#can i say how OBSESSED!! i am with the rib glow through the shirt

[yandere-wishes]

💝My Obsession // Yandere! Leona Kingscholar x Reader// 💝

Someone, please explain to me how all my Leona fics end up being 2,500+ words?? Also props to whoever figures out which anime got inspired by to write the ending. Any way enjoy also thanks so much to @malleusthorns​ their game motivated me to write this.

Warning: Gore...I guess.

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There was a throbbing that wouldn't seem to go away, reverberating through the young girl's skull. Bouncing from wall to wall of her cranium just like a bouncy ball. The pain caused her to close her eyes tighter, trying to lull herself back into the numb comatose that had started to crack under the weight of alertness. Tiny fracture sprinkled around the darkness, noting to fully break her dormant mind. That was until something icy and wet splashed over her face, jolting her from her slumber.

(Y/n)'s eyes shot open, tears forming at the sides ready to slip out. She was becoming cognizant of the hammering in her head. A shiver ran up her spin before creeping over her skin, laying cutis anserina in its wake. As her sense began to awaken one by one, (y/n) started to feel a tug on her shoulder. The poor girl tried pulling her humerus forward, only for her skin to scrape against a smooth, freezing surface. Something was bounding her arms...and her legs she noted as she tried to kick her feet. 

Nervously her bloodshot eyes scanned the room, it was dark and chilly. Something was causing every hair on her body to stand up on high alert, her guts where entwining amongst themselves screaming that something just wasn't right. Endless minutes flew by before a rollicking noise jarred silent darkness. A tapping soon followed, pittering across the floor. One second she could practically feel their presence less than a millimeter away from her. The next all she had was their even,never-changing noise where, she could only assume, was in front of her.

'Please talk' a  timid voice croaked inside her head. 'Please say something' the nervous noise was poking at her tolerance. 'Just talk!' she couldn't tell if she'd actually screamed out the words or only hollered them inside her head. Either way, it did not matter, the footsteps only continued on their way, ignoring her presence altogether. The steps were getting further and further...the footfalls ceased and were instead replaced by a ripping noise that echoed through the emptiness.

In moments the obscurity was pierced by thin feeble rays of silver light. Despite the lights infirm nature it's brightness (y/n) still shut her eyes in an attempt to stop the stinging that had sparked from the back of her eyeballs. Endless minutes passed before a heavy sigh filled the air accompanied by the mirthless voice of the mysterious kidnapper. "Life's not fair is it?"

That question, that signature rhetorical question that had all but engraved its self in the depths of (y/n)'s memory. There was only one person, one person in the entirety of the world that could state such an overlooked fact as if it was the foundation that life was built on, one person...

"Leona..." Her whisper was as light as the air itself, the name of her beloved childhood friend mingled with the air before it was carried off into oblivion. Craning her head to the right, (Y/n)'s eyes caught the ever so familiar frame of the Savanclaw dorm leader. His green eyes glowed in the eerie rays. His posture wasn't as lax like it always was. There was an eagerness to him, an unsteadiness engulfing him. His spin was stark straight, his gloved fingers dug into his hips, scrunching the fabric of his shirt. "Surprised kitten?" his voice rumbled from his chest, echoing through the room. "You really shouldn't be, you've had this coming for some time."

(y/n)'s brows knitted together, whatever had been spilled on her earlier was starting to dry over her face. Sticking to her visage like a second skin. "L-Leona..." her voice was brittle, wither away like a dying rose. "W-what are...are you talking about?" dread was wrapping it's decaying thin arms around her, hover above the doomed darling watching the spectacle. "Wh..why am I here?" questions where bubbling inside the girl, floating out of her mouth and lingering in the stale air. It did little to phase Leona, he just kept starring and starring. Almost like a predator hunting its prey.

Slowly the lion boy stalked forward, his tail swished from side to side, almost like he was nervous about something...When he was close enough he leaned over. With one hand he tilted the metal chair backward. With the motion (y/n)'s head tipped backward. Their faces were close, far too close, (y/n) could feel every breath that Leona took. There was malice and sadness hidden behind his emerald orbs. His face was twisted into a snarl, sharp teeth on full display. "Why do you always have to be so dame clueless?"

(y/n)'s nerves were starting to snap. If this was a sick joke, then it had lost its humor the moment she woke up. "Stop it!" her voice creaked like old floorboards. Her vocal cords strained almost on the verge of bleeding as she tried to morphed her tone into an intimidating one. "This..this isn't funny Leona!!" The older boy rolled his eyes. He tipped the chain back to its initial position. Before waling behind her and undoing the restraints. Just as (y/n) came to move her arms, Leona forcefully pushed the chair into the ground. (Y/n)'s face slammed against the dirty floor, bouncing upwards from the sheer force before falling down numbly once more.

Leon watched as the young girl tried to get up, balancing herself on her hands and knees. as she stretched her neck to look up at him, he noted that blood was pooling under a few areas on her face and left eye. Creating supple red bruises. Though he would never say it out loud, she looked pretty like this, she had always looked her best when she was bleeding of hurt in some manner, it caused a sort of glow to orbit around her. But her beauty did little to make up for her insolence. There was a storm brewing inside him of him the anger, danger, and a newly awoken darkness where entwining birthing the personification of his obsession.

"By the king of beasts," he grumbled as his fingers shot up to his temple, as they always did when the iteration of the situation was planting another neuralgia in his head  "I want you...no, you are mine, you have always been mine! You're just so stupidly dense that you never once realized it!"

(Y/n)'s eyes widen in disbelief, her heart was pounding against her rib cage practically breaking her ribs with each beat. Nervously she brought the back of her hand to her face, trying to distract herself. As she went to wipe the substance off her face. The substance cracked and peeled off the second her hand rubbed against it. As it fell it revealed a sticky layer underneath. Retracting her arm quickly (y/n) tried to see what it was that she had just touched...Another wave of shock rolled over her...

"B-blood?" Frantically her eyes ran up to Leona's begging for answers. The dark-skinned boy shrugged. "I didn't like your history project partner". (y/n) gulped, "How long?" her question silently floated between them, acting as a shield brightened by the dimly light. Leona only raised an eyebrow, he opened his mouth an inch but closed it once he heard the choked sobs and enraged shouts coming from his "lover". "How long?"... there was no reply. "How long have you felt this way!" It was a stupid question. (y/n) knew, if anything she had known for far too long, but she had been so happy in her hubris. So content with playing "sibling" with her childhood friend, she knew how he had felt for far too long. But everything had been so sweet, so pleasant, almost like a fairy tale. It was easier to look for a prince charming in other men and expect her "big brother" to be there and catch her once that prince inevitably broke her heart. 

A sharp pain in her scalp caused the girl to look up. Leona was kneeling in front of her, pulling her hair up to look her directly in the eyes.

"Stop being so selfish and just fuking be mine already! it's not that fucking hard!" His yells held a desperate undertone, the big strong king of Savanclaw was reduced to this? A lovesick boy? Angrily (y/n) took in a deep unsteady breath before bellowing: "I'm the selfish one? You kidnapped me and tied me to a chair! You broke that beautiful illusion we had! To want to throw away our friendship for what? So we can break each other's hearts?!"

Leona remained dumbfound, his grip on her hair strengthened. "Actually I ordered Ruggie to kidnap you so that on him" he tried to keep a haughty prideful tone, but her words had left a growing bruise on his ego.

"Doesn't matter! if anything that just further proves my point! You are the selfish one! Just fess up, you're the one at fault here!"

Leona's body had begun vibrating with rage. Lifting his free hand he struck (y/n)! His claws snipped at her flesh,  tearing apart skin tissue by skin tissue as if it was nothing more then silk fabric. Slashing at the muscles until there was a large enough opening for the blood to flow past. Trickling down her cheek the mood pushed away the rotten plasma caking her face, splattering on her clothes, leaving large messy circular like stains.

"No no! This! This whole fucked up mess we're in is all your fault! It's always been your fault!" Leona roared. His pupils had started to dilate, tears were forming in his eyes. Swiftly the older boy lifted his fist only to smash it onto (y/n)'s, again and again, and again...

Laughter, a sicking, and high pitch bordering on maniacal. Leona stopped his assault, his brows shot upwards, as his mouth twisted in a snarl, creases started forming on the bridge of his nose. How dare she laugh at him! How dare she mock him!

(Y/n) opened her eyes, they were harboring similar insanity as her kidnapper. Her mouth opened permitting her to cough up some blood that had pooled inside. "Why can't you just accept responsibility? You were always like this! Even when we were kids! Nothing was ever your fault because you were such a tragic little prince weren't you! If you really love me then own it! Don't blame me for your obsession! It wasn't my fault! I thought you...I thought you were happy with what we had!" Leona slowly pulled away. His green gaze never once leaving (y/n)'s damaged face. His fingers unlocked from her hair, which causes the young girl to immediately start rubbing the top of her head.

"I don't really care how you see this situation. My fault -which it isn't- Your fault -which it is- the point is...you're mine now and that's how it's going to be..." Leona's hand slithered over to (y/n)'s wrist, gripping it and pulling her into his arms. (y/n) buried her face in his shoulder, breathing in his nostalgic scent, as he calmly petted her head as if she was a pet cat.

Time had frozen, granting the two so-called lovers a break of sorts. For the endless moment. It wasn't until Leona had gotten bored of their little hug, that the two moved. Leona's hands dug into her shoulder, he leaned his head down just as (y/n) tilted her head up. Lips brushing against each other prepping for a kiss.

The quietness was disrupted by a loud banging noise from behind them followed by an airy sound that got louder and louder. Until it struck right past Leona. Cutting the fabric of his jeans and slicing through his flesh. The lion let out a hiss, jumping to his feet and pulling (y/n) up with him. He pushed her to his chest as he maneuvered his body into an attacking pose.

"Let go of (y/n)! You horrible beast!" "Ecoute a lui, roi des lions" "Don't touch (y/n) Onee-chan!"

Those voices, (y/n)'s mind rushed back to the situation. She had seemingly forgotten just what Leona had done to her. The kidnapping, the humiliation, the beating...somehow it had all ran away from her memory the moment her beloved Leona had embraced her. 

Behind the "couple" Rook shot arrow after arrow, aiming for the lion's limbs. One lucky arrow managed to strike Leona's left bicep. The lion boy let out a pained roar, his arm falling limp to his side as blood gushed downwards. "Rook, Ortho now!" Vil's voice boomed through the chamber. Rook nodded as Ortho replied with a "sure thing". The two raced forward, Rook switching his bow for a pocket knife and Ortho punching Leona with his metal fist. Leona tried to fight back but with his wound and the gang up he mostly ended up getting punched.

Sometime before the attack had fully commenced, Leona had shoved (y/n) to the side. Vil ran up to (y/n) grabbing her arm and pulling her towards the exit. Right before he left the "king" of Pomefiore snapped his fingers, causing both Ortho and Rook to leave a bruised and broken Leona. "How did you find me?" (Y/n) asked as she was directed through the maze of hallways and staircases. Vil turned his head to stare at her for a split second before running forward. The hallways were just as dark as the room she had been kept in, the numerous windows were covered by thick black curtains preventing the moon from sharing its light. However, thanks to Ortho's built-in flashlights the gang had a clear, illuminated view of a few feet in front of them. "Idia saw Ruggie knock you out and drag you to the catacombs" Vil explained, his grip on her wrist tightened. As the group ran to the Ignhyde dorm, (y/n) couldn't stop herself from peering over her shoulder. Expecting..no, hoping that her childhood friend would pounce out of the darkness at any moment and chase after them. It was a longing to see the boy she had known her whole life chase after her, the only difference was that this time if he did catch her, she would not object to his advances. But Leona never came...

and she was beginning to think he never would.

Days have a tendency to blend when together there is nothing left to look forward to. (y/n) couldn't remember how long it had been since that night in the NRC catacombs, how long it had been since that "confession"? Time had turned into a paradox, having simultaneously stooped and sped up. Idia and Ortho had taken the role of her caretaker. Bringing her food and checking up on her from time to time. Idia had even broken his shut-in nature just for her, every once in awhile he'd bring over some games to play. Ortho would pop in every day, trying his hardest to entertain the stoic girl. But no matter how hard either Shroud twin tried (y/n) would never smile, her face would never forme any real expression. She only ever spoke when necessary, conversations with her mostly consisted of nobs and grunts. Some days after school Vil or Rook would stop by the Ignihyde dorm with treats. Hoping to return (y/n) to her old, innocent self.

Deep down (y/n) was grateful for the efforts the boys put in. But it felt so meaningless go hollow. What was the point of it all? (y/n) could feel the threads of her sanity slowly ripping. Her days and nights -granted she'd lost track of which was when- where filled with constant pondering over guilty thoughts. Every single one of her waking moments was dedicated to envisioning that damned day, dreaming of just how it could have turned out. Why didn't she just kiss him? Why didn't she jump into his arms and scream that she was his? That she would always be his? That it didn't matter how they loved each other so long as the love was there.

Earlier that morning Vil had stopped by to tell (y/n) that  Leona had come back from the semester break. It had seemed like a warning after all Vil was only trying to look out for her. The thought that Leona was back had sent her heart aflutter. She may have not shown it but her nerves where a wreck, she was both excited and nervous. A nagging voice in the back of her mind kept screaming that he wouldn't care about her that she had lost her chance the night she let herself be rescued by Vil, Rook, and Ortho. But a small piece of her still begged that Leona would come for her, that he still loved her.

Sleep was something that came in waves, sometimes she would sleep for days on end, and other times she would spend weeks in an insomniac daze. Tonight was one of the later nights. (y/n)'s eyes refused to close, her brain resisted the urge to think about anything other than Leona. She spent so many nights with his face in her head, mulling over every little detail. As the hours ticked by, (y/n)'s eyes started to grow heavier and heavier. The final scene the moment he said he loved her or at least tried to was still so vibrant in her semi asleep head. She could still hear his voice, his shouts and cries....his voice why was it so clear?--

"You know~ in another life, we could have gotten married, you could have been my queen and I, your king. We could have been happy like all those other happy idiots of the world." 

(Y/n) bolted upright, her hands suffocating her blanket. Her window had been reduced to dirt. Leaning against the frame of where the windowpane had been was no other than the man that had plunged her thought for far too long. Standing on her bed and walking over to him, (y/n) couldn't help the larger than life smile that spread over her face or the tears of joy that just wouldn't seem to stop.

She came to a stop in front of him. Just like that night, the moon's rays of silver light cast a surreal glow over Leona's frame. He looked almost like an angel sent to free her from her suffering. "What..what makes you think we...we could ever be normal?" A tiny laugh escaped her mouth as she wiped the tears from her face. All Leona did was smirk, he extended his arm, his open palm beckoning her to take it. Eagerly (y/n) grabbed a hold of his arm, her grip was tight, too scared to let go always this all be some illusion fabricated by her tortured mind.

"Oi shut up already idiot...just stay quiet" He pulled her up, back into his arms, right where she belonged. His embrace was nothing short of bone-crushing. But (y/n) didn't mind, the pain proved just how real how was. With a final tug, Leona pulled her out of the window. As they began to fall to the ground, Leona smiled, a genuine smile that for once harbored no ill intent nor ulterior motive and said:

"You will always be my obsession (y/n) just as I have become yours..."

[persephonesinfernos]

constellations | part two.

summary: there are only 88 officially recognized constellations, a small number considering you and your soulmate would have the exact same constellation on your skin. how can be sure if it was really them with so few of them? you could mistake your soulmate. 

word count: 1225.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader.

constellations masterlist | masterlist

The alarm of your phone went off at 6:00 am waking you up as a slightly burn was felt all over your upper body. Nerves, stress, anxiety. You took a deep breath as you got up from the bed, a shower was much more needed after your non-study night due to Erik.

When you finished your shower, Erik has already left for his dorm leaving you a plate of pancakes with a note saying “Go get them girl, love you”. You smiled as a blush covered your cheeks, Erik was one of the best things that had happened to you and you couldn’t be more delightful to share your life with him.

You went back to your room to prepare for the interview, more like a trial from what your professor has told you and not knowing what you were against to was making you bloody nervous. The burning sensation on your skin was only getting stronger and a bad feeling started to bubble on your chest.

The room was filled with people from your college, some of them you knew and others you did not. You let out a sigh and went to sit next to one of your classmates from your Criminal Psychology class, he seemed serene as opposed to you and you couldn’t help to wonder how he was keeping this calm façade.

Some minutes passed and nothing was happening, the burning sensation on your skin became an itching sensation and you didn’t notice how your fingers started scratching your ribs almost obsessively.

Your professor and a dark-haired woman entered the room, making all of you quiet and to stand still. “This is Miss Hill, she will be guiding you through this test for the internship.” Professor Stewart said looking to all of you.

“Thank you, Professor Stewart, I can get it from here.” She smiled thankfully to your professor. “Well candidates, my name is Maria Hill and I will be the one to decide whether you are or are not the best fit for what my agency wants. As you know, we haven’t given you much insight at the requisites for landing the job, but that it is because we want to know how you react to unexpected events while working on a case, your reactions times, how quickly can you make a decision based on the data that’s placed on the table.”

Fuck it, you were not ready for this and you needed to get the hell out of here before you embarrassed yourself in front of your colleges. Panic was rushing through your veins and your fingers were scratching your side so violently that if someone saw you, they would think that you needed to get to a psychiatrist for obsessive behaviour.

Before you could get up to leave the room Maria Hill said your name, you were the first one to start the test. Of course, you were, just your luck. Now you couldn’t back off, so you just closed your eyes for a sec trying to calm yourself and followed Hill to an adjacent room.

Three hours later you were returning home, the test was hard enough to mess with your perception of the world. You knew bad things, horrible things were happening around you every day and those had been happening since the beginning of humanity but you lived in a secure place and now you began to doubt your major. Were you really the type of person to live and work in such a dark world? Were you strong enough?

When you arrived home you stripped all of your clothes to change into something comfier and then you noticed all the redness on your ribs. Running you were to the bathroom to take a better look, a warm sensation coursing through your fingers, something you haven’t felt since you learn about the soulmate thing.

There it was, a constellation of freckles on your ribs, something you just assumed would never see or feel. But when did it happen? When did it form completely? You haven’t felt the burning sensation neither your skin has glowed.

Shaking off this last thought, you opened your laptop and searched for the constellation name. You were edgy to know more about it. “Antlia, the Air Pump”, a faint constellation but all the stars that formed the constellation shared a common envelope meaning that there were so close that one day they will merge to form a single star.

As you opened another tab to investigate more about the constellation someone knocked on your door, Erik. You opened the door, he seemed in shock but you couldn’t think much about it as he hugged you tightly. “I know I should ask you about the test, but something happened this morning. I felt it (Y/N), look.”

Your boyfriend unbuttoned his shirt, showing his biceps as your eyes widened. A freckle constellation, so similar to yours, it was the Antlia. It all makes sense to you now, but why it didn’t happen the first time you two met? Why now? It didn’t matter, Erik was your soulmate.

You lifted up your shirt, showing him your own constellation earning a deep and heartfelt laugh from him as his hands cupped your face. “I knew it, I knew the first time I met you that it was you. Gosh (Y/N), I love you so much”. He said with teary eyes as he kissed you passionately.

A few days had passed since Erik revealed that Antlia was on his skin too, but something didn’t seem right. You couldn’t think of what, but definitely, something was off about that revelation. Well, at least for you. He was so over the moon, always next to you as if you were a possession, something that has never happened before. Maybe it was because you were soulmates.

Because you were, right? Gosh, your mind wouldn’t stop nagging you about it, about this change of behaviour but you did nothing. Your boyfriend was happy, incredibly happy about and bothering him with your thoughts was not the best idea.

A phone call snapped you out of your feelings, you didn’t know the number but a small smile appeared in your face. “Hello? Yeah, this is her” You answer.

Maria Hill welcomed you as you stepped in your professor’s office, this place was going to hold the meeting but no one was there yet except for Hill and yourself. Oddly enough you were calm, your mind was at ease as the clock was ticking and your future team members were nowhere to be seen.

Then, someone came in. “Rogers, you’re late.” Hill said.

“I know and I am sorry but Sam and Bucky…” He said apologetically. “You must be (Y/N), pleasure to meet you. Your trial test was one the brightest I’ve ever seen, amazing future ahead of yours.” He smiled at you as you shook hands.

Then something happened, as the door was opening for the second time today you felt it. An air pump that left you cold followed almost immediately by a burning sensation that started on your belly to spread to every inch of your body and finally you felt as the skin on your ribs was glowing as you looked down to your body ‘cause you felt yourself ignite.

After that all became dark.

[saibh29]

She’s gone Girly (1/2)

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Warning: Maybe a little bit of swearing and some fluff

AN: Oh wow, it’s bit so long since I posted anything I’ve wrote. To start with I had a very clingy baby who bless her suffered badly feeding wise and then I was just so uninspired.  I’m trying to write again though and have started with this.  A little Hiddleston bit of fluff that I wrote for my sister, who as background is in the military and heavily pregnant at the moment herself and suffering greatly. She also has an unhealthy obsession with Loki and Tom himself.  So hope you enjoy.... 

******

“I’m a whale"

You half wailed as you spun slightly too fast and your new frontal centre of gravity over balanced you, sending you skipping forward a few steps into your brother Sam’s chest. He grabbed your upper arms to steady you before patting your head in that slightly comforting, slightly condescending way that brothers did to younger sisters.

“true" he said with a smile “for a good reason though"

“You aren’t meant to agree with me, ass" you whacked his arm as you stepped away from his body. “You’re meant to comfort me. Tell me I look radiant or whatever other crap people say to heavily pregnant women to make them feel better about this" at the word this you waved at your extended stomach.

“You’re radiant" Sam agreed as you narrowed your eyes at him. “not just radiant, practically glowing with maternal energy"

“if I could move fast enough you’d be in serious trouble right now for those words Samuel"

“but you can’t and stress isn’t good for the baby, remember what the doctors keep telling you Y/N, you need to rest, take it easy"

“I hate you"

“no" Sam reasoned giving in and wrapping an arm around your slumped forward shoulders “you hate being pregnant. Which I could have told you that you would months ago"

“I do" you agreed “I know I’m not meant to, that it’s meant to be glorious and everything a woman dreams off but Jesus it’s just making me miserable I just want it to be over already"

“what did Tom say?”

“He muttered something about hormones" Sam winced which made you smile. “exactly. He retreated fairly quickly after that one"

“surely it can’t be much longer till the sprog makes their arrival"

“sprog?”

“well you won’t tell me what it is so I had to improvise"

You might have carried on being annoyed at his nickname for your child but said child chose that moment to viciously kick your ribs and you decided that whatever insulting name Sam wanted to bestow on them was probably deserved.

“3 weeks" rubbing at the top of your belly you tried to press the baby further down from under your rib cage so you could breathe at least semi comfortably. “3 weeks until the due date at least"

“it could be longer though"

“not if it knows what’s good for it"

You suddenly yawned almost breaking your jaw in two with the force of it. You hadn’t slept much last night as the baby had decided 3am was a wonderful time to take up Irish dancing on your bladder. You had contemplated waking tom and making him read to you but he had had an early start this morning and you weren’t quite that cruel. So instead giving up on laying down you had waddled to the couch and watched back to back episodes of Ru Paul’s drag race as the sun crawled over the London skyline.

“hey" Sam nudged your chin shutting your mouth once more. “you can do 3 weeks Y/N. If you can handle months in an Afghan desert with no comforts or privacy, and training then you can deal with 3 more weeks of pregnancy"

“I know I can... I just don’t want to"

“you don’t want to?”

“No, no I don’t. Shit Sam I have to pee every 5 minutes, I can’t breathe, I’m constantly hungry and the baby thinks kicking me is an ongoing joke of legendary proportions. I’m tired but every time I lay down I just get stuck and this whole thing is just...” you had to stop talking because you had started crying and hiccupping along with your words. Sniffing like a sick toddler as your nose ran with your tears.

Sam looked both horrified and scared at the same time. You never cried, you never got emotional and you were never a girl. To be fair he was still semi in shock that you were having a child in the first place, that you’d actually been attracted to a male. After living in the desert with a platoon of soldiers he’d doubted that you would ever find the male species attractive again. So, to see you sobbing like a real girl was just a step to far into the abnormal.

“there there" he patted you uselessly on the back. “shit Y/N... don’t cry" when all you did was sniffle more he gave in once more and tried to hug you, although the baby bump kind of made it awkward. “look it’s going to be fine. You got this, if you can’t sleep laying down then sit up, if you’re hungry just bloody eat and... and well I don’t know what to do about the kicking or the peeing but hey, this is all going to be forgotten in 3 weeks when you have a baby. A real baby Y/N"

“I...I...”

“words sis, I need words to understand you"

“idiot" you managed to wrench the tears back under control and smacked his chest once more at the teasing. You even allowed yourself to be led to the sofa and helped to sit down.

“tea?”

“That shouldn’t even be a question"

Happier now there was something for him to be doing rather than trying to comfort you Sam left you sat there flicking through Netflix films as he went to pop the kettle on. Seeing you cry was just one step to far into weirdness. It didn’t happen.

Tom arrived back just as the kettle had boiled and Sam was stirring coffee into his cup and tea into his sister’s. He smiled at his brother in law who dumped his bag on the floor and came over.

“didn’t expect to see you here today”

“Y/N called... she’s...well…"

Tom sighed rubbing at his temples “Is she alright?”

Sam fidgeted slightly before it came bursting out “she cried! Y/N never cries, even when we were kids she never cried. God she’s practically gone full 100% female all of sudden"

“apart from the fact she was crying that sentence was almost amusing"

Sam sighed sliding the tea over to Tom. “you take it to her I can’t deal with anymore shocks from my sister right now. I have to meet Saul anyway we have plans that involve drinking things our sister currently can’t"

“you want to risk not saying bye to her? Brave man”

Sam just smirked “4 years with my sister and still you haven’t learnt that discretion is the better part of valour, it’s much easier with Y/N to simply apologise for what you’ve already done rather than ask permission for what you want to do."

He gave Tom a quick man hug before grabbing his coat and disappearing through the door.

Tom took the tea and the abandoned coffee Sam had made through to the living room where you were sat flicking through films on the sofa. Your face lit up in a way that made his heart soar when you saw it was him not Sam.

“I didn’t realise you’d be home so early"

“it finished early" that was a lie.

His recording hadn’t finished early but he’d been worried about you. He knew you hadn’t been sleeping and the pregnancy wasn’t easy for you.

His wife was possibly the worst pregnant woman ever, too used to being active and independent. At the beginning the morning sickness had made you suffer, you’d had a few weeks between the first and third trimester that hadn’t been so bad and then you’d started to get too big to be as active as you wanted to be. That was when the real misery had started. You only truly relaxed when he was around as well, even if you wouldn’t admit it. So, he had just wanted to be here for you.

Kissing the top of your head Tom sat beside you letting you take the tea off of him. “Sam ran, didn’t he?”

“something about a sister who had suddenly turned female, that and the lure of alcohol"

You managed to laugh at that leaning over so your head went to his shoulder. Tom wrapped his arm around you, fingers naturally resting on the baby bump.

“I cried" you admitted softly. “I’m not really sure why I cried maybe you were on to something with the hormone comment. That’s a good excuse, right?”

“I don’t think you need an excuse darling" he pushed you forward gently so his hands could move to your shoulders rubbing at the tension there. “You’re pregnant, quite literally growing another human. You can react how you’d like"

“that is the correct answer" you couldn’t help but groan in pleasure as his hands dug a little harder into your muscles. “god I am just so tired Tom. I wasn’t even this tired after a full 15-month tour of Afghan"

“Would you like me to read to you?”

Normally that suggestion would have your instant agreement. Tom reading anything to you, even the phonebook, in that deep voice would get you to agree to anything. Right now though. “not if it means you moving"

He chuckled to himself but still pulled you back to his chest so you were laying on him once more.

You wriggled a bit as the baby decided to kick hard, this time into your liver. Your hand going to the left side of your bump and pressing trying to get the baby to quit battering its mother.

“Darling?”

“Your child likes beating up its mother” you winced as one more kick collided with your already bruised organs. “Jesus, I swear people said this was meant to be a magical experience”

Tom allowed himself to smile, but only as he was fairly certain you couldn’t see his face. Moving your hand, he pulled your shirt up and put his own hand on the bare skin of your stomach gently rubbing. “Hello little one, if you could please stop kicking your mother that would be wonderful”

The baby kicked hard once more against Tom’s hand, he would never get tired of feeling that, but then he did accept the fact that he didn’t have to feel it constantly on varying organs.

“Shhh, calm down” he soothed hand continuing to trail lazily over your stomach. “Shall I tell you a story? But you have to stay still and let mum sleep. Deal?”

The baby didn’t kick and you couldn’t help but smile. “Quick speak” you hissed “and don’t you dare move your hands, this child only seems to listen to you”

Tom continued speaking in that soft low voice telling the baby some sort of story about his day and the animals he’d seen in the zoo while they’d been shooting. It was just as good as reading to you and without the pain of the baby’s foot in your ribs and with Tom’s voice just behind your ear you finally fell asleep.

*******

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[pussymagicuniverse]

Ribs

Let us laugh, ugly laughter, from the pits of our bellies, from the bottom of our soles, pushing into the veins of our eyelids. The same bodies that we rued since the day we met them––let us meet them once more. Greet them with kindness and refuse the estrangement that creeps into the periphery. Let us be still again, lucid. We shall no longer think of ourselves as floating heads, seeping vulvas, hard breasts, black gums, crooked, and harsh teeth. We will no longer have the desire to compare our round and dark selves to the moon or to the sun or to the stars. We shall drink from the final and sweet waters.

Let us mend ourselves, weft by weft, refusing the distance between Ourselves and the Other. Tenderness and softness, subjugation and servitude, beauty and frailty; these things are not needed where we are going.

9

A gaggle of self-important nine year olds stuck in the confines of Gifted English went through their weekly list of vocabulary. In the sticky Georgia heat, they listed off words and their definitions, one by one, the syllables bumping against each other across uneven teeth. The lazy recitation waned into the white clock face, waiting until the sweet, sweet hour of freedom. 3:30. Thirty more minutes until the words were soon, and rightfully, forgotten. The air was alight with the giddy, yellow excitement of these final school weeks. The memory of the school year was already faint, fleeting.

As testament to my selective memory and emotional hoarding, I do not remember a single word from that list except for one. Zaftig. It’s a word of Yiddish origin, meaning “a woman who is full-figured.” Or more specifically, as my jaded fourth-grade English teacher phrased it, “pleasantly plump.” Zaftig. Pleasantly plump. It makes sense that I would hold onto such a word, even after the steady passage of time and maturity. As I sat in that classroom, buried in my threadbare, oversized, maroon sweatshirt shaped to hide the nascent form of a fat kid’s prepubescent and uncertain body, I imagined the kind of woman who would call herself zaftig. She would be a happy woman, probably a good and prolific cook (a skill which would serve to make sense of her large existence.) She would have many round and plump babies who would eventually run their way into an athleticism, distance themselves from maternal fatness, but never let their own memories erase the tenderness of her embrace. Zaftig. I imagined her as viscerally entwined with her own culture, chosen as a cornerstone of communal abundance, the only symbolic element of fat womanhood that dripped with nobility, purpose.

I was, of course, not this woman. I sported maroon, high fantasy-chic, thin-rail glasses to match the lumpy sweater. The weekly cycle of jeans began and ended with a scratchy pair of bootcut, black pants that I rolled into an unassuming, and deeply unflattering capri. I wore converse that I intentionally scuffed and dirtied on the pavement because they never looked cool when they were pristine and new. I made myself feel sufficient in my clothing. Was it pretty? No. But it did not have to be. I was a smart kid. I couldn’t do math, but I could read, I could feel. Novels made me cry and my friends made me laugh and my teachers always seemed to like me enough. I was sufficient.

I did not realize the apologies that I stuffed into the folds of my sweater. The tender and shameful sorries that I hid under layers of cotton and polyester. The embarrassment when anyone would look too long at my frame. How dare I force them to see the ways I shove myself in the tube of my own skin, a fat sausage girl with buck teeth and round fingers. With each tug at the bottom of my shirt to make sure no one saw the dip of my belly, with each long sleeve that covered the tapestry of new stretch marks, I whispered sorry. Sorry you have to experience me Sorry you have to see me Sorry.

I carried these apologies in my hands, in my face, in my voice for years. I channeled the unfortunate circumstance of my heaviness into my attitude. Pleasantly plump. Pleasant. Smile comfortingly when they look at you so they know where to cut first. Speak clearly, confidently, smartly. I learned quickly to laugh with other women and girls when talked about their community-organized starving sessions, speaking of their own bodies as inconveniences. I learned to talk about the fat on my bones like a glue-like phlegm that “just wouldn’t budge.” I did not know how else to speak of myself. The woman in my memory, zaftig, was a caricature. She was not real, nor would she understand the ways I dreamt of pulling my stomach and cutting into it deeply, cutting it away from myself.

18

I remember the first time I laid against a partner; the room dark to hide the rolling plain of our bodies. He dipped his fingertips in the curve of the space where my thigh met my hip. “I like this,” he whispered. This meaning how it all melted into each other, this meaning the places on my body where hands and lips could find purchase. My heart hitched in my throat. As we drifted to sleep, the phantom pressure of his hand pressed deep into my skin, I planned how I would leave his house as soon as dawn struck.

I would, of course, call him again. Open myself again. Being desired is an addictive and ugly thing. But to be treated tenderly, with hands that know the weight of your thighs, eyes that do not look away when you wear your love for them so openly across the roundness of your face. To know that, to feel that, is to feel the realness of your heart, the warmth of your very living body. I hate that men can give this to me, even when they are unworthy, even when they are cruel. I hate that I cannot give this to myself.

19

I’ve caught myself as a woman obsessed. Obsessed with the running of my fingers across the jagged lines spread flat against my belly. My ribs can only be felt when you gently, persistently, press into the soft, malleable skin, the brownness of several generations pooling at the bottom of my spine. Seeping with the rich history of this body. I feel the metal of the button on my old jeans bite deeply into the fat above my belly button. Stare at the denim stitching stretch against the expanse of my legs. This body is unrepentant, straining, aware.

We eat these reflective parts of ourselves. The cold seeping and puncturing our lungs; we delve deep into the pain of being wanted. Loved as they told us to be loved. But if we release, refuse the bite and the cut of the knife, who are we? What are we then but the gnawing husk of our mother’s, our grandmother’s failures?

We know that, inevitably, we will fail. We will bargain our happiness and our lives on the whims of men who will never, not ever, love us. We will eat at the tables we set despite our tears blinding us, thickened with maize flour and salt. We will raise children, girl children, who we will integrate into the cult of self-immolation. And as she burns, falls into the rot and dysfunction and isolation of womanhood, we ask ourselves again and again.

When did we begin to want the things we do? Who gave us this knowledge, seal broken and soft insides scooped out, consumed? We bleed, hot and red, across the pavement.

How cruel it is to sell this to us as freedom, as liberation. How cruel it is to see our bent forms, emaciated chest cavities gaping open, and dig into us with that horrific avarice. How cruel it is to refuse threading of the needle, the suturing of the wound.

When did we begin want this? When did we begin want this at all?

20

I struggle to believe that this belongs to me. I drink most nights and wish I were free. Lipstick on the back of my hand running bloody like an open sore. I am beautiful when I say no.

22

We are stunted and painfully awkward. I try to hide the relief when you reach for the light switch, flooding the room with a comfortable blackness. And perhaps it is the headiness of mint liquor from the punk show, or the beat of Kreuzberg, but in the soft recess of your small corner room, in the furrows of a gray and blue apartment complex, I swear that you're the most beautiful person I have ever seen. 

My eyes adjust to the darkness, and the glow of the streets below illuminate the curvature of skin. You've put yellow marigolds in a tin can and placed them by the window. We are dense with wanting.

Chromatic and warm lights behind the eyes. It matters very little what I do when I am pressed against you like this. And when you rest the rough-hewn hands of a person who works too often against my frame, when you breathe heavy and vulnerable, I am alight. Is it because you are, if only for a moment, weak? This is why women have lived like this for generations––waiting for the brief and tender second when she loves with her throat exposed, mouth agape and ready for gutting.

It's over as quickly as we come down, the fresh magic dissolved into the heat of the night. It should feel shameful, but the sheen of sweat reminds me to stretch into my skin a bit more. There should be that eternal burden of the girl, the bleeding of a lived-in body. But it is not there; instead, we share the most gentle laughter that we have had in months. I am embracing the unknown hollow of this feeling, and remind myself that we both hold this. 

A consciousness lazily but persistently rounding the edged glass of a death, a release––recuperating in the spaces where we are no longer categorical, no longer fragmented. Where the necessary condition for our justification is not the deftness of our performance. Body neutralized into the heat of a natural and bearable light.

•

The streetlight streaks white-yellow into the room. I can smell the hot oil of the french fries in the ​Döner shop across the way. I count the number of times your leg grazes mine as you fall into welcomed sleep. I relearn the art of holding. The various ways of grasping something that is not my own. Lightly so as to not possess, but steadily so as to heal, to understand.

I know it is not freedom that I see when you look at me, but for once, I am laid flat against a semblance of humanity. I am not sucked in, pressed back, holding pose, holding gut, stretching out neck, and wondering if it is enough. I am not outside of my body, pinching and pressing and figuring out the ways I can make you want to look at me. You want to look at me. And I want to look at you. In this way we witness each other. I am lucid, waiting, awake. I understand the weight of each breath I take.

In a few hours, we drink coffee and try not to smile at each other in that coy way that asks for more information, more knowledge of the other. You ask if I need directions to the train, and I say I do not, but thank you. Your eyes no longer contain that once-familiar alacrity, and the silence is still with the thoughts of the night previous. We are no longer disjointed by the alcohol, almost too aware of one another to find comfort. And yet, I find myself hesitating to leave. The thought of it runs over and over in my mind, crackled 35mm film of heat and tongue and laughter, as I board the train to Alexanderplatz. As I step from the train and onto the platform, up the gum-and-paper splattered steps into the solid and sure pulse of the morning, I am aware of how I trust myself.

A body is a strange and wrought place to feel like an imposter, but I slowly unfurl, and allow myself to sink into the sureness of my existence.

Milka Kiriaku is a queer black writer, educator, and emulsion extraordinaire. Ever the personal welfare-idealogue, they rely religiously on strong community, great books, terrible movies, and hylauronic acid.

[goliath-de-senfina-sango]

Homo Ecto Sapiens

Chapter 2 Fandom: Danny Phantom Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Jack Fenton/Maddie Fenton, Danny Fenton & Jack Fenton & Maddie Fenton, Danny Fenton & Jazz Fenton, Danny Fenton & Tucker Foley & Sam Manson Characters: Danny Fenton, Jack Fenton, Maddie Fenton, Jazz Fenton, Sam Manson, Tucker Foley, Mr. Lancer (Danny Phantom), Dash Baxter, Lunch Lady (Danny Phantom), Dorathea "Dora" (Danny Phantom), Paulina Sanchez, Valerie Gray, Princess Dorothea, Princess Dora, Skulker (Danny Phantom) Additional Tags: Fix-It, Danny Fenton has ADHD, Multilingual Tucker, Trans Male Character, Multilingual Danny, Bisexual Danny Fenton, Bisexual Tucker Foley Summary:

Danny Fenton stood inside the dark tunnel of the only portal his parents couldn't get to work because he couldn't say no to a dare. He tripped on his way out. Now he has to deal with figuring out how to come out to his parents as being half ghost, while dealing with all the ghosts that come out of the portal.

Tucker and Sam stare at each other.  For a handful of moments, neither is entirely sure what they should do.  Sam is full of shock and anger and regret and terror.  She could've died.  Her best friends could have died.  How is a teenager even meant to process that?  She wants to curl up on the ground and hide from everything in that moment, will all the nasty reality that is Ghosts away.  But Tucker is bent over Danny, and Danny is out cold.  So she packs away the emotions, cools her shit, and bends down.  "You get his legs, I'll take his shoulders.  FentonWorks?"

They get him there.  Danny's parents are downstairs, working on something.  They get Danny on his bed, and Sam slumps against the door.  Tucker and Danny skipped over a detention essentially and all three have skipped school.  So Tucker goes down to erase the Fenton's voice mailbox and sends out a bug to his own.  Sam has no clue why he has that ready but asks if he can do it with her folks' line.  He asks for a few minutes. The silence passes, Tucker gets on Danny's laptop.  He always fled to the tech when he needed somewhere safe.  Eventually, he asks.  "You ok?  Today went to shit."

"No, I don't think I am.  Like, the worst I've got is some bruising that my make up can handle.  I need a shower, I guess."  They both know why she isn't actually ok.  Neither wants to bring it up.  So instead, Sam checks Danny's closet and finds something she'd left there a couple months back.  "I'm gonna do that actually.  Keep an eye on him?" Tucker grunted in acknowledgment.  That was the best she'd get so Sam grabbed a spare towel from the dresser and headed to the shower.

When Sam got back she looked over Tucker's shoulder.  Images of old ladies in familiar looking uniforms were all over the screen.  "Looking her up?"

"If we know more about her then we can talk it out with her right?"  Tucker's fingers paused over the keyboard.  He stretched, looking over at her.  "Right?"

"Probably.  Looking to work that Foley Charm on her?"  Sam elbowed him lightly in the ribs.  Tucker clutched his chest as though he'd been broken.  Thank gods for that smile on his face.  "Tell me you aren't planning to flirt with her.  Danny might get jealous."  Tucker snorted.

"I don't think Danny is into old ladies who occasionally burst into flames." Tucker went back to typing and clicking, screen light glaring off his lenses.  "So, my theory is that ghosts draw on ambient energy to sustain themselves.  When we went into that fight my phone was on like… 50 percent.  When we got here it was at 17.  So maybe we should carry batteries on us?"

"And our wrist rays."  Sam was never letting herself be helpless like that again.  "what've you got on her so far?"

"She said the menu hasn't changed in 50 years and she wasn't kidding.  So I'm looking back at people employed by Casper back when she was alive, and hoping I can recognize her facial structure."

"Impressive."  Sam sighed and looked over at Danny.

He zipped up his suit.  Sam made a face at him and pulled off the logo of his dad's face.  "You can't go around with this on your chest."  He agreed. If Danny ever met aliens of the extradimensional kind, he didn't want them to see his dad's face plastered on him.  Danny walked into the tunnel that was his parents' ghost portal, looking all around it.  The whispers of those other worlds called out in his head again.  As he walked deeper into the portal, Danny saw nothing wrong.  Not a nut or bolt out of place.  He got to the end. It was dark.  Too dark to see anything.  Turning back, he kept a hand on the wall to steady himself.  His foot hit a raised panel, and Danny leaned to the left for support. There was a click.

Danny opened his eyes and saw Sam looking down at him.  Not unusual.  The soreness in his muscles, however, was.  Danny stopped mid-stretch and winced.  "Oh. Right.  20-foot meat monster."  Tucker was at his desk, turned around in the chair and giving him that frown he had when Dash had slammed Danny into a locker.  "How long was I out for?"

"Four days."  Tucker reached under Danny's bed and lifted up a bag of Nasty Burger.

"Four Days?!"

"Nah, like, 2 hours dude."  Tuck chuckled and handed him a wrapped burger.  "You need this dude, that fight took a shit ton outta you."

“Don’t I know it.”  Danny unwrapped the burger and sank his teeth in.  He'd been hungrier than he thought.  It felt like a blink before the burger was gone.  "Thanks, dude, I really needed that.  We basically skipped lunch, didn't we?"  That thought had a horrible domino effect and Danny tore the burger wrapping in half.  "Fuck, my parents are gonna kill me!"

"I erased the voicemail from your box, mine, and Sam's.  Don't worry about that."

"Speaking of, how ya doin Sam?"  Danny turned, looking his friend over and wincing at the bruises on her arms.  “Fuck, the meat pile did that?”

“Yeah, turns out being grabbed up by a bunch of proceeded corpses can do some damage.”  Sam shrugged.  “It’s nothing I can’t fix with some concealer and sleeves.”

“It’s still warm though,” Danny said.  “You good baking yourself?”

“The heaters in the school barely work, and it’s nearly October, Danny.  Things have cooled down plenty.”  Sam frowned and looked over to Tucker.  “Do head injuries affect the perception of temperature?”

“I’m sure they can.  If only someone hadn’t summoned up a meat-obsessed lunch lady with a menu change.”  Tucker paused and raised a brow.  “Actually, how in the hell did you even get them to change it?  Nevermind the why.”

“The why, Tucker, is that schools need to promote healthier changes in the food we consume.”  Sam had that fire in her eyes.  Again.  Danny let out a long sigh, which went ignored by his bickering friends.

“And removing an entire food group from the menu was your solution?”

“It’s one we don’t even need Tucker!  Do you know how inefficient the transfer of calories from meat into our bodies is?”

“We need protein, Sam!  If there’s anything that the Lunch Lady said truthfully it’s that!  Look at Danny!  He barely gets any protein, you can see how that’s turned out for him.”

“My dude, I’m not the only skinny person here.”

“And whether or not we have meat and protein isn’t your decision to make for us all, Sam!”  Tucker glared balefully at the vegan and stood up from Danny’s chair.  “You had to be an individual and have all your individual needs met over what anyone else wanted, didn’t you?  No one but you even wanted this menu change and I’m going to fix it!”  Tucker stormed out of the room, leaving the door open.

“Oh like Hell you’re gonna undo all my hard work!”  Sam barged out as well, completely forgetting Danny as she slammed his door shut.  And Danny stared at that door for a moment before groaning into his pillow.

“This is going to be a whole thing, isn’t it?”  For several moments, Danny laid there and stared up at the constellations he’d put up on his ceiling in glow in the dark stickers.  His stomach reminded him of its existence, and Danny groaned again.  He still had some allowance left, so he went out and headed to the Nasty Burger.  Considering Tucker’s words and how much he’d done that day, Danny ordered a full meal.

After he’d eaten and walked it off on the way home, Danny let what had happened that day go through his mind.  Even as he fought off a small angry blob with his wrist ray, growling at it.  “Ghosts aren’t mindlessly violent beings. I know that.”  He needed to believe that.  “So, that means that she can be calmed, somehow.  She kept going on and on about the benefits of meat, and she died years ago…”  An email notification popped up on Danny’s computer, and he sighed.  “Right, homework assigned by Lancer.  What would I do without Tuck?”

The next day, Danny pulled on one of his darker shirts - a gift from Sam with some constellation’s accurately displayed - and some jeans.  His parents didn’t come up to join him and Jazz that morning, which was likely for the best.  Danny didn’t need their ghost radar pointing at him before he could figure out how to break their biases.  The second his cereal was finished, though, Danny pulled out his journal and attached pencil.  “No,” Danny snapped when he heard Jazz take a familiar breath.  “It’s not a diary, no you may not read it.  For the 11th time, Spazz.”  One weird benefit of super hearing - I can tell when she’s about to speak.  Everyone had different rhythms for when they spoke and when they were thinking etcetera.  Danny knew his sister’s patterns almost as well as Tucker and Sam’s.

Danny wrote into his journal a goal of recording his encounters with apparently sapient ghosts and how quickly he managed to pacify them.  If only he could think of how to pacify this one.

Once the hybrid got to school - later than he would’ve been had those damned blobs not been so interested in fucking with him - Danny groaned as he was dragged to the Vice Principal’s office.  There he found Tucker, who was glaring down at the desk in just the right angle to look like he was glaring directly ahead.  A trick he’d developed for gathering valuable passwords while tricking Lancer and other authorities into thinking he was just a semi-rebellious teen.  Danny couldn’t tell what Tucker could possibly be trying to gather from the desk now, but he may have just been scowling.  Tucker was complicated that way.

“Take a seat, Mr. Fenton.”  Danny obeyed and took his seat, looking steadfastly at the space just behind Lancer’s head.  “Tell me, gentlemen, how and why did you leave my office when both of you were already being punished for starting a food fight in the cafeteria?”  Before either could come up with an answer, Lancer slammed his hand down hard on the desk, and Danny flinched.  “What could possibly have possessed you two to skip school for the rest of the day?”

Danny squirmed a bit, while Tucker took even, obviously measured breaths.  He then looked up at Lancer directly.  “We were worried about Sam, sir.  She hadn’t answered any of her texts, and she always answers even when we’re fighting to make sure we know she’s safe.”  Not untrue, Sam wouldn’t have been able to answer a text if they tried that.  Danny nodded along to Tucker’s story.

“We left out the window to find her, which took forever since she had gone to find a way to help organize something for the school.”  Danny put on his most apologetic face.  “We’re truly sorry about ditching you, Mr. Lancer, but we had to make sure our friend was safe, you see.  We wanted to make sure none of the jocks or anyone had gone and done something horrible to her as revenge for getting the menu changed for a week.”

Lancer glared between the two of them for several seconds more, and Danny fought to keep himself still.  “Fine,” Lancer finally allowed.  “I will be following up with Ms. Manson to confirm all of this, but you won’t be receiving too harsh a punishment for looking out for your friend.  For endangering yourselves by leaving through the window, however, and for leaving without simply telling me, you will be serving both lunch detention and after-school detention.  Do you understand, boys?”

“Of course, Mr. Lancer.”  It amazed Danny, at times, that he and Tucker could speak in unison.  They were like twins.

“Dismissed.  You two best not be late to my class.”

On the way to class, Danny brought up his thoughts on trying to appease the Lunch Lady.  “Her name is Agatha,” Tuck said.  “Agatha Reece.  And maybe you could, I dunno, teach her about the health crisis in America?  Help me organize the school to reform the menu the right way?”

“You want it changed too now?  I thought you were gonna get it changed back early, or something?”

“Oh no, the food around here sucks either way.”  Tucker rolled his eyes.  “I just wish we had like, a better storage of better food in general.  I could recommend my uncle and aunt’s farm for fresh, nearby food products.”

“If only we knew how Sam had convinced the school to do this whole ‘vegie week’ thing.”  Danny shook his head.  “That’s what really doesn’t make sense to me.  We’ve only been in school for like, a month or so.  How the hell did Sam ‘wear them down’ so quickly?”

“No clue,” Tucker growled.  For a moment the hair on Danny’s nape stood on end at the sound.  “But, I’m going to make a petition, and head around the school getting signatures for a better permanent change decided on by the students.”

Danny patted Tucker’s shoulder and nodded somberly.  “Leave some printer paper for the rest of us at least?”

Tucker raised his nose, Danny now straining to hold in the laughter in front of the door.  “Sorry Danny, but a man on a mission has to go to all lengths to complete his quest.”

Danny bowed at the waist.  “Of course, Friar Tuck, how could I possibly forget?”

“You are forgiven, peasant Daniel.”  Tucker laughed and pulled Danny into the classroom.  Things would be alright.  Danny just needed to weather the storm and make sure both of his friends were still friends by the end of it.

It proved far more difficult a task done than said.  The three had most classes together, but Tucker was busily writing something down every few seconds in a second journal in his desk while he worked.  Tuck had the most fascinating form of ambidextrousness.  He barely paid any attention to Danny’s attempts to start a conversation and crumpled up any notes about Sam he slid over.

Similarly, Sam was ignoring him almost entirely.  She took her notes, but every time she caught him whispering to Tucker, she glared and went cold on Danny himself.  Am I not allowed to talk to both of my friends?

Lunch came around, Lancer had them eating in his room, and Danny had never been more grateful to Tucker’s mom than he had been when Tuck handed him an extra bagged lunch.  “Tuck, you are the best.”

“I know it, dude.”

“Gentlemen!  This is meant to be a time of quiet reflection upon your misdeeds.”  Lancer glared at them until the teens went to silently eating, and Lancer went back to whatever he was doing on his computer.  If Danny focused on the man’s headphones hard enough he could pick up the faint sound of… blasters?  Weird.

At the end of the day, however, while the two were meant to be heading to detention, Tucker was going around and asking groups of friends who were lingering about something and holding up a clipboard that Danny was almost certain he stole from his dad’s office.  Along with that pen.  Never was Danny ever earlier than Tucker to something, but apparently, detention was one of those things.  Sam, surprisingly, was also there.

“Lancer got you too?”  Danny asked as he swept a bit nearer to the goth

“I was gone all day.”  Sam shrugged, pushing the few remains of grass and mud into a pile and then grabbing a dustpan.  “Plus I wanted to help clean it up anyway.  We need this place to eat in after all.”

“Actually, I heard Jerry and Katelyn at least were eating on the theater stage.”  The two scooped everything up into a trash bag with the dustpan.  “They were inviting some other people to bring sandwiches and chips and stuff.”

“Oh wow,” Tucker called out from where Danny was very sure he shouldn’t have been able to hear them.  “No one wanted to eat garbage right from the ground?  I’m surprised, shocked even.”

“Had you actually been there to see, Tucker, there were plenty of people eating peacefully in the cafeteria today!”  Sam looked downright murderous and stomped off to clean away from Tucker.  Danny sighed a heavy sigh and shook his head.

The detention had gone on for an hour, but it’d felt like forever.  Danny watched both his friends march off in different directions and groaned.  Another friendless night for him.  After a trip to the Nasty Burger, Danny did a little walk around the city.  A few ghosts that he could see when the world lost focus skittered away from him, or ignored him entirely.  Some attacked, but his wrist ray had yet to run out of juice even though he forgot to charge it last night.  “Maybe something to do with my other self.  Gonna have to ask mom and dad about that.”  A shiver ran down Danny’s spine, a puff of mist coming out of his mouth and he looked around, letting his senses shift into that surreal state of his ghostly self.  He saw nothing out of the ordinary.  Relaxing, Danny sighed and headed home.

"Danny!"  His dad, Jack Fenton, only seemed to speak in exclamation marks. Danny wondered if he'd ever had an inside voice.  "C'mon, dinner's ready son!"

Danny raised a brow.  "Who cooked?" He'd eaten his Nasty Burger meal and was pretty sure he got all he needed.

"I did!"  On the other hand, more food that wasn't infected with ectoplasmic residue sounded nice.  Danny set down his bag and headed into the kitchen, where his dad had set out chicken, mashed potatoes, garlic bread, and spinach.  His mom and sister were already sitting and eating, and Danny gave them both a wave.

"Hi, Danny!  Juice is in the fridge.  Jazz reminded your father and I we need to refresh our minds with some air every now and then.  I thought, why not a family dinner?"  Mom shrugged as she picked up a chicken leg.  "Jack insisted on cooking."

"Mom," Jazz said in her best calming voice, "Dad never mutates the food."

While Mom and Jazz debated who had the bigger mishaps with ectoplasm - Danny felt the Christmas turkey and Dad dragging them into a world of blinding perpetual light ranked as the biggest mishaps period - Danny grabbed himself a plate and fruit punch.  Jazz clearly grabbed some groceries before telling their parents to surface.

Halfway through his meal, a thought struck Danny.  "Hey Dad, Mom?  How does ectoplasm interact with electricity in its rawest most natural form?  The ectoplasm not the electricity."

Jazz stared at him in betrayal, Why written in her expression.  His parents, however, jumped on the thought of their son having an interest in their work.  Danny had never seen his dad swallow food that fast.

"Ya see Danno, ectoplasm as it is when we retrieve it is naturally an energy thief.  In relation to electromagnetic radiation, it soaks in any and all of it from the area with the exclusion of green visible light.  That's why it feels so cold."

"If we can refine our engines properly we can utilize the flip side of  that natural state," his mom added, "We could revolutionize energy efficiency in technology around the world!"

"It can store up a lot of power, but once it hits it's maximum?"  Dad held his hands together then spread them out so fast he almost smacked Jazz and Danny.  "It all comes out in an intense burn!  Ectoplasm is either plasma hot or cold as space.  When it's cold, it'd drain the power out of everything around it."

Danny nodded, letting the info process for a couple of moments while he ate.  "So if, say, a ghost was to eat human food…?"

"Well," his mom twirled her fork around.  "It likely wouldn't, but if it did the ghost would soak up all the energy that could be gotten out of the material in the food, leaving nothing but ashes."

Danny nodded, curiosity satisfied, and steered the conversation elsewhere.  Once he was done clearing off his plate, Danny was struck with a realization.  It was the sort of thing that happened all the time, when a thought lingered in his head, waiting to present itself.  Usually, that was artistic inspiration.  Now he knew exactly how to calm down Agatha.  Up the stairs, he ran to his computer.

AO3

[tysonrunningfox]

Feret Fluff

Kind of.  I don’t know.  It has angst too.  I hurt the girl.  I...am really struggling.  My epilogue is increasingly feeling like the beginning of a story I don’t get to write.  But here is feret.  Because. 

 00000

Fuse knew Eret through what had to be the most complicated year of his life, but that doesn’t mean she knows everything about him.  It’s not that she presumed to, even, but she learns a lot in the first three weeks after what illogically feels like his resurrection.

He’s more stubborn than she understands, especially because it makes things more difficult for him a majority of the time.  He’s determined to be upright, no matter how much it hurts and no matter how much everyone wants him to lay down.  Before he jumped, Fuse always knew him as someone who collapsed to sit at the last possible instant, but she never realized how exaggerated it was until he insisted on staying awake as much as possible, even though he’s so hurt it hurts to look at him.  Fuse doesn’t understand that either but when his mom pulled the healed stitches out of his shoulder and temple, her stomach hurt like she was the one who’d been sliced open.  

Most of all though, he’s clingy.  Clingy in a sweet, unavoidable, flattering way. And every time she enters the room that Eret is in, it’s obvious and immediate in a way she doesn’t know how to deal with.  He’s all drunk, gentle hugs and big blue eyes and beseeching requests that she stay and get closer and she gets used to sleeping on the edge of the bed, his hand intertwined with hers and his head tilted into her shoulder.

But it’s Eret, and he’s strong and stubborn and insistent and before three weeks have passed he’s on his feet and answering the door when Fuse knocks.  She blinks at him and then at his chest, because instead of the crisp, white bandages she’s gotten so used to, the fireworm shaped scars across his ribs are exposed and his bandaged arm is hanging in a loose sling that looks way more comfortable than what he had before.

“Thank Thor you’re here,” he grabs her hand and starts dragging her inside, the lone fireworm scar on his arm flexing when his elbow bends.   They’re red but definitely healed, the edges of them crisp against pale skin that’s losing its freckles the longer he’s stuck inside.  “I’m so bored.”

“You got your bandages off,” Fuse states the obvious, looking down at his chest again and trying to get used to it.  Of course pulling a shirt over his broken arm is too much effort, considering it’s summer and he’s not going anywhere.  He was shy about it at first and until yesterday, bandaged enough that there wasn’t really anything exposed except collarbones and pale, ointment covered stomach.

Even with his arm in a sling, there’s more to look at now.

“Yes, and he’s obsessed with his new scars,” Aurelia says out of nowhere, startling Fuse enough that she looks away from Eret.  “I’ve got to go check on Stoick, apparently he was being a show off at dragon training yesterday.  You got him?”  She points at Eret, who rests his forehead on Fuse’s shoulder, his hair tickling her jaw.

“You could tell him to bring Bang back,” his breath still has an edge of mead to it but he seems clearer than he has.

“Why?”  Aurelia pauses in the doorway, “you aren’t flying until your ribs are healed.  Healer’s orders.”

“Mom paid them off to say that,” he huffs, standing back up straight and glaring outside.

“They still said it.”  Aurelia shrugs, “see you guys later.”  She shuts the door and Eret groans, staring up at the ceiling for a second before looking back at Fuse.

“I’m not obsessed with my scars,” he clarifies, like that matters, and all it does is make Fuse look back down at them.  She reaches out and touches one without thinking, her thumb tracing the warm edge, against his rib and he hisses.

“Sorry--” She jerks her hand back and he catches her wrist.

“No, it’s fine, it just--they kind of feel funny, I guess, and I think the ointment made my skin sensitive or something.”  He laughs, shifting his sling to the side and looking down at himself.  “They are kind of cool though, right?”

She looks up at the crescent of barely healed dragon tooth marks around his shoulder, each ringed with a yellowing bruise, and at the line across his collarbone and its twin on his temple.

“I don’t like you being hurt.”  Her voice seems too small under the high ceiling and Eret takes her hand, gently placing it flat against the scars and pressing it to his skin.

“They don’t hurt anymore.”  He’s smiling at her and she keeps waiting to get used to the warmth in her chest and the way her heart stutters, but maybe it’s not something she can get used to because she feels herself flush.  “Turns out whatever Rolf said about Fireworm mucus or whatever is actually probably true, they healed faster than my other burns.”  He frowns and moves his hand from the back of hers to her upper arm, rubbing lightly.  “Not that I’m happy about mucus, because that’s weird.”

She can feel his heartbeat in her palm and the unscarred skin under her fingertips is smooth and warm over his ribs.  It takes self control she hasn’t been using much lately to pull her hand away, especially because Eret starts playing with the end of her braid, his finally focused eyes drifting over her face.

“If it helped you heal faster, I’m happy about it.”

“But it’s mucus,” he shudders, rolling his shoulder and wincing when it nudges his ribs. He blinks against the pain and shuffles closer to her, bare foot nudging the toe of her boot.  The lack of boundaries that was endearing when he was nearly incoherent is different now that he’s upright and making sense.  “Which I’m still talking about for some reason.  Mucus.  Blech.  I’m going crazy in here,” he tucksher hair behind her ear and looking out the window, fingertips lingering against the side of her neck.  “And it’s such a nice day,” he pouts, jutting his lower lip out and looking at her meaningfully, his hand sliding down to her shoulder.

“What?”  She swallows, glancing at his lips.  He’s still hurt, even if he’s doing better.  And he’s stubborn and in pain and refusing to admit it.  And the idea of kissing it better is absurd, and not based in logic, and he just keeps asking because he wants to kiss her.  It wouldn’t actually make him feel better.

“Can we go outside?”  He sighs like she missed something obvious and his lips quirk into that uneven smile he got in the habit of when the bruise on his jaw was still black and blue instead of the nearly faded yellow it is now.  “Please?  It’s not like I’ll explode if I set foot across the threshold,” he gestures at the door and she misses his hand on her shoulder as the guilt she can’t seem to shake swirls in her stomach.  She crosses her arms and takes a step back.

“You’re just asking me because you think I’ll let you.”

“I’m asking you because you’re logical,” he reaches for her waist and pulls her back closer to him.  He bats his eyelashes like it’s a joke and Fuse can’t figure out what part of this is supposed to be funny.  “And pretty.”

None of it is funny.  Not the way he’s looking at her or the fact that he can bring up blowing up so casually.  Or his bare chest covered in scars reminding her that he came so close to not being here at all.  Or his gentle hand on her waist and the way that he keeps touching her while looking a lot less hurt than she knows he actually is.

Everything about him makes her want to act before thinking about it.

“Who told you that you couldn’t go outside?”  She forces her full attention back to his face and that doesn’t really help anything.  Oddly, he’s better rested while healing and there are no dark circles under his eyes to distract from that focused blue.  It’s darker around his pupil and maybe that’s why he can seem so intense even while he’s goofing off.

“That’s the thing,” he lowers his voice like it’s a secret, “no one has explicitly told me not to go outside, they’re all just very adamant that I stay right here.  So, to go outside and get some sun on my pasty, pasty face is only violating the spirit of the thing.”

Fuse purses her lips and swallows, glancing down at his sling and the scattered deep red scars and the way that they almost match the strip of red hair leading down from his belly-button.  And it’s quiet and the weight of her vest doesn’t remind her to move slowly or carefully, because the roof isn’t going anywhere.

So maybe they should.

“Fine.”  She steps away with a full chest exhale and opens the door, squinting at the suddenly harsh light.

“That was easier than I thought,” Eret walks past her, holding his good hand up to block the light.  The bruises on his back stand out against the pale glow of his skin and that sends another pang through Fuse’s chest, because those have to still hurt.  Either he’s pretending they don’t or everything has hurt so bad it warped his perspective. “And see?”  He turns and grins at her, looking down at his arm, “no spontaneous combustion.”  

“That’s not funny.”  It comes out more harshly than she intended but she doesn’t want to take it back either, even when Eret’s smile fades and he cocks his head at her, corners of his mouth downturned.  

It was hard to be mad at him after Snoggletog.  It’s harder now, because he’s hurt and she was more scared than she was mad, anyway, but the fear is fading faster than the anger.  

“Fuse,” he says her name gently, like he’s the one comforting her, and she feels as bad for bringing it up as he should for making her.  

“No, it’s not funny.  You shouldn’t make jokes about blowing up.”  She clears her throat because seeing all those scars in the sunlight makes them look like they’re still burning.  “Because you almost did.”

“But I didn’t,” he reaches for her hand and folds their fingers together, because his first instinct when either of them is upset is to touch her and she wouldn’t have known that if he’d…blown up.

“You did your best.”  She pulls her hand away and crosses her arms, like he won’t read her quite as well if he’s not touching her.  That doesn’t make sense, but he started answering questions she hadn’t asked yet right around the time he started touching her at every opportunity.  And it is Eret.  Logic and science haven’t ever applied to him the same as they do to everyone else.

“Look, I get—that was bad phrasing,” his hand flails by his hip for a second like he’s not sure what to do with it if she’s not letting him hold hers, and that piles onto the guilt in her stomach like a glaze that’s meant to set and hold.  “I won’t say it again,” he snorts to himself, that little half laugh that means he thought of something funny at an unexpected moment.  Usually, she wants to hear what it is, but when he opens his mouth to keep talking, her stomach drops again, “Odin knows if I actually wanted to get blown up, all I’d have to do is piss you off.  Which I’ve done,” he blanches, reaching halfway for her hand before stopping himself, “I’m sorry.”

She knows he’s not being literal.  She knows that.

But she also knows she hasn’t been able to think about lighting anything up without imagining him in the way of it.  She hasn’t thought about getting a new knife in case it leads him to something else as dangerous as the first one did.

And somehow, he’s going to be ok.  In spite of her, not because of her.  She came to terms with the fact that accidents don’t matter with explosives years ago, the first time she took off an eyebrow because her hands were shaking.  But until Eret was dumb and brave and determined enough to jump straight into the path of her biggest explosion yet, it was only ever her risk.

And her risk was always calculated and rewarded and worth it.  His wasn’t.  Isn’t.  

How could he ever trust someone who blew him up?  Why does that feel like something she can’t ask him?  

Part of her thinks it’s the first time since he was clueless about the chief that she’s ahead of him on something.  She’s thought of an angle that he hasn’t and she really doesn’t want him to catch up.  

“You really scared us,” she clears her throat, looking back up at him and sighing at the way he’s standing, like it’s difficult for him to give her space but he’s trying.  It makes her giddy and furious and guilty and she feels like one of the bombs she isn’t making right now, all powerful feelings mixed in unknown proportions, liable to explode.  “You really scared me.  I thought...I thought you were gone.”  

“I guess I wasn’t there for that part,” he frowns, looking at his feet, and she puts two fingers under his chin, lifting it until he looks at her, eyes sheepish.  She’s happy that he’s listening and guilty that she brought it up and the two mix with the anxious flutter in her chest when he bites his lip and exhales.  Something about Eret makes it impossible to keep things separate.  It’s like all the walls inside of her turn to mesh and the space in her own head without boundaries almost scares her.  “I...my family used to think I was so fragile that they wouldn’t tell me the truth about anything.  I didn’t--I mean, I still don’t want them to start thinking that again.  I can’t...I don’t think I can convince them again, you know, it was really painful the first time and...” he waves his hand around like it can speak for him and she takes her fingers off of his chin, catching his flailing fingers in hers.  

He squeezes her hand and looks relieved and it makes her want to say something.  She doesn’t understand it yet, but the more he talks to her just for the sake of talking, the more she feels like she should say things to him.  She doesn’t know what she’d say, honestly, because everything in her head is dark and sad and muddled but he’s looking at her like he wants her to say something encouraging.  Or do something, maybe.  

And he’s hurt.  But he’s vertical.  And mapped out with scars and ribs and muscles as landmarks and looking at him is almost as confusing as touching him.  

“You’re not fragile,” she tries and his eyes light up like he’s been waiting to hear it.  And he expects her to keep talking, because that’s the only reason he wouldn’t start talking himself.  

A silent Eret isn’t really something she should waste, especially when he’s also upright and mostly sober, so she leans up onto her toes and kisses him.  He makes a surprised, muffled sound against her lips and she leans into him, placing the hand he isn’t holding on his chest, her thumb against one of those new smooth scars.  

They’re warmer than the skin around them, almost as warm as Eret’s lips moving sweetly against hers and he’s so alive and himself that she can’t stop worrying about him.  She’s scared he’s going to go do something like that again and she wants to give him a reason to stay.  He’s got enough scars, he doesn’t need any more of them.  She slips her tongue into his mouth and must lean against his arm too much because he grunts, pulling back slightly.  

“Sorry,” she drops her hand from his chest too quickly and jostles his sling.  He winces again and her palm tingles where it’s not touching him anymore.  

“No, don’t be.  What was that for?”  He tries and fails not to smile, his joking tone warmer than usual.  “Because I want to be sure to repeat whatever I did to make you kiss me like that.”  

Her heart thuds and she shakes her head.  

“You don’t have to do anything.”  Especially not repeat anything that makes her remember how miraculous it is that he’s still here with her.  “Just keep getting better.”  

He grins and raises an eyebrow, “is it the scars?”  

“No,” she frowns, her face heating up when he narrows his eyes at her like he’s got her all figured out.  She looks down at his chest again and shrugs, shoving the urge to touch him again down and pressing her free palm against the side of her leg.  “I’m just glad you got the bandages off.”  

“Me too,” he’s authentic and then nervous, his hand stiffening in hers, “oh.  I--I mean, I don’t know how I’d get on a shirt over my arm, so I just didn’t.”  He shrugs and winces, the motion pulling on his ribs.  

“It’s fine,” Fuse looks at his shoulders, the pale freckles asserting themselves already after only a few minutes in the sun.  

“Gods, Eret,” Arvid appears out of seemingly nowhere, Wingspark walking behind him with her scaly head hung low.  “There should be a warning, I tried to fly over and your pasty chest practically blinded Wing.”  

“No, it didn’t,” Eret drops Fuse’s hand and tries to cover himself, squirming for a moment before giving up and slouching.  

“She’s traumatized.”  Arvid scratches Wingspark’s chin and gives Fuse a lukewarm nod in greeting.  

“What are you doing here?  Aren’t you supposed to be working with Dad?”  Eret shuffles halfway behind Fuse, like he’s hiding, but he rests his chin on her shoulder and wraps his arm around her waist too, like he’s enjoying it.  Fuse blushes and Arvid either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.  She bets it’s the second, given how many times he’s caught them close to each other in the last few weeks.  

She’s not sure why she still cares, honestly.  But she does, and as with everything Eret influences, she’s learning to accept it as it is.  

“Looking for Aurelia.”  Arvid shrugs.  “Fish ran dry, all the dragons are really hungry, apparently.”  

“She went to pick up Stoick, I think.”  Eret sighs, “you want to wait for her?”  

“Sure,” Arvid points Wing to the barn.  

“If that’s ok,” Eret mumbles nearly in Fuse’s ear and she jumps, her hand landing on the arm around her waist.  

“It’s fine,” she shrugs, twisting gently out of his grip.  He checked with her because he wants to be alone and he’d ask Arvid to leave if she asked him to.  She knows that.  

And she wants him to, almost, except she’s not sure what she’d do and she doesn’t like that feeling.  As much as she’s fine with Eret overwhelming her, she hasn’t really accepted the idea that she’ll end up overwhelmed.  

[rattygoth]

Ana and Me

In class, my eyes barely stay open. Sounds of the teacher are muffled in my ears. I grip my vibrating stomach. My legs wobble and my head spins upon standing. Colours dance across my blurry vision, but I shake it off and float to the clinic, as requested by my teacher, Mrs Novak. My shaky, bony hands sign in and present the hall pass to the nurse.

“Again, Mister Blakely?” Ms R. asks upon my arrival. I nod. “What is it now?” “I’m fine, I swear. Just tired. Mrs Novak is just overreacting like usual,” I tell her. “Have you eaten?” she pokes. I stare blankly. “Well ?” “Yeah, yeah, earlier. Lunch. I had lunch,” I lie. I haven't had anything pass my lips in 90 hours. Her look of disbelief is discouraging. Ms R. continues to give me lectures about how I need to ‘fuel my car for the highway of life’ or something like that. “Well, this is all I can do to help,” she says, handing me some crackers. I slowly walk down the hall, 220 calories in hand. My first instinct is to bring my hand up to my mouth and nibble on the salty cracker. The feeling of the dry, sticky mound in my mouth makes me gag and I run to the bathroom to throw up. The yellow bile stares back up at me from the toilet. My stomach heaves two, three more times. I brush my teeth at the sink and avoid looking at my reflection in the mirror to evade another purge. Outside of the bathroom, I see my best friend, ana, waiting for me. “You good, blake?” she asks. “Yeah, fine,” I tell her. “How long since you’ve eaten?” “90 hours,” I report “Good. you’ll get to 110 hours in no time,” she replies. “If Mrs Novak doesn't stop sending me to the nurse because she thinks I'm not okay, I might not,” “You’ll push through. You’ll make it, I know it. You’ll be perfect eventually.” “Easy for you to say, you’re already perfect. Most of the kids give me looks because I'm not perfect.” “Don't worry about them,” she snaps, “they're all just jealous,” “They're all just jealous,” I repeated quietly. “You should probably go back to class. But hey,” she stops me, “nobody is there for you the way I am. Remember that.” “I know.” *** Children don't quite understand how precious their childhood is. As teenagers, we remember our time on the playground and miss the days when our biggest problems were scraped knees and broken toys. This is what I'm thinking about as I lay on my floor, staring at the glowing stars left on my ceiling by my past self. “Hey,” Ana says, standing over me. “Oh, hey” how long was she standing there? “Your parents offered me dinner, said I was getting too skinny, but they're probably just envious. Everyone wants to be this skinny” she says, flaunting her gaunt body. “Yeah, I know,” I grumble. “Hey, you’ll get there. Now,” she points to me, “shirt.” I obey her silent request and reveal my ribs protruding through my thin, pale skin. “This,” she pinches my belly, “has to go. You know that.” “It will be gone soon” I nod reassuringly “Better be if you want to be perfect.” I know what needs to go, but she points it out every time and I let her because she’s so perfect and I wish I could be like her. My bones ache to be shown. She pushes me every day to work harder, go faster, think thinner. We exercise every day to assure that the future will be thin. We look at thinspo on Tumblr and she points out that I should look like that and I will one day if I listen to her. I will be happy. Most of the picture, however, are of girls. Skinny girls. There’s hardly ever pictures of skinny boys. That’s not how society works nowadays. Society hates fat people, especially fat girls. But there’s perfection for everyone if you know how to get it. *** The water in my shower is too hot and my skin burns and turns red. My blood pumps harder and my heart races faster to keep up. I leave the water at its scalding temperature and suffer through it. I don’t even feel it after a while. I don't feel anything. My mind is blank and my body is numb. “So tomorrow, we’ll have a 300 calorie limit to break our fast” Ana says, sitting on the sink. I respond blankly with ‘okay’s and ‘yeah’s from my searing shower. Every thought in my mind during the day was about how disgusting I was and how I was going to make myself perfect. I obsess over every little thing all day long. How I look, how I smell, how I sound, how many calories are in every single thing around me, checking calories, regretting eating little pieces of food, every single little thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I end up calorie checking the air around me and stop breathing. In the shower, however, my mind shuts off. I do the one thing that everyone does, the only normal thing in my life. Showering feels normal. It’s the one time of the day that everyone does in basically the same way. It’s my safe place, where I don't have to think about anything at all. No worries for a whole twenty minutes of my day. I shut my brain off and allow Ana to take over. In my room, I look at my angular body and the trace amounts of fat that need to go. I scowl at the small burn marks on my leg that have turned into larger scars. I throw my sweatpants and a baggy shirt on right before ana walks in. she looks so amazing. Perfect. Thin. beautiful. I’ve known Ana since I was seven years old. She ran up to me one day and called me fat, but we became best friends anyway. She told me that in order to be happy, you need to exercise. It went from simple exercise to dieting, to counting calories, to straight up not eating. She lured me into it. She taught me that to be happy you have to be skinny. It's an addiction, not eating. You get a certain sense of power and control. Ana has always been there for me when no one else was. And now, ten years later, I watch her pull her shorts over her tiny hip bones and feel a sort of envy. She’s the only girl who hasn't rejected me, yet I felt no attraction to her. She’s always just been my best friend, my partner in crime. Laying on my floor, we talk about things I could only say to her. “Think about it, blake. Think about when you're going to be skinny, all the things you can do when you are” ana says “Not being disgusted when I look in the mirror. Confidence. Wearing whatever I want. Everything will be okay” I say back to her “Yeah. and all you have to do is not eat. It's the simplest thing ever, yet it's so hard to do. You just do nothing” “It's hard. Sometimes I want to just give up and eat whatever I want. I was a normal person once.” “Normal people are fat, blake. You will not be fat. You don't want to be fat. You want to be perfect.” she snaps at me “I know, I know. I will remember that. I want to be perfect.” *** 146 hours since there was food in my stomach. I sit at my school desk and watch the concerned faces around me. They’re all jealous, repeats Ana’s voice in my head. I try to focus on my work, but colours are dancing across my blurry vision. It happens sometimes. The price I pay to be perfect. No, this is different. My head spins like a hurricane. Something wet trickles down my lip. wha-what? My teacher says something to me, but my head is spinning too much-- I can't focus-- I look down-- red, I see red. Blood. Damn. There is blood on the fingers that touch my face. Who’s is it? It's mine. It's my blood. Coming from my nose. I assure my teacher that I'm fine.I stand to get a tissue and-- *** Beep. beep. Beep. My eyes flutter open to see a hospital room. Through blurry vision, I see Ana. she’s glowing. “Wh- where am I?” I stumble. “The hospital.” Ana snaps at me “Whats wrong?” I say, confused. “‘Whats wrong?’ really? What’s wrong is that you’ve ruined everything. You’ve ruined everything we’ve dreamt of since we were seven, blake. You’re going to be fat again, and there’s nothing I can do about it. You're going to be a loser again, just like the day I met your sorry ass.” “What do you mean, what happened? What’s going on, Ana?” “You can’t handle what it takes to be perfect. You passed out and now they’re going to pump you full of calories and take you away from me, for now. You let everything go to waste. You’ll never be happy without me. You fucked up.” she’s a mess, but she looks calm on the outside. “Wha- what? I’m so sorry. I'm so sorry.” I keep repeating it, but when I open my eyes, she’s gone. The doctor stands by my parents where Ana stood. They look worried. I’m a teary mess. “Whats happening?” I ask through silent sobs. “Are you okay, Blakely? You’ve been starving yourself? Why didn't I know? What have I done? Why did-” my mother sobs and accepts my father’s embrace. “Are you mad at me?” I ask them. “We’re happy you're alive. I wish we could have helped you sooner, son, and I'm sorry.” my dad says. “He is lucky to be alive. It’s a good thing that we caught this before it got worse.” the doctor says, then turns to me, “Hello, Blakely, I’m Doctor Reid. How are you feeling?” I stare blankly at him. I don't know what to do or say. “Well, we will soon be transferring you to a behavioural health centre for further treatment, is that okay?” he asks. “Wh- where’s Ana?” I say. Blank stares. “Can I see her?” more blank gazes. “Where is she, dammit?” I exclaim. “Son, who’s Ana?” my mum asks. “My best friend. My only friend. Since I was seven? What do you mean?” I remind them “Son, Ana doesn't exist.” my dad tells me.

[anavoliselenu]

Manwhore chapter 31

“What?” His eyes gleam like glassy volcanic rock.

“Zeus, the most powerful ‘good’ god, was always having affairs on his wife. The ‘bad’ god, Hades, was pretty much obsessed with Persephone, and seemed far more in love with her than Zeus was with his wife. For all his sins, Hades was so much more devoted. I think . . . there’s always something beautiful breeding in the darkness and pain.”

“Is there?” he asks quietly.

I nod soberly. “So no, you’re not Cupid in that story, I guess.” Then I tease, “You’re Zeus and Hades. A Justin here,” I touch his heart, “and a sinner here,” I touch his thickening erection.

He laughs softly and pulls me to his chaise, and we lie there, soaking up the sun in silence.

The lake is mostly calm, save for a few Jet Skis passing by, an occasional boat. I think about his father, how calm and rational Justin has been throughout this.

“You won’t let him goad you into doing anything reckless . . . will you?”

He laughs. “I’m over reckless.” He shifts his shoulders so he can look at me. “But on my word, he won’t be hurting you. Slowly, deliberately, very subtly, I’ll crush him if he comes near you.”

“He won’t come near me. I’ll leave before then.”

He cups my face in a gesture of male gratitude, and asks, “How are you going to introduce me to your mother?”

I smile. “She already knows you’re not Justinly at all,” I tease.

He looks at me quietly, the silence stretching.

“She’s worried,” I admit.

“Is she?”

“She thinks you’re too worldly.”

“That’s a negative against me?”

“And too rich.”

“Really now?” His brows slant thoughtfully.

“She’s worried you’re a player and that you won’t be able to help yourself and play with me.”

His eyebrows furrow even more. “Well, it won’t be the first time I’m underestimated.”

“But she likes you! It’s just that . . . she’s been a victim of what she’s heard. She was rooting for us but it was hard to hide from her that I was so . . . sad.”

He tips my head back; his eyes darken. “You put yourself there. Not me.”

I drop my eyes. “I know. Are you sure you want to? Go?” I ask hesitantly.

“Yeah, I want to.” He moves his hand up to play with a little tendril of hair by my ear, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m not a Justin. But you, Selena . . .” He trails off as though searching for words.

“I’m not a Justin either.” I’m laughing at that. “I’m a sinner,” I assure him; then I smirk a little and playfully push at his shoulder with the heel of my palm. “And you’re my Sin.”

He catches my wrist in his grip, and my laugh fades as he pulls me closer.

The glow of lust in his eyes as he studies me opens up a painful ache in my midsection. I am rabid for him. He’s my Achilles’ heel, the greatest pleasures in my life somehow now tied to his smiles. And right now, I quiver with the knowledge that he wants me.

So many years of being practical, and now I feel my romantic side taking over. I’ve spent every night for almost the past month reliving the ways he’s spoken to me, looked at me. He is unattainable, and yet he’s all my fantasies, all my dreams, put into one single human being, with warm flesh and a thudding heart and a beautiful face with a mouthwateringly muscled body.

His expression is fully relaxed now, his lips wearing just the hint of a smile as he asks, “Are you hungry?”

For you, I think, but I shake my head no.

He gets to his feet, pours us some wine and pops a cherry into his mouth. He knots the stem and shows me his perfect knot. “You ever do that?” His deep voice as he sits near me warms me up.

“It means you’re good with your tongue.”

His gentle laugh ripples through the air, and oh, I feel his smile between my ribs, between my legs.

He heads back to the table. Joining him by the little fruit buffet, I eat a cherry, put aside the seed, and try to knot the stem. He eats another while he watches. After a minute, I give up and shake my head, taking the straight stem out of my mouth and showing him.

“Nope,” I confirm, laughing.

He just smiles down at me, his voice low and husky. “Nobody ever gets it right the first time.”

He grabs another one and knots it again, moving his tongue slowly inside his mouth in a way that causes all kinds of lusty thoughts to run through me. There’s a curious swooping pull to my insides as I watch him do it, and when his lips curl upward as he gazes at me, the swooping is followed by a shock wave that rocks me.

Before I can take another one, he grabs my wrist, his other hand lifting to rest on my face. He brushes my lips with the pad of his thumb. I shiver involuntarily.

I’m entranced by the thoughtfulness on his face as he draws my cheek to his chest and caresses my hair. We stay like that. The very air over the water seems electrified. He runs his hand through my hair and the sensation is so sweet and so intoxicating, I can’t move.

He obviously knows he affects me. But he seems affected too, his body stone-like and buzzing with tension.

As if getting control of himself, he peers down at me. “Do you want me to teach you how to knot one up? Or want a dip in the water?”

I glance at the cherries, and his lips curl. My toes curl in response. Reaching out, he raises a cherry, dangling it from the stem.

I ease down onto the chaise near the buffet table and start to feel warm from his body heat, suddenly so very near.

He leans over, holding the cherry by the stem, and I part my lips and pluck it off. I bite into it with my molars and feel the cool juice slide down my throat. I’ve never been more aware of him watching me eat as I take the little seed out of my mouth and I set it on a small plate on the table.

He sits beside me, his shoulder touching mine, his face looking down at me, and I swear the sun looks better on his face than in the sky.

My lips part when he offers the stem, and I pull it into my mouth and give it a try. He bends his head closer to speak through the noise of the wind. “Curl it around your tongue.” His voice is absolutely low. “Like this.”

He dips his head and before I know it, his lips connect with mine and his tongue is moving, guiding the cherry stem around mine sinuously, expertly knotting it in my mouth.

When we separate, our eyes hold for the longest second as he pulls out the knotted stem from his mouth. Which he just took from mine. His lips curl as he sets it aside, his eyes smiling too when, gently, I feel the brush of his thumbs on my cheeks as he cups my face.

“I know what else you twist around so easily,” I breathe.

He stares deeply into me as he waits for more.

“Me.”

And then he’s not smiling anymore. And neither am I. A tremor runs through me as he ducks his head. And then, ohhhh. Ghost kiss. Against my mouth, he speaks, deep and gruff, “Do you want another cherry stem? Or do you want my tongue inside your mouth?”

Immediately, I close my eyes and tip my head back.

Another corner kiss.

He’s breathing slowly but so deeply his chest expands, clearly fighting for control. And I want him to lose it. I want him to snap and kiss me, fuck me, love me.

He caresses my cheek with the knuckle of his forefinger as he ducks his head again and this next kiss is so close to the center of my mouth, I can taste cherries on his lips.

“Come here.” He reaches out and pulls me off the seat. He does it in one fluid move until I’m sitting on his hard lap, my legs draped to the side, and I struggle with a nervous laugh but ultimately fall still. Oh boy. It actually feels better every time. His arms around me. It makes me feel small in the best ways.

I’m adjusting to the sensation of safety—a sensation I’d kill to feel for the rest of my life—when I see Justin look at me as if I’m the juiciest thing he’s ever seen.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he says quietly in my ear.

He rubs a hand up and down my back. I do what he says, my arms trembling. Though we’re in the end of summer, it’s so cool today, the wind, but then he takes hold of both my hands at the back of his neck and moves them up and into his hair.

My fingers bunch warm fistfuls instinctively as he curls a hand around my nape and pulls me finally to his mouth. When our lips connect, they’re already parted, and our tongues meet halfway as they search for each other.

He caresses my back and then settles one strong hand on my hip, his fingers spreading out, toward my butt, while his thumb caresses the jutting hardness of my hipbone. And as his warm tongue keeps knotting me up tighter than the cherry stems, I forget everything else.

That my name is Selena Livingston and my career is in a jumble and I want my world to stand still.

Right now I just want Justin’s tongue and I want the world to spin and spin and spin the way only he makes it do so.

His hand slides down my thigh and grabs behind my knee and he slowly folds my leg, bringing it up and curling it around his hip.

I shift my other leg to straddle him and his hand trails down the small of my back, then his fingers start sliding into my bikini. He cups my ass, pressing me to him as he kisses me. And all the time his tongue is grazing, playing, rubbing, tasting as his mouth moves on mine, devouring, taking—taking.

The heat of our bodies could melt a glacier. His other hand slides into my hair, into my ponytail. He holds it in one big fist and leaves my mouth burning with fire when he edges away from my lips and plants kisses on my shoulders, neck, face.

My hands chart their own journey, massaging down to his shoulders, but his fist keeps me from moving my head, so that he can come back to devour my mouth whenever he wants to. I’m gasping, breathless, as he raises his mouth from my neck and for three long heartbeats, looks heatedly into my eyes. I feel raw, vulnerable, and his eyes are stormy with lust but so clear, I’m afraid he sees me; sees he’s my one true weakness. And so I close my eyes and offer my lips.

When his lips latch on to mine, his mouth is wetter and hotter, slower and firmer. I taste him back, feeling greedy and desperate as I slide my hands under his shirt, aching to feel his bare skin.

He jerks it over his head, and I tremble when his warm flesh presses against my skin.

He reaches between us and slips his fingers under the triangles of my bikini top, moving his fingertips over the peaks of my breasts—which feel so tight and achy, a jolt goes through me as he strokes up and down, around and around.

I press a little closer to his hands, a barrage of sensations fluttering in me as I kiss near his ear. “I like the things you do to me,” I quietly confess.

“I get high on you,” he gruffly whispers before he goes back to kissing my mouth, caressing my lips with also a little bit of teeth.

He slides a line of kisses down my neck, my chest. “Right here. Where it’s pink and pretty for me. I’m going to kiss you right here tonight.” He bumps his nose against the tip of my nipple under the fabric.

An exquisite shiver of wanting runs along my spine as his thumbs stroke my nipples again. I feel the electricity of his touch in my core, my toes, my very being.

“If you want to,” I agree.

“I do want to.”

He cups my breast and suckles through my top. His head lifts a fraction when I gasp, and he brushes my lips with another kiss. Gently, leaving me gasping.

“Justin,” I breathe.

“Justin,” I hear him murmur into my mouth.

“Mmm . . . I get to call you Justin now?”

“You get a lot more.”

He unclips my hair and watches it fall to my shoulders, and the lustful glow in the depths of his green gaze sends a shiver through my being.

“What did I do to deserve this absolute . . . privilege?”

A smile shines bright in his green eyes. “Justin, Selena. Say it,” he coaxes.

I frown a little. “It’s such a respectable name. Why do you make it sound so dirty and naughty? Justin?”

He both laughs, low in his throat, and groans at the same time; then he ghosts a kiss over the corner of my mouth as though to let me know he appreciates it. We hear the noise of an incoming boat and I separate a little, self-conscious of it approaching even though he doesn’t seem to mind.

It’s a speedboat with eight individuals and blaring rock music. I notice they’re taking out their phones to take pictures of Justin’s yacht. No. I hear the shrill women’s voices in the yacht and realize they’re taking pictures of Justin. And . . . me.

I roll my eyes. “Oh great. They’re going to have a field day with this.”

“JUSTIN! OHMIGOD, JUSTIN JUSTIN! Can we come on board?!” someone shouts. “It’s Tasha! TASHA! My friends and I met you once at Decan’s club, the Orion!”

They could be talking to the air.

While I stare at them, I notice Justin surveys my reddened mouth a little bit, and then takes in the rest of my face.

“Come here,” he says, stretching out his hand.

“What—”

“JUSTIN!!!” one yells, then loudly whispers to the friend who’s hovering at the edge of the boat, “Take pictures, bitch . . . are you taking?” Then to us, hands cupped at her mouth,  “CAN WE HANG WITH YOU GUYS FOR A WHILE?”

I hear a splash and turn to stare, wide-eyed at the other boat. “Did she just throw herself in the water?”

“My guys will take care of it.” He takes my hand and leads me down to the cabin area, stopping one of the crew and making a hand signal.

“Right on it, Mr. Justin.”

I’m laughing my ass off as we reach the cabin, peering through the window. “Is she for real? Oh no, all three are swimming this way!”

“Come here,” he whispers, tugging me back to him. I close my eyes when I feel his lips.

“Justin . . .”

I squirm a little but he quiets me down, pressing his lips to mine.

“Let’s just see if your crew . . .” I turn in his arms and take a few steps to try to peer out.

“They’re handling it.”

His low voice ripples like a feather between my legs. I feel his gaze on my backside, and I turn, and he’s watching me, his eyes roaming all of me.

“Sin . . .”

He stands there, tall and glorious, as I still hear splashing outside.

He takes a step and runs a finger up my arm, and then over my shoulder, his thumb stroking under my bikini string. I’m panting already.

“Justin.”

He takes a step closer and sets a soft kiss on my mouth. God. The overwhelming experience of just his strong, soft lips.

His tongue flashes out and sweeps inside. The world goes dim. Hazy. He pulls me to his chest while he teases my lips with his.

I clutch his shoulders, hard.

“Why?” I hear a whine out in the lake. “But I know him . . . we partied once . . . ”

And their male friends from the boat. “Come on, man, it’s just hanging for a little while . . .”

“Oh wow, they’re super insistent,” I say, trying to turn. He stops me with his hands on my hips.

“They can insist all they want, they’re not coming on board,” he murmurs in my ear.

Before I can escape to watch the spectacle, he boosts me up and carries me to the bed.

“They were also your friends . . . ?” I tease.

He tosses me onto the bed and kneels on it as he tugs on the drawstring of his swim trunks. “Take it off,” he says, nodding to my bikini.

I do, quickly, and I part my legs so he can settle between them. He curls his hand around the side of my face, and I tuck my cheek into his palm, the way he holds me so exquisitely gentle.

“Hook-ups. Easy. Simple,” he says. And adds, “Nothing like you.”

His attention heads south, to my breasts as he strokes his hands appreciatively over my lean frame. The last of the day’s sunlight streams through the window; he can see every bit of me. I’m flushing but I wouldn’t stop him for the world; instead I let my fingers slip into his thick hair. His breath coasts along the top swell of one breast as he ducks his head. Then he locks around the peak, rocking my world as arrows of pleasure shoot through me.

Oh god.

I hear the speedboat leave. Then a knock.

“Taken care of, Mr. Justin!”

“Thank you,” he says in a lust-roughened voice, taking his lips off me for a second.

He smiles at me. He takes my wrists in his hands, and I shudder as a hot flick of his tongue wetly laps up my neck, to my lips. He draws my arms up, over my head, and then secures them in one hand while he lets the other wander over my body.

I arch helplessly. “Justin.”

“That’s right, Selena.”

“Justin Justin, you’re an absolute devil . . .”

“And you’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”

“Am not.”

“Because I’ve had many women?” Probing green eyes challenge me as he coasts his hand down my side. “Because I like to take what I want?”

“Like . . .” I lick my lips. “What do you want . . .”

He edges back and stands and tugs the rest of the drawstring open until his trunks slide down his powerful legs.

He reaches over to the drawer, pulls out a condom, tears it open, and hands it to me with a challenging spark in his eyes and an adorable curl to his lips. “Put this on me.”

I edge up on my knees and stroke him lovingly even though I chide with a scowl, “You’re kind of a dictator in bed. Which is why you’ll never be my boss—”

He ducks his head and kisses me. I go breathless and let him ease me down on the bed. His hands slide up my arms and he laces his fingers through mine, smiling down at me.

“You like that?” he grins a little as he keeps my hands secured under his.

“No,” I lie.

“Yeah, you do.” Between searing kisses and slow, drugging kisses, he looks down at me. He stares at me as my body moves like a bow as he takes me. I pant. I beg. And I hold his gaze, memorizing him, powerful and smooth as he eases inside me.

Justin.

He wants me to call him Justin again.

He holds my gaze, watching me with violently tender eyes, as if he’s been living for this moment.

Holding my wrists in one hand, he cups my face and starts to move. It’s so hot, this powerlessness, the way he holds me down, and I want him to; the way one hand engulfs my face and his thumb rubs my lips as I open them and gasp. I start coming apart when he drives fully inside me. He slows down his motions as I climax. Twisting in his grip, I tremble and feel broken open even as my hips rock up so he can break and take some more, his hold on my wrists firm and wickedly exciting.

“That’s right,” he heatedly kisses my mouth, wetly tasting me with the same violent tenderness I see in his eyes. “Give me all of it . . . that’s right . . . don’t stop coming for me . . .”

“You . . .” I bite his lip as I circle my hips as seductively as I can. “Come . . . with me . . . Justin, come with me . . .” A helpless groan leaves me as his hips keep pounding into mine.

He drags his hands down my arms and then flips me around unexpectedly, pulls me up on all fours, and drives inside me again. “I’m here,” he husks out, taking me by the hair as he sinks in deeper, groaning my name in my ear.

My orgasm, which had been receding, seems to start up again. He’s reveling in me, his thrusts deep, fast, powerful, and oh so good. His mouth is everywhere at once. Wet. Hot. Out of control. His grip tighter. His body desperate for me. No. He is desperate for me.

He hisses near the back of my ear and stiffens inside me, and I come. I come and twist beneath him, aware of how he’s clutching me closer, his arms vises and his lips hungrily tugging my ear—the ear I know he loves that matches my “other” one.

Minutes later, we’re both limp, I’m draped over his side, and his chest starts rumbling.

I frown a little. Is he . . . chuckling?

I lift my head, confused. His voice is husky as he holds me a little closer to his chest, his lids halfway over his eyes. “You’re a little devil too.” He rubs his thumb over my lip, and then he grins at me like he loves it.

We spend the next day on The Toy again. We eat, sunbathe, drink a little wine, and splash into the water. I can also officially tell the girls that without setting a single finger on it, I can now knot a cherry stem.

CHERRY BLUES

I wake up in my bed Sunday, very late at night—or, rather, too early on Monday.

Confused, I pad out to the living room to find it empty. I head to Gina’s room. “Remind me not to drink on a boat,” I tell Gina, grabbing my head as I lean heavily on the door frame.

She groans in the bed.

“Justin?”

Gina stirs a little. “You were knocked out, he carried you in.”

“Why didn’t he stay?”

“He stayed in your room a bit, and then he left. You looked like the dead would wake up sooner than you.”

“When did he leave?”

“An hour ago.”

“I’m sorry I woke you, I think I’m still a little intoxicated.” I lean on her door a bit and sigh. “Gina, we had such a great time. We talked . . . we swam . . . we ate cherries . . . we had dinner. I had only two glasses of wine. Two! And I can’t remember the rest.”

“It’s the damn wind and the rocking motion, it knocks me out every time.”

I groan and deeply, deeply regret those drinks I had.

“Close the door,” she mumbles as I go out.

Back in the room, I turn on the lamp and get my phone, writing, Thanks for bringing me home.

But instead of sending the text, I try calling to see if he answers. When I hear his voice, my veins start buzzing with something even more powerful than alcohol.

“Thank you for bringing me home. I enjoyed spending time with you very much,” I whisper.

“Me too.”

I glance at the time; it’s past 3 a.m. My voice is awkward with drink and sleep. “I wanted you to spend the night.”

“There’s no way to describe what I’m going to do to you when I do.”

“Please do,” I beg.

Silence.

“I want you so much, Sin . . .”

Silence.

“You can do anything you want with me as long as you promise to do it again.”

“Now that’s a promise I’d like to keep,” he whispers huskily.

“I know you don’t like to make promises but your word is gold, and if you’d stayed over, I would’ve let you devour me. But not all of me, you know. You need to leave enough . . . just so that tomorrow when I’m sober, you can tell me what you did to me.”

“So I get everything but your ears?” His voice sounds close to the speaker again and absolutely amused.

“Yes!” I say happily.

“While I devour every part of you with my mouth?”

Every part! Ohgod, yes.

“I’m not sure I can resist your ears,” he says in a tragic tone.

Desire building and building.

“Okay,” I breathe. “Take my ears too.”

“You’re certain? I’d own all of your senses now.”

I breathe out, “I’m certain.”

“Selena, I want you undone for me—absolutely wrecked.”

“Okay, Justin.”

I am!

“Okay?” he coaxes. Still amused.

“Hmm. I’m game, Justin. Bases loaded.”

“Spend the weekend with me after your mother’s?”

“I’d love to. I’ll be on all five senses. Very attuned to your naughty plans.”

“I’ll hide the wine,” he teases.

“Justin!” I laugh, then, worriedly, “Did I say something?”

“Nothing you haven’t said before.”

“Justin! What did I say, you dick?”

He chuckles. “Nothing I wouldn’t mind hearing again, Selena.”

When we hang up, I stare at my ceiling. Oh god, did I tell him I loved him? Drunk? Why can’t I say it like a normal, courageous person when I’m sober, looking into his eyes?

I try to remember and I can’t, I just can’t remember if I said it.

But if I did . . . he wants to hear it again?

I could’ve just talked dirty, which would be sooo unlike me and something Justin would probably love to hear too.

I sigh, plump my pillow, and turn off my lamp, getting haunted and aroused by the simple thought of a knotted cherry stem.

A JUSTIN IN MY HOME

Tonight is the night Justin meets my mother, and I don’t know who’s more excited, my mother or I.

Before I go to my mom’s, I stop by the pharmacy to stock her up on her medicines, then I buy her three bags of fresh, organic groceries and have neatly stored everything in her medicine cabinet and fridge. Then it’s off to help her with preparations for tonight’s dinner. I’ve made sure that the house is sparkly clean, the table set with our prettiest plates and topped with a pretty white rose centerpiece. Mom, apron and all, buzzes busily through the kitchen, stacking things in the hot drawer.

The excitement in our home is palpable.

Since my early teens, my mother has seen me focused exclusively on my career. I’d never really daydreamed about boys before. She’s as unprepared for me to bring a man home as I am—even though I’m sure she’s been hoping that I’d one day find “someone.”

Well.

I have.

Holy crap, I have! And my mother wants to meet him, and most shocking of all, he wants to meet my mother too.

Exhaling in satisfaction, I give one last look at our home. It looks spotless and homey. Though, a little bit self-consciously, I realize my mother’s house is kind of a shrine to me and the accomplishments I’ve earned so far: framed newspaper articles I wrote for my high school paper. My first piece for Edge. Letters from some readers I’d touched that I had stored away.

“I was reading up on him just this morning . . .” Mom says as she comes out to give one satisfied look at the house. “He looks very powerful. Very beautiful.”

“He is. He’s both. Also smart. Motivated.”

I pat her hand and kiss her cheek, and she asks, “He’s really coming?”

“No, Momma. I just wanted to put us to work for fun.”

She smiles one of her tender mother smiles and this time, she’s the one who pats my hand. “It’s good that he’s coming, Selena,” she assures.

My stomach squeezes at that, and I grin and nod.

I’m both nervous and excited for him to be here. “Remember you promised not to drill him with questions, okay, Mother?”

“Of course!” my mother says as she heads back to the kitchen.

Oh god. Please let them like each other.

Pulling back the gauze curtain, I peer out the window to see his Pagani Huayra slide to a screeching halt before our home.

Oh, Sin. Speeding. Really?

I’m smiling, but I pretend that I’m not as I swing open the door and shake my head in disapproval while I watch him get out of the car. He’s wearing a black cashmere sweater and a pair of dark-wash jeans, a bottle of wine firm in his hand, and he’s making my heart race as he eats up the distance between us.

Sin is absolutely at home in the night, though it feels like every streetlight nearby is fawning on him, casting attractive shadows on his face and body.

He looks irresistible.

Dangerous.

Delicious.

“Hey,” I greet him as I step outside and impulsively press my lips to his rock-like jaw. “You get a kiss for coming.”

He draws me close to his body and speaks in my ear. “I have one for you too but it’s not fit for public.” His eyes shine devilishly as he watches me go red.

He follows me with one step, and then he’s inside. And he looks so very dark in my doorway. Darker than his hair, than the air he emanates. Bigger, somehow, as he takes another step inside, where my mother waits with a beaming smile.

“Justin, this is my mother—”

“Kelly,” she eagerly interrupts. She seems to want to give him a hug but she stops herself; Justin seems too larger-than-life for that.

He reaches out and gently squeezes her shoulder as he hands her the wine. I watch Mother make a desperate attempt to resist that captivating smile. And I notice his deep voice doesn’t help matters. “A pleasure to be in your home, Kelly. With your daughter.”

Gushing with gratitude over the bottle of wine, my mother heads over to set it in ice.

He touches my cheek for only a second, that one second enough to fluster me even more.

Damn him.

“You’re the first man Selena ever brought home,” my mother tells him.

“This is the first time I’ve actually gone.”

He winks at me and my mother and I both kind of smile. We both mooned over him just seconds ago as he opened the wine in a way only a man who’s uncorked dozens of wine bottles can.

Now we’re all enjoying dinner, wine, and conversation.

“I always thought she’d have had more friends if she hadn’t had an imaginary friend. Monica,” my mother says.

“Matilda,” I correct my mother.

My poor mom, she’s so excited and so flustered she can’t even keep her facts straight.

“Matilda. Right. She’d blame everything on Matilda. Selena doesn’t like screwing up in any way, you see,” she says. “She’s a bit of a perfectionist and it makes her mad at herself, so she used to blame Matilda when things didn’t go the way she wanted.”

I groan and roll my eyes. “This would be so so much easier to bear if Matilda were sitting here now.”

Justin leans over. “I wouldn’t have come here for Matilda. Only for you.”

His lips quirk when I redden.

“Selena tells me you paint?” he asks my mother.

“I do. I like color on everything,” she says and proudly signals to her strawberry spinach salad. “Selena used to paint too—that one’s hers.” She points at a small frame with my handprint on it.

“I did not paint that. I just set my hand there. Justin has one of those, Mother. A big one.”

“Oh, he does?” Her eyes widen in awe. “Those are sold, but in this case, it was a gift from End the Violence for her support.”

As we head into the main course, my mother tells Justin all about my involvement with End the Violence—nothing Justin doesn’t really know except perhaps that I’ve been doing it for a decade—while Justin listens attentively as he cleans his plate.

He listens to her tell him about the stories I used to tell as a kid . . .

Me and how End the Violence really made an impact on helping my mother and me cope . . .

Me and my dreams of having a career where I could both love what I do and earn a living at it . . .

Me and how I’ve wished to make her dream come true of working at what she loves . . .

“Her life has been full of other people’s stories,” she adds.

“Even mine,” he whispers with a sharp gleam in his eye aimed in my direction. He is not mad, just calm as he finishes his wine. Calm, and something else. He seems . . . illuminated. As if my mother’s stories have shed light on something that had been eluding him for a while.

I kind of think he looks even more comfortable than he did seconds ago, his attention unwavering as he crosses his utensils over his empty plate, leans back in his chair and cups his hands behind his head, laughing at my mother’s stories about young Selena’s antics.

He looks . . . at home, here with my mother and me.

It does something to me. I suddenly feel very vulnerable.

I wonder about his mother as he talks with mine. As he talks with mine and occasionally ends her anecdotes with, “Did she really?” in amusement.

And my mom won’t shut up about me!

I feel extremely, intimately bared to Justin right now.

Justin already knows so much about me. What I like and fear and want. That I hope to do good things, but I sometimes do bad. He knows how I taste.

And now, having the man of my dreams know me through my mother’s stories, I feel completely exposed. As if I have no more secrets from him, while he, somehow, is a box of them that I might never fully open.

Gina’s right: maybe I do have a few walls up to protect myself. But I feel them all about to topple.

“Now, Selena had very few friends when she was younger,” she says as she brings over my favorite dessert from the kitchen, a chocolate peppermint pie. “She was reserved and of course it was a concern of mine, as you can imagine. The only people Selena allowed to know that she didn’t have a father were those we met through End the Violence. People like her, who’ve known loss. She just didn’t feel comfortable sharing that loss with anyone else, whom she thought wouldn’t understand.”

I try to laugh it off, but my laugh wavers. It’s only after Justin reaches for my hand under the table and squeezes it that I exhale.

Because he’s not judging me.

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