth. maybe a quarter-truth. your four guests are handsome—each of them in their own right—but john… he has the potential to make your knees go wobbly should he flash you one of his secretive and elusive grins.

but, in all truth, you were thinking of other things as you’d looked down at him: thinking about the day and your work and how soft his hair looked and the strength of his nose and—

john rolls off the trundle bed. when he stands, he swivels his arms back and forth, stretching his back muscles. “’s okay. i’m getting used to it.” before you can ask him what he means, he points to the skylight in the middle of your room. “i’ve got a feeling we’re in for a rude awakening.”

your gaze follows his extended finger, and you huff when you see the skylight entirely darkened by a heavy layer of snow. yesterday afternoon, you had still been able to make out the sun’s rays through the unmelted snow leftover from the recent storm. now, the skylight serves more as an extension of your stippled ceiling than an opportunity to glimpse the night sky.

“must have been another storm last night,” you say, slipping out of bed.

you don’t miss the way john’s eyes immediately flit to your legs and your exposed thighs. your nightshirt falls to the middle of your thighs, a long pair of socks pulled over your knees your only leg coverings. his eyebrows shoot up his forehead, his lips slightly parted, but he looks away when you shift uncomfortably with the hem of your shirt. damn your mother for passing on her penchant for hot sleeping!

he gathers his clothes from a chair in the corner and nods to the door. “i’ll just go… change downstairs.”

your nod is too enthusiastic to be anything but embarrassed. “yeah, okay. i’ll be down in a moment. help yourself to whatever you find in the kitchen.”

john, holding his clothes to his chest, leaves the room in a hurry, his head down and eyes averted. when the door shuts, the lock giving a soft click as it slides home, you drop to your bed with a groan.

it might be a long day.

after fixing your hair and pulling on a fresh pair of jeans and sweater, you make your way down the stairs and into the living room. a chill hangs in the air, one much deeper than the general winter cold. it goes straight to your bones and makes your teeth chatter in your skull. shivering, you circle your arms around your waist, prepared to go start a fresh fire in the hearth, but something in the corner of your eye stops you.

your guests—all four of them in a line, their mismatched heights on full display—staring out the bay window.

“what is it?” you ask, bending to lift marmalade from the floor when she jingles her way over from the kitchen. “did it really snow that much?”

roger looks over his shoulder, and the disappointment shadowing his face gives you pause. “come see for yourself.” he drops to the couch with a defeated groan, cradling his forehead in his hand.

holding marmalade against your shoulder, you tiptoe to the window, the floor beneath your feet unusually frigid. you exhale at the sight of the fresh snowfall, and your breath clouds the windowpane. a thick layer of white powder covers the mountainside. as far as your eye can see, there’s nothing but pure white. it’s blinding in the morning sun, and you blink against the glistening snowflakes.

“it’s got to be at least one meter,” brian whispers. “maybe more.”

freddie shakes his head back and forth, gesturing to the side. “i can’t even see the bloody porch steps. they’ve been swallowed!”

john shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “no power either.”

you twist to stare at him in shock. “what? no power?”

he gives you the briefest of glances then returns his gaze to the window. “i checked the breaker. it’s all out.”

from the couch, roger groans again. “which means we are stuck for the foreseeable future. brian called the gondola and they couldn’t even pick up, so that’s out of the question.” he slumps further down the couch cushions. “i had a fucking holiday party planned for next week.”

“now wait a minute.” brian turns from the window and reaches over to give roger’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “the snow will clear up before then. it’ll just be a few more days. that is”—his eyes slide to you—“if you’ll let us stay?”

you glance between your guests before laughing in indignation. “you didn’t really think i’d turn you out, did you?” marmalade hops from your arms when you plant your hands on your hips. “honestly, i might be somewhat of a recluse, but i’m not completely rude.”

freddie skirts around john to place both hands on your shoulders and steer you toward the kitchen. “no one thinks you’re rude, darling. we just didn’t want to assume.” he jerks his head toward john. “now, john will start the fire and we’ll all get cozy and perhaps play a game of scrabble. roger found the board downstairs last night. how does that sound?”

you meet john’s eyes over freddie’s shoulder, and he smiles—ever so slightly, but enough to drop your defensive stance. you nudge freddie with your arm and nod. “scrabble it is.”

after breakfast, you are quickly bested in the shortest game of scrabble you’ve ever played. it seems your guests are quite the experts, so you leave them to their fun in order to complete a series of edits on your latest manuscript. from the kitchen table, you can hear them bickering over whether or not freddie’s addition is a dictionary defined word or whether or not john can go twice in one turn because roger knocked his letters from the coffee table.

the gentle hum of conversation—of life—warms your chest. it’s been a long time since your home felt lived in. for so long you have simply subsisted, moving from room to room to change the scenery, leaving the mountain only when necessary, never truly engaging with the outside world. it’s easier to live alone—there’s less risk in it, less wondering if today could be the last day you interact with a loved one because fate has some cruel trick up its sleeve.

but, damn, if having roger and john and brian and freddie grace your living room doesn’t remind you of how irritatingly necessary other people are to living a truly fulfilled life.

brian asks if he can prepare a light lunch, and while he does, you gather your work and set it aside. you have a deadline—the first of the year—but for the moment, you’d rather engage with others instead of shoving your head deep within the made-up realms of your novelists.

with a dramatic stretch, you raise your arms above your head and groan as the muscles pop in your back.

“all done, then?” freddie asks.

“for now,” you say.

he pats the open spot of the couch between himself and john, and you squeeze between them, tilting your socked feet toward the roaring fire. you find yourself still shivering slightly, despite the extra layer beneath your sweater and warm wool socks. if you remember correctly, your father had complained of poor insulation in the attic. you wish, perhaps a bit selfishly, he’d gotten that fixed before his passing.

“here.” john shimmies one side of the blanket draped over his shoulders around yours. “we can share.”

“thanks,” you whisper, grabbing the corner he offers and pulling it around your back. the movement draws him closer, the outside of his thigh pressed tightly against yours. he feels warm, though, like your own little space heater, and you resist the urge to lean into him for further comfort. instead, you focus your attention on freddie, who explains how he and his bandmates came to be stranded on a swiss mountainside.

“so, really, it’s roger’s fault that we’re in this predicament,” freddie says. “he was the one who wanted to go skiing.”

you tilt your head to the side, confused as you glance toward the front door. “where is all your gear, then? you didn’t bring any in.”

john sighs with a shake of his head. “we forgot that in the hotel.”

“no one is brilliant at five am, dear. except for maybe brian, but even he failed to remind us that the first rule of skiing is you need skis.” freddie shrugs his shoulders. “oh well. it brought us to you, didn’t it?”

smiling, you nod. beside you, john shifts a little closer. his free hand rests on his leg, but his pinky finger extends outward, brushing along the outer seam of your jeans. your grin widens.

“yeah, i suppose it did.”

day three.

it’s just past midnight when you tumble from the depths of your nightmare.

the accident—replaying—over and over and over. the twist of the car over the edge of the ravine. you, powerless, helpless as you watch from the safety of your grandfather’s truck. the crunch of metal against rock and tree and—

—and the ultimate knowledge that there was no way your parents could survive such a fall settling over your heart like a three-ton brick.

you jerk awake with a barely-contained screech. clamping your hand over your mouth, you squeeze your eyes shut, willing away the images that flash through your mind like some sort of cruel slideshow. blood and guts and screams and—

a warm hand on your shoulder, soft voice in your ear saying your name, pulls you back to reality. “hey. hey, wake up.”

your eyes flutter open, sleeve of your shirt caught between your teeth where you bite down hard. in the dim light of the room, you can make out the angles of john’s face, the line of his nose, pout of his lips. a soft glow—from the nightlight in the corner, you think—shrouds the curls on his head, giving him the curve of a halo.

your ribs shudders as you exhale. he looks like an angel, an angel sent to save you perhaps. never in your lift have you so badly wanted to embrace someone in relief.

instead, you drop the hand from your mouth and lean closer to the wall at your side, away from him. “huh? wha—oh… john, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to wake you.”

his grip on your shoulder tightens, and he ignores your apology. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing. just a nightmare.”

“some nightmare.” john’s hand slips from your shoulder to your elbow, and he rubs his cheek with his opposite hand. “you hit me.”

“fuck, did i? oh hell, john.”

scrambling to your knees, you frown into the darkness, searching for a welt or bruise blossoming on his cheek. it’s too dark to see clearly, though, and you sigh in defeat, hanging your head. embarrassment swells in your stomach, wrenching it side to side, and you turn your face away, hoping against hope that he can’t see the evidence of your fluster.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

more than anything, more than the embarrassment roiling through your system and the nerves wracking your chest, you find yourself feeling frustrated. two day—two days with queen in the house, and two days you’ve felt a magnetic pull towards john. maybe you’re just lonely and maybe you’re just reading too much into the stolen glances and brushes of his hand against yours, but having him here in the house with you? tossing your sideways looks when freddie says something that makes you laugh and helping you pull the biscuit tin from its place on the top of the shelf? you’d thought that maybe—just maybe—he might see something worthwhile in you, too.

but no rockstar could put up with you. surely, he must see that plainly now. your fear of crowds and loud noises and your night terrors—that’s not made for the high life. he would go once he got the chance, forget about you and you cat in the cabin on the mountainside. why you ever considered for a moment he would do otherwise further stokes the shame threatening to consume you.

you fiddle with the sheets and blankets gathered around your knees. “you can sleep downstairs, if you like,” you say in a rush. your grip tightens on the quilt binding, and you rub your thumb back and forth across a frayed string. “i won’t mind.”

john remains still and quiet for so long you think he must’ve fallen back asleep. but then he stands, and he gently nudges your shoulder.

“scoot over,” he urges, and you find yourself inching closer to the wall without a second thought. john slides into bed next to you, his body warm and strong. “is this okay?”

you nod because, truly, yes, it is okay with you. very much okay.

“when i was little,” he starts, adjusting the quilts around his chest, his ankle brushing your leg. “i had this dog, and any time i had a nightmare, he would crawl into bed with me, help it all go away. i know i’m not as fluffy as a dog, but… well, i thought maybe we might see if this helps it go away.” he pauses for a breath and asks again, “is that okay?”

“yeah, yeah, it’s okay.” your voice is a puff of air, and if it were any colder, you’re sure your breath would crystalize.

“good.” he settles deeper into your shared pillow, and you catch a whiff of your shampoo in his hair. it makes your stomach clench, not from embarrassment, but an entirely different emotion. beneath the covers, one of his hands slips over the curve of your wrist, and his fingers tangle with yours. he gives your palm a squeeze. “go back to sleep.”

you do—easily.

john’s heartbeat is steady beneath your ear when your eyes flutter open for the second time. you’d rested without struggle for the first time in a long time. your shoulders feel loose, your eyes free from heavy circles.

and it’s all because of john.

your cheek is firm against his chest, and the fabric of your grandfather’s flannel still smells like his cigar smoke, but there’s something else, something distinctly john, and it’s all you can do to not turn your face further into his chest and snuggle closer to his side. he’s warm, and you’re still cold despite the heavy blankets cocooning you. his arm is slung over your back, drawing you tighter to his chest, his face turned to the side as he breathes softly in sleep.

you should get up, go downstairs, and find something to eat, check to see if the power has returned. you’d rather stay here, in this quiet, still moment, until the rest of the world fades away and you are left with him and him alone. your wish isn’t meant to be, it seems, because just as you are prepared to lean further into john’s warmth and return to sleep, freddie bursts through the door.

you jolt upwards at the sound of the door slamming against the wall. john is right behind you, and his arm instinctively tightens around your back.  

the grin on freddie’s face is positively shit-eating, and he puts his hands on his hips as he looks between you and john with something between pride and amusement. “oh! well, well, well, what do we have here?!”

“fuck, fred.” john releases his hold on you, moving to run a hand down his face to cover his yawn. “damn near pissed myself.”

“yes, i’m sure.” freddie chuckles to himself then cocks his head toward the open door. “make yourselves presentable. we’ve got decorating to do.”

he exits without further explanation, leaving a ball of confusion and uncertainty in your stomach and a proverbial elephant in the room. you fiddle with the end of your sleeve, wondering if john thinks the silence is as thick as you do.

“you seem to have slept better,” he says at last.

you turn, and his face is so near yours you could kiss him. instead, you just nod and say, “yes, i did. thanks to you.”

he shrugs, shaking his head. “i’m a selfish guy. i didn’t want to get hit again. seemed the easiest way to spare me the pain.”

somehow you know he’s joking. you know he slept as well as you because of your body pressed against his. you know he feels the spark, and he’s waiting for the moment to light the flame.

perhaps it’s the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles, or the quick wink you nearly miss, that tell you you’re not crazy, that he feels it too. or maybe… maybe he’s the other half of the string that’s tied beneath your ribs. the string is no longer stretched and pulled taut, but relaxed, made light by fate and nature conspiring to bring you together.

or maybe you’re reading something that isn’t there again.

you look away first, but can’t keep the giddy smile from your face. he makes your heart feel weightless. and after being weighed down for so long, you feel as if you could do anything.

john gathers his clothes and changes downstairs while you get dressed for the day. by the time you make it to the living room, brian hands you a warm-ish glass of orange juice and a bowl of cereal while roger tends the fire and freddie sits on the floor, marmalade sniffing around the open boxes of christmas décor at his feet. 

unbidden, tears spring to your eyes, and you tighten your hold on the glass in your hand.

three christmases you’ve been alone. three christmases you’ve avoided the tried and true rituals of your childhood. three years you’ve missed this, the warmth of friendship and togetherness.

your heart gives a painful lurch at the thought of all you’ve missed out on, all you’ve neglected in order to save yourself from pain. only, perhaps you’ve driven yourself to much more pain, shutting yourself away on the mountain as you have.

john appears at your side, and his hand comes to rest on the curve of your neck, his finger tracing the edge of your jaw. “what is it?” he whispers, low enough so only you can hear.

clearing your throat, you grin up at him. “i’m just happy.”

his eyes scan the room before he dips his head and presses his lips to your temple. his grip on the back of your neck tightens as he lingers against your skin. your eyes flutter shut, and you lean closer to him, warmth spreading from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet. he releases you after a moment, nudging you forward with a hand to the small of your back.

you drop to the carpet beside freddie and take a bite of your cereal. “where did you find all this? i didn’t know i’d kept it.”

“i found it, actually,” roger says from his place in the kitchen.

“and you found the scrabble board too… if i didn’t know any better, i’d say you were snooping around my house.”

“so what if i am?” roger shrugs. “i’m bored as hell without the tellie. there’s loads of stuff downstairs just waiting for me to snoop through.” he finishing tacking something to the archway of the kitchen before stepping into the living room, hands in his pockets.

“roger, stop your griping and sit down.” brian nods to the open armchair. “we haven’t had this much time off in ages. enjoy it while you can.”

“really, why do you keep all this marvelous stuff downstairs?” freddie asks. he sifts his hands through the box on his lap, filled with tinsel and ribbons your mother collected over the years. “you have a tree, but that’s it. your entire cabin could be dripping with christmas cheer if you wanted.”

“it’s just me,” you say. as if understanding, marmalade gives a petulant meow. you smile and scratch behind her ears. “and marmy, i guess. there’s no reason to go above and beyond if it’s just me.”

brian’s brow furrows in concern. “your parents? siblings?”

“my parents died about five years ago, my grandfather shortly after. there’s no siblings. just me.” rising from your place on the floor, you gather your empty breakfast bowl and the leftover plate sitting adjacent.

it’s quiet as you deposit the dishes in the sink. the story of your parent’s tragic accident and grandfather’s health decline has never been a mood booster; this you well know. still, you feel obligated to tell your guests. no—not obligated. willing. you love your parents and your grandfather, but you’ve neglected their memory too long.

you turn from the sink. “why don’t we put the decorations up? in their memory.”

freddie’s smile is soft, affectionate. he nods resolutely. “a lovely idea.”

brian puts a christmas record on the turntable, and the house seems to sigh in relief as life, happiness, and festive cheer fills the rooms after so long. roger tosses handfuls of tinsel upon the sparsely decorated tree, his hips swaying to the beat of the music, and freddie directs brian in hanging garland over the mantelpiece and around the staircase banister. you sit beside john on the floor, stringing popcorn along a piece of string. your hands are salty and warm from the popcorn, and his shoulder brushes yours as you work.

“you know,” he says. “my dad died when i was young.”

you pause, an unpopped kernel between your fingers. “really? sorry—i don’t mean to sound so surprised. i just—you didn’t say anything, so…”

he brushes your hurried apology away with a shake of his head. “i was eleven. changed me forever. i don’t really remember much of my childhood, you know, ‘cause of that.”

“oh, john.” though your fingers are slick with salt and butter and grease, you cover his hand with yours. he looks up from the half-filled bowl, and leans closer, his shoulder pushing against yours. “i’m sorry. that—no child should have to lose their parent at a young age.”

“i don’t tell you to feel sorry for me.” he removes his hand from beneath yours and continues to string the popcorn, but there’s no malice or hostility in his words—just truth. “i’m just saying it because i know how it feels to lose a parent early. it’s… devastating.”

you nod, twisting your mouth to side and looking away from his searching gaze. “yes, it is.” drawing in a deep breath, you face him again. “i think i dwell too much on the sadness, though. there’s happiness in their memory, and i forget that. but you lot helped me remember. you helped me remember.”

john ducks his head on a shy grin, his cheeks pink with blush.

heart tripping in your chest, you stand and return to the kitchen to refill the popcorn bowl while he drapes the first completed string around the tree. as the popcorn pops, you tuck your face near your shoulder, smiling to yourself. three days ago, you’d gone to bed thinking you knew what christmas would look like this year: desolate and lonely, with only your cat by your side and work to fill your days. how could you have guessed? how could you have known what nature would bring your way?

when you turn, the freshly filled bowl cradled in the crook of your arm, you stop short. roger, a sideway grin on his face, stands in the doorway of the kitchen. he jerks his chin upwards, and you follow his eyeline to the sprig of faux mistletoe tacked to the ceiling.

you roll your eyes. “so, that’s what you were doing. you really are a trouble-maker, roger.”

“come on, it’s tradition, love. just one kiss?” he opens his arms slightly, beckoning with a wave of his fingers.

you huff with mock indignance, but your cheeks warm at the thought of roger taylor wanting to kiss you of all people. the little you know of queen and their stardom is knowledge enough to tell you that roger has kissed far worthier people. they all have, probably. you—you’re just a country bumpkin, hardly interesting or captivating enough for his—or any of their—attentions.

that, at least, is what you would have told yourself three days ago. today, the thoughts tumble through your head, but you push them aside with a newfound sense of confidence. it doesn’t mean anything, anyway. it’s just a mistletoe kiss. and you think you’d regret it forever if you turned him down.

before you can stop yourself, you step forward, and roger rightly takes the movement as an agreement. he kisses you soundly, one hand feather-light in the center of your back. you don’t let the connection linger too long for fear you will lose yourself to the moment. roger is kind and charming, but he’s not… well, he’s not john, and the thought of john and whatever it is he means to you makes you pull away after a few seconds.

from their place in the living room, freddie and brian cheer, clapping in response to the good-natured fun. you duck your head, but smile all the same and drop to your spot beside john. you hand him the bowl of popcorn, but he doesn’t start stringing the new line. he just looks at you, his eyes roaming your face, barely so much as a frown pulling his brow tight or downward tilt of his mouth wringing his lips in a scowl. he just… stares, openly, without pretense, and you suddenly wish you’d turned roger down. though the feeling of roger’s lips still lingers on yours and the kiss wasn’t unpleasant in the slightest, john’s arms around your waist while you sleep leaves much more of an imprint on your skin. his soft breath when he sleeps, the perfect rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear—it all is so much better than a silly mistletoe kiss with roger.

a muscle ticks in john’s jaw, the only evidence of possible frustration. you look away and continue stringing popcorn along the line.

“i wanted to be the one to kiss you.”

at the sound of john’s mumbled words, you trip over a mislaid shoe in the middle of your darkened room. he’d gone to bed earlier than everyone else, leaving you and the others to play another round of scrabble until well after the sun disappeared. you’d considered following him when he made his exit and explaining your kiss with roger, but you’d decided it against it.

neither roger nor john could stake any claim over you or your actions, and you’d wanted to kiss roger. not to piss john off, not to push him away, but purely because you’d wanted to. maybe you wouldn’t do it again, not after seeing the crestfallen look on john’s face. but you’d done it, and there was no shame in it.

you grip the edge of the bed frame, bent at the waist, frozen in the way you’d tripped. “what?” the word is a sharp exhale in the already tense room.

“you heard me: i wanted to be the one to kiss you.”

you aren’t sure what to say, so the first thing that comes to mind slips from your mouth. “well… you didn’t.”

john huffs and hops off his spot atop your bed. the snow covering your skylight has started to melt in the last day or so, allowing slim rays of moonlight to pierce the darkness of your room. the moonlight coupled with your nightlight illuminates only the sharpest features on john’s face, and while any other evening you might think the line of his jaw or definition of his nose might be alluring, tonight, coupled with the scowl on his brow, you wish you could see him clearly. he stands in the center of the room, hands on his hips, and you straighten, run your fingers through your rumpled hair.

“you could have,” you whisper. “but you didn’t.”

“beneath the mistletoe?” he scoffs like the mere implication is an offense. “no. that’s not what i meant.”

“what did you mean, then? you can’t just say you wanted to be the one to kiss me with no explanation. i’m not some plaything, john. you boys might be used to that, being famous or whatever, but—”

“no.” his voice is stern, commanding, resolute. you shut your mouth with a snap. “you drive me crazy, you know that?” he steps forward; you step back. “you think you’re so insignificant, that you’re not good enough for anybody.”

your frown and retreat another step when he advances. “i don’t know what you’re—”

he cuts you off as though your protest went in one ear and out the other. “you’re shy, sure, but you’re brave. i mean, dammit you live all the way up here by yourself, and you nearly fought us off with a fuckin’ frying pan.”

he sighs. but then his arm extends, his fingers hovering over your cheek. when you don’t flinch, don’t so much as move a muscle, he covers your cheek with his palm, his fingertips tracing the edges of your hair. “you’re a lot like me. we have a lot in common.”

your heart lurches—not out of pain or regret, but anticipation. a lump of excitement clogs your throat, and it’s hard to swallow, hard to think, hard to breathe, with john so near and his words so intoxicating.

“john…” your eyelids flutter shut, your head tilting into the warmth of his palm. “i—”

“i wanted to kiss you because i like you, not because you’re the only bird here, but because i like you and i think we have a lot—”

you surge forward on a burst of assertiveness. grabbing the edges of john’s night shirt, you drag him forward and slot your mouth over his. his lips are smooth, and once he registers what you’ve done, he responds with equal parts ferocity and tenderness. one hand bunches the fabric of your shirt at your waist, the other grips the back of your neck, holding you against him like you might be blown away by the wind at any moment.

after a moment, he pulls away, rolling his forehead over yours. “tell me to stop and i will.”

you kiss him again, chaste and fast enough to draw back and murmur, “don’t stop,” before losing your nerve.

john circles his arms around your back, then, resuming his careful but hungry attack on your mouth, your cheeks, your neck. you wind your arms around his shoulders, drawing him tight, and you don’t make it to the bed before collapsing to the floor in a heap of passion.

day four.

the power comes back on the next day, and by late evening, jimmy schmits from the gondola service calls to tell you everything will be back up and running by morning. your guests are pleased. they’re eager to get back to the comforts they’re accustomed to, and you don’t blame them. four days in an unheated cabin with rapidly spoiling food in the fridge is not typical rockstar accoutrement. still, they tell you they’ve thoroughly enjoyed their break from reality, and you respond in kind. it was as much as break for you as it was for them.

on that last evening, the lights are kept off for the final time. the fire in the hearth permeates the room with its light, though you don’t need its warmth as much now that the heater is back on. the christmas tree sparkles in the corner, and a few candles flicker in the kitchen and hallway. brian sits in the armchair, your father’s old acoustic on his lap. roger, of course, had found it buried in a spare closet, and he suggests brian play to close out the night.

you lean your back against john’s chest where he sits on the couch. his arm is draped around your body, his fingers running nonsensical patterns over your waist. the back of your head rests against his shoulder, and you feel like you could walk on water you’re so light. all the stress, the aches and pains you’ve carried for so long, have melted like the snow. john is to thank for that, as are the others, but mostly him. he’d pegged you quite right with his speech the night before: shy and unsure of yourself and entirely unconvinced of your own worth. but you’re on the mend, you think.

insignificant? you? no, not anymore. not when he looks at you and holds you close.

brian cringes when he gives an experimental strum of the guitar and something akin to a high-pitched whine hits the air. “oh wow. this hasn’t been played in a while.” he looks up, pulling his mouth to the side in a wry grin. “sorry,” he says when he meets your eyes. “i just have to tune it some.”

“go ahead,” you say. “do what you have to.”

brian adjusts the tuners at the top of the guitar before plucking and pulling the strings in time to a gentle rhythm. when he opens his mouth, he begins to sing. “have yourself a merry little christmas. let your heart be light.”

freddie joins him, scooting forward on the other side of the couch, marmalade snug in his lap. “from now on our troubles will be out of sight.”

when roger jumps in for the bridge, the trio’s voices mingle together in the air like pieces of a puzzle. each part is distinctive and unique, but no less important to creating the larger picture. you snuggle closer to john and feel the vibrations of his chest against your back as he hums, his finger tapping along your shoulder.

“once again, as in olden days, happy golden days of yore. faithful friends who are dear to us will be near to us once more.”

tears cloud your vision, and you tighten your grip on the arm draped over your stomach.

tomorrow your guests will return to their normal lives, lives of fantasy and extravagance. you will return to your hum-drum existence, and the holiday will come and go with little fanfare. but if this is the only gift you will receive this christmas—this time with the hodge-podge musicians that make up queen, this time with john—you will take it with no expectation for anything more.

you’d forgotten what it was like to live with joy and freedom, some semblance of your life prior to the accident. john, freddie, roger, brian—they’d helped you remember, and for that you are forever indebted to them.

clearing your throat, you twist slightly in john’s arms, enough to tilt your head back and let your eyes roam his face. he looks down at you, lips caught in a serene smile. you brush your fingers along the line of his jaw.

“merry christmas, john,” you whisper.

he hums in approval, grinning, before lowering his mouth to kiss you softly. “merry christmas, darling.”

six months later.

it’s hot out, the summer sun roasting you through the thick glass of the gondola. you could drive your car down the mountain, but you prefer the gondola. the gentle sway of the hanging car, the way the buildings in montreux slowly grow taller as you inch closer to the city—it’s all a part of the journey, and you enjoy it, find a comforting rhythm in the predictability.

today, you have an empty basket on your lap, your ankles tucked beneath the bench, as you make your way to the farmer’s market that pops up once a month. it’s a simple little thing, and you often only leave with a few ripe fruits and handful of fresh-cut flowers, but ever since your christmas with queen, you’ve been venturing out more. not enough to truly consider yourself a social butterfly, but you enjoy the odd afternoon at the farmer’s market or dinner in one of the pubs where you listen to the local bands play. you’ve made a friend—your first friend in ages—and heather only further helps to draw you out of your reclusive nature.

then, of course, there’s john. he helps too, always does.

when he’d left in december, he made no promises, and you didn’t expect him to. after all, you’ve only really been with him in person for four days; that’s hardly enough time to build a lasting sort of connection.

still, he calls when he can, and you catch up, but there’s no real agreement between you both. yet he continues you to encourage you to get out more, going so far as to ship you a bicycle you can ride the mountain trails on. he promises to come ride with you one day, but you won’t hold him to it. it’s the thought that counts.

for the first time in years, you’re happy, sincerely happy. you once thought that living by yourself, away from the world so you couldn’t be hurt, was enough to be content, and for a time, you were content. but then you’d been forced to remember, to remember how much you need others, and now that you can accept that, loneliness no longer pervades your home or your person. you walk with purpose; your smile comes naturally; your shoulders sway with ease.

it’s still a quiet life, but a much happier one.

you disembark the gondola with your eyes scanning the small list of items it would be worthwhile to buy—a new vase, a bouquet of flowers for the dinner party you’re hosting for heather and her siblings in two days, a necklace to replace the one marmalade broke—and you barely noticed when you bump shoulders with someone boarding the gondola car. you startle, though, when a hand wraps around your wrist and someone says your name.

you turn, lift your eyes, and gasp, your heart leaping to your throat. “john deacon!” it’s practically a squeal, and john shushes you with a fast hand over your mouth.

he glances around to see if anyone heard you or cares, and it seems the world is too busy with their own affairs to study john deacon and the girl he has pinned against his chest, his arm around her back and hand over her mouth. his eyes sparkle when he returns his gaze to you. “hush! don’t blow my cover!”

you swat his hand away, but don’t move out of his grasp. “what are you doing here?!”

he nods his head to the gondola car, now filled, the doors shut and prepared for departure. “i could ask you the same thing.”

you flush unwillingly and shrug your shoulders. “i actually leave the house now.”

“really?!” john releases his tight hold on your back, giving you breathing space, but doesn’t move his feet. when he speaks, his breath—recently freshened with a mint—fans your face. “i was actually on my way up to surprise you, but it looks like you’ve beaten me to the surprise.”

your heart, still lodged in your throat, skips a beat. “you were coming to see me?”

“’course i was.”

“i didn’t know you were in montreux.”

he nods. “we’re recording. should be here a month or two. just got here yesterday.”

you grin. your cheeks pinch in a slight ache, such unrestrained joy still uncustomary to your muscles. “and you were coming to see me?”

while you grin and reach forward to toy with the edge of john’s shirt, he frowns. “’course i was,” he repeats. “you say that like you’re surprised.”

“well, it was your intention to surprise me, right?”

“of course i would come see you if i was in town.” john nudges your shoulder with his hand then covers your bicep with his palm, squeezing lightly. “you’re my girl.”

you tilt your head to the side. “your girl?”

he nods, steps closer, and holds your other arm. “yeah,” he says, his voice gone deeper, gravely. “my girl.” this thumb brushes along the exposed skin of your shoulder, tanned by the sun. “i told you in december: i like you. the last six months have been… hectic, but i was always going to come back.”

tucking your lower lip between your teeth, you narrow your eyes as you wind your arms around his neck. the hair at the nape of his neck is soft as you play with it. “i would say really and not believe you. but i seem to remember someone telling me that i’m a lot more significant than i give myself credit for.”

john laughs, and the sound pierces your heart like cupid’s bow. “what genius said that?”

you shrug your shoulders, rolling your eyes. “i dunno, but i took it to heart.”

“did you? good. then maybe you’ll be more inclined to say yes when i ask you to come on tour with me, with all of us.”

“oh, you were going to ask that?”

“part of my surprise.”

leaning forward, you feather your lips over john’s. “ask me, then,” you whisper, grinning even further when you feel a shiver run down his back.

“come with us. come with me. let me take you around the world.”

the you of six months ago flares in your chest, telling you to say no, to stay home where it is safe. the you of six months ago tells you that john is just being nice, that he doesn’t see you as anything serious.

but the you of today…

the you of today just smiles and kisses john soundly. you move your mouth over his like he is your dance partner, like you were made for one another, and maybe you were. he tastes sweet, feels even sweeter against your body, and you wonder if this is what your parents felt like when they first fell in love. as your mother tells it, she thought your father had hung the stars in the sky, and when you pull back to look at john, the same thought comes to mind.

“so is that a yes?”

you nod. “i’d go anywhere with you, john deacon.” another thought pops to the forefront of your mind, and you fist your hand in john’s shirt with a frown. “but wait: who will watch marmalade?”

[inspectingg]

Exterminator (Gruvia fan fiction) Chapter II: Gray

© 2021 inspectingg (on tumblr). All rights reserved.

Synopsis: The administration indisputably decided that social status not only determined one’s wealth, but also life or death. Driven by corruption, those who thrived at the top of the chain dominated the world. Desperate to seize absolute control, Exterminators were given the decree to kill. With the entire fate of the human race under their control, it is imperative to lose all morality and sentiment. When killing people is a full-time job, it becomes second nature for Gray Fullbuster. But when the first person he has ever vowed to protect was his next victim, he makes the difficult decision to keep her under his care, training her to kill – or else be killed. 

Genre: romance, action & dystopian.

This fanfiction contains violence and sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

It took me a while to complete chapter 2 but here you go!! It might be a bit slow in the start since I'm trying to set the scene :) but I’m going to pick up the pace in the next chapter (perhaps with a little lemon ;) ) please reblog/comment/like if you enjoyed! it really encourages me with my writing 🥺 (Please read chapter 1 here if you haven't done so already).

Chapter II - Gray 

“How dare you speak.” Before Juvia could adjust her eyes to her clouded surroundings, a figure struck her with a violent force.

Juvia hurled forwards as it knocked her vigorously. Crashing face down, her cheek burned in pain as she rolled into the sinking mud. Before Juvia could lift her face away from the suffocating earth, a barbed boot hammered her back down into the ground. 

“You filthy lowlife,” spat a guttural voice. He pinned her body against the sole of his foot and glowered over her figure smugly. “Should we leave it to rot, captain?” His heel dug into her back.

Juvia could barely muster a snarl as she sunk further into the ground. Barely seeing the faces of her captors, her vision blurred as dirt trickled down her face. Blood oozed from her head as she felt it dribble into her eyes, stinging them shut. She attempted to push herself up, but her arms immediately crumpled in defeat. The man simply plummeted his foot harder into her. 

“Take her with us,” replied a smoky voice. With a knee against the floor, his breath was cold against her lifeless body. He calmly brushed a strand of blue hair away from her eyes. 

“Juvia Lockser,” he growled. She cringed as her eyes landed on the alexandrite plaque that swivelled into sight. An icy finger tilted her face away from the ground as her eyes met his masked figure. Swiping his hand across her bruised cheek, he smeared blood across them in a swift motion. As he leaned down, she shivered in horror as his voice vibrated through her bones. 

“I just saved your pathetic life.” 

Through half-lidded eyes, she watched as everything she knew about her existence gradually dissipated into the darkness. The cries of the twins escaped into obscurity as it entrapped them in a place where she could never return to. The silence of the other prisoners served as a moment of solitude; their deadened eyes followed her unhurriedly. Although Juvia was the first prisoner to escape the blade of an exterminator, everyone knew that in the face of one, they would choose death in a heartbeat. 

Juvia did not have that luxury to choose. 

The jagged ground scoured Juvia’s knees as she was dragged against the cobble. Its cold, harsh surface abraded her lifeless body as she was hauled through the tunnel. Her vision blurred in and out as a mesmerising purple glow burned in the distance. However, when her orbs focused on its force, a harsh radiance burned them with a sharp pain. Its brilliance sunk deeper into her and she screamed as she felt her body evaporating into the blaze. Its ghostly flame enveloped around her, pulling her into its force and casting her skin alight in an excruciating kindle. Juvia screeched as her skin began to flare bright red, scorching her alive. The relentless fire threatened to tear her into shreds as it sunk further into her body. Juvia’s voice hitched in her throat as sparks pranced about, alternating with the deep mauve flame. Before she lost all consciousness, she watched in terror as her body glistened the same colour, when she completely disintegrated into the void. 

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Juvia’s eyes fluttered open. An iridescent glow flickered above her, hanging as a solitary source of light. She was in an empty room with a single bed that situated in the middle. Her eyes burned with pain as they hurriedly scanned around her surroundings. The brisk temperature left her regretful of sitting upright. She hastily sunk beneath the thin covers, hiding her bruised arms beneath her sole source of comfort. 

“You’re up.” 

Juvia twirled to the voice of a foreign woman. The heavy clatter of her steps brought her under the light, where her luminous red locks came into sight. It was the brightest colour Juvia ever laid eyes upon. Her armour cluttered against the cold iron floor as she approached. 

Juvia’s lips opened but no words came out. Instead, her throat stung in response. Biting down on her lip, Juvia tried again, “I–” 

“Commander Scarlet.” 

Juvia stared in confusion. 

“Suit up,” the woman commanded. Juvia found a pile of clothing tossed onto her lap. Her arms folded across her glistening chest plate. “We’ll be waiting outside.” And without another word, the woman disappeared. 

Juvia scowled as she glanced down at her appearance. Her ragged gown was shredded, and its murky colour stained the mattress as she rose to stand. However, her legs suddenly lost all its strength, and sent her staggering to the floor. Juvia let out an inaudible gasp as her body once again met the harsh floor. She was struck by its force, where the phenomena of being burnt alive rushed through her body. It sent a convulsion that ran from her neck to her legs, reminding her of its capability. Her breath caught in her throat as she struggled to rise from the ground. As if her body had a mind of its own, she began to heat up. Her legs shuddered uncontrollably, and her heartrate increased as she felt her skin burn. 

The endless abyss started to penetrate her consciousness, but before she could delve into an infinite darkness, a cold hand grabbed her wrist and hoisted her into a strong embrace. 

Juvia’s eyes raised tirelessly to meet a pair of onyx ones. His orbs radiated a mysterious aura that left Juvia even more breathless. His gaze bore into hers and she felt his grip tighten around her as she contracted her body feverishly from the heat. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, sending jolts down Juvia’s spine as their bodies pressed tightly against each other. 

Juvia fell back into the bed as his arm slipped away from her slender shoulders. They sent shivers down her body as his lingering touch almost seemed to heal her. Juvia stared cautiously at his every movement, her eyes unwilling to leave his chiselled face. His eyebrows knitted together tightly. 

“Are you able to get changed yourself?” 

His voice sent a cool breeze by her ear, allowing Juvia to release a breath she didn’t realise she was holding. His low voice charmed her endlessly, but she realised how familiar it was. Drawing her eyes to his chest, she found the identical plaque that rested at his muscular pec. Swirls of silver swerved in an intricate pattern, flowering around an alexandrite that adorned its centre. Its mauve glow was dim, but just as it was about to send her back into an endless memory of purple flames, she felt her arms being raised. She hastily looked down to her gown, where she found his fingertips running along the hem of it, hiking it up towards her waist. His fingers tickled her bare hips and before Juvia could react, her gown was discarded. 

“W-wait –” Juvia stuttered in panic. “What are you…” her voice drifted away as a deep blush coloured her cheeks when she realised that her only protection was a thin layer of cloth that wrapped around her breasts. 

“What are you doing?” Juvia gasped, yanking the covers to her chin. Her voice was raspy but she found him with an eyebrow arched, challenging her. He gradually leaned in, allowing his untamed hair to fall above his hooded eyes as he surveyed her. “Since you’re clearly useless at everything, I’m making it faster for all of us.” 

Without warning, he proceeded to change her, tearing away her covers and raising her arms once again. Juvia let out a high-pitched scream and sent her palm to his face. 

The sound of a hard slap caused Juvia to flinch as the man glared at her. His lips twitched in annoyance and he lunged towards her. His arms bulged as he chained her wrists together above her head. The mattress sunk in as his weight hovered over her body. Narrowing his eyes, he studied her trembling body. Juvia squeezed her eyes shut, tucking her face away from his predatory stare. Struggling to move under his strong hold, Juvia remained as still as possible, letting him take in the sight of her weakening body. He allowed his mouth to inch closer and they opened slightly ajar against her ear. Juvia’s heart wavered as he whispered, “do you want to do this the easy way or the hard way?” 

Juvia remained silent as he studied her features. Her hair fanned out in a tangling mess, scattering across her bruised shoulders. Heaving a sigh, he pulled the shirt down over her head. She couldn’t seem to breathe as she felt his hands work swiftly over her body, tugging it snuggly over her hips. Moving his body over her, he descended and finally let her wrists go, allowing her to cover herself once again. Juvia felt the bed lift as he rose, his defined torso rising above her. She gulped, unsure if it was the heat that made her lose her mind or something else – but all she could do was blink, watching him comb a hand through his tousled hair. 

“I-I can do the rest,” she finally managed to breathe out. The man cocked his head and contemplated her. 

“Make it brief.” And with that, he swiftly left the room, leaving Juvia to stare down at the pair of leather pants which she carefully reached for. Gripping onto the bedpost for support, she tugged them on, allowing them to envelope her tightly. She grunted when she felt the fabric digging into her bruised legs. When her feet pulled into a pair of combat boots, she allowed her eyes to follow the path of a hallway, where a line of lights lit up a single path. 

»»————-　⚜　————-««

A labyrinth of concrete snaked around the dim subterranean. Clutching onto her sore side, Juvia warily tiptoed to an open ground and glanced down the metal bars that encircled her, protecting her from a ten-metre fall. 

Below, she watched in awe as hundreds of bodies moved about in the pit, each dressed in the identical gear as she did. The piercing shouts of an enclosed mass of people gave Juvia a headache, their words merging into a loud ring that penetrated her mind relentlessly. She gritted her teeth, allowing a hand to crash onto the handrailing before she could lose her balance once again. Her knuckles burned as her grip tightened around the metal bars, sending a shock through her body; but before she could lose herself to the darkness once again, a hand grasped onto her shoulder. Juvia gasped aloud, her heart pounded painfully until she turned face to face with Commander Scarlet. 

“You made it,” she examined. Juvia nodded gingerly, attempting to hide her pain “Follow me.” Commander Scarlet gave her one last glance before marching down the stairs that clung to the walls by metal chains, cascading down into the pit. Juvia grappled to the hand railing and panted to catch up. Almost missing a step, she hurried behind, flabbergasted by her surroundings. Her eyes were drawn to the several other passages that scattered across the pit, each leading into an unknown dark alley. 

As the two women descended further, Juvia could feel the tension rise as the once-boisterous shouts of the crowd began to dissipate. With all eyes on her, the scattered crowd began to formulate themselves into a series of ordered lines. Promptly dodging the masses of people, they each scurried to their places and with the perfect synchronism, they each raised a fist to their left shoulder.

“Commander,” they roared. 

Commander Scarlet raised her hand. “Recruits.” She then proceeded to signal towards Juvia, whose face burned as they all turned their attention to her. Hundreds of curious eyes stared back at her lost ones.

“This is Juvia Lockser. She will be joining as a recruit.” A sound of hushed murmurs exploded, as the uniformed men and women all talked amongst themselves. Suddenly, a hand shot up into the air. It belonged to a man whose height towered above the others. Beads of metal travelled along his eyebrows and ears and they adorned a face that was twisted in an unpleasant scowl. 

Commander Scarlet nodded in his direction. “Speak.”

“Commander,” he once again raised his a hand across to his shoulder. “I believe there were to be no more recruits,” his eyes flickered to Juvia’s when he spoke his last words, “with no exceptions.” This time, louder mutters followed from behind the line. However, Commander Scarlet crashed her armoured hand to her chest plate. The sudden force of the metals crashing together silenced everyone. 

“There’s been an exception for Juvia Lockser.” As her name rolled off the Commander’s tongue, Juvia trembled as she felt her dark brown eyes land on her once again. “She will be joining as a recruit and that is all.” Her eyes darted back to the crowd. “No exceptions.” Everyone fell to complete silence.

“In fact,” she barked, “Redfox, you can be in charge of her for today.” With a flick of her wrist, the Commander turned to leave. “Dismissed.” 

Juvia immediately shuddered as she found the man throwing her a murderous stare. Unable to move, she could only watch in horror as he towered over her, his arms snaking across his chest. “Gajeel Redfox,” he huffed. “I don’t know how you managed to become a recruit, but I welcome you regardless.” He extended a hand. Juvia blinked back at him in confusion. 

“Do you not have any manners?” He clicked his tongue, reaching out to grab Juvia’s hand and giving it a hearty shake. “I’ll be showing you around.” 

“J-Juvia Lockser,” she muttered. She found herself drawn to a tattooed number ’4’ on his collarbone. “What is that?” Juvia leaned in closer to take a better look. 

“It’s our ranking.” He angled his head and nodded towards the rest of the recruits who were now dispersed and chatting amongst themselves. “Every recruit has one. It marks our placing for each round.” When he saw Juvia’s confused stare, he heaved an exasperated sigh. “You really know nothing.” Pointing at a wall, Juvia’s eyes followed his hands and they landed on a pixelated board that constantly changed between blue and purple, its fluorescent light blurring between each name that was listed by numbers. 

“It’s always changing, but in the end, only five recruits will remain. You must be in the top five, or else you’re done for.” Gajeel pointed a thumb at himself. “Although I’m currently forth, the competitive rounds we all participate in become harder and harder to complete.” His voice lowered as he signalled for Juvia to come closer. “I heard that those who don’t make it are killed.” Juvia almost laughed aloud. To think that these people were afraid of death made her shudder. 

Sitting in the pitch-dark cave for eighty-two days almost drove her mad – to the point where she wanted to grab a shard of rock and puncture herself until she bled to death. Her skin would then disintegrate into the mud, where it sunk beneath the ground, rotting, before joining the others. The urge to do so constantly tugged at her fingertips, where she desperately wanted to end it all. She felt regretful that an exterminator had not killed her. So, when she was given a second opportunity to live, she didn’t find it appealing at all. 

Juvia gazed down at her dirtied hands. Truly, giving her a second chance at life was a form of punishment. However, the sudden recollection of that mysterious man caused her to flutter her eyes in shock. 

“Do you know of a man who has a purple gem on his chest?” She pressed her thumb and forefinger together, attempting to mimic its position against her own chest. “This big?” 

Gajeel immediately pulled her arm and through the deafening shouts of the other recruits, he lead her away. She failed to keep up, his grip tightening around her when they weaved through the crowds of people. Finally, he slipped into one of the tunnels that obscured them away from the eyes of those in the pit. 

“Don’t ever talk about those with a plaque,” he whispered. Gajeel’s eyes flickered back and forth, aware of their surroundings. “They’re a full-time exterminator. Make sure you stay out of their way.” 

“An exterminator?” Juvia’s curiosity simply increased. “Why can’t we talk about them?” 

Gajeel pressed a finger to the bridge of his nose. “You don’t understand. They are assassins.” He shook his head, “no, they’re worse. They basically assassin assassins. The ultimate killing machine that the administration controls.” He paused, eyes widening as he gripped onto her shoulders. “Unless you’re one of them, they can easily take your life if they felt like it.” Gajeel let her go and released a bitter laugh. “And to think that we’re all trying to become one is hysterical.” His attention returned to Juvia. “Just don’t ever talk about them, okay? They all wear an alexandrite plaque just as you described. I haven’t seen one myself, but Levy–” Gajeel cleared his throat, “she is someone you can speak to.” He nudged Juvia slowly towards the pit and pointed at a petite, blue-haired girl. “There she is.” 

Juvia studied his softened expression as the girl noticed their stare and gave them a small wave. However, before Juvia and Gajeel could make their way over, a burn ignited at her shoulder. Juvia yelped and collapsed, her weakened body immediately began to tremble at the recognisable sensation of being on fire. Gajeel scurried to her side, unknowing what to do. He desperately called out to her. “Juvia?!” However, before Juvia could respond, she felt a forceful grasp as a hand pulled her hair, yanking her away. 

“Juvia Lockser,” the voice chuckled. An adenoidal voice entered her ears. She forcefully turned her face in response to the unpleasant man. “Welcome, new recruit.” A grin plastered across his face. “I wish we can get along well.” Juvia was dropped back down to the ground, her hair disarrayed as it pooled against the cold ground. However, she peeled her body away from the floor, exhausted and breathless. “Why? Do you need a hand?” The man extended an arm, earning a chuckle from two other men behind him. Juvia glared at him, and forcefully yanked at his hand, pulling him facedown into the floor. She watched in triumph as his face twisted into an infuriated glower. 

“You bitch…” The man stretched both his arms out to capture her, before clobbering her body right back down into the floor. An incisive force scathed into her face. Unable to even scream for help, she felt the man jab a foot onto her back. 

“Remember me?” Juvia cringed as she felt the same boot hammer into her side. “You disgusting drifter.” When Juvia turned to Gajeel for help, her face could barely make out his hopeless frown before she was plummeted back into the ground by a rough fist. 

Suddenly, the purple flames of the tunnel returned to her vision. Its cataclysmic flames roared, flaring against the narrowing walls of the tunnel and Juvia once again found herself victim to its agonising burn. Her breath wavered as she realised everyone else simply watched. Their lifeless expressions mimicked those in the tunnel. They were all prisoners. 

Juvia’s half-lidded eyes pleaded for help but she only witnessed Gajeel’s turning back. She felt her heart pound against her chest, racking against her head. But when her eyes flashed to her attacker’s chest, she found the answer. A gleaming alexandrite plaque glimmered, as if mocking her pain. Its vibrant purple almost burned her pupils. 

Another punch landed; but the force was not against her - rather, the weight on her back lifted. She whirled to the sight of the man being hurled across the hallway. 

“Captain!” 

Juvia’s eyes widened in shock as she watched the captain smash a gloved knuckle against the man’s jaw. Seizing his collar, he delivered another blow, distorting his face with blood and purple bruises. 

“Get up,” he growled. Juvia’s attacker stumbled, holding a hand to his bleeding nose. 

“C-Captain,” he stammered. “I can explain –.” The captain interrupted by sending a final dig into his stomach until he collapsed unconscious. He approached Juvia and bent down on one knee, linking an arm under her thigh and the other around her back. With a heave, she was carried away. 

Juvia gazed up at him in shock, her hands nervously rested on his chest. “Why did you help me?” Her heart pounded as he stopped to look at her. His onyx eyes captivated her once again.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. He lifted his chin and laid his eyes upon the overhanging stone in thought. Juvia watched his Adam’s apple flex as he breathed in and out. Unconsciously, she trailed a hand along his throat. Her fingertips shuddered in pleasure as they traced along his tanned neck. His eyes snapped back to her in bewilderment. Upon realisation, Juvia retracted her hand immediately. She gulped, unsure of his response as he continued to study her under his dark eyelashes. 

“I guess you looked like you needed saving.” And with that, he proceeded to carry her along the twisting hallway. As Juvia felt her body bouncing against his cold one, she realised how intimate they were. His sturdy arms protruded against his tight t-shirt and his hard chest gave her butterflies as she occasionally bumped against his body.

Taking a final turn, Juvia laid her eyes upon a flight of stairs that lead to a spacious room. In the corner of the room, a single bed resided where it was surrounded by scattered paper and books. Juvia felt her weight fall into the mattress as he set her down. Crouching, he raised a hand to her cheek. Juvia felt her breath hitch against her throat. 

“Who are you?”

His eyes narrowed before standing to his full height. He turned towards a chest where a pile of clothes littered across the floor. Juvia clenched her fists before trying again. 

“Where am I and why did you bring me here?” Blinking away a single tear that threatened to fall down her cheek, she bit her lip nervously. Her hands trembled dangerously as she whispered under her breath, certain that he couldn’t hear her utter, “who am I?”

His eyes glazed over her as he brushed a hand through his hair.

“Gray.” 

Juvia simply stared. His fingers curled around the hem of his shirt and it slipped off his head. “Gray Fullbuster,” he grunted again. However, her attention was already lost as she was exposed to the glory of his naked chest. The single source of light that emitted from a lantern casted a dynamic light against his toned body and when he bent down, her eyes trained on his every movement. The way his biceps flexed to retrieve a towel sent her into a whirlwind of emotions she wasn’t aware that existed inside of her. She took a deep gulp,��“I-I’m Juvia.” 

Gray spared only a second to glance back at her before dipping the towel into a water bowl.  When his muscular build approached her, Juvia could only gawk at him. He responded with a raised eyebrow. Bending down again, he captured her face in a hand and roughly wiped her cheek with the damp towel. Juvia flinched from the contact and pursued her lips. She almost forgot about the throbbing pain that rocked through her entire body. Instinctively, her fingers shielded her face defensively. 

“Do it yourself then,” he growled. He threw the towel at her lap and Juvia barely caught it. Hastily wiping at her bloodied lip, she moaned softly as she felt her bruise sting. Gray surveyed her, his jaw clenching as she winced once again at the pain. Eventually, he retreated to another corner of the room. 

“Why didn’t you fight back?” He picked up a minuscule bottle that contained a bronze liquid. His teeth caught onto the lid and with a jerk of his chin, it popped open. He paused before facing Juvia. “Why didn’t you ask for help?” 

Juvia averted her gaze. “There’s no point,” she faltered. “Who would come help me, anyway?” At those words, Gray turned his back towards her. With a tap, the liquid spilled onto a cotton pad. Juvia’s hands curled into a tight fist as she clenched onto the bed sheet. “Why are you helping me?” 

Gray once again leaned down towards her and Juvia closed her eyes as she felt the liquid dissipate onto her wounds, letting Gray dab carefully at it. The stinging sensation began to disappear as it seeped onto her cheek. When he didn’t respond, she slowly peeled her eyelids open again, but she immediately panicked when she realised that his face was closer, now inches away. 

This time, it was his breath that caught in his throat. “I don’t know.” 

[monofpoke4life]

Once Upon a Rooftop

(AN: This originally started as a livewrite on discord with the prompts Roof and Dance, and this is what I came up with. I thought I’d share it here. Note: Dance companies make you sign up for more than one class of different dance styles. Also, you don’t control the outfits, especially for something like The Nutcracker. It’s like a uniform. Lmao, can’t believe I had a review on ff.net that didn’t know that. Anyway, please enjoy).

Zim clamped his mouth shut as he peered into the hallway from inside the vent. His analytical gaze watched closely as a pair of boots passed by. The shadow of his enemy's abnormally large head trailed behind him.

The boots squeaked as they cautiously rounded a corner, ready for an ambush that never came. There was a pause, and the owner of the boots continued forward. Only when he could no longer hear the footsteps did Zim dare to emerge from his dusty, makeshift cave. Quickly taking a moment to brush the dust off, he dashed up the stairs to escape pursuit.

Higher and higher he climbed, never daring to stop in one of the classrooms. That's where the Dib-armadillo wanted him to hide! But as a formidable, Irken war machine, such as himself, the mighty Zim was much too smart for that.

Not to mention he just wanted to desperately leave this citadel full of the stench of humiliation and shame that humans called "Hi-Skool."

It was bad enough that, for the sake of his mission, his presence was required to be here during the daytime, but to stay for research only to end up in failure was even more torturous, especially when Dib started chasing him. 

As his mind reminded him of his failure, just as he swiftly approached the lone, cold door, he channeled all of his frustration into ramming the normally locked door. He was so lost in his ire that he failed to notice the door propped open by a fist sized stone.

"HAHA-" Zim screamed in triumph, bursting through the rooftop doors with a bit of a stumble. It immediately swung back and hit him, knocking him over. Springing to his feet, he screeched at the loathsome thing! How dare it lay its nonexistent hands upon his greatness!

His pak legs sprung free with the ends glowing red-hot, ready to deal the final blow, but a voice stopped him in his tracks.

"If you destroy it, the alarm will go off."

Zim's fists tightened and his pak legs instantly retreated. His skin prickled at the sound of her voice, and he whirled around on his heel.

"You didn't see anything!" The words belted from his mouth before he fully turned. However, now that he had, and taking in the sight of the Dib-sister, his tirade of insults fell short.

His face frozen in indignant anger as he gawked. The earth's filthy moon bathed her in an otherworldly glow as it reflected off vast expanse of rarely exposed skin and the sheer, white fabric of her pitiful earth attire. As her “long tunic” swayed in the breeze, he couldn't help but think she looked like that white thingy upon Dib-dirt's shirt. Of course, she was much more not unpleasant to look at.

His mind nearly blanked in captivation before her response snapped him back to reality.

"Should've known you'd find me. I mean, you've only followed me for like what? Two weeks?"

"What?! No I haven't! Don't be ridiculous! An Irken as mighty as Zim has no need to follow the likes of you! I have way more important things to do than that."

Gaz narrowed her eyes as he nonchalantly sat beside her, yet she observed his eyes flicking frantically around at anywhere else but at her. His back stiff as a board as he leaned against the air conditioning unit, and claws nervously clicking against the warm roof.

"Okay, let's pretend I believe you. What important things are you doing here?"

The change in his mood was instantaneous as he smirked, and puffed his chest like a proud peacock. "Oh silly little Gaz, isn't it obvious?"

He offhandedly gestured towards her from head to toe, doing nothing more than conflicting his previous words and confusing her more.

Unfortunately, her puzzled glare did nothing more than feed his ego. He sent her a devious, superior grin that made her want to punch him, and made her stomach do tiny flips. "Oh you don't know? Well, I suppose such effects are to be expected from such a powerful form of hypnosis capable of ensnaring the little Gaz."

"Hypnosis?" Okay, now the alien grass stain really had her confused as she let herself blurt her puzzlement. She knew he misinterpreted human things all the time with his logic, or his lack there of entirely, but she could usually make some sense out of his backwards nonsense. Unfortunately, this time she was at a loss.

He nodded, his grin grew wider, as he continued. "Yes, the one you clearly broke out of since you are no longer in the audi-toe-rem with the rest of the frilly filthies. I expect nothing less from someone as superior as Little Gaz."

Gaz bit her lip as a slight heat rose to her cheeks. She normally didn't care much for compliments, but one said so flippantly and without some form of backhandedness was actually a welcome compliment.

However, she couldn't bask in it, nor did she want to, as she finally had some clues to work off of. Her eyes narrowed once more at him as her mind whirled through the possibilities a mile a minute.

"Hypnosis in the auditorium?" As she said it aloud, memories of why she was even on the roof, in this stupid dress, made her fists clench at her side.

Ignoring her knuckles turning white, Zim obliviously elaborated, "Yes, I stumbled across it's magnificent power in the gym two weeks ago."

"Oh what a coincidence," Gaz growled.

Normally, this would strike fear in those around her within a 20 ft radius, but Zim turned to her, unfazed, as he bragged, "I know right? Sometimes my brilliance amazes even me!"

"I suppose somebody has to be."

"At first I thought of how pitiful and weak minded humans were to fall for such simple methods of mind control such as dainty and weak music coming from a rounded box. With they're rapid twirly movements and unnaturally pointed shoes, they all looked like flailing flobblewumps!" He screamed that last part.

At the mention of some creature she didn't know of, he threw his head back to laugh at the ridiculous memory.

"Quit screaming in my ear before I turn you into a flag."

His mouth abruptly clicked shut. He glared at her. She stood up, and he flinched. She smirked at that, before leaning back and hopping on top of the ac unit, ignoring the high voltage sticker.

He opened his mouth once more, but she cut him off. 

"Oh keep bragging about your brilliance and tell me what changed. Just not so loud."

Her "compliment," despite sarcastic, had its desired effect as Zim stood. Brushing himself off of imaginary dirt and congratulating her for finally noticing how great he is, until he stopped as something finally clicked in his mind. "Eh? Change? What change? Zim is still brilliant."

Gaz rolled her eyes at that. "You said the hypnosis was simple and weak. I'm assuming you didn't think it was worth your time, but you're here looking for it, right?"

"Affirmative."

"Then what changed? What made it worthy of the powerful Zim?"

Zim's narrowed eyes immediately lit up at that. In fact, they seemed to glimmer at her like a kid being handed a lollipop, as he bragged, "You finally acknowledge my superiority"

"I never said that."

"I suppose that hypnosis has some benefits. In any case, if you must know, it was during my observations that I noticed among the group was the deadly Little Gaz. Someone as strong in strength and mind would never fall for such a weak hypnosis, meaning it's power was far greater than even my powerful Irken brain meats could fathom! I knew I had to make it my own!"

"I suppose me being in a revealing leotard and tights had nothing to do with it?"

"Eh? You were not wearing any fur?"

"Leotard, Zim. Le-o-tard. Not leopard." Gaz shook her head at this not knowing whether to smile and let the chuckle bubbling up from her throat out or frown and squash it down. Zim's misunderstanding logic was always good for a laugh, yet it unsettled her how easily she could follow his logic. She'd been spending too much time with him.

"Eh?! No that's- I was just testing you! After experiencing such a powerful hypnosis, one's meat functions of their mind might not come back. Just making sure everything was there. It is. You're in top tip shape like a good soldier. Yes indeed ha ha Ha ha ha."

Zim didn't realize until it was too late that he instinctively reached out and patted her head. He'd gotten more "human" and "handy" as of late with Gir, and giving little praises usually involved patting his metallic head. So he didn’t realize he’d done the same to her until it was too late.

The feeling of her soft hair beneath his gloved-touch sent him reeling back. His arm immediately clutched to his chest as if he had been struck by a snake.

Well, definitely something akin to it. The Gaz-beast was quite known for her brutal fists, merciless kicks, sharp nails, and power that could make even full grown human-filthies soil themselves at just a glance. The former three he knew very well from personal experience, so he wasn't wrong to assume what was surely to come. 

After all, nobody touched the Dib-sister without retaliation.

Well, actually there was that one time he…

Zim shook his head to dispel the thoughts from his mind. Something was wrong. He was still able to think. Too many thoughts and not enough pain for someone about to stare into the depths of hell of her amber eyes. He should be experiencing more pain than thoughts right now. So why wasn't he?

Zim opened his eyes, that he didn't remember closing, and found himself still very much alive and still very much not in pain. Also, it was too quiet. He at least expected to hear the sounds of a nightmare world without waking; however, all that met his hidden antennae was the muffled sound of the gentle winds.

Tentatively, Zim glanced out of the corner of his eye. Maybe she hadn't noticed the touch? No! That was impossible! The Gaz didn't miss anything! She must have her reasons.

Feeling braver from his lack of death, Zim turned his head, and found himself transfixed by the wisps of see-through material of her long tunic dancing upon the breeze. A dress, if he remembered correctly. 

His gaze shifted down to the clear outline of white, tight covered legs and those bizarre shoes she wore. Their white, shiny, cloth exterior also shined within the moonlight as they shook.

Wait, shook?

Immediately his eyes flicked back up to the rest of her to find her shoulders shaking as well. Her arms crossed in a manner as if she were hugging herself, and her head was tilted down in a way her bangs hid her more pleasant than average face.

Was she? Was Gaz- No! She wouldn't! She couldn't...could she? Well, she was only human. A regretful feature, but surely...by the Control Brains what should he do?

Tentatively he shuffled closer, clearing his throat like a cat hacking up a hairball. Her shoulders began to shake more ever so slightly. 

He took a long moment looking at anything but her before finally returning his gaze to her once more. "Little Gaz, are you-" He began as he reached out to touch her shoulder.

However, just before his clawed-tips made contact, her body pitched forward and then back. Her head thrown back as she laughed uproariously.

She was...she was laughing?! At Zim?! It was the only reasonable explanation! Others' stupidity and misfortune always made her laugh, and what she said next only confirmed his suspicions.

"You- haha- you thought I was under hyp- hahaha hypnosis because of my recital?"

"Yes!?" Zim yelled quizzically, desperately trying to use his volume and bravado to hide his embarrassment. It made her snicker. She could never take him seriously when he got like this, let alone the hilarity of the situation.

"That's another type of earth hypnosis, is it not?"

"What did I say about yelling?"

His mouth clicked shut, and she snickered again. It was too easy at times.

"No, it's not," she answered simply as she hopped down from the ac unit. Using the movement as extra time to regain her composure.  She was careful not to scuff the satin of her shoes or land awkwardly on the pointes. This night was a shit show enough without her tripping and landing on her face. 

Smoothing out her dress, and finally calm enough, Gaz turned to him as she replied, "A recital is a type or performance, usually for dancing. You know what dancing is, right?"

"Yes I know what dancing is!" He angrily hissed back, still feeling tricked from earlier.

His eyes grew wide for talking back to her, something he learned a long time ago to never do to her. His hand slammed fearfully over his mouth, yet Gaz made no move to maim him.

At his response, she merely shrugged and said, "That was a dick move on my part, so let's call it even, okay?" 

Zim didn't know the meaning of that one word, but he knew the rest and merely nodded.

Whiner. Anything to save his own skin.

She snickered at him again, and he kept himself calm this time, as he elaborated, "Yeah- well- even by inferior, human standards, the clearly superior vision spheres of Zim have never seen this spinning and leaping dance at school dances."

"That's because it's an old, fancy dance. Earth has tons of outdated dances."

"And what is the dance you were doing? The one that makes you look all-" he trailed off as he found himself at a loss for words. He unconsciously began to wiggle his arm in imitation of a snake, or a wave, or just water. "All liquid-y?"

"Fluidly. The word you're looking for is fluidly, and what happened to humans flailing about like a space alien?"

Zim looked away from her. Pfft. Typical. As he cleared his throat once more, and mumbled something under his breath.

"Spit it out, Zim," she hissed, putting extra venom on his name. 

He crossed his arms like a child, kicking a chunk of concrete, before he finally muttered, "You are the least terrible at it out of the group."

Gaz took a deep breath as she fought back the heat in her cheeks, crossing her arms across her chest in what she'd call defiance. 

Others would call it protectively. Of course, those others were wrong. 

"Thanks, I think. I'm glad somebody liked my dancing. Oh, and by the way, it's called ballet."

"But what does this bullet dance-"

"Ballet."

"Have anything to do with hypnosis?"

Gaz wanted to facepalm at this.

"I just said it wasn't hypnosis. It's an after school activity, like Dib and his stupid marching band or soccer."

"But you are not a server drone! You're of much higher quality than that. I can understand an activity that's a competition like with the game of the ball kicking, but as you said this is to perform, to entertain others? Why would little Gaz want to perform for others?"

At this, Zim regretted his choice of words instantly, as it was like a switch had gone off in Little Gaz's head as she immediately reacted. However, unlike the pain he expected, which would be a welcome change at this point, she took a few steps back, sitting down and turning away all in one movement.

In human terms, he had fucked up, and had fucked up badly. 

He clicked his claws together nervously, unsure of his next course of action.

"You...are..." he paused. He needed to choose his words carefully. "You are... unsatisfied?"

"Understatement of the century." Gaz quipped back sarcastically to hide the bubbling emotions that wanted to come to the surface.

"What is it that unsatisfied you, and why are you here and not down there or dooming what ails you?" He asked as he quietly approached. She seemed to be of sound enough mind.

"Zim, if you actually want me to answer then you have to stop asking questions."

He froze in place, just an arms length away. He pondered if he should take a step back, before she took a shuddering breath, and answered, "I'm up here for the same reason I joined this stupid activity."

Finding himself not doomed and nothing was on fire, Zim sat down next to her, imitating her pose of having her knees drawn up to his chest and arms around his knees. He glanced over once more, yet still remained silent.

At his quiet puzzlement, Gaz let out an exasperated sigh as she reflexively covered her face. She didn't want to be here, up here, like this...she should've known better...she did know better, but she left herself hope. Now she was up here with Zim of all people. It was quite ironic if she thought about it. Funny actually.

At the sound of her snicker, he thought she had fooled him again. However, as he turned to face her and to yell, he stopped short as the water droplets dripped down her face.

Zim recoiled as he watched her throw her head back to laugh and cry at the same time. He nervously drummed his claws against the roof tiles, completely unsettled by her insane behavior. Worse still that it was so out of character for someone like her. He merely gulped and remained where sat. Too afraid to move.

"Ya know, it's fucking ironic that the people who like me, aren't even here for me, yet you're here! You! You the alien who hates humans is here for performance and my own family isn't!" Gaz barked out between laughs.

"But the Dib-foot, he is-"

"Is only here because he followed you here. I know. I ran into him before coming up here," she said this time, only a bit quieter as her laughter turned into quiet, choked sobs.

Zim watched her curl herself further into a ball as she desperately wiped at her face, as if just realizing tears were leaking down her cheeks.

Zim looked all around him. There had to be something there to distract the Gaz. Surely something he could set on fire or tip over to cause her devious laughter to spring forth from her and not this crummy...not laughter!

However, he found nothing, and his gaze returned to her once more. What to do? What to do? What to do?!

Gaz stilled as she suddenly felt something touching her hair. It felt like a mix of a pet and a pat like someone who didn't know how to touch others.

She almost wanted to laugh at the mental picture within her head. Even if they weren't the only two on the roof, it was no surprise who this was. After all, nobody else was stupid enough to touch her. Another side of her wanted to break his hand, and the final part of her wanted to see where he would go with this.

"There...there? Yes, there there Little Gaz. Do not fret. Ultra Peepi will live up- Wait-"

Zim frowned and pulled back, rubbing his chin pensively as he realized that was the wrong scenario.

Luckily, despite being unintended, it seemed to work as Zim heard a snicker escape her. His head whipped around to see the liquid had stopped falling, yet she still hid her face from Zim.

Well, it was a start.

There was a moment of silence between them where neither of them dared to say anything. Gaz ran the jagged edge of bitten nail against her shoe, and Zim stretched his legs out, boredly clicked his heels together. 

Although, something had to give. Zim was going bonkers with curiosity as he exaggeratedly fought with himself, internally, of whether or not he should say something or to her or something. 

When he finally couldn't take it anymore with his shuffling antics, he leaned over, claw raised, and mouth open ready to interrogate her for brain worms left over from the hypnosis, yet she beat him to it.

"You have no idea what's going on, do you?" She stated more as a fact than a question.

"Eh? Was I supposed to?"

Gaz merely shook her head, yet it was unclear if she was dismissing his answer or herself for the question. He wanted to ask more, but the white knuckled grip she had upon her shoe ribbons kept him silent.

Good thing too, as she continued, "Ya know how my dad has been home a lot more? He's been trying to do better at the whole being a dad thing."

Zim listened attentively, but he was unsure why. It's not like it was important to him. Then again... that which was important to the Dib-sister must be important; however, he found his gaze drifting to her hands as they roughly began to untie one of her shoe ribbons.

It was best when in the presence of a predator to keep an eye on their greatest weapons. The only reason. Not because of how merciless she made the frantic job of shoe untying.

"He asked us why we didn't participate in any school activities or if we had any other interests." He flinched as he heard the earthly stitching rip slightly at the extra force she used when she said activities and interests.

"He wanted to expand our horizons and to be supportive of us."

Zim lit up at this, having finally found an opening, as he quipped, "And he did unsatisfactory?"

Zim immediately regretted speaking as she violently slid off her right shoe, and threw it at the gate lining the roof, to make sure people didn't fall off.

Zim scooted backwards as it softly bounced back to them, landing right beside his boot.

Although, despite her lashing out, what she said next surprised him. "Oh no. He did great. Wonderful even! He's been there every step of the way with my dancing and Dib's whatever!"

Zim narrowed his eyes at her as she began to work on her other shoe. Her tone suggested sarcasm, yet he could also tell she meant it. She wasn't lying. 

Zim shook his head to ward off his confusion. She was apparently committed to telling him. He just needed to listen.

"But, as you've noticed, he's not here!" 

Another rip of her shoe ribbon.

"He's not here, for once, not because of work, but because he decided to be a normal dad and decided to get here in a normal car!"

Two more rips.

"And a normal," rip, "car can't get by a four car pile up on a freeway!"

She yanked her shoe off and threw it at the gate, as she exclaimed louder than intended, "He's not here like always! I got my hopes up, I was let down like always, but it's not his fault and I can't even be mad at him!"

The final shoe bounced back and landed next to her this time. She paid it no mind as she began to rub at her feet and ankles, sore from the months of practice and from rehearsals earlier that day. "He says traffic is backed up and there's no way for him to turn around, and it's going to be hours before they let traffic through. Which means all of my effort, all of my hardwork to make him proud has been for nothing because he won't get to see it!"

The wind picked up around them, but they paid it no mind. Too consumed with their own thoughts to notice. 

Neither were willing to say anything. At least, not until Zim spoke first. 

"I wouldn't say it was all for nothing, even if it is just an inferior earth activity."  Zim shuddered as she sent him a pointed glare that spoke volumes.

It said, you better have a good point or perish.

He gulped.

"What I mean is that you learned a new skill? One that even a highly advanced creature, such as Zim, must admit is quite amazing." He picked up the nearest shoe, analyzing it, as he pondered allowed, "I mean, how is that you spin on the tips of your hooves"

"Feet."

"And leap so high?"

"Practice?"

"And move like an Irken elite?"

Gaz gave no reply at that, and Zim immediately feared he had screwed up. He whipped his head around to see if he should run, but was pleasantly surprised to see a small smile upon her face.

His squeedily spooch simultaneously stuttered and did backflips at the sight. He nervously drummed his claws against the shoe. Maybe he was not entirely unaffected by the hypnosis as he once thought.

"An elite, huh?" She inquired slyly. Two compliments in one night. A new record. If this were a game, she'd surely have unlocked an achievement of some kind. 

"Y-yes! As a superior Irken Invader, who are only picked from the most elite of the elite, such greatness can't hide from my magnificent vision." 

She smirked at what should have been his clean getaway of his third compliment hidden beneath all of that bragging, if not for the dark emerald fish staining across his cheeks; meanwhile averting any and all eye contact with her.

"Greatness?"

Reeling from realizing his mistake, Zim's eyes grew as wide as dinner plates, and he made a sound that she could only describe as a verbal key smash.

Gaz couldn't help herself as a small laugh bubbled to surface. The sound made Zim's shoulders relax, but also deflated a little. He appeared conflicted, but what he said earlier still rang in her head.

Before she knew it she had picked up the other shoe, and gazed down upon it thoughtfully. "I hate to admit it, but I suppose you're right." She rolled her eyes as he puffed out his chest, before she continued, "I did learn a new skill, and it was kind of fun."

Unfortunately, her better mood turned bitter rather quickly as she gripped the shoe tightly, glaring at it, as she continued, "But what good is a skill if I can't use it? If I can't show it to the people I care about?"

"You can't?"

"That was rhetorical, but no, I can't."

"Why not? Don't human babies show off to their parents units all of the time in their dwellings?"

"Because it's not the same. They can, but, it's not the same as an actual performance. You would lack the tools and the rest of the cast. It would be like a machine missing some parts because it doesn't...fit together."

She reached atop her head, and pulled on a ribbon, setting her hair free from its tightly coiled bun. She shook her head with a scoff, as she remarked, "I guess this skill will just go to waste."

She hadn't really meant it, nor did she mean anything by it. However, Zim didn't get the memo, and sprung to his feet. Ignorant of the fact that he dropped the shoe Zim shouted, "No you can't!"

Gaz's wide eyes quickly turned back to their normal, apathetic facade, as she inquired, "And why can't I?"

"Because the mighty Zim demands it!"

"Yeah, well I demand my foot up your-"

"No- I- Grrragh! Look! You look not unpleasant when you do it, and it makes you stronger for it!"

"But I don't have anyone to wat-"

"You have me! Teach to Zim!"

Okay, now Gaz was stumped. Forget the fact that Zim was asking a human to teach him a human thing, but she didn't even mention teaching.

"Okay, you've lost me."

"Heh heh heh, foolish human-babe-"

"Watch it-"

"-y. I any human can watch another perform a skill, but it takes skill to learn a skill, and Zim is the most skilled of skilled Irkens. Besides, it's best to stay in practice, and will keep you on your toes."

"That made no sense and that last part sounded more like a spar, but I'll bite. So what's the catch?"

"Eh? Catch? Like human germs?"

"Nevermind. Look, just don't screw me over later."

"I would never."

She glared at him as she stood, brushing herself off without breaking eye contact.

Zim cleared his throat. "Starting now, I have never screwed you over."

"Better keep your word, space bug."

"I wouldn't dare risk your wrath."

"Fair point. Now step forward."

"Wait, what about your tippy shoes."

"They're pointe shoes, and I don't need them."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not teaching you ballet."

"But-"

She didn't let him finish as she pulled him closer by the hips, almost slamming into her. She smirked as he squeaked.

"We don't have months, Zim. Besides, ballet isn't the only dance I learned." With that said, she grabbed  his left hand with her right, interlacing their mismatched fingers far easier than she anticipated. "Now put your right hand on my shoulder."

He did as instructed, and she couldn't help but quote her teacher, as she scolded, "Keep it there softly. Don't grip it like a claw machine."

Immediately the pressure relented and she sighed a little in relief. She placed her hand around his waist. Her cheeks began to heat, or they would've, if he didn't look rather smug at that moment. 

It took a second for her to realize, and she rolled her eyes.

"I'm only two centimeters shorter than you, ya know?"

"Two glorious units of measurement."

Oh it was on. She didn't give him time, as she jumped right in with the bare minimum of explanation. "Now where I go, you go. Follow my lead."

Zim opened his mouth to object, but quickly found her surging forward, ready to bowl him over. Thankfully, with his far superior Irken training, he swiftly back stepped without falling over...more or less.

"Back, side, forward, other side, repeat." They did it again, and he did rather well.

"Not bad. No stepping on feet and no stumbles, except for that one," Despite her jab at the end, Zim lit up at her praise and puffed his chest out once more like the proudest peacock that ever peacocked.

"Okay, now we do that while spinning and moving in a circle."

"Do wha-" and they were moving again.

Zim stumbled once more, as she purposefully caught him off guard. Couldn't let him get too cocky. 

"And what is this dance called?"

"The waltz."

"Is it also old and fancy?"

"Very old and very fancy."

"Fancier than ballet?"

"No."

He deflated a little at that and she chuckled at that. Zim frowned that she was laughing at his expense, but it wasn't an unpleasant laugh. I'm fact, it was one he wouldn't mind hearing again. They easily fell into a rhythm after that, as they whirled around in their tiny circle like two stars rotating around each other. Lost in their own little world. 

Her wispy skirt fluttered and flared with every movement and dancing upon the occasional breeze. He finally understood the need to make satire out of such flimsy material. 

Not long after Zim made this observation, did he realize another. There was a soft melody in the air that he hadn't noticed before. It was one of the few he recognized from one of her practices, yet it was different somehow. Only when Gaz stepped forward and into his distracted chest did he feel the vibration coming from her, and he realized she was humming.

He found that this was also not unpleasant. 

In fact, many things about Little Gaz were mostly not unpleasant, and that was fine by him.

[khaotic-kitsunes]

Cancellation

I just wanna straight up apologise for whatever the fuck this is because I have NEVER written for this man in my life, the only reason I have the urge to at the moment is because of a tik tok series done by an amazing user called thisnerdcosplays

BUT, people always say things get better with practice, so here’s to that long ass road because how dare people make me thirst for this man.

To clarify the content is usually about their hilarious OC but the Vlad King interactions have me fucking dying. So yeah.

AND YES. I did have to make a new cover image for Vlad King...I don’t like it, at all but fuck it, I’ll update this one and the rest too at some point when it isn’t 2:30am hahahaha

Cheeky Kitsune 🦊💋

 You stared at the bouquet of luscious red tulips as you placed them in a conveniently empty vase, still unsure as to why you had nearly trodden on them when you went to collect your mail. There had been no knock on your door, if there had been then you could have found out who was leaving you flowers every few days; the only clue you had that the flowers were truly meant for you, was the little white note attached to them with your name written out in a strangely bright red ink.

 “Wonder if I should call Nemuri…tell her that I’ve got more flowers?” You mumbled out the question to yourself quietly, flipping over the note that came with the flowers; all the other notes had your name and nothing else. However, this time the note had more writing messily scribbled out on the back; an address, accompanied by a phone number. Two things that you should throw away.

 Before you could think on your decision too much, your phone began to sound off with an almost hideous tune that Nemuri had insisted you set for her number; so that you would recognise her calls and not ignore them. A deviously successful tactic on her part, given that you hated to let the tune drag on for longer than you had to.

 “You know, I was just thinking about calling you” You didn’t bother greeting her as you answered the phone, running your fingertips over the note before setting it down to instead admire the brilliance of the tulips you had been gifted with.

   “Oh, so I was right. You did get more flowers today! What are they?”

   You rolled your eyes at her remark, surprised that you hadn’t been expecting her call; Nemuri always said you needed a love life. It should have been obvious to you that she would cling onto any new hope that might show up; which is exactly what Nemuri called your flower dilemma.

 “Don’t make me hang up on you, especially when I have something to tell you” Your warning seemed to sink in fairly quickly, given the quickly uttered apology, the only prompt you needed from the eager woman on the other side of the phone call. Her interest in your love life would be worrying if it weren’t for the fact that she had heard your drunken ramblings about being interested in such things.

 “Okay, so the notes are usually blank right? Except for my name? Well this time…there’s an address and a phone number” You pulled your phone away from your ear, wincing slightly when your friend’s screech of excitement came through the line, nearly deafening you.

   “So, what are you going to do? You’re going to call right?”

   You pursed your lips, looking back towards the tulips hesitantly, fingers tapping against the soft petals to distract yourself from the decision you knew you would have to make eventually; to accept the clear invitation at finding out who your mystery admirer was, or to throw the note away and go about your life as if it had never happened.

 “I…don’t know” The words felt foreign to your tongue, an answer you most certainly weren’t satisfied with and yet, it was the only one you had for the moment. It was something that needed more thought than you had been able to give.

   “What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’? (Name), you’ve been going insane trying to work out who’s been sending you these flowers and this is your opportunity!”

   “Well, yeah, I know that Nemuri. But what if it’s just some trick and…and I get kidnapped or something?” Your cheeks flushed in embarrassment when Nemuri’s laughter filled your ears, having gained a little too much entertainment from the suggestion that someone would want to kidnap you. It was almost insulting, except that even you had to admit how farfetched it sounded.

   “Listen, (Name), I’m not saying just rock up to the address. All I’m telling you to do, is give the number a call…see where it goes from there? You never know, could be a fun night involved for you!”

   You let out a noise of protest, quickly withdrawing your hand from the beautiful flowers, despite the fact that your teasing friend couldn’t see you; thrown by the boldness of her joke considering the circumstances.

 “Nemuri, that isn’t funny!” You wished that your voice hadn’t sounded so high-pitched while you scolded the still giggling woman, entirely unimpressed with how the phone call had gone and debating if it would be worth her complaints later if you were to hang up on her now.

   “Oh, alright. Listen, I have to go, I only called to see if you got any flowers from your secret admirer. Try not to chicken out (Name)!”

    ~  ~  ~

    “Um…hi? I’m looking for someone named…Sekijiro?” You stared up at the man that had moved to stop you walking into the building further, his deep frown somehow making you even more nervous than you already were; which, at this point, was what you thought to be an impossibility.

 “Name?” You opened your mouth to answer the terrifying man’s one-word question, closing it when someone else rushed over to the two of you and with a few whispered words exchanged; you found yourself following after the person that had interrupted what felt like an interrogation.

 “Sorry about that miss…(Name), was it? The boss was a little busy so not everyone was given the memo to be expecting your visit today” The explanation was almost as rushed as your pace, stopping only when you reached a large door with a sign that clearly stated not to disturb whoever was in there.

 “Ah, it’s fine. Really. Should you be knocking on that door? It says…not to disturb…?” You went quiet when you were flashed a reassuring smile, though any relief the smile offered you went right out the window when the door was opened; a giant of a man greeting the both of you with a stern and particularly unimpressed look on his face.

 “Miss (Name) is here, I thought I’d show her to your office before leaving for the day” With an explanation shorter than the one you had been given, the person that guided you to the room was gone; leaving you alone with the giant that now stood to the side, an arm extended in a motion for you to enter the strangely cosy looking office.

 “So…you’re Sekijiro?” You spoke softly, hesitant as you wandered into the room, taking particular note of the quiet click that you assumed signalled the lock on the door; meaning that you were effectively trapped alone with a man you didn’t officially know.

 “I wasn’t expecting you to actually show up…alone no less” He moved past you as he spoke, his voice surprisingly soothing to the nerves that currently wreaked havoc on your body and mind; exactly as he had sounded on the phone. The entire reason you had agreed to meet in the first place, unfortunately, it wasn’t until now that you realised you had forgotten to send Nemuri a message about your location.

 “I said I would come see you” You blinked in surprise when he turned back towards you, offering you a glass of what appeared to be water; another in his other hand, though that one he was already drinking from.

 “I have bottled water in here as well, if you’d prefer that instead” He nodded his head towards the small mini-fridge that you had failed to notice, the silent implications of being unable to trust him at this stage running around in your mind as you took the glass from him; probably not your best move of the day. Yet certainly not your worst.

 “Thank you” You sipped at the water quietly, eager to distract yourself from the awkward silence that settled over the both of you; there didn’t seem to be a great deal to speak about with a man that terrified you to the point where you could barely think clearly.

 “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to keep you hear for our first meeting…but something has come up and I can’t leave for a few hours. I can have one of my men drive you home if you want to try this again another time?” You peeked over at Sekijiro curiously, tilting your head to the side while he watched you silently, waiting for your answer to a question he seemed to be reluctant to ask; the awkward consideration surprisingly sweet.

 “I don’t mind spending some time here for a little while…but, what do you mean? One of your men? What sort of place is this? The guy from earlier called you boss too…” You were hesitant to ask, nothing about the building screamed official legal business to you; which meant that it was probably a case of questions better left unasked.

   “The easiest way to explain it would be to say that this is my main place of business. I’m the leader of this gang.”

   You stared at him for a moment, your mouth falling open while your brain struggled to process the new information; trying desperately to work out how you had gotten yourself into such a mess.

 “Are you sure you don’t want to go home? You can stay if you want…but given the look on your face…” He trailed off, motioning to your shocked expression and causing you to shake your head quickly, forcing every ounce of surprise off of your features; even though he had just called himself a mafia boss, the man hadn’t technically harmed you despite clearly having the means to. You might as well stay, see where things went.

 “No, no…it’s…I’m sorry, this is a bit surprising…but I would like to stay. Given that I’m free to leave, if I get the urge to?” He nodded slowly to your awkwardly asked question, motioning towards a comfortable looking couch before moving to sit at the solid looking desk in the room; one that looked fun to occupy, if you hadn’t just met the man.

 “As I said, I can have one of my men take you home any time you’d like. The same applies for if you need anything, all you need to do is ask and I’ll arrange it.” His words had you nodding in agreement, happy that things seemed to be going well so far, despite the unexpected developments that had already taken place.

 “…I would like a proper date, another time I mean. Since this isn’t exactly the romantic night out you offered over the phone” You gave a small, nervous smile with your attempt at a joke, getting yourself comfortable on the couch that he had motioned to; nearly missing the slight grin that tugged at his lips.

   “Of course, I would love to take you out properly next time, (Name).”

[voidstilesplease]

Bonfires

Demigod AU Ficlet [4]

Theo

"Tomorrow evening is Capture the Flag."

Theo draws his eyebrows at the new guy with green eyes and strong jaw as he addresses the demigods gathered for the nightly campfire. He looks only a little older than some of the senior counselors in Camp Half-Blood, but it's the first time Theo has seen him since arriving almost a week ago. 

Chiron is at the side with Mr. D -the camp's director- listening as the new guy takes the center. Well, at least, Chiron is. Mr. D -also known as Dionysus, the god of wine and madness- is slumped in his seat, looking bored of the world as he takes sip after sip of coke, done with being sober. Theo sympathizes; he's the god of wine who is forbidden to lick a drop of it. It's negating his entire existence.

When Theo first found out that an actual Olympian runs the camp (as punishment from Zeus), he almost didn't believe it. Then, he woke up one day to half of the Hermes and Apollo cabins dangling in grapevines because they got caught playing tricks against each other that ultimately resulted in children of Hermes spouting the worst haikus and children of Apollo screaming from itch powder. Mr. D despises haikus and over-the-top screeching. 

He's also frequently away to Olympus nowadays, for some reason, so Theo's wariness around the god ebbed just a little. The Ares cabin also likes pulling stunts on the Apollo bunch; they are too golden and dramatic.

Theo leans to Fred on his right and nods toward the talking figure, "Who's the new guy?"

It takes a second for his head counselor to realize what he means, "Oh, him? That's Derek Hale, a son of Poseidon," Fred turns to Theo, voice low as to not interrupt the guy's speech. "He was a camper here. Then he attended Camp Jupiter in New Rome for college."

Theo nods in reverie, remembering Stiles's study guide and how it has a section dedicated to Roman gods and goddesses and an introduction to another demigod camp called Camp Jupiter.

"He's a trainer now and helps Chiron manage the camp's summer activities," Fred continues, facing front. "He's cool. He usually sides with Ares during games."

"Why is that?"

"Athena and Poseidon also have a bit of rivalry," Fred explains, curling his lips downward. "But when he left, Cora always went with the other team. He's attached to the hip with Stiles," the head counselor gives him a sideways glance. "You've met him. He's the Athena kid assigned for introductory lessons to the new campers."

At the mention of Stiles, Theo finds himself scanning the crowd for the face attached to the name. He's on the other side, seated with his half-siblings, who are owlishly attentive to the trainer's words. Only Stiles can't settle his eyes on Derek -almost pointedly avoiding eye contact. He also looks sulky.

"Yeah," Theo murmurs, attention on the scowl on Stiles's face. His lips tug at the memory of their official meeting earlier. The boy was nothing like his siblings have told him: an arrogant, pain in the ass know-it-all. Stiles is smart, sharp, and intimidating for those who can't accept that he can outsmart them. "I've met him."

"-lastly," Derek's voice becomes distinct again, taking Theo off his musings. "Ares will lead the red team, while Athena takes blue. Fred from cabin five," he waves a hand to the Ares cabin counselor beside Theo as he speaks, "is the captain for red." Derek turns to the Athena circle to his right, a hesitant look crossing his expression. He clears his throat, "And, um, Haley?"

Haley, the blonde cabin six counselor, smiles. She points a finger to Stiles on her side. The boy finally lifts his head to meet Derek's eyes, defiant in the tilt of his chin and steely eyes. It's like he's daring Derek Hale to say something vicious. Even some of Stiles's siblings exchange private looks, twitching. 

"I'm putting Stiles in charge again, Derek," Haley tells him confidently. "He did such an exceptional job last summer."

Fred scoffs beside Theo; it sounds bitter.

Derek takes a moment to speak, quietly assessing Stiles. The Athena boy doesn't back down, either. He allows Derek to examine him, cocking his head to the side and raising a brow. Derek purses his lips, in the end, breaking the eye contact first. He sighs and turns back to the general audience. "Very well. The game begins at 9:00 pm tomorrow, Friday. Good luck."

With those parting words from Derek, the real campfire festivities commence. The Apollo cabin takes center stage, and they begin singing one of the camp's songs, Down by the Aegean, for which the lyrics are on the guide for new campers. 

Even though the haikus are pretty bad, the Apollo cabin is undeniably well with the singing and playing instruments. Soon, many are dancing, and roasting s'mores, and chanting along to different campfire songs as cabin seven initiate them. The magical flames of the bonfire are rising high and glowing gold as a reflection of the campers' exhilaration.

Chiron and Mr. D excuse early, expressions impassive, and leave the campers to Derek. 

Theo mingles with the usual crowd: Aphrodite, Apollo, Nemesis, and Hecate cabins, to name a few. They're also allies of Ares' cabin for the coming game. Now and then, however, his eyes roam the crowd in search of one other face. Theo immediately finds him every time, sometimes amidst the brood of Hermes, laughing with the children of the forges, in some debate with a Nike girl, and then dancing with Cora Hale by the fire. He's well-liked and respected, making his cabin's grudge against his brilliance even more amusing to Theo.

Fred catches him toasting his goblet of nectar to Stiles when they finally meet each other's eyes while he animatedly discusses a strategy to Theo. He cuts mid-sentence, follows Theo's line of vision, and groans. "No, no,"

Theo faces Fred, confused. "What?"

Fred gives him a disapproving look, "You're not actually into Stiles, are you?" He pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes in resignation. He mutters under his breath, but Theo hears it all the same. "I should not have jinxed that."

When Fred drops his hand, he narrows his eyes at Theo. "Whatever. I can't blame you, anyway," he brings up a finger, meant to be menacing. "But you have to promise to maim him if need be tomorrow night. I cannot lose to a rookie two times in a row."

Theo raises a brow, "He's not a rookie anymore," he points out.

Fred presses his lips together, unimpressed.

Theo laughs, "Fine. If he doesn't maim me first."

Fred snorts, shaking his head, and then pats Theo's back twice. "I have to go talk to the co-captain. See you,"

When Fred is about ten paces away, Theo calls him. The senior counselor whirls around, expectant. Theo smirks and says in a loud voice that many, if not everyone, can surely hear. "Stiles says to remind you how you hung upside-down while he pried the flag and your dignity along with it from your clutch last summer."

Two beats of stunned silence pass, Fred's face turning a violent shade of red before the roaring laughter from the campers drown out Fred's furious, embarrassed snarl as he tackles Theo to the ground.

"Screw you, Theo Raeken!"

But Theo is laughing as he fights back. 

~•~

[1][2][3][companion]

[baby-grayson]

Sweet Enigma| Part 7

words: 2.7k tw: discussion of death/sickness, angst tags:  @wheezeatmedolans​ @styles-dolan​ @prettyboydolan​ @evergreendolan​ @baby-turtles​ @dolanstacoma​ @kombuchagray​ @not-gbd​ @graysavant​ @someonetogray​ @dolansficsandpics​ @batgirl009 @voguekristens @letsgoget-high​ @crossedbone-kat​ @graysonsdollface 

Ethan was angry. Ethan was very very angry at his brother. Outwardly, he knew to be understanding and compassionate in Grayson’s very trying time. But as a business partner, he silently wished that Grayson would end his romantic escapade with a past flame and return from Jersey to help Ethan launch two business endeavors: the lingerie & underwear line to extend their clothing company and the Wakeheart bath bomb launch.

When Ethan looked to Twitter, to find Sherry’s public break up with Grayson: all frustration left his heart. Even from 3,000 miles away, he could feel his twin brother crushed under the weight and impact of his own lovestruck decisions. Ethan managed to get him on the phone later that night, surprised to hear Grayson’s cool tone, “It’ll be alright E,” Ethan could hear some rustling from the background of the call, “I’m flying home—taking a red eye and I’ll be there in the morning.” 

“You’re coming back?” Ethan was surprised: at both how confident Grayson sounded but also how quickly he was turning from his impromptu escape.

“Yeah but—yeah you can wear that one—sorry, but I want to go see Sherry. I want—I want to apologize in person, maybe see if I can do anything to make this better on her.”

Ethan’s eyebrows raised when he heard a girl’s voice in the background. He hadn’t asked Grayson about the photos of him and Kate, but he never pegged his brother to be unfaithful, even in the rockiest relationship, “Make it better?” Ethan mentally swore at his brother for being so idealistic, “You were caught out chea—with another woman Gray,” Ethan groaned into the receiver, “Are you sure going to see her is the right thing?” “Yeah I am,” Grayson sighed in acceptance, “I have to try—to try to apologize more than anything.” Grayson eyed Kate’s back as she innocently left his bedroom, “and E—I wasn’t with her, not like that when I was with Sherry. We’ll talk more when I get home but—those pictures make it look a lot worse than what it was.” “So, you’re saying you tracked down an old girlfriend to be nothing but platonic?” Instead of trying to mask the disbelief in his voice, Ethan leaned into it—hoping the comic edge took the sting off his words.

“No—” Grayson made a grumbling noise over the phone, “got it on in the shower a few hours ago.” “Gray!” “I know—I know. But she’s—I know that I need to apologize to Sherry and sort through everything right now before we can—before I have a chance with her. But like I said, I wasn’t with her when I was with Sherry, I wouldn’t lie to you about that E.” “Okay yeah bro, you didn’t have sex with her—sure. But your heart wasn’t with her?”

Ethan’s observation struck a chord in Grayson’s heart: joining the symphony of guilt that had been building in his soul over the past few weeks. For someone as familiar with pain as Grayson was, he hated causing it in others, especially when he considered them good people. He considered Sherry a good person, for all her faults. She was loyal, dependable, and positive. Despite his growing feelings for Kate, he was genuinely broken when he tried to face the emotional trauma, he caused his former fiancé.

In a white and gold bedroom in a house on the hills, Sherry Maddox clutched a framed photograph in her hands. Her long nails clacked against the glass of the frame while she sneered down at a happier version of herself, Grayson, Ethan, and Ethan’s ex-girlfriend on a beach in Tasmania. The only physical photographs Sherry owned were of her and Grayson from the past 18 months. She much preferred Instagram, but Grayson’s nostalgia had inspired her to collect happy memories of the two of them: memories that transformed her heart into a tainted space, left empty by the memory of who she thought he was.

Huffing, she slipped the photo from the back of the frame and pulled it out. She set the rose gold aside on her nightstand, letting it lean on a pile of a dozen others. In a swift motion, she passed the photograph through a shredder and watched as dozens of little strips came out the other end. The edge of the strips was not yet released from the shredder’s blades when she reached for another frame and began the process over again. Earlier that day, she commissioned an artist to construct a mosaic of herself, made from the shreds of her memories with Grayson.

The image of Kate shined in Grayson’s eyes, but her words made no sense to him, “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

His voice held the full weight of a dubious question, as if the letters did not belong sitting next to each other in the words they formed. His eyes looked down at Kate, not wanting to accept the truth that they would be separated, if just for a short while, after being reunited for the first time in years. Having her again just reminded his heart of how difficult it was to be without her. She nodded and assured him, “I need to go see my mom. For real. And you need to—you have stuff you need to do without me anyway.” Kate reached up to a hand through his hair and down the side of his face.

On the drive to Philadelphia from New Jersey, Kate thought long and hard about whether or not to tell her mother about Grayson. She considered the possibility that her mother might have seen the pictures of her and Grayson in the tabloids but decided that her mother never knew when a royal wedding was happening, much less when a scandal hit the papers. She tossed any thoughts of Grayson talk out of her head: it was not official enough to put on her mother’s radar. Instead, she spent the next few days at her mother’s bedside.

She held her mother’s hand and reminisced about the good old days. She told stories about California until she saw her mother’s eyes close, welcoming the sweet embrace of sleep. Kate tiptoed out of the room and gracefully closed the door behind her. She welcomed the warm aroma of pumpkin soup as she made her way down the stairs of the brownstone and to her grandmother in the kitchen. When she let her anxieties out and asked why this had to happen to their family, their tiny family who didn’t have people to spare, her grandmother put a knowing hand on her shoulder.

In a semi-hoarse, but loving tone Bethel insisted, “Family is more than the souls you share this Earth with dear. They’re the inspiration and the aspiration of everything you want to be and everything you can be. Your mother gave you everything you need to soar in this life and the next: I should know, I taught her everything she knows.” A few of Kate’s tears spilled onto the black and white tile of the kitchen floor while Bethel continued, “Your home isn’t an anchor: it’s a port in a storm, a refuge from the hardest of times but not a forever shelter because you were always meant to sail harder and farther than the rest of us.”

As Kate’s heart wrenched with the acceptance of the hardest parts of her life, Grayson’s twisted in agony on the other side of the country for a much different reason. Impulsive and filled with hubris, Grayson never formulated a plan for what he wanted to say to Sherry: he expected inspiration to strike him with brilliance in the moment. This is how he stupidly ended up pulling the door knocker on the Maddox West Coast home and waiting on the front steps.

Grayson’s eyes went wide with fear when the door cracked to reveal the lanky figure of Calvin Maddox standing afront of two massive security guards.

“Don’t you know when to quit?” Calvin’s voice was sharp as his elbows from where he crossed his arms.

Grayson stammered and twitched his jaw, his eyes excavating the scene for some kind of a way out.

“Now,” Calvin started with his low Southern drawl. He peered down his nose at Grayson, twisting his upper lip as he spoke “Let me tell you how this is –”

“—Daddy!” Sherry’s voice cut the tension with a shrill acidic screech. She moved between the security to stand in front of her father with crossed arms, in an identical pose to him. Grayson’s mouth went dry. “I’ll take care of it,” she asserted. Minding her father’s disappointed look, she turned to the security guards and waved with her hands, “Shoo.”

Sherry gracefully stepped out of the threshold and closed the door behind her, careful to match her father’s antagonistic stare. She huffed out of her nose and closed her eyes, her hand rested on the doorknob. She looked like she was about to open the door and go back inside when she said, “What could possibly be left for you here?”

Grayson opened his mouth to start to speak but was cut off by her harsh tone, “I mean—don’t try to tell me you want me back. I would never. I could never after you embarrassed me like that—no woman who knows her worth would return to a man who pulled your kind of stunt.” Her words fired from her lips like projectiles that battered at the sack of guilt Grayson had forged in his own stomach.

Grayson nodded and balled his mouth into a tight knot, “I know. You’re better than that. And I will say this until the day I die, but I’m so sorry Sherry. I—I –I—” Grayson reached out for something imaginary in the air, “I was fighting a war in my mind and I took you down with me as collateral and you—you never deserved that. You were never anything but good to me,” Grayson’s eyes welled in kindness and sadness. Sherry stared at him coldly and narrowed her eyes: still not convinced he wasn’t about to ask for her back.

“I would never want to be yours again,” Sherry retorted, trying to anticipate his next move, “The world would never believe it. The entire world would look at me like some kind of doe eyed, brainless Nancy.”

“You have every right,” Grayson nodded, breathing heavily and feeling his chest tighten with every syllable, “You—you ended us and you had every right to Sher—”

“Every right to?” her words came so slow they were slick on her tongue. “I had no choice to. What was I supposed to do?” she sneered, “post motivation quotes on Instagram and keep telling my family that it was just a phase?”

Grayson nodded and his sweaty palms found a home in his pockets. He looked at the floor, where he noticed an obtuse patch of dirt on the toe of his shoe. “I’m sorry,” his voice was barely above a whisper, “I’m so sorry. I’ll always be Sherry. I can only imagine what I put you through—and you didn’t deserve any of it.”

Grayson was shocked when she laid a delicate, graceful hand on his jaw. She drew him in and placed a puckered kiss on his cheek, “Grayson,” she stepped away from him, “you made me an underdog,” she placed a hand on the door knob, “and everyone loves an underdog.”

She turned to leave but twisted her upper body in his direction, “Was that all?” her tone was flat and devoid of any emotion.

Grayson gnawed at his lip and circled his head, “If—well—those pictures weren’t what it looked like—that girl, she’s—”

Sherry held out an intimidating, long, perfectly manicured finger in his direction. She spoke through gritted teeth, “Don’t.” She unlocked her jaw, “Don’t tell me a single word about her. I’m not about to spend the rest of my life swimming in those kinds of comparisons.” Sherry made a calculated move to swing her backside while walking away and closing the door behind her.

***

Later that night, Kate hung up the phone with Grayson as she leaned her backpacks against the dresser in her childhood bedroom. She dropped on her bed and eyed the science fair ribbons and faded polaroids strung on her wall. One of them showed her old cat, sleeping contently on a dusty couch. A few of them featured her friend Tabby: each iteration of Tabby wearing a different hair color. Kate never had many friends: tending toward shyness and introversion. Her eyes locked on one on the far left. She sat up and reached out for it. She thumbed the faded glossy surface carefully. The photo showed her and her mom on her 16th birthday: in front of a grocery store cake decorated with a few candles. She thumbed the surface again but standing up and walking over to put it in her bag to bring to California.

On her nightstand, her phone started ringing. She stared at the unknown number flashing across the screen. She questioned the chance of a paparazzi being on the other end: she swallowed hard and pushed the thought away that it might be Sherry. Throwing caution to the wind, she picked it up “Hello?”

“Hey..Kate. How are you?” Even three years down the line, she could tell the difference between Grayson’s voice and Ethan’s.

“Hi Ethan! Oh my god, how are you?” She turned on the speaker phone and sat cross legged on her bed: mimicking a pose she used to take when Tabby would come over to gush about boys. She hunched forward, leaning in as if Ethan was in the room with her. “I’m good.” Ethan started plainly, “Gray told me you were flying back tomorrow?”

“Yeah I should be there by lunch, I’m leaving at like 6 in the morning,” she started. She sighed and looked down at the phone. In that moment, she was struck by the fact that Grayson and her had yet to share the details of their mundane lives in the past few weeks, that had been anything but mundane. “Do you two still live together?”

“Yup,” Ethan let out a breathy chuckle, “I get to smell him every morning.” Ethan sucked in his top lip, wondering if it was too soon to make that joke in their relationship. “Um but yeah I wanted to call you, say hi.” He shrugged from where he stood, “Let you know that if you need anything, I’m here.” He was silent for a moment. “I’m happy the big guy came to his senses and found you again. I think the best version of my brother happened when he was with you.”

“That means more than you know Ethan.” Kate sighed and fell back against her pillows, “I just—this is so complicated. You don’t think that’s a bad sign or anything?” She spoke openly, feeling relief to have a place to candidly think out loud about the situation for the first time.

Ethan breathed through his nose and picked his words carefully, “It’s what you make of it. And as his brother, I know I’m--I’m biased, but all he wants is just an honest chance. He’ll come through if you let him. Just because things are twisted, doesn’t mean they’re broken.” “Thanks Ethan, that means more than you know.” Kate’s words fell heavy onto the phone. She sat up, as if somehow powered by the idea that twisted did not equal broken.

“Don’t stress about,” Ethan’s voice came with a promise, “If anything, you two taught me something about love last time around. You shouldn’t be worry about it.”

  A/N: I feel like this part is kinda boring and I am sorry!