#but link wore that thing until it was threadbare

[adrift-in-thyme]

A Pre-Malink fluff of Link's first experience with Hylian holidays. I say pre-Malink since I imagine he still would have been a kid

Thanks for the prompt! This was fun to write

——————

Something strange is happening at Lon Lon Ranch.

Link has been there more often than not this past year. But never has he seen anything like it. One moment, the cozy little home that Talon and Malon share is the same as it has always been. And the next, long strands of spruce have been draped over the doorways and mantel.

There are lights on them too that twinkle like fairies, and little things Malon calls “ornaments.”

(Link thinks they look a bit like miniature versions of the Spiritual Stones he fetched so long ago.)

The lights make their way onto the house and the barn, glittering on the piles of powdery snow. And today the strangest development of all has occurred.

There is a giant pine tree towering over the living room.

He stares up at it, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. How he hadn’t realized it was being constructed during the night, he hasn’t a clue. But here it is…a tree inside of a house.

Link understands a love of trees. After all, he had loved his father and he had been a great big tree. But to decide to stick one in the house…

“Oh fairy boy, how do ya like our Hylia Day tree?”

Malon comes up beside him, bouncing excitedly. He looks over at her, eyes narrowed.

“Hylia Day tree? What’s that?”

Malon tilts her head to gaze up at the tree. Link can’t help but notice how the lights adorning it make her eyes glitter.

“Well, Hylia Day is when we celebrate all the goddess has done for us. And we put up a tree to remember her love for her hero.” She grins at him. “Y’know cause of the green.”

“It’s also cause of the symbolism,” comes Talon’s voice from behind them. They both turn to see the man grinning, two steaming mugs in his hands. “The green is for the new growth Hylia and her hero made possible. The lights are for their sacred powers.”

He shrugs, good naturedly. “But no one really cared about all that anymore. Now it’s just a time for goodwill and celebrating with those you love.”

He sets the two mugs in Malon and Link’s hands.

“Speaking of, it’s a chilly mornin’. Thought you two could use something to warm you up.”

Link stares down into his cup, mouth watering at the scent of chocolate. He has only had this once before, while he was at the castle with Zelda. But he remembers loving it.

He takes a large gulp, then breaks out into a coughing fit as the scalding liquid burns his tongue and throat.

Oh, he’d forgotten about that part.

“You’re forgettin’ about the presents, Father,” Malon says, as she sends Link a sympathetic look. “Don’t drink that so fast, fairy boy! You’ll hurt yourself!”

He gives her a sheepish grin. “I think I already did. Can’t feel my tongue.”

Talon pats him on the back. “It’ll heal up fast, don’t you worry, son. Just take it slower from here on out.”

He turns to Malon, then, smiling. “Ah, yes, the presents. How on earth could I have forgotten? How about you explain that part to our little hero here?”

Malon’s eyes light up. “Alright! Every year around this time, we get each other something nice. We wrap it up all pretty and stick it beneath the tree. Then, on Hylia Day, we get to open our presents!”

Link gnaws his lip, contemplating that. He has received presents before — or what he supposes would count as them — and given them too. But he’s never heard of a day specifically for them.

Now that he thinks of it, though, it sounds promising. On one condition…

He frowns at Malon. “I don’t have to get everyone in Hyrule a present…do I?”

Malon laughs. “Of course not, silly! Just your friends and family.”

Link pauses to think that over, then nods, taking another sip of his cocoa. He can definitely work with that.

Now, to figure out the perfect presents.

…

December 25th rolls around far faster than Link had expected it to. The month has flown by, filled with an odd sort of energy and plenty of things to do. Cookie baking, caroling, wrapping the presents in tidy little packages – the tasks are nothing at all like the drudgery of shoveling snow outside (though he’s found that even that can be made enjoyable if you try). But nothing compares to helping Malon cut stars and wreaths out of soft dough or playing his ocarina while she sings.

(One of the best things about the holiday, he decides, is that Malon sings even more than usual. And though he didn’t think it was possible, her voice is even more beautiful when belted out beneath a sky of wintry blue and swirling clouds of pearly white snow.)

Now, the day is here – finally and yet all too soon. He awakens that morning with a tight, little wad of worry in his throat.

He’s never celebrated a holiday like this before. Will he even do it right?

Taking a deep breath, he slides out of the bed that in the past months has become his own. He grabs the package he had carefully stowed away in his pouch and peers down at it. The wrapping is not quite as nicely done as Talon’s or Malon’s. But he guesses it’s good enough. Out of his multiple tries, this one was the best.

So, he tucks it beneath his arm and heads into the living room.

Talon and Malon both greet him warmly with exclamations of “Happy Hylia Day!” Breakfast is already on the table – fresh eggs and milk and little buns that smell like cinnamon. Link breathes in the scent of it, mouth watering. But — he steels himself, shoulders squared, jaw tight, as though he is heading into battle (he’s nervous enough to be, that’s for certain) — before he can eat, before he can enjoy the hospitality this small family continues to bestow upon him there is something he must do.

He turns to Malon, awkwardly stretches out a present-laden hand in her direction.

She looks down at it, a small grin quirking her lips.

“Is that a present for me, fairy boy?”

His stomach somersaults. He nods.

“Well, we usually open presents after we eat, but…” she looks at Talon and he nods, smiling. “I suppose I can make an exception for my best friend.”

Link’s cheeks redden, the color only deepening as she takes the package from him. She inspects it, shaking it a bit to try and guess its contents. Then, she begins to unwrap it.

It seems an eternity before she finishes. Finally, she sets aside the paper and turns her attention to what was housed within it. It is a small bottle, in which floats is a purple flame.

She frowns. “Is this a…”

“It’s a poe,” Link says, quickly. He’s sure he is going to melt now. Maybe this wasn’t the best choice of a present. “The spirit of one, anyway. It gives you good luck if you keep it around. And if you’re ever in trouble, you can drink it and it’ll heal you.”

Malon hesitates a moment more, looking undecided. Then her face splits into a grin.

“I always have wanted to capture one of these little buggers.” She lunges forward, throwing her arms around Link. “Thanks, fairy boy. I love it.”

Hesitantly, Link returns the hug. His face is so hot he could easily imagine that he is back in the depths of Death Mountain.

“You’re sure?”

“You couldn’t have gotten me a better gift. Honest!”

Link relaxes with a sigh of relief. Maybe this holiday thing isn’t so hard after all.

[lasagnaboxlesbian]

Ronancetober Day 4: Historical

i missed your skin when you were east

Rated [T]

Oh, what a pain it had been to cut the threads between them. Ripping themselves apart until all that was left of her was threadbare and unwoven. Until the city had swallowed her whole, and the country had turned the other way. OR: Nancy receives an unexpected letter. She decides to write one back.

[reposted to ao3 if you prefer so here's the link!]

The letter sat there, mocking her. 

Crisp, pointed edges. Dark ink disturbing yellowed paper, a flag amongst the crumpled piles of words cluttering the floor.

Nancy’s fingers scratch at the wood on her table, splintered nails crackling like the fireplace under the depressive night.

Weary eyes find themselves staring blankly at the envelope, leaning against the wall.

She swallows down the lump in her throat, and it aches with all that she can’t say.

It’s been months, and yet she can’t open it.

Robin must think the worst. Waiting at her doorstep like the girls they used to be, giddily latching onto the fresh round of mail, pretending that the queen of some faraway kingdom had beckoned them for a quest.

It seems so long ago, yet the scent of the grass they used to lay upon had been tattooed upon her memories, the ink freshening every spring.

The dusted over inkwell caught her eye, and her hand trembled at the thought of picking up her pen.

She couldn’t escape the scratch of her pen or the rough paper pulling at her fingertips. Splots of ink dotting her skin, for which she wore like medals of a war hard fought.

Years. What a silly thing to think. Of course time has passed the way it has… so why does it feel like the moon from a decade ago has yet to sink behind me?

Lips, chapped little things pressed squarely on her cheek. Eyes, the corners curled in the way that Nancy wished she could rest her head upon when the days got hard. Freckles, stars across the galaxy she could only dream of exploring.

Instead, the stars had led her far, far away from her home. Following the dreams she’d envisioned within the reach of the girl she’d grown around.

‘Grown Around’,  is what Robin had called it. Being around one another so long that they became enmeshed in the fabric of who they were destined to be.

Oh, what a pain it had been to cut the threads between them. Ripping themselves apart until all that was left of her was threadbare and unwoven. Until the city had swallowed her whole, and the country had turned the other way.

Nancy worked, writing on the same desk that she can’t get up from. Creating her own newsletter and sending an uproar amongst those keen enough to read between the lines of prose she carved from broken memories.

She thread herself back together, forgot about dewy grass and long nights spent with her back against a fireplace, shoulder pressed against another spitfire.

The letter sat there, just like it had last spring. Arriving when the flowers had bloomed, untouched as all of the petals had fallen to the ground.

Nancy bit her lip, trying to muster up the words she wished to scream when she was younger. The ones that burned so deeply, that even if she were to write them in their entirety, the burns would still tug in her gut.

Her first attempt, free of the pressure from failure, had been the best so far. But, it too had been killed before the insincerity had killed her first. 

Another night, another day. 

She couldn’t bear to think about what Robin thought of her. Nancy was the girl that left their world behind to explore stars beyond their imagination. 

That last day, of being able to feel her heart tug her impossibly closer, had hurt the most.

A simple press of lips against the flat of Nancy’s face, tear brimmed eyes, and crumbling words that fell apart the second they left cracked lips.

It ate away at her bones, the way Robin had looked at her. Like she was losing someone more than her childhood neighbour.

Nancy hadn’t noticed it then. Only when lying upon the small cot that first night, staring out the window and wondering if Robin were looking up at the same moon. How she wished her slumber away, eyes trained on that everlasting rock, her only connection to home. And with that, she starts.

---

Dearest Moon,

You join me tonight, and on every night that I am blessed to stare up at you. I imagine you staring down at me, waiting like you always do for me to fall asleep first.

I feel your light through the windows, reaching across the stars to place a palm over my own.

Hours pass in a sleepless fit, and I sacrifice my sanity just to feel your memory for a moment longer. And when I have nothing left to give, I weep for you. I weep, and I pray that cool fingertips will wipe my tears away.

In the times you have hid from me, tucked away from my window, I wait for God to bless the altar for which I stand.

And here I am. 

I write to you under your light, waiting for you to strike the pen from my hands. 

An ever present spector, waiting until I’m left by my lonesome to haunt me.

My flesh is still raw from where we last were, the blood dripping from my hands and seeping into everything I write. 

I am enamoured with that agony.

I press on my wounds and howl at you. 

Mix the ink with my own, and write about how I can not live without you.

I feel your phantoms at the base of my skull, easing me from pressing too close to the edge.

Burn me, when you see me. Deepen my bruises and trace my scars. Taste where you and I become the same and I will rip what is left of me.

I stare up at you, and I feel my hands aching. They long for anything but the cold sheets of my own bed. The lukewarm tea I can never finish, mourning the lost nights.

My mind imagines what your letter might tell me, and I fear all of the possibilities of where the last few months have disappeared.

I fall to my knees for you, open my mind and soul to what we could never say and hope what I can sacrifice is enough for you to come to me again.

My lungs fill with words that I refuse to say without you in my arms again, and I sincerely wish to fulfill the prayer alight in my mind.

Forever Yours,

Sun

[agilneanrose]

Dalaran House Sunshield Townhouse

He looked thin. He looked scruffy. His armor must have been left somewhere else in the manor for what he wore now was a ragged mix of leather and cloth pieces. Everywhere she looked she was greeted with desperate mending. His leathers showed the punishment that came from time, wear and perhaps a lack of funds and the bits of cloth she could see… possessed many stitches - some delicate and some just haphazardly crisscrossed but each style did a good enough job holding the tunic together. The sleeve itself was almost seethrough and she scowled. He looked homeless.

“Rose?” Jaxson tipped his head, the stare that met her own was warm and amused.

She hated that nickname, but not from his mouth. Her stare flicked from his threadbare sleeve to his face. “You look homeless..” She blurted without much thought or grace and watched his face flicker from concern, to surprise and finally settled on amusement.

“I suppose I do.” He rumbled, his grin welling with mischief. “The clothes are borrowed.”

“Borrowed?” At some point, just past the laughter and the tears that came with their reunion, she had stolen him from the kitchen staff and the sweets that kept appearing to distract him. Now, seated in the quiet of the rarely used back parlor, tucked into a seat made for two, she gripped his hand as if he would vanish should she loosen her hold.

“Long story…” That mischief bled from his mouth to his eyes and she squinted at him. “And ah.. It might not be appropriate..”

“You have all of my attention and time, Jaxson. I just - where have you been?Your mother – your mother..” She gasped softly. “You have a new sister, that makes three in total. Did you ever imagine such a thing? No, do not answer - tell me! Where have you been and why are your clothes borrowed? I.. I have made sure you have funds, and sent runners to remind you that you are not poor unless you wish to be as some sort of piety pledge..”

Jaxson didn’t shake off her hand but instead allowed her to cling - her skirts bullying the space around his legs and he used his free hand to pat down the silken fluff.

“Well.. Midsummer, I can’t remember the town just off the top of my head but it was a big festival, dancing and drinking and.. uh..” He flicked a quick look her way. “��� eating.” At the press of her lips he hurried on. “There was this pretty blond with huge.. eyes.. huge eyes and her uh.. pie was perfect.”

“Jaxson Sunshield… are you married?” “Wha… no.. no- no ..” He choked and ceased patting at the invading skirt. “Your dress is nice, fancy.”

“Jaxsssson..” His name was a breathless sigh.

“She kept me company for a few hours but her father wasn’t pleased when he found out. Turns out he was the lord of –”

“No..” Rosemarri gasped.

“Yea…” Jaxson’s hand left her skirt and he rubbed at his scruffy beard thoughtfully “.. had me arrested and kept me a guest for a bit.”

“A guest in his tower?”

“No, some dungeon that also served as a canning storage. It smelled good.” He chuckled. “She snuck me --"

Rosemarri interrupted. “No!” That seemed to be the word of the evening. “How dare he… your father is going to burn his keep to the ground. It is not your fault his daughter has loose morals and just rolls in the hay with any knight.” She was ranting, she knew she was ranting but the audacity, did they not know who Jaxson Sunshield is? He was a knight of the realm, he was a savior of the people. He was –..

“Rose. Rose. Rosemarri..” His laughter grew in volume each time he said her name and the hand that kept them linked was brought to his chest, squishing it there. “She is a fine girl, a good heart. It was her mother that let me go, finally.”

“Mother?”

“Another long and rather inappropriate story..” He coughed, clearing his throat loudly as he took interest in the parlor now. “I like what was done to the place, being Dalaran and all it’s not decorated in purple..”

She stared at him in stunned silence, breath held until he looked back her way. At once they both dissolved. “I cannot breathe..” She croaked as she laughed, both hands pressing against her corseted ribs. “You are out of control. One of these days you are going to find yourself in a lot of trouble..”

“I know..” He grinned, reclining on the couch. “But it isn’t today.”

“Terrible..” She sniffled, dragging a knuckle beneath her eye to remove the tears that kept pooling. “You have been missed, the coalition is not the same without it’s Marshall. It will never be again, I fear. Much has changed and there is so much to talk about and show you but I think we should start with your parents. I have an idea if you permit..”

“Let’s hear it.” “Let us send a messenger to them, I will sign it and make it vague… have them come here so your mother gets … time. It will be a wonderful surprise!” Her voice trailed off as his grin faded and something she couldn’t recognize darkened his features. No, she didn’t want his laughter banished. “What is it..” She coaxed.

“She died, Rose.. I heard it..” He ventured, attempting to put thought into words.

Her hands moved to collect a single one of his. The contrast was stark, her fingers delicate and sickly pale compared to his callused and tan skin.

“The wars and the exposure of what is past the veil of death took and gave many things - a price of servitude was paid but I think your father would pay it a thousand times over to have your mother at his side for all of his life. Wrongs have been rightened, Jaxson. Have faith in that. They have had their time, this is for you and her to heal each other before you get swarmed with siblings that did not exist when you left. Allow them to share their love and tell you their story. Yes?”

He stared at her for a quiet moment longer before he’d nod.

In a bid to get his smile back, she scowled at him. “And for titan's sake.. why do you have to seduce everyone? You are going to send a horde of bastards my way, I know it.”

“Gosh, Rose. Not -everyone-..just the ones with big.. uh eyes..”

There it was.

OOC Note: All Jaxson parts/letter/images have been approved by Jaxson OOC prior to posting

[sparxwrites]

@manoessay​ replied to your post:

This post activated my brain harder than most so even though you arent gonna make a fanfic i will add, Dream testing how many times you can bring a person back on quackity once he gets out.

(i absolutely fully got possessed by this idea, and then wrote this self-indulgent and weirdly experimental fic feverishly at like 1am last night. this is... probably not what you were imagining, but it’s what fell out of my brain, so! enjoy? written to “innocence” by madeon.)

cw moderately graphic torture / gore, mental breakdown, mind games, temporary character death

[ao3]

-

“How many times have you died now, Quackity?”

The words flash hot through his skull, but don’t translate into meaning. Don’t translate into anything other than noise. The floor is cold beneath his palms. Russet-brown flakes up beneath his nails when he claws at it, chest heaving, lungs trying to remember how breathing works.

His first inhale gurgles, wetly, makes him jerk on his belly like a worm on a hook. His throat is raw from disuse, from screaming, from the sword that had sliced through his trachea like a knife through so much butter. When he tries to speak, the only thing that comes out is blood.

It goes like this, every time Dream drags him back from Limbo: his ears full of a high ringing, his lungs not working, his body numb. The link between flesh and brain is faulty, sparking wrong – like the battered neurons take a few precious minutes of life to rewire back together fully. It fixes itself a little less each time, the link; he’s permanently numb down most of his left side, now. The fingers on his right hand are going insensate in terrifying inches.

“How many times?”

Crooked mask, ragged voice, cracked porcelain smile. Dream looks better than Quackity feels, but not much – crouched low on a stone floor that’s caked in layer after layer of old blood, watching Quackity like a bug under a magnifying glass. His hair’s a greasy mess, his mask dirty-white and chipped, his clothes spattered with weeks of gore. With Quackity’s gore.

There’s blood dripping out from beneath the mask, though, fresh and hot. His hands shake. The knuckles clenched around the hilt of his sword are white, the skin beneath his fingernails faintly purple-blue.

The eyes behind the mask are just a little too green.

“Can you even hear me?” There’s a giddy slur to the edge of Dream’s words, the manic lilt of a man high off the same shit that’s melting his brain out through his nose. That feeling was familiar to Quackity, in another life. “Quackity. Hey, Quackity. Anyone in there?” He laughs, short and cruel and batshit crazy. His eyes are the colour of battery acid. “Have I finally broken you?”

There’s no response – because Quackity’s still trying to remember how his lungs work, remember what ribs are, remember how to do things that aren’t screaming and curling in on himself and rocking – and the amusement in his voice turns angry, sour. “I said tell me how many times, Quackity.”

Dream stands, unsteady, swaying as he does and leaning heavily on the sword for balance. His hands are still shaking. The blood’s stopped dripping, but there’s a sickly tinge to it, and when he wipes at his chin with the back of one hand it leaves a smear that’s more brown than red.

There’s a flicker of something, as his knuckles touch the half-inch of exposed face – dirty white light, bridging the gap between skin in a static-shock flash. There and then gone, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it.

The eyes behind the mask glow a little brighter. A little greener. A little less human.

The point of Dream’s sword sinks into Quackity’s shoulder, splits open an old scar. Quackity’s covered in them, now, more scar than skin. More ruined than not. He spasms, chokes, bleeds wet and red and fresh over the dried blood that carpets the floor. The noise he makes is animal, leg-in-a-bear-trap high and thin and dying. Barely alive five minutes, and he’s bleeding out again already. It’s almost funny.

Dream laughs, and leans on the pommel of the sword. It pushes in another inch.

“Month!” manages Quackity, forcing the word out through the wetness in his lungs, through the broken-bone grind of his throat. If he weren’t so many shattered parts, pasted back together by unholy power and Dream’s capricious whims, it might have been a howl. As it is, he barely has the energy to sob, the words raw and hoarse and threadbare. “A month, a month– thirty– haha, thirty-six days in, in, in Limbo, fuck, please, please–”

There’s wet on his cheeks. Tears? Blood? Worse? He can’t tell any more. He can’t even feel the left side of his face.

He grabs for Dream’s boots, presses his forehead against them, gasps for air that doesn’t seem to bring any relief from the cold ache in his lungs. One of his hands finds an ankle, a strip of bare skin between shoe and pant leg. Dream’s skin is fever-hot, sickly, bottled lightning gone past its sell-by date.

The shock of the contact knocks him silent for a second, though. They won’t touch him, in Limbo, the ghosts – or can’t, or both, can’t and won’t. Because they’re bastards, because they hate him, because he isn’t one of them. They can’t-won’t touch him, can’t see him, won’t see him, won’t speak to him– and he’s left, alone, in a room full of the faded impressions of people he once knew, once loved, once was loved by. A room full of people who do not see him, and do not touch him, and do not hear him when he talks.

(When he screams, when he swears at them, when he tries to claw their eyes out with unsteady hands that don’t make contact– when he begs, when he pleads, when he wheedles and bribes and bargains to deaf ears– when he wraps arms around himself, when he rocks himself back and forth until the blood rushes in his ears, when he whispers to himself until his voice fades to nothing, and tries to pretend it is the same thing as being loved and held and comforted–)

“Please, don’t– hahah, don’t kill me, fuck– please, look, look, hurt me, please, hurt me– anything, anything, I don’t–” He doesn’t have the breath for this. Doesn’t have the energy. Doesn’t even really have the words any more, after screaming for thirty-six fucking days straight, after talking to himself for so long his vocal cords wore out and left him mouthing silence in a desperate attempt to keep himself company. “Don’t, don’t send me– not, don’t send me back, please, fuck, anything, ha, haha, don’t, don’t–”

“I said I’d make you beg for death,” says Dream, amused, bored, manic. “Not torture. Not that I’m complaining. It’s just kind of funny. Don’t you think? I think it’s funny.”

He pushes the sword in, another inch. Quackity sobs, desperate and pathetic, and feels no shame for it. Presses his face to Dream’s boot, clings to his ankle like a lifeline, and feels no shame for it. Shame was beaten out of him, bled out of him, several lifetimes ago. “But that’s not what I asked, though. How many times have you died now, Quackity?”

The sword in his shoulder twists, and Quackity screams. Something severs with a pop, and then another, and then another, until the joint is little more than a hot ball of pain and wet meat, grated bone. Until he can no longer scream, gasping desperately through the pain, weeping like a child. Another twist, and something else severs, something vital, a second’s resistance before a give and a spray of warm blood.

He bleeds out between one sob and the next, tumbling into darkness, the golden net of the respawn reaching up to catch him as he falls.

He wakes up three feet away, sprawled out on the filthy bed that occupies one corner of his cell, still sobbing. The respawn clings to him like a second skin, like weights around his ankles, frightening and familiar all at once. It fades slowly, reluctantly; slower each time he dies, he thinks. Like it’s getting used to holding him. Like it doesn’t want to let him go.

It’s only barely gone by the time Dream crosses the space between them, two short steps, no time for him to flinch, no time for him to hide–

Dream grabs him by the wrist, wrenches his body up from the bed, and slots the sword neatly through the front of his throat. The broad, well-used scar carved across it parts for the blade like an old friend, swallows it whole – and Quackity dies for the second time in as many minutes, choking on his own blood.

The respawn catches him. Drags him down into darkness. Drags him back up to the surface of reality, deposits him back onto a bed now sodden with crimson. He’s shaking. He should be used to it, but he’s shaking so hard his teeth clack together, so hard he’s not sure it will ever stop.

Dream drags him off the bed, back onto the floor. Back onto the filth, the layers and layers of dried gore, a carpet constructed from every time he’s been slaughtered like an animal in this tiny, lightless cell.

“Dream,” he begs, quietly. “Dream, Dream–”

Even to his ears, it sounds more like a prayer than a plea.

“It’s a simple question, Quackity. How many times have you died now? Properly died. How many times have I brought you back? I just want a number. Just a number.” The mask obscures Dream’s mouth, but his grin is audible. His eyes are so bright, they hurt to look at. “How many times have I proven to you that I’m a god?”

Quackity tries to curl in on himself, but Dream is in the way, one boot by his shoulder and the other pinning his wrist to the floor beneath its toe. He’s not surprised. Dream is everywhere, always, omnipresent. His free hand seeks out Dream’s ankle onces more, curls around that curdled-lightning skin, desperate and needy. It grounds him, touching the only real person in his whole entire world, and he hates himself for it.

“…T- ten?” he tries, and knows as he says it that it’s wrong. The panic rises like the respawn, choking him. He can’t breathe. “Ten, ten times– maybe eleven– fuck, fuck, Dream, please–”

The sword-tip finds his back, finds the space between his fourth and fifth rib. Finds the ropy scar there, beneath the rags, soft from re-use – like a zipper, easy to pry open right down to his weak, wet heart.

“Good guess,” says Dream, quietly. “Closer than before. But still not right. You need a little longer to think about it, I guess. But– hey, you know what? I’ll be nice, and give you a hint.” He pauses, and Quackity’s world stands still. “You’re guessing too low.”

He pushes the sword down. It slips between Quackity’s ribs like an old lover, lodges in the crusted filth and stone below, pins him still against the floor. His heart beats once, twice, a butterfly-flutter around the diamond skewered through it. His body convulses. He falls still.

The blood from his mouth dyes the toes of Dream’s boots crimson, as the light leaves his eyes.

He wakes in Limbo, on his knees, in a room full of people – full of impressions of people, like the ghosts of a faded photograph. He sees them all there, their backs to him, as they move amongst one another, as they talk amongst one another. Tubbo, and Schlatt, and Fundy, and Wilbur, and–

Sapnap, who looks right through him. Karl, whose eyes skate over him. They hold each other’s hands. The rings on their fourth fingers gleam weakly in the strange, nebulous light of the afterlife. They do not hear him when he says their names, ragged and desperate, like a plea. Like a prayer.

And then they, too, turn their back on him. And Quackity – still raw, still bloody, still skewered open right through his butterfly heart – screams and screams and screams.

[seasonofthewicth]

A Groovy Kind of Love - Chapter 16

AN: This chapter was heavily inspired by a scene from Queen of Shadows, but as this is a throne of glass fic I hope you’ll all enjoy! Happy holidays!

masterlist - ao3 - my askbox

-- 

The following week could only be described as bliss. 

Aelin barely registered the time passing, swept up in a haze of Rowan. The haze of his presence, his conversation, his touch.

Everything about him was exciting now in a way that was different than it had been before. Spending time in the bar as a group was a regular occurrence while Rowan had shifts, but now each night they visited she made sure to curl her hair and prime her makeup just so. She wanted to look her best, even though these nights still weren’t their long-awaited first date. 

Rowan had promised her it was coming, if she could be patient enough to wait for the next weekend when they were both free. She had barely been able to agree, desperately excited after the tease that had been the last weekend. 

Their group dinner had only made her crave time alone with Rowan more. And the kiss they had shared… 

His kiss had been powerful, a sharp contrast to the gentleness with which he had cradled her face. He had teased and taunted her with his tongue and his hands, he had used his fingers to trail a burning path down her sides before coming to rest leisurely at her waist. 

Their kiss had made her dizzy, had made her head spin so fast she struggled to comprehend thoughts other than the sensation of his lips against her own and the hard length of his body crowding her against the wall. 

It had been almost impossible to separate, and she knew had he kissed her again after their goodnight she wouldn’t have been able to leave his side. She would have drawn him into her bedroom and kicked off her shoes. She would have peeled the soft jumper that he wore up until it was lashed somewhere in the corner of her bedroom, only pausing for a moment to mourn the delicious contrast it provided with his golden skin. Aelin was sure a shirtless Rowan would have more than made up for the loss. 

She had admitted to herself a long time ago that she wanted him. Bad. 

Now she stood in front of her class, desperately trying to claw her way back to the train of thought she had been on before her mind had been invaded by the thought of Rowan and his broad chest, the planes of toned muscle she knew were beneath his usual flannel shirts. 

Her mouth was dry. 

Gods, she needed to get a grip. She was standing in front of a room full of children. 

“Miss G?” A student asked, and Aelin was dragged brutally back down to earth. 

She cleared her throat and shot a glance to the clock on her classroom wall. “Yes, um, we’ll continue this tomorrow. Take lunch five minutes early, happy Friday.”

This wasn’t like her at all, and her students wore expressions of wary appreciation. She was never going to find her momentum again with the five minutes remaining in the period. “See you all next week.”

With that the class dispersed, not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and within seconds her classroom was empty. She shook her head with a slight laugh and turned around to collapse into the chair waiting behind her desk. Aelin fished around in her small handbag to draw out her phone. 

Her phone screen bore a number of notifications, one a text from Lysandra with a link and a number of heart emojis, Aelin would get to that later. The notification that widened her smile was a text from Rowan. 

Busy? was all his message read, and Aelin didn’t hesitate before tapping the call icon at the top of her screen.

“Hello, you.” Aelin could hear the smile in his voice as the call connected. 

“Hello,” She sang, unashamed in the smile that crossed her own face. There was an intimacy in his greeting that she revelled in. “What’s up?”

“You called me.”

She bit her lip at his tone of voice. Rowan Whitethorn a tease? Who knew. 

“I did. I thought your text implied you wanted to talk… I must have been wrong. I guess I’ll go.” 

Aelin leaned back in her chair and kicked her feet up onto her desk, if her phone had a cord she would have been twirling it through her fingers. 

“Alright, see you later.” Rowan’s voice was calm through the speakers of her phone and Aelin immediately dropped her feet back off the table as she scoffed. 

Rowan’s returning laughter was loud, the sound deep and rich that struck something in her stomach. Aelin couldn’t play offended for long as he spoke again. 

“I wanted to check in with you, it’s just me and Aedion in the loft today.”

Aelin knew his meaning immediately and she bit her lip for an entirely new reason. 

“Oh,” She said carefully. She needed a moment to think. 

The proposed ending of their relative secrecy was something she had delayed contemplating so far. 

Aelin had enjoyed the sneaking around she and Rowan had shared. Only a couple of nights ago she had joined Rowan and her other roommates on the sofa in their living room while they watched a football game. Aelin had slipped herself in between Rowan and Aedion casually, and the sharp look Rowan shot her when she had made sure her crossed legs pressed along one of his own had sent a flicker of heat curling through her. 

Rowan had adjusted himself, leaning further back into the cushions and uncurling his arm along the back of the seat behind her. Aelin hadn’t seen her cousin or either of her other roommates bat an eyelid at the movement, so she had allowed herself to lean backwards into the sofa, resting her head in the crook of Rowan’s elbow. 

Rowan had smiled down at her, another one of those smiles that said ‘we know something they don’t’ with the corners of his lips twisting in an almost unbearably attractive way, and it had left her attempting to hide her own smile behind a curtain of her hair.  

Aelin thought that maybe she understood Lysandra some more now. 

The secrecy was exciting, and the risk she felt when she trailed a finger along the band of skin between the hem of Rowan’s t-shirt and the waistband of his trousers set loose a cloud of butterflies in her stomach. He had been standing in the kitchen, talking with Aedion, and she hadn’t been able to resist teasing him. She had barely grazed her finger along the slim path of exposed skin but Rowan had tensed, delightfully responsive to her touch, and grabbed her hand below the counter, out of Aedion’s line of sight. 

Aelin didn’t think Aedion had noticed the tension in his friend, or the tightness of his voice as they continued their conversation, but Aelin had. She wanted to do it again, and was desperate to find any excuse she could to touch him. 

She was sure Rowan felt the same, even though it had taken him a little while to relax into the flirty exchanges. Just yesterday morning, as she had been about to leave the loft with Fenrys to journey to the school, Rowan had twisted a lock of her hair around his finger and tugged, ever so slightly. Aelin knew the blush she had worn at the gesture was fierce and she had shot a glance at Fenrys immediately afterwards, but he had seemed blissfully unaware of what had transpired between his roommates. 

“Aelin?” Rowan’s voice broke the silence, and she realised she had been silent for more than a moment, lost again in the visions of Rowan and the sensation of his skin against her own. 

“Yes, um, well.” She paused again to collect her thoughts. She’d have to get to Lysandra before Aedion did, but Rowan clearly felt ready to tell his best friend. Aelin squeezed her eyes tightly shut, thanking the gods there was no one around to see her smile. “Enjoy your day with him.”

“Yeah?” Rowan’s voice was soft as he double checked. 

“Yeah.” She drew her eyes open finally and glanced around her classroom as she braced a hand along the desk in front of her. “Make sure when you talk about me it’s all bad things.”

Rowan laughed. “I’m sure Aedion probably has worse on you than me.”

“Maybe.” She shrugged even though he couldn’t see. “For now at least.”

Rowan’s breath hitched and he only said her name. “Aelin.”

She loved the sound of her name on his lips. She wanted to hear it again and again. 

Movement caught her eye in the doorway to her classroom and Nehemia appeared waving a Tupperware container in the air. Aelin held one finger up in the air and then pointed to where she held her phone to her ear. Nehemia flashed her a thumbs up then disappeared back around the corner. 

“I have to go,” She said, already regretting the words, talking to Rowan was the highlight of her day. “But have a good talk with Aedion. I’ll see you later.”

“Of course,” Rowan sounded just as disappointed as she at the end of their conversation. “I’ll see you later.”

“Bye.”

Aelin ended the call and quickly gathered her things before joining Nehemia in the corridor. 

“And who was that getting you smiling like that?” Her friend asked with a knowing smirk. 

“Stop,” Aelin laughed as she led the way to the breakroom. 

-- 

Aedion sauntered into the kitchen and strolled over to the fridge before taking out a bottle of juice. He nodded to Rowan where he sat at the breakfast bar and Rowan steeled himself. 

Aelin had given her blessing for him to come clean to Aedion, even through the heavy veiling of their conversation, and it was something he had been waiting to talk to his best friend about. He just wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. 

“I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” wasn’t quite the approach he had intended to take. 

Aedion only turned, a golden eyebrow raised as he continued to swig juice from the bottle. He stood unashamedly shirtless in their kitchen, only a pair of almost threadbare joggers hanging low on his hips protected his modesty. 

After living with him for years, it wasn’t a sight unfamiliar to Rowan. Fenrys was worse, he would often stroll about the loft naked, and Rowan counted himself lucky once Aelin had moved in and Fenrys had been forced to cover up.

“Oh please do tell,” his friend laughed. 

Rowan narrowed his eyes at him, and Aedion’s smirk only grew as he placed the bottle down on the counter between them. 

“You crashed my date at the weekend.”

“Date?” Aedion laughed disbelievingly. “With who?”

“Whom.”

“Fuck you.”

Rowan only cocked his head and waited for the penny to drop. It didn’t take long. 

“Wait.” Aedion dropped himself onto the stool opposite Rowan. “No fucking way.”

Rowan nodded, now playing with a jagged piece of skin around the edge of his nail. 

“To be clear, you do mean Aelin?” Aedion leant forwards to Rowan and braced a hand against the counter.

“Yep,” Rowan said, hardly blinking as he looked towards his friend. 

His friend took another moment, before bursting into a loud explosion of laughter. Rowan waited for it to pass. 

“You and Aelin? On a date?” 

“Yes,” Rowan bristled. This wasn’t the reaction he had anticipated either. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Ro, man. It’s not hard to believe.” Aedion shook his head. “What’s hard to believe is that you seem to be pretending this is new.”

“What?” 

This was new. Everything with Aelin felt so new and exciting. The thought of her made his heart race, made his head spin. 

“What do you mean what? Now I’m confused,” Aedion said, playing with the cap of his bottle. “Is this new?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m telling you about it now.” Rowan had thought that much was clear. 

“Oh, shit, man.” Aedion laughed again, now rolling the bottle cap between his fingers. “Sorry for crashing your date then.”

Rowan shrugged again, it was done now, and he had big plans for their next weekend together. 

Aedion spoke again, seemingly brimming full of questions. “Is this serious? Are you going on another date?”

“Yes to the second question, maybe to the first.”

“Why maybe? Tell me you’re not messing with her, this is exactly what I wanted to avoid.”

A sliver of steel had crept into Aedion’s voice at the thought. 

“No, no of course not.” Rowan spoke quickly, flustered at the idea that he in any way wanted to play with Aelin. Well, unless she wanted to play the way she had been recently. Driving him crazy taking any opportunity to put her hands on him. 

She seemed to like doing while they weren’t alone, and it sent a thrill through him every time. The knowledge that Aelin’s hands were on him just out of sight of his roommates was exhilarating, the feeling of her pressed against him was invigorating. 

“Good,” Aedion said, placing the bottle cap flat on the top of the counter. He took a moment to consider his next words before smiling at Rowan with a predatory grin. “You need help to plan then?”

“Plan what?” Rowan asked, returning the smile gently but still somewhat confused. 

“Your date with Aelin.”

“You’re alright with this then?” He knew whichever way Aedion’s answer went he wouldn’t change his mind, it would just be nice to hear his friend’s support. 

Aedion laughed again. “You know as well as I do that we have no say in whatever Aelin does.”

Rowan nodded along and Aedion continued. 

“If she wants to date you, she will. I’m happy for you, I think you’ll be good for each other, hopefully she can whip you into shape.” 

Rowan flashed him the middle finger, but Aedion still wasn’t done. 

“I’ll just have to pretend I don’t know what will be happening on that side of the loft,” He winced. “Or what’s already happened.”

Rowan shook his head slightly and Aedion smirked. 

“Just treat her right, or I’ll have to kick your ass. I won’t want to, even though you barely work out you could probably beat me, but I’ll be looking out for her.”

“Right.” Rowan wiped his damp palms along his trousers under the counter. 

“And I love you man, but if she hurts you you’re on your own. She could definitely kick my ass.” 

Aedion laughed and Rowan couldn’t help the bark of laughter that escaped him too. 

“Thanks,” Rowan said sarcastically. “And I think I’m alright, I already know what I’m going to do.”

-- 

“This feels like a kidnapping.”

Rowan laughed where he stood holding the car door open for her. He had asked her to meet him in the parking garage under their apartment building where his car was waiting. He seemed to have managed to persuade Aedion to share the one spot allocated to the loft for one day. 

“It’s not a kidnapping,” He told her, his eyes bright in the dim lighting of the garage. 

Aelin pretended to look around, her eyes widened dramatically. 

“I don’t know,” She paused as she rested a hand along the top of the car door. She was going to get in, she just wanted to tease him first. “Dark parking garage, no one else around, taking me to an unknown location…”

“Okay,” Rowan said, his tone filled with amusement. “It’s a kidnapping, and I had really thought you wanted to go on a date with me.”

Aelin knew he was joking from the smirk he wore, but she still rushed to reassure him. She did want to go on a date with him, she had been waiting for this moment for almost two weeks, but each time she was with Rowan it was too much fun to flirt with him to pass up an opportunity. 

“I do, I do! But you have to admit this is kidnap-y.” She said as she almost threw herself into the passenger seat of his car and she heard his laugh as he pushed the door shut and crossed the car to slide in next to her. 

“Ready to go?” He asked her as he buckled his seat belt. 

His expression was so light and so happy that she couldn’t respond for a moment. Even in the short time she had known Rowan she had noticed the change in him. His smiles came more easily, as did his laughter, and Aelin never wanted them to stop. 

“Ready,” She said finally and her voice came out past a catch in her throat. 

Rowan only smiled again as he turned to start the car. 

-- 

They drove for longer than Aelin had expected. She had thought he was taking her for another meal somewhere in the city but they had long since left the busy streets of the city behind. They drove through quieter roads now, lined with towering verges, filled with masses of wildflowers. There were blends of pinks and purples and greens and she watched out the window, entranced, at the sights that flew by.

She made sure to sneak regular glances over at Rowan who drove with one hand on the wheel and the other braced along the open window. The sleeves of the shirt he wore were pushed up to his elbows, allowing her eyes access to trace the paths of ink up his skin. Before him, Aelin had never considered herself particularly keen on tattoos, they were fine, just not for her, but the lines of elegant black ink worked well on Rowan, even more so now that she knew the meaning behind them. 

The breeze swirling in through the open window tickled his silver hair, sending it flopping down across his forehead and swooping back up off his face. He looked completely at ease in the gentle sunlight, his smile wide and easy, with his golden skin glowing in the clean light. 

They were far closer to the coast now and Aelin could smell the brine in the air, she could hear the calls of the gulls that swept in along the cliffs of the beaches. The coast always filled her with a childlike glee, and the smells and sounds transported her back to the trips she made with her parents as a child, the years of visits they paid Aedion and her other cousins in Wendlyn. 

He finally pulled up in a small space allocated for parking at the side of one of the roads overlooking the beach. Aelin could see miles of shining sand and sparkling sea and she could make out small groups of people enjoying the last of the summer sunshine. 

There were couples strolling down the sand, holding hands between themselves, and there were groups of children staring down into the small pools of water that were trapped in the rocks at the base of the cliffs. 

It was stunning, and she knew the smile she wore as she took it all in was blinding. 

“The beach?” She asked through her smile. 

“Is that okay?” Rowan asked with a hint of nervousness in his tone. He broke their eye contact to step out of the car and Aelin followed.

“Rowan, it’s perfect. It’s gorgeous.”

Aelin wasn’t lying. She had been looking forward to their dinner last week, but this trip was incredible. It tugged in her chest that he had thought to bring her here. 

Rowan smiled again, almost bashfully, as he met her at the front of the car. He held a hand out to her and she revelled in the feeling of linking her fingers between each of his. 

“We’ll get to the beach later, there’s one place I want to take you first.” 

Aelin squeezed his fingers between her own as he began to lead her down the street. Every time she formed an expectation of Rowan he smashed right through it. 

It didn’t take them long to reach his next surprise. The journey had only taken a couple of minutes of wandering slowly down the seaside path and each moment had been a delightful release of a breath. The feeling of the sunlight on her skin and the sea breeze through her hair didn’t compare to the feeling of Rowan’s hand in her own or his presence at her side. 

He led her away from the beach and into a small, rustic looking, town with small buildings that each looked over a hundred years old. They had an aged charm to them with white walls and wooden beams decorating their fronts and the cobbles of the street they walked down were enchanting in the way they were worn down after years of people travelling the same path Aelin took now. 

At the end of the street the space opened out into a large square filled with stalls and tents, the streets were busy but not overcrowded and there was an air of chatter filling the space. 

“Rowan, what is this?” She asked. 

“I found this place when I first moved to Adarlan. They have a market here every month where the people in the town come to sell their goods. There’s all kinds; food, drinks, trinkets. There’s usually a man who sells really great pan-fried trout. I get a piece every time I come.”

“Rowan,” She breathed as she came to a stop and turned to face him. “This is amazing.”

Aelin was almost overwhelmed, and flattered, that he had planned to bring her here and share this with her. 

“I know, now come on. You have to try this guy’s fish.”

Aelin winced. The market was incredible, a spectacle of wholesomeness and she couldn’t wait to explore, but she was sceptical of the fish. 

“Trust me,” Rowan said with a smile as he tugged her into the heart of the market. 

Aelin gaped in awe at each of the rows of stalls, Rowan hadn’t been wrong. There was something for everyone to be found within the maze of stalls. They had passed a stall with hand knitted scarves and she knew her mom would love one for Christmas. There was a stall, manned by a young woman, selling bottles of freshly made lemonade that she made with the lemons grown in her garden. 

Aelin had spent a long while speaking with the girl, jealous of the space the young woman described that bore endless varieties of the fruit. Aelin bought herself and Rowan a bottle of the sweet drink and the taste had matched perfectly with their stroll through the seaside town. 

Rowan took her to the stall with the man selling the trout, he was an older man who was openly friendly with everyone, and he had even clapped Rowan on the shoulder when they approached. Aelin had been reluctant to try the fish but she had discovered that it was delicious, and she had finished off her own portion in minutes before stealing bites of Rowan’s own. 

Aelin was full on freshly made food and drink and the time spent with Rowan as they strolled through the grids of stalls. She was relaxed and satiated and looking forward to the romantic walk along the beach Rowan had promised her once they were finished at the market. 

They were heading towards the exit when Aelin spotted a stall she knew she would have been devastated to miss. An older lady sat perched on a rickety wooden stool, smiling at each person who passed. Aelin offered her own smile as they passed, but it was the lady’s wares that had caught her eye. 

There were rows and rows of delicate little chocolates, some covered in dustings of pink, dried raspberries, some covered in the green dustings of pistachios, some white, some dark. Aelin’s mouth almost watered at the sight. 

She tugged Rowan over to the stall and he followed easily, smiling a knowing smile as he took in where she was leading him. 

“Do you have anything chocolate and hazelnut?” She asked the woman hopefully. 

The woman smiled, the lines at the corners of her eyes deepening as she took Aelin and her question in. “Of course, I have some chocolate hazelnut truffles.”

“Perfect, please may I take ten.”

“Of course.”

Aelin felt Rowan watching her as she waited for her treats to be bagged up. 

“Ten?” He asked. 

“Ten is a very reasonable number of chocolates,” She told him. “Especially for two people.”

“Aelin,” He chuckled. “That’s very kind but I’m alright. I don’t want to eat your chocolates.” 

Aelin whirled to him, outraged. 

“Of course you do! Who doesn’t eat chocolates?” 

She caught the stall owner smiling at their exchange. 

“Me, Aelin. They’re far too sweet.”

Aelin shook her head as she turned back to the stall owner who held out the bag of sweet treats. Aelin handed over the money with a smile and a grateful thank you. 

“I put an extra one in there for you, he reminds me of my husband back in the day,” The woman told her. “He would pretend until his last breath that he didn’t want my chocolates, but I could always taste them in his kisses.”

Aelin smiled and glanced back to Rowan, who wore a slight pink tint on his cheeks at the woman’s words. 

“Thank you,” She said again. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

The woman laughed and bid them farewell as they turned to head down onto the beach, chocolate truffles in hand. 

As they walked, barefoot along the sand, Rowan graciously carrying both of their shoes, Aelin popped a couple into her mouth, unable to hold in her moan at the taste. Rowan’s gaze had snapped to her face at the sound, his stare heavy and intense in a way that she craved, but he made no move to kiss her. 

She held out a truffle to him but he shook his head. “Come on, Rowan. I know you want one.”

“I really don’t,” He shook his head. “Save them for yourself.”

Aelin parked her feet deeply in the soft sand and turned to face him. She held the sweet treat up to his lips with her lips pursed in expectation. 

“Aelin,” was all he said, but she just waited. 

Finally he opened his mouth and she placed the sweet treat between his lips. He chewed in silence before smiling down at her again. She had never seen him smile so much, and with the backdrop of the setting sun and the soundtrack of the crashing waves she couldn’t help herself from leaning up to press her lips to his. 

His lips were warm and pliant as she kissed him, and his hands came up quickly to wrap around  her waist. She held tightly to the bag of sweets in her left hand as she brought her right up to cradle his face to her own. 

Their kiss deepened as Rowan’s tongue darted gently into her mouth, leaving her toes curling into the sand as she sank into him. The lady was right, he tasted of chocolate and hazelnut and she smiled through their kiss. 

She pulled back to gaze up at him, losing herself in the deep green of his eyes and the feeling of his arms wrapped tightly around her. 

“Thank you, for today,” She whispered. 

Rowan only pressed his lips back to her own.

-- 

Rowan had never imagined that his and Aelin’s first date could have gone so well. He had hoped that Aelin would enjoy herself, he had known that the market was delightful and that Aelin would have loved the sights of the ancient town and the seaside views, but somehow the reality had exceeded his expectations. 

He hoped, so deeply, that Aelin had enjoyed herself and his heart had lifted at the kiss she shared with him as they stood on the beach. It was a picture perfect moment he wanted to savour, but he couldn’t fight the desire to check in. 

“So, you’ve enjoyed today then?” He asked with his arm around his shoulder as they made their way back to the car. He balanced his trainers with her sandals in his spare hand as the other was linked with Aelin’s where it lay across her shoulders. 

She glanced up at him sharply, concern covering her face. 

“Rowan, are you serious?” She asked. “ I have loved today, it was perfect.”

Her words warmed him like the final rays of sunlight of the day. 

He dropped his arm from her shoulders as they reached the car, but kept their fingers linked as she leaned back against the passenger side door. 

“I just wanted to make sure.” 

He felt satisfied and overjoyed at their day, but he still struggled to believe that Aelin could feel the same. The smile she gave him did well to wash away those thoughts. 

“Rowan,” Her voice was soft as she took him in, seeming to read more on his face than his words gave away. “Rowan, I’m all in.”

“You’re all in.” He repeated softly and Aelin only smiled. A sight so beautiful it caught his breath in his chest.

“All in.” She confirmed and took a step towards him, bringing her free hand up to rest against his chest. She smiled up to him, her mouth set and her gaze unwavering. 

Rowan lifted his hands to rest against her waist, her soft skin and warm curves fitting his hands perfectly, as he smiled widely at her, unable to control the curve his lips adopted. 

“I’m all in too,” He told her as he leaned down to press his lips to hers. 

-- 

tags:

@jesstargaryenqueen​​

@maybekindasortaace​​

@slytheringalathynius​​

@http-itsrebecca​​

@morganofthewildfire​​

@in-love-with-caramel-macchiato​​

@fictional-horan​​

@tottenhamboys20

@dressedindustandshadows​​

@sleeping-and-books​​

@perseusannabeth​​

@ireallyshouldsleeprn​​

@superspiritfestival​​

@aelinfeyreeleven945tbln​​

@spyofthenightcourt​​

@jlinez​​

@queen-of-glass​​

@booknerdproblems​​

@sjmships​​

@elriel4life​​

@bamchickawowow​​

@woollycat22​​

@claralady​​

@illyrianwitchling​​

@SHINYA-HIIRAGI

@fangirlprincess09​​

@darlinminds​​​

@bookittothelibrary1​​ <- this came up as the url please let me know it its not right

@thenerdandfandoms​​​

@danibutterr​

@inthecityair

@autophobiaxx​

[siderealscribblings]

Zelda was silent as they rode to Hateno, but her fingers never strayed from the patch of skin exposed between the hem of his shirt and his buckler.

The few times they had to pull away to tend to their needs, Link could sense the anxiety and unease wriggling just beneath the surface of Zelda's troubled expression. It was almost as clear as the relief she felt when they came back together and she could invent a new excuse to put her hands on his arm, his shirt, his belt-buckle.

If he was confused, Link wasn’t complaining.

ao3

They rode into the darkened streets of Link’s second home with Zelda’s hands wrapped around his waist for warmth. The threadbare white garment she wore was barely enough to keep the autumn chill out and even under his cloak, he could feel her quivering against his back. Her hand lingered on his as he tugged her down from the horse’s back, neither of them seemingly willing to break the link between them. Exhaustion hung heavy on their bones as Link nudged the door open, tugging the weary princess into his little cottage.

Zelda sat swaddled in a thick Rito blanket as Link warmed the house up, igniting a flaming sword and lighting the hearth. As shadows and light filled the room, her eyes fell on a collection of weapons that adorned the wall, trophies from battles she had only the faintest inkling of while holding Ganon back.

Her eyes lingered on the single bed in the upper corner of the loft, swallowing heavily as Link tugged some spare blankets out of the chest under the stairs. “You should have the bed tonight.”

Link could say more with a look than most people did with a speech, a single eyebrow raised and the corner of his lip turned up as though the idea was somehow funny.

“I’ll not argue with you,” Zelda chided playfully. “Or displace my host from his own bed; a poor guest that would make me.”

Link shook his head, letting out a small huff as she tugged the blankets from his arms. It amazed her how the rough, scratchy blanket sent a shudder running through her body, the texture feeling alien against new fingertips. She wasn’t sure if the body that she had was the same one that she sacrificed to seal Ganon, but it felt new in uncomfortable ways; like it didn’t know how to process the act of feeling quite yet.

Everything felt too keen; the heat from the hearthfire behind her prickled her skin. The course blanket rubbed awkwardly between her fingers. Her bare feet gripped the smooth wood, tensing and relaxing as she got used to the cool surface.

And then there was Link.

His fingers brushing the back of her bare arm set off a tingle that raced up her arm and she almost instinctively drew closer to him, leaning against his sturdy frame with a soft sigh. It was grounding the way he touched her; her link ( her Link) to a world that felt strange and alien to her after viewing it from afar for so long.

Link seemed to realize that he was lingering longer than he usually was, and he pulled back to set about locking the house away for the night. She fought the urge to whine as he left, fidgeting in the strange little house as traitorous thoughts bubbled up inside her mind.

This isn’t real, her mind told her. This is a scheme by the Calamity to weaken your resolve. None of this is happening; you’re still trapped, you’re still-

Breathing through her nose, Zelda fumbled for something to grab on to, steadying herself on the dresser as she saw a familiar shade of blue cloth poking out of the top drawer. Heart thumping, she reached out for the fabric, feeling the soft cotton roll between her fingers and diverting her disquieted mind to the way it felt in her hands. Soft...warm... Link’s…

The threadbare clothing she had worn for a century was on the floor in a heap by the time Zelda knew what she was doing, the short-sleeved tunic falling over her head and landing mid-thigh. The weight of it seemed to calm her as she breathed in the smell of it, relishing the faint remnants of Link’s soap she could smell in the cloth.

This is real, Zelda argued with herself. I am safe...I am alive...I am here with Link…

She insistently repeated the mantra to herself, oblivious to the fact that Link was standing in the staircase, hand resting on the banister as though the sight of her wrapped in his clothing had upset his balance. There might have been a time where Zelda would have been mortified at being discovered like this, her admiration for Link on shameless display in front of him. But her pride and her ego had been bludgeoned into dust by decades of mental conflict, replaced only by want, want, want.

“Actually...might I ask something of you?” Zelda asked, voice scarcely more than a murmur as she turned to face Link. “I just...well, it’s rather selfish of me but...might I impose on you to lie with me tonight?”

Link’s piercing blue eyes landed on hers; if she lived a hundred more years, she wanted to live with his eyes on her. She wanted to wear his attention like a crown, hold on to it like a shield, hide in it like a cloak until she felt safe and more like herself again. The fantasy of Link's clear, beautifully blue eyes had sustained her in the moments between skirmishes with Ganon, and now that she could see them in person again, she never wanted to look away.

“I...I think part of me thinks this is all just a cruel prank,” Zelda laughed somewhat bitterly. “The Calamity would...show me things that weren’t true to try and break my resolve…but he could never replicate touch. Or smell...or taste.”

Zelda ran her tongue over her lips, trying to piece together what she was asking for. “It helps if I have something to ground me in reality…” Zelda said, fidgeting a little uncomfortably as Link’s stunned silence seemed to stretch on. “Sorry...I’m overstepping my boundaries, aren’t I?”

Link blinked, shaking her head before attempting to sign something a few times.

<Tell me what you need,> Link finally managed to get out, throat bobbing as Zelda felt warm relief flood her. Of course he would help her; as much as she didn’t want to take his devotion for granted, he had never given her reason to doubt that he would always provide the things she required.

I would do the same, Zelda thought with a familiar ache in her chest. Goddess, let me give you my world in exchange for yours.

Biting her lip, Zelda settled down on the edge of the bed, tugging her makeshift skirt down as she lay back against the Rito down. Link busied himself snuffing out the lights as she crawled under the quilt, a shiver running through her body as her bare legs grazed what must have been silk from the Gerudo desert. The soft, swaddling cloth encompassed her as she felt Link’s weight sink onto the mattress next to her, turning to watch him undo his boots and kick his socks off. As he leaned forward, a patch of bare skin exposed a thin, ropey scar that Zelda could scarcely remember from before the Calamity.

Her fingers were running along it before she could stop herself, causing Link to tense as he looked back at her. “What happened here?” Zelda asked, voice distant and curious as her fingertips traced the bumpy edges of the scar.

<Moblin,> Link signed awkwardly over his shoulder, biting his lip as Zelda’s hand rode higher and higher up his back, lifting his shirt as she went.

"Here?" Zelda asked, tracing a long scar that ran from his right shoulder to his hip.

<Lynel sword,> Link replied with a wince as though the memory itself still pained him. They had suffered in different ways; Link’s suffering had been etched on his skin in bruises, scars, and cuts that still seemed to be patching themselves together. More than ever she wished she had Mipha’s knack for healing so she could erase the memories of his wounds.

Link tugged his shirt off as Zelda’s fingers ran around his sides, pressing against a bump on his hip.

“Arrow?” Zelda asked, earning a nod from Link as the feeling of his warm skin under her fingertips sent ripples running through her body. Crawling up onto her knees, she wrapped her arms around him, laying her head on his shoulder and pressing herself tightly into his back.

This is real, Zelda reminded herself, feeling him shift a little as he kicked his muddy trousers off. He’s here...I’m with him...it’s going to be okay...it's going to be okay...it's going to be okay...  

Turning around, Link shifted under the covers with her, head resting on the down pillow with a weary sigh as she wriggled up next to him, head resting on his chest like a pillow as her legs threaded through his. After a moment’s hesitation, his hand came to rest on the small of her back, his free arm pulling her into a long, long overdue hug.

And then they were clinging on to one another like letting go meant tumbling back into the nightmare they had just escaped. And then her tears were rolling down his bare chest while warm droplets of water rolled through her hair. And then Hyrule disappeared, the entire universe beginning and ending where her skin brushed against his; the only real thing she knew for sure after so many years of confusion.

In the dark, his fingers traced letters into the small of her back, words flowing from his fingertips into her body without sound. <I...am...proud...of...you…>

A soft sob bubbled up from Zelda’s throat as she nuzzled her nose into the nape of his neck. “Goddess...I’m so proud of you too...so very very proud of you…you did so beautifully, my dear…”

He seemed to uncoil a little at this; as though her words had lifted some terrible burden he had been shouldering longer than he knew he was carrying it. <Thanks...to...you.>

Zelda sniffled at this, chest swelling with so much tender affection that she worried she might burst into a shower of confetti. There was more that she wanted to tell him; so many beautiful and awful things she wanted him to know. She wanted to tell him how she had stared down the Calamity as he hurled everything in his power at her, how her love for her people and her hero had been a shield for her to hide behind. Zelda wanted Link to know that she wanted all of him in her life; wanted to devour him with hungry kisses until the taste of his mouth was burned into hers.

But she was tired and sad and so terribly terribly happy that all she could do was hold him, fingers running along his scars as she drifted off into the first peaceful sleep she could remember.

There would be time for love and everything else in the morning.

[ellenripleysbelieveitornot]

AcuteAngleAziraphale Fics

Finally got around to making a directory of my Good Omens fics, with links to AO3 and Tumblr (including a fic by fic breakdown of the Chicken Soup for the Ineffable Soul drabble collection.)  A few at the top, everything else under the cut, since there’s like, 50+ fics here. (sorted by most hits on AO3)

Your Lips Are Poison; Your Taste Is Divine (Explicit)

He was beautiful, but in a ‘don’t touch’ sort of way, like the apple he was famous for- freedom and banishment all wrapped into one tantalizing fruit. Unfortunately, Aziraphale had never been particularly good at resisting temptation. So, of course, it started with a touch.

AO3 only

Chicken Soup for the Ineffable Soul (Collection)

Threadbare Heart (Gen)

For the last ten or so years, Crowley has felt an odd sort of affinity with Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

Tumblr | AO3

Wanting (Gen)

Crowley was used to wanting. Answers from a god. A place to call home. For his love to be returned.

Tumblr | AO3

Lucky (Gen)

“Angel,” Crowley said, draping his entire body across the desk where Aziraphale was reading. “Angel, let’s go somewhere.”

Tumblr | AO3

Three Words (Gen)

Three words. Three simple, little words. That was all it took for Crowley's world to fall apart. "I'm in love," Azirphale had said, a soft smile gracing his lips.

Tumblr | AO3

Free Fall (Gen)

Aziraphale fell in love slowly. That was probably for the best, since once he started, he just couldn't seem to stop.

Tumblr | AO3

Anytime with You (Gen)

Aziraphale loved spending mornings with Crowley. He loved those early hours that he got to spend reading in bed with the demon curled up, asleep, by his side.

Tumblr | AO3

Prayer (Gen)

Crowley is a prayer waiting to be answered, and Aziraphale is finally ready to let the hymns spill from his lips.

Tumblr | AO3

To Love the Sky (Gen)

There once was an angel who loved the sky more than anything.

Tumblr | AO3

Grace (Gen)

Crowley liked churches, and Aziraphale pretended that he didn’t know.

Tumblr | AO3

Hymns (Gen)

Crowley sang hymns long forgotten to the choirs of heaven.

Tumblr | AO3

I Choose You (Gen)

Some people believe in soul mates. Crowley was not one of those people.

Tumblr | AO3

Unsaid (Gen)

Aziraphale could fill entire books with words he’s left unsaid. If he transcribed every utterance he’d bitten back on his tongue, he’d find that he had covered enough pages that he could line every bookshelf he owned. 

Tumblr | AO3

Giggly (Gen)

Aziraphale had a problem, and that problem wore skinny jeans and strutted around like he was more limb than substance.

Tumblr | AO3

Flicker (Teen+)

“Crowley,” Aziraphale mumbled into the demon’s lips as they kissed. “You’re doing it again.”

Tumblr | AO3

Bigger Than These Bones (Teenish)

Crowley was most definitely not human. That fact must be made abundantly clear.

Tumblr | AO3

Get Your Ducks in a Row (Gen)

The angel paid him no mind as he stopped in the middle of the path and turned around, forcing Crowley to stop, too. “Crowley, please, would you mind explaining the ducklings?!”

Tumblr | AO3

A Sort of Wickedness (Teenish)

There’s a sort of wickedness to his smile, Crowley notices, and he wonders how he didn’t see it from the start. But that’s why they go together so well, isn’t it? Just as Crowley has a little of the light running through his veins, Aziraphale has just a lick of the dark, there below the surface.

Tumblr | AO3

Not Made To Love (Gen)

Demons are not made to love. That is the only explanation Crowley can come up with for the way he feels ready to come apart at the seams. 

Tumblr | AO3

Where Legends Are Born (Gen)

Crowley walked the streets of legend and saw the world unfold before him.

Tumblr | AO3

Constellations (Gen)

Aziraphale had stars covering his skin.

Tumblr | AO3

Paint the Sky (Teen)

Crowley used to paint. His brush was the cosmos and his canvas was the universe, infinite and vast. With just one stroke, he could bring the sky to life.

Tumblr | AO3

I Love You (Gen)

It was unexpected, almost. Aziraphale wouldn't have thought it (though, that was more because he had never allowed himself to dwell on such things) but, despite all of Crowley's rough edges and walls he had built to protect himself from getting hurt, he loved incredibly freely and easily.

Tumblr | AO3

Made To Love (Gen)

Crowley was made to love Aziraphale, he was sure of it.

Tumblr | AO3

The Truth (Gen)

Fic request: Crowley gushing to The Them about Aziraphale

Tumblr | AO3

Harmony (Gen)

Crowley’s love was a hurricane; wild and all-consuming, it surged within him until there was room for little else.

Tumblr | AO3

Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before (Gen)

Crowley relaxed even further into his lover’s lap and closed his eyes. “Can you tell me a story?”

Tumblr | AO3

Eden (Gen)

They met for the first time in the garden, but not atop the outer wall, on the day of the first rain.

Tumblr | AO3

Me-ow! (Gen)

“Oh, good lord- I’m jealous of a cat.”

Tumblr | AO3

*bang*bang* Tartan Love! Whoa! (Gen)

It’s ridiculous, really, the things Crowley will do for love. Walk across consecrated ground. Run inside a burning building. Change the upholstery in his Bentley to bloody tartan.

Tumblr | AO3

First Kisses (Gen)

The first time Aziraphale had leaned forward and closed the six thousand year long distance between them to kiss Crowley, he had made a strangled sound much like a giraffe choking on a twig and promptly fallen to the floor.

Tumblr | AO3

Call Me Angel (Gen)

Aziraphale still remembered the first time Crowley had called him ‘angel.’

Tumblr | AO3

Warmth (Gen)

The lump of tartan blankets on the couch in the back room of Aziraphale’s shop appeared with the first snowfall after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t.

Tumblr | AO3

Your Hand in Mine (Gen)

They held hands on the wall.

Tumblr | AO3

Titus Anacondicus (Gen)

...and maybe Aziraphale had just confessed to six thousand years worth of longing to a snake that was not actually Crowley at all.

Tumblr | AO3

An Absolute Angel (Gen)

In retrospect, Aziraphale probably could have avoided making an utter fool of himself if he had simply asked Crowley if they could meet up to compare disguises before making their way to the Dowling residence. As it was, he was lucky he didn’t blow the whole con by turning into a blushing mess during his job interview the moment Crowley stepped into kitchen as Nanny Ashtoreth.

Tumblr | AO3

Companion (Gen)

Though he never talked about it, Aziraphale was ancient. One of the first angels.

Tumblr | AO3

Sunrise (Gen)

[Aziraphale] had already filled this sky with his favorite colors (every shade of blue and the lightest yellows imaginable) but now the sunrise had him a bit stumped.

Tumblr | AO3

He Loves You, Idiot (Gen)

If Crowley hadn't known any better, he would have thought that Aziraphale was in love with him.

Tumblr | AO3

Treasure Beneath Gold (Gen)

Crowley, in the guise of Aziraphale, fidgeted nervously on the bench as he awaited the angel’s return from hell.

Tumblr | AO3

Accidental Miracles (Gen)

It was too much. Aziraphale was in love and it was too much.

Tumblr | AO3

Forgiveness (Gen)

“Forgive me,” Aziraphale whispers as he presses his lips to tear tracked cheeks.

Tumblr | AO3

He Knows (Gen)

‘I love you,’ Crowley says, not with words, but with his actions...

Tumblr | AO3

All This Time (Gen)

Aziraphale has a husband. This is news to Crowley.

Tumblr | AO3

Nothing Rhymes With Aziraphale (Gen)

Crowley took to writing when the moments without Aziraphale seemed to stretch into infinity. There was something about the repetitive scratch of the quill against the parchment that seemed to calm him; maybe it was just the way it seemed to drown out the part of him that had (unforgivably) learned to miss someone.

Tumblr | AO3

By Any Other Name (Gen)

Crowley wasn’t sure what exactly went wrong, but somehow, his lunch date with Aziraphale had ended with the angel acting like a complete nervous mess. OR the one where Crowley tries out various pet names.

Tumblr | AO3

The Other Side of the Coin (Collection) (Role-Swap AU)

The Beginning (Gen)

An angel and a demon meet outside of Eden.

Tumblr | AO3

Azra and the Antichrist (Gen)

Azra rides a bicycle and misplaces a baby. Raphael makes Gabriel drink coffee.

Tumblr | AO3

On Being a Bastard (Teen)

The first time Raphael had called him ‘bastard’ Azra was, understandably, a little bit insulted.

Tumblr | AO3

The Bentley (Gen)

"I still don't understand," Raphael said, as he maneuvered his Bentley at breakneck speed through the busy streets of London.

Tumblr | AO3

From an Outside Perspective (Collection)

A Little Secret (Gen)

Brother Francis, during the course of his employment for the Dowlings, always seemed to be on the very cusp of being fired.

Tumblr | AO3

Local Idiots Terrorize Ducks at St. James Park (Gen)

There was a small group of ducks at St. James park that were far more intelligent than any ducks had any right to be. This tended to happen when certain celestial beings were involved.

Tumblr | AO3

Ducks! They’re what you practice proposals on. (Gen)

It wasn’t everyday you walked into St. James’ park to find a man down on one knee, ring box in hand, declaring his undying love to a duck, but it seemed today was a day of absurdities, because that was exactly what was happening.

Tumblr | AO3

Snark (Snake Park)

As a spy, Agent [redacted] of the British Bureau of [redacted] had seen some, for lack of a more elegant word, shit. Which is why when the sunglasses wearing redhead in St. James’ Park turned into a massive snake in broad daylight, he didn’t bat an eye.

Tumblr | AO3

Because I Love You (Gen)

This is too much. They barely survived the apocalypse, barely survived getting offed by their head officers, and now Crowley asks him for this?

Tumblr | AO3

Mr. Fell and Mr. Fell (Gen)

Crowley once again changes his name.

Tumblr | AO3

Allow Me (Teen for blood)

Heaven orders Aziraphale to kill a human. Crowley is there to pick up the pieces.

Tumblr  | AO3

Third Time’s the Charm (Gen)

For the prompt “please marry me.”

Tumblr | AO3

Routine (Gen)

For the prompt “why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

Tumblr | AO3

Sentimentality (Gen)

Aziraphale keeps his most treasured possession in a cigar box that finds its home nestled in the tea cupboard next to the angel’s favorite brand of earl grey.

Tumblr | AO3

It’s Always Been You (Gen)

A love story told in reverse.  

Tumblr | AO3

God Only Knows (what I'd be without you) (Teen) (4/8 chapters)

Crowley and Aziraphale through the ages, but each time they meet it is for the first time.

AO3 Only

The Complete Idiot's Guide to Exorcism (Gen)

Aziraphale and Crowley fake some exorcisms.

Tumblr | AO3

An Unfortunate Lack of 'Wahoo's (Gen)

“–And then I finished my presentation, Angel, my really good presentation, I might add, you would have been proud, I used notecards and everything. Notecards, Angel!”

Tumblr | AO3

On the Stars (Gen)

I hung the stars for you.

Tumblr | AO3

I See You (Gen)

Crowley sees Aziraphale in the sunrise. He sees him in the light as it graces the sky with color and warmth.

Tumblr | AO3

One, Two, Three (Four) (Gen)

Each time they meet, it's like a dance.

Tumblr | AO3

Big Spooky Fan, Me (Collection)

Trick or Treat! (Gen)

Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis take Warlock Trick or Treating.

Tumblr | AO3

A Dark and Spooky Night (Gen)

Aziraphale and Crowley tell scary stories.

Tumblr | AO3

traditions, old and new ( winter fic collection)

Traditions (Gen)

And suddenly, it’s about traditions made together.

Tumblr | AO3

[ertrunkenerwassergeist]

Heart of Thunder - Chapter 05

It’s finally done! Sorry for the long wait.

Here’s the Link to AO3.

In which there are two awkward conversations.

Featuring: Cor catching the feels, Monica's exasperation, Regis being a good friend, Nyx being very nervous about all of this and the author's lack of restraint when it comes to worldbuilding.

List of words in Hadnissa:

Galahkari = people of Galahd kohna = swearword; along the lines of shit

Cor was tired. People wouldn't know by looking at him, he still wore the same serious frown he always did and there were no dark circles around his eyes to be seen. The only way people would know that Cor had spent the majority of the night either staring into the darkness of his bedroom or a cooling cup of tea was, if they knew him well enough to know his tells.

Those people would look at the way he had arrived at his office hours before he was supposed to, at the way he hoarded any cup of coffee he could get his hands on and how he would carefully refrain from snapping at the people around him. They would maybe offer him a fresh cup, shove packets of nuts and maybe a banana or two into his hands and then execute a strategic retreat.

Mostly he suffered sleepless nights due to nightmares, which Cor had plenty reasons to have. He had been dumb and reckless as a teenager and the trouble he had gotten himself into had often times been more than he had been able to swallow. Not that he had admitted that back then. Pitioss, he still had trouble today doing it with people he trusted explicitly.

Last night however, it hadn't been the nightmares keeping him up. It hadn't been the face of the first person he killed when he had been thirteen and Mors had found him, nor the countless dead he had been forced to assassinate for the dead king afterwards, or the absolute panic he had felt when he had first laid eyes on the hazy form of Gilgamesh. On the very bad days the hollow rasp of the ancient... being's voice followed him into his waking moments even so many years after it had happened.

No, last night hadn't been that.

Instead, what had kept him up had been the thought of his new fiancée. And even after a sleepless night and his third cup of coffee, he still had no real idea what he was supposed to do now.

Cor leant back into his comfy leather chair and stared at the bag of sunflower seeds Monica had left with a small stack of files on his desk not too long ago. He needed to get back to work, he knew that. A war didn't fight itself and there was a whole lot more paperwork involved than he had expected, when he had first been named Marshal.

Now he sat there, his eyes shifting from the files towards his latest cup of coffee despite the urgency he felt to get the work done.

With a sigh he leaned forward and unlocked the most private drawer of his desk. Normally he stored some of the more sensitive files he was working on in there, which consisted mostly of mission reports and the most recent information his network had sent him. Right now Cor wasn't interested in any of those. It was still well before the regular workday was supposed to start, so he still had some time.

On top of the small pile lay the personal file of one Nyx Ulric.

He had gone to retrieve it so early this morning that the secretary hadn't been there yet, the night guard had gone to take a smoke break – he was going to have words with the man – and he knew the access logs were rarely checked. Which was another worrying slip in security, but worked in his favour in this instance.

The filing room had been an organisational mess. Nothing had been misfiled exactly, but it had taken him longer to locate the file he wanted, than he was comfortable with. Back in his office he had put it in his most protected drawer and had tried to do some actual work.

Cor caught himself staring at it every few minutes.

With an exasperated sigh, and slightly irritated at himself, he put the folder on the desk in front of him. It sat there, innocently, its slightly yellow pages worn down further than he had expected. He scowled.

Cor knew this was probably not his best idea. In fact, a quiet voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Clarus, continuously warned him against doing this. But he needed to know more about the man he would bind himself to – had already bound himself to. So he ignored his inner Clarus and opened the file.

The first thing he noticed was the slightly younger Nyx staring back at him. There were shadows in his eyes that shone through the threadbare mask of professionalism and told him of an inner rage he hadn't seen in the older Nyx. Maybe he was just better at hiding it now. Cor had no illusion of all of that pent up anger being gone.

The younger Nyx' hair was bound into a tail, the sides not yet cut short, with his braids hanging free. Otherwise he looked much the same.

On the next page was information Cor was more interested in at the moment.

A knock on his door made him look up.

“Marshal,” sounded Monica's voice as the door opened, “these just came in from the Border Patrol.”

His Lieutenant stepped into his office, another folder in her hand. She strode up to his desk without further ceremony and stopped in astonishment as her gaze fell upon the untouched stack she had left there half an hour ago.

“Marshal?” she asked, worry shining in her eyes.

Cor shook his head as a signal for her to leave it be. And normally she would have, he knew, but then she saw the file that lay open before him. An eyebrow rose in disbelief.

“Why do you have the personal file of a Kingsglaive on your desk, Marshal?” Monica hesitated for a split second before her face set into that expression she made when she was about to hunt down some security leaks. “Is there something I need to know?”

For a split second Cor wished there was a convenient MT near so he could cut it down with all due prejudice. Nyx – his fiancée – wasn't the leak they had tried to track for years now. The man was one of the most loyal soldiers he had ever met, and since he knew Clarus Amicitia that was saying something.

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “This isn't about the leak.”

“Then what? Marshal, unauthorized access to personal files of people not directly under your command can get even you in very deep trouble. Please tell me you didn't leave any evidence.”

Raising an eyebrow at his Lieutenant with a deadpan stare, he closed Nyx' file and watched as she sighed and sat down on the couch by the wall. Suddenly he got the feeling that this hadn't been a very good idea.

“Why did you pull the file?” asked Monica and managed to sound in equal parts exasperated and resigned.

Cor opened his mouth to answer and stopped. How was he supposed to tell her when he himself didn't really understand what had happened? He looked at her. She looked back. Monica Elshett was one of the few people he trusted absolutely.

“What do you know about Galahdian culture?” he asked at last.

Monica blinked, startled at the sudden question that seemed completely unrelated. She furrowed her brow as she started to seriously think about the question.

“Not very much, to be honest,” she admitted hesitantly. “It's all very basic knowledge. They have their own religion, as far as I can tell they don't deny the existence of the Six but refuse to acknowledge any authority they have. It's a magic flask waiting to blow, especially with the Bladed Temple. They organize in clans, have their own language and braids are important. But I cannot tell the significance or how it is decided who wears which braid. They are very insular and secretive over their culture in general.” She paused for a second. “What did you do?”

Cor didn't snort. No, he didn't. Why did everybody always think he did something?

“Do you remember the patrol I went on?”

“The poachers, yes,” she answered. “You claimed some of the skins as battle-spoils. Lords Hypocris, Caulis and Sagitta weren't happy about it.”

At the reminder of the three Lords he'd had to talk to yesterday, his mood soured. Cor knew there was something going on. He doubted it had anything to do with the leak in the military he had been tasked with hunting down, but corruption was corruption, and it happening so blatantly on his home turf was unacceptable. He made a mental note to look further into them over the coming days.

“Yes,” he hummed at last. “For the Galahkari – which is what Galahdians call themselves – coeurls are very close to holy animals, as far as I can tell. Last year there was a mission I was on with three of the Glaives, Bellum, Arra and Najad. There was a Niff patrol, bigger than had been anticipated, and we had two injured Crownsguard with us. They were gaining on us so we hunkered down in a forest to wait until they gave up the search. The patrol came upon a den that was home to a small pack of coeurls not far from us and the Glaive abandoned their cover to defend them. It was one of the stupidest things I have ever seen.”

Monica cast him a dry look at his last sentence, which Cor soundly ignored.

“Coeurls are important to their culture,” he continued. “So when I found coeurl skins among the poachers' prey, I thought it a good idea to lay claim on them and gift them to the Galahkari as a gesture of goodwill.”

“So that is why those three Lords wanted to speak to you. A single coeurl skin can be worth hundreds of thousands of Yen,” realized Monica.

“I selected the biggest and went to the Kingsglaive headquarters to give it to Nyx Ulric, explaining that the others would follow as soon as the investigation was closed.”

“Sir Ulric?” Monica asked surprised. “Why not Titus? He is their Captain and also half Galahdian himself. He knows the culture better than any of us.”

“True,” nodded Cor and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “But after the incident last year I heard Najad tell the Bellum and Arra that Sir Ulric would have any right to murder them, if they had let the coeurls die without trying to rescue them.”

What he didn't want to tell her was that he had wanted to give it to Titus at first, but he hadn't been able to find the man anywhere. Nor did he tell her that the pelt with its size and colouring was probably scratching the one million Yen mark when it came to worth. His Lieutenant made a disbelieving face but didn't say anything. Cor took a sip of his now cold coffee with a straight face.

“So you made Sir Ulric a ridiculously expensive gift in the hope to bridge some of the divide between the citizens and them. I'm assuming the file on your desk is his?”

The Marshal nodded.

Monica sighed. “This still doesn't explain why, Marshal.”

“We're engaged,” Cor not quite mumbled, but it was close. He wasn't embarrassed talking about this. He wasn't. But there was a strange pressure in his chest as he admitted his new status to his Lieutenant.

For a few long seconds everything was silent in the office as Monica stared at him with a blank expression.

“Marshal – Cor,” she started, each word carefully enunciated, as if she was afraid to have forgotten how to, “I must have misheard. Did I just hear you tell me you got engaged?”

He nodded.

“You weren't in a relationship yesterday.”

It was half a question and half a statement. He nodded again. Utterly exasperated his only close female friend pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.

“How?” she asked into her hand with a tone edging on desperation. Before Cor could answer she continued. “No, forget the how. Why did you think it was a good idea to get engaged to a man as controversial as Nyx Ulric? If the success rate of his missions wasn't as high as it is and his magic compatibility so far above average it's not even funny, he would have been dishonourably discharged more than once already. Some of the stunts he pulled border on insubordination.”

Cor bit back the first comment burning on his tongue. Of course he knew what people were saying about the man. It was mostly the nobility at court wagging their tongues, but sometimes the press got wind of it. Cor himself had seen some of the mission reports. What Nyx mostly got accused of was the refusal to obey orders. Most of those orders involved leaving people behind or something similar. If he were honest, he wouldn't have followed those orders either. They were absolutely dumb. He had to wonder however when the rumours had grown so out of hand that even Monica seemed to believe some of them.

“I gave Nyx the coeurl skin in front of people he considers his family and in Galahdian culture that's enough for it to be considered a proposal,” he explained.

“I don't understand. And Sir Ulric accepted? Does something like this even count when you didn't to it with the intention to propose?”

She was absolutely baffled. He couldn't blame her.

“As far as I understand it, he couldn't say no without there being serious cultural repercussions. We agreed to go through with it.”

“And that's why you pulled his file?”

He didn't answer, feeling oddly guilty about it all of the sudden.

Monica sighed again. “That's not how you get to know your spouse, Marshal. That's what dates are for. Take Sir Ulric out to a nice restaurant, go see a play, Pitioss, take him out to kill some daemons for all I care, but by Bahamut's bladed wings, talk to him. This,” she gestured towards where the file laid on his desk, “is not how you built trust with the person you intend to marry.”

Cor listened seriously to every word she had to say, and nodded. What she said was logical. Getting to know his fiancée would take time, but it would be time well spent. Hmm, hunting daemons sounded like a very good idea, actually. There was a new nest in Leide that was encroaching on the bridge connecting Insomnia with the rest of Lucis.

When she saw him nod, Monica's shoulders sagged a bit in relief. He raised a brow as he watched her stand up from the couch and walk towards his desk in two long strides. She set the folder she still carried down on the stack she had brought earlier and plucked up Nyx' file with a determined face.

“Good. I'll put this back and make sure no one will ever find out about this. Please try to do some work done. Oh, and I better be invited to the wedding, Marshal.” With that she turned around and left his office muttering something under her breath he couldn't understand.

Well, he thought as he stared after her bemusedly, that was that.

The hours until his lunch break Cor spent reading file after file and signing more papers than he cared to count. Progress was slower than he might have liked, but he managed to go through with most of it and had decided it wouldn't hurt to get an hour or two of training in after lunch. He desperately needed to clear his head.

Maybe he could make a date out of an afternoon training with Nyx? After all, it was perfectly normal to do activities with your spouse you both were interested in, right? That's what dating was supposed to be about.

There was a knock on his door just as he set his signature beneath a form requesting the use of a Kingsglaive training ground. The word 'denied' was stamped in big, bold, red letters on top of the page. This wasn't the first time he had seen a request like this and it made no sense at all to him. The Crownsguard had enough space to train in. Most of those spaces were better equipped than the Glaives training grounds, too. Much to his ire.

“Come in,” he called and set the form aside.

The door opened and in stepped the person that had occupied the majority of his thoughts since they had went their separate ways yesterday, with a nervous grin on his face and still in his training uniform.

“Nyx,” said Cor in way of greeting.

“Hey,” greeted his fiancée and closed the door behind him.

Curiously he glanced around the office as he walked towards him. It was a larger room than Cor needed with enough space to fit at least two other large desks into it, but Regis had insisted. Something about status and publicity or some such rot. What had made him accept the office in the end had been his friend's pleading face when he had suggested it, after he had been promoted to Marshal.

Nyx was halfway around the desk when Cor remembered the Galahdian way to greet family and stood up. A bout of nervousness shot through his system. Their foreheads met gently and Nyx' nervous grin turned into a barely there blush and a pleased smile. Cor could feel the corner of his mouth tick up into a tiny smile of his own. His stomach lurched and a comfortable warmth spread in his chest. It was strange. He usually didn't like to be touched all that much. They took half a step back from each other a heartbeat later.

Cor cleared his throat to avoid the awkward silence looming above their heads. “Why did you come here?”

“Shouldn't I have?” asked the younger man, his head tilted towards the left like a curious cat and his tone abashed.

“No, no,” Cor hurried to say. “I have nothing against it. I just did not expect you to come.”

By Bahamut's scaly hide, this wasn't a great start at all. He wanted to kick himself. Why was it so damned hard to talk to this man? Nyx gave an awkward smile and tugged at one of his braids. It was a normally braided one with another strand of hair twisted around it. There were three beads in it in different colours and forms, all looked like precious or semi-precious stones. He wondered what significance there was to it.

“I came to ask something,” Nyx started and tugged at his braid again. It was clearly a nervous habit.

“Yes?” prompted Cor after a few seconds of silence.

“How fast can you get an audience with the King?” the Glaive rushed to ask.

Surprised, Cor raised an eyebrow. “At once, if it's an emergency. Did something happen?”

His fiancée shook his head, clearly searching for the right words and Cor was contend to let him. This was clearly important to him, so Cor had no desire to rush this.

“It's a culture thing, I think,” Nyx said at last. “I don't know how you Lucians do it but since you proposed to me in the tradition of my people I need to give you a, hmm, Gift of Acceptance – I guess would be the correct translation.”

Aha.

“What do you need the audience for, then?”

“That's the thing. When I give my gift to you, there need to be witnesses. It has to be family.”

“I don't have living family left,” Cor said with a frown and a smidge of worry.

Nyx blinked, clearly confused. “But you have family,” he stated like it was the most obvious thing.

Cor felt like he was missing something. “My parents have been dead for a very long time. I don't have siblings and neither had they.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Nyx. “No, family doesn't mean there has to be a blood relation. It's the people you are closest to.” He muttered something in the foreign language the Galahkari had, clearly searching for words. “Those you have hunted and fought besides. Those you have survived great odds with, that walked beside you and never abandoned you.”

At once he realized why Nyx had asked how fast he could get an audience. He felt kind of ridiculous that he hadn't realized himself what the other had been trying to say. It was so obvious in hindsight.

“You want to do it in front of Regis and Clarus,” he said and had to admire the other man's guts.

Nyx nodded. A determination shone in his blue eyes that set Cor's heart aflutter.

“When?”

“What?”

“When do you need the audience? And do I need to know something concerning this gift giving?” he added.

“Oh. Before the week is over would be best. Shortly after lunch break. I need to bring witnesses myself since your family isn't Galahdian and we need at last one other Galahkar to verify that you accepted the gift. It's more of a formality than anything else, but better safe than sorry. You don't need to do much, there aren't any traditional words or anything. Those fell out of practice ages ago. You just need to accept it and wear it,” Nyx explained.

“Wear it,” Cor asked, crossing his arms.

“Yeah,” said Nyx and lifted his hand as if to touch him, but let it fall to his side again. “Normally I would braid your hair, but that isn't going to work.” No it really wasn't. “The alternative is a necklace. The Gift of Acceptance can honestly be anything, but after the Gift of Declaration you gave me that's really the only answer I can give.”

So there was something very significant about that necklace. Cor was nearly afraid to ask. “Is there something special about this necklace?”

Another tug at the braid. “It's... ah, kohna. It's the most significant way we have to declare something. Way back, before my people settled on Galahd, we used braids as a means of communication. We still do, but then it literally was vital to our survival. It's how the different wandering groups warned each other of danger and passed news along when they weren't able to talk due to the high scrutiny of the Lucians. With the necklace, that's simply a substitute to a braid, I'm basically declaring you one of us.”

Which must be a huge fucking deal considering how insular the Galahkari as a people were. He couldn't help the feeling of fascination bubbling within him. Nyx talked about an era the historians knew practically nothing about with an ease and so matter of fact it was astounding.

“I take it doesn't happen often,” he stated despite everything else he wanted to ask. One thing at a time. If he understood his fiancée correctly, he had enough time to ask after the history records later.

A snort was his answer. “Try maybe once or twice since Galahd was founded. It's rare for a Galahkar to show romantic interest in an outsider and it's even rarer for the outsider to reciprocate those feelings. We're nothing but a bunch of faithless heathens, after all.”

There was something about the way he said it that made Cor's hair stand on end, that didn't sit right with him. He suppressed the urge to snarl and marched to the other side of the desk where his phone lay. Beneath Nyx' curious gaze he picked it up and hit the speed dial. It rang once, twice.

“Cor? Is everything alright?” sounded Regis' voice over the speaker.

“Regis, I need a favour,” he said and watched as his fiancée's eyes grew impossibly wide.

“Of course. What do you need?” the King agreed easily.

“Can you and Clarus spare some time later today? There is something I have to do that requires your attendance.”

“My next meeting is in an hour. Cor, what do you need to do that requires both me and Clarus there?” Regis sounded utterly baffled.

“You'll see,” he said, fighting to keep the laughter down. “It's very personal and important to me.”

The sound of rustling cloth and movement could be heard. “Let me fetch Clarus and we can be at your office in half an hour. Or would you prefer one of the private meeting rooms?”

“A private meeting room,” answered Cor after a moment of consideration. “And thank you, your Majesty.”

“It's always a pleasure to help a friend. Room 1-1 should be free for us to use,” the King said, a smile sounding in his voice.

Cor hung up and redirected his attention back towards Nyx, who was still staring at him, one hand braced on the desk.

“His Majesty will see us in half an hour in meeting room 1-1,” Cor stated.

Nyx yelped. “Half an hour?”

“Yes.”

That's all Cor could say as he watched his fiancée bolt for the door. Before he reached it however, he paused and strode back towards him.

“Idiot,” he murmured just loud enough for Cor to hear, fondness lacing his voice, as their foreheads touched for barely a second. Then he was gone.

Your idiot, Cor thought but couldn't bring himself to say. Even to an empty room.

[dawnover-dusk]

like water, like air (breathe)

like water, like air (breathe)

summary: all you know is that every time you surface, you inevitably sink again. but jeonghan is like air, and you’re afraid that once he leaves, you won’t survive in water anymore.  

resident psychiatrist jeonghan x resident internist reader

At every step, you felt like you were drowning. After four years, you thought that you could finally break through the currents and let air fill your starved lungs, but relief, like it always was, was temporary. One month later, the waves magnified and crashed over you again, and you could barely remember what it felt like to be able to breathe.

So when you introduced yourself to the senior residents on your new team, you had to stifle a gasp at the picturesque man who occupied the seat next to yours, his hand outstretched with a lazy grin. He wore a billowy button-down shirt with red and white pinstripes tucked into black slacks, the top button undone to expose the expanse of his neck and hint at defined clavicles.

“Jeonghan,” he stated, platinum blonde hair framing his hooded eyes. “I look forward to working with you.”

“Likewise,” you muttered, your hand grasping his delicately. You busied yourself with grabbing your list from the printer and trying to clear your mind of unnecessary thoughts, most of which were surrounding your fellow intern lazily running his long fingers over his own patient list.

“Just to warn you,” Seungcheol, your senior resident, began, “the attending on service is a bit of a hardass. Really nitpicky, so be thorough when presenting admissions.” He had swiveled around in his chair to address the two of you, and you could see the faint dark circles outlining his otherwise warm eyes. He glanced at you for a moment before breaking out into a gummy smile, “Don’t look so worried, though. This dude graduated a month ago so he’s only been an attending for like, two seconds. We’ve got your back.”

Jihoon, the other senior resident, ceased his endless typing to let out a grunt. “I’ve seen him make interns cry. It’s so unnecessary,” he gruffly agreed.

“That’s not very impressive,” you shrugged. “Scrub techs made me cry in medical school, it’s not really a feat.”

Jihoon had resumed typing in his orders, but you could see him raise an eyebrow. “You know, it’s not very common to just blatantly admit your weaknesses to people when you first meet them.”

“We’re only together for a month,” you smiled. “I thought we could speed up the ‘getting to know each other’ process.” You could hear Jeonghan’s tinkling laughter beside you, and you turned to face your computer to ignore the heat that rose to your cheeks from the sound.

However, you couldn’t ignore the sky blue post-it that made its way to your keyboard. You glanced at your neighbor out of the corner of your eye, but Jeonghan was diligently writing down lab values, his lips ever so slightly parted.

Shua made me promise to look out for his “crybaby,” but he didn’t tell me that you were so pretty :) I always keep my promises, so don’t worry!

You snatched the post-it, along with your list, and with a quick “I’m going to pre-round now bye!” you were out the door, missing the upward curl of Jeonghan’s lips.

---

me [7:01 AM]: JOSHUA HONG me [7:01 AM]: how dare u gossip about me to our peers me [7:02 AM]: it’s so embarrassing me [7:02 AM]: also why is ur friend flirting with me

joshuji [7:05 AM]: can you, like, not??? i was trying to use the interpreting service and your texts kept buzzing my phone joshuji [7:05 AM]: don’t you have patients to see too

me [7:05 AM]: sending image

joshuji [7:07 AM]: big yike joshuji [7:07 AM]: this is so out of character for him? he was actually really shy and nervous in medical school. idk maybe you are pretty go get it ;)

me [8:00 AM]: i was so horrified that i did not regain the ability to type until now. get what, exactly? me [8:00 AM]: also i know that i’m not your type but MAYBE?? me [8:01 AM]: rude. i retroactively retract all my “you look so nice today” statements

joshuji [8:03 AM]: fine. you’re pretty for a crybaby joshuji [8:03 AM]: lunch in the lounge at 1?

me [8:05 AM]: ofc. my few constants in life – complaining in the lounge and getting sassed by you. wouldn’t miss it

---

You would be impressed that you had lasted a whole week if you weren’t busy trying to disguise the familiar stinging set behind your eyes. The workroom felt stuffier than usual, with the addition of two eager medical students in the corner and the attending in the center, his unrelenting gaze on you. After fumbling with finding what the initial vital signs in the ED were and when the last albuterol dose was given, your panic had risen to the point where your mind was wiped clean. And of course, that was when he had asked you to give a differential diagnosis.

You were never so grateful for the hierarchy established than you were at that moment. Seungkwan and Chan did well in filling in different etiologies for respiratory distress, and you made a note to give them positive feedback at the end of the day. However, it was your turn to give the leading diagnosis, and Seungcheol and Jihoon glaring daggers at the attending’s back did little to ease your anxiety.

You felt a light touch at your elbow and a pen clatter to the floor beside you. Jeonghan leaned over and whispered, the sound disguised as a cough as he swooped down to pick up the pen. Fighting off the embarrassment, you held onto this shred of information that Jeonghan had slipped you like a buoy, only letting out a deep exhale when the attending nodded in satisfaction and left to see the patients.

“Excuse me,” you whispered as you stood up, hurriedly opening and slamming the door to the workroom behind your retreating figure. You escaped to the nearby call room, empty and dark in the day time, and tried to catch your breath on one of the threadbare mattresses.

Seungcheol gave an imperceptible nod to Jeonghan as he also stood up. “Well, I’m going to grab coffee, anyone want anything?”

Jihoon called out, “A coke, please,” before his deep voice grumbled at the students to go write their notes. Seungkwan and Chan immediately turned to their own computers to avoid Jihoon’s indifferent stare, while Seungcheol rolled his eyes and complimented them on their presentations.

In the call room, you heard a light knock before a series of electronic beeps on the door’s keypad. The handle turned softly and you turned your head to see Jeonghan’s silhouette bathed by the fluorescent lights of the hallway. He stepped inside and let the door close behind him, the room again falling back into the darkness.

You kept your face in your hands as you hastily tried to wipe away your tears. The mattress dipped beside you as Jeonghan sat down, his hands clasped in his lap.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice uneven. You tried to take a breath, but you ended up shuddering instead. “This is so embarrassing. This has happened to me so many times, but I still don’t know what’s wrong with me, why I can’t get over it—”

“It’s okay if you can’t,” Jeonghan interrupted, placing a hand on your shoulder. “That’s what people always say, that you’ll get used to it, but I don’t think it’s something that you should get used to. I’ve only worked with you for a week but you’re so smart, and kind, and your patients love you. Even the med students like you, they’re always clamoring over themselves to impress you.”

You let out a chuckle at the memory of Seungkwan and Chan both trying to get you to review their notes as Jeonghan sat in his corner, pretend-glaring at Chan.

“Can I hug you?” Jeonghan asked, and you nodded. You felt his arms wrap around your shoulders as he pulled you against him, hands rubbing circles on your back. You could hear the steady beating of his heart and the faint smell of his cologne, and it surprised you how comfortable you felt wrapped in the warmth of his body.

“Thank you, Hannie,” you mumbled, your arms wrapping around his waist to give a quick squeeze before pulling back.

“Hannie?” he asked, his cheeks flushing a rosy hue.

“Oh, sorry, Joshua always calls you that—”

“No, I like it when you call me that,” he mumbled, his eyes lighting up despite the darkness of the room. “It totally beats the ‘Yoon Jeonghan (Intern)’ that you have me saved as in your phone.”

“Oh my God,” you laughed, pushing him lightly before getting up. “As if you don’t have me saved as the same thing.”

“No, you’re ‘Pretty Crybaby’ with a bottle emoji next to it.”

You stared at him, horrified, and hit his shoulder. “You have to change it!”

“Only if you change me to ‘Hannie”, he grinned, his pinky outstretched. You rolled your eyes and linked your pinky with his.

That night, you dreamed of the deep, open sea, but rays of light broke through the water like slender fingers guiding you towards the surface.

---

“I’ve missed you,” Jeonghan pouted, handing you a can of coffee from the refrigerator. You finished gathering your hair up into the messiest of ponytails and grabbed the can, smiling reflexively when your fingertips lingered on his. You stood in front of him in old scrubs and sneakers, devoid of makeup and tired, and you marveled at how he could still flirt with you.

“You won’t be saying that after our 24-hour shift together this weekend,” you pointed out.

“It’ll be like a sleepover, I’m so excited,” he deadpanned, and you both laughed at his tone of voice. “But really, handling the kids on my own is so tiresome.”

“You basically adopted Chan on the third day.”

“Okay, handling Seungkwan on my own is so tiresome.”

The two students bounded through the door of the lounge, as if on cue. They left their backpacks in the corner and beamed at you as you handed them printed lists. 

“Time for sign-out, Dr. Boo, Dr. Lee,” you grinned, ruffling Seungkwan and Chan’s hair. “Pay attention, Dr. Yoon,” you giggled, ducking down to avoid Jeonghan’s hand aimed at your head.

---

kwan [3:10 PM]: when will they let us leave?? I need to study kwan [3:12 PM]: and it’s so boring with only jeonghan to bother kwan [3:12 PM]: he just leans back in his chair like this is his house kwan [3:13 PM]: and I’m still offended by what he said about me being tiresome

chan [3:15 PM]: I’m literally right next to you? chan [3:15 PM]: We can always pull the ‘Is there anything else I can help with before I go” card chan [3:16 PM]: more importantly, did you also hear about them having a 24 hour shift together? chan [3:16 PM]: I ship it

kwan [3:17 PM]: omg I know I wonder if there are any workplace rules or w/e kwan [3:18 PM]: but then again jeonghan has already been v flirty kwan [3:18 PM]: maybe I’ll put that in his evaluation. “I admire his ability to shoot his shots”

chan [3:20 PM]: #rolemodel #inspo

---

The weekend came, and with it, the rain. Water pelted against glass windows in sheets as the low rumble of thunder echoed throughout the city. You were sitting cross-legged in the middle of the mattress with your laptop balanced on your knees, the rest of your belongings shoved in the corner where the bed met the wall. You heard the familiar beeping of the keypad, and like a week prior, Jeonghan stood in the doorway.

He gave you a quick “hi” before collapsing onto the other bed across from you, folding his arms across his stomach.

“Rough night?” you asked sympathetically, rummaging around in your bag for a snack to share.

“I don’t know what it is about the rain that makes everyone in this hospital so crazy,” you heard Jeonghan mutter under his breath. He rolled onto his side to face you and you placed a small box of banana milk next to him. He took it gratefully and poked the straw through the top, letting out a contented sigh.

“Let’s get some rest before they wake us up about that guy in room 5102 not peeing again,” you said, placing your laptop to the side and getting up to turn off the light. You heard an incoherent mumble in response. Shaking your head, you smiled and felt for the blanket folded at the foot of the bed, covering it carefully over Jeonghan’s form and moving the box of milk to the nightstand. Before you could turn back to your own bed, you felt a hand in yours and a brush of lips across your knuckles.

It was whisper, almost lost against the hum of the air conditioning. “Thank you for taking care of me.” 

This time, you dream of floating, your body weightless as you stared up at the blue sky above you.

---

It’s almost the end of your month with Jeonghan when it finally hits you.

“Joshua, I’m screwed,” you groan, your hand dropping your fork back into your salad bowl. Joshua scoffs across from you, taking a bite of his pasta and swallowing before waving his own fork in your direction.

“What are you talking about? You’ve been doing super well on the team, from what I’ve heard.”

“It’s who you’ve heard this stuff from that’s the problem, Joshua,” you sigh. “I’m too old to have crushes.”

Joshua gasped dramatically, and snickered when you shot a glare at him across the table. “Sometimes, you’re really dense. You’re literally all that Hannie talks about. Well, you and your med student, Chan.”

“But we only have one more week together, and then what?” you ask glumly, poking at the wilting leaves.

Joshua reached his hand to still your movements. “Hey, you’re talking like you’re never going to see him again after this block. We still make time for each other, and I’m sure you two can, if you want to.”

“But you guys are also technically psychiatry residents,” you stated, moving your hand from under Joshua’s grasp. “You’re not going to be around after this year.” You could feel the tightness behind your nose, the quickening beat of your heart, and the uncomfortable lurch in your stomach as reality soaked through you, dripping wet and cold.

You would be on a different team in a week.

Joshua and Jeonghan would be gone in a few months.

The crisp air that filled your greedy lungs would be replaced by the burn of seawater again and again, the tide a relentless onslaught every time your head broke through the surface. You had learned how to breathe again through hooded eyes and lazy smiles and faint cologne, through a shock of platinum blonde hair and a lilting voice.

But this time, you didn’t know how you would fare when you went under again.

“Why do you think that we won’t see each other anymore?” Joshua asked quietly. In the back of your mind, you knew that he was slipping into his psychiatry persona, trying to get you to talk about your worries and fears. And as much as you knew that it would feel better to talk about it, and as much as you trusted Joshua, you couldn’t explain it.

You couldn’t tell him that you ended up having no one in your third year of medical school, the friendly waves in the hallway turning to tense, unsaid competition between your classmates for good evaluations and honors.

You couldn’t tell him that with every team that you’ve been on during your intern year, you end up dispersing on the last day, going separate ways despite the physical and emotional investment spent caring for patients and for each other.

You couldn’t tell him that he was just a fluke, an anomaly in your track history of brief, intense connections that characterized your entire career thus far.

You couldn’t tell him that everyone always left.

And you had learned to survive with water in your lungs, but Jeonghan tasted like air, clean and proper and euphoric.

What you said, instead, was, “I’m scared.”

It was truth enough.

---

han [7:35 PM]: I’m so excited about tomorrow han [7:36 PM]: last day~ but maybe we can finally go on a proper date

shua [7:37 PM]: bro, you need to have an honest conversation with her shua [7:37 PM]: she thinks you’re just never going to speak again after tomorrow shua [7:38 PM]: well, she thinks we’re all not going to speak to her after our intern year ends because we’re in different programs, but that’s a whole other thing shua [7:39 PM]: there is a lot of catastrophizing

han [7:40 PM]: I’ll appreciate it if you didn’t psychoanalyze my future s/o han [7:41 PM]: I mean, you’re right, but still

shua [7:42 PM]: aren’t you getting ahead of yourself there buddy

han [7:45 PM]: no. I’ve been an absolute angel

shua [7:45 PM]: I already regret setting you up shua [7:46 PM]: what did my sweet crybaby do to deserve this

---

“Hannie?” you answered tentatively, brows furrowing in confusion when you saw your phone screen light up with his name.

“Uh, hey,” he laughed, the sound tinny and nasal. “Do you have time to talk?”

“Yeah, is something wrong?” you ask, your thoughts flashing to the conversation you had with Joshua several days ago. You could feel something akin to dread rise up in your chest, but you pushed it down.

“No, nothing bad. Do you live in the resident housing complex? I can come over.”

“Okay,” you sigh, giving him your apartment number. Twenty minutes later, you heard a knock on your door, and you let Jeonghan in.

“So,” the blonde started, settling himself on your sofa, “Joshua told me that you were…worried.”

“Joshua needs to stay out of my business,” you muttered under your breath. Jeonghan grinned and patted the space next to him, and when you sat down, his sweater-clad arm wrapped around you like it was a motion that he had perfected for years.

“I’m just going to come out and say it,” he said, his heart starting to quicken in his chest. “I was really excited about our last day together because I thought I could finally ask you out properly.”

Your eyes widen as you angled yourself towards him. “Oh, so you mean those moments in the call room weren’t dates?” you teased, and he covered his face with his hands.

“Ugh, you’re not making this any easier,” he whined, and you laughed before wrapping your hands around his wrists and gently pulling his hands away from his face. You smiled gently at him before averting your gaze, suddenly shy as your hands traveled down his wrists to rest in his hands.

“I’m sorry, Hannie,” your voice no more than a whisper. Your eyes were fixed resolutely to the floor as you spoke. “I’m just not used to people wanting to stick around, and I’m scared about what’ll happen in the future.”

“Hey,” he said softly, reaching over to tuck your hair behind your ear. “Of course I want to stick around. It’s weird, but I feel like I want to know everything about you. Like, I went into psychiatry because I was interested in how people became who they were, but these past few weeks, I just wanted to know how you became the person you are today. Someone who works hard, who feels with their entire being. Someone who I’ve grown really attracted to.”

You felt your cheeks heat up and you wrapped your arms around his waist, hiding your face in his chest. “You can’t just say these things, Jeonghan,” you protested, feeling the rumble of laughter through his body.

“I can promise you that we’ll make it work. Even after tomorrow. Even after this year.”

You pulled away to look up into his brown eyes, at the curve of his nose, at his red lips pulled into a wide smile. You breathed out, “and you always keep your promises” before pulling him towards you, lips singing praises against his, wrapped up in a brown sweater and a gentle breeze whispering Jeonghan, Jeonghan, Jeonghan.

---

my hannie [6:01 AM]: I’m on the shuttle to the inpatient psych center! you’re probably still asleep, sorry that I couldn’t get you breakfast :( my hannie [6:02 AM]: but just wanted to wish you luck on your first day as a !! second !! year!! can you believe it? i’m so proud of you, baby. everyone’s going to love you, but not as much as me~ my hannie [6:03 AM]: shua says good luck too! I’m going to try to take a nap, it is way too early my hannie [6:05 AM]: but also….Joshua or Jeonghan?

my baby [6:30 AM]: omg hannie of course you, you big dummy. I woke up sad bc the bed was empty and then panicked bc I forgot that I didn’t have to go to sign-out anymore my baby [6:31 AM]: good luck on your first day too! poor hannie, you have to get up so early my baby [6:32 AM]: I’ll grab takeout and then we can cuddle tonight and talk about our days?

my hannie [7:00 AM]: ah yes, my most natural state – lying down in your arms. sounds perfect my hannie [7:01 AM]: I love you so much, pretty baby

my baby [7:02 AM]: well I guess it’s an upgrade from ‘pretty crybaby’ my baby [7:02 AM]: love you too

[krumbine]

Monsters in America: The Bloodsucking Assholes

Lest we forget about the real monsters America.

###

The Magic Mega Mall Indoor Flea Market was neither magical nor a mall (at least not a mall in the traditional sense). For that matter, it wasn’t much of a flea market either, not since the pandemic had shut down all retail (and quasi-retail) operations in the city of Greenville.

It was, however, certainly mega, especially in respect to typical flea markets. Indoors or otherwise.

The shutdown––currently entering its seventh week––had proven devastating to the tenants of the flea market. Stalls were closed, merchandise either locked up or carted back to the owner’s residence, aisles empty and dark. Beneath the abandoned flea market, in a basement originally reserved for storage and other illicit activities one typically finds in third-rate retail establishments, three remaining tenants were facing struggles of a different kind.

At one end of the basement was a makeshift living room filled with second-hand furniture and a third-hand area rug.

A woman lay splayed across the threadbare couch, her arm dangled over the edge with a robust sense of lethargy. Her usual plump and rosy complexion was pale and thin. A flowing crimson top seemed not to care about the absent flowing air as it billowed around her.

“Uuuuuunnnnnggg …” she moaned. “I hunger!”

A figure popped his head out of one of the fenced-off storage units that lined one side of the basement. He clutched a fluffy orange tabby and offered it in the woman’s direction. “Cat?”

The cat hissed and swiped at him. He flinched, tossing the uncooperative feline back into the storage unit.

“I’m allergic,” the woman grumbled. “One sip and I’ll have the drizzly shits for weeks.”

With a lurch, the poorly-stitched-together-person closed the storage unit before sitting down next to the woman. He was much paler than the woman, black circles around his eyes where the flesh had simply abandoned all semblance of biological function. Across his forehead, haphazard staples held together two loose flaps of flesh. He wore a dark red dress shirt, black pants, and a matching black buttoned dress vest for extra support keeping his torso together.

“I know what you mean,” he said, his vocal cords raspy from death but still youthful in a decrepit sort of fashion. “The last time I had a bag of Brain-O tacos from Los Muertos Hermanos, I was shitting up a storm for three days.”

He casually leaned back and threw his arms around the back of the couch. “I didn’t even know zombies could do that,” he said in bemused wonder.

She rolled her eyes. “Pick up your arms, Zaphod.”

Zaphod Zombie sighed and got up to collect his dismembered appendages from the floor behind the couch.

The woman flailed with histrionic anguish. “I haven’t been this hungry in a thousand years.”

Another voice, this one so guttural it sounded like it came from someone eaten by a Sasquatch: “Don’t be dramatic. You’re barely even a hundred.”

Zaphod sat back down as the woman pushed herself to an anguished sitting position, elbows on knees, head cradled in hands. She said to the hulking figure sitting across from the couch: “You know, you’re a stout, virile young man. We could have just a little nip––”

Large, intelligent brown eyes glanced over the frames of a pair of comically-undersized reading glasses. “For the last time, you can’t drink my blood.”

“––just a tiny sip––”

“V'Dara!”

She collapsed back into the couch. “Admit it, you want me to perish!”

Across from the couch, a hirsute finger the relative thickness of a rolled-up magazine picked at the edge of a local newspaper before turning the page. After a moment, the finger was licked and it picked again at the edge of the paper. An equally hirsute finger on the other hand nudged at that pair of comically-undersized reading glasses resting on the flat nose of Lincoln Squatch.

“No one wants you to perish––”

“Then help me eat now, you beautiful bastard,” V'Dara replied. She held a thumb and an index finger a small ways apart. “Just a little sip?”

Zaphod snatched his digits back from V'Dara. “C'mon!”

Lincoln sighed. It had been a few years since he had struck a deal with the mall’s manager––Lincoln worked night security at the mall in exchange for basement accommodations. Lincoln understood all too well the importance of a responsible, symbiotic relationship with the humans. He sympathized with his vampiric friend but he also knew that the dead don’t die––she could stand to be a little hungry until the situation was more tenable.

Lincoln looked back down at the headline in the newspaper. He shook his head gravely and tried to change the subject. “Says here the unemployment rate is worse than it was during the Great Depression.”

V'Dara’s head rocked gently in absent thought. “I remember the Great Depression,” she mused. “Wasn’t nearly as hungry.”

Zaphod looked up from screwing his fingers back in place. He was flabbergasted by Lincoln. “Since when do you care so much about how the meatbags manage this crisis? Last I checked, they’re the ones who hate us. Pretty sure that’s why we live in a basement, Link.”

V'Dara stared wistfully into the distance. “… meatbags. Bags. Full of blood. Blood bags …”

Lincoln took his readers off, folded them carefully and set them on the side table. “Where the ‘meatbags’ go, the monsters follow.”

V'Dara sneered. “I hate that word. Monsters,” she gagged.

Zaphod pointed at V'Dara. “Exactly. That’s what I’m talking about. We’re not the ones hoarding money, denying healthcare, or conducting ourselves in an irresponsible manner during a pandemic!” Zaphod’s righteous outrage was almost inspiring. “I mean, look around! I see a vampire, a zombie, and a Sasquatch the size of a Volkswagen Beetle––”

Lincoln frowned as he glanced down at his belly covered in dense, dark fur. It wasn’t that big.

“––if you ask me, we’re the original social distancers right here!”

V'Dara let out a forlorn sigh. “I want to invade someone’s social distance … with my teeth.” She bared a pair of extra-pointy canines and let out a weak, deflated hiss.

Lincoln shot Zaphod a sideways glance. “I’m pretty sure zombies aren’t hailed for their social distancing.”

“That is a stereotype and I’m offended,” Zaphod shot back without missing a beat. Softly, he added: “I don’t even like people. That’s the whole point of the kitten trade-in shop.”

Lincoln rubbed his brow. “Fine. Yes, you’re right. You’ve developed a respectable, self-contained food supply. And I’m perfectly content with my weekly forage in the woods.” Lincoln addressed the vampire in the room. “V'Dara hasn’t been so lucky. Where the 'meatbags’ go, our kind will follow,” he repeated. “The lockdown sent everyone home but V'Dara still needs to be invited inside. A rush to re-open will flood the system––yes, V'Dara will be able to eat in the short-term, but if things go downhill again for the humans, it’ll put V'Dara right back into the same situation.”

V'Dara stewed in hunger and frustration. “… the unemployment rate is worse than during the Great Depression?”

Lincoln picked up his reading glasses. “And the financial markets responded with record gains.”

“And they say I’m the bloodsucking asshole.”

Lincoln shook the newspaper back open. “Where the meatbags go, our kind will follow.”

Zaphod stewed for a moment offered V'Dara a downward, apologetic glance. “… sorry.”

V'Dara shrugged a weak shoulder. “Screw it. Let’s order out.”

Zaphod perked up. “Oooh, Brain-O tacos?”

“I don’t care. Get whatever you want,” V'Dara said, handing Zaphod her phone to place an order. “I’ll have the driver.”

###

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jordan Krumbine is a professional video editor, digital artist, and creative wizard currently quarantined in Kissimmee, Florida. When not producing content for the likes of Visit Orlando, Orlando Sentinel, or AAA National, Jordan is probably yelling at a stubbornly defective Macbook keyboard, tracking creative projects in Trello, and animating quirky videos with LEGO and other various toys.

Leave a dollar in the Tip Jar: https://ko-fi.com/krumbine

Short stories: https://bit.ly/2XY5D7I Books on Amazon Kindle: https://amzn.to/3bsqK5Y YouTube: https://bit.ly/2W41nSG Twitter: https://bit.ly/2VH0Vbu Facebook: https://bit.ly/2VpnylZ LinkedIn: https://bit.ly/2xnmk1e

http://www.krumbco.com

[tibbinswrites]

Prompt: “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”

Prompt requested by @psychicbouquetblaze-stuff​ (sorry I’m retagging you for the same story but the ‘keep reading’ link no longer worked so I thought it would be best to repost. I’ve also edited it a bit because it needed doing).

Prompts are open. I’ve got a few lists to choose from in the ‘Prompts’ section of my blog or feel free to send me an ask or a message if there’s a specific one you’d like ^_^

Dean/Castiel

Prompt #5 from this list: “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”

Castiel flashed his badge and a smile to the janitor as he opened his front door.

“Mr Faukes? FBI Agent Moore, and this is my partner, Agent Mathers. We were hoping to ask you a few questions about the incident you reported last night.”

Dean held up his own badge with a faint tightening of his eyes at the alias. It had been one of Cas’ spare sets of badges in the glove compartment of the continental, Sam had taken the impala to the next town over, where a possibly related case had also popped up. Dean hadn’t been happy about it, but he had conceded that point that seeing as he had a fully powered angel with him, it was best Sam take the vast majority of their weapons, just in case.

Faukes, after throwing a cursory glance at Dean, looked back to Castiel with a shy smile of his own. He was a tall man, late 30s, with strong arms and rugged features. His clothes looked to be a patchwork of different autumn-coloured fabrics but they blended together well and looked soft and comfortable. His light brown hair was neatly combed and he had kind brown eyes that Castiel found himself trusting.

“Sure thing,” he said, stepping back to let them in with the slightly awkward movements of someone who didn’t get a lot of visitors. His voice had a gravelly tone to it that matched the slight German accent. Castiel liked the sound. They walked past him into the small apartment. It smelled pleasantly of lemongrass and was sparsely decorated with an overflowing bookshelf, a sofa squashed beside it and a rickety desk that looked more like storage space than a place of work. A kitchenette was in one corner with a square table and a single chair for meals. The dish rack next to the sink was stuffed with crockery and there was a small sewing machine on another table, along with a couple of rolls of fabric leaning against the wall. A small electric heater clunked slightly as it fought against the morning chill. It was a messy home but meticulously clean. Faukes gestured them to the sofa and spun the dining chair around to face it before sitting himself on the plush cushion tied to the slats with ribbon, “And you can call me Matt. What do you need to know?”

“Your report said you found a jar of eyes in your boss’ office?” Dean cut in as Castiel opened his mouth. His tone was sharp, accusatory, as though Matt was their prime suspect when in reality he was just a witness. Matt looked a little unsettled at the heavy scowl Dean was levelling his way and Castiel couldn’t blame him, he shot Dean a look to take it easy, which was ignored.

“Um… yeah,” Matt said, dragging his eyes from Dean back to Castiel, who nodded encouragingly. Matt cleared his throat, fiddling with a stray thread on the hem of his shirt and began to speak, “So, I was cleaning up after we closed and I noticed the door to Mr Hitching’s office was open. I thought it was strange because even when he’s in he keeps it shut, and he’s supposed to be on holiday for the next two weeks. I figured his one of the other owners might have needed some papers or something and called up his secretary to come and fetch them so I thought I might as well just pop in to vacuum and empty the trash. But I saw it as soon as I turned the light on. It was just… sat on the desk. Like a paperweight, like it wasn’t something important enough to even hide. Five eyes. I remember thinking how weird that was, why five? That’s not even three people… That’s horrible, right? I shouldn’t have thought that.”

“Not at all.” Castiel assured him, leaning forwards intently, “When faced with trauma, the human brain—if it doesn’t reject the trauma entirely—might try to focus on certain details to distract from the trauma itself. You’d be surprised at some of the things people notice when faced with things of this nature. Sometimes their observations are vital to solving the case.”

Matt smiled again, smaller this time, but grateful. It was nice, Castiel decided, making this man smile.

“I bet you’ve got a load of stories like this, huh?” Matt said, shifting forward slightly too, sounding awed and impressed at the idea, “Job like yours. God, I couldn’t do it.”

“Well, we can’t all be janitors.” Dean muttered. The comment was innocuous enough, and Castiel would have ignored it if it hadn’t been for Dean’s tone, practically dripping with venom. Matt’s face immediately fell and Castiel shifted on the couch to glare his ‘partner’.

“Agent Mathers, that was incredibly rude. I think you owe Mr Faukes an apology.”

Dean flushed, an angry red tinge creeping up the back of his neck. He stared at Castiel and the angel saw a kaleidoscope of emotions flash across his face, too fast to catch any of them, but after a moment he relented and turned back to Matt.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, “my partner’s right. I was out of line.”

“It’s alright,” Matt said, looking more confused than offended now, “but thank you.”

Castiel took over the questioning from there, gently prying for all the details Matt could remember. Castiel found himself intrigued by the man, it was clear he was very self-conscious, about his job, his home, himself, but there was also a confidence to him born of self-reliance that Castiel couldn’t help but respect. He also seemed grateful to talk. From what he told them, he didn’t have many friends in the community.

“It’s a small town,” he said, when Castiel asked him why that was, “around here, everyone knows everything about everyone, and they’re pretty quick to judge. Most of them are heavy church-goers. And not the kind that preach love and acceptance, if you get my meaning.”

“That must be difficult.”

Matt shrugged, “It is what it is,” he said, his head tilting slightly to the side as he met Castiel’s eyes, “but it’s nice to talk to some folks with a different mindset for a change.”

Castiel nodded, trying his best to ignore the click of Dean’s jaw and the tension oozing from the seat next to him, “I understand,” he said, “I too find it difficult to ‘branch out’ when it comes to socialising.”

That was an understatement. Excluding other angels, who were less likely to want to catch up than they were to want to bury an angel blade in his chest, most the social interaction Castiel had experienced was through the Winchesters. Sam and Dean were the best men he knew, and their chosen family was a good one, but that didn’t stop Castiel from thinking that it might be nice to have people to talk to without the weight of world-shattering consequences as a constant looming presence in every conversation.

“Anyway, thank you for your time,” he continued, standing and indicating that Dean should follow suit, “you’ve been very helpful.” He produced a card and handed it to Matt while Dean made a beeline for the door. “Here’s my number. If you remember something else, or if you just need to talk to someone with a different mindset, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Oh, I’ll definitely call.” Matt said with a wink. “Agent Moore, would it be terribly inappropriate if I were to ask you on a date?”

Dean froze, his hand on the doorknob.

“I- it would,” Castiel stuttered, heat rushing to his face, “but I think I would like that. Perhaps once this case is over?”

“Keep me updated.” Matt grinned.

Dean yanked open the door and strode off down the hall, not even waiting for Castiel to catch up. The angel rolled his eyes and glanced at Matt, who snickered and held up his card.

“Good luck with the case.”

Xxx

“I can’t believe you, Cas. First of all, you made me a rapper, what the hell? Second of all, how do you go into a freaking suspect’s house and come out with a date?”

“Nothing’s been arranged,” Castiel said calmly, watching from the end of one of the twin beds as Dean wore a path in the already threadbare carpet of their motel room, “besides, Matt isn’t a suspect, he’s a witness.”

“Until we can prove he’s not the one carving out eyes, he’s both.” Dean insisted. “I just… I don’t get it, man, I thought you liked chicks anyway?”

“I’m indifferent to gender.” Castiel said, frowning. “I’ve never understood why it matters so much to humans what pronouns their partners use. I liked him. He was interesting and kind and I would like to get to know him better, what’s wrong with that?”

“We’re in the middle of a case, Cas, you can’t afford to get… you know, distracted.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow, “and how many bartenders and waitresses and almost-victims have you gotten ‘distracted’ with, Dean?”

“That’s different!”

“How?” Castiel demanded, truly irritated now. Dean had many wonderful traits that Castiel admired but his hypocrisy was not one of them. He supposed it stemmed from being the older sibling, more often left in charge than not, ‘do as I say, not as I do’ was practically etched into his bones.

“Because...” Dean spluttered, “because they’re just a bit of fun, alright? They knew the drill, we’re not exactly planning to settle down, and were never go out on dates.” He spat the word like something filthy, “What kind of future do you expect you can have with this guy, huh? Are you gonna tell him what we do? Bring him home and introduce him to your half-archangel son and all the people we yanked from another world? The guy was squeamish about a jar of eyes, how do you think he’d handle literally any of the crap we go through?”

“A first date is not a marriage proposal, Dean. What’s the harm in dinner and a movie?”

“You don’t eat.”

“I can, I just don’t need to.” Castiel shot back, “Random sexual conquests don’t appeal to me. I would rather find a person I have a connection with, and I felt I had a connection with Matt. Why are you so angry? The last time I had a date you were happy for me. Is it really because he’s a man?”

“No!” Dean yelled, a little too loudly, he winced as the sound bounced back to him from the cheap cinderblock walls and lowered his voice to a hiss, his arms folded tightly across his chest and he finally stopped pacing, “It’s because I think you’re being irresponsible. We don’t know that we’re not gonna have to gut that guy before the week is out. And what are you talking about a connection? You spoke for half an hour, you don’t build a connection in half an hour.”

“You’re not angry-” Castiel realised, squinting at the man in front of him. His hands were tucked up into his armpits and his shoulders were slightly rounded, almost as though he was trying to curl into himself, “you’re hurt. Wait a minute, are you jealous?”

“What?!” Dean exclaimed, “Jealous? No, I’m not jealous. Of what? I didn’t like that guy.”

Castiel tilted his head, “Then what?” he asked, his voice low and even, “You don’t like that I like him? You don’t like that I could possibly show interest in anyone other than you?”

Dean took a step back like Castiel had hit him. All the blood drained from his face.

“What are you talking about?” He said, which is what Dean always said when confronted with something he didn’t want to admit to.

“Come on, Dean,” Castiel said impatiently, “you’re not stupid and subtlety isn’t my strong suit. You know how I feel about you, you’ve known it for years. So you don’t want it but you don’t want anyone else to want it either?”

“That’s… that’s not-” Dean choked out, looking sick now, “I didn’t mean-”

“Then what?” Castiel cried, finally standing to be on even ground with Dean. He was frustrated, he was angry, he was overwhelmed, “Explain it to me, because I don’t understand.”

Instead of speaking, Dean’s jaw snapped shut and for a moment, Castiel was sure he was going to bolt from the room. Instead he strode forward two steps and cupped Castiel’s face with his hands before bringing their lips together, effectively shorting out his brain.

“I’ve always wanted you.” Dean murmured against his mouth, “Since Purgatory I’ve let myself want you. But if I had you, I could lose you. And I’m not strong enough to lose you.”

They stayed that way for a while, breathing each other’s air, foreheads pressed together, lips barely brushing. Dean’s hands were warm and calloused and gentle against his skin, Castiel’s hands gripped at the fabric of Dean’s shirt, though he didn’t remember moving.

“It’s worth it for this,” Castiel whispered back, half-lost in the feeling of Dean so close, “isn’t it?”

“Losing you sucked bad, Cas.” Dean said shaking his head and pulling back slightly, just enough that they could lock eyes, “I gave up.”

Castiel sighed and pulled away completely, stepping back, feeling cold as Dean’s hands left him. “I understand,” he said, “but I disagree. Neither of us can guarantee forever and it’s not fair for you to try and keep me from seeking elsewhere something that you aren’t willing to give me.”

“I know,” Dean said, but he reached out to take his hand and slot their fingers together, “So this is me realising that I’m willing, I guess.”

Castiel squeezed his hand and quirked a small smile, “Finally.”

[edream93]

I’m Hooked On All These Feelings (Harry of Auradon AU) Part 3

Hello, hello! Back with Part 3 of the Harry of Auradon AU (here’s the link for Part 1 and for Part 2)? Enjoy and of course let me know what you think either on here or on AO3 or FF.net. Likes are great but comments, even in the tags of reblogs are always appreciated.

Uma was not a morning person, but often having to be the one to open and close her mother’s shop trained her body rise before the sun’s first light even touched land. On the Isle, Uma thought it was a curse. Here in Auradon, as she silently dressed, making sure to wake neither the sleeping beauty nor the sleeping dragon, Uma thought of it as her saving grace. Though they may share the same mission of obtaining the wand, that did not mean that Uma wanted to be in their presence any longer than she had to be.

Uma grabbed her bag, ignoring the beautifully stitched together turquoise dyed jacket that Evie had presented to her weeks ago. The olive branch of a gift was still wrapped in the dark blue gift bag it had been given in. Instead, Uma reached for the almost threadbare brown jacket she had taken from Gil after his first growth spurt years ago. Even though it had been years since the boy had been able to fit it, it still managed to dwarf her small frame and stop just a few inches above her knees and the sleeves always needed to be rolled up twice to not cover her hands.  

Once Uma had successfully made it out of the dorms, she immediately began to make her way to the library, one of the few places on campus that would be open this early. It wasn’t the most exciting place to be, but it was quiet and no one really bothered her there. It was a place where she could just enjoy the serene silence that could never really be found on the Isle. That was one thing she liked about Auradon, she supposed. If she searched for it, there were moments where it was easy for her to forget that she wasn’t the only person in the world. That she wasn’t the daughter of the most feared sea witch in existence.

The library made it easy to forget that Mal was breathing down her back to come up with ideas to steal the wand, asking question after question about why Hook’s son was always around her. It was easy to forget that Audrey was watching each of them like a hawk, just waiting for them to slip up so she could run to that overstuffed Fairy Godmother and send them all on a one way trip back to the Isle. And most importantly, it was easy to forget that the last thing her mother had said to her before sending her here, wasn’t even a grudging goodbye but a warning:

“Once you get there, you better take out Maleficent’s brat, get the wand, and take down the barrier so I can finally get revenge on that foolish Triton and the rest of those fools of Auradon! But, if you fail, do me a favor”, Ursula had hissed, pulling her briefly away from the limo and shoving a small vile into Uma’s hand that she instantly without looking knew was poison from Yzma’s shop, “ and turn into seafoam so I never have to see your worthless pathetic face again!”

Though Uma had sixteen years of her mother’s verbal and physical abuse as evidence to prove that she shouldn’t be surprised, it still hurt to know her own mother would rather want her dead than have her fail.

Uma huffed at the thought, hands going up to collar of her jacket to keep out the early morning chill. She paused when her hand brushed against the warm chain around her neck. Alone with only her thoughts, Uma couldn’t help but let a silly little smile twist her lips up as she pulled the chain and the object attached out from underneath her shirt. In her hand was a small blue and green conch shell with some splatterings of gold that created unique patterns along the smooth surface that she had been given the other day when she was with Harry.

“Pixie dust ,” Harry murmured close to her, pointing out the gold splatterings on the smooth surface just before much larger, warmer, and callous hands gently placed the small trinket into her hand.

Uma lifted the shell up into the light, dazzled by how the shell made rainbow colors dance across her skin in.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Harry grinned next to her, enjoying the breeze from the lake as the sail boat they were in rocked gently on the water. It wasn’t anything like sailing on the sea but the coast was about three hours away, too far for last minute sailing. Another day, he thought already planning a sailing adventure that she would sure to enjoy.

Uma nodded, still entranced by the patterns the shell made. “I didn’t even know these existed.”

Harry stretched his arms above his head before smoothly placing his arm around her shoulders. Uma snorted at the contact but didn’t push him away, leaning into him slightly as he explained the process that led to pixie shells.

“Long before Benny-Boy’s dad and Fairy Godmother placed restrictions on magic and created the bridge between Neverland and the mainland, excess pixie dust from the fairies’ deposit in Pixie Hollow would run into the rivers,” Harry explained, watching the way her hardened mask melted away into a look of wonder. “Eventually, it would trickle out into the water surrounding the island and embed itself into the shells in the surrounding seabed. Doesn’t happen to all shells though nobody knows why. Part of the reason they’re so rare. Not even those on Neverland can get ahold of them easily.”

Uma hummed softly, absentmindedly playing with the thin chain that was attached to the shell. “Then how did you get this one? Steal? Flirt with one of Neverland’s pretty little mermaids to get you one?”

Harry snorted. “Ye’ve never met a Neverland mermaid if yer callin’ em pretty. This,” he said taking the necklace away from her only to unclasp it and put it around her neck. For a brief moment, Uma felt weightless, her attention on his little lopsided grin and how she liked it better than his cocky overconfident one he usually wore around others. “This belonged to my mother.”

Suddenly, the weightless feeling was gone and Uma pulled away from him, protest on her tongue as she reached to take off the necklace but something stopped her. She looked down and found that he had laced their fingers together.

“Keep it. Never-shells are for protecting,” he said raising both of her hands to his lips to press lingering kisses to their intertwined fingers.

She pushed him away with a frown set deep on her lips, storms brewing in her eyes. “I’m not some pastel pink princess needing to be saved. I don’t need you to save me.”

Harry chortled, getting up, but not before tugging her braid teasingly. “Ye must not have heard of my sisters if you think that’s the type of lass I’d seriously court.” He grinned to himself, adjusting the sails, when he saw how her cheeks darkened at his not so sly admission. (He considered it a good sign that she didn’t seem repulsed by the idea of him courting her.) “I’m not doubting that ye can take care of yourself. I’ve seen ye sneak into the gym after hours and work on yer swordplay with Gil. Anyone would be a right fool to underestimate ye.”

“Still though,” Uma insisted, ignoring her warm cheeks and getting up to her feet to adjust the rudder as he had taught her an hour or so before. “I can’t accept some dead woman’s jewelry I’ve never even met.” The ‘ I can’t take the only thing you have of her,’ was left unspoken though understood.

“Well you’re wearing your ma’s necklace,” Harry pointed out, nodding towards her mother’s old necklace. “So technically you’re already wearing some dead woman’s jewelry.”

Crossing her arms, Uma did not look amused.

“Okay, okay,” he held up his hands. “How about this then.” He gently took her hands in his, staring intently into her eyes. “Keep the necklace and I’ll take it back after ye cheer loudly for me at the Tourney game coming up, where I’ll have a little surprise for ya” he winked. “And for a fair exchange, ye can give me something that I’ll return back to ye as well.”

Though not looking completely pleased with the situation, Uma unhesitatingly reached around her neck and unclasped the necklace that once belonged to her mother. Harry’s hands instantly went to her waist to hold her steady as she balanced on the balls of her feet to clasp the necklace around his neck.

Harry’s fingers dug slightly into her hips as he felt her breath fan onto his cheek. He wanted to bottle this moment and keep it with him until his dying breath.

“Fair is fair, I suppose. Don’t lose this, sailor,” she said softly one hand idly playing with the hair at the back of his neck while the other one placed itself on his rapidly beating heart.

He smiled, his forehead leaning against hers as they let the lake gently rock the boat. “Aye, aye, captain.”

The strange fluttering warm feeling in her chest that Uma felt yesterday on the boat still flared up when she thought about him. And surprisingly, it was becoming a little less strange and almost something she looked forward to. Didn’t she deserve to be happy for once?

“Looks like someone is having a nice happy thought. Mind sharing?”

Uma nearly jumped, spinning around to come face to face with a grinning thief, leaning against a nearby tree as if he had always been there.

“Jay,” she murmured in acknowledgment, making a move to continue on her path when a tanned arm wrapped around her shoulders, steering her away from the library and in another direction. “What are you doing?” Uma frowned though she didn’t make too much of a struggle to get out of his hold. At the moment, he wasn’t being hostile and they were technically allies in this strange place (though she kept tabs of where his hands were at all times).

“What? Can’t go on an early morning stroll with an old friend?” the boy questioned with a grin.

“We’re not friends,” Uma finally pulled out of his hold but still walked along with him. That seemed to be enough to satisfy him as Jay allowed her to put several inches of space between them.

“Ouch! That hurts Uma!” Jay teased with an overplayed pained expression, his hand gripping tightly at his vest over where his heart was for a few seconds before he broke out into chuckles. Uma rolled her eyes, already fed up with whatever game he was trying to play. Jay may act the part but he wasn’t a fool.

“Spit it out! What do you want Jay?” Uma sighed stopping.

Jay stopped as well, his expression serious as he got straight to the point. “What’s going on with you and the Hook kid?”

Outwardly, Uma was expressionless. Inside panic began to spread. Possessive whispers in the back of her head growing louder into a chorus of “Mine! Stay away!”

“The same thing that we’re all trying to do,” she lied smoothly. “Find a way to get the damn wand.”

Jay looked at her in that way that she always hated even when they were little, when they could have once considered each other friends, like he was observing her, taking note of every opening in order to get the best steal.  

“It wouldn’t be surprising if it was Evie but I never expected you to take the seduction route,” he circled around her once before stopping, looking as if he was seeing her in a new light. It made Uma uneasy. She really didn’t want to be alone with him right now. “You really think Hook can get you to the wand?”

“ No,” Uma thought to herself. In all honesty, she had given the wand very little thought, either busy with her potions or...with Harry. But instead she answered, “Yes”.

“Really?” Jay murmured, a hint of disbelief in his tone. “Because it looks like you have a soft spot for the guy.”

“That’s the point,” Uma snorted, crossing her arms and praying to anyone listening (maybe her grandfather if he even gave a damn about her) that her voice came out even. “What are you trying to imply?” she snapped.

Jay briefly looked away and for a moment, it looked like he had a pained expression on his face, like he was struggling to say something  before he turned back to Uma with his usual smirk.

“Just giving a warning, babe,” he winked, moving closer as he reached out, tugging one her braids lightly. Uma’s hands turned into fists at her side, trying to hide the way they shook. It wasn’t affectionate like when Harry played with her hair. If anything, it made her skin crawl at Jay’s close proximity.  “You have one day to end whatever you have with lover boy or I tell Mal.”

“Is that a threat?” Uma narrowed her eyes, neither noticing how the sky suddenly became darker as the rising sun was covered with ominous looking grey clouds. The forecast had predicted clear sunny skies for the day.

Frowning down at her, Jay’s expression was serious and maybe, just a bit apologetic. “It’s a warning, Uma. You know you’re currently at the bottom of the Isle food chain. But this, this could raise you above all that Shrimpy bullshit. You, even Gil...you would really be one of us again...just like how we used to be.”

Thunder and lighting cracked the sky, raining pouring down but neither of the two teens moved for cover. “Like how we used to?” Uma chuckled darkly, eyes hard as the thunder boomed loudly above them. “Like we fucking used to?” she roared highlighted by lightning as she shoved Jay and his hand away from her. “You mean like when my best friend humiliated me and covered me in rotten shrimp?” she asked pushing his shoulders hard, catching the boy slightly off guard with her strength. He wobbled to gain his balance. “You mean like how everyone else, all of my friends and alliances, except for Gil, turned their back on me because they were afraid of some spoiled brat tattling to her mommy? How you just stood there?” She shoved him again, this time making him stumble back and lose his balance where he landed in a muddy puddle.

Despite his completely soiled appearance, Jay looked up at the girl through the rain, his expression bordering pleading. (But that couldn’t be right...It was just all part of his game, Uma thought. To make her look weak and gullible like Mal did when they were ten.)

“Uma,” Jay said slowly, carefully. “If you’re against Mal you’ve basically put a noose around your neck. Ya gotta think carefully about this. My hands will be tied if you go on like this. There’s only so much looking out I can do for you and your sailor and that little side potions business that you haven’t really been doing a good job hiding before Mal finds out. Is this pretty boy even worth it?”

Uma sneered down at him. “Don’t pretend to look out for me, Jay. Because no one’s looking out for me. It’s just me. You made your decision when you allowed Mal to torment and humiliate me for the past six years on the Isle. I already know where you stand though,” Uma laughed cruelly. “You pathetic little street rat.”

Jay’s pleading look faded, his face turning hard and unreadable. “One day, Uma. End it,” he said getting up to his feet and pushing past her, “before I let Mal end you.”

Uma held her ground for several minutes, until she was sure that Jay was no longer around before she fell to her knees, ignoring the mud that began to seep through her jeans, and pretending that it was just the rain that was running down her face.

---

Harry spent the night after talking to his sister struggling to find sleep. He spent hours into the morning in bed, mind filled with every possible scenario involving Harriet meeting Uma. His father meeting Uma…

He sighed, as he listened to the rain pounding against his window. Memories of the other day sailing with Uma managed to brighten up the gloom of his thoughts. He had just gotten out of his bed, scrubbing tiredly at his face, wondering if he should just get up and try to burn off some restless energy before seeing if his sea goddess had holed herself up in the library again when he heard a knock at his door.

“Harry?”

Instantly, he made his way to the door, nearly tripping over his own feet twice in his haste. When he pulled open the door, he wasn’t expecting to see her.

“Mal?”

Maleficent’s daughter smiled brightly up at him, twirling a purple lock around her finger. “Hi Harry! Can we talk?”

[bravegirlwrites]

12

My husband Jerod asked me to marry him on September 27, 2010. It was a bright and breezy Sunday morning, the tail end of a long weekend trip we had taken with some of our closest friends to visit their family’s cattle ranch in the Bitteroot Valley of Montana. It had been a happy homecoming for our friends, reuniting with loved ones in the place where they’d grown up. Even for Jerod who had made the trip before and dearly loved the land and the people who lived there, it was a return of sorts. But for me it was a brand new adventure.

I had never been to Montana before or worn a pair of skin-tight Wranglers, but after quickly learning that there isn’t one without the other I happily went out and bought my first pair. (A decision I ultimately regretted after realizing that it took no fewer than ten minutes of writhing around on the floor and squatting in all sorts of unholy positions to get them on and fully zipped.) I wore them every single day of our trip, along with a pair of pale pink Ariat work boots and a Coors Light tshirt I had gotten for free at a rodeo a few years before. I was the prettiest, phoniest cowgirl around.

Things got a little more real when I volunteered to help vaccinate the growing calves our first morning there. I was told that I did a good job, and I was happy to help for sure, but it ended up being all the hands-on experience with livestock I could handle. I spent the rest of our time on the ranch feeding treats to the horses and just plain sitting on my ass in the sunshine. Our days were also filled with hikes up into the mountains, long, reckless rides on the four-wheelers and hearty meals that came entirely from their land. It got to where I felt like a straight up pioneer. I even stopped caring about fat grams or whether or not there was mud on my shoes and everything. It was in this contented, carefree state of mind that I hopped into the car with Jerod and set out for a drive on the last day of our trip. I’d known as soon as I’d seen him that morning that THIS WAS IT. His freshly ironed, button-down shirt and clean shaven face gave him away, and then of course there was that email that I had accidentally seen a few weeks earlier confirming the pick-up of an engagement ring. In retrospect, you’d think that I would have worn something other than my faded Lucky jeans and Kansas Jayhawks hoodie, what with the whole knowing he was going to propose thing, but I guess I had just been too happy to care. (On a side note, that very sweatshirt happens to be my husband’s least favorite piece of clothing of mine because I wear it approximately every two days. Still, even now, six years later. The elbows are nearing threadbare status and I fear the day that it will no longer be wearable in public. There will be a funeral. You are invited.) There was nothing all that fancy about the whole ordeal. No champagne or fireworks, no big party with two hundred of our closest friends and family and definitely no professional photographer hidden in the nearby bushes waiting to capture every magical detail. I didn’t even have a Pinterest board filled with links to the top trending blog posts about engagement announcements. In fact we only took two pictures that morning, one of which I’m pretty sure I deleted because my chin dimple appeared a bit too prominent. We simply drove straight up into the mountains, pushing my little Honda Element to its limits while we listened to Coldplay’s “Fix You” on repeat. Most of the drive was spent cliffside and so I don’t even remember what we talked about, only that I kept a death grip on my arm rests. We actually never ended up finding the lookout point Jerod had in mind, but when we stopped a while later so I could pee, we found a small cliffside clearing that offered a view we found to be spectacular enough. And that’s how it happened. I popped a squat and then he asked me to be his wife. We kissed, or at least I’m pretty sure we did. It was one of those moments that’s too beautiful to fully experience, a memory that’s hazy from the start, even as its first happening. We enjoyed the view for awhile and then decided we were starving and should head back down for lunch. Before we started up the car we sat next to each other in the front seats, pressed our foreheads against each other and cried. (Actually, I cried and then my tears kind of got on Jerod’s face, but whatever… Details, schmetails). It had been the best moment of my life up until that point and continues to rank right up there today. I still drive my Element, only now it has several thousand more miles on it and two car seats strapped in the back. I thought about making a promise to myself, something along the lines of taking a moment here or there while I’m driving around to remember that one of my most favorite memories happened there, but nah. I wouldn’t follow through with it anyway. It was beautiful and it happened. And that is enough.

[sending-the-message]

There's No Helping Dizzy Gillespie by ljhall

I first met Dizzy Gillespie last week, about three months after she died.

(Her name wasn’t really Dizzy, it was Disney. Her mom was hyped up on something when she went in to give birth, and kept insisting that her daughter be named for a Disney princess. The nurses assumed she meant a specific princess and kept suggesting names to her, Belle, Jasmine, but she just kept shouting ‘Disney Princess, Disney Princess’ until Disney Princess Gillespie was printed on the birth certificate.

She got the nickname Dizzy later. Had nothing to do with the old jazz musician; it was because she was ‘clumsy’ and fell down a lot.

But I didn’t know any of this until recently. I didn’t know anything about her.)

In Reno there’s a paved bicycle path that wanders down by the Truckee River just off downtown. It’s sketchy in places (like Reno itself), but I’ve always felt safe walking the stretch between the Auto Museum and my apartment. During most of the year the river is wide but shallow, and you always see people on the rocks off the bike path, fishing or feeding ducks. Plenty of homeless people nap in the grass. None of that makes me uncomfortable.

The day I met Dizzy, I was headed home after work. In a hurry, because I didn’t have the money to stop and get food so I had to make sure something was in the oven before my boyfriend Colin got home. But I spotted her, crouching down by the water, and something made me stop instantly.

She was all alone, and she was tiny. I’m not too good with kids but I put her at being maybe six or seven. And god, she was thin. She wore dirty salmon-pink jeans and a threadbare t-shirt, and I could see the bones in her wrists and elbows from off the path. The sharpness of her shoulder under the thin shirt, the knobs of bone at her spine as she hunched over.

Her hair was long and tangled and mousy brown. Her hands, with their knobby wrists and bony fingers, were filthy.

I couldn’t look away from her.

She appeared to be playing idly, flicking her fingers in the water, rocking back and forth a little bit. There were some men fishing a good way down, but other than that this stretch of the path was empty.

I usually try to mind my own business, but this was too much. I left the path and moved over a few wider rocks towards her. Not wanting to scare her, or seem like some hovering pervert or something, I cleared my throat when I was still a few feet away.

She turned to look up at me. Her dirty hand pushed dirty hair out of the way of a dirty, shadowed face.

For a moment when she first turned I felt tense, nervous, like I was half expecting her to behave like a jump scare in a movie trailer. But she was just a normal little girl. Her eyes were too big and too round, her cheekbones pronounced, her skin really pale, though it was oddly yellow around her eyes.

She was so fucking thin.

I don’t know how to talk to kids, but I cleared my throat again, feeling uncomfortable. “Honey, is there somebody here with you? Do you need any help?”

The little girl tilted her head a little, stringy hair sliding off one shoulder. She smiled. “No help,” she said.

Her voice…it was too quiet, but I heard it clearly, from close up. It was like looking at a TV screen playing on mute, but hearing the sound through earbuds. Her voice shouldn’t have reached me over the flow of the water and the traffic up on the bridge. But it did, it came right to me like she was somehow standing right beside me, speaking into both my ears at once.

The strangeness of that only hit me later. All I could think about, looking at the girl, was that she was so skinny it made me want to cry.

We were only about a block and a half from the apartment. I knew Colin would throw a fit if there was a strange kid there when he got home, but I couldn’t stop myself.

“Hey, um. Why don’t you come with me? I’m gonna make some dinner, and we can call your folks or whoever to come get you.”

The little girl rose to her feet. Bare feet, and her dirty toes balancing on the wide, flat stone somehow made me want to cry even harder.

I didn’t move in closer but I held out my hand. “Come on, sweetie, let me help you.”

Her lips were so pale they looked white when she spoke. “No help,” she said, slow and solemn. Then the smile stretched to a grin, and her voice in my ears went sing-song. “There’s no helping Dizzy.”

Confused, I took a step closer.

Without a pause, without another word, without the slightest sound, the girl was somehow gone.

I was looking directly at her when it happened. One moment she was there, water dripping from her fingers, hair skirted by the breeze, solid and real. And then nothing. An empty rock.

I’ve never seen anything like that. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but I felt sick, damn near terrified, staring at the empty space where that little girl had been.

I’m dreaming, was the first thing I thought. But no, I remembered my whole shift at the call center, and waking up that morning. Everything else around me was still sharp and clear.

I almost reached out, almost went to that rock and felt around, because it seemed impossible that she just wasn’t there anymore.

But instead I moved back over the rocks to the bike path, and I stood there a long time watching the water. Hearing her voice in my head, like she was right there whispering in my ears.

There’s no helping Dizzy.

I wanted to tell someone about it, but I haven’t talked to my mom in a while and most of my friends aren’t my friends anymore (Colin says everybody moves on and that’s how it should be, us having a new life together without people interfering). Colin’s been tense about work lately, and the quieter I am with him the better.

So after I made dinner and he settled down with his X-Box, I headed for the internet.

I felt dumb even typing the searches into Google. ‘I saw a girl who vanished’ and ‘can people just disappear’ and of course those were pointless. I felt sick, though, bothered by the fact that people can’t just vanish, that I knew she was there, that I could still hear her voice in my head.

On a whim I Googled ‘There’s no helping Dizzy,’ and got a bunch of medical websites about vertigo. Then, thinking about it, I looked up just Dizzy, and Reno. Still a bunch of vertigo sites, and some links to doctors in Reno.

But at the top of the results, in a box my eyes had moved right past at first, there was a link to a news story.

And that’s where I learned about Dizzy Gillespie.

Her parents had been arrested. That was the news story. The police had gone into their home - they lived in an old RV parked at a trailer park south of where I lived - looking for drugs or something. They found the barely-alive body of eleven-year-old Disney Gillespie, locked into this tiny alcove of a back bedroom.

She died in the hospital the next day. Starved to death. Long term malnutrition. She was small for her age, the doctors said. Way too small, so this had been going on for years. All her life.

She hadn’t been to school in weeks, later articles said, asking how this child could fall through the cracks. I wanted to know that too, but then…I lived in the same city where all this happened and I never even noticed the news stories.

Affectionately known by her friends as Dizzy, the article said. It quoted her teacher, Mrs. Novak, who was just devastated by the news. Just shocked. Stunned. Who could ever do that? Their own child.

None of the articles had any pictures of her, but I guess that wasn’t surprising. There were shots of her mom, too young and hollow-eyed and bruised up the arms as she was led in cuffs into a police car. Her dad, thin from long-term drugs, long-haired, half his teeth crumbled away.

Colin came up behind me as I was looking at one of the pictures, making me go still. He put his hand down on my shoulder and pointed at the screen. “Jimmy Gillespie. Can you believe I went to school with that piece of shit?”

I don’t know why but I felt uncomfortable. “You knew about this? The little girl?”

“I had twenty different idiots sending me links on Facebook, sure. This is why I’m never having kids, shit like this. World’s nuts.”

“Yeah.” I sat still and waited until he wandered back to the couch.

There was a time I wanted kids, but. Not with Colin. Maybe not ever. I’m getting older than most women when they start having kids. He’s pointed that out before, a few times.

But I never really worried about it before now. Suddenly, though, there was a little girl’s thin, shadowed features in my head, a little voice chanting in my ears. No helping Dizzy.

That voice was right. She was dead. She died three months ago. There was literally no help anyone could offer anymore. It was too late.

I couldn’t stop thinking about her that night, or at work the next day. I take calls for a few different companies, some mail-order hair-growth formula, and a website that sells coins on QVC or whatever. Did you know people still call in and order CD compilations of Motown hits? They do. I take those calls, maybe three a day.

Nothing exciting, and I have a lot of time to get lost in my own head.

I had no doubt that I saw what I saw. Colin tells me all the time that I remember things wrong, that I think he said things he never said. But this was different. I knew it for a fact when I went on his Facebook during a break and saw some of the things people had sent. Saw a picture, finally, of Dizzy Gillespie herself, sitting on the lap of a mall Santa, gaunt-eyed and insubstantial. I knew I’d never seen that picture before, and I knew that was the same girl I saw by the water.

That meant something. It had to. I never believed in ghosts before, but I couldn’t exactly argue with my own eyes.

I went home the same way as always, and took it extra slow on the bike path as it edged down to the water. But there was no sign of her.

I was so distracted thinking about it that I didn’t get dinner started on time, and had to call Colin and ask him to pick up something on his way home. He showed up with a bag from McDonalds and one drink, and told me to figure my own shit out.

Which, I mean, was fair. I was the one who messed up. There was ramen, it wasn’t like I had to go hungry.

He went to bed early. Before he did he came up to me at the computer and he kissed my hair and told me he was sorry for being an asshole. He’s a good guy, really. He’s going through some things at work, and when things at home don’t go according to plan, he just…anyone would get mad.

I gave him a little while to fall asleep before I went back to the bedroom.

And there, by the bed, was Dizzy.

She was standing there, right in the pool of lamplight that came in through the window. Still wearing that thin t-shirt and those pink jeans. She stood without moving, looking at the bed. At Colin, as he slept. In the darkness, the sharp angles of her face looked almost carved, like she was just shy of being pure bone and skin.

I stood there frozen, just staring at this child, this impossible presence. I was scared to speak up, scared of waking him, or scaring her off, or something.

After a long minute, she turned her head to look at me. And I heard her voice in my head, loud and clear, though this time her mouth didn’t move to speak the words herself.

There’s no helping Dizzy.

And she was gone.

I called in to work the next day and took the bus down near the RV park.

I had no idea what was driving me to go. But I wanted to see.

There was a low gate at the road coming in, with an intercom you were supposed to buzz, but the gate was busted and hanging open anyway so I just pushed through and went in. It wasn’t a particularly scary place. Poor, obviously, but like the homeless on the bike path home poverty didn’t scare me in itself. I grew up poor, and had a pretty unlucky life. If it wasn’t for Colin I’d probably still be in some basement studio in a building that rented out most its rooms by the week.

There were trailers on the property, some with gates set up like little yards, with chairs and grills and things set out (and chained together so they didn’t get stolen). Some of the lots had RVs sitting in them, most of them looking like they hadn’t been on a road in years.

The RV that I’d seen in pictures, in articles about Dizzy, wasn’t there. Instead there was an empty lot waiting for its next tenant.

I don’t know what I wanted to find, but I stood there looking around for a little while, sure I hadn’t found it yet. Maybe it was in the RV itself, towed out to some police lot or junkyard or maybe pulled apart by the neighbors and integrated into their own lots.

“You looking for somebody?”

The voice made me jump, and I focused to see an older woman in the doorway to the trailer beside the empty lot. She looked nervous, peering out her door with paranoid, troubled eyes.

I hesitated, but approached her. “I was looking for…” I couldn’t think up a lie, so I just gestured to that empty lot as if it was an answer.

“You with the news?”

“No, I just…I knew her,” I said suddenly, out of nowhere. “Dizzy.”

“Dizzy.” The woman paled. She pushed the door open, moved off the little stair and down onto the gravel and grass that made up her lot. “You know we did everything we could for her,” she said to me, her voice pitched loud all the sudden.

I frowned, looking around, but there wasn’t anyone else in sight. “What do you--“

“I mean it. We did everything. We couldn’t have known. There’s no way we could have…”

Her eyes went past me and down, and her steps stumbled. She stopped moving, her sun-lined face losing color. “Oh god.”

“Ma’am? Are you okay?”

“She won’t leave me alone,” the woman answered, her voice suddenly ragged, her eyes horrified and growing wet as I looked. “She’s always here. Please…” She wasn’t talking to me, her eyes locked just behind me.

I looked back, and to be honest I was entirely expecting to see Dizzy there. It made sense to me, that she would show herself to these people. That she would be here, where home used to be, often.

But I didn’t see anything there.

When I looked back the woman was moving, stumbling backwards, making the sign of the cross with a shaking hand. “I’m sorry! Leave me alone, I’m sorry!”

The thin side door of the trailer slammed with a sharp bang.

I waited a moment, then turned around again.

Dizzy stared at the trailer, but looked up at me fast. She smiled.

For some reason, I smiled back.

My next trip was to North Nevada Middle School. It was about a mile walk and two busses to get there, but I never hesitated.

Children didn’t starve to death in a vacuum. Dizzy went to school. Dizzy lived in close quarters with other people, other families. Dizzy had been tiny and malnourished, had earned a nickname because she was so lightheaded and weak that she stumbled and fell all the time. But the neighbor said she couldn’t have known, and the teachers were just so, so shocked.

She was so small I thought she was half the age she really was. That wasn’t something people could just miss.

School was still in session when I walked up from the bus stop. I was alone, from what I could tell, but …I wasn’t alone. She was there, somewhere.

The kids in the classrooms I passed seemed a lot older than I expected. The teacher from the paper, her homeroom teacher, was Mrs. Novak. The school was basically one long hallway with side corridors for the lunch room and the gym, so she wasn’t hard to find.

Well, her room wasn’t.

When I peered in, there was a man at the head of the classroom, droning on to a pack of bored eleven-year-olds. Behind him, on a square cork board, homemade cards were pinned. Over it, written in dry erase on a whiteboard, was Get Well Soon Mrs. Novak.

I knew at once why she wasn’t there. I knew that she had looked out at her classroom more than once over the last three months, and saw a girl who shouldn’t have been there. A fatally skinny girl with stringy hair and pink pants. I knew it had driven her away, made her sick.

Good.

Feeling satisfied, I moved back down the hall without saying anything.

There was a small office with big open glass windows, right near the front doors. I passed them by slowly, wondering who else Dizzy appeared to. The principal? Other students? Friends of her parents who knew something was wrong but did nothing? Cops who had done welfare checks and left her in that RV? Her parents, sitting in jail with nowhere to run to get away?

The office door opened as I passed, and a woman - young, sweet looking, younger than me I think - peeked out at me. “Miss, is there something…” She trailed off. Her gaze drifted down, and horror filled her face. She let the doorway at once, slamming it behind her, and I could hear her voice. Muffled through the wall, but panicked, damn near shrieking. “She’s here! She’s here, Jesus help us.”

I headed out the door.

Outside the sun was blazing hot and merciless, and everything seemed to be stalled around me. Traffic was a distant hum, birds were quiet, probably napping in shade.

I looked over and down, and Dizzy was there. She looked up at me with the same sad smile.

“You don’t look like this when they see you, do you?” I asked.

She shook her head, her smile growing wide and mischievous. She pointed at me, and at herself, a question in her expression.

Did I want to see?

I wasn’t sure I did, but I braced myself and nodded.

It was as disconcerting as when she had vanished into thin air that first day. One moment she was one way, and the next…

I knew why that woman had screamed, and why the teacher stayed home sick.

Dizzy’s thinness had been horrifying to me before, but now she was a skeleton. Every bone clear through her skin, her head a skull with staring eyes and drooping hair. Her skin was shriveled, decaying, splotched with purple where it wasn’t paper-white. Her lips were spreading away from her gums, her eyelids were too wide, receding back the same way. Her mouth was open, shadows making it look black and empty and…

…hungry.

Permanently, agonizingly hungry.

This was the body they had found, I was sure. This was what the neglect of so many people had brought about.

In another moment, Dizzy was back to being the sad, skinny, but smiling girl I had first seen.

I felt the wet heat of tears going down my face, and absently swiped them away. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s no helping Dizzy,” she said.

I wondered who those words first came from. Was it something her mother said to outsiders who expressed concern over the little girl, trying to convince them that her daughter just wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t grow? Was it something the teacher said, while calling the girl Dizzy like her stumbles were caused by a lack of grace and not a lifetime of neglect? Was it spoken with a laugh, a dismissive wave, a ‘kids will be kids, she’ll grow out of it’ kind of casualness?

How many times had Dizzy heard it, for it to be the only words she held on to now?

Another question came to me, and this was one I actually had to ask. “Why…how can I see you?”

Dizzy shrugged. But she reached out and pointed a bony finger at me.

I looked down, lifting the arm she was pointing at. I blinked in surprise to see a bruise I hadn’t noticed before, dark and wide and in a shape I recognized well.

He hadn’t meant to grab me so hard. I was in his way, he was running late. He hadn’t been sleeping well, he told me in apology before he left, kissing my head like always.

I rubbed at my bruised skin absently. “He doesn’t hurt me,” I said, looking down at Dizzy. “Not on purpose.”

She looked up at me, her smile faded into a tight line. “There’s no helping Dizzy,” she said again, pointing at my arm insistently.

And I wonder, even now…if I really do need it, is there any help for me?

[ecotone99]

I Wish I Was My Mistress The Prostitute’s Parrot Again

I don’t ask for much. All I want is to be back in Paris on the perch in my cage where between the bars my mistress the prostitute had wedged a cuttlebone for me to sharpen my beak and claws.

I want her to teach me French again from the beginning: all the pretty and affectionate things she had me say when I was still too animal to know words from meaningless, musical, melodiously beautiful sound.

“Bel oiseau, ma chérie. Très magnifique.”

I’ve always loved the sound of French words even when I don’t understand their meaning. That’s because I’ve always loved my mistress. She had syphilis and the bacteria had eaten the womb out of her. To humans she smelled horrible most of the time but for her gentlemen she wore natural perfumes instilled from the flowers of the gardens of Grasse that thinly concealed her dying smell.

To my bird-senses she smelled always of slabs of pink salt and the wide tropical sea that ran along the market aviaries of the French Riviera where she bought me for a few francs one hot August. I was not sad to leave the lovebirds— some too threadbare to fly, some dead in the wicker baskets. I went willingly to Paris. Paris was my paradise. The syphilitic whores of that dirty city were my goddesses. And she— my mistress— she was the Queen of Heaven.

My mistress the prostitute died in August— a different August than that one by the clear, sparkling sea. Her teeth had rotten just like her innards. The gentlemen never called anymore because there were not perfumes enough to hide her stink. She had no money for food but still she fed me pink melon until the last. And as she fed me she’d speak to me:

“Bel oiseau. Bel oiseau,” she cooed through the bars of my cage and through her own rotten breath.

And I’d answer her: “Bel oiseau, ma chérie. Très magnifique.”

When she stopped breathing I spoke to her for hours. I didn’t know what the words meant but even as a bird I knew enough to associate the sounds with her and with our affection for each other. I think I thought that if I said the words just right my mistress would come back to me. But she never did.

I starved to death inside my cage. I remember biting at the cuttlebone and screaming. The pain in my body was intense for many days. But when I came to die I was too exhausted even for pain. When they found the prostitute’s body they buried her in the poor quarter. As for me? They threw me in the midden with what remained of her furniture.

Those were the best years of my eternity.

I don’t like being a human being. I’m tired of its complex nastiness and its inanity.

I don’t like it here. I want to go back.

submitted by /u/BTJoy [link] [comments] source https://www.reddit.com/r/shortscarystories/comments/grvih5/i_wish_i_was_my_mistress_the_prostitutes_parrot/ via Blogger https://ift.tt/2TKZ1qm

[apostateangela]

Wearing Worthiness part 1

There’s a lot of loss that accompanies my stepping away from the Mormon church.

Some of it is obvious.

Some of it is not obvious at all.

Some of it I have already discussed.

There is much more to come, of this I am sure.

The loss can be overwhelming at times.

I often feel empty and untethered, floating away into nothingness.

I tell myself I have to make room for the new things, when I fight to fill the hollowness that expands with each thread that is pulled from the fabric of my identity.

I’ve become quite threadbare, nearly naked.

Sometimes it feels good to be naked.

It lets you see who you really are underneath it all.

I had someone tell me once that to truly learn to love yourself you should walk around your house naked until you are comfortable with and love your own body.

That’s quite revolutionary really.

It actually works.

I know...now.

But I have not always.

This is initially because it has not been acceptable to be naked in any way except when I bathed or during sex with my husband.

Modesty, the process of covering things to keep them held apart, special, even sacred has been communicated to me from the time I was a very small child.

Too bad the byproduct of modesty is often shame.

When someone tells you it is wrong to reveal parts of your body, it communicates that those parts of you are somehow wrong.

It also makes you hide yourself.

When people are surprised about the gaps in my life and exclaim, “Where have you been?”

I tell them, “I’ve been living under a rock for over 40 years.”

This is not just because of the things I haven’t seen, know about, or experienced.

It is also because I have been keeping myself hidden literally and figuratively from the world.

I was taught to hide so much of myself that the discovery of who I am underneath all the layers of oppression is as remarkable as it is disturbing.

It is almost impossible to deal with the literal when it comes to a religion that places symbology on everything. Likewise it is hard to narrow things for a single blog post when so many elements intertwine. But I shall try to be as focused as possible here.

I literally covered my body with layers of clothing from knee to neck--shoulder to shoulder.

One of the most strange and interesting things about Mormons is their weird underwear.

If you know anything about Mormons or know any Mormons you probably know that they might wear some kind of ‘special’ underwear.

They are called temple garments.

You start wearing them after you turn eighteen, if you choose to go to the temple and participate in the ordinances there. This usually happens when a young man goes on a mission or a young woman gets married. Sure, girls go on missions too. But when I was a young woman this only happened if you were 21 and unmarried, essentially an ‘old maid’.

(I know the craziness of that idea, believe me)

As I got married at nineteen, and in the temple, I started wearing these garments as my underclothing. They come in various fabrics but the style is the same; bottoms from waist to knee and tops that have a neckline that ranged from crew to round (still well above and cleavage area) with cap sleeves that covered your shoulders. Your regular clothing had to be such that your garments were covered.

Do you understand what I’m saying here?

No tank tops--no sleeveless anything, no shorts or skirts above your knees, no bare midriffs. Yes you could go swimming, but only wearing a very ‘modest’ one piece swimsuit, and be ACTUALLY swimming.

In Utah clothing stores carry clothing that works within these parameters, but other places, not so much. Finding appropriate clothing was a struggle in more ways than one and deviation was difficult to even fathom after years of programming.

I remember borrowing my college roommate's bikini swimsuit to wear sunbathing once and the scandalous feelings that overwhelmed me to the point that I had to eventually cover up.

I wore the temple garments for 25 years of my life. I followed, for the most part, the Mormon principles of modesty for 46 years.

I know what you’re thinking, (maybe I do) “That’s crazy.” and “When/why did you stop wearing that craziness?”

Before I tell you why and when, first I have to link to this underwear the concept of worthiness--yes, it gets crazier.

The wearing of the temple garments is connected directly to how ‘worthy’ of a Mormon you are. Because you start wearing them after you ‘do’ the ordinances in the temple for yourself the first time, you can only continue to wear them if you maintain this condition of worthiness.

This is attached to something called a temple recommend.

It is a card you are issued signed by church priesthood (male) leadership after a yearly interview (2 years now) that represents that you are able to answer honestly a series of questions about how you are living in the appropriate way.

The topics of these questions range from modesty, to obeying the basic ten commandments (lying, adultery, stealing, etc), to obeying the Word of Wisdom (food and drug consumption), to attending your church meetings, to obeying your husband, to your professed belief in Jesus Christ , to your connections to apostate groups, and whether you sustain and support the church leadership.

There are a lot of rules.

There are a lot of questions you have to answer.

The answers have to be correct.

This is all based on ‘sin’.

If you are sinning, you are not worthy to have a temple recommend, use that to go to the temple, or wear the temple garments.

If you are ever found "unworthy" through the breaking of any rules, one of the first punishments/penaty's is that you have to stop wearing the garments until you are again found worthy. The discomfort and bareness of your own skin reminds you of your shame.

Wait, there’s more…

The temple garments themselves have symbols sewn into them that are to act as reminders of what you have to do. They are called the “sign of the compass, the square, the navel, and the knee” all with articulated and memorized sacred meanings. In fact, if your underwear gets old and wears out you have a specific prescribed way to dispose of them so that the symbols are destroyed to prevent them from being defiled or falling into unworthy hands.

They are supposed to act as a reminder of your covenants and worthiness criteria as well as to “act as a shield and protection to you.” There are actual Mormon urban legends about how this supernatural protection has been quite literal.

Example: LDS person was in a car accident where the car caught fire and the only place they were not burned was the skin under their garments.

(Stopping bullets? Yep I’ve even heard that)

Now that all of this batshit craziness has been established, understand that I unfortunately bought into ALL OF IT!

Even after my husband left I continued to wear the underwear and follow the rules. After eight months of mourning a few things happened: my body woke up, I started drinking alcohol, and the Women’s March (of which I’ve already written). These things collectively led to my leaving the church. But before the Women’s March and my actual departure I embraced some heavy sinning.

I’ll just address the first moment here that led to my finally shedding my Mormon undergarments. (blog post about my enjoyment of alcohol and the journey of my sexestential crisis will be forthcoming)

As my body starting waking up and wanting attention I made some crazy-hard choices. Remember I had made promises to God to only engage in sexual activities with my husband. And as a literal fucking anomaly (I’d only had one sexual partner), it was beyond scary.

I was held by decades of conformity and conditioned shame.

But it was also exciting and my body was demanding it, loudly!

The first time I let another man see my naked body amazingly broke those chains of shame.

That is not an easy task, breaking that kind of brain-body-washing (see what I did there?).

This is how you do it; reveal yourself to a sweet young massage therapist almost two decades younger than you. Someone who has seen lots of bodies, who sees beauty beyond the social norm, and will touch you all over.

Needless to say it was an amazing experience.

Life changing.

Like break the threads of your cocoon transformational!

Most surprising was my joyful discovery that

I WAS NOT ASHAMED!

It was miraculous!

(yes, I embrace the irony)

Thank you Andrew.