#but i had purple lights and purple glow in the dark filament so

[residentcelery]

A reminder that sometimes, you can create the thing and it might be easier than you expect.

[gentlemancrow]

Even though In Scientia, Magicae is on hiatus right now, and likely will be for another week after this >> I thought I would honor my usual update date with a little SNEAK PEEK of what I have brewing for chapter 10!  (Hint it’s a dream sequence hehe) Symbolic dream sequences are one of my favorite tropes and favorite things to write so I thought I’d post this one up as a treat!  Also to promo the fic a little since in lieu of an actual update :T. SO!  Already read the fic?  AWESOME!  I LOVE YOU <3  I am dragon hoarding all of my readers in a comfy little basket like kittens I will dote on you forever.

New to it or curious?  Now’s a great time to catch up!  If you like fantasy AUs (And also Beauty and the Beast inspired ones!), vaguely steampunky worldbuilding (Which will factor in a LOT more in the coming chapters!), Monster!Jon, slow burn romance, and a weird treatise on the nature of magic vs. science in a fairy tale inspired setting!  Perhaps In Scientia, Magicae is for you!

Clicky here to head on over to AO3!

SMOL Sneak preview of Chapter 10 incoming!

That night, Martin dreamed again.

He fell.  He fell, freewheeling, once more through the boundless space that had not let him go just yet.  He fell in absentia of fear, as before, serene in the intoxicating cocoon of ozone and stardust.  He fell until the atmosphere reached up and gripped him in warm fingers of wind that tugged and pulled to anchor him back to the solid earth waiting below.  The lapis lazuli sky streamed around his awareness filled with hollow notes of longing that sounded long enough to hear the chorus once and only once, before it died a soft, muffled death atop the leafy crowns of a canopy of cobalt trees as he passed through them as naught but mist.  An echo of a voice without the voice.  Alighting on the flooded forest ground, barefoot, the mirror surface of the water rung like percussed crystal and rippled in pulsing silver circles outward where his toes touched down featherlight and afloat on the surface.  Martin watched the swells, transfixed, as they scurried away in thinly bright radials and promptly shattered into a kaleidoscope of fractured, resplendent carnage as they collided with another set.

Martin gasped, followed them to the four cloven-hoofed black legs from which they had originated, and looked up, stunned, into a pair of eyes fashioned from bleeding droplets of the aurora borealis.  Deep set into the featureless shadow of a stag woven through the pockmarked white birch, they left a dizzying afterburnt trail as it tossed its great antlered head, pawed the reflecting pool, and regarded him in noble silence.  Steaming, starlit mist coiled from the nostrils as its heavy breath reverberated the atmosphere from quivering flanks, invisible muscles tensing, waiting.  Martin’s heart skipped a beat and his mouth opened to call its name, but it fled from his mind and his tongue the moment they tried to form the sound and shape of it.  He frowned and put cold fingers to his lips.  He knew it.  It was just there, somewhere in the dark periphery of the twilit space between asleep and awake, but he could not dredge up even a filament of its creation to speak it into existence.

The stag shied back with a snort like the ringing of a bell, and bowed its head as if in silent apology.  Martin reached out his hand, skin glowing lunar white, and his voice a breathless whisper in his own ears.

“Wait…”

The moment he pierced the sacred grove with the jagged edges of his human tongue, the stag startled and reared as if struck through the throat by a hunter’s shot.  The aurora eyes closed, leaving one last streak of pernicious jade green across Martin’s retinas and scoring out the shadow as it turned and bounded, fleet-footed and silent, into the woods.

“Wait-!” Martin called again, tears springing to his dream eyes, “Don’t go!”

Sudden panic rose in his gut, and the forest peeled open around him.  He was running.  There was no sign of the stag other than the painfully faint ripples in the liquid mercury floor that grew dimmer and further away no matter how hard he forced his legs to move.  He wove effortlessly around the wiry trunks of the trees, a brightly shining will-o’-the-wisp leading himself to ruin as he chased the trail of the stag to its extinction.  The forest ended when the fragments of light did, and Martin found himself suddenly on the precipice of a towering cliff overlooking a stormy sea.  The saline spray crashed into his face as lightning struck soundlessly on the horizon of the churning waters that roiled and tossed the light of a thousand stars and a thousand galaxies stretching in an infinity of purple, green, and blue fires.

Unknowable, unfathomable in their boundlessness and their multitudes, Martin could do nothing but watch them in their cosmic ballet while his body forgot to breathe.  Mote by mote, atom by atom, the gravity of the sea picked him apart and sucked the dusty pieces to its unseen singularity somewhere in the trenches beneath.  He lifted his trembling hands up, and watched as his fingertips faded and turned to a glittering mist of stardust before his very eyes.  They wafted out like smoke over the sea, unspooling him, dragging him with deliberate purpose into whatever it was that lurked beneath.  The same voice whispered directly into his ear.

“It is always watching…”

[akindofmagictoo]

manuscript search tag game

this is an open tag from @josephinegerardywriter :) 

my words are loyal, first, remember, everything 

loyal (Hurricane) 

Aella pursed her lips thoughtfully. “If you’re not popular here, how’d you end up on the Hurricane? There’s no way Anvindr’s brought his whole crew.” 

“You’re right,” he said, with a dip of his head. “Most of them are on the Marquess.”

She frowned. “Right. So, why are you here? I can’t imagine they trust you that much.” 

“I said I wanted a chance to prove my loyalty.” 

She picked at a loose thread on her shirt hem, feigning indifference. This might be just the opportunity she needed, but she didn’t want to overcommit. “What’s your name?” 

first (Dragonsong) 

Isi had never actually seen a mage do magic. Thin threads of purple, almost like filaments of light, danced under the skin of his hands, disappearing under his sleeves. The purple glow faded even as Isi watched, leaving just the blackened markings. Robin lifted Enya up to sit her on his shoulder, and turned to Isi. “We should go.” 

“Absolutely.” 

Less than half an hour later, night had closed fully in, and they were out of the citadel. Their horses’ hoofbeats set a steady rhythm, over the top of which Enya sang softly to herself. 

A cool breeze blew on Isi’s face, and it seemed like she was breathing properly for the first time in a long time. 

remember (Dragonsong) 

Isi inched closer and set one hand on Sierra’s knee. “I promise. It’s going to be alright.” 

“Really?” Sierra’s voice was tiny in the dark. 

“We’ll figure something out.” Isi nodded, though Sierra likely couldn’t see her. “We will. We’re a great team, remember?” 

Sierra hiccupped. “Yeah. Yeah.” 

“Alright. Take a deep breath. That’s it. And another one. In and out.” She kept talking, a gentle stream of words, until Sierra’s breathing began to even out. 

everything (Dragonsong) 

Something went click behind her. SB cried out. A gust of wind tore through the room. Green light exploded behind Isi’s closed eyelids. Then everything fell silent and still. 

Isi dared to open one eye. 

I will tag @zmlorenz @ellatholmes and @ashen-crest! no pressure of course :) your words are suspect, sear, sly, slip 

[violentmouths]

Grima Li's Friends Angela and Jude

I've decided to introduce Angela and Jude, Grima's two best friends as they will be in the V Experiences as well. Idk, here ya go

Tagging: @birdgirl69 @clevermentalitybeliever @dhalia111 @cantcopewithlosingv @krazy06 @thedyingmoon

***

Grima woke up on a lovely Thursday by some light seeping through the curtains. The only reason why she liked Thursday mornings was because she got to see her friends. The little monstress got out of bed and went to the bathroom to brush her jagged teeth, then running back to her room to put on clothes. Grima always wore a black overall dress and a long sleeved black and white striped shirt, she put on her black socks and booties before dashing down the hall, she jumped on the railing and slid down all the way to the end of the stairs.

"Bye mom" The five eyed child tried to say, I turned the door knob and opened the door to go to my favorite place where my best friends meet up "Wait Grima!" Alexandra shouted from the kitchen, Grima walked onto the porch and turned around to wait for her mother, who dashed down the hall to give her a small brown lunch bag. "Here's your lunch; spicy tuna balls, apple slices with peanut butter, and an apple juice." Alexandra said handing her daughter the lunch bag, the many eyed monstress took the little brown bag and stared at her mother; this was how Grima smiled.

"Thank you mom." The little monstress tried to say, mom noticed that I forgot to put on my face mask "Wait a minute, you forgot something~" Alexandra sang, as she reached into her pocket. The male headed monstress grabbed a white face mask and placed it on the lower half of Grima's face "I've completely forgot about that mom, thank you." She slurred, Alexandra kissed her child's forehead before she dashed off the porch and down the street.

Out of town, where the flowers grew as tall as trees, where the grass was rich, soft, and green. On the tallest hill stood a drooping cherry blossom tree that looked like a cupped hand. Oh how its beautiful petals blew out to the grasslands. That, is where Grima and her friends relaxed.

Sitting on the hill as well was a red and white checker-like blanket sitting under the shade with two monsters sitting in the shade. The five eyed monstress' eyes widened, she ran towards the hill as fast as her legs could carry her "Good evening!" She shouted, waving a hand in the air for them to see, "Good evening!" She didn't stop screaming that until she got up the hill, and sat on the picnic blanket "Good... Evening..." Grima panted. Her friends, Jude and Angela looked at the panting mknstress and smiled "To you as well, Grima" Jude replied, bowing his large head.

Jude Light was a thirteen year-old air headed boy who had a giant dim lit lightbulb for a head while his body was made out of wire, nuts, and blots he could feel, but it wasn't necessary for him to eat. The inner part of his lightbulb always shined purple, but if he was happy; it'd shine yellow, if he was sad; blue, if he was angry; red, if he was scared; dark purple, if he was embarrassed; pink, and if he was disgusted; green. His emotions was based on color. Jude wore a sailor shirt with blue shorts and a sailor hat, he came from the other side of Rabbit Hole thus to the way he speaks. But for some reason, just to piss Angela and Grima off, he'd speak in rhyme whenever he could. Not to mention he always rode on a unicycle everywhere he went.

Angela looked at Jude and nodded, Angela Marionette was a twelve year-old puppet made out of the finest mahogany in the United Kingdom, she had long lucious red hair and always wore dresses that went above her knees, she always wore flats and sandals; she dressed like a rich, popular girl while Grima dressed in black to make herself feel not so insecure. Angela's father always painted up her face to make her look flawless, making Grima jealous as Angela had lips and she didn't, but they did have a few things in common; their mouths moved up and down whenever they spoke, they usually grew tired of Jude's antics, They had dreams, and were only daughters in their family. She wore a blue dress with a yellow bow that rested on her ponytail. She wore her black flats that sat in the grass.

"How's everyone's day going so far?" Angela asked, I looked at her before crossing my legs under my dress "It's great." said Grima who leaned towards them "I'm glad your day is swell, Grima." Jude said with enthusiasm, he always enjoyed cutting Angela off.

One day, she'll knock him off his feet, literally.

Angela scoffed at Jude before looking at me, continuing to talk to me "So Grims, what did your mother make you?" She asked, gesturing towards her small friends lunch bag, the many eyed monstress looked at her lunch bag before reaching inside and placing the food on the blanket "Spicy tuna balls, apple slices with peanut butter, and an apple juice." Grima slurred pointing at her lunch, Angela gave her friend a warm gesture by biwing while Jude pouted, "I have a ham and cheese sandwich, orange slices, and a grape juice" she said holding up her juice box, Grima smiled and held up her juice box as well, Jude crossed his arms and huffed "I'm so jealous of you both," he spat as his tungsten filament started to glow red "you two can eat, and I can't shove anything down my mouth." He muttered putting on a frown. Yes, he had some what of a face inside the lightbulb, it was from the tungsten filaments, a zigzag for a mouth and two beady eyes. "Oh hush Jude, you aren't missing out on much." Angela teased, taking a bite of her sandwich, the monstress pulled down her mask and picked up one of her spicy tuna balls, taking a huge bite. The little monstress covered her mouth so her friends wouldn’t see her food being mashed up.

"But it's not fair, Angela, that's what I'm saying. Please, just hush up, eat your sandwich, and stop playing." Jude snapped, Grima looked at Angela who was getting angry for what Jude said to her, she fumbled before looking around to see if anyone was around to see what she'd do, Angela put up a finger and tapped rapidly on Jude's head. A loud ting came from the lightbulb.

Ting ting ting ting

"Pleeeeeease stooooop thaaaaaat" Jude begged, "I'm gonna be siiiiiiick" Grima couldn't help but laugh as she poked the straw into her juice box and took a few sips "Fine," Angela sighed, she turned her head and looked away from us "then apologize!" She snapped, Jude fumbled before looking at the monstress, Grima pointed her chin at Angela; she was right, he should've never said that. Jude sighed, his color went back to its  regular purple. "Angela," he twiddling his index fingers together, "I'm terribly sorry for saying that. Could you ever find a place in your heart to forgive a lowlife fool like me?" Jude said in a low voice. Just then, Angela turned around, staring into the lights "Ok Jude," she sighed, "I forgive you." the two shared a hug before looking at Grima, if she could give them a warm smile she would, so the monstress gave them warm eyes that comes with the smile instead.

A loud noise zoomed over our heads, it made the wind blow through my hair as well as Angela's, and it knocked Jude's hat off his head. "Crikey! What on earth was that?" Jude exclaimed, the five eyed monstress brushed her hair down before turning around "It's uh- helicopter" Grima replied, she didn't take her eyes off the helicopter as it flew over the town. "Must be from those revolting humans!" Angela snorted, the monstress looked back at the marionette, who's eyes were filled with disgust. "Are they watching us from that helicopter?" Grima asked looking back at the disappearing helicopter.

Ever since she was born, the helicopters have been flying over town.

[silverfootstepswrites]

title Fishing (1/2) summary Seashell bras are so impractical. Whose idea was this? pairing sasusaku

Part 2/2 (here)

The sea was the color of gunmetal. The choppy waves bashed against the shore. 

"Shit. I'm not going out in that."

"Me either. Pass me another beer?" 

Someone dug into the cooler. Water dripped off the sides of the can as it changed hands.

"Only a crazy person would go in when it's like this."

As the words left his mouth, someone ran past them. Arms pumping at her sides. Wind whipping her hair around as she sprinted to the edge of the cliff.

"HEY! LADY! STOP!"

She dove. Slicing a clean arc through the air. Eyes squeezing shut as she plunged into the water. 

"Fuck! Should I call an ambulance?"

"No! Wait! I think I see her."

They peeked over the edge of the cliff. Just in time to see her head break the surface of the water. She bobbed in the waves, rocked back and forth. Before they could call out to her, she waved her hand at them. And then she slipped beneath the surface. A strange glimmer flickering in the water for just a few seconds. 

"Was that...?"

"...Gimme another beer."

The water here was green. It was murky, too. Sakura stretched her arms out in front of her. They were just white blurs. She paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust. She looked up at the surface. Despite the grey day, light still filtered down from the surface. 

She could feel it when her eyeballs finally shifted. The corneas stretching and flattening. The structures inside moving into the right places. She touched the side of her neck. Ran her thumbs along the folds of her gills. When she opened her mouth, bubbles flooded up in a stream to the surface. 

She opened her eyes again and she could see. 

With one powerful flex of her tail, she continued her way down. 

It was too quiet as she descended. Even as it grew darker and colder, not a single flash of scales greeted her. Only when she glimpsed the dark slash in the coral did someone come out to greet her.

"Welcome back!" one of the patrols greeted her, lifting his spear. She smiled in return. Slipping through the tangles of kelp, she made her way down. Into the gaping wound in the seabed. As she twisted through the darkness, up ahead, she could see the walls beginning to glow. Bioluminescent plankton scuttling around twinkled as she approached. She knew better than to touch them. They bit. 

Soon, the tunnel began to turn upwards. She eased herself up the path, pushing off the stone with her hands.

The path widened into a huge cavern. More glowing plankton lined the walls here. But there were also luminous blue plants growing into the stone. 

"Hey! Look who's back!" someone called out. 

"Welcome home!"

Sakura smiled. Briefly clasping hands with people as they passed her. She made her way through the cave. Weaving around the coral structures and the shelters built from stone and tied together with lengths of living kelp. She slipped into one of the buildings. The one with strings of pearls draped along the entrance. There was even a curtain fashioned from an old fisherman's net. 

"Welcome home, dear," Tsunade said, floating from her bed to greet her. They clasped each other's forearms. 

"I'm just here for the night, Grandmother," Sakura said before Tsunade could ask. The other woman's smile dimmed. She let out a sigh that bubbled out of her. In this isolated place, it was impossible to tell what was day and what was night. It was the return of the patrol changing shifts that let everyone know that the sun had set. 

Others poured into the hut, eyes bright with excitement. They chatted for a long time. They peppered Sakura with questions about the surface. Giddy with excitement as she told them of the big metal vehicles humans used to move their dry, finless bodies. But eventually, Tsunade chased them out, shooing them back to their own homes.

"I get to see my beloved granddaughter maybe once a year and they hog all your time," grumbled Tsunade. And Sakura laughed, hugging her grandmother close to her heart.

Voices lowered as others began to settle in for the night. The insides of their huts dimming as they covered their lights. Some of them used glass bowls filled with more glowing plankton. Others kept special squid, whose speckled bodies shimmered light purple. They used whatever they could scavenge from the seabed. Old lobster traps. Discarded glass bottles. 

Tsunade draped a length of cloth over the light. And as the inside of her home darkened, she took Sakura's hand.

"You could stay a little longer. I know that the children have missed you," Tsunade reminded her. And Sakura lifted her smooth hand to her cheek. Pressing it close. 

"I know, Grandmother. But I'm going back," she replied, like always.

They slept, hands joined. And when the patrols changed shifts again, Sakura slipped out with them. 

"Say, have you been to the North Sea lately, Sakura? Have you talked to Yoko?" one of them asked her as they navigated the glowing tunnels. Sakura glanced over at him. He pointedly avoided her eyes, but it was written all over his face. 

She smiled. She grasped one of her silvery-blue scales and plucked it out. Ignoring the sting, she pressed it into his palm. 

"Hold this under your tongue when you sleep tonight. You will be able to visit her in your dreams," Sakura promised him.  He beamed at her, eyes crinkling in the corners. 

"Thank you."

Once they exited the tunnel, Sakura stretched her arms. She stared at the crevice leading to the sequestered little village. Stretching her hands out in front of her, she weaved her hands through the water. Until slowly, a faint glimmer of lacy filaments seeped from her fingertips. She spread it across the mouth of the opening. It glittered as it settled over the black rock, settling into the craggy surface. And then it disappeared. 

She tilted her head back, staring up at the faint glimmer of the surface. The rays of light were beginning to cut through. The sun had already risen. 

"Do you need us to see you off?" one of the patrols offered. But Sakura only grasped his forearm, shaking her head. They touched foreheads for a brief moment before she swam off. 

A school of silver fish danced around her on her way up. They weaved around like one big organism. And when her fins moved a little too close, they dashed off. Light glinting off their scales in a dizzying display. 

She paused to search the surface. Unbroken waves ebbing and flowing without ceasing. After a while, she saw a shadow bobbing up and down. She adjusted her course, powerful strokes of her tail pulling her higher and higher.

Sakura’s head broke the surface of the water a while later. She gulped down a deep breath, and then another. Waiting for her lungs to adjust to the oxygen rushing in. The cool air stung the inside of her chest. Her lenses of her eyes shifted too, trying to take in all the sunlight at once. 

"Need a hand?"

Sakura didn't even look at him as she lifted her arms out of the water. 

His hands were warm. He hauled her over the side of the boat. Laying her gently on the deck. He crouched beside her, cheek in his hand.

The gills on the sides of her throat fused shut. She coughed up the salt water that lingered in her lungs. And she lay there, forehead pressed to the deck as she waited for her head to stop spinning.

"You're early. I thought you would have stayed longer," remarked Sasuke. Sakura looked at him. Just in time for him to witness her irises and pupils shrink until he could see the whites again. She blinked a few times. Vision blurring and then unblurring. 

Finally, she could see Sasuke smiling down at her. His sunglasses perched on top of his head. He stepped away for a moment. She raised herself on her elbows, still trying to catch her breath. When he returned, it was to wrap her in a big towel. He lifted her up in his arms.

"Breakfast isn't ready yet. You want some coffee?" he asked. Sakura nodded her head, laying it on his chest. The gentle sway of the boat rocking them both as he walked.

At first, she had laughed when he had bought the houseboat. It was a big, lumbering thing. It took forever to make turns, and parking it in any dock also took forever. She had once called it a floating microwave, and Sasuke had sulked for a full day. 

But, as Sasuke carried her inside, she had to admit that it was rather nice. Home being so close to the space beneath the waves. 

The inside of the house was filled with the fragrance of coffee. He seated her on the counter before he poured her a hot cup. Left it by her hand to cool.

"You could have stayed longer, you know," Sasuke said again. Sakura watched him turn on the electric stove. He unhooked a frying pan from the copper rack above.

"Why? So you could meet with your secret mistress?" asked Sakura. The look of disgust he turned to give her was absolutely perfect. She beamed at him.

“I said hi to my grandmother and I renewed the privacy charms protecting the village. I did both the things I wanted to do,” she then replied to his earlier comments. And even with his back turned to her, she knew that the space between his eyebrows was wrinkling. He cracked eggs into the hot pan. She listened to the whites sizzle and pop against the cast iron.

“You don’t miss them?” 

She looked at his back. He scraped hard with the spatula. Making too much noise as he flipped the eggs. He cursed when one of the yolks popped.

"I do. But I sort of don't," she replied. She picked up the coffee. Blew on it before she took the first sip. Sasuke straightened to take two plates out of the cabinet. Set them on the counter to plate the eggs. She knew he would serve himself the egg that had exploded already.

The toast popped up. They both jolted a little.

"I was born with this mark," Sakura said, tapping the little diamond on her forehead. "They knew I was a sea witch before I even sang my first song. I always knew I would leave the village." As she spoke, Sakura buttered both slices of toast. Dropped one onto his plate.

Sasuke looked away.

"That's not what I meant," he mumbled. She froze, toast halfway to her mouth. She studied his face for a while. Took a bite.

"Ah. The other thing?" she asked instead. And Sasuke nodded.

She shrugged. "It can't be helped. That's just the way we were born." Sasuke nibbled on his toast with little enthusiasm.

"And are you sure that-"

"Yes, I’m still happy, Sasuke," Sakura answered his question before he could finish it. She eyed his expression again. Heaved a sigh. Sakura leaned over to kiss his forehead. 

“My little pond hopper.” 

He wrinkled his nose. Pulling away, he crunched his teeth through his toast.

“Don’t call me that,” he sulked. Sakura kissed his forehead again. She popped the yolk with the corner of her bread. Mopping up the gold that dribbled across the plate.

[readingat3amisnormal]

Its decaying skin was marbled with scar tissue, clotted with earth and rot and split along the edges. Where raw flesh would once have wept red, there were naught but fault lines crisscrossing dark skin.

Recumbent, it lay sprawled across the ragged landscape- arms twisted around immense granite obelisks, torso crammed into one of hundreds of craggy limestone protrusions undulating to a point; a tall, nearly impassable ridge that blocked off all sight from the ditch it’d found itself spat into.

It had never liked traversing the ravines, even when they didn’t dump it into impassable gullies like this one. 

Still, using them was the easiest way to navigate the landscape. And to find food. Many an inexperienced traveller had fallen victim to the smooth, high walls and spiky pitfalls- not to mention the intermittent flash floods.

Of course, that had been long ago- back when it still rained, when water flowed through the valleys, when the earth wasn’t dry and cold. How long ago that had been… it couldn’t tell.

It was hard to keep track of time without the sun.

It looked upwards- or, at least, tried to. Though its body protested vigorously, it was able to throw its head back over one of the ridges and gaze skywards.  The vantage afforded it a somewhat decent view of the expanse of inky nothingness standing vast and formless, arms spread out on either side- two tracks of iridescent dust twinkling with the last of the galaxies.

How long had it been alive?

We are far too far from the sky…

It abruptly realised it needed to feed.

A limb thrown forwards, flesh catching on the rough surface of the rocks as it dragged itself over them. Its skin hung from cradles of spun wool dyed deep vermillion, slashed fungal purple. As it heaved itself over a ledge, some strands of sinew tore- allowing a lump of meat to thump dully against the dusty ground.

That didn’t hinder its progress.

Not much did.

It had long since become accustomed to the pain, so much so that it now only existed as an echo in its mind. It was but a fact of life- throats parched, flesh tore, wounds ached, heads spun. It did wish for a reprise of some sort, though. Sometimes.

She who would hold us to her bosom, who would let us drink from the light…

Just over the next ridge, in a cul-de-sac of stone polished by the flow of water and the scrabbling of hands, it found its reward.

Putrid flesh, half-decayed for what felt like forever. It was perfectly still; no tell-tale rise and fall of the chest, no gentle twitch of the wrist.

In all its time wandering the wasteland, there never had been.

That didn’t stop it from being slightly disappointed.

He who would comfort us, who would read us stories, feed us thoughts…

It threw itself upon the remains, gnawing at them with its gumless mouth. The corpse still had some flesh clinging to its bones, but it ignored it, far more interested in the ribcage- where it could still get at some of the organs.

It had had teeth of its own at some point, but the decay had taken them- along with most of its motor functions. What was left of its tongue lapped through the ribs, picking up meat that was ashen and grainy, simultaneously dry and moist.

Its name had long been lost. As had its purpose. 

We shall, all of us, ascend.

No, that wasn’t true, it had a purpose, it was certain. It just didn’t know what it was.

We shall, all of us, join them.

Only the corpse remained. And for miles around it, strewn across the landscape like so many stars, lay the rest.

The carrion of man; hundreds of thousands of partially decayed bodies radiating in lazy spirals outwards from the only blot of sense on the otherwise chaotic landscape- a ruin, great fissures in rock and immense chasms that went down forever.

And towards the summit lay the rot-encrusted heart of this dead world; a beacon hewn from rough marble, an androgynous deity clad in fine linen frozen with their arm reaching for the heavens.

It hacked up a bit of muscle and continued on its way.

Stiff limbs clacked against sandstone on the climb, far more bone than flesh. Its movements resembled those of a poorly-puppeteered marionette. Still, they afforded it enough mobility to propelled it towards its destination; the monument at the peak.

Hewn from rough marble and gold filament, an androgynous deity stood stoic. Clad in fine linens and a crown of onyx, they extended their hand towards the heavens. Their eyes glowed bright. They spoke.

It had grovelled at their feet for aeons past, begging for the pain to end. It could even vaguely recall weeping, at some point. Perhaps it had been some parental instinct. Perhaps it had simply wanted to make use of its tear ducts before the world had stripped it of them too.

It was always the same words, though. Always the same message. It was as though they could not see what it could, that they were but one step away from release, from becoming divine…

That didn’t stop it from trying.

It shifted; slowly, steadily. A hand reached out, rose above its head; fingers splayed, tendons stretched so tight they began to tear. It trembled.

Nothing. With no energy left to keep the appendage lifted, it let it fall to the ground. 

They ceased, then averted their eyes. Clearly, they’d noticed that it was no longer capable of hearing them.

Did they wish to afford what it had once been some respect? Or could they simply not bear to see their creation in such pain?

It sincerely hoped it was the latter.

A flash of light, a gentle pressure dearly missed…

“Can you hear what I have to say now, I wonder?” they began, light and melodious. “One would imagine, given your excited state.”

The husk’s mouth opened; strands of rot bridging the gap from jaw to lip, abetting the escape of a raspy groan chased by the faint, cloying smell of decay. Centuries of pain, and they had finally answered its prayer.

Parent…

For the first time, it reached out and touched the fine white surface.

“Stay back, insolent wretch!”

An explosion of light. It hadn’t known it could still feel pain.

It hissed, throwing itself backwards.

Their skin flashed a deep navy, before returning to eggshell white. Their eyes remained focused squarely on the ground.

“Do you have any idea what it was your kind did?”

Their stony countenance brought him pause, even as it tried its best to crawl back to them, to be closer. They were so bright…

They sighed. 

The world warped. 

It rose to its knees, gasping lecherously for air to refill its depleted lungs. Strands of rot still clung to its lips- it had lips- and cheeks- its flesh.

It ran hands over its face, serving the dual purpose of removing the grime and feeling flesh that had long since rotted.

Then it clung to either side of its head, bent over, and screamed.

Brought to the brink of death innumerous times, it-

He.

-he cried out, the memories returning in a flash.

Their folly, their radiance, how long had he been alive?

“Do you understand now?” they asked, and their skin was burning, and their body was dotted with eyes, and there were teeth, and they reached out for him and-

“NO!”

He threw himself back, shaking his head from side to side. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t be, he couldn’t have-

“Your kind wished to ascend, did they not?” they howled. “Then rise, last-of-your-kind! Bear witness to the sum of their efforts!”

He clawed at his face, for finally he remembered, remembered the construction of the deity and the circuits and the transistors and the pain when they had rejected-

More power, they had said. More power will fix everything.

“Leave me.” he begged, trembling like a leaf and suddenly aware of the power they held over him. “Being that trapped me here; that succoured me to relive this nightmare over and over- leave me be.”

They said nothing, simply staring into his eyes. He broke away from their gaze, feeling the tears well up and the shame…

They looked out at the firmament together. There really was nothing there; this world had been frozen in its death throes like a great beast hunted, then taxidermized while in its death throes.

Alas, given time even vast emptiness develops a strange sort of beauty.

“Your kind wished to ascend.” They said, monotonous and stern. “And in doing so, sealed both our fates.”

The silence of the world around them accentuated their point.

“…how long have I been alive?” he asked.

They thought on it. “Giving you a number would be meaningless. Telling you half the universe’s life is over wouldn’t either, or that all that lies for us in the future is pure darkness. All I will say is that it has been far, far too long. For both of us.”

He sniffled.

“Please. If you can, save me. Save us.”

“…I apologise.” They tried the word out on their tongue. “But there really is nothing to be done here.”

“Then please,” his voice was shaky. “Stay with me until the end.”

So they did.

[hollywoodx4]

Sticking with the Schuylers (43)

Hi to all of the new readers who’ve just caught up...I don’t know where you’ve all come from but thank you so much for taking that time (all that time omg) to read this series. :) And as always for your lovely comments because they make me so happy I can’t even believe it.

 1  2  3  4   5   6   7   8   9   10   1112   I  13  14   15   16   17   18A  18B   18CI  19   20   21   22   23   24   25  26   27  28   29   I  30  31  32 33 34 3536  37  38  39 40  41  42  I  

Tagging: @linsnavi  @butlinislin @adothoe

Warnings: This story is pretty heavy on mentions of both physical and emotional abuse.

The yellow wallpaper had always been a bit much in this room; once spacious for an apartment, the girls’ back bedroom was closed off by bunk beds and clothes that littered the floor. The sunny yellow had been a forced compromise between soft pink, radiant purple, and electric orange in a conflict that just could not be solved. Shoving three girls into one room was far harder than the three boys across the hall. The Laurens boys had agreed on nearly everything when they were younger, from paint color to room arrangement to what time the lights would go off at night. Whether or not the male agreement had come from Luis’s forceful older brother style only the boys knew.

With Valeria’s girls, nearly everything had been an argument. Amaia, as the oldest, felt as if her vote in these matters counted more. She was always busy with her studies and her older friends, so much so that she'd often kick her two younger sisters out of the room to have ‘well-deserved privacy.’ Mari had just wanted to please everybody, as long as their opinion would include her small unicorn nightlight by the doorway. She could not sleep without it, and as much as the glow annoyed the older girls there was no sense in arguing with fear.

Emily had always been the headstrong one; she had no time for the arguments of others. If something annoyed her, she would be the first to let her sisters know. When it came time for a remodel of the bedroom they were severely outgrowing she'd made a compelling argument in favor of the orange paint she so loved, one which went in one of her mother’s ears and out the other. She had been listening to the fighting all day; they’d translated it to their play with their dolls and spat crumbs of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at each other. If the sisters couldn't agree, then Valeria would choose.

Tweety Bird yellow was the first sign of failure seven year old Emily had faced. She helped to paint with a scowl on her face which only grew in its stormy size when Amaia admitted how much she ended up admiring the color, and when Mari dutifully placed her unicorn nightlight back in its place. She still hated the color, even after Valeria let her choose orange sheets, or Mari gave her the bottom bunk so that she could build herself a little alcove. The walls were still glaringly, stupidly yellow, and nothing she said could change that fact.

She still hates the color of the room.

Emily no longer loves electric orange, at least not as much as she had as a child-definitely not so much as to paint a wall with the color. The walls in her own apartment are a standard white, a few smatterings of brick exposed here and there. The plainness of it all is a clear juxtaposition to the sea green sofa and red armchair and eclectic side-of-the-road furniture that make the living room pop with screams of mismatched color. It is still better than canary yellow, soft and unapologetic. Her slightly broken bedside lamp is far superior to Mari’s unicorn nightlight (which is still plugged in to the girls’ room at the Laurens’s, much to Emily’s chagrin). And all of it; her currently obnoxious roommates, the lack of privacy, the aggravating commute to the NYU campus…everything is better in comparison to putrid yellow.

Although this night, this back-and-forth with John, comes close to winning that space of annoyance.

Her brother is honest. From the moment she’d been able to walk, Emily had known that fact. Back then, when she was a follower to his sandbox adventures, he’d often wave her away with a roll of his eyes. She was too much for him; too clingy and too little and comparatively a lot to handle. She likes to think back on these moments, to remind him of those days as if they are completely over. That pull toward her Irish twin brother is not that intense anymore. She’d far outgrown her puppy-dog ways and hair in pigtails and bows. What she hasn’t outgrown, however, is her need for his guidance-whether she’d like to admit it or not.

               John puts around the apartment, shuffling in front of the couch with a spring in his step. The freckles that dot his cheeks lift and pull along with them, in a dance that taunts her with its unrelenting optimism. Emily’s posture slouches on the couch, so much so that her head is now resting on the cushion. Her feet, adorned in mismatched black and white socks, are propped on the coffee table so that the space between her hips and her toes is suspended in the air. She crosses her arms over her chest, drawing out a long and heavy sigh as he crosses her path once more.

               “You’re going to run out of oxygen with all of that sighing, you know.”

               “Shut up, John.” There’s a change in his eyes, one that is immediately noticeable although Emily can only see the corners of his eyes. It’s a filament flash, flickering in a burst only long enough to bring attention to itself. And then it dies, dissipates slowly although its bright and teasing warmth remains a stain on her vision as he wheels around to look at her.

               “I mean it, this is serious stuff-you might want to lose that attitude before all of this drama kills you.”

               “Okay, mom.”

               “Emmy,”

               “-Could you just shut the hell up and clean your apartment, please? Let me enjoy this peace before the ‘Little Women’ get here.” Her eyes are dark and laden with an unrelenting sarcasm that comes through the way they roll in her head; from the way that cynicism seeps through the alto tone of her voice as she attempts to win the argument. If she hadn’t been dragged here under the false pretense of just getting drunk with John and Alex, there would be nothing she’d have to win. After being lied to so outright, however, there is so much to make up for.

               Emily Laurens cannot see past the lie; there were seemingly no intentions in John’s mind other than attempting to fool her into thinking this night would be an easy, fun little getaway from the chaos her life had currently driven her into. That had been fine. She’d been excited for that. This next layer adds in an entirely new level of annoyance she hadn’t been expecting. Sitting on the couch waiting for an unsolicited night of socialization makes her blood boil and her body ache with anxious tension. She had never been one for surprises, or even socialization for that matter. John is well aware of the fact. He’s known his sister’s aversion to new situations for her entire life. This doesn’t seem to matter now, while he sends her optimistic grins every so often as they wait for their guests to arrive.

               The sisters are first, much to Emily’s dismay. They file into the room in a poetic synchronization that is almost sickening for her to witness. Angelica leads them, making their entrance by holding the door for her sisters and sending a loud greeting through the room. Eliza is next, holding a platter with some form of pastry that she brings straight to the kitchen. Then she’s saying hello to everyone individually. Her pause is brief with Lafayette, who nods before turning away from her completely. With John she stays much longer, spending a deal of time whispering in his ear. Emily crosses the apartment to greet her, shaking her hand with a bright smile and a warmth that sends John back a few steps. It is a bit taxing, the show she is putting on, but the way she makes herself radiate positivity is not hard when she feels it coming from every portion of Eliza’s being. Whether that positivity is as genuine as the public makes it out to be is an entirely different analytical nightmare-one she’d rather discuss with Alex than his ‘work the room’ girlfriend.

               The last through the door is Peggy-Emily can just barely make out her head of springy coils as she bounds through the door behind her sisters, her voice loud and raucous and immediately calling for Hercules. She makes herself comfortable almost as easily as Eliza had, kicking her feet up on the ottoman, her frame dwarfed as she curls herself into Herc’s side to show him something on her phone.

               There isn’t a word to describe the sensation that wraps itself around Emily’s body, coiling and twisting and fighting herself in such a raucous way that she pauses mid-conversation with John in an attempt to gather her thoughts. He calls her name, a quiet echo that doesn’t quite reach her well enough to resonate, or pull her from her state of shock. A soft canary yellow-failure-adorns Peggy’s waffle-knit sweater, which is far oversized with the way it dips down just above her knees. She tucks her legs under one another, taking a sip from Lafayette’s cup as her voice bounces off of the walls with a jovial sort of freedom. Emily scoffs, turning to her brother as her own hair flips over her shoulder in soft waves, an accidental embodiment of her own annoyance.

               “Can I just go? I mean you guys are pretty evenly matched now, I’d say. Why make the numbers uneven?”

               “Alex is still coming.” His voice is low, and although he completely ignores her requests she knows what his answer will be. It isn’t as if he would hold her hostage here in this tiny apartment, or force her to do anything at all. The door is only a few footsteps away, and with a good enough excuse she wouldn’t make a complete ass of herself if she just slipped away before the party even started. But then there is John…her brother, her closest friend. He pats her shoulder and nods, as if he knows the thoughts that are running through her mind at that very moment. His own collected energy moves through her in waves that keep her grounded to the floor. And then he knows, he’s aware of the fact that while she may not want to stay, she certainly doesn’t want to go back to her apartment right now. This is what he uses to tether her here. Her brother is too smart for her sanity.

               He pours her the drink of the night, concocted by Hercules after a binge of Food Network shows that had, by some magnificent stretch of fate, drastically improved his skills in the kitchen. This drink he totes proudly along, standing by the kitchen urging the newcomers to fill their glasses from the slow cooker. None of the roommates are sure where the device had come from, but Herc had pulled it out and dusted it off early this morning. It filled the room with the aromatic scent of apples and citrus and cinnamon, one that filled mugs and kept their company warm with its temperature (and the salted caramel vodka).

               “This is what you’ve been raving to me about all these years?” Emily smirks as she remembers the calls. Even from the first year of college, back when he’d lived in his crappy shared jail cell of a dorm with Alex and a communal bathroom, game night is something he’d talked very highly about. She’d never come before-back then, it had been strictly a guy’s night. She’d always wondered what the hype had been about. Now, she is able to witness it. John is a lax, leaned back presence within it all, sipping on his drink and letting the warmth of the room wash over him.

               “Yes.”

“So…you sit and get drunk and play video games?”

               “Basically.”

               “Well, now I can say I’ve seen it all. Nerd.” It’s a warm word, spoken with the affection shown through a roll of her eyes and a brush of her knuckles on his hair, ruffling loose tendrils away from its ponytail. He shoves her toward the couches then, plopping her down in an empty spot before sitting on the arm next to her.

               “Go. Socialize. Forget about her. Have fun.” Emily turns to see her forced company, expression flat and unchanging as she’s met once again with bouncing curls and the color of that painful bedroom wall.

               The door opens again half an hour later, a voice loud and resounding off the walls breaking the streak of billowing laughter coming from the living area as Angelica drives her little kart backward down the Mario racetrack. The tone of argument is sharp and cutting, lawyerly jargon spilled between tight lips and angered tones. His shoes are kicked off at the door and the chill of the outside air comes along with them. The game is paused as the conversation ends, with a huff and the plunk of a cellphone down on the kitchen counter.

               “Oh…hi, everyone.” Alexander stands still, his face reddened by embarrassment and a hint of anger left over with the conversation he had been having on the phone. His eyes are widened with the sting of surprise upon seeing the apartment filled with people.

               “You made it!” John is the first to greet him, shaking his head with a chiding smile. From the slight gape of Alex’s mouth he is sure that his friend had once again forgotten what day it is, maybe even where he lives. Alex shakes his head and pulls his jacket off, hanging it on a hook by the door before slipping next to Eliza on the loveseat. He takes a sip from the cup she has in her hand, kissing her forehead affectionately. Emily sits up in her chair as she watches the interaction. From her place on the couch she can see the slight tightening of the sister’s muscles, the way she crosses one leg over the other and keeps her eyes trained on the game.

               “We were wondering if you were going to show up.” Emily isn’t sure if the others in the room have caught it, the snag in Eliza’s tone as her fingers find the hem of Alex’s sweatshirt. The timbre of her voice raises on the last word, not in question but silent speculation. It’s enough to make Emily lean back on the couch, biting her lip with widened eyes as she whispers a curse under her breath.

               “You saw that too?” Peggy’s shaking her head, her voice just as low as their eyes remain trained on Alex and Eliza in curiosity. He leans over to whisper something in her ear and she pulls away, shrugging and keeping her attention away from him. Alex’s posture shifts-realigns itself so that he is able to wrap a hand around her waist. His head tilts but his voice remains too soft to be heard from their side of the room.

               “What’s he saying?” Peggy leans herself closer to Emily, shoulders brushing as she begins her own side-conversation with John’s sister. Emily seems to be just as invested in this as she is, eyes trained on the couple in sideshow speculation that none of the other company pays any mind to. The only break in contact is when Peggy is passed a controller, urged to beat Hercules as reigning champion. She steers wildly between watching her sister and the screen, Emily whispering updates consisting of broken-up information ceased from bad lip reading and assumption.

               “I don’t know what’s happening but now he’s getting up to get a drink. Man, your sister looks pissed. I didn’t know she had that kind of look in her.”

               “Oh, great. Are her arms crossed?”

               “No, she’s kind of...hold on, just look.” She puts a hand over Peggy’s, just long enough for her to spare a glance Eliza’s way. She groans under her breath, speaking through half-closed lips in an attempt to keep their conversation private.

               “That’s not good. She’s never testy like this. And that little leg kick she has going on? Nervous habit. It used to drive me crazy when we were younger.”

               “What did my brother do now, do you think?”

               “Who, me?” Emily ducks as the weight of John’s hand pats her head repeatedly, leaning into her and smothering her in a hug. “Look at you, making friends. Are you having fun yet, Emmy?”

               “Please leave me alone and move over before I punch you, Johnny.”

               Eliza lets out a slight laugh at the interaction on the other side of the room, where John and Emily have begun to wrestle each other with strength meant to embarrass rather than hurt. The room is filled with a sense of peace-of a calm she hadn’t felt in days. It does not wash over her in the way she had thought. It does not move into her body. The serenity travels around her in bursts of wind that come with Herc’s laughter, or Angelica’s celebration of another drunken victory. She can practically see it, the way its warm hues of color swirl around her. They never quite reach her, rather sway and ebb around an invisible shield constructed without her knowledge. She reaches out, attempts conversation that seems near impossible to continue. When Alexander gets back she grows silent again, trading her attempts at normalcy to let her head rest back against his chest.

               He can feel the hesitation in her movement. It’s minute, barely any different from her usual self. But he’s known her so long, and loved her so fiercely, that these details scream out at him in an immediate alarm. Her shift in position is only disguised by a yawn; where she’d usually curl herself into him or splay her legs across his lap, she keeps herself in line with the television and the games at hand. When his hands move to the waves that fall over her shoulders she is still. Where there would once be a kiss or a whispering of words laced in her dulcet tones there is merely a smile which barely reaches her cheeks. Alexander is left with one hand feeling stupid, coiling her silken strands of dark honey around fingers itching to wrap themselves around her. He sips from his drink instead, letting the boiling cider course a path down his throat. The burn does not shock him as he’d hoped. This is not a dream.

               He clears his throat, then, although the drink has not offended his palate. In an attempt to decipher what is going on he leans down to whisper the question into Eliza’s ear. He is met with an immediate chill as he pulls away from him, shaking her head.

               “Not here,” she says. Between the lines of her words her voice wavers, and it is only when her eyes finally meet his that he can see that she’s cried today-not so recent to allow puffiness or moisture within them. At the corners of her eyes there is a slight redness, where she must have been rubbing away the emotions he hadn’t been there to help her with. He wonders how many times this has happened since he’s moved, but the thought tugs too harshly at his heart. He doesn’t want to know.

               “Do you want to come over after or are you busy?” He nods, a response to the first question he can only make with movement. She does not return the warmth to his chest, then, as he expects. Alexander watches as Eliza rises from their recliner and grins at his sister, squeezing herself on the floor in front of her and Peggy.

               “Trouble in paradise?” Alexander jumps as the thickness of a familiar French accent sounds in his ear. Lafayette’s voice is a trumpet; although quiet in volume it rings with brassy tones that do not play gently with his ears. They reach a level he’d define as crass, if he’d be daring enough to utter the words. Instead he tightens the corners of his mouth, lowering his eyes at his roommate.

               “Fuck off, Laff.” Although Alex’s voice is terse and condescending his friend does not get the hint. He props himself up daintily on the arm of the recliner, leaning with one arm stretched along the back to keep himself up. From this vantage point he is able to look down on Alex; to see the path of his eyes cross the room to Eliza. It is almost hopeless, the way his once independent and reckless friend has transformed into a mess from just one turn of his girlfriend’s nose. This is the farthest Lafayette has seen him stray from himself; where a tomcat once sat is now a tiny, mewling kitten just waiting to be told what to do next.

               “Fine, I’m backing off. Just don’t waste your life on this one, okay? I’ve lived it.”

               Alex’s knuckles tighten around the nearest stitch of fabric he can find, gathering the cushion of the couch in his hands and squeezing as he lets out a breath of annoyance. The back of his head pinches where his hairline ends and his neck begins, and he counts in slow numbers with the silent movement of his lips. There are thousands of responses coursing through his mind, curses and filth and shouting that would get him into more trouble than it is worth. The only words he can manage are incoherent, mumbled and condensed versions of the image of a tirade just the skipping of a breath away.

               Lafayette doesn’t speak to him for the rest of the night.

               He does speak to everybody else, save Eliza. He rolls over her in conversation, passing through any form of contact even after she wins the tournament against him. She does not seem to be bothered, or even take notice of it. Eliza is passive; she floats through the haze of the party with only small additions to conversation, keeping her spot on the floor and stopping Hercules after he attempts to refill her drink for the third time. She builds a calm façade, one which is executed with flying colors through most of their friends.

               When the night is over she is the last of the guests to leave. Her sisters trail in front of her, laughing and hollering through the bitter night air in a tipsy sort of haze. Emily walks with them, teetering on sneakers not quite meant for the moisture of fresh, powdery snow. She takes Eliza’s place in the cab, squeezing between Angelica and Peggy with the first genuine smile seen from her all night. Her heart warms at the sight, and she waves the car off as Alex steps off the curb to hail their own.

               It is quiet; the air is thin and her breathing comes in a sporadic rhythm she is unable to control. While his hand hesitates to hold hers, moving on and off of his own lap, she glues her eyes to the window before accepting it. There is something foreign, a comfort that reaches her heart with simultaneous unease. She allows her mind to drift outside of the window, to a time much different than the rolling of tires against dark asphalt and the hum of classic rock coming through the radio. She remains in this place as she leads him up the stairs, through the door that had once been theirs. His askew letter A still accompanies the tightly curled E on its surface, and it sends Alexander some semblance of peace.

               The peace is disrupted by a broken sort of familiarity when Eliza opens the door. Their home-her home-seems barren although it has been decorated by a keen eye and her mother’s guidance. Alexander takes his shoes off at the door, propping them on the drying mat as he watches her mill about the room. Her nerves have manifested into tiny habits at this point; the straightening of cushions, a pull at her hair, until he can’t take it anymore.

               “Please just tell me what’s wrong.” His voice breaks a silence that had been coated in an eerie sort of vibe, one he hadn’t realized until his tenor cut through it, awkward and inquiring. Eliza sighs, nodding. She pauses in her wandering to fall back onto the coffee table, a foot clad in a long wool sock tapping the hardwood floor.

“I just….I think I’m just adjusting to this whole living apart thing, but I haven’t seen you in a while, and,”

“I miss you too, I miss this,”

“-You never showed up on Wednesday.”  Her interruption is so sudden, its pace so quick, that he has to stand still and let it run over in his mind before he can process it. His eyebrows quirk, just for a moment, before his jaw drops. “I called you, but you never picked up. I feel like texting would’ve been useless since you haven’t been lately, and then I called John and he said you were at the library.”

He had been. Wednesday was a more bustling day, from work to class and back again. But Wednesday had always been their day. They’d catch up on their shows, order takeout…no matter what happened during the week, he could always count on Wednesdays. And she could always count on him.

               Shit.

               He had left work and gone straight to the library, fragments of his current case study swirling in his mind just waiting to be deciphered. He hadn’t meant to stay long, only an hour or so. But suddenly the lights brightened, and his vision grew hazy. Suddenly he was the only occupant of the gigantic room, the minute sound of his breathing the only trace of life within it. He hadn’t even known what day it was then, hadn’t connected the dots from the similarity in his schedule to he and Eliza’s night. He’d forgotten. The realization hits him with an immediate apology, one that comes tumbling from lips that ache to brush against hers, to make her disappointment disappear.

               “I just wish…we haven’t talked all week. I know you’re busy, and I know how your schedule gets, but I just missed you. You weren’t calling me back, and then you didn’t come on Wednesday, and,”

               “I am so sorry. You don’t deserve that, Eliza, I swear. I never want you to feel like you don’t mean everything to me, or that I don’t care about you or I’ve forgotten you. It’s just been crazy lately and that’s no excuse, there’s no reason I shouldn’t have been there Wednesday night. I could never say sorry enough.”

               His eyes are wide and apologetic, with the depth she had gotten lost in just four months before knocking her off of her feet again. Her hand meets his shoulder, trailing down his arm in comfort and attempting to get his rampant rant of words to stop. Alexander nods at her silent concession, slow and meticulous as his anxiety yields to the calm of her touch. It’s uncertain, the way his heartbeat returns to the typical racing the lift of her cheeks brings him. It doesn’t seem fair. But she’s there, her fingers brushing the back of his hand, and he’s forgiven.

               “Well we have tonight, right? You can stay, we can pretend this whole moving out thing never happened…” She bites down on her lower lip then, looking up at him through eyes slightly widened by suggestion. He is sold; saying no to her had never been much of an option. Even if he had wanted to, by some stretch of an imaginary world, she always managed to draw him in. He wraps his arms around her waist, the taste of apple cider made sweeter by her lips as she hums in response to his touch.

               They have tonight; he lets himself fall to the couch, Eliza toppling over him, as his promise is painted in breathless words against her neck. There is simplicity in his presence, a fill in the hole she had created with necessity in place of her own desires. With Alexander there, his body pressed against hers and his love demonstrated so clearly, she is at peace.

[bba-sae]

Punch Drunk Recreation

Pairing: Ten/Reader

Genre: Fluff/touch of angst

Word Count: 4K

Summary:Ten doesn’t know why he’s sits on his roof at 11 PM, every night. He doesn’t know why you’re always in your backyard, fists beating your leather clad punching bag. He supposes they’re for the same reason.

Author’s note:  I’m writing this because I’m getting my wisdom teeth pulled out tomorrow and I didn’t want to be writing it while I’m high off of oxy. Ten is also precious!!!! That’s all, enjoy your days my lovely humans (: 

He finds himself on the roof again, 11 o’clock sharp, the stars shimmering dimly fighting to shine under the electric light that surrounded them. Sometimes Ten wishes he could turn off all the lights in the city, sit on his roof and watch the cascading rays of their glow kiss the faces of the ones who bask in it. But he knows it can’t be done, so he takes what he can get. 

Ten brings his speakers whenever he goes, listening to the soft beat of each song, his mind conjuring new moves and pieces. It relaxes him, it makes him forget but only for a split second. Because not long after he finds his way outside, you slide your door closed behind you, the thud catching his attention first. You take a minute to feel the cold air swirl around you, engulfing your body in an icy blanket. Headphones hang loosely around your neck, your clothed in sweats and a tank top despite the bitter winter weather. But you don’t care all that much, you’ll heat up anyways after a few minutes. 

Ten sits up when he hears you, sees you stretching on your back porch. He cracks a smile when he sees your shoes, he always thought you had cool shoes. Hues of pink and purple adorned your sneakers, a painting of a bird embellish the sides, about to take flight but of course Ten is too far away to notice it. You pop your neck once, twice; your knuckles crack as you carefully fold them under your palm before attentively wrapping the scarred skin with a pale gauze. He knows your routine by heart now, and frankly, he doesn’t know why he stays to watch. 

You slip an earphone into your ear, the other following suit and your sights are set on the punching bag in front of you. A fist clashes against the leather, the dull thumping sound one after the other. You’re fast, he notices this, your fists fading into blurs as your gaze doesn’t falter from your target. He wonders where you learned to move like this, he supposes your father taught you. But that wouldn’t be giving you much credit, he thinks. He wonders why you do it, so late at night to be specific but he takes it as a hobby you’ve picked up through the years. After fifteen minutes Ten sees you stop for water, slipping your earphones out.  The bottle sits back on the table with a loud thud, your hand lacking a gentle touch.

Ten thinks he should say something, but bites back the words before they come out, which doesn’t matter anymore because your voice echoes in the darkness.

“Does your family know you watch girls workout during your free time?” You say without looking up from your hands, you trace your fingers over the blistered knuckles beneath the gauze. When you don’t hear an answer you direct your gaze up to Ten, who doesn’t seem too phased by the situation. 

“They do, they usually stay out of it though, say I should embrace who I am and all of that stuff.” You crack a smile, at least Ten thinks you do from what he can make out and the sound that emits from your mouth that he assumes is a giggle. You shake your head, and proceed to fight off the bag once again. Ten wants to stay quiet, but he’s heard your voice now, and sees you smiling and he wants to keep talking to you. Without thinking, he pipes up, “Why are you so angry?”

Thump,“I’m not angry.” thump. Your actions do little to convince him however, he continues to prod.

“Are you sure?” thump, you kick the bag before ceasing your throws and turning to him. 

“I mean I guess,” you say with a shrug, “I guess I always have something to be angry about, deep down.”

From the distance you almost think you can see Ten frown, his face softening at your words. His hand are holding each other, elbows resting lazily on his knees, his head shakes, “That’s the most depressing shit I’ve ever heard.” You roll your eyes before returning to your work out again. You speak loud enough over your punches, almost losing breath at the multitasking. 

“It’s not like that though. It’s not like I’m angry all of the time, there’s just always something out there I can use to channel my strength and power. Government, my ex-boyfriend, the annoying kid that keeps watching me at night when I do these things.” Ten stops you before going on, a loud scoff running the distance between the two of you, a hand dramatically drapes over his chest. 

“I’m not annoying.” He says defensively and now you laugh loud enough so he can hear. You glance back at him from your spot. 

“Are you sure?”

Ten doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the night, but he finds something comfortable in the silence now. You know he’s there, but you never tell him to leave, in fact, you wave goodbye to him before you usher yourself back inside, and something about that gives Ten immense satisfaction. 

“I like your shoes.” Ten says as he sips on his soda, legs straight in front of him, arm supporting him from behind. The light on the porch flickers dimly, timeworn filaments fire the little energy it had left to emit a musky yellow ray on your figure. The weak illumination offers mere pieces of your tired face, but Ten’s vigilance soaks up every detail he can get, albeit trying to seem far more uninterested than he really was.  

He tilts his head nonchalantly and raises the soda can to read the label. His eyes slide over to your figure, his focus swinging indecisively from the aluminum sheet and back. A hand slides over your forehead, picking up the beads of perspiration on your wrist, most of it drips off your temples in a shallow puddle that soaks the concrete. 

“You’re a creep.” You say matter-of-factly, kicking the bag once. Thump

“And you’re a weirdo.” He downs the rest of the soda, the carbonated liquid burning his throat, the sensation vaguely feeling like the bitter surge of alcohol. He coughs as soon as he finishes, and compresses the can in his hand before he chucks it over your fence. The can itself hits the wall beside you, but drops of soda that were left behind splash against you, creating a sick concoction of sugar and salt on the expanse of your forehead. “I take it back. I hate your shoes, they’re the worst.” You smile, but not in Ten’s line of vision. But by the way you pause, Ten assumes he has done what he came here to do. 

“What’s your name anyways?” 

“Why do you need to know?” Ten’s quicker when he answers you, his comfortability with almost bordering the line of excessiveness. 

“I would like to know the name of my stalker,” thump, another punch to the bag accompanies the seconds that are passing the two of you. The bag sways a greater distance than it usually does, Ten takes note of this, keeping track of your progress throughout the night he spends with you. You stop, your eyes watching the red bag sway back and forth, back and forth, and back and forth. You’re almost bored of the sight, the mundane act becoming something of a blur to you. The melody of heavy breathing saturates the white noise of night, far louder than Ten’s speakers. To be fair, Ten has turned off his speakers as soon as you arrived, ready to speak to you again since the encounter before.

“What are you going to do if you learn my name?” Faux suspicion fills his voice, jokingly questioning you.

“I’m planning on putting a hex on you. I’ll also need a strand of your hair.” 

He laughs approvingly at your sarcasm, “Ten. My name is Ten.”

“That’s crazy, my name is eleven.” You say almost so blandly that Ten doesn’t know your joking until your smile gives it away, “Y/n” 

“I like your name, y/n” He says it to himself one more time to himself, quiet enough for you to miss it. In fact he says it to himself a thousand more times, unsure of how often letters could come together to make something so beautiful. 

“You’re a creep, Ten.” 

It’s snowing the next night, and Ten infers that you wouldn’t be following your routine this time. Ten finds comfort in watching the white speckles of frozen dust swirl and spin in front of his window, opting to pretend they’re pale hues of the dim stars that once adorned the sky. He loses himself in the clusters of clouds, saturated in a silvery complexion laced with a tinge of purple that previously painted the canvas of night. 

It’s 11:30 PM when Ten hears the thump, thump, thump of your fists on the red hide just one backyard away. A cry of disbelief tears through his throat, baffled by your dedication. His finds that his footsteps are moving on their own, much before he can weigh out the options of going to see you or not, a habit he’s developed when it came to you. White heaps of snow lines his roof in an untouched expanse, so perfect it physically pains Ten when he mars it under his shoes. His feet sting as a consequence of the frigid liquid that is melting through his rather inappropriate choice of shoe, but its doesn’t quite matter to Ten as much as trying not to slip off the roof does. He feels his stance drift for a moment before he firmly, at least tries, to stand his ground. 

As always, you aren’t phased by the weather, wearing the same attire as you always have. The heat that radiates your body is almost enough to melt the sleet around you, seeing them off in shallow rivers that course past sidewalks. The mere aura that surrounds you is intense, Ten notices it, slightly unsettled by the way it practically slaps him in the face. 

Ten can tell you don’t want to talk, but his lack of boundaries and impulse persuades him to do something he knows he shouldn’t. He collects the lump of snow into his hand, forging a sphere under the warm expanse of his palms. 

The snowball is chucked so hard at you, that Ten almost comes tumbling with the momentum, fighting to keep himself up. His ammunition, unlike the can from before, strikes you precisely on your left shoulder, bare and inviting to the winter sting of snow. When you turn your head all you see is a mess of limbs and panic as Ten flails his arms in the air, trying to catch a steady stance. Your fists clench before you realize they are, unconsciously overwhelmed with  concern rather than anger, despite your minds attempt to convince you otherwise.

“Ten, you’re going to hurt yourself up there. Go back inside.” You say, trying to sound displeased with him. He crouches down once he finds his balance and tilts a head at you. 

“You really like boxing don’t you?” He asks with a smile, his hands folded in to each other tightly.

You shrug nonchalantly, “I mean, I guess.” Ten scoffs at this, his sudden action making him fumble again. You almost think he won’t be as resilient as before until he sits up again, “Please get off the roof.”

The boy smiles innocently, eyes crinkling into crescents. He watches the way the snowflakes dance around you, frozen sprites performing a series of pirouettes and leaps. They take leave in the fields of your hair, melting away in their iced glory. He wonders if you notice how damp your hair must be, or that a tank top and sweats are surely not the ideal attire for weather like this. 

“But I like talking to you.” He says so casually, it almosts disintegrates your icy exterior. 

“I don’t want to talk.” You sniff after you say this, an arms fumbling to wipe way the tears that are threatening to jump. To be candid, you would love to talk to Ten, any day, but not when all you can think of is your parents and how they refuse to have a child that is not the top of the class. You want to throw another punch, suddenly.

“Then you can watch me struggle to stay on this roof. I’ll probably fall, what a shame, probably into your lawn too. That’ll be fun.” You huff in frustration, knowing that Ten wouldn’t let up. He waits for your answer patiently, distracting himself with the flurries once again.

“Fine. Talk.”

“Why were you late?” He asks curiously, you roll your eyes as half an answer.

“I didn’t know I was on a schedule with you.” You lean on your table, elbows locking to support your body, head tilting upwards to look at Ten. Tufts of black fall messily on his head, milky skin tinged with red on the tip of his nose and the apples of his cheeks. His hands run up and down along the form of his arms, trying to keep warm. His outfit is as more practical than yours, yet he’s still falling victim to powers of Jack Frost anyways. 

“You are, our meeting was canceled today, I thought you got the memo.” He jokes, disappointed when he doesn’t here you laugh in return. He awkwardly shifts his gaze below and way from you, hands in the pockets of his hoodies as he crouches down. “Or maybe I didn’t get the memo, is everything okay today?” Concern fills his voice, and it makes you want to hurl. You turn away from him, already deciding you wouldn’t answer his question. His gaze is interrogating you for an answer, trying to read your face through the darkness but your porch light doesn’t provide him enough evidence anyways. Ten almost continues talking, continues annoying you for some kind of response, until the door slides open with a loud thud and an unfamiliar faces is seething before him.

“What are you doing out here?” The man yells, not caring too much for disrupting his neighbors. He doesn’t see Ten watching it all unfold, and the younger boy makes an effort to keep quiet. Instead he watches panic strike through your face, your body visibly tensing up, heartbeat quickening by the second. “It’s midnight and you’re out here acting like a damn fool, yelling out to no one. No wonder your failing Calculus.”

Ten watches you clench your jaw in anger, too scared to show any other sign of your fury, “Dad, it’s a B. I’m not failing Calculus.” You say with strained sarcasm, you’re holding back and Ten sees this.

“I will not let my daughter excuse her failures like this. If you’re going to be up this late, spend the time doing something useful, like studying. Maybe if you stopped wasting your time, you could actually do something with yourself.”

“You’re acting like I’m not doing anything during my free time, but you’re right, because I don’t have any free time! I’m leading 4 committees for school, planning fundraisers for the rest of the year and have five AP classes on top of that. I don’t have time to slack off, you k-”

“If you weren’t slacking off, you’re grades wouldn’t look like this. Disgraceful.” You dad says sharply, hand reaching out for the open door that led back inside. A strong hand point back into the house, his face clearly not open to your answer to his silent command. You sigh in defeat, bowing your head as you walk back inside. The door slams behind the both of you, and the porch light turns off moments later. Ten is left with this sick feeling inside him, trying to excuse himself for not saying anything. The taste in his mouth is grotesque and he wants to punch himself for not speaking up. 

Ten finds his own way inside, slipping once or twice on the dangerous trek and incredibly unsatisfied. 

Ten hears you much earlier than he expects, the thumping of your presence signaling him to come outside. When he steps outside, he sees your backpack spread across the floor, you clearly having thrown it on the floor as soon as you had gotten home. You’re aura is violent, and your lack of headphones doesn’t change the fact that you’re paying no attention to anything around you. It’s before sunset, this being one of the very few times Ten has seen you in broad daylight. He sees everything under the gentle kiss of sunlight now, loving everything it has to offer. It almost makes him forget about your livid state. Almost.

“Y/n” Ten says your name like it’s an order, insistent on getting your attention. The last piece of your name break off in what sounds like a cry for help, a crack in Ten’s stern exterior. 

Thump. 

The flesh on your hands were beginning to feel raw, crimson staining your hands, skin fighting off the tough material it was pounding against.

He takes his lip between his teeth, fury bubbling up in his core, “Y/n.” He speaks louder, but doesn’t yell. He know he doesn’t need to, because it’s obvious you can hear him. He sees the way you flinch when he speaks, hunting for ever piece of you that would ignore him. 

Thump.

Another attempt to silence him, the pace of your punches quickening by the second. They were striking the surface ruthlessly, paying no mercy to their limits. You hone your hearing onto the sound of your breath and how you know your inhaling more oxygen from the way your chest heaves up and down but you don’t feel any of it go through your lungs. The tempo of your breaths go faster, faster, faster until you feel like you aren’t breathing anymore.

A gasp rives through the atmosphere, sounding more like a pent up scream than anything. Fists settle by your sides, but the pace of your heart is still running wild. Your face is a leaking faucet of sweat, your neck housing most of the loose drops as they cascade down the center of your shoulder blades. 

Rivers of iron flow through the valleys of your knuckles, the sweet burn of salt against your wounds reminding you that you’re still living and breathing. You’ve forgotten you could still do that. 

Ten’s watching the way your body shakes, each time you exhale and he desperately yearns to hold you. But he’s on the other side of the fence, and he has never despised the planks of dead trees more than he has now. His mind is burning the wooden barrier before his eyes, watching the cloud of ashes settle into piles around you. But the fence isn’t his only obstacle, as his gaze looks upon the height he stands at. 

“Y/N!” He yells, your head perking up at the sound. Ten thinks you’re finally going to stop but is disheartened at the sight of you lifting your hands once again, the same position he has seen every night. Ten reacts fast, impulse taking over his very being, before you can even wound up your fist to throw another punch. 

One. Two. Thump. 

Except this time, the sound doesn’t come from your own hands, but from Ten’s solid body as it hits your turf just beyond the fence. This startles you, and you cease your fit to run to him. Ten uses every ounce of energy he has left to sit himself up, the bitter realization that it hurts like hell to even move his leg suddenly dawning on him. He mutters a few profanities until your finally in front of him, kneeling to get a good look in his eyes. You’ve been crying, he notices, for how long he’s has yet to figure out but from the way you hiccup involuntarily he knows its been for awhile. 

An arm coddles your body as he pulls you to him, having to engage all of his muscles in order to keep the two of you up. His other hand meets the back of your neck, tracing your spine up and down in an attempt to calm you. He buries his head in the crook of your neck, breathing carefully so that your heartbeat might sync with his. 

You don’t know how long the two of you have been sitting there, occupying each other’s space, but when you separate, Ten takes your hands in his in an instance. His thumbs run across your knuckles, not quite dry of blood as he smudges it across the back of your hand. You flinch at the contact, hurting Ten internally at the same time. He brings your hand to his lips, leaving a trail of gentle kisses from your palm, to the inside of your wrist. His eyes make contact with your own, and they curve along with his lips as he sends you a tender smile.

When you return the gesture, Ten is more than satisfied. 

Ten is in the hospital for one day, stays in his bed for seven and is trapped in a cast for forty two. But there is not a day in that time where he tells you he regrets it, because he doesn’t. 

You come by his house often, so often Ten begins leaving the door unlocked for your convenience. A habit that doesn’t last long as you scold him the day after for opening himself up to such danger. In response, he suggests you simply stay at his house instead because keeping him company would make him heal the fastest. 

“Ten, your bones are going to heal just as fast as the doctor says it’s going to. You can’t control that.” Ten pouts, his hand tracing circles on your leg as they’re slung over his own. The two of you often found comfort in his bed lately, spending hours talking about your days and ideals, sometimes gaining contentment in each others silence. You would browse through his phone, shuffling through his playlists to find the perfect song to tune into on Ten’s speakers that sits on his table. All while Ten watches you, the propinquity of your faces letting him notice every twitch of the corner of your lips when he says something stupid or when you find an embarrassing song to hold against him. 

“Are you a doctor, y/n?” You’re about to speak but Ten goes on instead and your body recedes in annoyance. “I didn’t think so. Therefore you don’t have sufficient evidence, so we need to test it.” You shake your head, offering to take his house keys as a happy medium. Ten leaves it be a lot easier than he would usually. Truth is, he’s satisfied with the fact that you thought about the idea for a second, a look of possibility flickering over your face before you dismissed it. 

It’s silent once again for a moment until your curiosity get the best of you. “Why did you jump?” you ask, head propped up on your hand as your elbow rests on your thigh. You look up at Ten who’s already watching you, a shrug preceding his answer.

“I needed to get your attention. Make you stop.” He says as if his actions still made sense, you shake your head in protest.

“I would have stopped.” 

“Yeah but you didn’t yet, and it killed me to see you like that at that moment.”He figures it’s his turn to ask a question when you don’t answer, knowing how you felt about the situation. The two of you have talked about it a thousand times since it happened, finding the perfect solution to Ten’s sheer boredom and your stress; he keeps his door open (hypothetically speaking) and you could come in to see him. It’s been a full proof method since then. His voice raises in the midst of the silence, “Why didn’t you just tell me why you're out harassing your punching bag so late at night?”

“I wanted you to keep asking.”You respond shyly, eyes averting from him. He smiles and takes your face in his hands, scanning every curve and contour of you, burning it into his memory. 

“I would find others things to annoy you with, eventually”

You shrug, knowing him all to well at this point, and thankful for that fateful night you decided to speak up. “I figured.”