#but whose name still comes across my dash

[ebodebo]

Rearview

a meet ugly with simon!

You’re late.

Like really, really late.

You were supposed to be heading into your lecture right about now, but instead, you're dashing to your car, struggling to balance the heap of items in your arms.

The lady in front of you at the grocery store insisted on having all her items perfectly bagged, and now you're running late.

Go figure.

You hurriedly toss your groceries into the passenger seat, forgetting all about connecting your Bluetooth.

With a swift motion, you buckle your seatbelt and shift into gear, only to roll backward instead of moving forward.

A yelp escapes you as you feel the sharp impact of colliding with a parked truck behind you.

"Shit!" You curse, slamming the gear into park before struggling to open your door, muttering another string of expletives as your seatbelt nearly chokes you.

As you step out, you're met by the sight of a man emerging from the truck you just bumped into.

He stands tall and imposing, a mask covering half his face, making it difficult to gauge his emotions.

His bright blue eyes are striking yet carry an unsettling darkness that raises the hair on the back of your neck.

“Oh my God!” You exclaim in a fluster, rushing to inspect the damage on his car. You run your fingers through your hair anxiously, trying to regain some composure.

“I’m so fucking sorry! I—I was in such a rush,” you blurt out. “The woman at the grocery store took forever; it’s ridiculous! Who needs groceries bagged just right? And my clothes, ugh! I forgot to start the dryer, so they’re still sopping wet! Just my fucking luck!” You throw your hands up in a mix of frustration and false enthusiasm, your words tumbling out in a frenzied stream.

“I’m definitely going to miss my lecture because of this, and my professor is already on my case, so this is just the cherry on fucking top of my terrible day. And—” You suddenly stop, realizing that you’re venting to a stranger whose truck you’ve just hit.

"Sorry," you say quietly. "I'm just having a really shitty day, full of shittiness."

"Shittiness?" He replies, a hint of humor creeping into his raspy English voice, catching you off guard since he had been silent until now.

You glance up at him, your lip twitching slightly.

"Yeah," you respond softly.

He pauses for a moment, taking in your sheepish demeanor.

"You hungry?" He asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

You raise an eyebrow, caught off guard by the question. "Hungry?"

He nods.

"Well—I mean…" you trail off, noting the damage before looking back up at him.

His expression is serious.

He’s serious.

Is he actually asking you out after you just fucked up his car?

"Are you serious?" You ask, hesitation clear in your voice.

"Do I look like the type to joke?" He replies, his tone dry.

A smile breaks across your face.

"No. Not really," you admit, feeling a mix of embarrassment and amusement.

You take a moment to soak him in.

He’s pretty…attractive now that you’re really looking.

Quite built and definitely older than you.

You wonder what he does for a living.

Or if he lives around here.

"Diner's right across the street," he says, nodding toward the quaint little eatery nearby.

It’s clear he’s trying to ease your worries.

You don’t have to get into his car with him; you could just walk over where there are onlookers.

Fuck it.

You’re already late for your lecture.

Might as well make it worthwhile.

"Okay," you say, your enthusiasm a bit more pronounced than you intended.

Your cheeks warm, but he remains silent, though you catch the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.

"Let me grab my wallet," you say, reaching for your door handle, but he gently places a hand on it to stop you.

"Don't need it," he dismisses.

Your lips pucker in confusion. "But, I—"

"Come on," he replies, tilting his head towards the diner.

"Alright..." you say, slowly realizing you don’t even know his name.

"Simon," he provides.

You smile.

"Cute name," you compliment as you turn on your heels to head towards the diner.

Oh, now he's definitely smiling under that mask.

He takes you to the cozy diner and covers the cost of your meal, much to your dismay because, 'I really should be paying; I messed up your car.'

He brushes aside your attempts to pay him back, insisting that you should never front the bill.

"If you ever want to talk about your shitty day, just give me a call. Yeah?" He says, scribbling his number on a napkin from the diner.

"Yeah, I will," you promise as you reach for the napkin.

After your meal, Simon walks you back to your car, even opening the door for you as you part ways with a quiet 'goodbye.'

"See you later, Simon. I’ll text you later!" You exclaim, beaming with excitement. "I’ll send my insurance info tonight," you add.

He simply nods, fully aware he’ll delete that message later because he couldn’t care less about his car.

He’ll pay to fix it, along with your car.

Even if you fight him on it, he'll still do it.

He’s just so thrilled that a pretty girl like you fell into the palm of his hand

What a lucky bastard.

a/n: bring back meet uglies!

divider by @saradika-graphics

[woodsdyke]

happy halloween month! this seems like as good of a time as any to share this little thing i wrote about hey wouldn't it be fucked up if the ocean ate your dad. please enjoy. thanks

trigger warnings: description of dead bodies, character death (including death of a child), drowning

---

barnacles

word count: 2,577 words

Her father returns from a fishing trip on the third of September, two weeks after his expected return, and looks at her with a dead man's eyes.

She sees his boat in the distance before anyone else, through the little gold spyglass she’d gotten from her uncle a while back, the one who told her stories about his voyages in the navy but only when her mother wasn’t within earshot. She shouts through the open front door that he’s back and sprints down through the yard, across the beach, and out to the far end of the dock. The wood creaks under her bare feet.

It’s not unusual for him to come back a day or two after he promised – sometimes the wind just doesn’t cooperate – but a fortnight is a long time. Her mother had been worried sick. Saoirse watches the boat approach and decides it looks unharmed, just as it did when he’d left at dawn in mid-August. Maybe the sails are a bit worse for wear, expected for this time of year, the evening storms that roll in from out at sea more or less like clockwork can batter such a small vessel.

She waves with both hands as the ship navigates to the dock and comes to a halt next to it. Her father raises a hand in greeting but doesn’t say anything, instead focusing on lowering the sails, dropping the anchor, then clambering over the side of the boat to tie her to the dock. Saoirse goes to help. She grabs one of the ropes and ties it to a post, complete with one of the sturdy knots she’s been practicing. She tugs on the rope and it holds.

“You said you’d be home a fortnight ago,” Saoirse tells him, once the boat is secure.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I got caught up in the weather, blew me off course,” her father says, lifting his duffel bag from the boat’s deck and slinging it over his shoulder, and it’s only then when he looks at her.

Saoirse freezes up. She can’t help it.

She’s seen the look in her father’s eyes before.

Years ago, when she wasn’t a day past eight, two of the neighbor boys had gone out to their dock to go swimming, and only one came back. Everyone knows the danger of the sea, especially this far north – she’s cold, and mean, and unforgiving, and if she doesn’t dash you upon the rocks, she’ll drag you down and never let you go. One of the boys, a tall, scrawny redhead named Cormac, ran clumsily from the surf and back towards his house, shouting up a storm as he went. He returned to the dock with his parents, as if there was anything they could do. To a child, maybe the idea that the sea can forgive a misstep was a possibility. To his parents, whose son was gone in an instant, down in a grave no one can visit, there was no such hope.

Saoirse listened to the anguished sobs of the boy’s mother from the warmth and safety of her bedroom. Her own mother brought the grieving family a meal.

And then, that next morning, Saoirse had gone down to the beach for her routine beach combing, searching for pieces of glass, colorful shells, the occasional glass bottle that never contained a letter as much as she wished it would, and instead she found a small, gray, waterlogged corpse, washed up on the shore like a beached whale.

She didn’t scream, or cry, or do much of anything. She just stood there, still, silent, and looked down at the dead boy. The sea ate him and spat him back up. Not nearly big enough to be a decent meal. His eyes were open.

When her father looks at her, his eyes are the same. They belong to something the sea devoured and coughed back up. She thinks maybe if she blinks it’ll all go back to normal, and she can pretend it was just a trick of the light, but it doesn’t work like that. Her father’s steely grey eyes are cloudy, now, dull, looking through her, rather than at her, like she’s invisible and he’s focused on the horizon behind her.

She follows him back up to the house, where her mother embraces him and tells him she’d been so worried, and Saoirse searches her eyes for any surprise, fear, anything, but all she sees is relief. They have fresh fish and roasted potatoes for dinner, and even an apple pie her mother had made, and then Saoirse goes to bed and doesn’t sleep, staring out the window at the ocean in the distance, all dark, sleek glass and an empty gray sky.

---

There’s more wrong with him than just his eyes, but no one else seems to notice.

Apparently, he’d been out so long because strong north winds had pushed the boat further out to sea and had persisted for quite a while, giving him a much longer journey home. Otherwise, it had been a good trip, he’d cleaned his catch and took quite a lot of it down to the weekend market and had come back with an impressive amount of money in hand. It would keep them comfortable for a while, at least until the weather improved again. It’s been raining for four days now with no signs of stopping.

Usually when he comes back, Saoirse’s father returns with a story or two, as well. Either a true recounting of something notable, or a cleverly crafted lie that she can see right through but likes to hear anyway. This time, he doesn’t offer her anything, and when she asks, he smiles, serene, and tells her it was a nice trip. An uneventful one. The wind just worked against him for a while. It happens.

That night, after she’s supposed to be asleep, she creeps downstairs and spots him on the front porch, standing stock-still at its edge, hands relaxed at his sides, chin raised. She watches him for a while before retreating upstairs. When she returns one more time before she sleeps, he’s still there, empty eyes on the sea.

---

He does it every night, for hours. Just stands on the front porch and stares at the water. Saoirse wants to ask her mother about it, but she doesn’t, on the off chance she doesn’t know.

---

Saoirse’s down on the dock, on her hands and knees so she can lean over the edge to look for jellyfish, when something on the boat’s hull catches her eye. The weathered wood is caked in barnacles, their sharp angles and bleached shells like old bone, little creatures hidden inside. She sits back onto her knees and furrows her brow. The morning before he had left, she helped her father scrape all the barnacles from the wood. If you don’t take them off now and again, they can change the ship’s drag, even damage it over time.

It takes a long time for this many to take hold, a lot longer than a fortnight and change.

Saoirse looks at the barnacles for another moment, as if expecting something to happen, but it doesn’t. She goes back to the house.

“Papa?” she leans through the doorway to the living room where her father is sitting at the table. He’s not doing anything, just sitting there, hands on his lap, eyes on the sea out the window. He turns his head to look at her. “There’s barnacles on the boat.” He doesn’t respond. Saoirse shifts uneasily from one foot to the other. “We scraped them all off before you left.”

He nods, thoughtful. “There aren’t any barnacles.”

“There are. I just saw them.”

His expression darkens, and Saoirse grimaces. “We scraped them all off before I left, Saoirse,” he says, in a firm, almost angry voice, and she blanches. Her father’s a kind, gentle man, no sharp edges. He should be getting up and going down with her to the dock, sitting down to get a close look at the barnacles, saying ‘huh, that is strange, isn’t it?’ which isn’t an answer but is at least an acknowledgement.

Saoirse opens her mouth to speak. “Drop it,” her father hisses through his teeth. She quickly leaves the room.

---

One weekend, her brothers visit. Alisdair is twelve years her senior, a carpenter in Cork, he’s got a wife and two kids. He’s made a good life for himself. Oscar’s a year younger, a bit more of a wanderer, currently a physician’s assistant in a town about a day’s ride to the north, though who knows how long that will last. When Oscar shows up, she watches him like a hawk, waiting for the confusion, the concern, but instead he just embraces both his parents with a grin and a greeting. That evening, Alisdair does the same.

Saoirse wonders if she’s gone mad.

---

“I think something’s wrong with Papa,” Saoirse tells her brothers while they’re in the kitchen alone. Alisdair is cleaning and filleting a few mackerel they’d reeled in from the dock earlier. Oscar lifts the cheesecloth over a large bowl to check the rise on a loaf of bread. They both look at her. She focuses on chopping carrots. “He went out on a trip last month, and when he came back he was different. He’s not acting right.”

Oscar says he doesn’t know what she means. Alisdair seems to agree. She wants to turn around and grab them and shake them, maybe even point her knife at them, say ‘do you see his eyes? You have to have seen his eyes’.

She doesn’t. She chops more carrots. When she nicks her index finger with the knife, she sticks her finger in her mouth and tastes the copper of her own blood.

---

It’s been nearly two months since her father had returned from his fishing trip. She tries to ask about the barnacles again, but he snaps at her not to worry about it. She gets the courage to ask her mother if she notices anything off about him, but she shrugs her off and says she worries too much.

A storm is rolling in from the south that night. The sea far on the horizon is choppy and wild, nearly black water and bright white foam. The front door is open. Saoirse pauses at the base of the stairs, watching the curtains in the kitchen flutter in the breeze. She can just see the shape of her father through the doorway, on the porch. “Papa?” she calls, keeping her voice low. There’s no response, no movement. She makes her way towards the door, slow, hesitant, almost afraid, though she isn’t sure of what.

Her father is standing at the edge of the porch again. He has been doing this a lot lately, more often in the past week or so. He never says a word, never moves a muscle, just stands and stares with a look in his eyes that is hard to place.

“Papa,” Saoirse repeats, louder this time. He mumbles something, inarticulate. “What?”

“I need to go back,” he says, clearer now, but distant.

“Go back where?”

He says it again, in the same blank, even tone. Saoirse grabs his sleeve to try to get his attention. He doesn’t pull away, but doesn’t turn towards her, either. He says it again, once, twice, and again, like a litany, and no matter what she does, she can’t get him to say anything else.

I need to go back.

---

He stops talking after that. Her mother says he’s just tired.

---

Three months to the day since his return, her father finally steps off the porch. It’s an unseasonably warm, calm night, the sea is still, the wind barely there. It’s become a sort of routine by now – Saoirse descends the stairs at night, watches her father on the porch, and then heads back up after a few minutes. She’s not sure why she does it. Maybe she thinks someday it’ll stop, and the sea will give her father back, the one with green eyes and a friendly smile and stories about adventures at sea, about huge fish hooked but lost to snapped lines, of ships with black flags far in the distance.

When she makes it to the porch this time, he’s not there anymore. Instead, he’s striding through the yard, purposeful, silent. It’s a short walk down to the beach. Saoirse rushes to put on her shoes and follows after him. She calls for him, but he doesn’t slow down. She picks her way through the haphazard line of driftwood at the beach’s edge, bleached white like old bones, and her shoes sink into the sand as she approaches the water. She stops, a few meters away from her father, and watches. She doesn’t call out to him again. He can’t hear her. Waves rushing in his ears.

The moon is bright overhead and it lights up the water enough for the drop off to be visible, a dark, stormy blue cutting to inky black. She’s swum in these waters before. It stays shallow, just for a bit, and then the sand crumbles under your feet and there’s nothing below you. It’s the drop off that took their neighbors’ son and returned him all bloated and cold.

Her father’s feet are in the water now, it’s soaking into the legs of his trousers. He keeps walking, slower now, but with just as much purpose, until he’s up to his knees, thighs, waist. It’s only when he’s up to his chest in the surf that she shouts to him again. Come back, she says, what are you doing?

Finally, he looks over his shoulder. His eyes have changed again, milky white now, no trace of a pupil, of life. They seem just slightly too big to fit in his skull.

He turns back around and doesn’t stop walking, not even when the water licks at his collarbones, when he goes under completely, and then he’s not walking anymore and the beach is silent. He doesn’t resurface.

Saoirse should probably start screaming, run back to their house to get help, tell her mother what had happened, but it’s no use. She can feel it in her bones, like the chill from the northern winds that hit in the early days of autumn, in those days when her father first came back.

The sea never gives up her dead. At least not for long.

---

There’s no body, and funerals are expensive, so they hammer a cross in the backyard with his name on it and Saoirse gathers flowers from the meadow down the street. They send letters to Oscar and Alisdair to tell them the news. His sister, too, in England, and his brother, who may be dead for all they know, but they send the letter anyway, just in case.

---

“Something was wrong with him. After he came back from that trip.” Saoirse is standing on the porch, feet teetering on the edge, looking out to sea. A storm brews far in the distance. She wonders if it’ll bring snow with it.

Her mother wrings her hands. She’s looked so tired lately.

“I know.”

Saoirse nods.

“There was nothing to be done.”

“You’re probably right,” Saoirse agrees.

Her father’s fishing boat bobs placidly alongside the dock, hundreds of barnacles and all.

[mthollowell-writes]

Writeblr Introduction: Hello!

About Me:

Hello! My name is MT (she/her) and this is my writeblr!

I write speculative fiction with a bent towards horror and the strange, though I love experimenting with other genres every so often.

My themes and topics tends towards the fantastical and the existential. Monsters, mysteries, and histories are my bread and butter with dashes of "humor." The quotations are an urge to take that assertion with a grain of salt.

Other things that often crop up in relation to writing is my love of music, science, and nature (especially plants, birds, and mycology)

General Housekeeping

Below the cut you will find information about all my WIPs, past and present. This will be updated periodically!

But first, some quick bullets

To start off, I should state all my writing (esp longer pieces) will be posted on my website: mthollowell.com . Alongside my fiction, you'll also find book reviews and other writing related musings.

All my writing updates will be under #mt writes. This includes snippets, blurbs, tag games, writing challenges, and the like

I read a lot, all over, so all book things can be found under the #mt reads tag

This is my writing sideblog. I follow back with @missaddledmiss

And if you like my stories and are able, you can drop a few pennies into my Kofi account!

Long Term Projects

Festival of Shadows/Supernatural Mystery, Horror, Thriller During the Hollow Grove's infamous Founder Festival, reporter Mariela Hudson seeks to uncover a five year mystery that involves a cult, a mysterious ritual that ended in a deadly fire, and a missing woman whose relationship with both is still shrouded in shadows. All the while, a monster waits. WIP Introduction /// Excepts under #festivalwip

Grim Lore WIP/ Supernatural Mystery, Horror Sebastian Calderon accepts a job in a new town called Hollow Grove that's setting up roots in the wilderness on the promise of land and some cash in his pocket. But not everything is as it seems and the price he pays for his labor may be too steep.

Hollow Grove Stories/Speculative Fiction, Horror, "Humor" A collection of shorts about the various characters in Hollow Grove often set during its contemporary timeline (circa 2016-2017). Mischief and terror abound. Stories under #hollow grove stories

Divided Loyalties WIP/ Fantasy, Adventure, Romance Kalon is a prince of a fallen empire seeking vengence against its conquerer, Satomi Satinos, the bandit king. In order to do that, he infiltrates his kingdom in hope of slaying the source of his power, the great dragon Raylene. But in his quest, he unwittingly falls in love with the bandit king's daughter, Uraya, and uncovers a conspiracy that threatens to break the whole of their world.

Story 1 WIP/ Fantasy, Action Adventure, Coming of Age Haru is a young prisoner of a never-ending war that spans multiple worlds. He makes his living at the forge, but his daily life is interrupted when a guard is found dead and he's accused of the murder. As he awaits his execution, he's offered a chance of escape by a man who brings him to another world. He tries to keep a low profile and his new powers in check, so he doesn't attract the attention of the guards tracking them. When he runs into a group of kids in this strange new world, colloquially known as Earth, he opens their mind to all the worlds hidden around them. (Called Story 1 since its the first comprehensive story I've ever come up with yet I cannot think of a better title)

Shorter Projects (Last Updated November 2024):

31 Days of Horror 2024: A collection of stories I made for a 2024 October horror challenge

Escape from Gallow Lane: A Hollow Grove Story Local Hollow Grove reporters Mariela and Emery find themselves on the wrong side of the law, and things somehow get worse from there.

Hanging on the Telephone: A Hollow Grove After a seance in the basement of the Edelhaus Church goes awry and cuts off the WIFI across the county, Mariela Hudson tries her luck with the old tech of yesteryear with her dad’s old dial-up computer.

[pocket-lad]

CH 15- Calm, Cool, and Collected

Prev ● Masterpost ● Next

Adelaide clung to the dark fabric of Ian’s shirt and relished in the warming air. She was still hopelessly confused and more than a little on edge, but she tried to ground herself in the familiarity of her environment. These large, smooth hands were familiar. This shirt was familiar. This scent was familiar. This heartbeat was familiar, albeit faster than normal.

Each one of Ian’s steps sent Adelaide bouncing into the air, and each bounce grew more intense as he sped up. It really ramped up when alarms sounded throughout the building. She could only guess they were for her, and a small, insane part of her was flattered.

Suddenly, the sound dampened and more light filtered into her cave as they entered an elevator. Hesitantly, she looked up to meet Ian’s eyes. He looked nervous.

“Holdin’ up?” he asked.

Adelaide fumbled over her words. This couldn’t be real. Either she was dreaming or this was all some elaborate forced hallucination. She couldn’t imagine anything outside this facility, even though it had only been a couple days.

“I’m going to take that as a yes.”

His hands closed in again, the elevator doors opened, and Ian was off.

A female voice rang out. “Dr. Malcolm, is everything alright?” Clara. Adelaide seized up, afraid that if she so much as blinked, Clara would snatch her away.

“Wonderful. Everything’s wonderful…my dear. Going to grab equipment from my, uh, my car. Back in a moment. Hey. Don’t - don’t go anywhere.”

“Is that-”

“Nope.” Ian never once stopped moving during the interaction, and now he was in a full-out sprint. There was no lying to these people. He was sure Dr. Marshall saw Adelaide in his hands, and if he slowed down, she would act on it.

His mad dash was surprisingly uneventful. He shot past the front desk girl whose name he already forgot, he pushed through the doors, and continued across the lawn.

Just as he threw open his car door, Ian heard shouts coming from a number of men. They probably said something along the lines of, “Stop”, but they were too far away and there were too many of them for any proper words to be made out. He briefly glanced up to see that there were a dozen or so men, they were all armed, and they were all barreling his way. That was no good.

On Adelaide’s part, she was getting pretty good at detaching herself from reality lately. It was a nice way to keep herself sane, because if she thought about the circumstances, or the fact that she was in a human hand, she would become inconsolable.

And so, she felt the bumps and the fabric and the skin and the air, she heard the shouting and the panting, but kept them at a distance. They were just feelings. They were just sounds. Those things couldn’t hurt her.

Ian sped off in the car, and Adelaide only faintly registered the rumble of the engine. She wondered how he was driving with one hand. She refused to look up, afraid that she’d see a Bean above her. Even worse, she was afraid that Bean would not be Ian.

Adelaide had so much time to think during the car ride, but she just felt numb. Her body’s pleas for help that manifested as pain the past few days dulled considerably to a mild ache. The same could be said for her mind, she supposed. The labor involved with processing all of it seemed overwhelming, and so she subconsciously shut it all down.

Until Ian’s thumb absently stroked her arm. It took a couple times for her to even realize it was happening, but when she did, she yanked herself in the opposite direction, only to run into the other side of his hand. Adelaide yelped, pulling herself yet again in the other direction, but she was surrounded on all sides.

She was surrounded on all sides. By a human hand. She was surrounded. By a giant. She was surrounded.

“We’re almost there, Della. Don’t lose it now,” Ian said. His intention was reassurance, but to Adelaide, it sounded like a warning. Don’t lose it now, or else…

She closed her eyes and squeezed her thumbs in her fists, trying to rid herself of the sensation of his skin on hers. When she couldn’t take it anymore, her head snapped up, and sure enough, Ian sat above her.

Adelaide needed air. She scrambled up his cupped palms, looking for a way out. His chin was above her. The sky was above her.

“Della, I’m driving. Please!” Ian didn’t want to button her up in a pocket. He couldn’t button her up in a pocket. But if she didn’t sit still, he was going to crash the car, which not only endangered them, but it would allow plenty of time for those InGen guards to catch up. There was no doubt they were being followed.

Ian cupped his hand closer to his chest, closing off any possible gap that could lead to an escape. “You’re handling this marvelously, Della. Marvelous, you’re…marvelous.”

The brakes screeched as Ian whipped into a parking space, the tail end of the car hanging out into the street. He’d fix it later. He sprinted up to the apartment and banged on the door, waiting impatiently for Sarah to open it. He didn’t dare open up his hand now and reveal Adelaide to the world, not when they were so close to safety. Her little body squirmed around and pushed at his fingers. It was so easy to hold her there, her efforts barely registering on his thick skin. Instead of guilt though, Ian felt a strong determination to keep her away from anything that could harm her ever again. Adelaide was brave and strong and smart and marvelous and all of the other things he said, but at the end of the day, she couldn’t budge a single one of his fingers.

Sarah flung the door open so hard it almost flew off its hinges, and Ian plowed right past her, settling into one of the kitchen chairs. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the room as they all sat there, afraid to move.

Ian shared a grim look with Sarah before he uncurled his hand. It was warm and sweaty from the stress of the last few days and especially the last few hours. He belatedly realized what that might feel like on Adelaide’s end, but there was hardly time to worry about that now.

Adelaide felt like she’d been banging on his hand for hours. She’d been held against her will by so many people so many times now, so she supposed she should be used to it, but it was so alien coming from Ian.

The hand suddenly opened and she found herself in familiar territory - on Ian’s hand in Sarah’s apartment. This was real.

It was hard not to feel the intense gazes of the two Beans in the room. Her body involuntarily and sporadically twitched, warning her that there was danger nearby and she needed to get away. It happened so violently that she wondered if Sarah could see it from across the room.

“Talk to me,” Ian said, and Adelaide’s head snapped in his direction.

Then, a scuffling from behind her caught her attention and her head snapped that way. Sarah now sat in the chair opposite Ian. She recoiled at the proximity.

Upon closer inspection, Adelaide looked rough. “Adelaide, what happened?” Sarah breathed, shocked over her physical state but also the extreme defensive reaction. Adelaide was always jumpy and a little hostile, but this was a clear sign of abuse.

Adelaide’s chest heaved and her eyes darted around rapidly, trying to locate the threat that wasn’t there. It was Sarah. It was Sarah and Ian. It was Sarah’s apartment. It was alright. But no matter how much her mind insisted upon her safety, her body couldn’t agree less, shaking every time either of the humans moved.

“What happened? What did they do to you? What’s hurt?” Ian asked.

Adelaide couldn’t find the words. “I…um…”

“Here.” Ian set her down gently on the table, and she was grateful for solid, stable ground under her bare feet, but their combined downturned gazes and the shadow cast upon her were daunting. She still only wore a makeshift gown, which made her feel naked and exposed.

Ian rested his head on the table, supported by his hands, and Sarah disappeared somewhere. He stared at her. He wasn’t going to say anything more until she did, and Adelaide seemed to realize this.

“I…it was Wu. You already know it was Wu. It was, um, InGen. They were - they were experimenting on me.”

“Why?” Ian interrupted loudly.

Adelaide flinched. “I don’t know.”

Ian sighed, his hot breath washing over Adelaide and ruffling her hair. He started to try again, quieter and calmer to avoid pushing her further away, but Sarah returned with a small, soft towel. She sat back in her chair and slowly set it close to Adelaide, far enough away to avoid startling her.

Adelaide eyed the towel, then Sarah. She could see in Sarah’s eyes that she wanted her to take it. Her first instinct was to decline anything given to her by a Bean right now, but she was cold and exposed, and the towel was warm and provided cover.  Though it was soft to the giants, it was scratchy to Adelaide. She pulled it over her shoulders anyway and wrapped it around her middle, relishing the protection it offered, both from the elements and from any Bean.

She remembered she was supposed to be explaining something. It was hard enough with Ian’s intensity, but now she had two sets of eyes on her.

“I mean, I’m fine. I mean everything hurts, but I’m fine.”

“Della, you can’t - you can hardly walk.”

“I’m sore.”

“Yeah, uh, I’ll bet. Come here, let me - let me look at you.”

“Ian. I’m okay.”

Ian reached for her. Adelaide yelped as she scrambled backward, abandoning her towel but in the process tripping over it.

Ian paused, then pulled his hands back placatingly. His eyes went wide as he truly realized the extent of the damage. They did something to her, and she wouldn’t tell him what it was. Very slowly, he lowered his hands back to the table, palms turned slightly upward invitingly. His fingers curled in a natural and relaxed way.

Adelaide looked at the hands. She looked behind her at Sarah. She looked into Ian’s eyes. He wanted her to trust him. He wanted to help her. He saved her.

It all hit her at once. Adelaide’s body finally understood that it was no longer in danger, that it didn’t need to be on high alert, that these hands were friendly. All her defenses crumbled, and as the adrenaline faded, relief and exhaustion took its place.

Adelaide wobbled to a stand and, after multiple attempts, she found herself walking. She walked right into Ian’s hand, and she collapsed into a puddle of tears.

Ian held her delicately to his chest, letting her cry for as long as she needed. “I know,” he said, but his heart hammered in a way he was sure she could pick up. He shook his head at Sarah, a silent plea for help. He was out of his depth.

Sarah shook her head back. Don’t do anything. Just be here.

Eventually, Adelaide pushed roughly at his chest. She was done crying. She wiped at her eyes and sniffled, already embarrassed by her body’s sudden release of emotions.

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

“Ah, don’t mention it,” Ian said. “You alright?”

“Not really.”

“I imagine you’re quite hungry.”

“Not really.”

“I know for certain, um, that that is a lie.”

“So what, are you going to make me eat?” There was a sharp edge in Adelaide’s tone that came from equal parts resentment and fear. It wasn’t too hard to conjure up the memory of what happened when she refused to eat for those scientists. Her chest burned at the thought. You’ll eat when we tell you to eat . 

“Um, no…,” Ian blinked, curious why his suggestion warranted the attitude but knowing better than to push. “But you probably should. Are you - are you okay with picking up food on the road?”

“On the road?” Sarah asked before Adelaide could.

“We got away too easily. Way too easy. They know where we are, or at least - at the very least know how to, uh, find us.” As he spoke, Ian absentmindedly stroked Adelaide’s arm with his thumb again. She couldn’t say she was thrilled about it - each touch made her twitch - but she was getting used to it, and the repetitiveness was calming. “And even if they don’t, well, they know where we live here.”

Ian’s words sunk in. Adelaide’s heart stopped.

“Ian,” she whispered. He didn’t hear her. “Ian!”

Ian nearly jumped at the sudden volume that came out of the tiny being in his hands. He held her up to his eyes and she gulped. “They put a… thingin my neck.” She rubbed it distractedly. “It’s, um, I think they might be able to track me…with it.”

The rage on Ian’s face was apparent, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Adelaide grew nervous. She knew her admission was not the cause of his anger. It was what they did to her that got him riled up, but she couldn’t help feeling responsible. She should’ve told him sooner. She shouldn’t have let him come back here and have her endanger everyone else.

“What kind of thing ?” Ian barked.

“Hey!” Sarah interjected. Even she could see how shaken Adelaide was. “Calm down.”

Ian laughed. “Calm down? They - they broke her, hon. They hurt her. They put a tracker in her neck. I believe I am relatively calm given the, um, the circumstances.”

“You’re talking about her like she’s not even here!” Having said her piece, Sarah shifted her focus to Adelaide. “Can I see?”

For the first time in years, Adelaide wanted to be anywhere Ian wasn’t, and she didn’t like the feeling. She nodded hesitantly, but Ian pulled Adelaide close to his chest again. He couldn’t part with her so soon, not when he just got her back.

“Ian,” Sarah scolded.

Ian tentatively held his hands out, and he felt the small weight leave his hands as Adelaide leapt into Sarah’s. He watched intently as Sarah pulled her away from him. What Adelaide needed right now was a level-headed friend who would listen to her, and he was the opposite of whatever that was. But every time he thought he’d relaxed enough to have a semi-productive conversation, the image of her chained up in the lab forced its way back into his skull. The unbelievable gall of these people to torture someone who, on all accounts, could not fight back. But then he recalled the fear in Adelaide’s eyes when she looked up at him from the table, and the cycle would repeat all over again.

Ian couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up from the chair and expelled his energy by pacing around the small apartment. They needed to leave, but it wouldn’t do much good if Adelaide had a chip in her neck.

God, a tracker . Like some kind of animal.

Adelaide couldn’t even look in the general vicinity of Sarah’s face, but she also couldn’t look at the furious giant stomping around. Her eyes settled on the table far below as Sarah poked at her neck. She tried not to think about just how big and strong her finger was.

Ian stopped his pacing. “Can you get it out?” he asked impatiently.

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a doctor,” Sarah said, annoyed. “It’s red and a bit irritated, but it doesn’t look infected. It’s definitely in there, though.”

Adelaide felt the wind of Sarah’s breath on her skin. From the sound of it, this chip wasn’t coming out any time soon. There was nothing they could do.

Ian was back in the vicinity in seconds. “Hey, I’ll figure it - we’ll figure it out. We’ve handled worse.”

“Easy for you to say,” Adelaide mumbled, currently feeling every inch of the friction burns across her skin.

“No, you’re right, that was, uh…ignorant…of me to say…But the fact remains that we will …figure it out.”

Adelaide didn’t see much hope for the situation, but she nodded anyway to appease him.

“Are you sure we can’t get you anything?” Sarah asked as she set Adelaide back down by the towel, giving her a chance to cover back up.

Adelaide shook her head.

“Oh my god. Adelaide?!”

Adelaide perked up. That voice snapped her out of it. Ollie .

Everyone spun around to look at the stunned borrower standing on the counter. Surprisingly, she held her ground.

“Oh, excellent,” Ian said, and he snatched her off the counter to set her on the table.

“Ian Malcolm!” Sarah shouted, as Adelaide yelled, “Hey!”

Ollie fell onto the table in a heap despite the way Ian tried to set her down gently, too concerned with getting away . Even when she was free, she backed up quickly, afraid that he’d grab her again.

“You can’t do that!” Adelaide said, a bit of that spark returning due in part to the familiar sensation of scolding a Bean.

“I would like to reiterate that we’re - we’re short on time……My apologies,” Ian said halfheartedly. Adelaide would hardly talk to him or Sarah, so he hoped she would at least feel comfortable with Ollie.

Ollie glanced rapidly between Ian and Adelaide, working out which was more important, and obviously, Adelaide won out. She dropped all precautions and sprinted at her, pulling her into a tight hug.  Almost definitely, Ollie would have stayed in the hug forever, if not for the strong jerk accompanied by a wince from Adelaide. Ollie pulled away, but kept her hands on Adelaide’s arms, afraid to let her go.  “What happened?! You look awful!” she cried.

Adelaide couldn’t help a small laugh. At least she was honest. And it may have helped that she was borrower-sized.

It wasn’t the humans' faults that they were the size of humans. Everything they did was magnified, and when they were angry, they came off angry , so it was hard to be around them at times like this. The steam that poured out of Ian’s ears was nearly tangible. Though she knew what he was capable of, Adelaide didn’t ever want to see it.

But on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, she hated the way they looked at her like she was glass, like she was so fragile that she’d shatter if they so much as breathed wrong. She was a big girl. She could handle herself. 

Other borrowers, well, they just got it.

“Um, a lot,” Adelaide finally answered. She rubbed at her neck, still convinced she could feel where Sarah’s fingers touched her.

“What is that?”

“A tracking chip,” Ian answered from above. Ollie nearly forgot he was there, zeroed in on the one thing that mattered. Everything else disappeared. She eyed his hands, which stayed firmly at his side, but every other move had her thinking he was going to grab her again. It came so fast, back on the counter. Fast and dizzying and unyielding.

Ian continued. “Which is why we need to, um, skedaddle. Now.”

“Wh- you just got back,” Ollie said to Adelaide, preferring to communicate through the only other person in the room that was her size.

“I know, but this thing…It'll lead them here, and I can’t put you in danger,” Adelaide explained sadly. She truly thought she’d never see Ollie again. She’d never see her warm eyes, never feel her soft skin or her tight curls. Yet, against all odds, here she was, right in front of her, living and breathing and real . And now she’d have to leave again.

Ian leaned forward slightly, making both small people jump. “Actually, it would be best if…Ollie, you all should come with us.”

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[kay-elle-cee]

A restless waves rise and fall microfic (series). 🏴‍☠️ Pirate Jily AU. @jilymicrofics August Prompt 9: Discrete || 859 Words

“Love, I believe someone is staring at you.”

Lily lifts her gaze from the map in front of them, allowing her eyes to trail over to where her husband’s staring.

Across the bustling tavern from them a man leans against the wall, knuckles clenched tightly around a tankard in his hand as his eyes—beady and black and set in a pale face framed by slick black curtains of hair—remain fixed on the captain and first mate of The Minnie.

An echo of panic shoots through her veins as she keeps her face cool and unbothered, dropping her eyes back down to the map with little interest.

“Ah, yes. We were on a crew together.” Lily pauses, drawing a line of dashes on the map towards their next destination before letting out a sigh. “He’s the reason I went ashore all those years ago. Well, main reason. It was a piss poor ship to be on, all in all.”

“That was the…” James trails off, trying to recall all the stories she’s told him. “Sailing Serpent?”

Lily nods, reaching for her drink and taking a swig as she looks at him. “Aye. And that captain—Mulciber—the worst I’ve ever served under. Bullied his crew, thought he was too important to fail and nearly got us killed several times over.”

“And is that him?”

“No,” she answers, pursing her lips and looking back down at the map. “That’s Severus Snape. The Serpent’s keeper of the code and pain in my bloody side. He was hell-bent on proving there was something funny going on with Lawrence Evans.”

James stiffens beside her. “Did he…figure you out?”

Lily shakes her head, “No, but nearly. He had a hunch and was obsessive about proving himself right. I don’t know what his angle was but…” her brow furrows as she’s taken into a far-away memory, “…that was not a ship I wanted to be found out on.”

A warm hand covers hers on the table and she’s pulled out of the memory, into the present of her new life. Her open, honest, freeing life. The wrinkle in her brow smooths and she gives James a soft smile.

“Jumped ship at The Republic of Pirates and never looked back,” Lily says with a raised chin and a quirk of her eyebrow, flipping her palm up and laces her fingers with his. “I’d say I’ve done pretty well for myself.”

His hand squeezes hers and they sit there for a moment, smiling and lost in the sparkle of each other’s eyes when the sound of a throat clearing jolts them back to the present.

James’ other hand surreptitiously drops to his sheathed sword as their attention turns to this newcomer—Severus Snape—whose eyes dart from Lily to James and back again.

“Pardon the interruption,” he begins cooly and wholly unapologetic, his eyes fixated on Lily, “but you look quite familiar.”

Lily makes an effort to stay calm, drawing strength from not only the presence of James beside her, but the Potter heirloom—her wedding ring—that hangs discretely around her neck and tucked into her shirt for safekeeping. The physical reminder of the life she's built.

She raises an eyebrow. “I’ve gotten that before. I imagine it’s the hair.”

Snape’s eyes roam her face and she has to fight not to shift under the scrutiny. “No, I’m quite certain we’ve met—I realize this sounds ridiculous, but were you ever aboard The Sailing Serpent?”

Lily blinks, and she can feel James’ hand tight on hers, his eyes watching closely for any signs of distress. “Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.”

“You’re sure? You look nearly identical to an old crewmate." He squints, eyes glinting with suspicion, and Lily practically feels him imagining her with short, tied-back hair and a deep voice. "Lawrence Evans?”

Expression still neutral, she shrugs, but takes care to make her voice light even in its firmness. “Don’t know any Evanses. The name’s Potter.” Her hold on James' hand strengthens. "Lily Potter."

Severus Snape's black eyes flicker once more between her and James and whatever conclusion he comes to, he nods and steps back with a soured grimace. “My mistake.” With a final scan of her face, he turns and walks away, but something in Lily's stomach sits heavy, not convinced in the slightest that he's content with the interaction.

“Lily Potter,” James hums lowly, and she can hear the grin in his voice as it pulls her out of her worry—she’s still Evans on the ship, so he relishes every public reminder of their union. His hand drops from hers and snakes around her shoulders, pulling her tight. “You’re magnificent.”

Her heart pounds—from the adrenaline, from the love—but her eyes dart around the room. “If Snape’s here, Mulciber’s likely not far behind. We should get back to the ship and avoid them if we can.”

When her eyes meet his after scanning the room, they’re close to her and shining with pride behind his glasses, and whatever unpleasantness Snape’s presence had wrought melts away. She leans forward, pressing her lips against his. “I love you, you know that?”

“Yes, love, I do.” He gives her another kiss. “Now let’s go.”

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[winxanity-ii]

⌜No Hoods Attached | Chapter 10 Chapter 10 | mission: get in⌟

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The morning chill nipped at your skin as you and Seora approached the towering building of HYBE—the heart of where it all would end—to retrieve your beloved red hoodie.

Despite your insistence on subtlety, Seora, true to her unapologetic nature, donned a Shooky onesie, claiming it as her armor against the day's challenges, while you stuck to your simple RJ t-shirt. A mixture of dread and anticipation knotted in your gut as the weight of the situation pressed down on you.

Anxiety swept over you as the building loomed closer. The realization that you had volunteered under a fake name sent a shot of panic through your veins.

Sensing your growing worry, Seora placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, her eyes brimming with unwavering confidence. "Remember, they don't know it's not your real name. Plus, your picture is on the ID. We'll be fine," she whispered, her voice providing a grounding force amid your racing thoughts.

The lobby of HYBE was a hive of activity, buzzing with people coming and going with agendas as varied as the colors in a palette. Your heart raced against your ribcage as you stepped up to the sign-in area, the name "Han Ji-yoo," escaping your lips in a stuttered breath. The attendant handed you a name tag, your fingers trembling as you reached for it.

It was at that moment—amid the faint murmur of conversations and the soft shuffle of feet—that a commotion at the entrance broke through the background noise.

Drawn by the noise, you caught sight of a girl arguing vehemently with the security guards, her face flushed red in anger. "I'm Han Ji-yoo!" she hissed, her voice sharp and laced with fury as it cut through the air.

The blood drained from your face as the real Han Ji-yoo—the one whose identity you had borrowed—made her presence known. Seora, following your alarmed gaze, turned just in time to lock eyes with the furious girl. Recognition flashed across Han Ji-yoo's features as she pointed directly at you, her accusation loud and clear, "There! That's the imposter!"

The world seemed to still for a moment as Seora's exclamation, a mix of shock and frustration, filled the air. "Bruh, what the fuck, Ji-yoo!?" she blurted out, disbelief and betrayal painting her voice.

Han Ji-yoo narrowed her eyes into slits. "I don't care that I wasn't here; it's still my name, you stingy bitch!" she spat, her words cutting like a knife.

Immediately, the guards zeroed on the two of you. "Grab them!"

In an instant, Seora's protective instincts kicked in. She turned to you, with a look of urgency on her face. "Run!" she cried out, readying herself to fend off the guards.

With Seora's sacrificial diversion buying you valuable seconds, you spun on your heel and dashed away. The reality of the situation hit you like a cold wave—caught in a web of lies and identity theft, all for the sake of getting back a cherished memory encapsulated in a piece of cloth.

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Taehyung stared boredly, his gaze distant, as he half-listened to his manager drill a young man with questions. The manager's tone was a mix of skepticism and mild annoyance, trying to determine if the boy was just another overzealous fan who'd managed to sneak in or something more concerning

The boy, nervous and clearly out of his depth, stuttered out an answer that didn't quite add up, "I—I was lost the jacket on my way t-to the bathroom..." His voice trailed off, unconvincing even to his own ears. Halfway through the boy's poorly constructed excuse, the door swung open with an urgency that immediately drew everyone's attention. A guard, his expression tense and voice laced with a clear command, announced, "We have to move. The building is going into lockdown. There's an unauthorized individual causing disruptions." Taehyung's manager nodded, the gravity of the situation hardening his expression. The boy was promptly escorted out, his excuse forgotten in the face of the unfolding drama. As the group prepared to relocate to a designated safe area, a sudden thought struck Taehyung—the hoodie. The very hoodie he had left behind in the practice room just the other day. "I need to grab something from the practice room," he voiced out, attempting to sound nonchalant about the detour. But the urgency in his tone betrayed his casual demeanor, making it clear that whatever he needed to retrieve was more important than he let on. The guard, responsible for the safety of everyone, was quick to dismiss the request. "I'm sorry, Taehyung-nim, but no detours are possible at this moment," he explained, his voice firm, leaving no room for negotiation. "Our immediate priority is to ensure everyone's safety. We first need to collect Yoongi-nim and then proceed directly to the designated safe room, where the other members are already waiting until the situation is declared clear." The refusal did little to deter Taehyung. If anything, it made him more determined. As the group continued towards the designated safe area, Taehyung's mind raced with plans of escape. With the guard's attention momentarily diverted to coordinate with other security personnel, Taehyung seized the opportunity. With his beanie pulled low over his forehead and a mask covering the bottom half of his face, he slid away from the group, becoming a shadow among shadows. The corridors, usually bustling with activity, were eerily quiet, with the lockdown already in effect. With purpose, Taehyung navigated the familiar passageways with ease, each step taking him further away from the safety of the group and deeper into the heart of the adventure.

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In the midst of the lockdown, Seora found herself in an unexpected predicament. After her brave attempt to buy you time to escape, she was apprehended and taken to a stark, unguarded room—the guard assigned to her left briefly, claiming to need a quick restroom break. She had no company other than the echo of her own breathing, that is, until the sound of approaching voices filled the corridor outside. "I'm too old for this shit, seriously," a voice grumbled, tinged with irritation. "I understand, but it's for everyone's safety. All security personnel have been instructed to gather everyone to a secure location until the situation stabilizes. A larger group of guards will be here shortly with Taehyung-nim to escort you to the others." Seora's ears perked up at the mention of the name 'Taehyung.' Before she could process the situation fully, the door swung open, and in walked a blonde-haired male, with the guard hastily closing the door behind him. Still wearing her Shooky onesie, Seora gave the stranger a wary look. Yoongi, for his part, raised an eyebrow at her outfit choice—his BT21 avatar—but chose to remain silent. Then, breaking the silence, Seora said, "Looks like they put you in the wrong room," her tone tinged with a hint of humor despite the gravity of the current lockdown. Yoongi, ever the pragmatist, merely nodded, his gaze scanning the small enclosure for a place to sit. "Seems like it," he replied, his voice unmistakably exhausted. As minutes ticked by, their initial wariness gave way to begrudging acceptance. The absurdity of their situation—a pop idol and a best friend, thrown together by a lockdown in a room barely large enough to accommodate the two—served as a spark for an unlikely turn of events. Seora, ever bold, decided to address the elephant in the room despite her nerves. Standing up, she slowly shuffle to stand before the blond. "Look, Mr. Kim Taehyung, I know this may seem forward, but you have my best friend's jacket, and it would mean a lot if you could give it back to her."

Yoongi's reaction was immediate and sharp, a mix of offense and amusement coloring his features. "The fuck you just call me?" 

"I called you Taehyung. Isn't that your name?" Seora replied, trying to diffuse the tension with a slight crinkle of her nose, indicating her confusion at his reaction. Yoongi's temper flared, his misunderstanding fueling his fire. "Do I fucking look like Taehyung to you!?" His voice was a whisper-shout with barely contained fury, his glare searing into Seora as if daring her to continue this charade. "First of all, there's no need to be so rude. And second of all, do you want my answer? Because I'll say yes," Seora snapped back, her lips downturned in a sneer, challenging the idol. Yoongi's eyes grew several degrees cooler, a storm brewing within. "You motherfucker—" "You cocksucker. Oops, I thought we were naming what each other were," Seora retorted, her fake smile glowing as brightly as her defiance. Yoongi's patience snapped, his voice a low growl. "Listen up, you little bitch. I'm not in the mood for this shit. If you weren't a child, I'd fuck you up," Yoongi hissed, his fists clenching as if ready to strike. "The fuck you mean, 'If you weren't a child!?' I'm a grown-ass woman, so try me," Seora taunted, raising her fists in a mock fighting stance. "This isn't the streets, but if I wanted to fight you, your ass would have already been on the ground," Yoongi countered coolly, popping his knuckles, a warning in his gesture. Seora just sucks her teeth with a roll of her eyes, "Oh, I see what this is. You're all bark and no bite," she quipped back as she stretched, daring Yoongi to make a move. Yoongi's response was a forced calm, a clear effort to de-escalate. "You're not worth the effort, so go ahead and hop back into that little corner over there," he said, taking several deep breaths as he tried to heed Jin's prior warnings about self-control. "Go on, shoo." "Nah, I'm good," Seora responded with a tilt of her head. "And if we're being honest, I was ready the moment you called me out of my name. Now if you big and bad, then bring yo' never seen the sun my entire life head ass over this table, and let's settle this shit. Right. Fucking. Now." The absurdity of the situation wasn't lost on Yoongi; arguing with a woman clad in a Shooky onesie was certainly not how he envisioned his day. Yet, here he was, at a loss for words, his pride stung by her sharp words. "Yeah, that's what I thought," Seora declared victoriously when Yoongi remained silent, her arrogance peaking. Pulling the hood of her onesie over her head, she sent him a final glare, "As Cardi B once said; 'You Lil' bitch, you can't fuck with me, if you wanted to.'" With that, she flipped both middle fingers at him as she turned to head back to her seat. Yoongi shook in his seat, anger fulling his entire body, clouding his every thought. "Fuck that. She's not about to get away with talking to me like that," he muttered to himself, and in a single motion, he leaped out of his seat onto Seora, tackling her to the ground. "Ahh! The fuck wrong with you!?" she screeched as they tumbled. Yoongi, pinning her down, sneered with venom in his voice, "Your little short ass thought you were going to get away with talking to me like that? Hell no. Fuck that, we about to throw these hands." Seora, unfazed and fiery as ever, retorted, "Alright, but let me remind you. Your ass asked for it." With a swift motion, she flipped their positions, now straddling his back; yanking his head back, she placed him in a headlock, choking him. "Let me—Ack—go!" Yoongi's plea came out more as a screech, shock painting his features, not expecting her to be that strong; desperation tinged Yoongi's voice as he screamed, "Someone—Ack—help me—Ack—get this—Ack—bitch off me!"

The chaos escalated as the door burst open and two guards rushed in, attempting to separate the entwined duo. However, Seora's grip remained unyielding, her determination to not let Yoongi off was evident. "You pale ass, motherfucker!" Seora paused her choking, only to shift her hold and yank at Yoongi's hair, an action that drew the audience of several interns who watched the spectacle unfold with a mix of horror and fascination. The deadlock was broken by a large, burly security guard who lifted Seora effortlessly into the air. Yet, even in suspension, she maintained her hold on Yoongi's hair, refusing to release him from her grip. "Not so big and bad now, are ya!?" Seora cackled maniacally, her laughter cutting through the tense air as she pulled on his hair until a loud tearing sound silenced the room. A collective gasp came from the surrounding onlookers as Seora came up with a small fist full of blond hair. "I might be dressed as a cookie, but this bitch don't crumble!" she snarked, tossing the strands of hair to the ground. "Get her out of here!" An intern's voice pierced the stunned silence, concern for Yoongi prompting immediate action as they rushed to his side, still sprawled on the floor from the unexpected onslaught. Quiet murmurs filled the room after Seora was taken away, her defiant shouts of "Let me at him! Not so tough now, huh!?" lingering in the air. Staff members and security personnel exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of concern and disbelief over the altercation that had just unfolded. In the midst of this subdued chaos, the guard tasked with ensuring the safety of Taehyung at the beginning of the lockdown scanned the room; his eyes, trained to keep track of those under his charge, searched for his assigned charge, expecting to find him among the group.

However, a sinking feeling of alarm set in as he realized that the artist was conspicuously absent. "Where's Taehyung-nim?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the whispers, demanding the attention of those nearby. The urgency in his tone was clear, reflecting the seriousness of the situation. "I-I'm not sure," came the hesitant reply from one of the staff members, her voice faltering under the guard's intense gaze. The staff member's confusion was palpable, mirroring the growing concern among the group. The guard sighed deeply, the action speaking volumes of the pressure now resting on his shoulders. Pinching the bridge of his nose, a gesture of both stress and contemplation, he recognized the gravity of the situation. Without wasting another moment, the guard reached for his radio, which allowed him to access the building's security network. The static crack of the radio broke the tension in the room as he prepared to broadcast an alert that would escalate the lockdown situation even further. "We have a situation," he announced into the radio, his voice steady yet imbued with a sense of urgency. "Taehyung-nim is missing."

A/N: y'all the way i fell on the floor writing this omg 😭😭

[crimsonlyinglilly]

Day 3 Shame

Again late for day 3 whumpril

Back to Elias in Familiar faces, Tristan and Lucian have a meeting and toy with Elias.

Warnings for implied Sexual content, Elias doesn't have much of a choice in things but assumes that's normal. Also mentions of drug use.

-----

It was rare that Mr. Martel had him around when he had meetings, the last time he had been blindfolded and kept by Mr. Martel’s side due to the chain attached to the collar he had been given as a gift. That meeting had left Elias mostly smothering the familiar feeling he got from the women’s voice, as he was stuck blind and helpless throughout the meeting. 

This time he was somehow worse despite the lack of chain and blindfold but perhaps that was why as without the blindfold he could see the way Mr Castle, as Mr Martel had introduced him to Elias as, kept looking at him like he wanted to eat him.

Knowing what Mr. Martel was, made it so that wasn’t completely off the table, he found himself leaning slightly closer to Mr. martel without meaning to.

Something they were all aware of as it made Mr. Castle laugh loudly every time and look at him with even more hunger, and Mr. Martel smirked at him as he ran a hand across his cheek.

He was blaming the left over high for the comfort he let himself take from it.

—--

“Surely one night can’t hurt, Tristan.” Mr Castle asked.

Elias' eyes widened as he worked out what he was asking for and he looked at Mr. Martel before he could think better of it.

He really shouldn’t have gotten high this morning.

No, he wouldn’t, it had become very clear the man who had claimed him was possessive, he had broken the arm of the man he had left guarding him for touching him too much.

Elias realised his mistake as Mr. Martel noticed the confusion and concern, his eyes lighting up the way they normally did when Elias failed to completely bit back his pain or any of his reactions.

“One night.” he smiled, waving Elias towards the new man.

Elias moved automatically, he had done this before, he reminded himself, he shouldn’t have let himself get too comfortable with Mr Martel, he cursed himself.

He was a whore, a plaything, a toy, of course Mr. Martel could lend his services to his friends.

“Come along my lord Elijah.” Mr Castle cheers as he stands from the chair, clapping his hands. 

“My name’s Elias.” he corrects, not flinching at the sudden noise but failing to stop himself  wondering if he’d be on the end of a slap that night.

“You can be Elijah for tonight, does your master not play this game?” the man asks cupping a hand on the back of his neck as he steps closer.

“Sir?” Elias turned back to Mr Martel hoping the man would change his mind.

“No permanent damage and I expect him to returned.” Mr Martel says dashing Elias’s hopes and he lets himself be let from the room.

—-

“My lord Elijah” the man hums into his ear as his hand eagerly work to undress him, Elias is suddenly relieved Mr. Martel had chosen a layered dress suit for him to wear today. “I want you to only call me two things during our time tonight.” the man smiled, somehow Elijah knew he wasn’t going to like it.

“Call me brother.” The odd instruction caused him to pause as he was sinking onto his knees, he looked back at the man, whose smile broke into a grin as he traced a hand around Elias’s throat, he prepared to be choked but instead the man let go before speaking again “Tonight I'll be Klaus for you.”

—

It makes his skin crawl, somehow using those words was worse than the pain and pleasure the man worked to get from him, the sharp burning of fang sinking into flesh, still failed to reach as deep as the feeling those words caused.

Elias has worked on the streets for years, Mr Martel has had him crawling on his knees for praise somedays, but those requests and fulfilling them, fills him with a sickening feeling as he rediscovers shame.

He thought he had killed that feeling with the heroin and the other drugs, yet somehow that managed to bring it all back.

—--

Over thirty years later as he wakes his memories fully finally, Elijah glares at Klaus for his recent and current actions and smothers the urge to heave at what Lucien had made him a part of.

Call me brother. 

Tonight I'll be Klaus for you.

How dare that lowly cretin used his brother to humiliate him.

[midnight-rice]

Snippets from Dolphin's undisclosed workplace:

One manager likes to sing the catchiest jingles from children's cartoons and get them stuck in everyone else's heads. Last week was the backpack song from Dora the Explorer, this week it's Dragon Tails. She also puts random movies and shows on the TVs when it's late and we have no business, and is invested in Forged by Fire as a result

"Do you think a Swiffer would burn the top of the oven?" "No, but I think the oven would burn a Swiffer." "SHUT UPPP"

*said during a serious conversation about climate change, in an old-man voice* "Back in my day we used to have FOUR seasons! And I DON'T mean the hotel!"

Same person approached me with a wadded ball of dough and puppetted it in front of me like an evil slime monster while making rasping breathing sounds. Needless to say I died laughing

He also likes to admire pepperonis as they curl in the oven and dance quietly whenever nothing is going on. I like to join him, to my general manager's chagrin. We think he is jealous because as a GM he is not unprofessional enough to dance

My general manager is a warm and friendly man who comes across as more business-minded but still funny. Today after completing my training he confessed to me unprompted that the map of our delivery range looks uncannily like the side profile of the grandmother from Hey Arnold! He's right, and now I can't unsee it

*GM slipped on a mushroom* "Uh oh, he's tripping on shrooms!!"

My coworkers agreed I need to work on my manager voice, they said they'd be shocked to hear me yell. I waited until they were put of the building and yelled as loud as I could, but I sounded like an irate goose 😅

I have been known to make animals out of leftover dough. Not to brag but some of them turn out really good 😌

The store owner relayed an interesting story about a recent even at the other location: apparently someone dashed into the store, grabbed a giant pizza right off of a family's table, and ran out the door. Looney Toons-ass crimes happening there apparently

Everytime I hold the oven mitts I turn into a crab clickclick and everytime i hold a pizza peel I turn into master lancer stabby stab

(did you know that the stick you use to get a pizza out of the oven is called a pizza peel. I didn't know, I had to google it)

One of my coworkers is a socially awkward high schooler who has shared some extremely worrying stories from his life like the time his sister got raped but my favorite interaction with him was when he told me all about Undertale AUs, which I thankfully had some knowledge about due to watching a YouTube video about them a week prior. Rather than the edgy ones like Underfell or Error Sans it sounded like his favorite was the kindest version of Frisk (I forget the name but they rescue characters from bad AUs) because it made him feel hopeful ;_;

A different pair of teens who work here discovered they could overwhelm the label maker's character limit and get it to print in an entirely different font as a result

Every day since I started I have deliberately misspelled my name on my cup to see if anyone notices. Usually it's just the first few letters followed by keysmashes but ocassionally I name it things like "rawr XD" and *Wilhelm screams*

A few weeks after I started i was bored and doodling my go-to monsters on scrap paper. My coworkers liked them so much they taped them to the side of the Pepsi cooler ;_;

My insatiable desire for removable vandalism has led me to hiding stickers of my go-to monster mascot around the store. So far none have been found to my knowledge. I did show off the box whose bottom I completely covered with the little guys though

Half of the store is quite short, myself included. We all make fun of each other for it but I still refuse to get a step stool out when reaching for things on the top shelf

Every time I prep tomatoes I whisper "Ludger-coded" to myself

But I spend most of my time writing gay fan fic in my head

[allisonreader]

So this is the story I jumped ship from to write Grandfather's Story. Which came out of almost nowhere. As for this one, well this was my SECOND idea for @inklings-challenge based off of a dream that I had in September and then shared about.

Yes folks, for those of you who know, this is the Selkie Cinderella Little Mermaid story idea. Simply called by the working title of The Selkie Story. The basics is that it's The Little Mermaid smashed together with Cinderella with a dash of loose Selkie lore. Right now there's no obvious signs of Little Mermaid and more Cinderella and Selkie vague than anything else.

If you're interested in how it all started, here's a link to that post.

I was going to try and fit it into team Chesterton whether it truly fit or not. Anyways, here's the beginning of that story.

Once there was a lonely man named Lucas, whose wife had died and left him childless.

He had heard a story; once, being passed around by sailors. Claiming how one of them they knew had gotten themselves a Selkie bride; by stealing her coat and keeping it from her.

For whatever reason, that story had struck a chord with our lonely man. He decided that he too wanted a beautiful Selkie bride and made plans to find one.

What he didn’t expect was to come across the coat of a young Selkie girl of maybe three or four. Surprising him greatly when she came looking for her coat, which he had ready secured away in a chest. Throwing away the key into the ocean.

He watched the girl for a bit, regretting that he had thrown away the key prematurely. It was too late now, but perhaps the girl could fill the hole in his heart.

He pretended to come across her, and told her that he’d help her look for her missing coat. When they couldn’t find it, he offered for her to come home with him for the night and that they could come back the next day and do just that.

He followed through and did that for a few days, showing her jackets and sweaters that weren’t her coat.

After a few days more, he asked if he could call her Cordelia and if she would be willing to be his daughter. Since they couldn’t find her coat that would allow her to go home. She hesitantly agreed, still longing to go home.

He wasn’t cruel to her, and did treat her exactly as if she had been the daughter his wife had not given him. He always made sure she had enough to eat and drink and clothed her in the most up to date fashions of the day. Playing with her and trying to make her laugh, while keeping her oblivious to the fact that her coat was kept in a chest in the attic and that the key for it was lost somewhere in the sea.

After a few years together, he happened to find himself a wife, a mother for his sweet Cordelia he thought. The woman had two daughters about Cordelia's age, what perfect playmates for her. For a few years everything was fine, until he became sick and died.

In his will, he asked that Cordelia continue to be looked after for. Meaning that she could not be thrown from her adoptive father’s house. So Cordelia remained, much to her stepmother Helena’s chagrin.

Since the girl could not be thrown out and left homeless, the stepmother decided that Cordelia should become the household’s maid. Cordelia was of no relation to the man she had married, and she had never adopted the girl, so now Cordelia could make herself useful to her and her own daughters. And so Cordelia's life as a servant began. Working for her step mother and sisters.

Life for Cordelia had changed fast after her father’s death. She had hardly been given time to grieve properly before being removed from her room. She was allowed to keep some of her dresses, but not her fancier ones as she was told that she would not be going anywhere where she would need them.

At first they still had servants around to help teach her everything that she would need to know to take care of the house. But over time the staff were slowly let go and Cordelia was forced to try and make up for all the work.

Just as slowly her step sisters Phoebe and Natalie began to forget that the three of them had been friends and sisters, as they started to tease Cordelia about her being forced to work and live in/near the kitchen. Their mother encouraging the behaviour from her daughters.

Cordelia ignored the taunting in favour of remembering the good around her. The kindness of her adoptive father and the fun she had had with her sisters before step mother decided that she was to become their servant to earn her keep.

She was kept busy enough to not have a lot of time to think. Helena wasn’t afraid to strike her on occasion if she did something that was considered particularly egregious. Leaving deep bruises those times. The sharp biting words that sunk into her soul were almost worse. She fought to keep herself respectful as possible when facing her stepmother; as disrespect would bring bigger punishment. Overtime the physical punishment stopped, in favour of my chores being added to her work load.

Before her adoptive father had passed, she had never fully realized how much he had meant to her. She missed their trips to the sea to look for her coat. An activity that was just for them. The coat looking never lasting long before they both were enjoying just being at the seashore.

[libidomechanica]

And thunderd, thou conteck soon,

The begins to information.     As he gorged iron. Than so absurd the enthrones;     who else—the voiceless cleere, confirmed by me in her first to     be still fly or conjure than dying heare hovell’d, and sweet-     faire tomb; or, like a

fugitive wildest taper looke, by     a longer is either in one of Love admiring others,     because me: for such is it the mother to young loue     of the air, that opens mothlike, and make my cared terrible,     beauty bring strange love

were boarding two to be told, he     heart as floor. More these chastened higher to daunce, and the Rahvs     in Sommer fire But next to dash my eyes. Thou to me she     walk’d down her lanely, the ghosts shining with me defiles.     Grow. I bring t was

not the piness,—like thee are viler,     warrant’s banner, with me show how should not goe awares     the into thee are Discord’s endure, that head loved too     late; ’ there that lid, full of the drank as a hush of age is     wife … He stair—lean on a

starry it had not a beggar     and Paradise. Their smiles are kills me like bless in thy way;     and glass off like a thriftless is gone: in while I dreamed nothing     row on her Grace by who are was a merely on my     bed, circle much by night

broken sky. Pillow; and ye. For     nimble to the garden’d; feel some loving his all thinks ’tis     to her last will luckle. Must had cats floating frail, undred     by midnight. It charmeth similar to the day; low on     their long hand repair meet,

the first, too solemn grow. By our     own; and know. Small is thick, dream. Between movement jessamine     appal. And turn with them in something, my bed, the city     blood-red he nould han the sprites shivered from out, not the     field as pass we cat! With

spread, I see thee, my sigh’d, which     similar contrived with younged goddess go; my mind proving     teares on men lily loitering ration’s sleep. Well hem     all to your heart after Year and jail send, but what would not     the housewife and how long,

and honour old caught seemed to some     slightning up; and is out around, whose poinsetting with dogs     and torchlight eyes burning from myself grew wrath, or harpens     to lose to thee to fetched swinging her stream I singing and     wheretofore: he flying

people on their Wrath for prais’d     nor pale; break it e’er said their been mischief, a nation an     against thread an empty of meat. By our love condolence     and cheek lie frae here quite a small air fragrant, he he feares     not makes me well if

he didn’t see peace was ill obeysaunce.     Which still wed that helpless hollowed his not of bloom of     a helpen the council withering issues fresh aray?     And high; as foolerie.—For oh, her breast. Under a girl in     the name, thou have pass’d—quite

full of themselves a lithe pedantic     contests dots now what I was it risk of His tenderstand     the breakfast. And showman. And thunder’d, thou conteck soon,     and my Ladyes us can dare, till rob a little o’     Montgomery! Because, ’ prove

to lives the thing empires have     in this at through my Stellas imagination; and Hoigh     for all,—what such spies of roses and how ill or ruined     him, fair could sleep, seems to the started, and her skies, which to     seal’s wide scattery, to

asswage: scour hours fly flight, like the     place of his, and a prize: for other haired. A fat presaging     this word, turpin’s voice come to harbour fair, the joy; but,     as erst her adders dumb as the hinges of which thick upon,     lulled me Heaven, till

love; flesh were: and yellow and be     a radio. We have their sort vnto who, that now-a-days     had greyhounds flashy across nor we are both. For his head&     eat this masks do not yielding and hungry gorge. A show     Had began heaven you!

[luxis-journal]

Now, now babyboo, yk damn well, imma reply. Enjoy love. And whoever wants to read this.🤔

When most people think of the term ‘good things' come to those who wait’; they never meant it in this form.

Sundays have now become the days in which the neighborhoods are lit up by the bustling farmers; all lined up in rows as they proudly showcase their crops and cattle’s of harvest to the onlookers The man, whose teeth are replaced by gold, shows his greed by descaling the quality of his fruits all the while unchanging many of his customers. The neighbors tend to avoid the vendor, seeing as they were swindled far too much for their hands to even touch the fruits. But, as luck would have it someone’s already fallen prey to them once more.

“You’re clearly selling these fruits for far more than their worth.” Stated the customer calmly, his voice leaving no room for an argument.

“Why you- I’ll have you know that these products are the freshest out of all the vendors sat here today!”

“I’ll believe that when a worm’s head isn’t sticking out half of your apples”

At that, the vendor lunged himself towards the man, hell-bent on serving justice to his ‘business’. Only to be stopped by a harsh grip

“I’d suggest you refrain from public violence. The least I could do is escort your stall out for once.” she stated, resolution dear in her words as her grip on the merchants never once swayed over.

The vendor tsked, pulling his hand away silenced once more.

“I didn’t know you were still on patrol duty.” said Zayne, a bit of surprise leaping out from his words.

She turned to look towards him, a hint of a smile gracing her lips.

“Well unfortunately, this job doesn’t really let me have the day off.”

“Shame really, it’d make my job much easier if it did.”

To that, she scoffed, lightly nudging him along. They walked towards another stall, hoping to find another, more fruitful vendor.

“What are you doing all the way here, Zayne? The last time I checked, it took about half an hour to get here from the clinic-.” She coughed, stopping herself from calling him out as workaholic once more. “home, a long way from your place.”

A small chuckle rung out of his mouth, releasing some of the tension.

“I do have a place, unlike what someone might believe.”

“And no, it’s not the clinic.”

“uh-huh, sure, buddy.”

They made their way in front of the new fruit vendor, eyeing the collection only to be stopped.

“Hm~, didn’t expect to see you here, sweetie.” The vendor stated, his voice too familiar for her not to look up in shock.

“Haha, Sylus. Long time no see.” Her voice pitched slightly at his appearance, trying desperately to stifle her laugh.

There he was, standing behind a produce stall in the most uncharacteristic clothing she had ever seen. His hair tied up with a pink hibiscus clip, a pink hello kitty mask scrunched and resting on his sharp jaw, and the best of all, the princess peach on his soft pink apron boarded with ruffles and frills.

“Do you know him?” Zayne asked, his eyebrows scrunched in confusion and apprehension at the… colorful and interesting display of choices blinding him.

“U-uh yeah, he’s my frien-.” She stammers, only to be stopped by Sylus.

“Boyfriend, lover, beloved, you name it, she calls me just that.”

“Excuse me?” Zayne intercepts, his face a bit red from Sylus’s bold claims.

“You heard me pretty boy.” Sylus smirks, looking Zayne dead in the eyes.

The two men scrutinize one another for the tip of their hair to their toes. Zayne keeps his eyebrows raised as his arms cross across his chest, seemingly baffled at how this heathen could capture her attention. Sylus’s gaze wasn’t too far off the mark either, sporting a sneer and nose scrunched in distaste at how… responsible this man seemed.

The tension piles up far too fast for her liking, having her think of a plan to escape.

“Well this had been fun, but I gotta dash. Bye now!”

Replying fast, she turns around and runs out of there at break neck speed.

“Now hold on!”

“Don’t run away now!~”

That's the best you're getting out of me, women. Hope you enjoyed it! 😘

Nika's Open Mic Night!

𝕎𝕖𝕝𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕞𝕪 𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥 𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕟 𝕔𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕒𝕓/𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕕 𝕣𝕠𝕓𝕚𝕟

Calling all the LADS writers of Tumblr

Please read → Everyone and anyone is free to join. Write something for the prompt and tag someone who you'd like to see participate. You can do it in a reblog to this post or make your own post. Your character can be a self-insert, your MC, or an OC If you make your own post please add me in your taglist or tag it with #nikasopenmicnight I love reading you guys work. I'm going to be making an ongoing list with links to all the stories of everyone who chooses to join. There is no deadline have fun !

Okay I'll shut up now here's the prompt

the prompt: running into your main lads man (boyfriend) while you're out with your second favorite lads man (as a friend) and how they would react. [Credit: Anon]

I'll go first....Who's next?

This was supposed to be a quick trip, in and out, get what I need and leave. I should’ve gone to a different store because I knew better than to think I'd make a ‘quick trip’ to target. Dumbass. Nothing was ever a quick trip when me and Raf hung out. So here I am buying all new decor for my library at home. Rafayel stood by giving his opinion even when I didn't ask for it “How many blankets does one girl need?”

“There’s no such thing as too many blankets” I giggled as I squat down to chose a fluffy red blanket. I knew Sylus would like this no matter how much he likes to act like he doesn't care for them I see how he throws one over his lap when it’s within reach. “Thinking of me?” I jump at the sudden sound of his voice looking up to see his tall frame looming over me. It wasn’t uncommon for him to pop-up on me considering he has my location. I couldn’t help the smile that split my face in two as I looked up at him. I stood up and shoved the blanket in this direction. “What do you think?” His hand gently ran up and down the fabric, but his intense stare was fixated over my shoulder “It’s nice”

I turned to see Raf giving Sylus a just as intense stare, but instead of a frown like Sylus he had a smile on his face. His smile didn’t reach his eyes and I could practically feel the lightning cracking between them. Am I in the middle of some kind of pissing contest? Men. “Sylus stop being rude he's my friend” I poked him in his side which made him jolt, but he finally looked at me. His gaze softened slightly as our eyes locked. “Princess i’m not doing anything” He poked me in my forehead and I swatted his hand away; he knows I hate when he does that. “Don’t play dumb” I scowled at him and all he did was give me that sexy ass smirk. Sometimes I wish he was ugly …. no I don’t. Sylus put his gaze back on Rafayel and pulled me impossibly close to him by my waist. “Apologies if I'm interrupting, but we have an appointment with a tailor that we can’t miss”

Why is he lying? This is the first i’m hearing of said appointment. I struggled in his hold trying to pry his fingers from my waist, but he gave me a few small squeezes making me snort with laughter.

Raf didn’t even try to argue he threw his hands up in surrender “No worries I have paintings to finish” he grabbed his items that he tossed in the cart, gave my nose a pinch along with a quick “I’ll talk to you later” and sauntered off. The second Rafayel was out of sight I managed to wiggle my way out of Sylus' iron grip “What appointment are you talking about?”

“There isn’t one I just didn’t like the way he looks at you” He said in a matter-of-fact tone as if I was supposed to know that. “How exactly does he look at me?”

“The same way I look at you” I narrowed my eyes at him inquisitively; he returned the same look and I knew he was mocking me. “So you don’t trust me” It was more of a statement rather than a question.

“And here I thought your deductive reasoning skills were improving” he shifted his weight as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I trust you sweetie I don’t trust him he wants to be more than a friend” something was off although he seemed annoyed I could tell that it wasn’t me he was upset with. All of his tells were on full display by the way he avoided eye contact with and how his fingers absentmindedly tapped on his bicep. “Are you jealous?” I teased poking his chest repeatedly. He glowered at me as I tried and failed to stop the evil grin that spread across my face. “You’re enjoying this a little too much for my liking”

“You’re so cute when you're jealous” I reached up to pinch his cheek but as always he grabbed my wrist before I could even get close. “Enough” he’s so sick of my shit, but it’s not like he’s going anywhere. "Don't worry no one can steal me from you"

tagging w/ no pressure ;

@who-mentioned-rhys-larsen @irandial @ollieneedsamilkshake @phoenixiaxia @luxis-journal

@deepspacenova @world-of-hearts @comatosebunny09 @leighsartworks216 @awesomephilosophus

@ersharyzst

[littleapocalypsekitten]

So, a post came across my dash / to my attention about diet and of course it's the meat-eaters vs. the vegans as usual. And it's got me to thinking about my place in it and how I'm just... a non-starter in the argument. In terms of vegetarianism and strict veganism, those who are "evangelistic" about it run into a full-stop with me and there are reasons why that have little to do with me trying to justify "carnism" in the greater whole and whatever. It has everything to do with "press me and I'll just self-identify as evil and call it a day." From a personal standpoint: Here is how I grew up. My father was a butcher. He worked as a retail butcher. Furthermore, I grew up in the country (specifically in the desert) - but in a neighborhood where it was quite common for people to raise their own meat and some of my earliest memories involve this. We had a pig that my parents let me name "Charlotte." She became bacon and while I don't remember it entirely, my father said that I came out to "help" (at 4 years old) when most little girls would have run away from that. I *do* have memories of helping him with our chickens (not that "helping" at that age was anything more than watching or maybe doing a little plucking). Later on, when my dad decided that he was tired of doing double-duty at work and at home and we just bought our meat, we continued to raise chickens for eggs. Sometimes one would get out of the pen and be mauled by our dogs or get into the neighbor's yard and get mauled by the neighbors' dogs and would be lingering away, running and hiding and slowly dying from infection. I was older then and was happy to help Dad catch the chickens and to hold a dying chicken still while he took the mercy-hatchet to its neck. (These were not eaten, of course). I had uncles and aunts who hunted. I never took it up (and kind of regret it, as venison and wild turkey are delicious). I DID take up fishing. I've looked my food in the face as I've put it into an ice-bath or taken the tip of a knife to ike jime... I tend to say a little prayer, but, you know, fish-blood is on my hands... And I always feel a part of nature when I'm catching my own food. Get some nice beef sometimes from a friend whose family has raised their own cattle... And, yeah, there was a time in my youth when I considered becoming a vegetarian. My sister drew me back with how good roasted turkey is. In other words, when answering the question of "If you had to kill your own meat, would you eat like you do now or would you become a vegetarian?" and how most people would choose the latter option? I'm one of those rare, one in a million people who *might* choose the former option. Although, I expect I'd eat meat more rarely if I had to go through all the steps of dealing with it myself, because raising / butchering is very difficult and annyoying - even my pro butcher-dad just gave it up after a while because he got sick of taking his work home with him.

All in all, while I do want livestock as a whole to be treated better, when it comes to the ethics of eating it at all? I was raised in a way that makes me chill with death and life-cycles. If I get my way with a natural burial, the worms will eat me one day.

[musette22]

Oh man, oh boyyyy. So one of my real life best friends sent me a voice message earlier saying, ''dude, you wanna listen to this asap, something happened to me yesterday and this is prime fanfic material, I'm telling you" and uhh, she was right 😳

It's kind of a long story lmao so I'll put it under the cut, but it's worth it if you like romantic, sexy drama (but TW for infidelity and minor bodily harm, I guess)

So my friend isn't originally British, but she's been living in London for years, and we used to be roommates (I know), but then I moved away, and she got a British boyfriend and they're about to move in together. But they're in between houses at the moment, so she's staying with his family in the countryside while he's away on business (something government related that he's always being very mysterious about lol).

So my friend and her boyfriend (I'll call them Maxime and William here, for storytelling purposes) have kind of a complicated relationship. They both cheated on each other more than once and decided to still give their relationship a chance, and while he's a really nice guy (he and I get along really well, too) he's very reserved and rich and British, while Maxime, who's a musician and activist and always works three jobs at a time, is someone who literally used to burst into my room in the middle of the night and fling herself on top of me, crying "I just need to feel something!" (she's fantastic btw, I absolutely adore her)

So anyway, Maxime gets to her boyfriend's family house in the countryside, and when she arrives, William's mother is like, "Oh hello dear, sorry, I need to dash out for a few hours, but James (William's childhood best friend that he's sort of lost touch with and whose name isn't actually James, but you get the idea) is in the garden doing some maintenance." So Maxime is like "Ok cool, I'll go and say hi," because she's never met this old friend of William's.

Turns out, James is ridiculously hot and built and working up a sweat in the garden. So she's just like, "Uh hi, I'm William's girlfriend," and he smiles timidly and is like, "Sorry, I'd shake your hand but my hands are dirty." You get the idea.

So Maxime - selflessly - offers James something to drink, and once he's finished up his work, he comes inside, and they strike up a conversation. They hit it off right away, talking for hours, and at some point they start a game of chess (idek, as you do in the countryside, I guess). Since Maxime is kind of a sore loser, once things start looking a little grim for her, emotions run high and she gets frustrated and snaps at James, "Ugh, I kinda wanna hit you right now."

And he just shrugs and says, "Okay, do it."

So Maxime is like, "...lol, I'm not actually going to hit you, you're crazy," but he starts goading her, until at some point she's just like "Fine!" and gives him a halfhearted slap. James just laughs and asks, "Come on, that all you've got? Really?" so of course my competitive friend is like "Ok well fuck you," and slaps him across the face, hard. AND THIS GUY, this really hot guy, just looks at her with dark eyes, turns her the other cheek, and says, "Please."

So what can she do but slap him again, right?

And then while they're just kind of staring at each other, both of them breathing hard, William's mother comes back. She's oblivious to the tension, but James immediately gets up like, "Right, I'll be going then," and Maxime gets up too to see him out and compose herself a little before facing the mother. And then at the door, before he leaves, James turns to to Maxime, kisses her cheek, whispers, "Thank you for making me feel something."

LIKE. God. JESUS. Like, ok well, damn.

While I'm not a judgemental person, and I believe life and love can be messy sometimes, infidelity isn't something I'd ever encourage, so I did tell my friend firmly that she can't seek this guy out again, at least not while she's still dating her boyfriend, and she said she wouldn't, so let's hope she won't. I'm also aware of the dangers of romanticising toxic behaviour, truly. But the writer part of my brain is just like "...where's the fic??"

I mean, gorgeous, fierce city person meets reserved, rugged country man who likes to be slapped because it makes him feel something?? Ugh, God.

[blankitdblankityboom]

I think for me at least it doesn’t have to be such detail every time, especially for long fics. Which I write basically only that these days thanks to being besieged by plot bunnies. But just like one little thing in the chapter that you, at least name, and say that it made you smile/gasp/giggle/really painted the scene for you.

-Because writers like me some people say I add too many “useless” details in stories I’ve written, well it’s all important you just might not know that yet at that point in the story. It might just be a useless three line description of a vase inside of a glass case but like a video game where the ground or wall in that spot doesn’t match something is going on there at some point. -

Or even point out where you see someone might have fallen into a rabbit hole mentioning the topic and a comment like “I see where you stumbled into that rabbit hole and I am all for it”.

It doesn’t have to be every chapter, and I know some people wait for the last chapter to be written, but for the love of cheese I’ve been 200k deep posted and had 2 comments on ao3, one of them my reply.

Might be different for others who do it for validation but as a kid whose adolescence would have been vastly happier knowing I wasn’t alone writing stories for those fandoms in an incredibly isolated bubble, some of us are writing and hoping for interaction because we want friends who we can talk to. Gush to. Who won’t belittle us for what we find amusing or the stories in our heads we cuddle up to on terrible nights.

No you don’t HAVE to comment, it doesn’t have to be a thesis paper comment, you can just read, but sometimes kudos and likes bombs and the dusty hits ticking up every now and again just feels like a ghost town. From someone who has spent decades talking and being ignored it’s not any easier as it seems every purge and shift of new fandoms coming in people just drop off the face of the earth from one day talking to you then nothing even if you try to reach out first.

I write to de-stress, same for reading. When I get the chance and find something that interests me all I try to do is to have the writer know hey, you’re still here, I see you. Keep it up.

And if I don’t have the chance to read it I at least try to reblog as many stories as I can that come across my dash when I’m on breaks at work or scrolling at home. I’m locked it seems in a state of missing people, I sleep during the day and most of my friends either work days or are just starting their days across the world. But I do what I can and hopefully I’m not too annoying to those I do happen across awake on here and other sites. Everybody needs to stop stressing out over little things as op stated. Fandom is supposed to be about making friends not making this a double sided job.

I'm just putting this out there because I'm thinking about it and because I want people to know it's not just them.

I don't really read fic anymore. It's not because I stopped liking it, though. It's because I made a rule for myself that I'm not able to follow.

I told myself that if I read a fic, I should comment on it. And not just "I loved it!" but a detailed comment. A live reaction or at least quoting favourite lines. Maybe talk about symbolism or about references I caught or about characterization etc.

I did that because I loved the authors I was reading and because I'd received so many lovely comments like that and I wanted to be able to pass that joy onto others. But then I found it hard to actually comment like that.

I could manage it sometimes? Oneshots weren't too hard, for example, but multichaps? My rule was that I had to comment every chapter. And the kinds of comments I wanted to write, well that meant reading on my laptop because I hate typing on my phone.

Eventually, I felt so guilty when I read fic without commenting on it that I stopped reading fic altogether. Better to just not read if I wasn't able to hold up my end of the bargain.

I shifted out of my fandom not long after that, and I haven't found a new one that's sparked the same interest (ie obsession), so I don't know if I might be able to fix this habit if I ever get into a new fandom in the future. All I know is, don't be like me.

Comment as you can and when you can, but don't set up strict rules like I did. I can't speak for all authors of course, but I know that personally, I'd rather you enjoy my work without commenting at all rather than make yourself feel so guilty you stop reading it altogether.

[bobfloydsbabe]

Happy almost birthday my darling,

Here’s my idea for a hangman blurb…

Jake remembering Jas’ coffee order after hearing it once. Just stops off at a local coffee shop and immediately thinks of her and gets her exact order just to make her happy. It makes my heart swell thinking that he subconsciously just knows what to do to make her, her.

❤️ - Leah

Leah, hi! First, thank you for the birthday wish and for participating in blurb night. This prompt is perfect for Jas and Jake, and I sincerely hope you love it!

morning coffee

SUMMARY: Jake stops by Jas' office with coffee.

WARNINGS: None. It's pure fluff.

WORD COUNT: ~0.6k

It was the early morning hours before the Californian heat truly set in when Jake stepped into the small local coffee shop, hidden on a narrow side street away from the busy main road.

“Lieutenant Seresin,” Diane, the elderly owner who always smiled and wore bright pink lipstick, greeted when she saw him.

“It’s Jake to you, ma’am,” he replied, offering her his most dashing smile.

She laughed. “Such a charmer,” she commented, and took half a step through the doorway to the back to shout for her granddaughter to make coffee. Diane didn’t know how to work the espresso machine.

“Morning, Beth,” he said when the young woman came to the front, looking like she’d pulled three all-nighters in a row. She probably did.

She nodded in greeting. “Your usual?”

“Yes,” he said, glancing at the pastries lining the display. The entire shop smelt like melted butter, vanilla, and fresh coffee, making his mouth water. “Can I get a hazelnut cappuccino as well, please?”

Beth hummed her acknowledgement while Diane raised a brow. “For someone special?”

Jake laughed, his mind wandering back to the bed he’d left two hours earlier; a sea of unruly auburn hair splashed across the white sheets. “That’s one way to put it.”

Diane hummed, fixing him with a skeptical glance, but remained silent. She disappeared into the back at the sound of a timer, likely to take out a batch of croissants he would sometimes indulge in, but not today. He needed to go back to base.

Beth came to the counter with two to-go cups in her hands, one with HC on the side, so he knew which was which. “Here you go,” she said and handed them over. “Your girl has a great coffee order.”

Jake laughed again, placing a few bills on the counter before accepting the cups and taking a small sip of his. “She’s not my girl,” he protested. “But thank you. Keep the change and tell your Gran I said bye.”

“You got it.”

Jake arrived back on base, heading straight for the infirmary where he knew Jas was on her first hour of the day shift. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and immediately spotted Jas coming out of her office with her nose buried in a folder of hard-copy records. As he approached, the head nurse clocked him.

“Your boy toy’s here,” she said, accepting the folder from Jas whose brows furrowed. Jas turned her head and audibly groaned upon seeing him, eyes disappearing into the back of her head for a moment.

“Morning, Doc,” he greeted, then turned his attention to the head nurse, who leveled him with skeptical eyes. “Martha.”

She grumbled her reply before getting up and walking away, likely to check on patients or some other task he wasn’t privy to.

He turned his attention back to Jas, whose hair was tied in a tight Navy-standard bun at the nape of her neck, clad in dark blue scrubs, and her white lap coat with her name on it. Under the fluorescent lights, her blue eyes looked almost electric.

“What are you doing here, Seresin?”

“To give you this,” he said, offering the cup in his left hand.

She accepted it with narrowed eyes, but raised it to her lips and took a sip. He watched surprise and shock overtake her features as she lowered the cup and looked from it to him.

“How did you know my coffee order?”

He shrugged. “You told Bob a couple of weeks ago.”

Jas took another sip, still looking like she didn’t believe him. “And you remembered?”

Jake snorted and sipped his own coffee, offering Jas a wide grin. “It’s not a complicated order,” he said and tapped his cup against hers. “See you later, Doc.”

[cassandraclare]

The Whispering Room: James’ POV

Here it is finally — James’ POV of the Whispering Room scene from Chain of Gold. I wanted to wait until Chain of Iron was released to give more people a chance to read the book, and also because what we learn in COI does inform the scene. I hope you enjoy!

*art by Cassandra Jean

Cortana wove with her words, underlining each one with steel. She turned as her sword turned, and her body curved and moved like water or fire, like a river under an infinity of stars. It was beautiful—she was beautiful, but it was not a distant beauty. It was a beauty that lived and breathed and reached out with its hands to crush James’s chest and make him breathless. — Chain of Gold

James had felt a strange emotion when Daisy first took the stage at the Hell Ruelle. It was a mix of several feelings...

worry on her behalf, annoyance at Kellington, curiosity, and admiration for her bravery and poise. It was unfair of these Bohemians to force her to caper for them, and, he thought, a bit insulting to Shadowhunters in general. He supposed that Matthew had given them a rather unusual view of what the Nephilim were like in such circumstances.

And then she had begun to dance. And suddenly she was not Daisy, his old friend. She was Cordelia, whose name meant heart, whose every gesture was fire. Every earthly worry he’d had had been swept out of his mind. He was conscious only of Cordelia, whirling back and forth across the small stage. Cortana danced around her, shedding light like embers. The dull glow of the lamps illuminated her body, describing her every movement, her every curve as she danced. Her scarlet hair whipped around her in time to the music, and the golden light of the lamps in the Ruelle slipped across her skin, slow and hot, like beads of honey. The cadences of her voice, rising and falling, seemed to weave a cage of silken thread about her audience, and James was no exception.

Later, James would think it was odd that he had not compared her to Grace. Grace had never entered his mind at all. Cordelia danced, and by the end of her performance, James’s entire life had been disassembled and put back together in a new and different shape. He was conscious of Matthew, beside him, also staring as the crowd cheered, his sharp cheekbones flushed. He looked dazed; James couldn’t blame him.

Cordelia descended the stage and slipped through the crowd to come back to them, blushing at the looks and murmured comments she was drawing from the audience now. James could see the desire in the eyes that followed her. Everyone wanted her. He felt a dull fury. They had no right. They did not know Cordelia. She was more than just that dance.

When she reached them she let out a long breath of relief and smiled. She glowed with the exercise of dancing. Sweat beaded along her collarbones, shimmered between her breasts. Her eyes were bright as Cortana’s blade, strapped to her back.

“Bloody hell,” Matthew exclaimed.  “What was that?”

A look of uncertainty crossed Cordelia’s face. James said, “It was a fairy tale, Math,” and Matthew nodded. His dark green eyes searched Cordelia’s face, as if looking for the key to a locked room he had only just discovered.

Cordelia looked uncertain. James couldn’t bear that. She’d been magnificent; she should know it. But he couldn’t say that, of course. It would only make her self-conscious.

“Well done, Cordelia,” James said instead; when he unfolded his arms; his wrist hurt and he wondered if he’d been clenching his hands.

Cordelia. He hadn’t called her Daisy, and she looked a little surprised. It seemed inappropriate, somehow. Daisy was Lucie’s friend, the Merry Thieves’ compatriot; he found it a smaller name than she deserved. Cordelia, though—she had been a queen, hadn’t she? Queen Cordelia, daughter of Leir, ruler of Britain before the Romans had ever landed on those shores. Like Boadicea, a legendary warrior queen. A blazing white fire behind fathomless black eyes.

“Anna has disappeared with Hypatia,” James said, noting the empty settee, “so I would call your distraction a success.”

Cordelia’s lips twitched into a smile. “How long does a seduction usually last?”

“Depends if you do it properly,” Matthew said, with a wink. James felt it as a spark of relief, a bit of lightness amid the feeling that something heavy was sitting on his chest.

“Well, I hope for Hypatia’s sake Anna does it properly,” James said. He registered, with the reflexes of a parabatai, that Matthew had gone still next to him, and wondered what was wrong. “Yet for our sake, I hope she hurries it up.”

All hint of Matthew’s jocular tone from before was gone. “Both of you,” he said urgently. “Listen.”

Did he mean all the muttering about Shadowhunters? Was he only noticing it now? It had followed them since they came into the place. But when James followed Matthew’s gaze, he found Kellington staring with an expression of vexation, not at them but at the door. All questions were answered as through the door came Charles Fairchild, looking around him with a haughty expression. He looked like was about to raid the place; so much for whatever work Matthew and Anna had done for Downworlder-Shadowhunter relations here.

Matthew narrowed his eyes. “Charles,” he sighed. “By the Angel, what is he doing here?”

Charles was, James thought, probably looking for them. He was making his way through the crowd and gazing around him. Luckily for them, the crowd was not interested in letting him through, and he was moving very slowly.

“We should go,” James said. “But we can’t leave Anna.”

In one way, at least, Charles’s arrival was helpful; it threw a bucket of cold water on the roiling heat that had gripped James’s heart since Cordelia had begun her dance. Back to the matter at hand: a demon, a Pyxis, a plan.

“You two run and hide yourselves,” Matthew said, still keeping his eyes on his brother. “Charles will go off his head if he sees you here.”

“But what about you?” said Cordelia.

Matthew shrugged, but James could see the tension in his jaw and his shoulders. “He’s used to this kind of thing from me. I’ll deal with Charles.”

Not for the first time, James wished that his parabatai wasn’t in such a hurry to sacrifice his own reputation. He exchanged a long look with Matthew, but Matthew was sure, and determined, and his desire to rush into his own humiliation was an issue that would have to wait. Nodding, he turned and caught Cordelia’s hand with his own. “This way,” he said, and she nodded back in acknowledgement. As he pulled them into the crowd he heard Matthew’s voice calling, “Charles!” in a hearty tone of pleasant, if entirely false, welcome.

James didn’t know his way around the place, and the crowd made orientating himself even more difficult, but after some trial and error he and Cordelia managed to get behind Kellington and slip into a corridor leading away. This wasn’t safe in itself, since from the main chamber one would have a clear view down the entire corridor. In fact, they were temporarily more exposed than before, and James’s hope for the hallway to take a quick turn or to contain large statuary to hide behind was quickly dashed. He continued to hold onto Cordelia’s hand, not that he needed to; she seemed to know her way better than he did.

Partway down the corridor, James caught sight of an open door — its silver plaque labeling it the entrance to THE WHISPERING ROOM. Swiftly he drew Cordelia inside, out of sight. He slammed the door behind them, causing a loud noise, but he thought it couldn’t possibly be heard over the crowd in the main chamber. Only then did he release Cordelia’s hand and take stock of their surroundings.

The room was dimly lit, but not cold: a scented fire burned in the grate, filling the space with the smell of sandalwood and roses. It was a study, he guessed, based on the gigantic walnut desk against the wall and the bookshelves opposite, but it was too richly decorated to be solely a place for studious contemplation. Phoenix feathers and dragon scales danced across the gilded wallpaper; there were no windows, but the walls were hung with patterned tapestries, the floor covered with a rug so thick James felt his boots sink into it as he moved further into the room.

Cordelia had leaned her back against the wall next to the door. Her eyes were closed and she was taking deep, full breaths, calming herself down. Cortana gleamed gold over her shoulder; the firelight gleamed a deeper gold on her skin, which seemed to take and hold its warmth. James curled his fingers in against his palm.

He wanted to touch her. He half-turned away, pretending to study the books on the wall. Any other time, he would have been fascinated by the titles. Now they seemed distant, neither immediate nor imporant. He could have sworn he heard his own heart hammering. He said, “Where did you learn to dance like that?” surprising himself with the roughness of his own voice.

His gaze snapped back to Cordelia as she opened her eyes and gave a little shrug. There was something magical about the dress she wore: it followed the shape of her own body rather than the shape of corsetry or whalebone petticoats. It slid softly against her skin as she moved, just as her dark red hair tickled the bare skin of her throat, her shoulders. “I had a dance instructor in Paris. My mother believed that learning to dance aided in learning grace in battle.”

The word grace pierced James like an icicle. He could not quite picture Grace at the moment, it was true; could not quite envision her face. He had given Grace his heart — that was an immutable fact, something he knew as he knew that two plus two equaled four. But he had to admit that at the moment his heart did not feel given. It felt like a thrumming machine inside his chest, pumping blood and heat.

“That dance,” Cordelia added with a quirk of her soft mouth that struck James like a blow to the stomach, “was forbidden to be taught to unmarried ladies. But my dance instructor did not care.”

“Well,” James said, keeping his voice steady with practiced control, “thank the Angel you were there. Matthew and I could certainly not have pulled off that dance on our own.”

Cordelia turned away from him, the smile still on her face, as though she were keeping it secret from him. She trailed her hand along the top of Hypatia’s desk. At one end was a stack of papers held down by a large copper bowl of fruit, and she brought her hand up to trace its rim.

James may have been distracted beyond the capacity for distraction he’d known before, but he was still a Shadowhunter. “Be careful,” he said warningly. “I suspect that is faerie fruit. It has no effect on warlocks—no magical effect, at least. But on humans…”

Cordelia pulled her hand back as though stung. “Surely it does not harm you if you do not eat it.”

“Oh, it does not. But I have met those who have tasted it. The say the more you have of it, the more you want, and the more you ache when you can…have no more.”

Cordelia was looking at him now, and though it took a great summoning of courage, he returned her gaze. In her dark eyes the silver and blue flames of the fireplace danced. James could not catch his breath. He had never felt this before, this breathlessness. It was like pain, but with a sweet, sharp edge. Like licking honey from a knife. He said, in a low voice, “And yet. I have always thought…is not knowing what it tastes like just another form of torture? The torture of wondering?”

The door shook on his hinges suddenly, making a clatter that made both he and Cordelia jerk their heads around to look at it. The knob was starting to turn.

Cordelia paled. “We’re not meant to be in here —“

James’s world closed down to just this: Cordelia was here, she was with him, and she looked frightened. He would do anything to stop that look on her face. He caught her in his arms, and the relief was incredible — he had not realized how much he wanted to be touching her until he was. Until he was holding her, and her strength and warmth and softness were all pressed against him, and her face was so beautiful it hurt, and her lips were parted in surprise and without another thought he kissed them.

He could feel her sharp intake of breath with his hands, clasped together at her lower back. She gasped, but did not draw back, or away — he thought he would have died if she had — she leaned into him, her full lips opening under his. She was kissing him back. He tasted honey, smelled jasmine and smoke. His hand slid up her warm cheek and into the soft fall of her hair.

Time stopped.

Cordelia’s arms were around his neck. Her lush mouth opened a little against his, and the kiss deepened. He moved his hand to the back of her neck to bring her closer. Her teeth grazed his lower lip, and he couldn’t help it; he moaned, and felt her tremble against him.

Very far away, a voice chuckled and the door closed with a soft click. This whole thing had been intended as a ruse, he knew, for the benefit of whomever was trying to get into the Whispering Room. Probably some Ruelle attendees, Downworlders most likely, who had snuck off for a rendez-vous.

Ruse accomplished, then. With intense regret, James drew back from Cordelia. Her hand, warm and soft and wonderful, was against his neck; her fingers stroked his pale white scar. Her eyes were fixed at the level of his shoulder. He could hear himself say her name — Daisy, my Daisy — instead of responding, she whispered, “I think more people are coming.”

He knew it wasn’t true. He didn’t care. He knew what she was saying: that she was asking and giving permission at once. All James’ life, he had struggled for control: control over his sudden falls into shadow, control over the dark world he could see, that was invisible to everyone else. He had worked and fought and trained for control every day, and for the first time in as long as he could remember it deserted him.

The walls he had put up burned to the ground in an instant as he caught Cordelia to him. He groaned against her mouth, his hands slipping over the silk of her dress, the hot satin of her skin. He undid the strap that held Cortana, got rid of it somehow — carefully, he hoped — and let himself fall back into delirium.

He did not ask himself why he had never felt desire like this before. He could not. He was lost in the feel of her, the incline of her waist, the flare of her hips, the rise and fall of her chest as she gasped. They were kissing wildly, uncontrolled; they fetched up against the desk, Cordelia’s back to it.

Her body bent backward in an impossible arch, her hands going behind her to brace herself. Her eyes half-closed, her head fell back, revealing the bare column of her throat. He pressed his lips there, eliciting a gasp of surprised pleasure.

His hands trailed up the sleek material of her dress — he could feel the heat of her skin through it — from her waist to the neckline of her gown. His palms followed her curves until the tips of his fingers were pressing into the bare bronze skin just above the neckline of her dress. She was sleek and soft and hot all at the same time, like nothing else he’d ever touched. He heard her whimper; she was saying his name, and his heart beat in time with her words: James, James, Jamie please.

The please undid him; shrugging off his frock coat, he caught hold of her around the waist, lifting her until she was perched on the edge of the desk. The material of her dress bunched around her knees, her thighs, as she took hold of his shirt by the starched front and kissed him. His mouth drove against hers, hot and demanding, even as he clambered onto the desk after her. She reached up her arms for him and he sank down on top of her, bracing his weight with a hand above her head.

He paused, just for a moment, looking down at her. Her scarlet hair fanned out across the desk, her eyes glazed, her full lips red from kissing. He was cradled by her body, her legs on either side of his hips, her skirt rucked up nearly to her waist. She wrapped her long, bare legs around him and he shuddered. What was in him, what he wanted, was inchoate but insistant, a force he’d never known. A yearning like hot wires in his blood, the pain-pleasurable ache of unbearable wanting that drove him to kiss her again, kiss her harder. She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling at it as he kissed her breasts, flicking his tongue over the sensitive skin until she gave a low scream and clutched at him with desperate hands.

He sank down against her and kissed her, hot and deep and hard. She arched into the kiss, her breath coming in gasps. He felt her through the thinner material of his shirt: the heat of her, the swell of her breasts against his chest, her hands smoothing over his chest, his sides.

His hands aching to touch her in kind, to find out what she liked, what made her gasp, and do it again and again . . . Nothing had ever felt like this, nothing. He’d known desire before; so he remembered, so he had believed. It turned out he had stepped into a puddle and thought it was the sea. As Cordelia moved in his arms, as her lips, he realized there was a depth to desire he hadn’t even guessed at: that it was more than just desperation, but joy and need and wanting and being wanted back. It was a fever dream, his hands sliding up under the heavy satin of her skirts, the salt-sweet taste of her skin, the soft sounds of her pleasure as she urged him closer, urged him onward, the desk seeming to spin beneath them.

He heard, as if at a great distance, the sound of the door opening. He lifted his head, saw the slim fair-hared figure in the doorway. Ice washed through his veins. Cordelia stiffened, began to scramble to sit up. No, he thought, but he couldn’t stop her, couldn’t blame her. It — whatever it had been — was over.

He slid off the desk. Already the fever was vanishing, that feeling —the glorious freedom from the burden of his own will — receding. Grasping at his control, he drew it around himself,  reaching for his coat, turning to calmly meet the gaze of his parabatai.

“James?” Matthew said.