#but perhaps it is hungry. you don’t know. you can’t know. it’s unfathomable. no living thing looks like this

[crazyw3irdo]

Trink or treat :3

Can i ask for a deer in headlights?

deer in headlights has gotta be in like, the top 20 coolest symbolisms/metaphors/iconography/whatever to invoke in art

[noir-drabbles]

Draft 4

Summary: On the final layer of this frozen lab where no living creature should be, Alban encounters you as you step through the doors, untouched by the temperatures.

(Was playing Cataclysm: Dark Days Ahead and got struck with this little scene. Not complete, obviously, but I got over 800 words out, so I consider that a win! If this was to be a whole short story, it probably be about the Reader counting out how many promises where broken while in that final floor lab cell, and Alban basically being the one to carry the torch of those broken promises, even though the one who made said promises was the same person that gave his little sibling a horrible fate. Reader is not Alban's sibling by the way, but said sibling was involved in Reader's creation. I think.)

And out of the mist, in slow and leisurely steps, came you. Untouched by the frost that covers the walls, you pace through with only an over-sized lab coat to keep you warm.

He raised his gun, because what was he supposed to do when someone seemingly immune to this freezer of a lab pads out of the yawning jaws of wretched open iron doors? Everything that Alban has encountered down here hasn’t been human, why would he start to believe that you were suddenly the exception?

However, he didn’t shoot. When you’re in the lonely hellscape of a world for as long as he has, one can’t help but want to grasp at that small chance of another intelligent being. Someone to talk to and just, have a reminder that one’s not alone. A stupid desire, but it stayed his fingers either way.

“You’re…” and you spoke first, ignoring everything for the sake of focusing on his face, as though that was more interesting than the possibility that your body will be filled with bullets, “You’re not a face I recognize. Are you new? Do you know where everybody went?”

The ease in your tone spoke of confidence in one’s safety. You don’t think he’s a danger to you. And with all the creatures and undead Alban has found, trapped and killed, he probably wasn’t. If a battle broke out, he’d probably be lucky to even keep his torso.

…then, let’s talk. Distract and, perhaps, have a comrade. Or at least a neutral acquaintance.

“I don’t know,” Alban lowered his aim but never put his weapon away. Instead, he pointed to the curled back doors behind you, layer upon layers of metal bent by some unfathomable force. “Did you do that?”

“Hmm?” You turned back and looked around, peering into the darkness before landing on the doors, “Oh. Yes, I did. The power went out a bit ago, so I had to tear my way through. Am I in trouble?”

The look of guilt was gentle, almost afraid. His younger sibling gave him a look like that once, when they scribbled over the carpet with permanent marker. They didn’t know it was a bitch to wash out, in much the same way that you probably didn’t know that you’re not supposed to be tearing doors.

It’s… uncomfortable. Here he is, in a lab that got colder and colder with every sub-floor Alban entered, like whatever these bastards had they wanted to preserve in ice.

“What?” Because what else was he supposed to say?

“Sorry,” you rubbed the back of your neck, “Here, let me see if I can fix them. I didn’t let anyone out, I promise. I was just hungry.”

“Uh, wait wait, you uh,” this was dumb, he shouldn’t be doing this, he should be running, but he’s been alone for too long and dammit, he wanted to know more, “if you’re hungry, then here,” he dug out a protein bar, half-frozen and nearly impossible to bite through, “I got this.”

He’s got more, just in case. It’s a day over it’s expiration date but he’s sure it won’t kill you or anyone. He thinks. He’s not sure. Either way, starving, it’s not a way anyone should go, monster or otherwise. It was something those little kids shouldn’t have experienced.

You perked up with interest and, as much as he’d hate to say it, the innocence–the delicately and deliberately cultivated innocence–was disarming. It felt normal, and for a moment, Alban wasn’t living in a world that was ravaged by a splintering reality. In a world where ice doesn’t flow from the all-consuming black eye in the sky and humans don’t freeze over and break out of their shells as nightmare-ish creatures.

Here, it just felt like Alban encountered a strange person that needed a helping hand as much as he did.

You grabbed it in both hands, your likely stolen lab coat falling from your shoulders, leaving you in a stiff and dirty hospital gown reserved for all lab rats. The ice didn’t affect you, not a single part of you was even dusted in crystals, but even so, Alban dug into his backpack and pulled out a spare parka.

He draped it over your shoulders just as you bit into the bar, bits of it splintering right onto the floor.

“Thank you,” you said after swallowing, wiping at your mouth, “So, who are you, really?”

“Nobody important,” at least not to this lab. He doesn’t know much of this place, and he doubts this lab ever knew of his existence beyond just a name in a family tree. “Just a stranger to this place. My name’s Alban, and I’m just here to find out something.”

A trail of never ending papers and entries, of constant transfers from lab to hospital to another lab, and finally, here. A layers deep laboratory known more as a sarcophagus, a crypt. A place for unstable, and unusable waste.

His sibling was taken here, that’s all Alban knows.

[curiosity-killed]

grey hours

word count: 1685 cw: mentions of suicide/suicidal ideation

“You can’t be serious,” Jisel said.

Callebero shrugged, passing the wine to Sirion at the third point of their little triangle.

“You can’t marry till you’re of age,” he said. “That’s two decades from your first nameday.”

Staring at him, Jisel squinted as if she could suss out a lie underneath. After a moment of futile searching, she turned to Sirion.

“He’s joking, right?” she demanded.

Caught in the middle of a sip, Sirion wrinkled his nose but still lifted his left hand to shake it once in the negative. Callebero leaned forward, a grin curving up his lips.

“Alas, were it not for the laws of this land, we really could have had a runaway romance as the rumors tell it,” he teased. “Here you could be imperial consort and—“

Wadding up the waxed fabric cover of the jar, Jisel threw it at his face. He caught it before it hit because he was a little shit, but he was laughing.

“And here all you’ve given me is my kingdom,” Jisel retorted, dry. “What a paltry betrothal gift.”

“Hie, I didn’t give you anything,” Callebero said, pointing at her with the hand clutching the pink fabric. “The whole scholarly court accorded you the title based on a thorough review of the histories.”

Rolling her eyes, Jisel leaned back on her palms, careful to keep to the fabric of the blanket she’d brought this time rather than the cold stone beyond it. Between them, Sirion wore a small smile, a little bemused as if he didn’t know quite how he’d wound up sitting with the two of them on the palace roof in the middle of the night. The bewilderment was fair, she supposed: it didn’t make sense for any of them to be sitting here under the sea-salt stars while Ancelm curled slumbering around them.

“Aeridians,” she griped. “Next you’re going to tell me that all the horses in the city have to be dubbed like knights.”

Callebero and Sirion shared a brief look, little more than a flicker of their gazes, before turning to her with solemn looks.

“No,” she said immediately. “No, absolutely not—“

Standing alone on the roof now, Jisel couldn’t remember what they’d told her—if they’d tried to spin together some nonsense tale or if they’d descended into laughter too quickly. She remembered the warmth of it, the easiness in their little knot tangled together under the bruised vault of night. Those nights dropped pearl-like into her memory, iridescent and gleaming against the stains of the changing years.

The sky hung heavy and low with grey clouds now, painfully bright and unmoving. Underneath their heavy blanket, the city seemed stilted, hushed. Even the grand bazaar was closed, its vibrant canopies folded up and tucked away under the punched-gut shock that threaded through the city. Jisel had come up here to escape that oppressive hush in the palace, but even here, the breeze was too limp and half-hearted to do more than brush against the ends of her scarf dangling down her back.

As a child, she’d read stories and heard people talk about grief. Enough young men had died during the last war with Alir that everyone knew someone who had died, from brothers and fathers to uncles and cousins. Every family had a missing son in those years. She’d heard them say that it didn’t feel real at first, that they kept expecting to look up and see their lost ones cross the threshold of their home, lit by the setting sun and safe in the warmth of home.

That was not why Jisel had come up here, to this flat roof paved with gentle memories. She’d prepared for this, over the last couple years, ever since Jimar, ever since Callebero came back cold and distant. Callebero possessed a remarkable force of will, and if he wanted to die, then no matter Jisel’s efforts, she would not sway him. So: Callebero was gone. She did not hunt his ghost in the crooks of these old stones.

But—Callebero had often been gone, these last years. Always running toward the sword and away from the sheltering wings of the castle. As much as she knew he was gone, it seemed unfathomable that he could never return. Was this what the Aeridians meant, she wondered, when they called for the spirits of their ancestors to walk in step with them? The hauntings she’d grown up on were curses and cruelty, malicious spirits dragging their victims down into an early grave out of envy and hatred. Yet every time she sorted through papers or read a line in the book by her bedside and thought ‘I’ll show Callebero this,’ her breath caught and she had to pause, fight to reorient herself to this living land.

The door creaked behind her.

Few people came up here at all, the point of her escape, and Jisel glanced over her shoulder expecting a servant or, perhaps, Fran. She stilled, gaze hardening.

For his part, Catterik seemed equally startled to see her. He stopped short with his hand still pressed flat against the door, halfway between the shadowed stairs and the dismal light outside. After a moment, he swallowed and stepped forward, letting the door swing shut behind him. Jisel watched coolly as he crossed the terrace to stop beside the diamond-carved railing.

“Alir liked heights, too,” he said after a long moment staring out at the grey city. Swallowed. “Used to run old Riker ragged trying to make sure the imperator princep didn’t die from falling out of a tree or slipping out of a tower window.”

Biting down hard, Jisel turned her own gaze out on Ancelm. From here, she could see all seven minarets spearing up toward the sky, the ring of eight completed by the palace’s own dome behind her. Soon, the evening horns would sound from the westernmost towers to call the city home to rest. Their sound had felt unnerving lately, as if they suddenly were too loud in the uneasy quiet.

Catterik spoke quietly, but his voice was still too much for this shroud-grey hush.

“I—” he scoffed out a laugh that almost sounds wet. “I couldn’t stand him when he was young. I was so wrapped up in Alir, and he took her from me, and—”

She was never his, Jisel didn’t say. From what she’d heard of the hallowed emperor, Alir been no one’s but her own—and perhaps, for a brief moment, a part of her had belonged to her son. The rest—war-forged, restless, hungry with her own toothed ambition—had been incapable of being owned or tied down. As much as the gentry all scrambled to compare Callebero to his mamán, they differed in this: Alir had refused to be anyone’s, and Callebero longed to belong to someone.

Folding her hands behind her back, Jisel considered a small figure walking alone down the main boulevard of the city. From this distance, she couldn’t make out the colors of their clothes beyond a green smudge and couldn’t guess at the features of their face. For all she knew, it could have been Callebero walking to the palace gates to interrupt his own funeral. It could have been herself, the first time she came to Ancelm with her wide eyes and unwritten future.

“Jisel.”

She looked to Catterik coolly, jaw tight. Swallowing, he pressed his lips together and inclined his head in a gesture that almost looked like concession. He held her gaze.

“Praesidion.”

Better.

“The funeral tomorrow,” he said, tone strangely urgent. “Don’t go.”

Liquid fire dripped down Jisel’s back, a molten rage. It steeled her spine, forged a rod of adamantine in place of bone as she turned to face him fully for the first time since he intruded on this place of memory.

“Warming Alir’s bed did not make you Callebero’s malán, Imperator Viachi,” she said. “If you cannot stand the sight of a Capallan at his funeral, stay home.”

His lips pulled back slightly, disgust or a snarl starting in the pinch of his brows. Fuck him, she thought. Fuck him and the gentry he came from, all their gilt and hollow claims. Turning on her heel, she swept past to the door and tugged it open. He didn’t call after her, but as she stepped over the threshold, a servant skittered back. Bowing quickly, they yelped a frantic excuse she didn’t bother listening to. One would expect the imperial spymaster’s welps to be better trained, she thought as she followed the curling stairs down to the heart of the palace.

At least they weren’t subtle enough for her to worry about them catching anything of importance. There was enough unease to balance without having to consider whether some determined spy could get into her chambers to steal anything of use.

Only when she closed the door of her office did she finally pause and exhale. Reaching up to slip the heavy circlet from her head, Jisel tipped her head back to hang against her neck. From across the room came a quiet whine, and she sighed, straightening to walk over to where Nox laid. Without Callebero or Sirion to pester, he’d clung to her heels like a stray following the first kind stranger to offer it food. She didn’t know what to do with him, really. Without his master or sister, he was still a warhound—trained for the chaos and slaughter of the battlefield more than the quiet schemes of the palace.

She knelt down beside him, scratching behind his ears briefly before her hand settled into long, soothing strokes down his back. With a little chuff, he flopped his head into her lap and blinked his wet brown eyes up at her before settling in fully.

“I know,” she murmured. “I know, little love. It’s unfair, isn’t it?”

He offered no reply except the steady weight of his head on her thigh and the silky blanket of his fur under her fingers. In her other hand, the crown’s cold edges bit into her palm.

[monstersandmaw]

Embers - Male dragon shifter x reader, Chapter Eight (v. light nsfw)

Friday means it’s dragon shifter romance day!

Last time we learned that Mikaeïl's late partner was also an artist, and that made us feel a bit wobbly and insecure... This time we finish our dinner date with him and make one or two steps forwards...

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven

“So you see why I was reluctant to talk to you about him…” Mikaeïl murmured softly after he’d risked a glance up at your face. “I would have told you, I’m sure. My past would have come up sooner or later, but…” he murmured, his nostrils flaring with frustration. “Ah, that’s just the face I didn’t want to see,” he said as he glanced up and caught sight of your stricken expression.

You tried to hide it behind a smile, pretending to brush it off. Whoever this long-lived creature had been, he had clearly been unfathomably dear to Mikaeïl. How could you even begin to compare with that? With a hundred years of love? What could you offer him after all that time in each other’s company? “You’re right,” you said with an overly bright smile. “It’s not first date talk. I’m sorry I pushed it…” you said, fighting the way your throat closed up around the words.

His shoulders relaxed just a little, but he still had his jaw clenched tight as a goblin’s metalwork vice. He swallowed thickly and said, “Alright, but let me just say that my attraction to you isn’t some vain attempt to rekindle something that was lost a long time ago. You are an artist, and so was he, but there the similarity ends.” The light that glowed in his eyes was like a fire burning low, the coals smoldering red after the bright heat of flames had exhausted itself. In truth, he looked suddenly very tired, and every bit his two hundred and sixty odd years old.

While you could still taste that bitterness on your tongue from the self-doubt that had swirled through you like a rip tide and stripped you of your confidence, you tried to be brave. Mikaeïl suddenly looked thoroughly miserable, though he was hiding it behind his usual chilly facade. On impulse, you reached your hand out to his where it now lay quiet as a corpse’s on the wooden tabletop. The chill of his pale fingers always surprised you, but you squeezed his strangely delicate hand and smiled at him.

“Come on,” you said. “We were doing so well. Tell me about how you know the goblin who owns this place… I didn’t catch his name…”

“Kiriavin?” he said, his throat working again as he swallowed and sighed, trying to push his pain aside. A wariness still lingered in the corners of his reptilian eyes, but he clearly appreciated your efforts at moving things along. He chuckled then. “I taught his wife at university, if you can believe it.”

“I keep forgetting how old you are,” you snorted, which made him roll his lovely eyes. “I wondered if you knew him through your music? Lidaë back at Stickybeak’s cafe mentioned that there was a goblin in your group…”

He opened his mouth, but before he had the chance to go on, Kiriavin returned with menus and two glasses of sparkling wine in elegant flutes. “You drink, I presume?” the goblin asked you before setting your glass down on the table, and you nodded. “Very well. This is a sparkling wine made from grapes grown just outside Starfall Springs. And in a moment I’ll bring some nibbles out for you as well,” he added with a sharp, hungry grin that briefly made you wonder exactly what a goblin might consider ‘a nibble’…

“Thank you, friend,” Mikaeïl said and something wordless passed between them in the space of a heartbeat.

Kiriavin nodded once, and then left with a distinctly softer smile.

Attempting the same kind of silent eloquence, you tilted your head curiously at Mikaeïl and he smiled the first true smile since his late partner had been brought up. His lips curled slowly and then drew back to reveal his white teeth, the canines more pronounced than on a human. You wondered fleetingly what else about him might differ, but reined your imagination back in as he spoke, shaking his head slightly. “That sly old goblin knows exactly what just happened between us, and he’s sorry for it. I think we might be expecting even finer wine with the meal…”

“He doesn't have to,” you said guiltily, but Mikaeïl waved his hand.

“Trust me, you can’t make a goblin do anything else once they’ve got their mind set on something. It’s quite literally impossible.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” you said. “Cheers,” and you held up the delicate flute of sparkling wine.

The expression on his face was a strange one as he regarded you in the candlelight of the restaurant. It reminded you of the way someone looks at a painting in an art gallery that they’ve only seen in books and reproductions before. He stared at you as if trying to fix the lines and shapes of your face in his mind, as though he would sculpt you later from memory. It only lasted perhaps three seconds, but it was so powerful that you nearly didn’t react as he gently chinked his glass against yours. “Cheers,” he said, the word very softly enunciated.

Even the way he drank was elegant and he held you transfixed as he sipped, the very tip of his tongue just sampling the little tide-mark that was left behind on his upper lip after he’d swallowed. When his eyes met yours again, his gaze clouded and he frowned quizzically at you. “What?”

Taking a deep breath, you grinned and said, “Are you honestly telling me that after two and a half hundred years, you have no idea how good looking you are?”

The flush began at his collarbones and crept up his cheeks to his slightly tapered ears, obscuring the golden dusting of very faint freckles on his cheekbones.

“Come on,” you pressed playfully.

He licked his lips. “I… I have been told as much, yes, but… it’s… it’s always embarrassing to me.”

“To be attractive? Mikaeïl, people would pay millions to look like you!”

The red in his cheeks darkened and he took another sip, looking away.

“I’m sorry,” you said, still laughing that somehow you of all people had managed to make a powerful creature like a dragon shifter blush furiously.

The meal was incredible, the wine heady and rich, but perfectly matched to the food. Mikaeïl and you soon moved past your initial awkwardness and settled into an evening of playful banter. As you shared a gorgeous dessert, you asked him about his family, and he said that his sister Caerelia was the only family he had left now. “She’s very… protective of me,” he murmured, going pink in the cheeks again. “She’s been asking me a lot about you.”

“Oh?”

“Mmm. I told her to mind her own business though. I’m not a hatchling anymore… But she’s never going to change.”

“As long as she’s not… you know…” you shrugged, “Overbearing…”

“Oh, she’s overbearing,” he laughed. “But I know what you mean. She means well, and nearly always backs off if I ask her to.” Inhaling deeply, he leaned back in his seat and said, “I can’t eat any more.”

“Me neither,” you groaned. “That was so good.”

Twenty minutes later, he was walking you along the road towards the taxi stand in the centre of Old Trollbridge. You held his hand and murmured, “Thank you for tonight. I… I had a lot of fun.”

“So did I,” he said, his feet falling still as he turned to look down at you. In a barely-audible whisper, he asked, “May I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

Letting go of your hand, he placed his left hand on your hip, drawing you close with his right, the fingers of which he placed just below your chin, tilting your face up. His eyes glowed in the dim light, and your heart rate soared as he brushed the backs of his fingers across your cheek before cupping the back of your head and coaxing you further into the gesture. His lips touched yours in the briefest ghost of a kiss before he returned and began to kiss you more confidently, as though he now believed that you did want this after all.

You let him set the pace of the kiss, his grip tightening suddenly on your hip, but after what felt like only a moment or two, he drew back, his breathing a little ragged.

“Mikaeïl?”

His eyes really were glowing golden, and he ground his jaw again, stepping back and closing his eyes before laughing. “Apologies,” he murmured. “I got a little carried away there…”

It hadn’t been that fervent a kiss… “I didn’t think you did - oh,” you breathed as he raised his lip up on one side in a little playful snarl and showed you that his canine was significantly longer than it had been, almost like a vampire’s. A deep, low-frequency rumble rolled off him too before he turned it into a laugh.

“You do remember that it’s been a while for me…”

“Yeah, but, oh… When you said you hadn’t been with anyone in that time, you meant… at all…?”

The blush was back in his cheeks and he shook his head, his red hair dancing in the lamp light. “It… I didn’t… It wasn’t something that I…” He took a sharp, shaky inhale and smiled awkwardly. “Does that bother you?”

“Not at all,” you said gently, pressing your palm to his cheek and watching as his eyelids fluttered closed and he leaned gratefully into the touch like an affectionate cat.

“Thank you…” he said without opening his eyes. “Come, let me take you home.”

You ached all over to stay with him that night, but you sensed he needed more time, to move at a slower pace, and it was probably for the best anyway. With a nod, you and he continued to walk side by side down the cobbled street, and in another grateful gesture, he briefly squeezed your fingers in his without looking at you.

Part Nine

—

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[joycecarolnotes]

Inside a fog

Here’s a little thing I wrote a while back but never posted. It’s pretty much a bummer, set during SV season 5.

--

Since you lost her, you exist inside a fog. Your joy comes from difficult places. It’s been months since you have really seen a bird.

You eke some small pleasure from the words “I find him intimidating.” Words that have never been spoken—not about self-effacing, accommodating Jared! not about you, that is to say—before. It is a novelty, this being feared by someone, and it thrills you the way all new things have. Like telling your first joke (age 19), your first Halloween costume (age 26), the first time you swore in front of someone (age 33, and certain you’d be struck dead on the spot). It feels good, transgressive, dangerous.

It is short-lived, though, this hot spike of joy, alight like a brief candle. Then, back to wringing your delight out of an old, bone-dry dishrag. A taste in your mouth like dirt.

--

“And you are the applicant’s... grandson?”

“No relation,” you amend. “I’m a friend.”

“A friend!” Mr. Dodson chuckles. He leans back in his chair and rests his feet up. Easy, casual. The room reminds you of many others you’ve spent time in: the psych 101 textbooks, generic motivational art, the lovely crocheted doilies. “I’ll be frank with you. We don't get too many of those around here. Friends, I mean. Not lobbying the way you are.”

You see an in here, a sign, something only you might see, something almost imperceptible. “If you'll forgive me, I don't mean to sound too forward, but whatever it takes to get Muriel into your facility... I’ll beg if I have to. It’s just - gosh, you come so highly recommended. If there's anything I could offer. If there's anything I could do. Sir,” you say (you know they like that). “Anything.” 

You pause there, feeling foolish, feeling your face flush as it is studied and considered. Perhaps you’ve been too long off the corner, perhaps you’ve gone too far, presumed too much, overlooked some crucial sign or gesture.

Mr. Dodson sets down his clipboard. He reaches a hand up and loosens his bowtie. “You’d beg, huh? You sweet thing.”

Yes, yes. Relief courses through you. So you still know what power looks like, in the hands of a man who would abuse it. At least you have that in your favor. 

Muriel wasn’t like the others. She never tried to take anything from you, didn’t want to see you give any more of yourself away. From the moment you met—the lobby at the cardiologist’s office, where she pointed out your copy of the National Audubon Society digest—you and Muriel looked after each other.

She wouldn’t like it, if she knew how it was she got bumped up the waitlist. But do you regret it? No. A part of you has always liked this, and a small part of you likes it now. You like giving. You like sacrifice. You like the rugburn on your knees. Nothing feels quite real until you’ve lost for it.

--

You catch yourself in Richard’s doorway, hanging around, waiting for scraps like a hungry dog under the table where you’re not wanted. How you long to tell him all the things on your mind. To talk about your fears, your dreams, to talk about Muriel, mostly. It’s a disgrace, you know: this selfish impulse to prattle on about yourself. The way you’ve never been able to stop telling these stories. As if sharing fragments of them will somehow make you whole.

You miss her. You miss him. You miss the taste of friendship, savored like chamomile with honey on your lips. You miss being a friend to someone, having something to do with your feelings, a target to focus your friendship on. You miss that maybe most of all.

--

With so little left to love, your love hardens into something harder.

You see Holden across the room. You watch with disdain as he struts around the office, as if he believes it’s already his own. You hate how little he seems to care, how little he has worked or lost for, how little he appreciates the unfathomable opportunity that’s fallen straight into his privileged lap.

This could be your chance: to find out if you have power, if confidence could ever be a color that suits you, in spite of what your fourth grade teacher said. You try them on, the harsh words and withheld compliments. You even put on a splash of the cologne that Gavin wore. The scent turns your stomach. It puts you in the proper mindset.

--

“We’re going to need some additional support staff. At least a couple more folks in operations, marketing, government relations.”

You’ll take care of the interview process, you say. The on-boarding, an extensive, three-day affair you’ve been excitedly planning for weeks now, replete with all the team-building exercises and safe space charades and trust falls usually reserved for your most decadent fantasies. The new hires will report directly to you. That much, at least, you as COO can happily take off your diligent captain’s already over-full plate.

“Yeah, ah. Jared. About that.” Richard glances around the room, careful not to make eye contact, as if he’s searching for an emergency exit, for some sort of shortcut out. 

“Yes?” you ask. Sometimes that’s all it takes, you know. A gentle prod. A little course correction. It’s so easy with Richard. You rest your hand on his delicate shoulder and nudge him the right way.

“They - look - the HR department. They said they can't have you involved with all that.”

You laugh—“ha!”—a squawk, joyful and full-throated. “How silly! And what did you tell them? Why on earth would they say a thing like that?”

Richard scratches at his neck. You can sense he’s nervous and, with that, panic begins to rise inside your chest. “There’ve, well. There’ve been complaints. About the way you were with Holden. Jared, you’re just - I’m sorry, man - you’re not a good supervisor. And we’re gonna need to, uh - to keep you away from the new hires.”

Not good. Not good, Donald. You feel the blood in your ears. Your heart hammers. Not good not good not good.

“Are you saying”—you pause here, breathe and swallow, your fingers twitch into a fist—“that indolent - slothful - that Holden issued a complaint against me? Because I swear to god, Richard, I - ”

“No,” Richard says. “Not Holden. I did.”

--

It used to frighten you so, to think that you might become one of them. Perhaps if you let your guard down, failed to be sufficiently vigilant, if you let the darkness creep just a little too far in. You hadn’t meant to do it, not exactly. But perhaps you were always going to do it either way. Violence was a seed planted inside you, putrescent and rotten. Over years and in the thrall of different leaders, it took root. Chipping and chipping away, just as you were chipped and chipped away at, all the wounds and cuts and scrapes. The thing that lived inside you, put there by someone else. 

--

Your hand is shaking. Your voice is shaking. You feel your face about to crack in two, in spite of your valiant effort to prevent it. You fall onto your knees, onto the floor in front of Richard. Your soft cheek rests against the rough of Richard’s jeans.

“Oh Richard,” you say, and it feels good, at last, to confess it. “How I resented him! How he got to be close to you when I didn’t. I was so lonely. Muriel, Gloria. Goodness, I missed you so much. I couldn’t bear to see it, how ungrateful he was, how he didn’t even know how lucky he was to serve you!” You sob, miserably, into Richard’s slender thigh.

“You know,” Richard almost laughs, “that’s not what everyone wants here? To ‘serve me’ or whatever, right?” He clambers, indelicately, out of the CEO chair and joins you on the floor. 

You feel him draw close. You nod, press your eyelids closed, and await the punishment that must be duly meted. You deserve them now: every back that will turn toward you. And you would almost enjoy it, yes, it might almost feel good, knowing you could spin this—like straw into gold—to be about your grief and then, in turn, punishment for your selfishness. 

And do not resent his rebuke, you think.

Your foster mother used to say that.

“Do you see now,” Richard says, “how trying to practice ‘emotional abstinence’ or whatever on me didn’t help? Fuck, Jared. It hurt us.”

“I’m so sorry, Richard.” You wipe your nose, indelicately, on the back of your large, pale hand.

“Jared,” Richard says, and you expect to hear get out of my office, to hear you're fired, to hear you selfish, treacherous, treasonous ingrate, I never want to see you again.

“Can I hug you,” Richard says, instead. 

Outside, a bird perches on the windowsill. The fog begins, slowly, to lift.

[musingcloud]

Harvester Sentence Starters

Taken from the 1996 video game, Harvester. Trigger warnings may apply due to the source material having violent and disturbing content.

What’s cooking and cleaning got to do with it?

Never put off ‘till tomorrow what you can do today!

___ is a town unlike any you’ve ever known.

I saw what [she/he/they] did to [her/him/they]. It was pretty bad.

Leave me alone so I can watch TV!

Everything here is wrong, but I can’t picture the difference.

...and besides, blood and guts are neato.

Don’t you DARE toy with that sweet girl/boy!

That’s all I want ...That and a pair of sneakers.

Meat is the foundation of any decent society.

When you get right down to it, all charity is pretty ugly.

I look at that building, all lit up at night, and I get scared.

A pejorative, no doubt, born of fear and a poverty of imagination.

Sometimes it’s not what is produced so much as what is performed.

You always were such a kidder, [name].

I’d rather not know the face of the meat I’m slicing.

When a farmer plants his seed, he can’t help but get some nasty dirt on his hoe.

Perhaps the dead walk again, and they’re hungry for literature.

What does it benefit a man if he gains his soul and loses the world?

Identity is a fallacy.

Nothing like an exploding head to get the blood pumping.

Violence is as American as apple pie and low SAT scores!

I have my good days when I pass out completely.

You don’t cross the inter-galactic void without learning a trick or two.

Maybe you’d be quiet with a steak knife in your heart.

Are you trying to blackmail us/me, you little shit?!

We don’t have money, we’re educators, not janitors!

The human mind always seeks to categorize phenomena, to pigeonhole, and therefore feel that it exerts control over, an unfathomable universe.

A feeling however, is not a fact.

Isn’t a lost child everyone’s concern?

And get out... a wide variety of scalpels... some curved, some short, all of them sharp.

Too bad such a sweet little thing had to suffer.

I think the answer to all our questions is inside.

I hope finding out doesn’t get you killed.

We can make the earth crawl.

I do not involve myself with townspeople whom I shall one day eviscerate.

It’s too bad they don’t give out scout badges for digging up buried kids.

Looks like a catfight is brewing.

A ditch makes a poor resting place.

I have a purpose again!

We all live off the deaths of others.

Never heard of anyone pulling their own spinal chord out before.

Y’can’t live without a spinal chord, nothing unnatural about that.

Keeping bodies in the house, it’s just not sanitary.

Shoot, you’re no fun anymore.

I guess this reshuffles the deck, doesn’t it?

Are you supposed to help me or get me killed?

Grotesqueries amid works of beauty are necessary.

Sadly, the most extreme works are the hardest to dismiss.

Actually, I have to admit, my last few meals haven’t been up to snuff.

This is a library, not a brothel.

He has the strength of the truly insane.

How did it feel to kill?

They say that music hath charms to soothe the savage breast.

Those who advocate abstinence are those who possess the most.

The meek shall inherit the earth when the strong are finished with it.

Everyone says motherhood is fulfilling, when in reality it’s draining.

From the start, children are parasites.

Children suck the life out of society.

Those who preach love and mercy in God’s name are often those who call for the death of heathens.

A paycheck today, a jail cell tomorrow?

Disgusting... but enlightening.

Look at my hair, black as a moonless night.

The simple manipulation of nerves may break one man and yet leave another unmoved.

All nerves sing alike.

Any act of charity is an act of selfishness.

Charity is a loathsome lie.

The only gift that keeps on giving is death.

Life is a competition and mercy a perversion of the Natural Order.

After all, what’s a murder without pain and terror?

Confessing to a crime shows honesty as well as stupidity.

[sirengenerator]

The Survivor. The Protector.

CW for mentions of cannibalism and death. real fun one this go around.

                                                             -

The Goddess seems to sense Newt, uncoiling herself as she stretches her arms towards the sky, opening her giant, golden eyes and allowing her gaze to fall upon him before he can even realize—and once he does realize, he falls to his knees, staring down at the dirt in penance. (For what, he isn’t sure. For his existence? For his audacity? For daring to be in her presence, when he is so far removed from her?)

“A visitor?” says the Goddess. Her voice is deep and doting, resonant and maternal. “My dear, please, let me see your face.”

Newt lifts his head, letting her see his face, marred with evidence of his struggles. He looks on at her face—which towers impossibly above him—in return, and she is incomparable. Her head is that of a red snake, though there is no venom in her expression. Only sympathy. Kindness. These things are in short supply within the wilds.

(Newt flinches when he thinks of little Twig—how she was the first to show him these qualities, how she cared for something despite gaining nothing. This must be awful, yes? To look upon his Goddess and think of a little girl for whom disappointment is a certainty; to think that someone like him may compare to someone like his Goddess.)

“You are familiar,” the Goddess says. She reaches downwards, extending her palm before him. “Allow me to hold you for a moment, child, so I may see you closer.”

Newt walks into her palm—she is so huge in comparison to him—and he wonders what possesses her to call him child, when he is likely the oldest ghoul she has come across in recent years.

“Ah, yes,” she says, holding him close to her face. “You were very small when we last saw each other, weren’t you?”

He nods, speechless.

“It has been quite a while. I am happy to know that you live yet still.” The folds above her eyes knit together. “Or rather, you survive.”

Newt speaks for the first time, now. He asks: “Is there a difference?”

She nods. “To live, darling, is a wonderful thing, but life has not afforded you wonder,” she frowns. “Life has not afforded you much at all, it seems. Not until recently, and even then, you return to the wilds.”

“It’s my home, Goddess.”

“Perhaps,” she says. “Do you plan to stay, even now?”

“Of course,” replies Newt. “I have to care for things here, now. I’ve only taken on this quest for Twig, and she is—” Suddenly, he remembers his reason for being here. “My Goddess, you must make an exception for Twig.”

“Must I?”

“You must,” Newt insists. “She is only a child, and she has lived her whole life outside of the wilds. She only wants to be changed,” he says. “To be human, or anything, really. She only wants to avoid... this.” He gestures to himself. “And I believe she deserves it more than anyone, if that means anything.”

“It means something, dear,” says the Goddess. “For you to believe in it, it must be true, but I’m afraid that my powers can only do so much. For me to change this girl—to truly change her—I must know if she has partaken in the flesh.”

Newt swallows. His heart hurts for Twig, and it is perhaps the first time anything of his has hurt for anyone else. “She has,” he says, quiet. “But you must understand, it was a moment of desperation. If she hadn’t, then she wouldn’t have lived.”

The Goddess looks sad. For Newt and for Twig, probably. She says, “I understand, though it pains me. There is nothing I can do for her, in this case.”

“I see.”

“If I had the choice, though, I would grant her wish. I would grant all of your wishes.”

Newt feels burning behind his eyes. He has never cried for anyone else before, and truly, he wonders if he has ever cried for himself. “Of course, my Goddess.”

The Goddess still doesn’t dismiss him, still holds his small form in her huge palm. “You have become a protector for this girl,” she says.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Your life with her is kind, yes? There is no pressure to eat or be eaten, to kill or be killed?”

Newt grimaces. “My life has always been like that,” he says. “I will not die before I am ready. Nothing will kill me, and that girl is no exception.”

“But you would kill for her?”

Newt is silent. He knows the answer, and perhaps the Goddess does too.

“To think of it makes one want to weep,” she says, “so young and so desperate. The survivor thinks of no one and nothing, and yet he extends his paw to the first thing that needs protecting. Sacrifices his life—all things in it worth experiencing—to make sure that the protected need not survive; to let the protected live, no matter the cost.” Newt does not understand her. He tells himself that this is flowery nonsense, only miserable preamble. Talking in order to talk, not to say anything of value.

The Goddess’s gaze feels too heavy to be real. “There is nobility in this, Newt,” she says, “but I cannot help but mourn the boy you could be—the one you should have been allowed to grow into.”

Newt is quiet.

“How old are you now, dear?”

“You already know.”

“Humor me for a moment.”

“Seventeen,” he says. “And Twig is eleven. And Mud is some few months. And Pond was sixteen before she was dead.” He can’t control himself. His tone is too harsh. “Does this satisfy you, my Goddess?”

“It fills me with a sadness unfathomable,” she says. “You deserve to live, my dear.”

It should be an affirmation, a realization, but Newt can’t let it be. Not when Twig is outside, when she will need someone to clear a path outside of the wilds for her. Not when Mud is with her. Not when his head is swimming with these thoughts of survival, how he will find food and drink for them, how the sand in the hourglass trickles at a faster pace for every year he evades death. Newt is seventeen. He is the oldest ghoul for miles. He is all hunger and teeth and cunning. Newt does not know how to live. Newt does not have time to live.

Not when there are others to do the living for him.

Newt knows nothing but to survive; and by the Goddess, he will survive.

                                                             -

[very long ramble ahead]

so, funny story, i’ve been working on this little ditty called the monsters among our youth (which i will shorten to TMAOY from here on) based upon a fanfiction plot i wasted on a bad anime in, like, 2015, and so now i’ve decided to make it into a different thing.

TMAOY is... weird? that’s what i’m going for, anyway. the story follows twig, an 11-year-old ghoul looking to change the fact that she is a ghoul.

the term “ghoul” is used pretty liberally here and definitely in a different sense than like. the mythology. ghouls in this story are pretty notable for the fact that they are always hungry and participate in ritual/regular cannibalism, but they’re more mammalian than undead. though it gets pretty complicated. i’ve given it quite a bit of thought and i won’t dump it all in the already too long postscript of this random short story.

this is a side drabble about newt, the 17-year-old ghoul that leads twig through the wilds after she nurses an injury that nearly kills him. due to the very low survivorship curve of wilds ghouls (since they’re essentially they’re own predators and prey and competition) he is one of, if not the, oldest ghoul that most others ever meet. he’s a “revered elder” despite not being old and its very funny and tragic.

newt is twig’s guardian but save to say. he is not qualified for this role.

(also i HAVE to specify the cannibalism is for literary effect. i’m not into vore i’m just catholic.)

[sunson]

your mouth is a wonder

notes: dedicated to my wonderful friends, @iliankashingekinohogwarts @eien-no-tsuki @mrsstampede @soullessvanilladolly

warnings: includes jearmin.

Mikasa knows that Eren is dying in the way that she knows that when waves crash against rocks, its salt fills the air. Distant. Harrowing. It is never easy, understanding death that is. Years later, and one might think Mikasa to be used to it, to accept it, but that could not be farther away from the truth.

Years pass and Mikasa has found a certain rage that hides beneath the skin of her wrist. She fears that if one may touch, the skin will burst, allowing molten, hot lava erupting from within.

“What are you thinking about?” Eren’s hoarse voice asks within the darkness. “Come here.”

She’s half-tempted to refuse him, but Mikasa has never been able to refuse Eren anything. Slowly, she climbs atop of the bed where he lays, and throws a hand over his bony and skeletal frame, as if protecting him. Shielding him.

Fat lot that will do now.

“You think too much.” Eren tells her. “You’re tensed. I can feel it.”

She tries not to be. Wills herself to relax, but how can she truly relax when at any point in time Eren could die? He’s half-close to death already, his face gaunt and skin sticking to bones. She’s scared to hold him any tighter; fears that he will shatter from her grip.

He used to be so much more than gangly limbs and sharp cheekbones, and now, he’s practically nothing. Is it wrong to say that she misses the old him? The him that used to be strong and powerful and angry with anger roaring throughout his entire being. At least then Eren had looked alive. At least then he felt alive.

“I don’t want to think too much.” Mikasa admits. “Distract me.”

“Jean visited today,” he informs her. “It was… sad. To see him like that, I mean. He used to be so much… more.”

Mikasa refuses to allow the sarcastic snort to escape and instead smooths her features down into a neutral manner. “We all used to be more than what we are now.”

“Still,” Eren insists. “it was sad. He seemed… it’s as if he still hasn’t let go of Armin’s death.”

Mikasa doesn’t know what to say to that. Truth is, Jean hasn’t been able to let go of Armin’s death, and in a way, that has eaten him up whole. He’s almost robotic now. Isolated and alone, he shelters himself away from the world they all have worked so hard to create. The peace they shed blood and lives for. For Jean, life had only mattered when Armin had been there with him.

Mikasa isn’t too sure on the specifics of what went on during the minutes prior to Armin’s death. She hadn’t been present at the time, but she hears the gist from Eren who tells her that Armin had made them promise to live their lives for him.

Mikasa thinks it cruel for Armin to do such a thing. To put Jean through such misery, such pain for the rest of his life - it’s unfathomable. Is it wrong of her to think that Jean would be happier dead? Jean had loved Armin in a way that she will never understand. A bond that Mikasa will never be able to comprehend.

He would be happier dead, Mikasa thinks to herself repeatedly. Mikasa knows she would if she had loved someone that passionately.

“He’ll get over it all eventually,” Mikasa says, deciding to lie. “We all will.”

“I haven’t.” Eren says. “I’m not over anything. I don’t think I ever will be.”

She bites her lip hard, tasting the iron of blood and using the pain to distract herself from her thoughts. “Death is a part of life. I think you and I have seen too much of it to still be horrified.”

Eren shrugs in her arms. “Maybe you’re right. Doesn’t make it any less sad.”

Mikasa says nothing. The silence is all too heavy and tense, and she waits for Eren to bring up the dreaded question, the one she’s been avoiding all these years after they found out that Eren only had a few more years left on this Earth. So, Mikasa thinks Eren will say, what will you do after I’m dead?

She doesn’t know. For so long she had denied Eren’s death as something that could happen. Reject it and move on as if it was just unpleasant news. She curses herself for dismissing Eren’s eventual passing so carelessly. And now, time has run up, and now, what will you do Mikasa?

“I don’t want to see grief like that on your face when I’m gone.” Eren says, so quiet that she thinks she must’ve imagined it. Softer, he adds, “I don’t want to see you like that.”

Mikasa can’t help the half laugh and half sob that escapes her throat. The dreaded question has come and now she wishes with all her might that she could go back to being fifteen and ignorant and thinking that there’s a way to find happiness within the walls.

But now, the walls are gone. All that remains of Maria, Rose and Sina are the phantom touches people have when they pass by their remains. The feeling of something important being there, the feeling of history.

“I don’t think I have the energy in myself to hold a grief like that,” Mikasa admits, wiping away tears. It’s true. The grief, the sadness, the misery, it’s all gone now.

She remembers Sasha’s death still. Years later and though the image is blurry, the emotions she had felt then are not. Horrified, Mikasa thinks. She had been horrified. And she had screamed. She doesn’t remember a time where she had ever screamed like that before.

She misses Sasha. She would’ve been happy in this new world of theirs. This world filled with food from all over the world. It is for Sasha’s sake that Mikasa never goes to bed hungry. Trying something different each day, and letting it sit in her belly. It’s amazing what freedom tastes like. It has different flavours each day.

Mikasa thinks that it is anger she will feel when Eren passes on. Blinded by rage, but even then she is not too sure. All she knows now is that she feels empty and heavy all at once.

“Good,” She hears Eren say. “Don’t… don’t wallow in grief. At least not for me.”

She grabs on to his shoulders, facing him towards her, and the anger she had felt then when she heard him say those words escape her tongue.

Her beloved is dying. And she is helpless to do anything about it.

“I won’t wallow in grief.” Mikasa promises.

“You can’t.” Eren agrees in a helpless whisper. “You won’t. If you do, I’ll haunt you forever.”

Mikasa gives a biting laugh at that, feeling the tears entering her corners. “I think you already do Eren. You always have.”

“Don’t say that,” He says. “Please.”

She’s torn between laughing and crying, and instead, settles on saying, “All I wanted was you. All I ever wanted, was you.”

He looks at her with a mixture of love and confusion and pain and it’s enough to make her heart break in a way that it has never been broken before. “I don't deserve yo- “

“You deserved a great many things.” She tells him. “You did, even if you don’t believe it, you did. You don’t deserve all that you’ve been put through. This duty that's been laid down on your shoulders - that’s the thing you did not deserve.”

He frowns. “If it wasn’t me - “

“I know what would happen if it wasn’t you!” She almost yells, her face cracking with tears hot and fast sliding down her face. Quietly, she adds, “I know, okay? I know.”

The silence is enough to suffocate them both. And then, in a quiet, broken whisper, “I don’t want to die.” He laughs then. “Isn’t that selfish? Cowardly? Even after all we’ve been through.”

“It’s not selfish, nor cowardly. It’s the most bravest thing to admit. Is it selfish or cowardly for me not wanting you to die?”

“That’s different,” He says, wiping away tears.

“You idiot,” She says, hand resting upon his cheek. “It’s not.”

And then they kiss like it’s the last time. But unlike the other times, this truly feels like it. Instead of the dread, there is now acceptance, and instead of the rage, there is now hollowness that resides within her.

She loves him in that night. Memorizes his each and every move, his every angle. All she has ever wanted, and all that is going away.

Their love had never passionate nor lust-filled. Instead, it had been binded by duty and trust and in a way, that is what made it strong. A stronger love. A more powerful love.

When he dies, Mikasa will live. She will live through the peace he fought so hard for and will visit lands that no one has ever dared to step foot in. She will look at the moon in different parts of the world and think of what it must look like up in the heavens.

She’ll look after Jean, if only for Armin’s sake. Perhaps for Sasha's and Connie's and everyone else who died in their fights, sakes. She will take him out to watch sunsets and try to understand the thing that had been between him and Armin, and in turn, she will try to make him understand the thing between her and Eren. Even if she doesn’t fully understand it herself.

In time, she knows she will come to understand it, so she doesn’t fret too much. Instead, she walks, one foot in front of the other, footsteps deep in mud under a July sun.

She remembers Eren in every breath she takes. Remembers him as the wind flows through her hair and when the storm rolls by. The emptiness never really goes away though, but that’s alright. Mikasa will learn to live with it, just as she has learned to live without walls.

Her red scarf still hangs around her neck. She doesn’t think she’ll ever let go.

[skyywalkerfen]

Can I prompt you, lovely, since you’re so fucking good at these? How about combining QuiObi #7: routine kisses where the other person presents their cheek/forehead for the hello/goodbye kiss without even looking up from what they’re doing and #9: a little kiss, pulling back, only to go back in for a passionate one? Pretty please?

to meggory84, in honor of her special day, and because she asked. :-D  Enjoy.

“Kissing For The Clueless” (Jedi Knight Edition)

It’s their eighteenth standard day here on Lysstern, and Obi-Wan is not precisely sure just how much more he can take.

It’s the little things that are killing him.  The soft looks, the gentle touches, the nearness – Force, the nearness.  Obi-Wan had spent more than a decade living with Qui-Gon Jinn, but he’s pretty sure it was never as bad as this is now.  Of course he’s been out on his own as a Knight for the last two years, so it’s possible that his memory isn’t – no.  No, that’s not it.

It never was this bad.

Qui-Gon is close to him now; so very, very close.  Not the closeness of teacher and student, of teaching master and the padawan being taught, but the closeness of – intimates.  Lovers.

Which is what the two of them are, of course, to their hosts and the rest of the city, because that’s what this mission demands of them: that they be a couple, devoted lovers, older man and younger, as this culture’s norms expect.

Obi-Wan isn’t inexperienced, exactly.  He’s had a few sexual partners over the years, and even one he’d call a lover.  He knew how lovers behaved, he’d have no trouble simulating a relationship, certainly, with the man he’d wanted in truth since he’d been sixteen.  He’d thought he was ready.  

He’d thought wrong.  

And it’s killing him by the tiniest, most exquisitely painful increments possible.

Qui-Gon has finished his first-meal when Obi-Wan comes into the common eating room, but not by much.  The man is still sitting at his accustomed end of the long table, used dishes pushed aside, data-padd in one big hand and cup in the other. ��Which means who-ever else had been eating must have just left.  Reading while eating is something the Lyssterians consider quite rude, certainly when one has company.  

Calm, Obi-Wan counsels himself, as he walks across the common room toward his old master.  Calm.  

They are sharing a sleeping room, of course, and in that room there is only one bed.  

Of course.  

Obi-Wan has been taking cold water-showers in the mornings ever since the fourth one, when he’d woken up wrapped around Qui-Gon like the man was the galaxy’s best pillow, morning erection snuggled perilously close to the cleft of Qui-Gon’s arse.  

How he got himself unwrapped and out of the bed without waking Qui-Gon, he still doesn’t know.  And if Qui-Gon has any inkling that his former padawan had been humping him in their sleep, he hasn’t let on.

But.

For the last ten-day now, Qui-Gon’s been – different.  Not upset, but distracted, perhaps, as though something had dropped a pebble into the pool of that deep-Force-calm that’s as much a part of him as his blue eyes and crooked nose.  It’s a situation Obi-Wan has seen/felt a few times before, when there is something deeply disturbing that Qui-Gon is considering.

Obi-Wan has a rather horrible, sinking-deep feeling that he knows what that pebble was.

“Good morning, Qui,” he says as he reaches the table, which is between him and the counter with the kaffin-pot, kashmeal in its warmer, and the thrice-blessed hot water for tea.

“Good morning,” Qui-Gon rumbles in return, and tilts his head for the obligatory morning-greeting kiss.  There’s no one in the room to witness the lapse if they don’t, but Obi-Wan is loathe to give up any moments of contact, painful as they may be, and the memories they make.

They could well be the only moments he will have.

Obi-Wan leans down and brushes his mouth against Qui-Gon’s cheek, feeling beard-bristle tickle, coarsely soft, against his lips.  Trying not to inhale the smell of the man because he doesn’t want to be needing another cool shower this early in the day.  

But Qui-Gon seems – elsewhere, his attention never really straying from the padd in his hand.  He doesn’t even meet Obi-Wan’s eyes.

The sinking-deep feeling in Obi-Wan’s gut, sinks deeper.

The meal is awkward, to say the least.  After Obi-Wan’s two conversational gambits meet only with what response is necessary and no more, he retreats into his kashmeal and tea and absolutely does not panic.  It wouldn’t help anyway.

He gives up on the cereal when it becomes clear that his stomach is less than pleased.  The tea is a solace, though, and Obi-Wan is contemplating its dark depths when Qui-Gon shifts back from the table.  

“Not hungry this morning?”

Paying more attention than had been apparent, evidently.  “First-meal is still a hit and miss thing for me, I’m afraid,” Obi-Wan says, grabbing the sudden conversational life-ring, “for all that you were sure I’d grow out of that.  But their tea leaf is lovely; certainly a variety to infiltrate the Order’s commissary with.”

“Indeed.”  But Qui-Gon is looking at him now, deep ocean gaze beloved and intense, peeling back the mature Jedi Knight layers to the small, squirmy Obi-Wan within, the way Qui-Gon’s always been able to do, intentionally or not.

And that is, quite suddenly, too much.  

“I think I will take a walk,” Obi-Wan blurts out, rising from his chair in a motion that does not, Force-willing, look as uncontrolled as it actually is, because he really must move now or twitch out of his skin.  “As we have no obligations to our hosts, for the first time, until tomorrow.”

Qui-Gon’s still looking at him.  “It would be time better spent discussing the mission and making plans for next week.”

Would it, now? Obi-Wan thinks, stung.  And just as suddenly things reverse, and now it’s more than easy to stand still and meet – and hold – those blue eyes.  “It would be better if I were better able to sit down for the discussion.  An unexercised padawan is a twitchy one, is how you always put it, as I recall?”

“You’re no longer a padawan.”

“You’re correct,” Obi-Wan says, and lets his diction pop on the final ‘t.’  “I’m not.”

Something shifts beneath the ocean surface and then – to Obi-Wan’s shock – the older man drops his gaze.  “I know,” Qui-Gon says at last, softly, and there’s something in his rich voice, maybe several somethings, that Obi-Wan can’t parse past his own surprise.  “I am – very much aware of that.”

Now Obi-Wan isn’t at all sure he wants to leave, but he doesn’t see how, exactly, to stay.  He takes his dishes and Qui-Gon’s as well to the counter sink and rinses them before putting them in the sanitizer, but the delaying tactic brings no enlightenment.  Out of excuses, he turns back to the table.

Qui-Gon has put his hands together palm to palm and rested them on the table-top, and is looking either at them or at the grain of the bassha-wood, Obi-Wan can’t tell.  It’s a posture Obi-Wan’s never seen his master take before.  

He walks back to Qui-Gon’s side.  “I’ll have my comm, of course,” because he’s run out of the words he should say and the other words, the ones he wants to say, he can’t.  

He lays his hand lightly on Qui-Gon’s shoulder, one of the signals they’d agreed upon at the beginning of the mission, to warn of a coming kiss or other more intimate touch.  This time Obi-Wan nearly starts – the broad shoulder beneath tabard and tunics is like durasteel.  “Qui-Gon?”

Qui-Gon looks up and the light catches in his eyes, unfathomable.  “Obi-Wan,” he says.  He turns in his seat and reaches up to take Obi-Wan’s hand, half-swallowing it in his larger one.  The calluses on  his palm and fingers are hard and familiar.  These are the hands that have touched Obi-Wan for half of his lifetime; the hands that have meant belonging and guidance, comfort and friendship, Master.  Love.

The expression on Qui-Gon’s face though, that is not familiar at all, and it starts a curious tingle in Obi-Wan’s stomach.  “Qui-Gon, what is it?”

“May I kiss you, Obi-Wan?”

May you what?!  

Obi-Wan freezes in place, except for his mouth which drops open as the curious tingle explodes into a swarm of hot stingflies, fluttering madly around his abdomen, every one of them shrieking a giddy confused ecstatic “YESYESYES!”  But –

“You have been kissing me,” is what he hears himself whisper, completely without his brain’s input or permission.

Whatever Qui-Gon sees on his face, it’s apparently encouraging, because his grip on Obi-Wan’s hand tightens.  “Not as I have wanted to.”

He pulls gently, asking, and despite his daze Obi-Wan answers, as he has for so much of his life when this man has asked.  Yes.

Qui-Gon urges him close and kisses him.

It’s warm and soft, no more than a delicate pressure, the tickle of hair mingling with the dry of slightly chapped lips.  Nothing they have not already done, but nothing at all that they have ever done before.  Deliberate.  Sweetness layered over something new, that Qui-Gon is either letting Obi-Wan feel for the first time or that has finally escaped the Master’s control: a sense of deep, visceral want that trembles, even leashed beneath adamantine shields and iron will.

Qui-Gon kisses him, and lets him go.

It’s a lightning strike, and the nimbus glows violet-white at the edges of Obi-Wan’s vision when he pries his eyes open.  He blinks down at Qui-Gon’s face, so close, so open, full of everything that fills up Obi-Wan’s own chest that he can’t breathe.

Breathing’s overrated.

He kisses Qui-Gon this time, sinks his free hand into the thick hair at the back of Qui-Gon’s head and kisses him hard.  Qui-Gon’s mouth opens under his and Obi-Wan plunges in, drowning eagerly, discovering tea and sweetener and something indescribable that is only Qui-Gon.  The years of hopeful longing and hopeless love surge up and Obi-Wan lets them go, lets them wash out into the Force between them, because if he’s mistaken, if this isn’t what Qui-Gon truly wants –

Qui-Gon gasps against his mouth, and one big hand comes around the back of Obi-Wan’s neck and pulls him impossibly closer.

Eventually the breathing thing truly does become necessary and Obi-Wan breaks away, but only to pepper Qui-Gon’s face with urgent little kisses, cheekbones, proud nose, closed eyelids, before resting his forehead again Qui-Gon’s.  They’re both panting, Qui-Gon’s breath a moist brush across Obi-Wan’s face, a little sour, and how he’s lived this long without it, Obi-Wan has no clue.  “I love you.”

Qui-Gon swallows, loud in the tiny space between them.  “I love you, too,” he says.  

A faint hint of that same tremble colors his deep voice and it’s quite, quite possible that Obi-Wan’s heart is going to stop from sheer joy.  “H-how long?” he asks, not knowing he’s asking until the words are out.

A faint snort.  “Years,” Qui-Gon murmurs.  “Before you were knighted.”

Truly?  But –   “You never – ”  And it’s Obi-Wan’s turn to swallow.  “It’s been two years, Master; is there some sort of waiting period that no-one talks about?”

A louder snort this time and a wash of humor, as Qui-Gon moves away enough that Obi-Wan can see him clearly.  “That’s why, Padawan.”

Obi-Wan wrinkles his brow in question.

“I was part of the equation of your life, dear one; perhaps too big of a part,” Qui-Gon says, and shakes his head when Obi-Wan opens his mouth.  “You needed to be Knight Kenobi, not Padawan to Master Jinn.  You needed to be your own person; to know who you are without me.  Anything else would have been to betray you in the worst fashion.”  Qui-Gon’s hand moves, thumb caressing the tender skin beneath Obi-Wan’s ear in a most distracting fashion.  “And I needed to know, to be sure, that you know.”

Wonderful, marvelous, utterly exasperating man.  Obi-Wan’s mouth pulls up at one corner.  “I’ll sign a form if you’d like.”

The skin around Qui-Gon’s eyes crinkles.  “Your word has always been enough.”

And how is Obi-Wan supposed to remain composed with Qui-Gon saying things like that?  

He untangles them and steps back, only to take Qui-Gon’s hand again and urge him to his feet.  “I’ve changed my plans for the day.  There’s a bed in our room that I most sadly neglected to put to rights, and I believe that requires prompt attention.”

“I thought you intended to get some exercise,” Qui-Gon says.

There’s no mistaking the undertones and Force-wash of teasing and desire, and Obi-Wan grins.  “Oh, I do.”

*

[pickalilywrites]

♡

Real Beauty 

Jeankasa. Celebrity AU. 

6412 words. 

He’s always unsure whether if it’s good or bad news when he’s told to come into Mr. Smith’s office. While Jean’s sure his work is decent enough to prevent him from getting let go (or, you know, fired) from the company, there’s always something about the CEO’s office that makes him uncertain. The last time he had been called up it had been about his debut as the head photographer for Sina, the biggest beauty and lifestyle magazine in the entertainment business. He had received a pat on the back for his work and a rare smile from the enigmatic Mr. Smith, but that had been months ago and Jean’s not sure if his boss holds him in such high regard now.

“Sir? It’s Jean Kirstein from photography,” Jean says, knocking on the door with a quick rap of his knuckles.

The room is beautiful in an untouchably perfect way. Jean’s afraid of even breathing in here, but Mr. Smith tells him to come in and sit down across his desk.

Mr. Smith flips through an old edition of Sina, an unfathomable expression on his face. As Jean watches him, he thinks that it’s a shame that his boss had never become a model or some other sort of Hollywood star at some point in his life. He has the air of an old Hollywood god, someone who knew everyone and everything that went on in the entertainment business, and perhaps it’s because he does. Mr. Smith has an impeccable eye for what people want to see even before it’s a faint idea in their mind, and Jean admires him for it. At the same time, it scares the absolute shit out of him and he’s not sure how much longer he can sit in the same room as his boss before he cracks under the stress of not knowing.

“You said you wanted to see me, sir,” Jean says, resisting the urge to tug nervously at his sleeves.

Mr. Smith finally looks up as if he’s remembered that Jean is also in the room. He doesn’t look pleased, but he doesn’t look unhappy either. Instead, he closes the magazine he was reading and slides it across his desk so that Jean can see it.

“Do you know what that is?” he asks Jean.

Swallowing nervously, Jean leans over to look at the cover. A beautiful blonde starlet stares back at him, an infectious smile on her face as she gazes at the reader. He remembers seeing pictures of the same girl, her eyes dead and her face in a permanent frown. It was only after she had rejected her stage name Christa, the one she had since she was a child, and reinvented herself into her true self that she was able to smile like this. Everyone had believed she was going to flop after making her debut as a singer, tossing away her acting career as if it was nothing, but even Jean noticed that her smiles were more authentic in her paparazzi photos and her actions more genuine instead of planned and fabricated like they were when she was just an actress. He had been surprised when Mr. Smith called him in to take pictures for this girl in Sina’s next edition. He was even more surprised when he meets the girl as she extends her hand and introduces herself as Historia. Her smile was even more brilliant in person and it was during that first meeting that Jean knew she was going to be an even bigger star than she already was, and he was right.

Her first album sold one million physical copies within its first week, a feat that’s unheard of in this day and age. She’s currently going on her stadium tour and, the last time Jean checked, nearly all of the venues had sold out. Historia had sent him flowers just the other week to thank him for working with her on the Sina shoot, writing on the note that she couldn’t have gotten this sort of recognition without him. Jean’s never thought that his photos could ever make such an impact and he’s half sure that most of Historia’s success comes from her own hard work and talent, but he’s happy to be remembered by someone like her.

Clearing his throat, Jean replies, “Of course. Historia Reiss. My first piece as the head photographer. How could I forget? She was wonderful to work with.”

“Hm.” He’s never sure with Mr. Smith’s answers. Sometimes he’d rather have a negative response instead of all the ambiguously neutral reactions he’s received. “Many people were impressed with it, myself included. But one person in particular called and said they were interested in working with you after seeing Historia’s photos. An Ackerman. Mikasa Ackerman, to be precise. You know her, of course?”

Is there anyone who hasn’t heard the name “Ackerman” sometime in their life? The Ackerman family is a family of every type of celebrity anyone could ever imagine – models, singers, songwriters, actors, you name it. They were a big name when Jean was a child and they still are now. He’s sure stars were invented when the Ackerman family came into existence, but they’ve dimmed since their ascension. After multiple scandals – stories about cheating, lies, drugs, all the bad things that came with being a celebrity – began to plague them and the family began to fade out, disappearing from the public and only reminisced by older stars and fans like they were legends instead of people who were still living and breathing today.

One of the Ackermans is a girl named Mikasa, a rising starlet that was a model-turned-actress. Jean remembered many people admiring her beauty and quiet nature before they all turned on her unexpectedly for becoming involved with another star: Eren Jaeger, lead singer of band Wings of Freedom. Jean can’t recall if they were ever really involved or not, but he remembers the backlash she received from fans on social media. All her accounts were bombarded with messages harassing her to leave the musician alone, that she was no good for him, that she was a dirty slut for even thinking she could get near him.

That wasn’t even the worst of it though. It seemed to get worse every day. Despite being critically acclaimed in the few roles she had in movies, people would find a reason to despise her.

There were fake nudes leaked of her, accusations of incest with her cousin who happened to be another popular celebrity, and even death threats targeted at her and her family. The media was no better either, poking and prodding her for details about every scandalous affair she was accused of despite her obvious discomfort about talking about such topics. The paparazzi and news media outlets, hungry for anything that had to do with her, would chase her down, invading her privacy just to take a photo of her no matter how crappy it turned out. It was no wonder that she began to disappear from the media along with the rest of her family. There were jokes about her falling off the face of the earth, and sometimes Jean believed she might never have existed at all. But it seems she is still here.

“I know of her,” Jean says instead. He might know many things about her, but he can never say he knows her. He’s sure many of the rumors that swirl about her are fake anyhow.

Mr. Smith sits back in his chair, his fingers steepled. “She says she’s considering coming back into the spotlight after her long hiatus. She read Miss Reiss’ article in our magazine when it came out and said she enjoyed your work,” he tells Jean. “She thinks you’re talented, that you can capture a person’s true essence with your camera. Your work, she said, is ‘beautiful.’”

Beautiful. Jean mouths the word, not quite believing that Mikasa Ackerman had used it to describe his photos. He clears his throat. “And this is her first magazine interview since her hiatus?”

“Correct,” Mr. Smith says. There’s a rare smile on his face again. “It would be foolish of us not to work with her, especially since she’s the one who came to us. Wouldn’t you think so, Mr. Kirstein?”

“Absolutely, I’d love to work with her!” Jean says immediately. One would be a fool to disagree with Mr. Smith. There’s a reason why he’s been in this business for so long. “I won’t disappoint you, sir.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” Mr. Smith says, but he goes back to the paperwork on his desk, not even bothering to send Jean out on his way.

Jean mumbles a clumsy goodbye that he’s sure his boss doesn’t hear, scurrying out of the office as quickly as possible. It’s silly, but he breathes more easily once he’s out of that room.

Once he gets back into his own office, he scrolls through the internet for pictures of Mikasa Ackerman. As he remembers, she’s beautiful. It’s a shame that the world demanded that she hide herself away.

He’s a bundle of nerves the day of the shoot. He doesn’t know what to expect. In interviews and talk shows, Mikasa had always been very reserved, a perfect lady, but there are stars that act differently behind the scenes. He’s tried contacting other beauticians and photographers that worked with her in the past, but they don’t really say much about her besides the fact that she’s stunningly beautiful as if he can’t already see that for himself. It also doesn’t help that she’s flown under the radar for the past couple of years. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised though. She had wanted to disappear, and she had done a successful job of it.

He stumbles into the room, disgruntled because he didn’t get the chance to talk to the hairdresser or makeup artist that worked on Miss Ackerman. They had merely rushed into his room, told him that Mikasa was ready for him, and disappeared. He had tried calling their name, running after them, but they had told him that she wasn’t anything special and that he would probably need luck to get anything out of her because she sure as hell isn’t sociable.

So he pastes on his professional smile and gets ready to be as civil as he can be. He prepares himself for stilted conversations with a brick wall, but once he sets eyes on her, he forgets everything.

Mikasa Ackerman, one of the mysterious Hollywood legends that disappeared out of the blue, is suddenly there in his studio and she looks magnificent in this brilliant red dress with its billowing layers of skirts and sparkles that Jean would think too extravagant on anyone else, but it looks perfect on her. When she hears his footsteps coming towards him, she looks at him with a cautious expression, a little lost and a little confused as if she doesn’t know how she arrived in such a place, but she gets up, holding onto her skirts, and walks to him. No, she doesn’t walk. It’s like she’s floating all the way towards him, gliding across the floor to him, and she extends a hand out to him. Her hand is so white and pretty that he thinks it must be made of porcelain, but her grip tells him that she’s made of something much stronger.

“You’re Jean Kirstein?” she asks, looking up at him through her thick black lashes. Her gray eyes aren’t cold; they’re cool, careful, cautious, and it makes him wonder why she had come in the first place. “Your piece with Historia…it was very beautiful. I spoke with her after I saw that issue and she told me that you have a natural eye for beautiful things.”

It doesn’t seem quite real, him talking to her like this. He’s surprised that her voice is so soft, delicate, and can’t believe that she’s said his name with those lips. When he had begun working at Sina, he had understood that there’d be a chance he’d speak with big celebrities, but Mikasa Ackerman isn’t like any of the actresses or Hollywood stars he’s met. She’s ethereal, some type of heavenly entity than one from this world.

He manages to stammer, “Thank you, Miss Ackerman. It’s an honor to work with you.”

She flashes him a wary smile, one he recognizes. It’s so different from the one she wore early in her career – beautiful, vibrant, genuine. This one is brief, forced, and polite. It’s the smile he’s seen in all the photos she’s been in before she completely disappeared, and he wonders if she even remembers the last time she smiled, really smiled.

Realizing that he’s been shaking her hand for a while, Jean clears his throat and guides her to the set where the lights are blinding. He hovers around her nervously, not quite sure how to speak with her. “This is where we’ll be working today. I’ll be taking a couple of shots – it’ll probably last until late this afternoon depending on whether or not you like the photos – but I understand you want this done in a day –“

“Will I have to look at the camera?” she asks him suddenly. Her eyes are cast downward, avoiding the bright light. Gone is the smile and it has been replaced with a frown. It worries him for a second before he sees that it is not one of displeasure, but one filled with worry. He’s sure that she’s done many shoots like this in the past, but perhaps she’s forgotten what they were like or she had never gotten used to them because she’s chewing so nervously on her lip that he’s afraid she’ll ruin her lipstick. “I know it’s strange but…would it be alright if I didn’t look at the camera?”

He’s about to open his mouth, confused and wanting to ask her why she would agree to a photo shoot even though she was unwilling to look at the camera, but he realizes the question is insensitive.

She’s been surrounded by cameras her entire life. Before she had even stepped foot on the red carpet, made her debut as a star, before she could even walk, she had been followed and harassed by the media and paparazzi. She’s been stared at and hunted down like a rare animal. She’s probably had enough of cameras and the spotlight to last the rest of her life. She might be returning to that life, but he can see that she’s reluctant to do so, so he might as well make it as easy as possible for her.

“No, not at all,” he finally says. He looks at her again, already thinking about how he wants to position her for this particular shot, and stumbles backward towards his camera, nearly stumbling over a wire lying on the ground because he isn’t looking. He sees that Mikasa Ackerman is looking at him, startled, but he waves his hand to tell her that he’s fine. “It’s alright. I do that all the time. Just sit down on that white box over there and we’ll get started.”

“Okay,” she says hesitantly, but she does what she’s told. The way she sits on the white box is stiff, more like she’s a robot than an actual human being. He remembers this too from the last photoshoots she’s done – her blank stare at the camera, her empty smile, her mechanical poses. She wears that same fake smile that she had when she first greeted him, and he wonders if he’ll even be able to get one photo of her smiling genuinely.

He remembers not to frown. If this is difficult for her, he doesn’t want to agitate her any further by pointing out things she’s doing wrong. It’s not as if she’s doing this on purpose, he’s sure. So he looks up from the lens and tells her, “If you don’t want to smile, don’t. You don’t even have to face the camera if you don’t want to.”

“Won’t that be strange?” she asks, but she turns away from the camera, looking to the right where the interns are flitting about to grab donuts and coffee and other things that the beauticians and makeup artists on standby are demanding.

“Not at all,” he replies, returning to look at her through the lens.

She doesn’t look as mechanical as she did when she had first sat down. It was probably the fault of the camera all along. He doesn’t blame her. His looks particularly intimidating, all black with his large lens and loud shutter noise. Looking away seems to ease her nerves somewhat though, and he hopes that he’ll be able to capture her more natural expressions before the shoot ends.

“What’d you do during your time off, Miss Ackerman?” he asks, still looking through the lens. He’s probably not the best conversationalist around – and he gets the feeling that Mikasa doesn’t talk very much either – but he doesn’t know how else to get her to become more comfortable. “Did you travel anywhere? Perhaps take up a hobby like scuba diving or hiking?”

She doesn’t answer for a while, perhaps surprised that he’s trying to strike up a conversation with her. At first, he’s afraid that she’ll just ignore him, not wanting to talk to him at all, but she finally replies, “I went to Europe with my cousin for a bit. It was very beautiful although the weather was dreary. I traveled to Japan as well to visit family members and stayed there for quite a while. The atmosphere there can be quite peaceful, and it made me feel at home.”

Talking seems to be working, so Jean decides to forget about his shoot, wanting to talk to her enough so that she feels comfortable taking pictures. Maybe he won’t get her to look at the camera, but perhaps he’ll get shots where she’s more relaxed and willing. Leaning against the camera, something he’s not supposed to do because the equipment is expensive but something he does anyway because the tripod it balances on is rather sturdy, Jean asks, “Japan, huh? I’ve never been there before, but I hear it’s beautiful in the spring. Do your folks live in the countryside?”

“They live in the Kyoto Prefecture,” Mikasa answers. She looks as if she’s remembering something pleasant. It’s not quite a smile on her face, but it’s a hint of one. “It’s magnificent in the spring when the cherry blossoms bloom. You should go visit if you ever have the time. If not Kyoto, then perhaps some other place in Japan. Tokyo or Osaka, maybe.”

“Maybe,” laughs Jean. Ah, if his work schedule ever allowed for it, although he could look into working for one of Sina’s other divisions if he really wanted a change of setting. “Would I like the food there?”

She sits still as a statue, and he thinks now would be a good time to snap a photo, but he doesn’t want her to stop talking. She’s lifted one of her eyebrows up. “Are you a picky eater?”

“A bit,” he admits, a sheepish grin on his face. “Is that bad?”

She shrugs. “There’s quite a bit of seafood, but there’s a lot of other things too. I’m sure you’ll be fine if you ever decide to go. I think you’d like it there since you like beautiful things.”

There’s the smile that he’s been looking for – an incomplete smile but the closest he’s gotten so far to her real smile. It’s similar to her old one – the bright and smiling one that she had when she had first started out before the world began to turn on her. Did she manage to find it after all this time?

He wants to run to his camera right now and snap the photo quickly before it disappears, but he finds that his finger hovers just above the button. It stays there for a while, but he finds he cannot bring himself to take the picture.

Lifting his head once more from the lens, he asks, “Would it be alright if I took the picture now? You can just stay as you are – you don’t even have to move – and I could just take it if, er, that would be fine with you.”

Mikasa stays there, unmoving, before finally saying, “Please take the photo then.”

He’s afraid that her smile would have faltered by the time the shutter clicks, but he reviews the photo and it’s still there. He can’t quite believe it – how perfectly her hair falls into place, how hesitant but beautiful her smile is, or how elegant she looks as she gazes off into space – and he looks up at her, opening his mouth to ask her another question, this time about how settling back in Shiganshina was for her.

That’s what they do for the majority of the shoot – he asks her questions and she answers, letting her guard down slowly and becoming more natural, and he asks every time before he takes a photo. It takes a much longer time than normal. Most of the interns and those standing around leave despite their earlier excitement at seeing one of the elusive Ackermans. Jean doesn’t mind taking a long time if that’s what it takes. Besides, talking to her is actually quite pleasant. She’s kinder than he thought she would be and very interesting, telling him about all the places she’s traveled and the things she’s seen during her time off. Before he knows it, he has dozens of photos of her to pick and choose from.

Jean looks them over while Mikasa is in the changing room, flipping through them one by one. She doesn’t look at the camera in any of them, but she’s beautiful all the same. He’s seen shoots with celebrities in extravagant dresses or suits, smiling with their pasted-on smiles and empty beauty. Mikasa isn’t like that in any of these photos.

A picture is worth a thousand words, yes, but there aren’t enough words in the world to describe her ineffable beauty. To capture her in a frame, to freeze her, should be a crime because it does not allow the viewer to see the elegance with which she holds up her head or the angelic atmosphere about her. True, it’s easy to see her wide cheekbones, her sculpted brows, and the effortless way that her hair falls to shape her face, but it’s still not enough if the viewer cannot witness her careful, cautious gaze as her eyes look across the room or even the grace she has in even the smallest of movements. It makes him want to delete all these photos at once because, while they’re stunning, they’re not enough.

“Are you alright?” a voice asks, and he looks up to see Mikasa looking down at him. She’s finally out of the fancy designer dresses she was made to wear for the shoot, clad in a simple dress with a black top and colorful patterned skirt instead. It’s much simpler and more casual than anything he thought she’d wear, but it’s a good look for her. It’s a nice change from the overly formal things he’s seen her wear on the red carpet. “Are we going to pick the photos now?”

“It’s fine. It’s better if we take a break from all this. We’ve been taking these photos for hours after all,” he says. Jean stands up, turning the camera off quickly so that she can’t look at it. In truth, he doesn’t want her to look at them. He doesn’t want her to be disappointed that the photos aren’t perfect; they’re as perfect as he can make them, but it’s still not good enough to satisfy him and he’s afraid she’ll feel the same way. It’s not a lie that he thinks they should take a break though. While he knows Mikasa’s a professional, she’s been away from doing photo shoots and other things typical of her career, so he’s sure she’s tired after all this. “Want to go out to the balcony? The city looks pretty amazing around this time.”

There’s that smile again. Each time she smiles, it looks a little more brilliant than the last. He’d snap a picture right now if he hadn’t already turned off his camera.

“I’d love to see it,” she says.

He leads her to the balcony that overlooks the city. While he sometimes tires of living in the bustling city and its cramped quarters, working in a towering skyscraper is one of the perks of living in a big city. He sometimes takes a breather here after particularly bad shoots with moody starlets who believe they’ve already made it big or grumpy actors who aren’t quite happy with how their photos came out. It’s high enough up to make everyone in the city look like ants as they drive away in their toy vehicles through the crowded streets. Mikasa seems to like the view too because she has such a serene smile on her face.

And it’s that one, Jean realizes as he stares at her wide-eyed. It’s that smile that he’s been chasing all day, the smile he hasn’t managed to see until now. Fumbling for his phone, he curses as he almost drops it, but he taps in his password before looking at her desperately, breathlessly.

“Can I take a photo of you right now?” he asks. He’s already tapped on the camera app, opening it up, but he forces himself to point the phone downwards until she gives her consent. “It’s not for the shoot, but you just look so perfect right now. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to say yes, but I just want you to see it. You don’t even have to look at the camera either. You can just look somewhere else if you want.”

“Yes.”

He’s babbling so hard that he almost doesn’t hear her. Pausing for a second, sure that he’s just imagining it in his crazed desperation, he asks, “What did you say?”

She purses her lips a little bit, amused, but the smile returns to her face. “I said yes,” she says again. The wind is blowing her hair every which way, so she tucks a lock of it behind her ear so that it doesn’t fly into her face. “I’d like to see it afterward.”

Blinking because he still can’t quite believe his ears, Jean shakes his head to snap out of it and raises his phone, not wanting to lose this moment. It only takes a second to snap the photo, and he shows it to her immediately afterward. He lets her hold his phone in her hands, looking at her carefully as she inspects the picture.

Looking at it over her shoulder, he knows that this picture is a lot messier than the ones he had shot in the studio. Her hair is in disarray and her clothes are so much plainer than the ones she had worn for the shoot. Still, he thinks it’s the best shot they’ve taken today because none of those photos has this smile. It’s not the one he had seen in the earlier days of her career. This smile is not as wide or carefree, but it has another sort of happiness to it. A fearless happiness, a brave smile that dared to exist even though the rest of the world tried to take it away.

She’s silent for a moment as she observes the photo, touching her own face as if she can’t believe that she’s the same person in the photo. At first, he thinks she hates it because she doesn’t say a word, but Mikasa turns to him suddenly, thrusting the phone back into his hands and asking, “Would it be okay if you sent it to me?”

“Sent it to you?” Jean asks, startled. He clumsily taps away at the keys, opening up his e-mail so that he can compose a swift letter to her agent with the attached photo. He’s tapping on all the wrong keys though and he curses under his breath. “I’ll send it to your agent if that’s okay. If not, I can send it to your e-mail too-“

“No,” she interrupts him, putting a hand on his wrist. She looks at him, biting her lip again in that nervous way she has. “You can just send it to me. I’ll give you my phone number. I just…I didn’t know I could look like that.”

He never thought he’d ever head the photoshoot for an Ackerman. Getting the phone number of one just makes this seem like it’s all a dream, but he gives her his phone so she can tap in her phone number and hit “send” so she can see what she really looks like.

“Thank you,” she says, beaming at her phone once she receives the photo. There’s that same brilliant smile on her face. He can only hope that it doesn’t fade away when she finally makes her return.

They go back to the studio after that and pick out her photos. Out of the many dozens that he’s shot, she picks out ten, but he e-mails the rest of the photos to her agent in case she changes her mind. She isn’t smiling in any of them; the closest she comes to smiling is the ghost of a smile she had when talking about her trips to Japan and Europe. It’s certainly pretty, Jean thinks, but he thinks even those who pick up the next issue of Sina won’t fully appreciate her beauty. They didn’t before and there’s a part of him that worries that she’ll be taken for granted again, beaten down, and thrown away.

“Thank you again, Jean. It was lovely working with you,” Mikasa says, extending her hand before she leaves.

“Likewise. Take care, Miss Ackerman,” he says, and he takes her hand in hers.

When she grips his hand, shaking it firmly, he thinks that he shouldn’t worry at all. She’s stronger than anyone gives her credit for.

Jean doesn’t expect to be called to Mr. Smith’s office so soon after the photo shoot. The last time he had headed a photoshoot, he just sent in the photos to be touched up slightly, got them approved, and then received a copy of the magazine as soon as it was published. He had thought it would work the same way this time, but the call from Mr. Smith’s secretary said that his boss wanted to speak with him about something.

Like he did the last time he had come to Mr. Smith’s office, Jean rapped his knuckles on the door nervously and said, “Sir? Jean Kirstein from the photography department. You said you wanted to see me about something.”

“Come in.”

When Jean walks in, he sees Mr. Smith sitting at his desk. A manila folder sits on his desk, opened. The contents are in Mr. Smith’s hand – Mikasa Ackerman’s photos. His boss’ face is expressionless as it flips through the many photos, both the ones that were chosen and the ones that were rejected. After Jean had been seated for a while, Mr. Smith finally looked up, giving Jean his full attention.

“So, Jean,” Mr. Smith says, putting the photos down. Jean thinks he liked it better when Mr. Smith would only half pay attention to him. The intense stare of his cool blue eyes makes Jean want to fidget in his chair. “How did the shoot with Miss Ackerman go last week?”

“Er, it went well, I think,” Jean answers. He hates that he tacked on the “I think,” but talking to Mr. Smith always makes him feel so unsure about himself. “She was charming to work with and seemed pleased with how the photos came out.”

“Her agent called earlier this morning. They want to pull her out of this edition,” Mr. Smith says. He looks at Jean carefully.

“Excuse me?” Shocked isn’t even the right word for what Jean feels. It feels a little like betrayal, like she had come over and ripped his heart out even though he had known that her return to the spotlight was a tentative thing. Still, she had seemed so ready at the end of the day. She had helped him pick the photos, she had shaken his hand, she had told him that it was lovely working with him. Why then would she decide against being featured in the magazine after having done the photoshoot?

But Mr. Smith seems to already be done talking about it. He’s picking up the photos off his desk, stacking them up, and putting them back in the manila folder. “Her agent says that she’s given it more thought, and Miss Ackerman believes she isn’t ready just yet to return to the spotlight.”

“I see.” Jean numbly takes the folder that Mr. Smith hands him. It really was too good to be true – the photoshoot, those conversations between photos, that last picture on the balcony. In the end, all his work – his photos and his words – meant nothing.

Mr. Smith must have excused him at some point because Jean stands up to leave and is heading towards the door, his hand hovering on the doorknob, when his boss calls him one last time.

“Jean,” Mr. Smith says. When Jean turns around, Mr. Smith is looking right at him again with those piercing blue eyes. “You did great work. Those photos were incredible. The reason why she decided not to do this in the end had nothing to do with you, I’m sure. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Praise from his boss is rare, but it still doesn’t make him feel better. Still, Jean feigns a smile at Mr. Smith and mutters a quick “thank you” before disappearing to his office.

---

What had he done wrong? Was it letting her not look at the camera? Was it because he had been to personal in asking her questions? Or was it perhaps that last photo on the balcony? Jean doesn’t which it is, and he nearly drives himself mad thinking about all the possibilities that caused this to happen. He stares at the printed photos, scrutinizing them closely, but he doesn’t quite know what’s wrong with them.

It’s hurting his eyes to look at them for so long, so he drops them down on his desk and rubs his tired eyes.

After he thinks about it for a while, this was bound to happen. He’s far from experienced and the shoot with Historia Reiss was just a stroke of luck. To think he would find the same success with an Ackerman was pretentious of him. Of course, she would pretend to like them and then quickly change her mind as soon as she was far enough away. He would have done the same thing. If Mr. Smith ever allows him to stand behind a camera again, Jean would be lucky.

His phone rings and Jean picks it up without looking at the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Jean Kirstein?” says the person on the other end. It’s a female voice, soft and delicate. It sounds so familiar, but Jean doesn’t dare to think about who it might be. It would be too good to be true.

“This is he,” he says cautiously.

“This is Mikasa Ackerman,” the speaker says.

“Mikasa?”

He can hear her smiling on the other end, can imagine it without having to look at her, and he wishes he had a camera with him right now so he could run over and capture it.

“That’s the first time you’ve called me by my first name,” she laughs. Jean realizes that he’s never heard her laugh before. It’s a short laugh, like a burst of happiness, but it’s beautiful like the rest of her.

“Yeah, I just…I’m really surprised that you called,” he says, laughing himself. He’s still confused and hurt, but hearing her voice makes him feel better. Perhaps he had overthought it. Maybe it really does have nothing to do with him.

“It’s fine,” she assures him. There’s a pause on her end and she finally says, “I’m sorry I changed my mind after everything. The pictures were amazing. I showed them to my agent and he said they were the best he’s seen in a while.”

Jean wants to ask her but wonders if he should. He has a right to know though. After all, he had been the ones to take the pictures in the first place. He’s not even upset about his photos not being featured on the front page. She had just seemed so happy that day and he wants to know what changed her mind. So he asks.

“I guess it’s because…it’s been a while since anyone has ever really seen me, the real me,” Mikasa says. He wonders if she’s chewing her lip in that way she does when she’s nervous. “And I really want people to see me in the same way that you do, but I’m not sure I want them to just yet. For now…I think I’m just satisfied if you can see me that way.”

The way she says that, so earnestly, makes him blush even though he’s sure she’s just being kind. But her explanation makes perfect sense to him. After being hurt by the world before, it’s not like she could return so easily. The fact that she had even thought to return at all is amazing to him.

“Well,” Jean says, no longer feeling upset. Rather, he feels hopeful that this isn’t the end – for her, for him, and for the two of them both working together. “The world better be ready when they see the real you.”

She laughs again and he closes his eyes, soaking in the sound of her happiness. “Yeah…I look forward to working with you again soon, Jean.”

“Likewise…Mikasa.” He sets down his phone once the call has ended and leans back in his chair.

The world isn’t going to be ready when they meet her again. That’s fine, Jean thinks as he opens up the photo of her he had taken on his phone. She smiles brilliantly back him, radiant as the sun. They’ll be blown away when they see Mikasa next, her in all her real beauty.

[thefoultrap]

The signs:

Aries: Something about you makes my blood boil in a unique, uncomfortable way, you are full of mystery. You have black holes for eyes, remarkably, that are too intense for most people to look into. You have no control over your greatness, you were born this way. Notice it and blossom. Not a single person on earth can blossom like you can. Not a single person can blossom like you will. You have great and empowering words to say in this life, make sure to say all of them without fear. You are not afraid. Be great.

Taurus: You are so lovely, the embodiment of nature, the embodiment of all the naturality in life created by the one and only, engulfing creator. I remember losing you and all nature that surrounded me seemed to shrivel and die. My heart ached when I heard the crunch under my feet of every dead leaf I walked upon. It brought me so much pain, i felt like death. I lost my vision and a bright white light came over me, fading into a soft glow and all I could see was your face. If I was dying, this was my glimpse of heaven, it made me want to die. I would rather die with your image in my mind than not have you in such a short, sometimes seemingly meaningless life such as this one. Perhaps you were just too lovely to be with someone like me, perhaps too lovely to be in my filthy grasp. You are my glimpse of heaven. How I long to be able to tell you that. How I long to be able to sing to you and whisper you the sweet words I never did. I am so sorry.

Gemini: I feel so naked when I’m with you. You strip me of my walls, you strip me of my guarded defenses, leaving me completely and utterly vulnerable. You shatter any mental boundaries I possess. You open my mind to the awareness of a mind. You show me to simply have a mind, such a power house is astonishing. You leave me breathless with your aura and creative, rhythmic way of speaking to everyone. You introduce open mindedness like no other, freedom like no other, a genius. With you, losing my mind and falling into madness is okay, almost a necessity. In life there simply seems to never be enough time. You show me how to embrace the lack of time we all have, you show me that death is the inevitable and that its not as important as we make it. The important thing is to experience life fully, entirely, with every part of our being. To be thankful of the rare oddity, the rare adventure we have all been gifted with called life, to dance with the music of life. I swear I’m out of my mind and that’s a wonderfully beautiful thing. Thank you for teaching me that.

Cancer: I would make love to you in the sweetest, most enticing way because I deeply believe you deserve to be made love to like no other. I hope you remain soft, I hope you have the strength to. I say this even though I know you will. You have always remained selfless, you have always remained kind, somehow. I do not understand how someone can turn such pain into beauty. Your creations are just as beautiful as you are, that is so admirable. You shock people with such generosity, you are completely, utterly and naturally divine to the point you are unhealthly wanted by every pair of eyes, even the blind. I swear its like the blind regain their sight in your presence. People notice you in a crowd, don’t doubt that. People especially notice you when you think you are not being noticed. You are the most beautiful conscious being and that will never change. You have angel lips as sweet as honey, your voice is melodic. I have always ached and dreamed for you to love me. Please one day love someone like me. Your being is so lovely that I can’t help myself from hopelessly weeping. You are a walking art piece, a priceless masterpiece. I lost everything the first time I looked in your eyes. I lost everything.

Leo: Remember that people want to be like you, just as much as you want to be like them. You can be admirable of others, you absolutely can be, but live your life knowing without a doubt that you are the best there is. Countless people admire you and want to be just like you. Effortlessly you shine brighter than the sun itself and when you smile, every pair of knees weaken, instinctively and inescapably bowing down to the ingenius design you are. Your mind and appearance radiate exuberance. I pray you can fathom just how special and gifted you are because you yourself are the unfathomable. You are inspiration and ambition, the abstract dreams I have at night that inspire my creativity, that lead me to create the never before seen. You are surrealistic art, our God’s most treasured and individualistic specimen. You are not only that but also the sun that lights the entire sky, you are the sun beams that sink into and warm my skin when I stand in such brilliant light. You are the light that keeps me from opening my eyes, preventing blindness but how I foolishly dont mind and long to go blind by such greatness.

Virgo: You remind me of sleep but you also remind me of night terrors. I feel like I don’t know who you are, slightly fearing you. Seemingly the most difficult puzzle to put together. I wonder and ponder if you are the worlds never ending puzzle, if I will ever figure you out, i have never been able to entirely comprehend your depth and mystery. You are almost frightening, shockingly and startlingly enchanting. You are hypnotic and maneuver with magic. I do not know the depth of your mind and apart of me never wants to. I enjoy the enigma you are, forever intriguing and intelligent. Ask me personal, peculiar questions and I will unintentionally and completely open up to you, instinctively trusting you. Your questions are always intense yet tender, your mind must be filled to the brim with intellect and perplexing art. Your mind is a masterpiece and your soul is ethereal. Extremely delicate and light in a way that seems too perfect for this world. I hope you can live with and fall in love with your sly mind. I am in love. May you always be yourself, may you feel everything you are meant to feel in this life and may you surface from the darkness.

Libra: You are the bittersweet lonliness that the sad and dreamy ones feel midday, swirling like the wind, leaving long, lovely hair to flow, swirlingly and gracfully making your way through clothes, sending goosebumps down backs, leaving a lasting, cold and drowzy sensation. You’re the words in a book that readers grow tiresome of until finally falling asleep, leaving them with their adventurous dreams connected to the adventurous story they just took in. I see you in every free, soaring bird. I feel you in every unique and precious song that lively birds compose. You are melody, rhythm, sound, the grand orchestra. You are poetry, expression, a famous sonnet. You walk with fearlessness, you live with each lovers name you’ve ever loved written and embedded on your flashy skin. You are autheticly rare and always ready to entirely open yourself up, to let the flowers you encompass within bloom for all to see , appreciate and mesmerize. My god, do people mesmerize you.

Scorpio: I’m so lustful of you, lustful out of complete, biting love. I’ve never fallen so deeply and madly in love with a soul, It is insanity. You are full of demons that I face from loving you everyday and I can’t imagine what it’s like to be you and live with them, deep inside, haunting and strange. I have been face to face with insanity, letting your wickedness and sin make its way within me. It all makes me more infatuated. No matter how hard I try to find your core, your raw center, I can never seem to dig deep enough, I can never seem to withstand the screams, painful howls and blackness that your inner monsters let out and intensely sophocate me with when I try. When I give up, it’s like you see my vulnerability and you see it as me being submissive, knowing this is when you can strip me naked and consume me entirely, this is when you know and are proud of the secrets you keep from me, this is when you know you own me because I will fail to figure you out, i will fail to get anything from you yet continuously crawl back for something, for anything I can get from you. You have me in a trance that I can’t snap out of, you need the control because it brings you security and deep, sinful satisfaction. You experience a sense of peace in knowing that you can cause me to feel pain so that you won’t feel so alone and lost in your own. I want to make love to you and feel the pain I experience from being in love with you. I am incapable of leaving you alone, regardless of the sorrow i experience. I will never let you feel alone. I will feel this pain with you, right by your side, my ride or die. You are not alone. Maybe this isn’t love, maybe it is just madness but I’ve always been mad.. but not as mad as you.

Sagittarius: You are the book of everything, a book holding all the knowledge in existence. You are the infinity sign, you are lively, always hungry for life and full of wisdom. Youre the feeling you get on a hot summer day, laying in the center of a sweetly scented meadow, taking in every bit of the sun, not being able to suppress a tight smile. Feeling at complete peace, no worries or a feeling of weight on your back, feeling free and open in the mind. I want to be alone with you and hear you speak about all the things that go on in your head. I imagine you have a billion things to say, or maybe nothing to say, it doesn’t matter. All you have to do is exist and you are performing one of the most incredible things possible. People forget that simply being alive is utterly mindblowing in itself. You give inspiring advice and shock people with your spunk and inner lightening. I appreciate your uniqueness and ability to be open to every side of a spectrum. You are the instant, refreshing feeling you get from diving into a cool pool on a hot day, your my child hood memories, you are the embodiment of an entirely fulfilled life. Your soul has lived a thousand different lives, you will exist for eternity. You are existence itself. Live free and die free, make your inevitable mark on this world. It belongs to you.

Capricorn: no one’s ever ready for what you’ve got to offer to this world, you can do so much with so little and have an achingly powerful mind and aura. You don’t have to do anything to shock and mesmerize mankind, just be yourself. You change the world with your ambitious actions, you change people simply with your way of presenting yourself. You are intelligence, skillful and have the ability to accept time, accept that everything takes time. That’s something a lot of people can’t do. You can do so many things others can’t, but you are not flashy. You are low-key while remaing self assured. Maybe you experience a lot of self doubt, but im telling you right now, you shouldnt. Your jokes and attitude are like a fun house, utterly amusing and dirty, sometimes scary. You are full of original ideas that you can easily bring to life. I hope you know how much you actually benefit and effect our species. You have immense purpose, see that you are the greatest and anything you want can be obtained. I hope you know how attractive and special you are. Absolutely outstanding.

Aquarius: life is a lonesome experience, you understand that more than anyone. You carry the weight of humanity itself with you everywhere you go on your back. To fit in seems like a maze that is unsolvable. Your aquarius minds are unending, no limitations, you are mad men. Not only ingenius but geniuses yourselves. You obtain something no one else can obtain and this can never be taken away from you. Nobody quite understands what makes you different, you dont even understand it yourself but you feel it deep within your bones. “I do not belong here, I do not belong anywhere and I don’t want to belong anywhere.” So hard to comprehend or understand, you are utterly perplexing but so fucking beautiful. I can’t fully convey in words how astoundingly beautiful each and every one of you are. Let someone take a look into your eyes and theyll travel through space, adventuring and absorbing the sight of multiple universes. Let someone take a long look at your face and watch them get lost in mesmerization. Magnetic, mystifying, heartless, mythical beings. A world such as this one does not deserve you or your revolutionary touch. You are the lone, last star of each ending night, still shining brightly as the sun begins to rise. Glowing alone to express your individuality, glowing as brightly as you can until the sun puts you out but you are always going to be there again when the sun goes down and you are always going to be the last one shining when it rises again.

Pisces: you are hands that are made to create art, you are the creases in the hands of an infant. You are the start of life, the start of plant life, the start of a human life, the start of an animals life. You are the smoke from my cigarettes, dispersing through out the air. I hear you everywhere I go, echoing in the back of my head as a guide to being a better person. You make me want to be a better person. You are the sweet cherries around my sweet ice cream, you’re the soft, enchanting scented lotion I spread on my skin. You are the goosebumps left after a lovers sensitive touch. You are the feathers that fill my softest of pillows. You are the sweetest of piano music ever played. I love you. I miss you. You will be with me.

[hannahhostofheaven]

Grace Exchange: The complete thread Chapters 1-10

Trigger warning: This story contains scenes of torture, suggested sexual assault, and illness. It contains dark themes and lots of angst.

Chapter 1

Castiel slumped against a tree, his body finally giving out on him. As he sat, propped up, staring at the dimming light from his car's tail light, he could hear Hannah get out of the car. He winced, trying to muster up the strength to try to appear stronger than he was, knowing he couldn't hide it from her anymore. She was by his side in an instant, kneeling beside him, her blue eyes darkened with worry. "The car ran out of gas," he explained, stammering breathlessly, as he gave her a thin smile. "We need more." "You've run out of gas," she pointed out, and Castiel had to smile again at her attempt at soft humor, even though her expression was serious. "You have to go," he told her, slumping further against the tree as he felt his strength failing him. "The town isn't far. You can probably find another vehicle. Get to Dean, find the rogues." "I can't," she protested, arching a brow in fear. She gazed around the dark woods they'd found themselves stranded in. "I don't know anything about this world. You can't die, Castiel…" Castiel felt sad, gazing at her apologetically at her plea. She was pleading with him not to die. "I've accepted my fate," he told her sadly, his eyes gazing up to meet hers. "Perhaps… it's fitting for all the suffering I've caused." She frowned at that. "You think you deserve this?" her tone was accusing, almost hostile. But her expression softened immediately. He watched as she turned to glance at the road behind them, the dark asphalt dimly lit by the dying glow of the car's headlights as the last of the gas finally shut the whole thing off. Castiel watched as the world around them went dark. The car had finally given out, just as he, the last of his borrowed grace failing, was about to do. "Hannah," his stammering voice turned her attention back to him, her face now only illuminated by the moonlight above. "I know you have what it takes to continue on," he told her. "You can be the leader I never was." She studied him for a moment, saying nothing, a long pause passing in which nothing could be heard other than the crickets, the owls, and Castiel's labored breathing. "No," she said simply. He raised a brow at the defiance in her voice. "What do you mean no?" he blinked slowly. "I don't have long left, Hannah, you have to promise me." "You've taught me about choices," she told him. "So now I'm making one." As he watched, frowning in confusion, she pulled the angel blade from her pocket. "What are you doing?" he asked in confusion as she held the blade up, staring at the sleek metal. "You need more grace," she replied. "You've made it clear that you won't take it from another angel or seek Metatron out for it, so I am acting for you." Suddenly, it dawned on Castiel what Hannah was planning to do. He sucked in a breath, trying desperately to hoist his body up, reaching out for her, but she jerked away and put the blade to her own throat. "Hannah!" Castiel pleaded, his arms outstretched to her. "Don't! Let me-" too late. She sliced deep into her own skin, letting out a soft whimper of pain as blood erupted from the wound and the blue glow of grace appeared. She dropped the blade and turned to him, determination in her eyes. "No," he resisted when she pulled him away from the tree by the collar of his shirt and yanked him forward. He struggled to pull away, but his feeble attempts were no match for her grip on him. "I want to do this," she gasped, breath hitched as blood trickled down her neck. She lowered herself so that they were eye level then, forcefully pushed him against her. "Take it," she insisted as a whisp of grace slithered out of her neck towards him. He tried once again to pull away as it got closer, but she pulled him back to her and he was compelled in inhale. Castiel immediately began to feel the strength renewed as he inhaled the grace deeply. Once the angelic power began to course through him, he felt compelled to inhale again, greedily absorbing up more and more of Hannah's grace. He closed his eyes as he felt the immense relief within his body that the grace provided. He faded out of his mind for a split second, savoring it. But as he came back to his mind, his eyes snapped open as he pulled away from her. Quickly, and now with renewed power, he placed a hand over her throat and healed the wound. Hannah gasped, falling forward. Castiel caught her against him. Her body shivered against his as he held her, desperately surging through the emotions. He gripped her shoulders and pulled her off of him if only to look her in the eyes. "Why!" he demanded. She gasped, her own body weakened now, her eyes barely slits as she wavered in his grip. "I… couldn't watch you die," she gasped, her body swaying, Castiel supporting her by the shoulders. "You are needed more than I am." Castiel shook his head, "no," he said, he thought nothing could be further from the truth. No angel or human truly needed him, after all, what had he done but cause destruction and death to them. He was well aware most angels wanted him dead, they blamed him for the fall, but not more than he blamed himself. The truth was, perhaps he hadn't been focused very hard on helping himself because he didn't want to be helped. Because the only way he could see to make up for his mistakes was with his own life. But now… He looked Hannah over. She was weak, but as she quivered in his arms, he could still see, with the power of his angelic senses, that there was still a very faint hint of grace within her, if only a teardrop's worth. "I didn't take it all," he announced, taking only a small comfort in the fact that he hadn't left her completely deprived. He felt sick to his stomach as he dwelled on what he'd just done. The one thing he swore never to do again, to take another angel's grace just so he could live, he'd done it again. It didn't matter to him that she'd given her consent, that she'd all but forced it on him, he should have tried harder to resist. Now, their roles were reversed. She was the one whose strength waned. He let her fall against him again, her head resting against his chest as he tried to think of what to do. "You need rest and you can make more," he said aloud to her and to himself. She'd be okay, he'd make sure of that. "We don't have time for me to recover," she insisted. "We have a mission, as you have said. You should leave me." Castiel realized that what he was about to do might label him a hypocrite in her eyes. He'd insisted over and over that their mission, the road they were on, took precedence over his needs, yet here he was, ready to drop everything to save her. But how could he not? How could he just leave her to die after what she'd just done for him. He felt moved beyond words by her action, yet he couldn't help but feel that here was another angel that he'd caused harm to. "I don't care about the mission right now," he told her as he moved to get to his feet, pulling her up with him. "Without your grace, you are vulnerable to the dangers of this world, and you will be extremely weakened until you have a chance to recover it. I'm not going to leave you at the mercy of these humans." But as she leaned against him, he turned towards the car and frowned. The nearest town was a few miles away and they were out of gas. There had been no other cars on this road since they had pulled over. It was desolate. What were his options? Neither one of them could fly. He could carry her into town, but then he'd still have to leave her to go back and get the car. He had one other option and he didn't like it. "I have to go get gas for the car," he told her hesitantly. She looked up at him, blearily blinking lethargically at him. "Can you walk?" She tried. Trying to push past him to take a step, but immediately collapsed, Castiel moving quick to catch her. She shivered as the wind blew at them furiously. Castiel winced. With such diminished grace, Hannah was closer to being human than she had been before, just as Castiel had been when Metatron had taken his grace. She'd be tired, hungry, vulnerable to the elements, to sicknesses, to violence. And the sudden extraction of so much of her grace had already made her extremely weak. The world was a very dangerous place for a graceless angel. But Castiel had no choice. They'd be going nowhere without a car. He held her up, let her lean against him, helped her walk, until they managed to get to the car. He helped her into the back seat to lay down. He noticed her shiver and quickly removed his trenchcoat, draping it over her. He kneeled down in the opened door to be at eye level with her. "I'm going to walk to town," he said. "I'll bring back some gas and then we'll go find a motel." "And then what?" she lifted her head, blinking. "And then I'll take care of you," he promised. "Until your grace replenished. And then you have to promise me not to do that again." She frowned and said nothing, laying her head back down on the seat. Castiel hesitated when he didn't get acknowledgment. "Hannah." "I can't promise that, Castiel," she said, burying her face into the seat, and thus ending the conversation. Castiel stared at her dark brown hair, pursing his lips in frustration. He didn't even know how to argue with her. It was unfathomable to him that she would be willing to sacrifice herself for him like this, he didn't understand why she thought he deserved it. But he felt grateful, and closer to her than before. As he stared at her silent form, noticing she was already starting to drift to sleep, he felt a need to protect her. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised, reaching out to brush the top of her head with his fingers, unsure of why he felt compelled to make such a gesture. With that, he stood up and closed the door, turning, he broke into a run, heading towards town as fast as he could.

[scribbles-by-kate]

Just Forget the World

At the well after their reunion kiss, Belle and Rumple take things even further. RumBelle reunion smut, a ‘missing’ scene from 2.1 “Broken”.

Back during RumBelle Appreciation Week, @mariequitecontrarie posted about RumBelle’s reunion kiss by the well and what might have happened directly after it. Well, her delightful post inspired fic, and today is Marie’s birthday, and she’s sick with flu, so this is my combination happy birthday/get well soon gift to her :)

Rating: E Complete

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Just Forget the World

She’s made herself comfortable, her head tucked under his chin, resting on his chest, her arms around his neck. She doesn’t seem to have any plans to let him go any time soon. He doesn’t want her to. Having her back has made him realise just how much he loves her, how much he needs her. Now that he’s brought magic back, there’ll be prices to be paid, his curse to deal with, and Belle…Belle is his shield against all that… If…if he can really have her…really keep her this time.

Belle burrows closer. He’s warm and strong, and feels like home, something she hasn’t known since she left him, since he made her leave… But he does love her after all: she knew he did. He was just afraid. She doesn’t know why, doesn’t know why he clung to his magic, but they’re together now: everything’s going to be fine.

Rumplestiltskin adjusts his hold and Belle looks up at him.

‘Don’t let go,’ she whispers.

He shakes his head. ‘No.’ It’s amazing to him that she wants him to hold her. He suspects he’ll always be amazed by that.

She smiles, trusting him, and, gods, he does not deserve any of this, but he’s selfish enough to want to keep it.

Belle wants to be closer, wants to be enveloped by him. It was so cold down in that cell. She knows she was down there a long time, and in Regina’s tower before that, but a lot of the last twenty-eight years are blurry. It’s only really the last year or or so that she was aware of time moving, aware of being cold and hungry, aware of needing warmth. Now she knows the warmth she needed was his.

That’s why she presses closer now, why she wants to get nearer. It’s as vital as breathing, this need for connection with him. She wants… Yes, she wants him, and they’re together now, really together…

She moves quickly, giving him no warning, and steals his breath with her kiss. He clutches at her, swaying a little, and pulls his lips from hers.

‘Belle…’

She shakes her head. ‘Don’t stop.’

He doesn’t want to, but he knows he should. He needs to take care of her. She’s been down in that cell for years: she’s probably hungry, maybe weak… He’s got to protect her, not…not take advantage of her.

‘Sweetheart, we should stop,’ he begs desperately, because he knows what his body wants, and it really is being very insistent about it now. He tries to pull away.

‘No,’ Belle says firmly. ‘No, not yet. I’ve missed you so much, Rumple. Please: please kiss me again.’

His heart’s racing. He can feel his resolve crumbling. She’s so soft and beautiful…and light….and…she wants him, and gods he wants her… No, he can’t!

‘You don’t know what you’re asking,’ he says, shaking his head. He needs her so much, he fears he’ll hurt her.

‘Yes, I do,’ she insists. ‘Please,’ she begs. ‘I know you want to: I can see it in your eyes.’

‘You don’t know what you’re asking,’ he says again, almost angry, because his resolve is slipping away, and he has so much to reproach himself with already that adding hurting her to that list would be just another sign of how terrible he is, how selfish he is. As if he needs to be reminded!

‘To be with the man I love,’ she says gently. Why can’t he see that?

‘You should save that for your husband,’ he insists, ‘for a better man than me.’ He must control himself: he must.

‘I want no other,’ she says. ‘I want you, Rumplestiltskin, just you. I love you.’ And she gives him another joyful, teary smile, and he’s utterly undone.

He thought she was dead, thought he would never see her again… But she’s here: she’s alive, in his arms, kissing and touching him, wanting to be with him. Gods, that’s the best feeling!

He kisses her, fierce and hungry, like their kiss a moment ago. She wraps her arms tight around him, kissing back, trembling as his tongue strokes against hers. And, yes, this is what she wants, to consume, to be consumed, to share this joyful wonder at being together again. It’s what he wants too, even though it’s selfish, and she’ll surely push him away in a minute.

The kiss slows, becomes melting and sweet and hot all at once. Belle trembles with desire. She can feel his body, tense under her hands. She can feel he’s still holding back. What must she do to make him understand that this is what she wants?

She kisses him deeper, eagerly tasting him. Their first kiss was so short, and it was thirty years ago. She’s lived off the memory all these years, but now he’s here and she wants more: she wants it all.

‘Make me yours, Rumple,’ she breathes, as he kisses her neck.

He shudders, clutching her to him. Back in their land, her purity would be a great treasure, not to be treated lightly. It’s somewhat less valuable here, but Belle doesn’t know that, and yet she’s giving herself to him freely…giving him her virginity…

‘Please,’ she whispers, having felt him go still.

‘Let me take you home,’ he suggests: ‘let me—’

‘Here,’ Belle says, cutting across him. She doesn’t want to wait. She’s been waiting, hoping, for this day for thirty years. She’s not waiting any longer.

Rumplestiltskin is incredulous, but also impossibly aroused. There’s light in her for certain: he knows it because he’s so drawn to her, and he wouldn’t be if that light wasn’t there, but it’s not innocent. She’s daring, bold, and, oh, gods, that’s so intoxicating to him!

‘Here?’ he asks: ‘really? You don’t want a bed, comfort? It won’t be—’

‘It will be perfect,’ she insists. ‘Anywhere would be perfect, but we’re here, and I don’t want to wait. Thirty years, Rumple!’ Her eyes are bright with unshed tears.

He understands. The pain of it all, and the relief and the joy at being reunited.

‘I thought I would never see you again,’ he breathes, tearing up himself, moving with her as she crouches on the mossy ground.

‘I’m here,’ she breathes, clutching his lapel: ‘I’m here, my Rumple.’

He kisses her, pulling her to him as they kneel on the damp grass. He must fix that, make it comfortable, but her hands sliding into his jacket distract him, and all he can do is hold her to him, his hands caressing her body, over the ratty clothes she’s wearing. He must fix that too…

‘Rumple,’ she whimpers. She’s pushing at his jacket, trying to get it off him.

Unthinking, he shrugs out of it. He’s almost in a daze, feels as though he’s dreaming. This…this can’t be real. He’s dreamed of her many times, of course, which was why he needed to touch her earlier, to be sure she was real. And…oh, gods, this can’t be a dream. He’s really holding her, kissing her, hearing her little sighs…

Belle feels him start, feels his hands clutch at her. He’s frozen, almost as if something’s shocked him.

‘What is it?’ she breathes, looking up at him. He looks stunned.

‘You’re real,’ he whispers, in the same tone as he did earlier, before she remembered him, when she was so confused by his reaction, his tearful promise of protection.

‘Yes, I’m real,’ she promises. ‘I’m as real as anything, Rumple. Here.’ She takes his hand and brings it up to hold in both of hers. ’See?’

‘I thought you were dead,’ he whispers, his voice breaking.

‘And that’s…that’s why you never came for me,’ she murmurs.

He nods, tears running down his cheeks. ‘I would have if I’d known. I would have come for you, Belle.’

‘I know,’ she sobs, kissing him. ‘I know you would.’ She kisses him again, and it grows heated quickly.

He can’t help himself now. He shouldn’t do this, but he’s helpless to resist. He will try to be careful, try not to hurt her; that’s provided she doesn’t push him away, which he’s still expecting her to do, as willing as she seems now. Why would she want him? Why—?

‘Rumple,’ she whispers, touching his cheek. She can feel him tensing, holding back. ‘Please,’ she says again, desperate. She doesn’t know how to make him understand. Must she scream it to the treetops?

‘I want you to make love to me,’ she says, because if he won’t trust her actions, perhaps he’ll trust her words. She never says what she doesn’t mean, and he should remember that she’s the one who decides her fate, no one else. She wants to be here, wants to do this with him.

‘You can’t take it back,’ he tells her, fearing she’ll regret giving herself to him.

She shakes her head. ‘I won’t want to. How can I make you understand? I’ve waited for this for thirty years. I was coming back to you when Regina caught up to me. I wasn’t gonna give up on us, no matter how much you fought me. It was always you, Rumple. I was coming back!’

This is news to him. His eyes widen. This means… She was coming back… They could’ve… Things might have been so different…

‘Oh, Belle,’ he breathes.

She smiles. ‘Now, will you stop stalling, please?’

He kisses her for an answer. Unfathomable as it is, she wants him. It’ll still fall apart, probably, because he is who he is, and he wrecks things, but maybe…maybe he won’t wreck this? Maybe not this time…

Thoughts fly from him as her hands touch him, smoothing and caressing gently. It’s like magic, her touch: it seems to have the power to soothe away all care, and he’s nowhere, now, but here. Nothing else is getting his attention, not until she’s satisfied. If she wants him, then…then she’ll have him. There’s nothing else he can do, nothing else he wants to do.

Belle smiles, feeling him soften. He’s not pulling away, not protesting: thank gods. She hadn’t expected him to resist so strenuously, to be so chivalrous. It’s charming, really, and tells her that, no matter what he may believe, what kind of power he may have, he’s also a good man, and she trusts him. Yes, she does. There is much she doesn’t know, but she trusts him, and he will trust her too, in time.

Rumplestiltskin is lost in her arms. He’s never felt anything like this before. She once suggested he had once been a man and he corrected her, calling himself a monster, and he is, but in this moment, here, with her, he’s just a man, in love with a beautiful woman, and he wants to be better than he was.

‘Oh, Belle,’ he breathes, catching his breath as she kisses his neck. ‘Belle, I…’

‘Hmm?’ she murmurs, kissing his jaw, stroking her hand through his hair. ‘Tell me,’ she coaxes.

Instead of speaking, he catches her lips in a desperate kiss. She kisses back eagerly, smiling into it as he pushes the cloak the man who called himself Jefferson gave her off her shoulders. She goes to work on the buttons of his vest. His clothes here are so different, no more dragonhide or leather, but they do the same thing: they mask what he wants to hide, but he’s not hiding from her, not now, and she smiles again, as he pulls the vest off himself.

He works on his tie himself, realising that some of his clothing will probably be odd to her. Tie discarded, he removes his cufflinks too, throwing them on the pile of his clothes. He reaches a hand back and passes it over his ruined ankle, bolstering it with magic so that it won’t be too painful to walk after this. He doesn’t want to be distracted by pain when his focus must be on Belle.

Belle has another cardigan-type thing on over a hospital gown. He peels that off, Belle pulls her arms free of the thing and they loop around his neck as she presses close. He rubs her back. The hospital gown is thin and worn, and he feels a brief flash of fury at Regina, but he’ll deal with her later.

Belle’s hands are close to his skin, and she’s delighted. She wants to touch every part of him. The fastenings on his shirt open easily enough under her fingertips, and now she can feel his chest under her hands. His heart is beating so fast.

He groans at the feeling of her hands and his own hands caress her over the too-often-laundered gown. He must find something better for her to wear, something more fitting the lady she is: fine silks and wools. Later, though: he’ll take her back to the shop and she can choose something. Now…or in a few moments, she won’t be wearing anything…

Belle sucks in a breath. His hands are magical: his caress is heavenly. She wants to melt into him, wants him closer.

‘Lie down with me,’ she whispers.

Holding her to him, he passes his hand out over the mossy ground. The air ripples a bit.

‘What did you do?’ Belle wonders, eyes wide.

‘Lie back and see.’

Curious, she does. ‘Oh!’ He’s made the grass soft, but not with dew: it’s just…soft. And it’s warm, as though the sun had been shining on it all day. It’s lovely.

Rumplestiltskin stares intently at her. He leans over her, taking her in.

She touches his leg, her hand resting on his thigh, just as it did at their first kiss. It’s almost too much for him. He leans down to her, eager for her hands, her lips, and there are long moments where the only communication is sighs and moans.

Belle feels as though the last thirty years have melted away, and she knows that this is what they would have been together if she’d been able to convince him back then that their love is true. She can feel his body heat, his leg against hers. Instinctively, she spreads her legs wider to let him lie between them.

Rumplestiltskin moans. He can feel her heat through the hospital-issue stockings she’s wearing. Oh, to be buried deep in her… And as if he wasn’t already aroused enough…

Belle feels what she’s sure must be his erection against her thigh. She takes a gulping breath. She’s never felt anything like it before, but she isn’t afraid. A little unsure, maybe, because she’s never done this before, but not afraid. She does know how this is supposed to work, though. Books told her so much about the mechanics, and the maids in her father’s castle told her things too. Well, she overheard the maids, because they would never talk about such things in front of her. She heard them talk sometimes when they didn’t know she could hear them. They were fairly frank about intimate relations then. Mostly, she listened to them talk about how it felt to be with a lover. She can understand what they meant now. She’s happy and excited, and nervous, because it’s her first time, and, mostly, she just wants him.

‘Show me what to do,’ she requests.

He moans a little, but nods against her neck, kissing her.

‘It can…it can hurt, the first time,’ he tells her. ‘I’ll try not to,’ he promises.

‘I know,’ she says. ‘I trust you.’

Gods know why: he’s done nothing to deserve it, but he nods, because Belle…Belle’s one of the few remarkable people who actually tell the truth.

He kisses her, and, carefully, not wanting to upset her, his hands move up under the hem of the hospital gown.

Belle gasps as his fingertips brush her thighs, but she pulls him back to her when he begins to pull away.

‘Don’t stop,’ she breathes.

Reassured, he lets his hands travel higher, and Belle kisses him fervently as his touch grows less cautious.

‘Lift-lift your hips, Belle,’ he requests, stuttering a bit. He can hardly believe this is happening.

She does. He curls his fingers around the top of her tights and pulls them down, her panties with them.

‘Mmm,’ Belle moans, and she smiles dreamily.

Rumplestiltskin pulls her shoes off her feet and draws the panties and stockings off, tossing them with their other things.

Belle’s chest is heaving. He’s beautiful, and he’s undressing her. She wonders if she’s dreaming. No. No, she couldn’t dream something so elaborate, with sounds and smells, and him looking the way he does, so endearingly amazed.

She’s almost naked. But for that hospital gown, she would be. He never thought he’d get to experience this with her.

Belle catches onto his open shirt, drawing him down to her. The kiss is intense, hungry. Belle delights in smoothing her hands over his chest. He growls when her fingertips trail lower down, and she catches her breath, heart pounding.

’S-sorry,’ he breathes.

She shakes her head vigorously. ‘I wasn’t afraid. That-that was exciting.’

She’s mesmerised as his eyes darken. She almost misses it when he calls her beautiful Belle. She flushes, and he smiles a bit, leaning down for another kiss, which she meets him in.

Rumple’s hand caresses sensuously over her breast and down to her hip, and she shifts a bit, wanting… She’s hardly sure what she wants, how to describe it… All she can think is relief: she wants relief, down there, where she’s aching.

He longs to undress her completely, but first he kisses down her neck to her collarbone. He feels it’s a bit too pronounced under the hospital gown, but he won’t dwell on his anger right now. Her little breathy noises are distracting him anyway, and he moves down, kissing between her breasts, bringing his hand back up to squeeze her breast.

Belle’s chest is heaving. If she could take off this garment she’s wearing… She pulls at it.

‘Let me,’ Rumple whispers, ‘please?’

‘Yes,’ she gasps, and she feels his hands on her legs…

Oh, gods, he’s sliding them up, the cloth bunching up with the motion.

‘Lift your hips again, sweetheart,’ he coaxes, and she does, and then wriggles to help him pull the garment off her.

Rumplestiltskin looks down at her. Belle watches him, wondering what he’s thinking. His expression is difficult to read.

What he feels is a mix of unworthiness, amazement, and anger. The anger is because she’s too thin: he can see her ribs, for gods’ sake! But the desire he feels, and the love he feels, pushes that down for now, and he concentrates on showing her his love and desire for her.

‘Oh!’ Belle cries out, when he leans down and puts his mouth on her breast. She moans, a trembling hand going into his hair as his hand caresses her other breast.

There’s wetness between her legs. She felt it already, but there’s a more of it suddenly and it makes her catch her breath. She wants to rub against something, wants to soothe this ache she’s been feeling for a while now.

Rumplestiltskin doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of her taste. Her skin tastes like nothing else, and she’s so soft and perfect. He loves her little catching breaths as he brings her rosy nipples to taut peaks. He loves how her fingers clench in his hair as he swirls his tongue and nips with his teeth.

He knows very well he was never good at this. His wife wasn’t impressed, at least. But Belle… Oh, beautiful Belle is flushed and panting, and all he’s doing is suckling at her breast. Her response makes him feel bold, confident, and he kisses and licks the underside of her breasts now, intending to travel down her body.

Belle’s chest is heaving. She can’t string a sentence together. He’s moving down her body and she quivers, having some instinct about where he’s going. The maids back home would say things about a lover’s tongue or fingers, and now she understands what they meant, or she thinks she does.

Rumplestiltskin kisses her hip and looks at her.

‘It, uh, can be easier if you’re somewhat prepared for what to expect,’ he says. ‘Can I touch you, Belle?’

‘Yes,’ she breathes, nodding. ‘Yes, Rumple, I want you to. Please.’

He hears her eagerness and it excites him.

He kisses her bent knee. ‘Just try to relax.’

Relax, he says, while he’s kissing along the inside of her leg. As if she could relax when he’s doing that, when his fingers are caressing her bottom, making her shiver down to her toes. How can she relax when she’s so wound up? But she must try, so she makes the effort to loosen her limbs.

‘That’s it,’ he murmurs, settling between her legs. He meets her eyes, and there’s hunger and need in them…for him. He can still hardly believe this.

He couldn’t stop now if he wanted to, though. The feel of her, and seeing her like this, exposed and trusting him with her body: it’s intoxicating. Right now, he’s not the Dark One, not a monster, not a beast: he’s just a man, and the woman he loves wants him to make love to her, so he will.

He dips his head and Belle gasps as he licks along the crease at the top of her leg.

‘Oh, Rumple,’ she sighs.

He moves a bit, lifting her legs over his shoulders, settling himself, his hands holding her, lifting her a little. And then…

‘Oh!’ she cries, as his tongue parts her folds and laps at her. ‘Ohhhh!’

The sounds she makes… She’s really enjoying this. Oh, and so is he. She tastes like nothing else. He’ll never get enough, not now.

Belle’s hands reach down to pet and tangle in his hair. Gods, this is heaven! His tongue is so sensuous as it licks at her. And now…oh, gods! Now he’s drawing shapes against her sensitive flesh with the very tip of his tongue.

He hums as she cries out, her fingers clenching in his hair. He can feel her now, rocking a little against the thrusting of his tongue, and he doesn’t believe she knows what she’s doing, but he thinks she’s ready for more.

Belle whimpers in protest when he pulls his head back and lowers her back to their mossy bed. She meets his gaze as he leans up to look at her, but she doesn’t get to say what’s on her tongue before she feels him stroke her with his finger.

She bites her lip. Then she smiles at him when she sees the concern in his eyes.

‘Touch me,’ she breathes, reaching up to caress his jaw.

He leans down to her, following her hand as she lowers it, and kisses her.

She moans into it as his finger slides slowly into her, and then slowly out.

‘That’s nice,’ she gasps.

He smiles and does it again, and he feels her clutching at him, quivering a bit.

Her eyes go wide as she realises what her body is doing.

‘It’s alright,’ he whispers: ‘your body knows what to do.’

She nods, trusting him. She breathes deeply as she feels her body react to what he’s doing, crying out when he adds another finger. Now, he feels thicker, and she clutches at him, feeling something building inside her.

Rumplestiltskin strokes his thumb over her gently, slowly circling it around her clit.

Belle cries out, her hips working in earnest now. She can hardly believe her body’s reaction, hardly believe that it knows what to do.

‘Alright?’ Rumple asks her.

‘Yes,’ she breathes. ‘Please kiss me,’ she requests.

He does, and she wraps her arms around his neck. She’s shaking, but this is joy, not fear. She feels so alive.

‘I love you,’ she breathes, their faces close, breaths mingling.

‘I love you too,’ he says, and, gods, the way her eyes light up, it’s wondrous.

He keeps his fingers moving inside her as he kisses down her body. He keeps his fingers moving as he puts his mouth on her again, licking as his fingers thrust.

Belle’s body arches as her hips work, and she cries out again and again as his thumb presses more firmly on her clit and his fingers curl inside her and his tongue teases her. She’s climbing ever higher towards a peak, and she knows that when she gets there, she will fall, and it will be beautiful.

And fall, she does. Rumplestiltskin feels her clench around him and then still, and then, oh, gods, she comes, breathless, saying his name, her face glowing. Oh, yes, that’s perfect, and it’s all he can do not to spill himself in his pants.

He looks at her as she comes back to herself. His heart thuds now, because, of course, he can’t imagine that she won’t regret this, but then Belle grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls him to her.

The kiss is awkward, and he’s sticky with her cum, but Belle doesn’t seem to care. She’s not so much the highborn lady now. No highborn lady he’s ever met would condescend to let a man, or a woman, touch her like this, naked in the forest. No, Belle is something else, something wild and wonderful: she’s a force of nature, and, gods, he loves her.

‘That was wonderful,’ she breathes, emotion welling up. ‘Thank you, Rumple.’

He shakes his head. ‘No, thank you. That you trust me in this, Belle, it means more than I can say.’

‘I trust you,’ she says. ‘I want to feel you properly,’ she says, shifting a little, eager for more. ‘I want you inside me, Rumple.’

He drops his forehead against her shoulder, shuddering. Belle smiles and strokes his hair. She wonders if anyone’s ever loved him before. She knows he had a son, but that’s a different kind of love. She wants to hold him in the night, kiss him in the morning, chase all his troubles away. She wants to support him, help him, be the one he confides in.

‘I love you,’ he says, just as she’s thinking the same about him. ‘I need you, Belle.’

‘I’m here,’ she says, looking into his eyes as he looks at her. She strokes his cheek, smiling at him, and she’s ready for him when he leans in for a kiss.

He needs her in every way: to help him, to save him, to love him. Oh, he knows it’s too much to ask of her, but he also knows that if anyone could do all of those things, it’s her.

He leans away and she reaches for him, making a noise of protest, but he’s just shrugging out of his shirt. She watches, then, as he undresses completely. He doesn’t meet her eyes as he does so, and he looks rather self conscious, but she’ll chase that away.

‘Rumple,’ she murmurs.

He looks at her then, the tone of her voice catching his attention.

She looks him over, fascinated, and smiles.

‘You’re beautiful,’ she says, and there’s no lie in her voice. ‘Come to me,’ she coaxes, holding her arms out, reaching for him.

He goes to her, powerless to resist, and not wanting to anyway. He can feel her now, bare skin against his. She’s real and warm and soft, and full of light.

‘I want you,’ she says, looking earnestly at him.

He kisses her, humming as she runs her hands down his back.

‘I want you too,’ he breathes. ‘Oh, Belle, I’ve missed you.’

‘Me too,’ she says tearfully, ‘but we’re together now.’

He nods and kisses her again.

She draws her knees up as his fingers caress her, and she gasps at the feeling.

‘Mmm, Rumple.’ She can feel him, hard against her thigh. ‘Please,’ she whispers.

‘You’re sure?’ he asks.

She squeezes his shoulder. ‘I’ve never been more sure of anything. Make love to me, Rumple.’ She stares at him, hoping he can see how much she wants this.

‘I’ll go slow,’ he says. ‘Tell me if it hurts.’

She nods and he lines them up, using her juices on his hand as lubricant. His heart is hammering in his chest and there’s nothing else here but them, nothing else in the world that matters right now but Belle.

‘I love you,’ he tells her.

‘I love you,’ she returns with a smile, and gasps as she feels him enter her. It feels more than his fingers, and her first instinct is to tense up, but he’s going slowly, so she’s able to get used to it and relax after a moment.

She feels like she’s being filled up, and it’s very welcome. There’s a little discomfort, but she breathes through it.

‘Belle?’ he asks anxiously, watching her for signs of distress.

She rubs his shoulder. ‘I’m fine,’ she says. She smiles. ‘It’s ok, Rumple.’

He nods and moves again, and soon he’s fully sheathed inside her, and it’s glorious.

She catches her breath when he begins to pull out. He does almost all the way, and then he’s back, and they both gasp at the feeling, and then smile at each other.

‘You feel good, Rumple,’ she tells him, cupping his cheek.

He turns his head and kisses her palm.

‘You feel perfect,’ he says, and his voice is rough and makes her shiver.

He moves again, more assured now, and his growing confidence excites her. She feels herself clench around him and he groans.

He stares into her wide eyes, amazed. ‘Oh, Belle,’ he whispers, ‘oh, my precious, beautiful Belle, I never imagined… I never dreamed we could have this.’

‘I always hoped,’ she says, wrapping her legs around him as he thrusts again. ‘I was coming back to you. I wanted to be with you.’

He kisses her and growls as her hips tilt up to meet his next thrust.

‘Is that alright?’ she asks breathily.

‘Yes,’ he growls. ‘Belle, you’ve no idea how good you feel, so warm and snug around me.’

She smiles. ‘You feel wonderful.’ And she gasps as he grinds against her.

She tilts her head back, crying out, and he kisses and licks her exposed throat. Her skin tastes like nothing else and he’ll get addicted. Better addicted to her than to magic, the reasonable part of his mind supplies, and he knows it’s not wrong.

Belle nudges him, trying to get to his lips, to kiss him deep and long until they’re both breathless. He obliges, of course, and they move together as they kiss, spiralling higher and higher.

Belle can feel herself approaching that precipice again. Not just yet, though: she wants to hold onto this moment for as long as she can. She runs her hands down his back, feeling his skin and the way his body moves. She feels him inside her, connected with her, their bodies just knowing what to do. She feels the heat of his body, the weight of it on hers, the strength, and the gentleness. She reaches for another kiss and runs her fingers through his hair, smiling at his moan. So, the powerful sorcerer is a man after all: she knew it, and she smiles again at the knowledge that she can peel back his layers.

Rumplestiltskin is holding onto the moment too. She is warm and soft and gentle beneath him, and the way she welcomes him, moves with him: it’s nothing he’s ever known. He wants to hold onto it forever. He plunders her soft mouth and she lets him, clinging to him, her body clutching at him, her heels digging into his arse, urging him on.

She was right when she called his bluff all those years ago. He told her power meant more to him than she did, but it was a lie. Of course it was a lie. He was terrified to let her in. He’s still terrified to do that, but, oh, he feels a little braver here, in her arms, and if she could hold him forever, maybe, eventually, he’d be a good man again, a man who deserves this love she’s giving him.

‘I love you, Belle,’ he breathes earnestly.

She smiles, radiant and trusting. ‘I love you too.’ She kisses him sweetly.

They keep moving together, both delighting in the rhythm they’ve managed to find.

‘So good, Rumple,’ she breathes.

‘So beautiful,’ he returns, kissing her again. He tries twisting his hips on the next thrust and the way her body clutches at him makes him gasp.

‘Rumple!’ she cries. She’s at that precipice now and there’s no going back. ‘Oh, Rumple,’ she moans, feeling his thrusts get faster.

‘Yes, sweetheart,’ he pants. ‘Is it good? Tell me how it feels.’

Belle shudders as she feels herself break.

‘Ah, it’s wonderful,’ she breathes. ‘Rumple, Rumple, mmm…’

‘Gods!’ he cries, unable to hold on as she clenches around him. He lets go and they cry out together.

They stare at each other, breathing hard as they ride out their orgasms together. Belle smiles dreamily and raises a trembling hand to his cheek as she comes back to earth.

‘That was wonderful,’ she says earnestly.

He kisses her. ‘You’re wonderful,’ he says, burying his face in her neck.

Belle hugs him, smiling. They’re only just beginning. The thought that they can do this again, that they can be together, makes her so happy she could fly.

He kisses her neck and leans up to look at her.

‘Alright?’

She caresses his cheek. ‘Yes.’

He smiles. ‘Come on: I’ll take you back to town,’ he says.

‘And we can be together,’ she says.

He nods, his smile tearful now. ‘Yes.’

He waves his hand to clean them up and dress them again, and then holds his hand out to help her stand.

She leans into him and smiles, and they walk together, but before they leave the clearing, she looks back at the place by the well where they made love. Happiness bubbles up in her and she bites her lip and then looks up at Rumple, who stares back at her amazed.

‘Oh, Belle,’ he breathes, giving in as she reaches for another kiss. She smiles into it and then tucks herself against his side and walks with him through the forest, ready to begin a new chapter with him.

The end! Thanks for reading :)

[wtfzodiacsigns]

The Signs:

Aries: Something about you makes my blood boil in a unique, uncomfortable way, you are full of mystery. You have black holes for eyes, remarkably, that are too intense for most people to look into. You have no control over your greatness, you were born this way. Notice it and blossom. Not a single person on earth can blossom like you can. Not a single person can blossom like you will. You have great and empowering words to say in this life, make sure to say all of them without fear. You are not afraid. Be great.

Taurus: You are so lovely, the embodiment of nature, the embodiment of all the naturality in life created by the one and only, engulfing creator. I remember losing you and all nature that surrounded me seemed to shrivel and die. My heart ached when I heard the crunch under my feet of every dead leaf I walked upon. It brought me so much pain, i felt like death. I lost my vision and a bright 

white light came over me, fading into a soft glow and all I could see was your face. If I was dying, this was my glimpse of heaven, it made me want to die. I would rather die with your image in my mind than not have you in such a short, sometimes seemingly meaningless life such as this one. Perhaps you were just too lovely to be with someone like me, perhaps too lovely to be in my filthy grasp. You are my glimpse of heaven. How I long to be able to tell you that. How I long to be able to sing to you and whisper you the sweet words I never did. I am so sorry.

Gemini: I feel so naked when I’m with you. You strip me of my walls, you strip me of my guarded defenses, leaving me completely and utterly vulnerable. You shatter any mental boundaries I possess. You open my mind to the awareness of a mind. You show me to simply have a mind, such a power house is astonishing. You leave me breathless with your aura and creative, rhythmic way of speaking to everyone. You introduce open mindedness like no other, freedom like no other, a genius. With you, losing my mind and falling into madness is okay, almost a necessity. In life there simply seems to never be enough time. You show me how to embrace the lack of time we all have, you show me that death is the inevitable and that its not as important as we make it. The important thing is to experience life fully, entirely, with every part of our being. To be thankful of the rare oddity, the rare adventure we have all been gifted with called life, to dance with the music of life. I swear I’m out of my mind and that’s a wonderfully beautiful thing. Thank you for teaching me that.

Cancer: I would make love to you in the sweetest, most enticing way because I deeply believe you deserve to be made love to like no other. I hope you remain soft, I hope you have the strength to. I say this even though I know you will. You have always remained selfless, you have always remained kind, somehow. I do not understand how someone can turn such pain into beauty. Your creations are just as beautiful as you are, that is so admirable. You shock people with such generosity, you are completely, utterly and naturally divine to the point you are unhealthly wanted by every pair of eyes, even the blind. I swear its like the blind regain their sight in your presence. People notice you in a crowd, don’t doubt that. People especially notice you when you think you are not being noticed. You are the most beautiful conscious being and that will never change. You have angel lips as sweet as honey, your voice is melodic. I have always ached and dreamed for you to love me. Please one day love someone like me. Your being is so lovely that I can’t help myself from hopelessly weeping. You are a walking art piece, a priceless masterpiece. I lost everything the first time I looked in your eyes. I lost everything.

Leo: Remember that people want to be like you, just as much as you want to be like them. You can be admirable of others, you absolutely can be, but live your life knowing without a doubt that you are the best there is. Countless people admire you and want to be just like you. Effortlessly you shine brighter than the sun itself and when you smile, every pair of knees weaken, instinctively and inescapably bowing down to the ingenius design you are. Your mind and appearance radiate exuberance. I pray you can fathom just how special and gifted you are because you yourself are the unfathomable. You are inspiration and ambition, the abstract dreams I have at night that inspire my creativity, that lead me to create the never before seen. You are surrealistic art, our God’s most treasured and individualistic specimen. You are not only that but also the sun that lights the entire sky, you are the sun beams that sink into and warm my skin when I stand in such brilliant light. You are the light that keeps me from opening my eyes, preventing blindness but how I foolishly dont mind and long to go blind by such greatness.

Virgo: You remind me of sleep but you also remind me of night terrors. I feel like I don’t know who you are, slightly fearing you. Seemingly the most difficult puzzle to put together. I wonder and ponder if you are the worlds never ending puzzle, if I will ever figure you out, i have never been able to entirely comprehend your depth and mystery. You are almost frightening, shockingly and startlingly enchanting. You are hypnotic and maneuver with magic. I do not know the depth of your mind and apart of me never wants to. I enjoy the enigma you are, forever intriguing and intelligent. Ask me personal, peculiar questions and I will unintentionally and completely open up to you, instinctively trusting you. Your questions are always intense yet tender, your mind must be filled to the brim with intellect and perplexing art. Your mind is a masterpiece and your soul is ethereal. Extremely delicate and light in a way that seems too perfect for this world. I hope you can live with and fall in love with your sly mind. I am in love. May you always be yourself, may you feel everything you are meant to feel in this life and may you surface from the darkness.

Libra: You are the bittersweet lonliness that the sad and dreamy ones feel midday, swirling like the wind, leading long, lovely hair to flow, swirlingly and gracfully making your way through clothes, sending goosebumps down backs, leaving a lasting, cold and drowzy sensation. You’re the words in a book that readers grow tiresome of until finally falling asleep, leaving them with their adventurous dreams connected to the adventurous story they just took in. I see you in every free, soaring bird. I feel you in every unique and precious song that lively birds compose. You are melody, rhythm, sound, the grand orchestra. You are poetry, expression, a famous sonnet. You walk with fearlessness, you live with each lovers name you’ve ever loved written and embedded on your flashy skin. You are autheticly rare and always ready to entirely open yourself up, to let the flowers you encompass within bloom for all to see , appreciate and mesmerize. My god, do people mesmerize you.

Scorpio: I’m so lustful of you, lustful out of complete, biting love. I’ve never fallen so deeply and madly in love with a soul, It is insanity. You are full of demons that I face from loving you everyday and I can’t imagine what it’s like to be you and live with them, deep inside, haunting and strange. I have been face to face with insanity, letting your wickedness and sin make its way within me. It all makes me more infatuated. No matter how hard I try to find your core, your raw center, I can never seem to dig deep enough, I can never seem to withstand the screams, painful howls and blackness that your inner monsters let out and intensely sophocate me with when I try. When I give up, it’s like you see my vulnerability and you see it as me being submissive, knowing this is when you can strip me naked and consume me entirely, this is when you know and are proud of the secrets you keep from me, this is when you know you own me because I will fail to figure you out, i will fail to get anything from you yet continuously crawl back for something, for anything I can get from you. You have me in a trance that I can’t snap out of, you need the control because it brings you security and deep, sinful satisfaction. You experience a sense of peace in knowing that you can cause me to feel pain so that you won’t feel so alone and lost in your own. I want to make love to you and feel the pain I experience from being in love with you. I am incapable of leaving you alone, regardless of the sorrow i experience. I will never let you feel alone. I will feel this pain with you, right by your side, my ride or die. You are not alone. Maybe this isn’t love, maybe it is just madness but I’ve always been mad.. but not as mad as you.

Sagittarius: You are the book of everything, a book holding all the knowledge in existence. You are the infinity sign, you are lively, always hungry for life and full of wisdom. Youre the feeling you get on a hot summer day, laying in the center of a sweetly scented meadow, taking in every bit of the sun, not being able to suppress a tight smile. Feeling at complete peace, no worries or a feeling of weight on your back, feeling free and open in the mind. I want to be alone with you and hear you speak about all the things that go on in your head. I imagine you have a billion things to say, or maybe nothing to say, it doesn’t matter. All you have to do is exist and you are performing one of the most incredible things possible. People forget that simply being alive is utterly mindblowing in itself. You give inspiring advice and shock people with your spunk and inner lightening. I appreciate your uniqueness and ability to be open to every side of a spectrum. You are the instant, refreshing feeling you get from diving into a cool pool on a hot day, your my child hood memories, you are the embodiment of an entirely fulfilled life. Your soul has lived a thousand different lives, you will exist for eternity. You are existence itself. Live free and die free, make your inevitable mark on this world. It belongs to you.

Capricorn: no one’s ever ready for what you’ve got to offer to this world, you can do so much with so little and have an achingly powerful mind and aura. You don’t have to do anything to shock and mesmerize mankind, just be yourself. You change the world with your ambitious actions, you change people simply with your way of presenting yourself. You are intelligence, skillful and have the ability to accept time, accept that everything takes time. That’s something a lot of people can’t do. You can do so many things others can’t, but you are not flashy. You are low-key while remaing self assured. Maybe you experience a lot of self doubt, but im telling you right now, you shouldnt. Your jokes and attitude are like a fun house, utterly amusing and dirty, sometimes scary. You are full of original ideas that you can easily bring to life. I hope you know how much you actually benefit and effect our species. You have immense purpose, see that you are the greatest and anything you want can be obtained. I hope you know how attractive and special you are. Absolutely outstanding.

Aquarius: life is a lonesome experience, you understand that more than anyone. You carry the weight of humanity itself with you everywhere you go on your back. To fit in seems like a maze that is unsolvable. Your aquarius minds are unending, no limitations, you are mad men. Not only ingenius but geniuses yourselves. You obtain something no one else can obtain and this can never be taken away from you. Nobody quite understands what makes you different, you dont even understand it yourself but you feel it deep within your bones. “I do not belong here, I do not belong anywhere and I don’t want to belong anywhere.” So hard to comprehend or understand, you are utterly perplexing but so fucking beautiful. I can’t fully convey in words how astoundingly beautiful each and every one of you are. Let someone take a look into your eyes and theyll travel through space, adventuring and absorbing the sight of multiple universes. Let someone take a long look at your face and watch them get lost in mesmerization. Magnetic, mystifying, heartless, mythical beings. A world such as this one does not deserve you or your revolutionary touch. You are the lone, last star of each ending night, still shining brightly as the sun begins to rise. Glowing alone to express your individuality, glowing as brightly as you can until the sun puts you out but you are always going to be there again when the sun goes down and you are always going to be the last one shining when it rises again.

Pisces: you are hands that are made to create art, you are the creases in the hands of an infant. You are the start of life, the start of plant life, the start of a human life, the start of an animals life. You are the smoke from my cigarettes, dispersing through out the air. I hear you everywhere I go, echoing in the back of my head as a guide to being a better person. You make me want to be a better person. You are the sweet cherries around my sweet ice cream, you’re the soft, enchanting scented lotion I spread on my skin. You are the goosebumps left after a lovers sensitive touch. You are the feathers that fill my softest of pillows. You are the sweetest of piano music ever played. I love you. I miss you. You will be with me.

source: thefoultrap

[qqueenofhades]

As the self appointed coxswain of this garbage ship (shut up! It's a cool word, and I was always too tall to ever have a change of being one in real life. And it involves a lot of yelling. What's not to like?) we sail, I respectfully demand another Flynn/Lucy installment. Girl, you know those two aren't gonna tease each other like that forever. Something's gotta give...

part one of my shame, part two

It is April 17, 1912, and RMS Titanic has just docked safely in New York City, fresh off her maiden voyage – there were ice warnings, but thanks to a mysterious transmission sent on the night of the 14th, a transmission nobody can trace or even quite understand, the ship was compelled to change course and slow down. Its passengers, including some of the creme-de-la-creme of high society – John Jacob Astor, Benjamin Guggenheim, Isidor and Ida Straus, Cosmo Gordon Duff, Molly Brown, Dorothy Gibson, and more – have just disembarked, and the dockyards are busy. The day is pale and sunny. A huge crowd has gathered to marvel at the sleek black steamer, jewel of the White Star Line, smoke still huffing from its four funnels.

In a brownstone hotel a few steps off the New York Port Authority, in a dim back room suffused with the scent of cigarette smoke and Macassar hair oil, Lucy Preston says quietly, “What the hell did you do that for?”

Flynn gives her a twisted smile. “I can’t save lives now, instead of taking them?”

“Please.” Lucy suspects Astor and Guggenheim at least were (are) Rittenhouse, probably high-ups, and Flynn wants them alive so he can pump them for information, disrupt their projects, tap their extensive list of contacts – smoke the roaches out of the rushes. “This is like the Hindenburg, isn’t it? About perhaps who was supposed to go back on the return trip?”

Flynn lifts one shoulder in a magnificently contemptuous shrug. “Ah,” he says. “The Hindenburg. Beginning of such a beautiful relationship, wasn’t it?”

He does something with his eyes to her that makes her feel as if she’s not wearing anything, despite the silk dress and fur wrap and pinned hat. Lucy can feel her flush in her throat, closing off her breath. He doesn’t appear to bear an outstanding grudge against her for chaining him to a bed in 1787, though at least none of the Founding Fathers got capped in the ass that time, so –

“Tell me,” she says, “and I’ll leave.”

He grins. Even more darkly than last time.

“Make me.”

Lucy gives him a demure don’t you wish smile, even as she’s moving closer toward him, turning herself into his space, raising one gloved hand as if to flick a speck of dust off the shoulder of his pinstriped suit jacket. She reaches up and takes hold of the brim of his felt trilby, taking it off and setting it aside, even as his breath catches rather satisfyingly. Femme fatale isn’t a role she plays naturally, but it comes to her as easily as sliding a knife between his ribs. Leans very close and breathes, “We both know I could make you.”

“Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.” This appears to delight him inordinately, even as he swings her around and pins her to the wall, the length of his body pressing against hers, knee between her legs. As if this is what he has been waiting for since the moment he got hold of her journal (however he did) and thought they were destined to do great things together. “Taken you long enough, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, you’re mistaken.” Lucy thumbs the dark stubble on his chin. “I want something. Give it to me.”

“And what do you want, exactly?”

She leans still closer. Breathes against his cheek. “Information.”

“I think it’s more than that now, isn’t it?”

She opens her mouth to say no, because what else would she say? Sensibly say? Third time’s the charm – and this, no, this has already gone far enough. There’s no point in distracting him this time, no tactical advantage to a delay. He’s not here to kill someone (at least, yet) like he was in 1929 and 1787. This, therefore. This is just about wanting. No good excuse.

Maybe this will stop it. Maybe this will turn it off.

Lucy is about to say something else. Probably important. She doesn’t get that far, because Flynn kisses her.

It’s rough, hungry, demanding, brusque, dangerous, uncontrolled – all, in fact, rather like the man himself. As if this is the long, slow-burning spark she lit when she kissed him the first time (which technically will not happen for another seventeen years – welcome to time travel) in New Orleans. As if they’ve danced and darted around each other long enough, and now this is this, that is that, and he’s completely through with waiting.

They take half a breath, and then turn their heads and go after each other ferociously again, stumbling down the narrow hall and crashing through a door into a small smoking lounge beyond – chaise longue upholstered in slightly moth-eaten green velvet, blown-glass lamps, dim in half-closed curtains. Flynn kicks the door shut and throws a heavy andiron after it; he’s clearly not about to risk any interruptions. Lucy is completely breathless, hair coming out of its elegant pinned updo, as they are barely able to tear themselves apart long enough for him to wrench his belt undone with one hand, as she kicks up her skirts. She sinks back onto the chaise as he comes down with her, as their mouths are bruised from kissing too hard to breathe, hands all over, gripping, yanking, pulling. He bears her backwards, bunching a fistful of skirt, finding his way to the old-time underwear and efficiently getting it out of the way, as Lucy kicks it off her foot. Then in half a breath more, she’s on her back on the chaise, legs akimbo, and he kneels between them, doesn’t even bother to get his trousers the rest of the way off, and thrusts half-violently into her.

Lucy’s breath is punched back into her throat as he leans forward, bracing himself on his elbows, pushing her hips wider with his own as he slides deeper, as she jerks up her head and he practically bites her lips off, tongue prodding into her mouth and muffling her whispered, “Jesus.”  He is solid and hot and very hard, and he fills her just to that point of sweet burning, as he did before. She clutches hard around him, spasming, as he draws out half an inch and then plunges back, their entangled bodies making slick wet soft sounds, as he comes to rest hilt-deep inside her, bites her shoulder, and both of them buck half up off the chaise. He gives her a moment, but only that. Then he starts to move.

He fucks her in compact, powerful, rutting bursts, square and savage, with an extra twist of his hips at the end to be sure he’s hitting her as deep as he possibly can. She claws at his back, his straining shoulders, one hand on his dark head, as the carved feet of the chaise thump and crash against the floor with the force of their motion. He drags himself against her, with absolutely insolent thoroughness, then buries once more, as Lucy can barely stand the heat and friction and harder-burning drive of it. He rasps slickly against her. Doesn’t quit or pull back a single one of them. One leg links around his back, and the other struggles to dig for purchase, to anchor her to the world. She seems to have somehow lost her hold altogether.

At last, Flynn gives a final jerk and shove, and Lucy feels herself about to be dragged over, then free-falling, as her world goes white and hot and melted and there’s a thousand exploding suns in her belly and her breast and her brain and every other bit of her. She claws and clings and swears. Burns.

She comes back to earth slowly, breathing as if she’s been chased by a train, to see him staring down at her as if he’s trying to memorize her face, how she looked just then, to keep it in whatever tarnished jewel-box of memories he holds away from the rest of his darkness. She just lies there, gasping, until at last, slowly, they disentangle themselves. She sits up, fumbling herself back into place. She is slick and raw and very well-fucked. She can still feel it echoing through every sinew of her.

“Tell me,” she says again, after a momentary struggle to make the words work. “What you’re doing.”

He shrugs. As if to say he has no secrets from her, never has. Has always been completely open about what he intends to do, and what he hopes for her. “You know what I’m doing, Lucy.”

She does, at that. She thinks of the fact that even with every ulterior motive in the world, Flynn has saved over two thousand lives – everyone who was supposed to die on the Titanic, and didn’t. All the children they will have, the grandchildren, who would never otherwise have been born – the things they will do, see, invent, experience. The change to history is beyond comprehension.

And yet. Insisting that they die, that things go back to one way they happened to play out, out of all the countless thousands of possibilities – doesn’t that make her the monster?

They’ve chased Flynn all this time to stop him from hurting people. What the hell does she do with this now, instead? Where does she even begin to work it out? She is facing the utterly unknown, uncharted, unfathomable. Remembers her insistence that Lincoln had to die, it was how it had to be, and Rufus and Wyatt’s incredulity that they just had to sit back and let it. And when push came to shove, when it was in front of her –

She looks over at the man who shot Lincoln, and gets to her feet, letting her skirts fall. Shaky-legged and watery-kneed, needs to steady herself on the chaise. “You know,” she says, half in a whisper. “You know we won’t let you. No matter what.”

He seems amused. Not in the least surprised. “Oh, of course,” he says, getting to his feet, and pulling his trousers up, doing up his belt. “But not for much longer. You’re going to join me soon, Lucy. Trust me.”

And with that, he actually leans over and kisses her cheek, half-genuinely-affectionately, as if he’s going to pick up milk from the store and wants to know if she needs anything while he’s out. Pulls on his jacket, straightens his cravat. As she stands there, shaken and silent and still undone to the flesh, the blood, the bone, he lets himself out, closes the door behind him, and is gone.

[romancatholicreflections]

11th February >> Daily Reflection on Today's Mass Readings for Roman Catholics on Saturday of the Fifth Week in Ordinary Time

Lectionary: 334 Genesis 3:9-24 Psalms 90:2, 3-4abc, 5-6, 12-13 Mark 8:1-10 Praying Ordinary Time Weekly Guide for Daily Prayer World Day of the Sick Message Reading the first reading and the gospel together hit me in a new way. The Genesis story of the aftermath of the first sin of Adam and Eve, followed by Mark's first version of the feeding of the 4,000, touched me. The first story reminds us that there is a rebellious part in each of us, which lets ourselves be seduced by an evil desire to be like God. The result is that God has to ask us the question, "Where are you?" [Pope Francis focused on this question in a number of his homilies. See references below.] God knows we are somewhat lost - at least, not at home. The "place" we are in is too often out of sync with who we truly are. We can feel it when we've made choices which compromise our basic sense of who we are. The more we choose independence and isolate ourselves from God's way for us to become inegrated into a relationship with God, with our sisters and brothers, and with our planet, [as Pope Francis outlines in Laudato Si ], we feel "out of sorts." A harmony and communion are missing. We may not know why we are unhappy or angry or feel at odds with so many people, but we know we are not at peace, or "at home." It is like we have been eating junk food - knowing we are cheating our health - yet, we wonder why we don't feel well, feel sluggish and just "off." We consume and try to nourish ourselves on a lot of things, We indulge in all kinds of non-loving behaviors, which don't actually make us happier, which don't build unity, that are toxic to our communion with our God, and don't lead to our being in harmony with ourselves. The result is that sometimes, we don't feel at home with talking with God. We even hide ourselves from God. In the Gospel there is an incredible contrast. Jesus takes pity on the crowd. He knows that they are starving. He decides to feed them. The disciples turn it into a supply problem: There's not enough. They are with the author of life and they are telling him, "We can't feed this crowd with what we have." When we are isolated and famished for a communion with our God, we can lose hope and say, "You can't feed me. I'm too impatient, or sad, or angry, or busy." Sometimes we even get angry with God, because we blame God for not giving us what we think we want. Jesus just tells them, "Give them what you have." He says, in effect, "I'll make it work. I'll do the feeding. I am the Lord of communion." Of course, we know the full impact of the story. We know it is Eucharistic in its meaning. At the Eucharist, Jesus is feeding the hungry crowds. Is every parish perfect? Is the music wonderful? Is everyone as welcoming as they might be? Is the homily as nourishing as I'd like? Jesus just says to us, the Church, the People of God, "Give them what you have. I'll make it work. I'll do the feeding. This bread and wine is my body and blood, given for your nourishment and life, for communion with me, for your self-giving love for each other, for those most in need. Be broken and poured out yourselves now, fed by this food." When the Holy Spirit draws us to this table of plentiful good food, our hunger is filled and we are brought home again, refreshed and renewed. When God asks us, "Where are you?" we can answer, "I'm at home. In you. With my family. At home, in the mist of all the sad, broken, divided, messy things of the world, because I'm at home in you. I don't want to be filled with what can never really satisfy me. I want to love and forgive, to be compassionate and generous. I want to be patient and to build bridges. Eating the right food, will give me a peace and a fire that nothing else in the world can offer. If we let it, the Bread of Life is our food for a Mission of communion with Jesus. Let's ask for that grace - one he wants to give us. And, let's be careful what we hunger for and consume. References to "Adam, Who are you?" in Pope Francis' homilies. Each link is to the whole homily: Divine Mercy Sunday, April, 2013 Adam, after his sin, experiences shame, he feels naked, he senses the weight of what he has done; and yet God does not abandon him: if that moment of sin marks the beginning of his exile from God, there is already a promise of return, a possibility of return. God immediately asks: "Adam, where are you?" He seeks him out. Jesus took on our nakedness, he took upon himself the shame of Adam, the nakedness of his sin, in order to wash away our sin: by his wounds we have been healed. Remember what Saint Paul says: "What shall I boast of, if not my weakness, my poverty? Precisely in feeling my sinfulness, in looking at my sins, I can see and encounter God’s mercy, his love, and go to him to receive forgiveness. Visit to Lampedusa, July, 2013 "Adam, where are you?" This is the first question which God asks man after his sin. "Adam, where are you?" Adam lost his bearings, his place in creation, because he thought he could be powerful, able to control everything, to be God. Harmony was lost; man erred and this error occurs over and over again also in relationships with others. "The other" is no longer a brother or sister to be loved, but simply someone who disturbs my life and my comfort. God asks a second question: "Cain, where is your brother?" The illusion of being powerful, of being as great as God, even of being God himself, leads to a whole series of errors, a chain of death, even to the spilling of a brother’s blood! God’s two questions echo even today, as forcefully as ever! How many of us, myself included, have lost our bearings; we are no longer attentive to the world in which we live; we don’t care; we don’t protect what God created for everyone, and we end up unable even to care for one another! And when humanity as a whole loses its bearings, it results in tragedies like the one we have witnessed. "Where is your brother?" His blood cries out to me, says the Lord. This is not a question directed to others; it is a question directed to me, to you, to each of us. Pilgrimage to the Holy Land, May, 2014 “Adam, where are you?” (cf. Gen 3:9). Where are you, o man? What have you come to? In this place, this memorial of the Shoah, we hear God’s question echo once more: “Adam, where are you?” This question is charged with all the sorrow of a Father who has lost his child. The Father knew the risk of freedom; he knew that his children could be lost… yet perhaps not even the Father could imagine so great a fall, so profound an abyss! Here, before the boundless tragedy of the Holocaust, That cry – “Where are you?” – echoes like a faint voice in an unfathomable abyss… Adam, who are you? I no longer recognize you. Who are you, o man? What have you become? Of what horror have you been capable? What made you fall to such depths? Certainly it is not the dust of the earth from which you were made. The dust of the earth is something good, the work of my hands. Certainly it is not the breath of life which I breathed into you. That breath comes from me, and it is something good (cf. Gen 2:7). No, this abyss is not merely the work of your own hands, your own heart… Who corrupted you? Who disfigured you? Who led you to presume that you are the master of good and evil? Who convinced you that you were god? Not only did you torture and kill your brothers and sisters, but you sacrificed them to yourself, because you made yourself a god. by Andy Alexander, S.J. Creighton University's Collaborative Ministry