#i AM petty enough that i absolutely will come back to it in the spring and post all about the school where i go

[my-strange-attraction]

>call yourself a label anarchist

>use incorrect pronouns for someone every chance you get

yeah that checks out. the act of degendering by using they/them is transphobic and is radfem rhetoric. You call other people TERFs without proof and yet you are the FIRST IN LINE to misgender someone and defend yourself with “oh but it’s gender neutral”. It is not when a person has specific pronouns!!! use👏 correct👏 pronouns👏 idiot👏

"every chance you get" Factually incorrect I did use he/him in my response to the ask that mentioned it, and I apologized! I messed up, I admit it. I am a human being! Mispronouning somebody once by accident does not a transphobe make, I should hope anyone if the queer community at all is aware of that, otherwise a lot more of us are transphobes than we thought (even actual trans people!).

Also factually incorrect that I called him a terf. I specifically said he wasn't one, and I honestly don't think he's even likely to be one in the future. He seems very genuinely supportive of trans people, which made me feel better when I first clicked on his profile. I was just pointing out that this is the kind of exclusionist thinking that terfs will absolutely latch onto to start a conversation and convince you that using the label of trans is hurting regular old queer people. That's why I called it a pipeline, not a terf dogwhistle.

I'm assuming because of the timing that you're also the person who called me a straight up liar for saying how queer my school is. I don't know why anyone would lie about that, I mean just being at any college you're going to be surrounded by queer people, especially if you are queer yourself. I wouldn't need to make up a fake number about my school to say I'm in college and my friends are all queer except for like five people.

It just happens to be one of the main selling points of my school that there is a majority queer population, so the percentage is higher (although I do want to reiterate that 70% is on the higher end of the figure, rather than the lower end like I implied in my first post where I mentioned it before I looked up the figures). Also my school is quite small so it's not as difficult to attain a higher percentage as it would be at a state school or ivy.

I would be happy to tell you all about my school in the spring after I graduate and get out of this place, but I was raised to be very wary of putting any information on the internet. I know it may surprise you, but cloudy is in fact just my screen name and not my real name. I'm really careful about this stuff.

Also it's just wild to me how many people have questioned my intelligence or called me stupid in this whole thing. I have never done that! I would never do that! It's one of the meanest things you can call somebody imo. Is it just that you get a rush from saying it? Does it make you feel morally superior? Or is it like a confirmation bias thing, like me being stupid confirms that my disagreeing with you is not due to something you should actually think about and consider but just because I'm obviously not very good at thinking things through?

Idk, I know it's the internet, I just think for a bunch of people who claim to be arguing for the liberation of queer people, you sure put down other queers a lot.

Although maybe you're not fighting for queer liberation, seeing as you want to police what words other people use to describe only themselves...

[renaerys]

Okay I've got one: Prompt 15 with Reds. 🤣🤣🤣

15. “I can’t hear a word you’re saying, I just keep thinking about how good that mouth feels.”

Somehow they can make even breathing a competition.

Send me a prompt and some characters! Reminder that the challenge is to make everything SFW, so we're getting creative here.

List of prompts

xxx

“So, we’ve called the paramedics and they’re on their way, but until they arrive it’s up to us. Remember the acronym, kids: C-A-B. What’s the first thing you do?”

Aiyeesha Simpson, a gunner in the making destined for academic greatness and social ruin, raised her eager hand. “Find a flat surface to lay him down!”

“Correct.” Blossom took Brick by the shoulders and shoved him down to the floor. A gaggle of Girl Scouts gathered around him as he wheezed for air.

“Ow,” he said.

Blossom patted his chest. “Please choke more quietly.”

I will end you, he thought so loudly he hoped she could hear him through the murder in his eyes. There was community service, and then there was cruel and unusual punishment. When his required hours were up and his record expunged, he was going to write a very negative Yelp review of the local Townsville Girls Scouts of America chapter and tank this year’s cookie sales. Supremely annoying, outrageously petty, and totally legal. That would teach Blossom for sure.

“Place your hands here between the nipples.”

Some of the Cadette Girl Scouts giggled. To be fair, Blossom of all people saying the word nipples in reference to her former mortal enemy as she trained a room full of twelve-year-old girls in CPR using him as the dummy was a perfect storm of absurd and kinky that he did not see coming. And now he was giggling himself, because he was a teenaged boy who thought the word nipples was funny regardless of the very clear contextual cues, and that pubescent shame was on him, one hundred percent.

Blossom, an ancient and inconveniently attractive evil resurrected in a lab for the sole purpose of making his life miserable, did not appreciate his amusement. “Push hard at a rate of 100 to 120 compressions per minute. Remember to put your bodyweight behind it, like this.”

Brick flexed, and Blossom pushed against his heart like she was trying to crush it in her hands. Once, twice, three times she administered compressions, and Brick’s eyes glowed red with impotent rage.

“Assist Blossom with her CPR lessons to her satisfaction, and we can forget this ever happened,” Mayor Bellum had promised Brick when he lost his temper and blew up an (empty) ambulance. Butch didn’t need his Super stomach pumped no matter how much he drank, so the ambulance and the four-figure bill that came with it were completely unnecessary. This defense did not convince the mayor, however.

The promise of the bill forgiven and his record cleared—and the deterrence of Aiyeesha Simpson filming the whole thing to upload to YouTube later—gave Brick the strength not to eye beam Blossom in front of the children.

“Okay, who wants to try chest compressions on the dummy?” Blossom offered to the girls.

You evil bitch, thought the aforementioned dummy.

After the third little girl properly placed her sticky, little girl hands between his nipples, Brick had had enough. “Hey, I’m still dying over here. Can we move on already? Jesus Christ.”

“Of course.” Blossom smiled, and she had never looked more terrifying.

Brick hoped Butch was suffering. He hoped he was hung over so bad he couldn’t piss standing up. He hoped Butch tried going online only to find that Brick had disconnected the Internet and cut him off from all his online games and porn because fuck Butch and his weak-ass stomach.

“Who knows what the next step is? Maybe someone other than Aiyeesha this time?”

None of the other girls seemed willing to stick their hands up. The carpet under Brick had scorched where his power leaked out in his building resentment for this entire situation. The smell of burned polyester just made him feel even more powerless to stop this.

“No? Okay, well, remember the acronym. A is for airway. You want to be careful about a possible neck injury, so gently lift the chin…”

Blossom’s hands were not sticky like the Girl Scouts’ hands, but they were cold where they touched his skin and forced his head back.

“Are the paramedics here yet?”

Brick got a tight fist in his short hair for that one, and he considered it a small victory. “No. Something about a shortage of ambulances, apparently.”

Biiiiiiiitch.

God, he was going to destroy her so bad.

“Once you’ve cleared the airway and confirmed there are no obstructions—”

“Then you kiss!”

Some girls picked up the giggling again. Blossom, ever the professional, cleared her throat. “Mouth to mouth is a life-saving procedure and not something I’d recommend doing to someone you plan to kiss.”

Wow, great advice.

Some girls still giggled and whispered to each other. Brick had a sinking feeling that this was only going to end with his embarrassment: everyone knew that the cold judgment of pre-pubescent girls was the absolute worst type of judgment a person could suffer.

“Are you gonna show us?”

“Well, I don’t think I need to show you all how to breathe—”

“It’s in the manual! You have to demonstrate every step.” Aiyeesha waved the CPR manual, and Brick realized his misjudgment. She was no vapid goody two-shoes in the making, but a future Honors Student with a secret, a Work Hard Party Harder, an Ivy League Early Decision candidate with all of senior spring semester to slack off because no one was ever going to touch her 4.3 GPA.

Aiyeesha beamed a winning smile at Brick, and it was as chilling as Blossom’s.

Jesus Christ, there are two of them.

True to form, Blossom had never been able to defy a good instructions manual. “I suppose if it says so in the manual…”

Locking lips with Blossom was not a big deal. He’d done it before when they were kids, and he could appreciate the irony of a gesture meant to save his life this time rather than end it. She didn’t even try to mess with him by using her ice breath, just went through the motions as described in the instructions. The girls were disappointed with the lack of hormonal fanfare of it all, which was probably for the best. Leave it to Blossom to make mouth to mouth the sexless, medical act it was literally intended to be. He was almost upset, because it felt like she’d won something here, which could only mean he’d lost.

Disappointed but more educated than they’d been when they’d arrived two hours ago, the Girl Scouts dispersed after the lesson, leaving Blossom and Brick to put away the equipment they’d used.

She held a dummy torso, and she was looking at him with that pinched, constipated look she got when she was about to say something especially snobby. Instead, she surprised him. “Brick, thanks for being mature about it. I can honestly say you surprised me.”

He stared at her.

“I’ll talk to Mayor Bellum. I’m sure you’ve done enough to meet your hours quota.”

He had not fulfilled even half of his required community service hours and they both knew it.

“So yeah, thanks. I can finish up here if you want to leave.”

Was she trying to get rid of him? Why?

“Brick? Why are you looking at me like that?”

When Blossom was winning, he was losing. That was simply the way of the world. So, if she was losing, it could only mean he was winning.

“Are you listening to me?”

Brick smiled in what he hoped was a cool, sexy way if he imagined looking at anyone but Blossom. “I can’t hear a word you’re saying. I just keep thinking about how good that mouth feels.”

Blossom stared. “I’m sorry?”

He would make her sorry.

“Yeah, you’re a great teacher. I could really feel your passion for demonstrating the lesson correctly. With your mouth.”

Her staring intensified. “Did you.”

“Oh, yeah.” He leaned his hip against the table like he’d seen in the movies. It worked for Daniel Craig in Casino Royale, and that guy had convinced Eva Green. Iconic. “I could really feel you trying to save me.”

Where was Aiyeesha with her phone to film this? There was so little he could do to rattle Blossom as they got older, and while the challenge delighted him, it was also exhausting being constantly a step behind her. Was this truly her demise? Had he won the Teenage Experience? Was this poetic justice for how she’d once killed him with a mere kiss, only to suffer the same fate in turn? He could have cackled. This was better than trolling the Girl Scouts of America reviews, although he might still do that because it was a genius idea and he had always indulged his own genius ideas when they came to him.

So infatuated was he with his own self-fellating digression that he was slow to react to Blossom sidling up to him. Her hand was still cold on his chin, and it sent a shiver down his spine. “Shall I save you again?”

Brick’s dignity drained with his blood, which was an unfortunate side-effect of being a teenaged boy that he would just have to suffer. But winning was about recognizing one’s weaknesses and working around them. He leaned into her personal space. “Please.”

He wasn’t sure who kissed who first, but it was happening and all he could think was I am better at this than you and I hate you and also Do that again. He tried holding her waist, and she fought back with her fingers in his hair. Not one to be deterred, Brick tried some tongue but pulled back when he tasted thirty degrees below zero. He immediately went back in because he could feel her superiority, her Got you, you horny idiot, but the joke was on her because he liked her cold, always had when it was hot as balls out and he’d make up any excuse to pick a fight with her just for the chance to cool off.

The Girl Scout troop leader walked in on them competitively making out in the classroom like it was an Olympic sport and put an end to things, leaving them at a frustrating draw for now. They said barely a word to each other when Brick glared at the troop leader so bad she flustered and didn’t even question them before running out of there with some excuse about getting the wrong room.

Later that evening, Brick caved and changed the Internet password back just so Butch would quit whining at him. He Googled kissing techniques and spent the next hour and a half watching YouTube videos and reading GQ articles about How to Please Her Like a Champion, because he was a champion and a winner and he was not going to lose to Blossom in this. Not a chance.

This had to be what they meant when they said kill with kindness.

“I’m going to end you,” he muttered to himself as he read about the top ten highest voted movie kissing scenes, which he would then stream and commit to memory in order to be fully armed and armored for the next time he encountered Blossom alone in a classroom. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe during their shared free period.

Truly, he had the most genius ideas.

xxx

If you enjoy my writing, check out more of my fics on AO3, link in my profile. I’m currently updating Trinity House and The Alchemy of Us. Thanks for reading!

[miss-m-winks]

Made some very small writing excerpts, just to practice body language and dialogue around consent with my main oc couple. Implied sexual activities outside the actual written scenes.

Context: mori is a tropical bird dude, he grows fancy courting feathers in the spring/summer and the hormones that come with this change make his libido kinda go into overdrive. Meanwhile, this libido is virtually gone during the autumn/winter months. His wife Evelyn is a gnome, and also a trans woman. She hasn't done as much medical transition as some of my other trans ocs, because she doesn't want to.

I think that is enough context lol. I'll post the writing under a cut

A handful of brief scenarios to show how these two handle Consent.

Morianten's feathers all stood on end, fluffy and trembling. The gold fan on his back raised and lowered indecisively. He stared hard at his reflection, hands clenched on the bathroom counter. 

"Mori?" Evelyn's voice cut through the noise in his head, making him blink and turn to look at her. She leaned against the doorframe, smiling coyly in her favorite set of lingerie. "You done in here? Ready to have a little fun, maybe?" Morianten blushed and bit his lip, pulling his wings in close. 

"Oh. Uh, can it wait? I mean, physically, yes, I think I might be in the mood. But mentally and emotionally…" he shook his head and turned back to his reflection. "I think maybe I'm not myself right now?" 

"Is there any way I can help?" Evelyn abandoned her sexy pose in the doorframe and stepped forward with concern creasing her brow. Morianten closed his eyes and shook his head. 

"I think I better just sleep it off." 

"Well, okay." Evelyn chewed on her lip, tucking her hands behind her back. "I'll just go put my regular pajamas on then. Let me know if you need anything, alright?" 

"Yeah. Thank you."

—

Morianten sat in bed, reading a book on historical orcish architecture. As he turned a page, Evelyn burst into the room with a huff, dropping her bag and kicking the door closed behind her. Morianten's feathers all puffed up at the loud slam.

"Ev, you alright?" He set his bookmark in place and put the book down on his nightstand. Evelyn knelt on the bed, tossing her coat aside. 

"I am annoyed and grumpy," she replied "and I know it's your off-season, but I could really use an orgasm right about now." She fidgeted with the blanket under her hands. "Sorry, I'm just feeling petty about some stupid things that happened and I gotta clear my head." Morianten gave her a sympathetic smile, trying to hold back his laughter. 

"Well, that's certainly one way to handle your frustration," he said, reaching over to the nightstand drawer. "How about you calm down and ask me nicely?" He raised an eyebrow as his reaching hand found the resin mouthguard in the drawer. Evelyn sighed and closed her eyes, biting her lip. 

"Mori?" She asked in an exaggeratedly sweet voice, then opened her eyes and tried to smile softly. "Could you please be a dear and blow me so good I forget my own name?" Morianten laughed.

"Alright, yeah, get over here." He popped the mouthguard over his sharp beak tooth. Evelyn scooted closer and flopped down onto the pillows. 

"Thank you so much," she replied, undoing the clasp of her pants, "you're the absolute best." 

"I try."

—

Evelyn set the last folded shirt into her drawer and closed it, sighing with satisfaction. 

"There, laundry finished." As she stepped back, a few soft golden feathers brushed over her head, tickling her brow. 

"Oh, does that mean you're free for the rest of the evening then?" Morianten asked. Evelyn laughed, reaching up to bat his feathers out of her face. 

"Yes, but also no," she replied, turning around to face him. He was standing on his toes, leaning forward with his wings out for balance, making his golden fan drape over his head. 

"No?" He frowned and dropped back onto his heels, pulling his wings in. 

"I'm just not in the right mood," Evelyn admitted, "I kinda just wanted to relax and practice knitting for a while." She shrugged. Morianten hummed, his fluffed feathers going flat against his body. The gold fan stayed mostly upright though. 

"Guess I'll just go take a shower then," he said with a sigh. "Don't worry about any odd noises you hear, alright?" He smirked and bounced on his toes as he walked away. Evelyn snorted and rolled her eyes. 

—

Evelyn walked out of the bathroom, scrunching her hair dry with a towel. The tie on her bathrobe was loose, leaving her body half exposed. 

"Well, you sure took a while in there," Morianten teased, sitting at the edge of their bed with his feathers all raised. His soft gold fan curled over his head and his two long tail feathers twitched with anticipation. "Hope you weren't having too much fun without me." Evelyn grinned, dropping her hair towel into the laundry hamper nearby. 

"Oh, it was so difficult, but I managed to restrain myself," she replied. "Go on then, I can see your toes tapping, show me the cute little dance you've been practicing." She folded her arms and leaned against the wall, letting her bathrobe fall off one shoulder. Morianten clicked his tongue. 

"Cute little dance? The proud romantic tradition of my people, a cute little dance?" He scoffed and stood up, half skipping as he walked up to Evelyn and stood high on his toes to lean over her with a poorly restrained grin. His pupils were tiny, revealing the gold shimmer in his warm brown eyes. Evelyn bit back a giggle, playing with the hair that fell down over her chest. 

"A cute little dance, which I love to watch?" She batted her lashes. Morianten dropped his heels and gently bumped his forehead against hers, touching their wedding tattoos together. 

"Well, fine, since you're asking so nicely." He stepped back and twirled, gold fan and long tail feathers sweeping through the air. The size of their bedroom prevented him from doing anything really showy, but he was still able to do little bouncing dance steps across the floor and flap his wings with every short hop. He made the feathery gold fan on his back shake, catching the light so it almost seemed to glow.

Evelyn walked to the bed and leaned back against the pillows, putting on a facade of indifference as she watched her husband perch on the thick rope that hung from the ceiling nearby. He held himself sideways, leaning his head back to look at her, wings flared and one foot reaching out into the air. 

"Cute enough for you?" He asked with a grin. Evelyn propped herself up on her elbow, resting her chin on her fist. 

"Hm, I dunno. I think I missed a bit. Could you do it again?" Morianten made an indignant noise, and Evelyn couldn't keep herself from giggling. "Alright, I'm just teasing, come here." She sat up, dropping the bathrobe and reaching out for an embrace. Morianten dropped to the floor and pranced over, taking her in his arms and immediately nibbling at her neck. 

"I love you, you know," he murmured against her warm skin. 

"I do know," she replied, settling back against the pillows with her fingers brushing through his feathers.

– and that's a wrap –

Apologies to my parents and grandparents who are aware that I've been working on a book but know very few details about it. They know the protagonist is a bird man. They do not know I intend to put sex scenes in the book that make it very canonically clear the bird man enjoys giving head to his trans wife.

I will have to find reasons to make sure my grandparents do not read this book and consequently become disappointed in me lol

[abluescarfonwaston]

Hi! So, um,, I know this isn't something you should ask a writer so please feel free to ignore this. I was wondering,, , your "the white wolves" story has brought me so much joy and I am grateful that you wrote it! I was just wondering, if you're not going to finish it (this isn't meant to pressure you. If you don't want to finish it that is 100% fine and your choice and I'm thankful for the five chapters you gave us!!!) so, anyway, I was wondering what the conclusion was going to be? If you're comfortable answering that. If not, that's absolutely fine of course and I'm sorry for asking.

Thank you so much for your lovely stories and I hope you're having a wonderful day!

Okay first off, we're totally cool don't even worry about it. I am always touched people still care about and think about an unfinished piece from like 10 months ago. And now that I have seen that it's almost been a year I feel it is important to point out that while this fic has clearly been physically abandoned, it has not been emotionally. Or Else I would not have spent the last hour pacing back and forth angrily lamenting that I do not have more hands. I do not want to provide you with an unsatisfactory summary in an undercut about how the story was going to unfold. It is not that I mind sharing these details - I have done so to others who have asked. It's just that admitting something I still love so dearly may never get done hurts.

Hopefully one day I will find that voice again.

Spoilers for a fic that will (probably) never get finished under the cut. It is 2.6k and includes most of the final section.

The next sequence in the story is them all taking a nap on the side of the road. Jaskier gets up and calls Yennifer for help. Do you know that part in the books where Yennifer saves Dandelion and he doesn't know why? Because I owed you one. You kept him from being alone. I think about that alot. I think that's why she comes. Not then. She meets them at the keep in a few days time. She is too tired to arrive before then.

There is a scene of the four of them in an inn. Of Ciri, afraid to sleep least she destroy the inn like she destroyed that forested grove. We have a moment when he looks at candle on the inn nightstand and remembers a inn fire that almost killed him and how he hadn't wanted to sleep in an inn ever again. (I foreshadowed it. It's allowed. I once read that Regis saved Dandelion from an inn fire. I thought it was canon. I know its not. I think. I only ever read the short stories. They sit on my shelf. One day I'll read them.) He understands. Still he tucks her in and tells her it will be alright. That is the empty words of adults who lie to children that they think do not know better. No. It is the empty words of a bard whose job is to write lullabies that get children to bed on time. Besides it will be fine. Even if things go bad, we will be with you the entire time.

These are the two scenes I largely blame for the fact I stopped writing this fic. I got stuck on Yennifer's conversation and then wasn't sure how to get that inn scene to actually play out. Anyway. Back to the part you were actually asking about. What's the deal with the wolves? Both of them.

They arrive at the keep. They are greeted and loved and yeered at and pestered. Jaskier is nervous and concerned as he eyes the silver in their blades. It is strange they believe the doppler. But he was a very good Doppler. He digs his fingers into white fur. Remember you promised. You promised you were him. Don't let it be a lie.

And oh I have lost the voice but they are in the great hall with Vesemir and Eskel and Lambert and Geralt and Geralt and Yennifer. She peers into his eyes and does not reveal him. Silver medallions brush against skin and he does not flinch or melt. Geralt of Rivia is Geralt of Rivia. Of this there is no doubt.

The conversation turns to Ciri and Jaskier quietly slips out. It is snowing, just a few flurries on the still air. The wolf flows him to the room they set their bags in. Geralt's room.

This was not how it was meant to go. This is not how it was meant to go. Yennifer was supposed to look at the doppler and then at him and go what the hell and they would slip away and break the curse on the wolf - on Geralt. And they would quietly change hands. The Doppler into the wolf. The wolf into Geralt. Ciri would not know of the quiet deception they had pulled. The magicians trick with revolving mirrors.

Because clearly the doppler loved them. Because clearly the doppler had chosen them. Do you ever think about how in the short story Geralt is ready to kill the doppler that wears his face and it knows this because it is also him so it turns into Dandelion. Because he Knows Geralt would never hurt Dandelion? It's falling in with a lie. It is so easy to in love with a lie. Jaskier knows this.

It was supposed to be like this. Laying in a bed in the Keep with a white wolf next to him. Playing ballads for Geralt and Yennifer and Ciri and not hurting. Because he'd lay next to the wolf at night and bury his face in its fur. And in the spring they would run off to the coast together. You can wear a different face, whatever one you'd like, and will prove to you again and again that I still love you.

I am good at loving people. You know this about me. I might not be able to love you first. That might be why you love me. Because I loved Geralt of Rivia first. So completely that whatever motive you had you abandoned for the sake of it. For the taste of it. I know what it is like to want so desperately to be loved. Wearing different faces and personalities in the chance that someone might.

I know that very well.

But unlike you I'm always still just Jaskier.

The wolf slips in the door behind him.

Jaskier rounds on him. 'What the actual fuck? What the fuck are you? You Promised me. You Promised me you were him." The medallion bounces off his chest and he hates it. Rips it from his neck and brandishes it like a weapon. "I kept this for you! I thought you were him! You promised me you were him! What are you?! I told you I would help you even if you weren't him! Why?!"

The circle of the medallion cuts into his hand.

"Is this funny to you? Bringing me all the way up here and making me look a fool?! Making me watch Geralt picker her Again? Is this funny to you? You and this sadistic game?!"

And he throws the medallion. It hits the wolf dead on. Hit's his bowed forehead. Right between the eyes. Just in front of his flattened ears.

He has always been a good shot.

It is snowing outside. Just a few more flurries. The winter stretches out, immeasurably long in front of him.

He knows who Geralt chooses. That those 'I love you's are lies. No. Not lies. Geralt did not mean to lie. Not intentional. But it was so easy when your heart is broken to bury yourself in someone that does. Love you. Drowning men love life boats but they'd much rather be on the ship that cast them out.

He knows. It exactly what he was doing too.

I love you doppler. I could love you too.

The winter stretches immeasurably long in front of him.

"I can't do this." There is a bag in his hand. A case. "I can't do this."

There is a whine but he does not hear it as he rushes out the door. He can't do this. Down the stone hall. Wind whips through a hairline fracture in the Keeps walls and cuts his cheeks red where they are wet. He can't do this. Out the doors. Through the large wooden gates. He can't do this.

The winter stretches immeasurably long in front of him.

In the great hall a sickening feeling curdles in Geralt's gut. Honestly its seeing Yennifer again. This is all so wildly out of hand. Even if he knows they need her. That Ciri needs her.

"It's startin' to snow. Your idiot better come back soon."

"What?" He turned to Lambert who had curled up in a mountain of blankets in the window nearest the fire.

"Said it's starting to snow, dumbass."

"No the other part."

"Peacock left a while ago. Think he had the right idea. If I'd know she was coming I'd have stayed down south."

"What?" Snow was coming down hard. Big wet flakes. Could hardly see the keep walls through them. "Why didn't you say so sooner?!"

He shrugged. "His dog went after him."

His gut does a funny thing then. It eases in relief before his brain catches up and yanks tight in terror.

The wolf went after Jaskier.

Jaskier is alone.

With the wolf.

In a snow storm.

Jaskier is is alone in a snow storm. He walks down the mountain alone. As he knew he would. Why did he think it would be any different this time? Why does he never learn? He is a fool.

The wind picks up. The snow buries the path. He huddles in a protected alcove and wishes he'd been thinking clearly enough to steal one of Geralt's cloaks. Just to be petty.

He is probably going to freeze on this mountain. Walking down it alone. He might die. But even if he doesn't something will have died. Something in his chest that he cradled like wounded bird.

How many times must you touch fire, how many times must you be burned before you learn? How many times Jaskier? How many times?

He pulled his doublet tighter around him.

Just the one more time it seemed. Just once more.

Barking. Just one voice barking. Barking into the snow and wind in the distance.

Are you looking for your pack? Did you get lost? Separated? I hope they find you. I hope they answer you. I wish I had a pack to call out to.

The snow drifts down in heavy blankets and there is nothing to do but sleep. All he wants to do is sleep.

There is warmth in his dreams. Heavy and warm and soft and reeking of wet dog and something deeper. Something less domesticated and tame.

"You found him?"

Geralt's voice. Deep and soft. Reaches him. Buried in the snow. Cruel and kind in equal measure. To make him hear that voice before he, probably, dies.

"... Thank you."

There is a gasp. He recognizes it. That shocked little inhale of Geralt's.

"I think... That druid overpaid."

He wakes up to a stone ceiling. To thick and heavy furs covering him. to a wolf pressed into his side. To a man known as the white wolf pressed into the other.

Words will find him soon. But for now they are held back by a dam of confusion and exhaustion.

Geralt reaches an arm over him and scratches at the wolf's forehead. "Hm." Got it. The hum says. The same one he uses when Jaskier reminds him to pick something up in town. Hm. Got it.

The dam breaks.

"Oh so you're just okay with each other now? Everything is hunky dory? Jaskier goes out into a snow storm and you drag him - Unwillingly mind you - back here and now you're best fucking friends?! Well it's not all A-O-Kay over here so perhaps you might let me up so I can demand Yennifer do me the solid of getting me out of this godforsaken keep?" He wiggled under the mountain of blankets that held him captive.

"Wha-" Geralt's hand pressed down on his chest. Preventing escape.

"Or you know just go back to the love of your life, take your one goddamn blessing and leave me be!"

"Jask-"

"Oh don't give me that- you're gonna run right off after Yennifer and we both know it and you," Glared. Bared his teeth at the wolf. "Are a lying manipulative bastard and I hope she turns you into a gnat or a pigeon or - or something!"

"Jaskier!"

His jaw clicked closed. He did not soften his gaze.

"We- He - it's not. He didn't lie."

He scowled harder at Geralt.

"You remember that druid Ciri told you I helped?"

"... Vaguely."

A woman and woman who was not her wife. But was. In his story, in his song, he would tell it as if she was.

You saved my heart, I don't know what I'd have done if she. She. Witcher how can I ever repay you?

What food do you have on you?

Uh.

Fine. We don't have time. Don't tell them which way have gone.

No that's not- perhaps the law of su-

No. No. Lie. That will be enough.

It's not!

"He," Nodded to the wolf. "Was how she decided to pay."

He studied Geralt. Then the wolf. Their matching golden eyes.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Geralt grimaced. Hair falling over his face. "He's a familiar. She made him for me. Of me."

He studied the wolf again, distrustingly. "How does that work?"

Shrugged a shoulder. "You'd have to ask Yen."

"Don't care that much." He tried to wave his hand and the idea off but couldn't get it free from the covers. "Shouldn't you have known then? If he's made of you?"

"We weren't... connected. You have to. Touch."

"Oh and she thought you'd just go out of your way to touch a big white wolf? Honestly what was the plan there? You'd have just killed the damn thing."

"Mhmm."

"Seriously what kind of mad man goes out and pets a two hundred pound wolf? Could have at least tied a note to its neck for explanation before setting it loose on the countryside, wandering around looking for you."

"It wasn't..." He hummed his prodding question. "Looking for me. That's not what it was supposed to do."

"And pray tell what was it supposed to do?"

Geralt was quiet. The charged quiet that said he knew the answer but didn't want to tell him.

Eventually. With a fair bit of glaring and wiggling on his part, he answered.

"She was repaying the favor."

"Oh and what's that supposed to mean?! What you saved her partner and she sent the wolf to go out and save yours?" He scoffed. "What did she magic you 'a white wolf to protect your heart when you could not?' as you did for her? Is that it? Absolutely absurd, I wouldn't write that drivel."

Neither Geralt met his eye.

"Geralt...?"

"That's..." He ducked his head. "Hm."

Right.

"But then why-"

A wolf appears in the darkness. All white fur and golden eyes. Protects him from the bandits. Brings him a rabbit when his stomach growls.

I love you Jaskier. I'm sorry it took me so long to realize.

They lay on the bedroll and Geralt kisses him like a thousand drunken kisses. Like a thousand sober ones. And the wolf follows after Ciri and comforts her when they cannot.

The wolf seeks him out in that ruined clearing while Geralt cradles Ciri. While Geralt debates with Yennifer and Vesemir over Ciri's fate. Her training.

I love you Jaskier.

Protect his heart, white wolf, when he cannot.

"Oh."

He let his head fall to the side. Watched Geralt watch him with those golden eyes he had memorized decades ago. Listened to the sound of his breathing that was more familiar than his own.

"Tell me again."

Geralt cocked his head a fraction. Brow furrowed in confusion.

"Tell me again, what I did not believe. If it is true. Tell me again. Geralt of Rivia."

"Tell you...?"

"I love you, Geralt. Despite all sense and reason. Do not lie to me. Do not pretend if I am fated to walk down that mountain alone again. Do not lie to me."

His eyes widened. He pushed himself up and over him. Caged him in his muscular, scarred arms. Shoved the wolf aside.

It grumbled. Huffed. Walked out of the room. Towards Ciri. Towards his heart.

"Jaskier. I love you." He said again.

And this time. This time he believed him.

"Then, You absolute fool and dullard." With only Geralt to hold him down he worked his arms free. Held Geralt's head in his hands. Traced the stubble of his jaw that he could, if he needed to, shave blind. From memory alone. "Kiss me. I have waited long enough."

Geralt leaned down and did.

He remembered the barking of a single wolf. It's howls into the storm. Searching for its pack.

I hope your pack finds you. He wished to its unseen form.

Mine did.

[jimlingss]

Moirai [5]

Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6

➜ Words: 5k

➜ Genres: 60% Fluff, 40% Angst, Isekai!AU

➜ Summary: Death is supposed to be the end. Or at least that's what you assumed when you're hit by a TRUCK. But the moment you open your eyes again, instead of being sent to the afterlife, you've become a baby. And not just any baby. You're the female villain of a video game.

“Thank you for inviting me, Lady Anastasia.”   Lucienne sits across the rounded table from you, oblivious to the blossom petals that have drifted down and tangled itself into her hair. The tea party invitation rests beside her teacup, neat and crisp like she held and opened it with the utmost care.    “Yes, thank you.” The other lady beside her pipes up. “It’s an absolute honour.”   “The Royal gardens are lovely this season,” another adds. “I’m glad I can enjoy it like this.”   “It’s not a problem, everyone.” A friendly smile stretches across your face. “It can get quite lonely being the only lady in the castle, so your company is welcome.”   More like Lady Devon and your other tutors was pretty damn insistent that you build a good reputation and inner circle, but whatever. What they don’t know, won’t hurt them.   But you do remember that in the original game, Anastasia used this opportunity to shame the heroine. She invited her to a tea party and made snide remarks about how she danced with the Prince. Of course it seems petty now but it’s understandable that Anastasia resented the heroine so much. Even if she didn’t intend it, she humiliated Anastasia by stealing her fiancé.   And the fact of the matter is that you’ll also become the laughingstock for what she’ll do.   “If I may ask, have you started the wedding arrangements yet, Lady Anastasia?”   You nearly choke on your tea, sputtering for a moment until you’re able to set the cup down on the saucer and cough into your napkin. The ladies around the table appear concerned, but you plaster on another smile. “Well, there’s been no discussion yet. The Royal family and the Devereux house are in no rush. There’s still quite a bit of time, so who knows what could happen.”   “What could happen?” One of them catches on quick and you cordially nod.   “The engagement was made when both Prince Jungkook and I were very young, but now that we are older, we can voice our own opinions on the matter.” You choose your words carefully and your smile widens. “I am not opposed if changes are made. If the leaders of the empire cannot exercise their own freedoms, then how can the people?”    They nod in agreeance, a few in awe at your deep thought process. “That is very mature of you, Lady Anastasia.”   You laugh stiffly and lift your tea cup for another sip.   “Oh, but the Crown Prince is so wonderful.”   You choke. Again. You wonder if you’re going to die at this tea party from the warm liquid constantly going down the wrong pipe.    “I am sure he wouldn’t change his mind with how lovely you are, Lady Anastasia.” The girl beside you smiles, laying it on thick to win your favour. “You two are a very fitting couple.”   “I agree.” Lucy smiles softly. “Prince Jungkook is very courteous.”   “And very majestic.”   You remember when you dueled with Jungkook, he lost within a minute. He threw a tantrum in the following days and gave you the silent treatment. Or that time you went horseback riding, you decided to race each other and he fell off his own horse into mud and started crying.   Uh-huh. Majestic indeed.   You chalk up your wheeze to nothing and dab the corner of your mouth with the tablecloth napkin. “Yes, well, Jungkook will make a fine King someday.”   “And you’ll make a fine Queen,” a soft-spoken voice pipes up and your eyes connect to Lucy’s. Unlike the others surrounding you, you know her words are genuinely spoken and you shift uncomfortably in your seat.   “I’m not so sure about that,” you honestly admit as you fidget with the edge of the porcelain saucer. “A queen must be kind and generous and know the suffering of the people. I’m afraid I have a lot left to learn.”   Your gaze meets Lucy’s again.   Her smile is all too gentle for high society and its naturally cunning, heartless nature. She’s awfully naive, but that aside, you know her benevolence will make her beloved in the empire.   //   Once the tea party is over, you’re able to breathe a sigh of relief. Christ, thank god that’s over.   You escort most of the ladies towards their carriages, bidding them goodbye with polite waves as the palace servants clear the dishes, chairs and table away from the garden. And you turn around to head back to your room to sneak in a break, but your name is frantically called—   “Lady Anastasia!”   You turn and a girl in her purple, simple gown comes barrelling down the open hall. Her chest rises and falls, completely out of breath even when she only ran two meters. It makes you laugh unabashedly. “Is everything okay? You don’t need to run.”   She hunches over, lungs probably burning, but she fixes her posture a moment later. “S-Sorry, my lady.”   “Anastasia is fine.”   Lucy nods. “I...just wanted to thank you again. I was very excited when I received your invitation. It’s an honour….Anastasia.”   “There’s no reason to thank me so much.” You walk alongside her. Your hat with pinned pink peonies, matching your gown, shields the sun away from your face.   “It’s just that I don’t get invited to these sort of events often considering….considering I’m just a baron’s daughter and adopted one at that.”   She doesn’t need to tell you — you know her backstory well. You’ve played through it from her perspective. Her father abandoned her mother who died of illness when she was five and she was picked up on the streets by the sympathetic baron. It seems like every character in this game has some tragic backstory. They are defining moments that make that person.   But you suppose life itself is like that.   “Can I give you some advice, Lucy?” you ask after a quiet moment and she nods. You stop walking and the girl halts beside you. “Your humility makes you likeable, but be careful not to self-deprecate yourself. Your worth is more than what you consider yourself to have.”   Her eyes widen and you add, “Plus, it’s not good to thank a host more than once like they’ve done you a big favour because they’ll start to think you owe them for it.”   Lucy nods and you smile, resuming your stroll. “I’ll be inviting you to more tea parties in the future.”   “Thank—” She catches herself. “Yes, I will be looking forward to that.”   A grin spreads into your cheeks. “On a different note, I never got to ask you how your dance was with Jungkook at the debutante ball.”   “Oh, yes, the Prince was very kind. But I’m sorry if it was inappropriate, I know he’s your fiancé—”   This time, your laugh is unrestrained. She looks up at you in surprise. “Do you think I’m getting jealous?” Lucy opens her mouth and then closes it, not sure what to say and you bat the air with your hand. “Jungkook is like a little brother to me.”   If she was surprised before, now she looks entirely off guard. “It thought the Prince and you were the same age.”   You laugh stiffly. “Yes, we are, but I guess that’s what childhood friends are like.”   “Oh, I’ve never had a childhood friend.”   “Have you ever had a friend?” Your eyes meet her’s and you smile. “Because I’d be happy to be your first.”   The conversation soon ends and as Lucy walks away, you breathe another sigh of relief and pat yourself on the back at the positive interaction. Even if she’s just a countryside girl, it’s nerve-racking when you’re supposed to be the villainess. You like her and you even offered your friendship, but with each interaction, your demise is always lingering at the back of your head.   “I didn’t take you for being such a mentor.”   You whirl around, nearly startled to death by the voice and you discover a tall, dark-haired man leaning against the marble pillar with a sly smile.   “How long have you been there?”   Taehyung grins. “Not long. I was just passing by. It was a coincidence.” He turns in the direction where Lucy went. “I heard you had a tea party, how did it go?”   “It was exhausting.” You stretch your arms over your head and walk over to lean against the stone ledge next to him. “I don’t think I’m quite fit for the palace life.”   Taehyung smiles and you look up at him. “Are you going to the garden again?”   He nods and there’s a strong urge to ask him if you can come along. Just for a small break before they find you and you’re swept up in another lesson. But you’re not sure if you should—   “Would you like to come?”    Taehyung asks the question for you and your eyes meet one another’s.   There’s no one around. Not a soul in sight who could stop you from going or leaving.   You know you should keep your distance from him. You know. But…   “Okay.”   You take him up on the offer, following after him, just for a moment of indulgence.

With the arrival of Spring also comes the Hunt. It’s a rather eventful time in the castle considering it's generally symbolic of the harvests of this year, thought to prevent famine if those attending can bring back large game. An irony that isn’t lost on you. But it’s an undoubtedly lively time and one that you don’t mind.   “You better bring back a whole moose,” you mumble as you tie the blue ribbon on the belt of Jungkook’s armour, making sure it’s tight and secure. The ribbon is a gift of good luck and one of affection. You’re obligated to tie one for Jungkook considering you’re his fiancée.    “I’ll bring back a dragon,” he declares brazingly and you lightly scoff.   This is his second time participating after winning last year, but you remember he was practically shaking back then out of fear and pressure.   “Okay then. Just make sure you don’t fall off your horse this time.”    “That was only once!”   You take a step back when you’re done tying the ribbon. “I should be the one going on the hunt instead of staying back for idle chit chat. I’m pretty sure I would be able to catch something bigger than you.”   “Probably.” Jungkook grins. “You’re good enough with your sword to be a knight.”   “They’d never let me.” You sigh. God knows your mother would be mortified and probably faint and die.    But while staying back and waiting for the men to return with their kill is boring as hell, at least you’re removed from the pressure of having to hunt large prey in the first place. It’s a competition after all and one that can get quite competitive from your knowledge.   You follow Jungkook to his prized white horse and watch him caress its muzzle.    “If you win, you should give the prize to Lucy.”   His brows furrow and he turns his head to you. “Lucienne? The girl I danced with at the ball? Why?”   You shrug half-heartedly. “Because she has no one and I feel bad for her. I already have a few knights who are going to dedicate their game to me.”   Jungkook hums, not thinking much about it. “Fine by me.”   He puts his foot on the stirrup and swings himself over, sitting on top of the majestic horse.   Preparations almost complete, you turn to the King who’s seated at the top of the stands in a throne-like chair. He looks across the field with an approving expression.   Your parents are beside the King and you spare them a mere glance before turning away. You haven’t spoken to them since the end of the debutante ball and you don’t plan to. It might be childish to give them the silent treatment, but you wonder to what end they’ll try to force you.   The attendant steps up. “Is everyone ready?”   At that exact same moment, as if he was called upon, a familiar dark-haired man with eyes the hue of deep honey enters your peripheral vision. Taehyung emerges onto the field filled with knights on horses and soldiers in armour. His navy cape draped over his left shoulder sways with each movement, twinkling in the sunlight as if there were stars sewn into the fabric. He’s grasping onto a steel pole, a magical staff and his presence garners whispers from all.   “Isn’t he the bastard son?” — “The first son of the King.” — “The one born from the maid.”   They’re all startled to see him — the nobles sitting in the stands, women murmuring underneath their breaths, men watching with their eyes wide, knights and guards. And most of all, you’re stuck at a standstill.   Heart thunderous in your ears — blood drained from your face — you can’t look away when all Taehyung is looking at is you.    He comes close and his expression melts into a tender smile, a softened gaze when he reads your eyes’ fixation on him.    Jungkook, on the other hand, grins and mounts off his horse. “Taehyung?!” The Prince welcomes his brother warmly — an action not unnoticed by the crowds watching. He hugs him and lets go a moment later. “What are you doing here?”   “What can I say? I’m here to steal your victory.”   The younger laughs and you can tell he’s genuinely excited. Jungkook’s cheeks are practically pink and bulging, and his eyes have brightened. “Do you want to put a bet on that?”   “How much are you willing to wager?” Taehyung quips back.   “My pride and dignity.”   He scoffs playfully. “How about your private library collection?”   “Deal. And if I win, I want you to come to the feast tonight.”   Taehyung grins. “Looks like this year’s going to be difficult for you, Your Highness.”   “I’ll keep up.” Jungkook laughs again and gets back on his horse.   A stable-boy comes rushing over with a horse for Taehyung and before the King can utter a single word or you have a chance to speak to him, the games have begun. Taehyung glances over his shoulder at you for a single beat and then he’s off into the woods with the rest.    In the original game, Taehyung never participated in the Hunt.   He looked on from the window of his tower and even sabotaged Jungkook.    In the original game, Jungkook became injured but still conscious enough that before he fated, he declared he would give his prize to the heroine since Anastasia was so overbearing. It sparked the girl’s jealousy and was the reason why she decided to conspire with Taehyung. It was the first domino in the chain — the beginning of the villains working hand in hand.   But none of that is happening.   You wonder how far your choices will continue to deviate from the story. How many more mistakes—   “Are you alright, Anastasia?”   You jolt, torn out of your deep trance by a worried gaze. Lucy has leaned in towards you, her brows knitted together and you smile. “I’m fine. I was just thinking about something.” You quickly change the subject. “Have you given your ribbon to anyone yet?”   The pair of you are walking down the castle hall, heading towards the dining hall where you know the noble women will be having tea and making small talk while waiting for their sons and husbands.   Lucy shakes her head and unties the blue ribbon she had around her wrist.    “Why not?”   She stares at the soft satin for a second and then looks up at you, mustering a small smile. “I wouldn’t know who to give it to.”   “Well, you still have time to decide. You can give it to someone when they get back.” You hum to yourself. “How about giving it the Crown Prince?”   Lucy’s eyes are as large as saucers and she blinks thrice.   You’re a bit endeared with how surprised she seems at your suggestion. “Don’t you admire Prince Jungkook?”   “I...I do,” she admits quietly and peeks at you again. “But I wouldn’t want to overstep—”    “Not at all!” You reassure her. “Prince Jungkook likes the admiration. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind whatsoever. He might actually appreciate it.”   The girl smiles to herself and nods.   Evening sets in after meaningless conversations, cordial expressions and polite responses. The only interruptions are the horns that ring as each participant in the Hunt slowly arrives back.   Jungkook returns sweaty and out of breath, but with a whole moose like he promised. There are cheers and applauses, but more importantly, silent gasps when he beelines straight to Lucy to give her the prize. She blushes, a stuttering mess full of ‘thank yous’ and ‘it’s an honour’, and you discover Jungkook’s bashful behaviour at her sincere gratitude.    He scratches the back of his neck, diverts his vision, mutters ‘it’s fine’. It’s fascinating to watch considering he’s always been arrogant and bratty to you since the day you met him.   But you don’t get to observe their moment for long.   Not when the horns ring again and a figure appears over the horizon.    This time, no one moves. Truly stunned. Breaths hitched. Holy shit. Taehyung arrives back with a bear and he doesn’t even look like he’s broken a sweat.   “Wow!” Jungkook is the first to react, moving out of the crowd to his brother. He’s genuinely amazed and impressed, jaw dropped and brows shot to his hairline. “You did this?!”   “Didn’t I say I would win?” Taehyung grins languidly.   “This...is incredible!” Jungkook’s admiration for his brother causes the unsettled crowd to finally calm. It starts off slow, a clap here or there and then it’s applause, cheering and murmurs of acknowledgment.   “Has anyone ever brought a bear back before?” — “Did he use magic?” — “Why didn’t the eldest son participate in the Hunt before?”   And you know that it’s the first time people have clapped for Taehyung.   The attendant rushes forward, sputtering on his words. “T-The winner for this year’s Hunt is His Highness, Prince Taehyung!”   Taehyung wins a chest of gold, worth more than fifty commoner’s lifetimes and you watch as he bows his head as he receives it. You watch as he holds it and strides towards you. You watch until his arms have extended and a smile draws upon his features.   “What are you doing?” you ask, a whisper that’s befallen off your lips, spilled past the astonishment.    His gaze and smile never wavers. “I’m giving my prize to you.”   The crowd’s stirred to silence, watching the two of you, and you receive the wooden chest.   The attendant quickly announces the feast in the hall and servants begin ushering the people inside. But you continue watching Taehyung, your eyes connected to his, both grounded in the private bubble.   No one notices the King sitting on top of the stands, his brows tightly knitted.    //   The dining hall has shifted.   No longer are there laced tablecloths, towers of pastries and teapots from the afternoon. It’s large plates that have stretched along the surface, meats and cheese, breads and butters that have begun the feast. There are grandiose chairs all around three different tables, arranged based on importance and connections, conversations that have filled the enormous room.   The darkness of the night is casted away by the chandeliers overhead, illuminating the room in a golden hue. Yet, while each is high on the atmosphere, drunk by the wine, you can’t swallow the food down.    The tapping of utensils on glass has you looking over. The room simmers down.    By the coaxing of Jungkook beside him, Taehyung rises from his chair and clears his throat. It’s customary for the victor of the Hunt to give a speech and you’re guessing this is it.   “Thank you all for coming.” Taehyung appears unfamiliar and awkward addressing the crowd, quickly rushing over his words as if to get it done and over with. “I have never participated in the Hunt before this year and it was only because of beginners luck that I won. That��”    Suddenly, Taehyung looks right at you. “—and the support of those most important to me.”    Then, as quick as he stole his glance, he turns away. “I hope the harvests of Ashea will prosper this year.”   There’s thunderous applause and the feast resumes.   You’re overwhelmed, dizzy, the celebrations of the room getting to your head — laughter, questions, comments louder by ten decibels until it feels earsplitting.   You look over at Jungkook, finding that he has two blue ribbons pinned on his left side. He’s smiling widely, oblivious. Then, your head whirls over to your parents sitting down the table. They might have friendly smiles plastered on their features, but you can tell through their eyes that there’s seething anger. They’re unhappy, most likely with you, most likely with what happened earlier.   “Anastasia.” Lady Devon, who sits beside you, calls you out of your thoughts, disapproving at how your listening skills could be so poor.   You blink, pretending you were in deep thought about her discussion of silver forks and the corner of your mouth tugs. “If you’ll excuse me…”   After a delayed moment, she nods and you push your chair back, blurring into the massive paintings on the wall as you slip out to the terrace.   The night is cold.    Each exhale of yours is visible and you tug the soft pink shawl around your shoulders closer to your body for some warmth as you lean against the railings. You look up at the star-filled sky, finally able to calm yourself from the noise inside. You’ve always been glad that no matter where you are, what universe it is, there’s always the same sun, stars and moon. A constant.   One thing you don’t have to worry about.   “Is there something wrong?”   You know who it is before you’ve even turned around.    It’s a relief. You’ve waited all day to be able to speak to him, to be away from prying eyes and in a private moment. It’s easing. Your nerves take comfort in the familiarity, somehow finding his very presence soothing. Yet it’s unsettling at the same time. You have too many questions, too many suspicions and you don’t know if you want to uncover the truth.   But you gather your strength and face Taehyung. “I’m just thinking.”   “About what?”   Taehyung approaches your side. The warm light from inside the palace spills out and your shadows cast onto the grass beneath the terrace. There is not a soul in the hall when they’re all inside the dining hall, celebrations and conversations muffled through the many walls.   You inhale a breath. “Why?”   Taehyung frowns.   You ask again, “Why did you give me your prize?”   “Should I not have?”   Half of his face is illuminated, the slope of his nose and dip of his cupid’s bow sharp against the glow of the chandeliers, reminiscent of the chiaroscuro of a painting.   “That’s not it. Just…..” Why does he treat you so kindly, why does he want to go out of his way to talk to you, why does he look at you like that— “Why?”   In the original game, Anastasia was Taehyung’s chess piece and nothing more.   “Does there need to be a reason?” The corner of his mouth tugs gingerly. “I wanted to, so I did.”   “But there’s so many eligible bachelorettes you could’ve them them to, like Lady Myoi or Lady Paxton—”   “None of them matter,” he injects without needing to blink or think twice. “Not like you do.”   Your head snaps up and your eyes meet. Taehyung gazes at you tenderly, searching your irises with a small smile and he swallows hard. His voice lowers when he asks, “Are you cold?”    Oddly enough, even with the chilly wind whisking through the branches and swaying the leaves, you aren’t cold if he’s here.    Yet suddenly, Taehyung snaps his fingers and you’re engulfed with the warmth of an embrace. It’s the heat of a winter fire crackling underneath the mantle, the Summer sun casting down on your cheeks, and it travels from your toes to your head, and you can’t help the giggle that spills from you.    “What did you just do?”   He grins and leans closer to you. “It’s a simple warmth spell.”   Your brow cocks. “How much magic do you exactly know?”    He even managed to get that bear without looking like he had to fight. Your efforts to get him not to tap into magic all those years ago were in vain, but you have to admit it’s pretty cool.   Taehyung looks away, smile easing. “It doesn’t matter how much magic I have. It’s not enough for what I really want.”    Your breath hitches in your throat. The implications of his words welcomes the tension back into the air that had snuck itself away for a simple moment. But it isn’t uncomfortable. It isn’t the kind of tension that comes when you’re speaking to the Duke and Duchess, not the stiffness that arrived when you were being scolded by Edith. No. It’s different. It’s….intimate.    Especially when he sneaks a glance at you and you hold it, eyes fixated into his.   None of you speak, breathe, bat a lash. Not when Taehyung starts to lean in close. Not when you begin to feel the heat of his cheeks on your skin, when you can hear the thunderous noise of his heartbeat bruising his rib cage. His lash tickles yours. But before your lips can brush—   You push him away.   Taehyung stumbles back, nearly falling over, but he grasps the railings.   Your breath heaves and you stare at him in shock, in horror with what was about to happen. And before anything can be said or done, you turn away.   “Wait! Anastasia!” Taehyung calls after you. “I’m sorry!”   “I….I need to leave.”   You can’t deviate from the story more than you already have. This is a mistake.   In the midst of your panic, you return to the dining hall and cut through the room. It’s the quickest way back to your chambers, so you don’t hesitate to move your steps, never once looking behind your shoulder. Luckily, Taehyung doesn’t follow after you. He can’t.    But while each is celebrating and distracted with their company, a certain girl notices your distraught and frantic form beelining to the massive doors.   Something doesn’t sit right in her, so she immediately stands and bows her head to the woman she was speaking to. “If you can excuse me, thank you, I’ll be right back.”   Lucy follows after you, eyes pinned on your backside.   The only people who pay any mind is your mother, the Duchess of Devereux. Her senses are sharp and she taps your father on the shoulder until he follows her line of sight to the girl.   The castle grounds are dark, the moon waxing but not yet full enough to provide a bright light. But enough is shed for you to see. It’s enough for shadows to cast along the stone walls. You would never walk outside at this time of night, but you need air. More of it. Something you can breathe in and hope will clear the cloudiness inside your mind, the noise that’s earsplitting.   A gentle tap on your shoulder has you screaming.   “It’s me!” Lucy puts her hands out, her eyes wide. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.”   You catch your breath, steadying it and you swallow hard. “W-What are you doing outside? I thought you were still celebrating the feast.”   “I saw you walking by and I thought something was wrong and I got worried, I’m sorry.” She looks at you when the silence is ongoing. The concern is evident through her knitted brows. “Are you alright, Anastasia?”   It seems like everyone is asking you that question today.   A question you don’t know how to respond to yourself.   But you manage a nod and a smile. “I’m fine. I was just tired. I was thinking of retiring to my room early.”   “Oh, okay.”   You step towards her and grasp her hands within your own. “Can you do me a favour, Lucy, and keep Jungkook company tonight? He might be looking for me too and I don’t want him to be worried.”   “I will.” She nods. “But do you want me to escort you to your room? I could call someone—”   “No, it’s quite alright. I’ll be fine.” You smile and let go of her. “You should go back now before someone goes looking for you.”   Lucy nods for a second time and she bids you a goodnight as she walks back.   You’re left by yourself and you turn to tread your own way. The weight of so many decisions lie upon your shoulders and slow down your steps. You wonder why you have to bear the heavy burden of knowing your future, of knowing all of theirs while trying to escape your own fate.    It feels like you’re a pawn trying to control the whole chess board.   You exhale a breath, watching the cloud dissipate and unbeknownst to you, there’s a rustle in the garden’s bushes.   “That’s her, isn't it?”   Two shadows emerge from the darkness and before your ears can pick up on the noise, before you can turn around and meet the figures, a cloth is clamped over your mouth. Your shout is muffled and arms begin to drag you in the opposite direction of the castle.   What the fuc—    Immediately, your elbow juts out and the man behind you sputters, cowering over with a curse. You manage to slip out of his loosened grip, about to sprint and yell. Until another overtakes you and grabs hold of your wrists, yanking you back.   “Wench!” A cold blade sits at the juncture of your throat and you freeze, breaths tearing out of your throat frantically. You can fight him. Years of swordsmanship didn’t render you useless after all. But his threat delays you— “Shut your mouth if you don’t want Baron of Liza dead too.”   What?   Your mouth is stuffed with cloth and you’re roughly ripped into the darkness.   At the same time, Taehyung, still at the terrace and about to leave, turns around.

[smeraldos]

Love by Daylight (1/2)

➸ characters: Seokjin x Reader

➸ genres: Sailor Moon!AU, fluff, sort of e2l

➸ tags: sly friends, petty enemies/secret crushes, running away from the mortifying ordeal of being known

➸ words: 2K+

➸ summary: The day you find out who your suave partner in saving the world is, you're absolutely, positively, without a doubt sure you'll be over the moon. You'll be so happy you'll think you're dreaming. Turns out you're right. You do think you're dreaming. Because this? This can't be real. You're being pranked. Someone, somewhere, is going to jump out and say you're on Candid Camera. (Please.)

>> PART 2

When the lights fade and the facades fall, this is what you’re left with: Tuxedo Mask without a mask, you without your moonlit glamor. Tux the civilian is handsome, you can tell, and this is it—the moment you’ve been waiting for.

He lifts his face.

The youma's words come rushing back: Let the truth be known, the city’s deepest secrets shown.

Tuxedo Mask is none other than Kim Seokjin.

Suddenly, you’re reminded of a crystalline city; people bowing before you; Seokjin taking your hand, your matching rings gleaming in the light. Was it a memory or a dream?

You stand there, dumbfounded, until Tux/Seokjin dons his mask and brushes past. “Come on, Sailor Moon,” he says, sensible enough to use your alias. “The coast is clear. We’ve got a fight to finish.”

☾

“Why does it have to be Seokjin?" You whine, collapsing into bed and disturbing your sleeping cat. (In your defense, he was on your pillow. Which you’ve told him numerous times not to lay down on because his fur would shed.) Luckily, Agust is acquainted with your dramatic side and simply gets up to move.

“Well, why do you have to be Sailor Moon?” He points out. “It could have been someone less bothersome.”

“Hey,” you retaliate. “You’re the one who came to me. You could have given anyone the Lunar Key.”

“I didn't have a choice.”

“What do you mean you didn’t? You could have walked away and picked someone better, just like that.”

He scoffs. “Not when it’s the Queen.”

“Queen-schmeen." You flop back onto your bed, the springs creaking in protest. "I bet Her Royal Highness is on her throne right now, all nice and comfy. She couldn't care less."

Agust doesn't reply.

At first, you think it's because you've won and nothing else can be said, but when the silence stretches on, you know something is off. You sit up to see Agust no longer curled into himself, but sitting. He stares out your window into the night, his normally keen eyes empty. "She's dead."

Judging by his somber tone, she'd meant a lot to him. "I'm sorry," you whisper.

Agust sighs. "No need to apologize, kid. She was your mother, after all."

"My mother?"

"Not now," he amends. "But she was a long time ago, when you were the princess of the moon and Seokjin the prince of the earth.”

☾

The next morning, you head to school on time.

Your mom—present day mom—was surprised to see you up early, and Jeongguk called you out like the bratty brother he was (wow, no morning run today?), but the truth was you couldn’t sleep.

Last night, Agust recounted your past, how the dark eclipsed the moon. Although the queen tried her best to protect the kingdom, it was to no avail. Seokjin died in the fray, and you fell shortly after, helpless to save your beloved. In the end, the queen sacrificed herself to give you and Seokjin another chance at love, her people another chance at happiness.

A chance to rebuild the Silver Millennium.

The thing was, you didn’t know if that was what you wanted. Not that you’d want the Dark Kingdom to reign, but you weren’t sure whether you wanted to rule in your mother’s stead. Or marry Seokjin. Past you might have wanted to, but the you now could barely stand him. And neither could he. Or so you thought. You’d gotten along just fine with Tuxedo Mask, even grown a crush, but that wasn’t enough to warrant a marriage.

“Hello? Veen to Selene*?” Someone nudges your shoulder, and with a start, you notice Mina looking at you in concern.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“Nothing yet, but it looks like you’ve got something on your mind. What’s up?”

You’re about to tell her when you see Seokjin approaching, his uniform blazer neatly pressed.

“Morning, ______,” Seokjin says. “Mina.”

“Morning,” you reply, ready for whatever biting remark he’d say next. But once Namjoon comes up, he leaves. That's it.

Even Mina, who hardly sees the two of you interact, notices. "That's the first time I've seen you guys polite. It's weird. What happened?"

After a discreet look around, you grab her by the elbow. “He's Tux,” you hiss, but Mina doesn’t look the least bit shocked. Her face breaks out into a giddy grin, like a child who’s finally tall enough to get on the big kid ride.

“You knew?” You ask, a little hurt she didn’t tell you.

She pouts, squishing your cheeks together. “Don’t be mad. You don't know how hard it was to keep it a secret.”

◑

You don't blame Mina, for the most part. It would have been better if you hadn’t known who Tuxedo Mask was, and vice versa. You felt like Cinderella running away from the ball, her beautiful dress giving way to rags and ratty shoes. If the prince caught up to her then, she’d probably be humiliated.

Just like you are now.

Tuxedo Mask has seen you at your most embarrassing moments, fighting to have the last word (or milkshake) as Seokjin, and also at your best, saving civilians with grace. You've only wanted him to see the best of you, for him to think of you as the perfect wonder-girl heroine everyone else saw you as, but he's seen almost every side. You don't know what he sees in you now, if anything. And frankly, you don't want to know.

"Have you ever thought that maybe he's thinking what you're thinking?" Mina asks. "You've seen all the good and bad in him, too."

"But it's different when he doesn't have a crush on Sailor Moon!" You say, exasperated.

"Oh, I wouldn’t be sure about that if I were you."

Seokjin thinking of your alter ego that way is embarrassing, but considering he's also Tuxedo Mask...now your face is red, you can feel it. Red as roses in bloom. "You're joking, right?"

"Why don't you wait and see," Mina replies, as cryptically as when she was Sailor V and you hadn't known any better. Having sympathy for you, she gives you a warm smile. "Don't stress out too much, Moon. You're amazing either way. Just talk to him."

◑

You think there's some reconnaissance to sort out first. When you walked into Crown Arcade and saw Seokjin talking to Jimin pretty intently, you didn’t want to interrupt...okay, who were you kidding? You chickened out.

But Jimin is his best friend, so he'll know how Seokjin feels the most, right? It's the next best alternative to actually speaking to Seokjin, which, well, you aren't ready for. Case in point: you've done the impossible and made yourself scarce. You aren’t about to break your streak now.

So the instant Seokjin leaves, you walk up to the counter. Jimin looks up from sprinkling a milkshake. "Hey. The usual?"

"Yeah, just double on the chocolate."

"You got it," he says, passing the drinks he finished making to a server. You watch him blend milk into ice cream, then reach over for a new cup to pour the mixture into later. It's all done with practiced ease, and you marvel at how quick he is, not to mention how beautiful the finished milkshake looks after. The chocolate is perfect, the whipped cream a cloud of snow drizzled with dark syrup.

Jimin slides it over with a grin. "Mademoiselle."

"Why, thank you," you say, digging in with gusto. This is exactly what "stressed is desserts spelled backwards," meant: Jimin's milkshakes never fail to kick your worries down a notch.

"Good?" He asks.

"Mhm," you mumble, more to your milkshake than to him, when the thought that you haven't paid yet crosses your mind. Oh gosh. You pull your purse onto your lap, but Jimin chuckles, stopping you.

"I've got it covered. Besides, I heard you weren't yourself lately."

"Really?"

He shrugs. "From the way you're devouring that, it's kind of hard to believe…"

You take an extra large mouthful to prove his point.

"But you only lay on the chocolate when you're bummed," he finishes, and you’d protest if you hadn’t made it a habit to drown your sorrows in his milkshakes. They were just too good to resist. Not to mention Jimin is a great listener. Your girls, although you love them, aren't always the best. You'd catch the moment they crossed over from attentive to "Is she done yet?" but with Jimin, you've never had that issue. Turns out you have a different one.

"I hate how perceptive you are."

He laughs. "You're just predictable."

"You know what? You can take back your milkshake and go back to work," you say in a fit of grumpiness, pushing the glass back to him.

"Are you sure you want me to do that?"

You meet him eye to eye. After a minute—a long, impressive minute might you add—you take it back. "Fine. What do you want to hear?"

"Anything you want to tell me. And if it's something you can't share, please tell someone you can. It's not great to keep things bottled up, trust me."

You sigh.

"Here's the deal," you begin, feeling a little weird telling your old crush about your new one, but marching through nevertheless, "I met someone on...online. He's nice and funny and understands me even though he's different. I just click with him, and eventually, I want to tell him I like him. The thing is, I don't really know who he is. We've been chatting on Discord and his profile picture is Tuxedo Mask, but he can't be Tuxedo Mask. Or maybe he is, who knows?"

Jimin laughs. If only he knew.

"Anywho," you continue, "I meet him and find out he's someone I actually know...but he's a pest. He always gets on my nerves and it's like he's a completely different person! I don't even know how that's possible, but apparently it is and it's just so frustrating."

Jimin doesn't speak for a while, which is fine by you. You take the time to jam spoonfuls of chocolate and cream into your mouth.

"You know," he finally says, amused, "that sounds a little like the plot to You've Got Mail."

"That isn't funny.” You huff. “Joe Fox was a jerk and I don't know why they played him off as charming."

"Isn't that what you think of the guy?"

"I never said he was a jerk."

"But you said he was a pest."

"That isn't the s—" You pull at your hair. "Ugh. I don't know anymore."

"Did you talk to him?"

"And what? Spill my complicated feelings?"

"No, just talk to him. You don't have to confess right now. Just air out the laundry and see where you guys are at. Chances are, if you're confused, then he's confused, too, and there's no way either of you can get out of it without talking to each other."

"I can't talk to him, Jimin. I avoided him for three weeks! He's going to hate me."

"He isn't," Jimin says firmly, and you wish you could have the same conviction. "Sure, he'll be upset, but if he's really someone who cares, he'll listen. Look, during that time you avoided him, did he try to reach out?"

"Well, I told him I didn't want to talk and he stopped asking."

"So he'll listen. If it turns out he hates you, give him a piece of your mind and I'll give you triple chocolate milkshakes on the house."

When he puts it like that, talking to Seokjin doesn't seem as dreadful. "You're not just saying that?"

"Have I ever said something I didn't mean?"

You get your answer when someone comes trudging in, holding up a bag from your go-to fast food joint. "Jimin! You better be grateful I drove all the way downtown to get you these burgers. Since when did you like ______'s favorite, anyways?"

"Since now," your traitor of a friend says. You glare at him, which he conveniently ignores.

"You're the best," he tells a surprised Seokjin, leaving with a pat on his shoulder. "Enjoy your meal!"

>> NEXT

...

note:

*Venus to Selene, like "Earth to [insert name]?" but replace Earth with Venus and [name] with Selene, Greek goddess of the moon

[pollylynn]

Title: Prototype WC: 1100 Episode: Murder Most Fowl (3 x 08)

She thinks of him as dealing exclusively in heroes and villains. Drama queen doesn’t begin to cover it, and from her vantage point it seems that humans in between don’t exist for him. She’s not sure how he maintains it—this investment in absolute polar opposites—given that they spend their days and nights sifting through the details of the lives of people who are mostly fair-to-middling when it comes right down to it.

Most of the time, she supposes it’s just a writer thing. It’s his job, in some sense, to be that drama queen, to blow up the banal misdeeds and petty motivations of the everyday person until they’re fit to keep the pages turning until the very last.

Today, though, she has to consider the possibility that it’s a dad thing. The villain of the day is, of course, The Boyfriend.

“You can’t tell me a rat isn’t a red flag,” he huffs as he tries to keep up with her. It’s a struggle, given how much breath he’s expending on his scenarios where Ashley falls somewhere in between the Gilgo Beach Killer and The Manson Family—Yes, Beckett, all of them—in terms of murderous depravity. “A rat with a ‘special diet’?”

She’s not listening. She is definitely not listening, and still it’s almost a relief when he moves on to The Falcon Killer. This second villain springs forth, fully formed, from the writer part of his brain, so it looks like his hero–villain complex is a both/and situation. The Falcon Killer is not one bit less annoying than Ashley the Rat King, but being imaginary he at least has the virtue of having no financials someone might try to demand that she run, and there’s a lower likelihood that she’ll find herself on the receiving end of pointed questions about how to file an order of protection on behalf of someone else.

By late morning, things have swung around to the hero end of the spectrum. It’s all working class hero Lightbulb Len all the time. Arthur Sansone, she supposes, is the exception that proves the rule. He’s neither hero nor villain.

“He’s Sancho Panza to Lightbulb Len’s Don Quixote!” The grimy tiles of the subway reverberate as he waxes rhapsodic, and she wonders what city she’ll pull up stakes and move to, because she can clearly never show her face on New York public transit ever again. “Samwise to his Frodo!”

She’s thinking very seriously about being Michael to his Fredo even before he sets to work on special guest villains, Mario Rivera and Byron H. Singer, to say nothing of the shadowy figures behind the conspiracies aligned against Len Levitt.

“It’s a blood pact.” She, like everyone else in the bullpen, hears his stage whisper to a nodding Ryan. “It’s so much bigger than bulbs—it’s bulbs and birds.” He slaps a palm down on whatever evidence it is he’s spread out on the desk. “Lightbulb Len never stood a chance.”

She’s got a pinching headache right between her eyes the next morning when he rousts her practically at dawn to spend another day seeking justice for his latest Campbellian hero. The coffee he hands her is hardly enough to counteract the way he’s pin-balling between singing their vic’s praises and contemplating how he can get Alexis out of the country before Ashley returns and fully commits himself to a Count of Monte Christo–level revenge scheme. He’s crossing the writer–dad streams and it’s too early for any of it.

It all falls away, though, when the case breaks in a terrible, unexpected direction. Len Levitt’s last act on earth was to turn his camera on a man abducting a child, and damned if that isn’t the most heroic thing any of them has heard in a long while.

He’s all work from that point on. There’s no talk of heroes or villains. Lightbulb Len, it’s sad to say, is all but forgotten as lead after lead on the abduction turns up absolutely nothing.

Heroes and villains are forgotten entirely. All his dadly, all his writerly energy is focused on every single thing he can remember about Alexis’s life just four or five short years ago—everything that might give them a lead.

Even when they have their hands on Dean Donegal and he’s goes after the man hard, there’s no villain across that interrogation room table. It’s obvious, even as they take turns grilling him about Indianapolis—about everything—that he sees a mirror for his own desperate fear. It’s clear he sees a father facing the worst pain of his life.

Before long, she feels like the villain—she sees herself through his writer’s eyes when someone has to be the rational, not-a-parent in the room when the Captain decides that they’ll back Dean as he goes to meet the kidnappers’ demands. She imagines how he’d cast her on the page right now—implacable, ice water in her veins. She has all too easy a time imagining Nikki Heat’s villainous turn, but what can she do when no one else will say what needs saying?

She feels like something worse than a villain in the subway for the second time in as many days. Adrenaline is running the show when she kicks in the door and gets her shot off. Her momentum carries her on a beeline for Tyler Donegal, but somehow he gets there first. Somehow his body is between hers and the boy’s, and he’s crouched down, two careful feet away, talking in a low, absolutely calm voice.

She doesn’t hear what he says at first. She’s too busy re-running the last minute-and-a-half, complete with what was very nearly yet another traumatizing event for Tyler Donegal with her in a starring role. When she catches back up with real time, he’s standing up. He’s reaching a hand down patiently to help the boy up from the filthy floor in his own time.

“Your dad told us you were smart,” he says. “But save yourself smart? That’s hero smart.”

She can only just make out Tyler’s wide eyes in the dim light, but she feels the tension slowly trickling out of him. She sees his pale skin moving through the shadows to grip Castle’s hand as he staggers to his feet. He places a careful palm on the boy’s shoulder and flashes her a grin that’s exhausted and triumphant all at once.

“Wouldn’t you say that’s hero smart, Detective?”

“I would.” She returns the grin. “I definitely would.”

A/N: This has no morphousness in its flabby, flabby end, but I am so very tired.

images via homeofthenutty

[plumoh]

[SK8] whirlwind

Rating: G

Word count: 2341

Summary: Three times Kaoru gets into a fight; Kojirou is never too far away. / high school era.

Note: AO3 link. As usual, high school era means pre-relationship and Kaoru being a little bit oblivious to Kojirou’s feelings haha.

i.

Kaoru didn’t mean to punch him.

Well. That’s not exactly true. He did want to punch that smug smile off the bastard’s face, but he didn’t mean to knock him out. It’s not his fault that his punch landed exactly at an angle that made the guy’s head twist on the side and bang on the streetlamp, before collapsing on the ground and invoking a silence so loud everyone’s breathing felt like an entire storm.

And then all the guy’s goons start screaming and yelling for blood, pointing accusing fingers at Kaoru like Kaoru just killed someone (their boss isn’t dead, not yet), and most of them also start crowding around him with a palpable vengeful intent. As if that will ever intimidate him.

Nobody thinks that Kaoru is built to fight, which propels them into a state of shock and complete disbelief when he attacks first and manages to strike down two people by smashing their heads together and kicking them in the stomach for good measure. He doesn’t stop moving, always ready to spring back and to collide his fist with something breakable or crouching low to dodge and literally sweep them off their feet. He’s like a volcano being poked until it swallows everything around him.

His impulsiveness means he gets hurt too, mostly from his own moves that use more strength than necessary, but also from attacks he decides to go up against instead of avoiding, simply to get closer to his opponent. He ends up with scratches on his face and bruises on his legs or cuts on his arms, in a way that undeniably adds to his overall appearance of a troublemaker. He doesn’t give a shit; the messier and more dangerous he looks, the better.

It’s when most of the guys have fled, leaving Kaoru breathing hard and leaning forward with his hands on his knees, that Kojirou materializes next to him.

“What the hell, Kaoru?” Kojirou yells, not knowing if touching Kaoru will be a wise idea. “Did you pick a fight with random people again?”

“I didn’t pick a fight with them, they provoked me,” Kaoru growls, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. It comes away with a little blood. “Why do you always assume I’m the one instigating?”

“Maybe because two times out of three you’re the one who throws the first punch,” Kojirou mumbles.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

“Am I wrong, though?”

Kaoru makes a poor attempt at shoving Kojirou in the shoulder but he misses by a large margin and ends up swatting at his chest, which does nothing to abate Kojirou’s annoyance.

“Shut up,” Kaoru says.

Kojirou shakes his head and takes Kaoru’s arm to steady him, dragging him towards a less crowded and more luminous place to get a look at his injuries with supplies that seem to have appeared from nowhere.

ii.

Kojirou nearly lands on his face after failing a trick, all graceless and devoid of finesse, which makes Kaoru double over in laughter.

“That was really stupid,” Kaoru snorts.

“Yeah, I didn’t see you try doing that trick,” Kojirou scoffs.

“At least I don’t look like a limp caterpillar when I’m on the ground like you are.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Kojirou picks himself up from the ground and dusts off his pants, looking back at the track that he just descended from. Kaoru watches the way Kojirou is considering the path again, eyes focused on the last meters of the bumpy pavement. They chose this part of the track specifically because it isn’t well-maintained, full of holes and uneven ground that forces them to work on their stability. Kojirou, like the brainless ape he is, wanted to show off by doing some fancy trick that only served as evidence of his stupidity.

“Hey, you’re Sakurayashiki, right?”

Kaoru turns around and raises en eyebrow. He has no idea who the guy talking to him is.

“Get out of our turf,” the guy says on a tone that’s supposed to be menacing. “Or you’ll regret it.”

“Your turf?” Kaoru repeats, unimpressed. “The hell are you on?”

“You thought you could swing by after sending some of our guys to the hospital?”

The words go in Kaoru’s ear and make a swift exit in the other. He blinks.

“I didn’t send anyone in the hospital,” he says, tone raising like a question as he turns around to address Kojirou.

Kojirou lifts his hands in sign of innocence. “I don’t know, I’m not there to watch you fight every single person in this city.”

“You would remember if I did anything like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I just said I don’t know!”

“Stop ignoring me!”

Kojirou shouts wordlessly and yanks Kaoru by the arm, saving him from a well-aimed kick that would have sent Kaoru sprawling, and suddenly it’s like a switch has been flipped.

People say that Kaoru has a bad temper, an accusation that’s not totally unfounded. He’s quick to anger and he doesn’t mince his words—when he’s having a casual conversation with someone, many wrinkle their nose at his lack of proper forms of address, and others outright say he shouldn’t be so aggressive in his choice of words. One can only imagine how vulgar and straightforward he is when he’s insulting someone or spitting out a string of curses that are probably not yet in the dictionary.

Kojirou, of course, has a deep knowledge of the ways Kaoru can react before a taunt, a physical threat or a low blow to his ego. He’s not exactly a saint either, since he will without a doubt get into a fight if he’s provoked enough, or throw back cruel words when the situation calls for it, but between the two, Kojirou has less difficulty keeping his bad mood in check.

Kaoru twists around and is ready to swing his fist at full speed, but Kojirou is already scolding him while having a grip of iron on his arm. He’s also trying to drag him back, stopping him from making even one step towards their opponent who is, quite frankly, looking too fucking pleased with himself.

“What, too chicken to fight me?” the guy snickers. “Too scared of hurting your little hands?”

“I’m gonna punch a hole through your skull, you absolute buffoon,” Kaoru hisses, struggling against Kojirou’s grip. “Let me go, Kojirou!”

“Stop getting into fights, damn it!” Kojirou yells.

“He asked for it!”

“Same difference, you idiot!”

Kojirou loops his arms under Kaoru’s armpits and keeps him still, pressed against his torso, even when Kaoru is trying to pull forward with the sheer force of his will. Kojirou’s stronger than Kaoru, but Kaoru doesn’t give a shit when he is moved by rage alone, stomping and wriggling and squirming in the hopes of getting away.

The guy is watching them with the most self-satisfied smirk ever, as if Kaoru’s inaction is proof of his victory over a petty squabble that Kaoru himself doesn’t remember. It pisses him off.

He usually wouldn’t resort to such dirty tactics. In a fight, the more they use their fists and feet and entire bodies, the more gratifying it is. Sporting injuries and scars are simply a natural consequence of it, and everyone should wear them proudly—like real battle scars, resembling a physical history of their hard-won fights.

Kaoru’s skateboard is within leg reach. He has long legs, Kojirou keeps reminding him, so might as well make use of them. He makes one big step forward, grunting when he’s met with resistance due to Kojirou holding him back, but he manages to have his foot on the tail-end of the deck and brings the skateboard at his feet. He can feel Kojirou’s and the bastard’s confused and intrigued gazes on him; all he does is offer a grin, the sunlight catching on his lip ring like some wicked gleam of mischievousness.

Kaoru gives a harsh kick into his skateboard that goes straight towards the guy, hitting his ankle at full speed and tearing a cry of pain and surprise out of his throat. He puts all his weight on his other foot and cradles his injured ankle, glaring at Kaoru with burning anger. Kaoru isn’t sorry in the least.

“I’ll end you,” the man threatens, visibly shaking with fury.

“Good luck with that ankle,” Kaoru replies smugly. “You’ll fall over before you can land a single hit on me.”

Kojirou audibly sighs and shakes his head. And then, two things happen at once.

The first is that their friend bends down with difficulty, not wishing to put strain on his ankle, and picks up the skateboard. He gives it a long contemplative look, like he’s wondering if this object is worth his interest, before dropping it back on the ground and getting on it.

The second is Kaoru watching this with mounting irritation and rage, and he decides that stomping on Kojirou’s foot to let him go is less aggravating than letting some random prick steal his skateboard. So he does just that with minimal hesitation, causing Kojirou to loudly yelp as his grip loosens enough for Kaoru to slip out.

Skating all day doesn’t mean they can’t run with their feet. Kaoru pushes on his feet like his life depends on it and in a few large strides he catches up to the guy just as he starts skating away, and Kaoru, without a second thought, decks him.

Skateboard back in hand, a broad smile splitting his face in two, Kaoru leaves the track with a victorious fist lifted in the air, to Kojirou’s growing exasperation.

iii.

Kaoru presses his lips together and remains stubbornly silent.

“Kaoru.”

Arms crossed and a frown deeper than usual on his face, Kojirou is staring at him with disappointment so clear that Kaoru actually feels bad, for once. He shrugs.

“You’re lucky that it didn’t rip off your lip,” Kojirou continues. “Why did you get piercings if you know you’ll never resist fighting people? Do you want to risk permanent damage just because your brain is filled with a useless need to fight?”

“Shut up, Kojirou,” Kaoru mutters.

Kaoru winces when Kojirou presses something cold on his mouth, gently dabbing at it and being careful about the lip ring, whose presence alone did a number on his face. Having his head smashed into the ground would do that, he supposes.

Kojirou is silently working on cleaning and bandaging his various cuts and bruises on his face. Kaoru glances up, noticing that the tense line of Kojirou’s shoulders is heavier than usual, a bit more worried, as if today’s encounter could have ended in a disaster. It wasn’t any worse than the previous times. Maybe Kaoru got roughed up a bit more and maybe he got kicked in the ribs more times than necessary and yes, maybe he should have taken off his earrings and lip ring before going skating, but these are all possible factors disrupting his routine he always considers before doing anything. And it’s not like he knows in advance that someone will pick a fight with him. He just got unlucky this time.

Kaoru watches Kojirou’s brows knit together in concentration. This isn’t a rare expression on his face, but Kaoru has never noticed the way Kojirou’s focus is single-minded when he does this kind of detail-oriented tasks, or the way he purses his lips like he does when he’s trying to solve a complicated math problem. It’s the face he makes when something requires his entire attention, unperturbed and going at the pace he needs to finish what he started.

“Hm,” Kaoru says, partly because he’s thinking and partly because he shouldn’t open his still bleeding mouth.

“What?” Kojirou’s gaze never strays from Kaoru’s injury.

Kojirou takes Kaoru’s hand and guides it towards the compress placed on the corner of his mouth, and makes him apply pressure while the cleaning shifts to his ear. Kaoru’s lip isn’t bleeding as much as before, judging by the color of the compress that didn’t become completely red in five seconds, so he supposes talking shouldn’t make matters worse.

“Your precision is a bit surprising,” he admits, laughter in his voice. “I didn’t think you could be so calm while handling things that need careful maneuvering.”

“I’m not the one who can’t break eggs without dropping pieces of shell in them,” Kojirou snipes back.

Kaoru rolls his eyes. “Breaking eggs needs practicing, and I can still pick out the shell pieces if I really need to. If you poke someone in the wrong place while tending to their injuries then you’ll make it worse, moron.”

Kojirou is visibly putting all his efforts into remaining focused on his task, trying not to get riled up by Kaoru’s comments. It would be funny to watch, actually, if Kaoru wasn’t the one receiving treatment.

“I haven’t let you down yet, have I?” Kojirou asks.

And Kaoru can’t find anything scathing as an answer, staring at Kojirou’s bright eyes that never hide what he’s feeling.

“I suppose you haven’t, no,” Kaoru says lowly.

“You’re so much trouble, you know that?” Kojirou sighs.

But he finally meets Kaoru’s gaze and Kaoru is almost taken aback by the sincerity and raw emotion shining in it, like Kojirou is looking at a treasure he has locked behind a chest and kept the key close to his heart. Kaoru swallows.

“Not as much as you,” he replies with less bite than he intended.

“Says the one who is covered in bandages and band-aids.”

“I have to put up with your nonsense every day!”

“And I have to drag your ass back from whatever scuffle you get involved in!”

Kaoru shoves his hand in Kojirou’s face, and they start jostling each other, as if they weren’t being as still and cautious as possible to avoid complicating the process of patching Kaoru up. This familiarity, too, is something that will never change, no matter what happens—Kojirou has Kaoru’s back.

[namjoonfluff]

The Florist

pairing: Jungkook x Reader

summary: you own a flower shop in London and get to meet lots of interesting customers but none as interesting as Jungkook. 

genre: this is pretty fluffy at the moment - tempted to make it a series if people like it and we might get smut or angst!

word count: 1,900 notes: i haven’t edit yet so if things don’t make sense, feel free to come for me in my asks

When you opened up Buds & Blooms last spring, it was partly because of your love of flowers but also your love of people too. You see, you were surrounded by the same beautiful blossoms every day. However, the individuals who entered the shop were exactly that - individuals. Each one completely unique from the others; with different lives, different problems and different reasons for buying flowers. 

You had Mrs Norris who popped in every Monday to check out the latest bouquets. Her visits were never about purchasing a bunch but indeed, she was lonely. You would often see her leaving her terraced house, waving goodbye to her dog and shuffling across the street to the shop. Your eyes followed her every move; head bowed to the ground as she manoeuvred the cobbled street. The bell would ring to signal her entrance and you acted as if you hadn’t been expecting her arrival for five minutes now. “Hello, dear,” She would whisper softly across the rows and rows of roses and camellias. 

You glanced up from your ribbons and smiled. She didn’t like to start a conversation straight away. Instead, Mrs Norris took a very slow lap around the store before settling upon a bouquet of sunflowers. Her fingers ran across the sunshine petals as she fell into a deep thought. 

“Patrick used to buy me these,” Mrs Norris said to herself, looking sadly at the bright bouquet which sat waiting for her. You would never tell her this but you placed them there purposely. Before Mrs Norris’ husband passed away, he paid you to create her a bouquet every week. Even beyond the grave, he was finding a way to keep their love strong. It was enough to make you believe in soulmates! 

Soon after, Mr James rushed into the store like usual. No matter what day of the week, it was always just before lunchtime when he threw the door open in a hurry. As his face flushed pink and chest heaved, he briskly walked to find the biggest bouquet he could possibly find. Lucky for him, you always had one prepared for his visits. “What is it this time?” You grinned from behind the counter.

“Forgot-” He said breathlessly. “Forgot the pickles and now I’m getting a bollocking!” 

You couldn’t help but giggle at the panic on his face. Anytime Mr James and his wife had a slight disagreement, he would rush out to buy her flowers. It was because of him that the flower shop stayed afloat! He must have purchased about fifty bouquets since his wife got pregnant. He was seriously the best husband though. 

Plenty more customers popped their heads into the store throughout the day. There was Miss Dean - a teacher from the local school who always needed a fresh arrangement for her classroom. You were also visited by Danny Jones, your next door, shop neighbour. He was always dropping by to offer you some of his luxury coffee. It was disgusting though; the bitter type of coffee that just sat in the back of your throat the whole day! With his cup of hell, he also brought an uncomfortable attempt at flirting. “So, do you ever leave this place?” Danny said, leaning up against the counter. Your eyes twitched as you watched him squash the head of a pink rose from one of your wedding displays. It was a shame you had to be polite in front of customers because you could have slapped him so hard in that moment. 

“Well, you know what it’s like running a small business,” You shrugged. “I just wanna keep this place afloat!” He sipped his sludge while raking his eyes up and down your body. It would maybe make sense if you were wearing some kind of body-con, booby dress with heels. Yet, here you were in your favourite pair of mom-jeans and a baggy jumper. “That’s why I have my father involved,” Danny smirks from beyond the cup. “He pays the bills, I just make sure nothing goes wrong!” 

You subtly roll your eyes from behind the vase you were plucking flowers from. How could someone get through life like this? You wondered. But you didn’t really have to think for long. He was lucky enough to have his daddy’s investment. Need more beans imported from Dubai? Get Father on the phone! Someone broke the coffee machine again? Well, looks like Daddy’s going to need the call. You were jealous really! After all, you had saved up the money to buy the shop, scrimped and scraped so you could afford the latest till. You had even dipped into your life savings to buy a new sign for the shop. That’s how much you cared about this place! It frustrated you to see someone have it so easy. 

“Anyway, do you fancy getting a drink with me?” Danny asked. 

“Not if it’s any of that coffee,” You whispered.

“Huh?” He looked up from the flower he had de-petalled just a second ago. You were this close from kicking him out the store! 

“I’m okay,” You said shyly. How are you supposed to reject someone nicely? Someone who always gets their own way? 

“Are you sure?” Danny’s annoying voice peaked again. “Do you really want to be single and selling flowers all your life?” Actually, yes. That sounded like an absolute dream plan right now! No annoying men trying to make you drink their horrible coffee. Maybe you could have a dog like Mrs Norris. Yes, a dog sounded like a great idea - plus, they are much quieter than men anyway! 

“Honestly,” He huffed, bringing you out of the daydream where you’re walking your adorable dachshund around Hyde Park. Fucking idiot! How dare he interrupt you as you and Herbert settle on a park bench for a picnic. “You women confuse me beyond belief,” “You talk about marriage and babies but when a decent guy comes along, you reject him!” 

Afraid he was going to start lecturing you on the benefits of marrying into his family, you made sure to place a pot down on the counter - loudly! That should wake him from his own daydream which probably involved an image of you being his trophy wife, feeding him his exuberant coffee beans. “Sorry, Danny,” You said, looking up at the clock. “I’m closing now!” 

“No worries! Want me to do the tills for you?” He pointed at your cash register. “You want to make sure you’ve counted all your takings correctly!” 

How could someone be so unbearable to be around! 

“No,” You said firmly - or as firm as you could make it sound. “I’m okay!”

Despite his resistance, Danny finally left the shop five minutes before closing, leaving behind his stupid cardboard cup. In frustration, you lobbed it at the wall, hitting the space just below the chalkboard which advertises your prices. That was going to leave a mark but you would deal with it tomorrow. The only thing you need right now is to stick your head in a bunch of peonies! Thankfully, you were the owner of a flower shop and so a bouquet of peonies wasn't far away. 

Sticking your head into the fresh flowers, you inhale their sweet, earthy scent. They act as a reset button, helping you to remember exactly why you love this job. It was your philosophy that flowers could fix anything. Whether it was a petty argument or full-on heartbreak, buying someone flowers was like putting a metaphorical bandaid on their heart. It wouldn’t fix them, of course! However, it helped the healing process feel a little easier. It was just nice to know someone cared enough to send you flowers. It takes the sting out of any sour experiences. It helps to forget just a little! And as a florist, you were so happy to be a part of making people’s lives better. Even if the shop didn’t make you any money, you would still get up every day at five o’clock and create bouquets and arrangements. This was your biggest passion after all! 

“Hello?” A voice enters your ear from across the quiet shop. Shit!

You quickly whip your head around to see a man standing in your door, half smirking and half wondering ‘what the fuck is this girl doing motorboating some flowers!’ Well, at least, you think that must be what’s going through his head. How often do you walk into a shop to see someone with their face buried in flowers. “Sorry, I was just-” You start to explain but you wonder how you’re supposed to explain this to a stranger. Apologies, I just stuck my head in some flowers because this annoying guy keeps hitting on me. It’s not exactly normal person behaviour - the type a complete stranger would understand. “It’s okay,” The man spoke in a soft and calming voice. “I am looking for flowers.” “Well, you have come to the right place,” You gestured to all the flowers around you, which you had yet to stick your face in. “I promise I don’t do that with all the flowers!”

The stranger just laughed and began walking around the shop, admiring all of the flowers you had available at the moment. Completely embarrassed by what just happened, you rushed to the backroom to compose yourself. Oh god, what is my life! Did I really just embarrass myself like in front of some random guy? What must he be thinking right now! Maybe he’s already run out of the store and called the police. Amidst your thoughts, you hear a voice call out saying: “Excuse me!” With the heat from your cheeks slowly dissipating and breath starting to still, you walked back to the front of the shop with confidence. You see the man standing by the bucket of Ranunculus stems, staring down at them intently. 

“How can I help?” You smiled, catching the man’s vibrant smile back at you. Now that you’re in touching distance of the stranger, you realise quite how handsome he was. His warm skin was actually glowing - like he was sweating but it was a beautiful kind of sheen that wasn’t gross at all. As if you had made a complete fool of yourself in front of someone as beautiful as him. What an idiot!

“Can you tell me about these?” He said softly and you nodded. 

“These flowers are called…” As you explained the history of the flower and its meaning, his deep-brown eyes watched you intently. It was almost hard to keep eye contact with him because every time you looked in his direction, his eyes were staring right at you; full of wonder and intrigue. No one had ever looked at you like that. He even smiled and laughed at your little jokes, which definitely no one ever did! Nobody cared about flowers as much as you do to even understand your jokes. “So, these are perfect in bouquet, wreaths and things like table settings,” You finished with a smile as always. However, it didn’t feel forced like it did with other customers.

“Could I get them in a bouquet to collect tomorrow, please?” The man said quietly. “A mixture of colours, please?”

You nodded. “Of course, can I take a name for my book?” 

“It’s Jungkook!” The man smiled as he told you his name. To be honest, you didn’t need to know his name. How could you forget his handsome face after all! You just wanted to know more about him; it was an interesting name - one you definitely would never forget.

[big1ron]

The Venator “Resolute” had jumped right into a separatist trap. Somehow a virus infecting the main computer has scrambled the hyperspace jump coordinates, and now the companies on board were outnumbered and without reinforcements, deep in separatist space. A few last, desperate SOSs to nobody, and the ship was quickly overwhelmed with fire. The Resolute was going down. But not before each of the escape pods could be jettisoned.

————- Chapter Two: Bad Things -—————

Dogma shot the droid and tackled Jesse just a second to late, and took the bolt himself

The pain in his left side (and a little across his back) was searing. He was still breathing though, it missed anything vital. Just grazed him. He was rolled off the arc trooper to the side as the blasterfire didn’t pause for a second even though his own shot had destroyed its target. The fire didn’t last for more than a minute though, as the arc trooper disarmed and destroyed two of the droids with ease, and the medic took the last one.

That was pathetic, he couldn’t even get back up afterwards. He had taken worse than this, so why did it hurt so badly? He could barely hear what Jesse was saying, almost didn’t notice coric appear beside him.

“You di’kut! That hurt you far worse than it would have hurt me, what were you thinking!”

Right. Arc trooper. Thicker chest plate means the bolt wouldn’t have hurt him that badly

“S-sorry sir.”

Coric removed Dogmas helmet and jabbed a painkillers hypo into his neck “that was a sniper bolt, high powered. But it missed anything vital, you’ll live” Quickly moves to remove the chest plate before being stopped by Jesse

“Leave it coric”

“Jesse I dont care how much you hate him if-“

“I said leave it! This isn’t about my feelings for him. Maybe I hate him a little but he’s still my brother and I don’t want him to suffer. But we just encountered commando droids and that means there could be more around. It’s not vital you treat that but If you remove his chest plate to treat that and he gets shot again, you would be dealing with something much worse. So let’s move!”

“I- sir yes sir.”

“Kix you doing okay there buddy?” Echo turns back from the head of the group to look at kix, who is leaning much more heavily on rex now. Rex had chosen the right tunnel, they were now on the surface walking through the forest.

“I hate you... soo much echo. Plea’slow down...” they couldn’t have been walking more than a few hours but Kix looked absolutely exhausted. And he had been tripped by echo a few times now.

“I do too Kix, I do too. Echo, he’s right we should stop here for a little while, you two need some rest. DON’T annoy him in his sleep please.“

Echo takes Kix from Rex and is glared at before he can drop him. “Oh come on. Neither of you hate me, and Rex I know I’m your favourite.”

“My favourite’s Fives”

Echo gasps, offended “you take that back”

“You’re all rex’ favourite ok? Can I plea’sleep now?” Echo sighs in apparent defeat. The two settle down against a tree and once rex is sure they’re both asleep he begins watch.

Rex paces the parameter and looks back at the two vode, sleeping together. He smiles softly. They really are cute when they aren’t trying to annoy each other, or him. On the farthest corner of his loop though he hears something drop down from the trees between him and the other two. Commando droids.

They were completely unseen in the night, with their eyes not glowing like they should. They did now though, and he was surrounded as three appeared behind him. Rex immediately turn to the one centred behind him and blasts it to smithereens, diving over it and rolling to escape the others blasts. He runs in the opposite direction to echo and Kix to lure the droids away.

All four droids fall for it, they must not have noticed the two. The captain stops dead in his tracks and elbows the nearest droid in the face and shoots it with his free hand. He then throws that droid into another, knocking it over and deactivating both. He shoots a third down and has a mini heart attack when he can’t find the fourth. Is almost relieved when it springs on him from a nearby bush. He wrestles with it on the ground until he can grab his dropped blaster, and shoot it.

Rex gets up and dusts himself off. Now he just needs to get back and... which direction did he come from...?

“ECHO! KIX? WHERE ARE YOU TWO” he called but either they were to far to hear him or were to asleep to hear him.

“- But thats way to risky! There are three of us hardcase, we will be killed!”

“It’s either that or we get used to this place cause we aren’t leaving”

“There are other ways than storming into a separatist base, think with your head for once!”

“Oh don’t start that up again. I’m thinking perfectly fine, just cause your an arc trooper doesn’t make you any smarter than me”

“Yeah well maybe it gives me a little more common-

“will you two stop arguing already!?”

Hardcase and Fives both stop bickering to look at Tup. It’s the first time either of them has stopped bickering in the last few hours.

“Stop yelling at each other, it’s getting nowhere. I know you both want what’s best for the squad but you can do that without screaming at each other! Fives I know you’re and arc trooper and hardcase I know you have seniority, and I know you have conflicting ideas and opinions but following the structure of command we have to listen to fives.”

The three were walking in a single file line across a thin out pass on the side of a cliff face, heading for the summit. Fives first plan. Get a vantage point. Tups speach shut the two of them up for a little, but not long, as they started fighting again as hardcase questioned who has been put in charge by Rex more often. They didn’t hear him yelp when the rocks fell out from beneath him. He was send skidding all the way back down to the base of the cliff, which had had to have been a few hundred feet at least. He tried to grab at rocks, branches, anything he could to slow his fall but all he did was send himself rolling instead of sliding.

He landed on the ground with a thud. His head was spinning and he hardly had time to even register what had happened. He let himself lay splayed in the ground for a second before mentally checking himself over. His hair tie had snapped sometime during the fall and he would definitely be bruised in quite a few places but nothing felt broken. He pulled himself to his feet and looked back up to where they were. He couldn’t see fives or hardcase “GUYS! FIVES, HARDCASE!” He called “IM DOWN HERE!”

No response. Great. Ok. Nice.

Tup scooped up his blaster and began to search for another way up the cliff.

“HARDCASE WE LOST TUP”

“WHAT”

“HES GONE”

“HOW COULD YOU LOSE TUP!?”

“HEY I didn’t lose anyone. He just disappeared!!”

“Well where could he have gone?!”

Both turn and look down and look to eachother before fives has to grab hardcase to stop him flinging himself off the cliff

Jesse still has one pistol drawn and is on guard as his group moves down the path. Dogma had been even more quiet then later but coric assumed that was to hide the pain. Coric would keep an eye on him, he wouldn’t tell him whenever the painkillers wore off. That’s something he knew about dogma. Dogma wasn’t paying attention and tripped in some kind of animal burrow. He w t down with a small noise of distress. Coric stopped and waited for him to get up, Jesse didn’t. Dogma caught back up to the group, but the limp was noticeable. Jesse only rolled his eyes.

“Hey are you alright?” Coric asked, as if he expected any answer other than ‘fine.’

“I’m alright, doesn’t matter.”

Close enough. He kept an eye on him and the limp didn’t go away for 10 minutes so he decided to intervene.

“Hey Jesse, let’s stop. I want to check over dogma again. He’s limping”

“I’m fine coric it’s-“

Ah there it is. The ‘I’m fine’ he’s so used to hearing.

“Listen kid when a medic tells you something you listen. We’ll stop. Coric, make this as quick as possible though.”

Of course, Kix was also a medic. Jesse is just as bad as the rest of them but he’s probably heard these PSAs more than anyone.

Coric held up the medisensor and sighed

“It’s sprained. He really shouldn’t be walking on it. I won’t be able to treat it properly until we get back.”

“What? No, I can walk fine. I was just doing so, wasn’t I? Let’s get going again”

“No, you think you’re fine. If coric says you can’t, I guess you can’t.” Jesse sighs and turns to coric “I guess I’ll carry him. We can’t leave him here, and you’ve got the medpack.”

Coric’s honestly a little surprised Jesse agreed, but then he feels a little bad for underestimating Jesse. But then again he gets the feeling Jesse may actually just be playing four dimensional petty chess as well.

Having acquired Ahsoka a second bike, the two Jedi were surveying the planet right until the crack of dawn when

“Master am I crazy or do you feel what I feel?”

Anakin’s bike skids to a stop in front of a trooper laying face down in the dirt, as if that’s right where he fell

“Whatcha doing Rex? Trying to become a landform?”

The captain pulls his arms underneath him and gets up. He is almost tackled right back to the ground as he’s tackle hugged from behind. Luckily he’s caught (and also hugged from the front) by anakin.

“We missed you Rex! I was afraid you were shot down! I’m so glad you’re alive...” said ahsoka

“It’s great to see you two, sirs. But I don’t know how much longer I’ll be alive if you keep crushing me”

“Now ahsoka, please don’t kill our poor captain. He looks like he’s had a long day.” He pulls away from Rex and ahsoka does the same. “So Rex, we only have two speeders, so who do you want to ride with?”

“Uhh...” he weighed his options. On the one hand- to long. Both Jedi got that glint in their eye that meant competition and both grabbed at rex at once. Anakin pulled him towards himself before ahsoka could lay a hand on the captain.

“Alright captain, you’re riding with me. Hold on.”

[georgescatcafe]

the rising chariot — 3

rating: t warning/s: none pairing/s: platonic dream team, karl jacobs/sapnap genres/tags: percy jackson and the olympians au, friendship, angst summary: Nick Pappas isn’t sure it’s normal for teenagers to be sent across the United States on a quest that could potentially kill them, but Nick has started to realize that everything he thought was normal is entirely false. George Davies doesn’t particularly want to spend three consecutive days with this new camper and that son of Hermes who snagged his win in Capture the Flag two weeks ago, but he knows he has to suck it up and go with them, no matter how irritating they may be. Clay Bryce just wants to prove himself and show that he’s more than that troublesome kid from Cabin Eleven, but even as the leader of this quest, he’s not sure how to when Nick has fire powers and George is practically capable of mind-control.

Yet what they feel and want will mean nothing if they don’t complete their quest. When a petty feud between gods has Apollo threatening to take the Sun from the sky, the three must head out to stop him, but not just that—they’re in a race against an ancient enemy of the god, one who definitely will try and kill him if it gets to Apollo first.

New York City was as terrifying as it was large. Which means very. Floris, luckily, knew the city well, and he led Nick past block after block to their hotel.

“Don’t people normally take a cab?” Nick asked once they had their bags set down on their respective beds. “Like… that’s an NYC staple?”

“I’m a native,” Floris replied, distracted as he dug through his suitcase. He grinned when he pulled out a hoodie. “I forgot how cold it was here, even in the spring.”

“Is it?” Nick asked, only wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants. “I thought it was nice.”

“It is nice,” Floris agreed, even as he tugged the hoodie on over his head, “but I get the chills when I’m here. Can’t help it.”

“So is it cold or not?”

“Yes,” Floris said, talking his bag off the bed and setting it on the floor. “Anyway, get your nap in, your jet-lag settled; I’m giving you a full tour of the Big Apple before dinner.” He settled atop his bed, arms stretched behind his head, and Nick made a face at the shoes touching the covers.

“Seriously, man?” he asked. “Shoes in the bed?”

“Not in the bed,” Floris replied smartly. “On the bed.”

Nick made another face, but didn’t argue.

His nap was poor, tossing and turning, never properly falling asleep, while Floris snored on, feet kicking and fingers twitching. Nick wished he slept as good as the other. But instead he ended up staring at the ceiling, waiting for the other to wake and take him on this tour.

When Floris did wake, he looked refreshed, and he pranced around the room getting everything he needed (which was apparently just some cash, an umbrella, and a change of shoes, except he went into the bathroom to change them, which Nick thought was weird, but he didn’t comment on because he just wanted to get out of the stifling hotel room). By the time Floris came out, Nick was standing by the door, hands shoved in his pockets to keep them from moving restlessly.

“Ready?” he asked.

“I’ve been ready,” Floris replied, allowing Nick to pull the door open and letting it fall shut behind him.

They made their way down to the lobby, where it was clear it was a new shift, a new receptionist sitting at the desk. Nick wondered what went through the man’s head, with the way he fixed a piercing stare on them. Floris didn’t seem to notice the stare, however, as he kept on his merry way, beginning to talk about all the things New York had to offer. Nick couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder one last time, though, before they exited the building, catching the eyes of the receptionist. A chill went down Nick’s spine. Quickly, he turned away and hurried to follow Floris as he began to walk down the street.

“Obviously we can’t see everything, and we definitely can’t do it all tonight,” Floris was saying when Nick focused on him once again, “but we can just walk around for now, and I can give general directions. Also, I personally am not a fan of the subway, but you can go on it.”

“I,” Nick looked around, “don’t need to go on the subway. Are you sure about the cab thing?”

“Does it matter?” Floris asked.

Nick guessed it didn’t. 

Floris was an alright tour guide, if you overlooked the fact that he didn’t say much about any actual landmarks or places you’d find in a NYC guidebook. Nick wondered if that made him a better tour guide or not. They stopped at a nondescript deli and had sandwiches and soda for dinner. Nick stared as Floris happily ate a veggie sub, tomato juice spilling down his chin.

“Is that actually any good?” he asked. “It’s like… salad between bread.”

“It’s good,” Floris reassured. “Is yours good?”

“Duh,” Nick replied.

When they got back to the hotel, the receptionist wasn’t there, but Nick swore he could still feel those eyes on his back. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he and Floris got in the elevator, heading up to the fifth floor.

“That receptionist from before,” Nick said when the doors slid shut, “did you see how he was looking at us?”

“The receptionist?” Floris echoed, thinking. “No. Why? Was he looking at you weird or something?”

Nick frowned, but he shook his head. The guy probably just had a staring problem, or maybe he thought Nick’s t-shirt was stupid or something. He ignored that feeling in him saying that not telling Floris was a bad idea. Besides, if Floris didn’t care, it probably was fine, right?

The doors slid open and Floris led them back to the room. Nick flopped onto his bed, now properly ready to sleep.

“I hate walking,” he said. “My legs hurt.”

“Sleep it off,” Floris replied, disappearing into the bathroom. He stuck his head out. “Might go downstairs to get more of that fresh air. Is that okay?”

“You’re really weird,” Nick answered.

Floris smiled before his head went back through the doorway. Nick never saw him leave, eyes slipping shut, breath going even, sleep overtaking him.

He was back in the hotel lobby. Nick looked around, for the receptionist, for Floris, but it was just him. He took a seat on the bench. 

“You’re late.”

Nick jumped, and when he turned, a woman sat, one of those small, yappy dogs held in a purse on her lap. When Nick waved at it, it growled and spat. He made a face. “Nice dog,” he said.

“What dog?” the woman asked.

Nick looked at her before pointing. “The one in your purse.”

“I don’t have a dog,” she replied.

Nick looked to her lap once again. There was no purse, no dog.

He stood. “Um, my bad.”

“Are you okay?” the woman asked.

“Fine,” Nick snapped, irritation culminating under his skin. “Who are you again?”

“Did you forget me already?” she stood too. In her seat sat that dog in the purse. Nick stared at it, and again, it growled. Nick looked at the woman. “It’s rude to forget people, you know. Fills people with a certain rage; you’ve felt rage before, haven’t you?”

“Not because someone’s forgotten my name,” Nick answered.

“So you’ve felt rage,” she continued, “and what did it do to you? Did you feel rage when they took your mother? Did you feel rage when that new woman came to replace her?”

Nick took a step back as the woman took a step closer.

“Hot and burning inside you, you scream and no one hears, what a weak little boy you were.” She laughs, and it’s a witch’s cackle, high-pitched and grating. Nick stumbles as something nips at the backs of his heels. The little dog, eyes rimmed red and crusty. It’s teeth trying to cut through his pants.

“Your dog,” he said, trying to kick it away from him, “make it stop.”

“Isn’t it cute?” she asked.

“You said you didn’t have a dog.” Nick managed to send him flying off, claws skidding on the polished tile. It ran back towards him.

“I don’t,” she replied. “Are you sure you’re okay? You keep doing something strange with your legs.”

The stupid dog was gone, and Nick was kicking and tripping on air. He cursed. “What’s up with you, lady? Seriously, you’re freaking weird.”

“Am I?” she asked. “I’m sure you know all about weirdness. Your friend, for instance, weirdest of all. Though he pales in comparison to you.”

“Floris?” Nick screeched when that stupid dog bit at his ankle, sweatpants now basketball shorts, ankles exposed perfectly for the dog to sink its teeth into. “Get your dog!”

“Yes. Floris. Forgot.”

“It’s rude to forget people’s names,” Nick echoed back to her.

The woman smiled, showing teeth tipped in red. Nick choked on a breath. “You’re absolutely right.” She snapped her fingers, and the dog was back at her side, yipping and yapping at her to pick it up. When she did, she stroked a calming hand down its back. It looked at Nick, and that’s when he realized there was foam around its mouth. His own mouth dropped open in horror.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Am I going to die?”

“This is a dream, stupid boy,” she answered. “And if you don’t remember me,” she laughed, that same spine-tingling cackle, “you’ll figure out who I am soon enough.” A sudden shriek pierced through the air, and Nick stood at attention, eyes wide and heart pounding. The woman’s smile stretched to a grin, those red-tipped teeth glinting in the bright lobby lights. “Best wake up now; you don’t want to be late again.”

Nick’s eyes blinked open. He was in the hotel room, in bed. He shoved the covers off him and hurried to put his shoes on. Everything in him screamed to go find Floris. Without a single look back, he flung the hotel door open and ran.

He avoided the elevator, fearing it would take too long, instead finding the door to the staircase and prying it open, the metal heavy but not enough to stop him. It’s cool where it is pressed to his skin. He rushed down the stairs.

The closer he got to the first floor, the louder the noises that come from the lobby were. Nick sped up as much as he could without tripping. 

“Floris!” he shouted, unsure if the other could even hear him. He was breathless and panting by the time he reached the first floor but he shoved it open, the metal bar digging uncomfortably into his skin.

“Nick!” Floris shrieked. “Watch out!”

Nick moved out of the way just in time to miss a barrage of spines being flung at him. He sucked in a breath. “What—”

“Move!” Floris screamed, and Nick obeyed, dropping to the floor when a large paw came at him, claws extended. When Nick looked, he saw Floris’s hoodie had been torn in multiple places, hanging off his body loosely, in tatters. Nick took in another breath.

“How are you still alive?” he asked, crying out when more spines came at him.

“Who is this, Floris?” the monster growled. “You’ve brought another course? How delicious!” His lips curled into a treacherous grin, and when he spoke, his breath came out and hit Nick straight in the face, rancid.

Nick gagged against the smell, trying his best to get over to his friend.

“We need to,” he stuttered, “I can’t—fire, I can’t—”

“You have to,” Fundy replied. Nick shoved him and dropped to the floor when the monster ran out them, rolling under the massive body. (The mom lifting the bus for her baby.) His heart pounded. Floris had crawled behind the receptionist’s desk. His head poked up over the top. “You have to, Nick!”

“I’ll burn this place down!” Nick shouted. “I can’t—”

“But you have to!” the monster mocked. “You have to! You have to!”

Nick bared his teeth, anger beginning to boil his blood. “Yeah!” he replied. “And you have to die!” That was the only way—this thing was an abomination, the head of a man, the body of a lion, spines shooting from its tail with a single flick, leaving Nick dodging and ducking like nobody’s business. 

Without fire, he was left defenseless, left to tire out the monster, but he knew it’s a lot more likely it’ll tire him out instead. Floris ran at him, then, and tackled him, sending the two of them through the sliding front doors. Even at night, the streets of New York City were bustling.

Floris grabbed him by the arm and took off, tugging Nick through the crowd. “This was a bad idea,” Nick just barely heard over the sounds of traffic.

When Nick turned back, the crowd was parted like the red sea, and charging right at them, the monster.

“A manticore,” Floris said, “one of the deadliest monsters out there. Just our luck.”

“I don’t want to burn down New York,” Nick replied.

“I know,” Floris tugged them down an alleyway.

“If he catches us, we’re dead,” Nick realized.

Floris looked at him. “So we can’t let him catch us.” He leapt onto a dumpster, and Nick was left to hurry after him. Floris scaled the building like nobody’s business. Below, the manticore shrieked and yowled as Nick climbed up as quickly as he could after his friend.

“How can you,” Nick sucked in a breath, “climb so fast? I thought you had,” another breath, “some kind of leg issue.”

Floris’s foot slipped. Nick yelled. Off came Floris shoe—foot—what? Nick stared at the hoof waving in his face. 

“Come on!” Floris cried. “I’ll explain later!”

Then, Nick felt the back of his sweatpants rip straight down the middle, and pain flared hot and heady in his left leg. Shock flooded his body. He doesn’t know if he screamed. But he did know what he had to do.

Floris was already near the top of the building. 

Nick climbed.

When he reached the top, Floris was waiting for him, arm outstretched to pull him up. Nick accepted it. Together, they ran, uncaring of the manticore they both knew continued to climb up after them.

Salt from his tears and wind stung in the corners of his eyes. He grit his teeth as he followed Floris across rooftops, biting back a pained groan every time his injured leg met the ground. Behind them, the manticore followed, chasing after them on all fours, calling to them, taunting them. Nick took a deep breath, preparing himself for the next jump.

“There’s somewhere you can go,” Floris said, his remaining ‘shoe’ left behind two buildings ago, hooves now carrying him easily. “It’s safer—monsters, like the one chasing us, they can’t get in.”

Nick looked at him before Floris stretched out an arm to stop him from falling off the edge of the roof. “Seriously?”

Floris nodded, then dropped his arm. Nick backed up then got a running start, stretching his legs as best he can as he jumped to the next roof. Floris followed not long after. And the manticore not long after that. Nick cried, genuine crying, not tears from the winds that whipped around them, as he reached the edge of another roof. The next building was across the street.

Nick turned to Floris.

“We won’t make it,” he said. “We won’t make it.”

Floris returned his stare. “We have to try to make it.” He wrapped his arms around Nick and sent them plummeting from the roof.

[xazz]

Moth Wings 5

Pairing: AltMal, Altair+Desmond Rating: Explicit Tags: vampires, romance, servant AU, music AU, fluff, angst, flangst Status: WIP

Double update bc it’s a spooky story for a spooky period of time :,)

Also now tumblr has access to the first full chapter of Moth Wings that Patreon has already enjoyed for a while now. If you wanna get ahead it’s all available on Patreon which you can find on my main blog.

--

The next day Altair only played the violin quietly. He didn’t want Malik to hear and Desmond liked the music. Malik didn’t bother him that day, or the next, thankfully.

His hand strength was increasing now. And he was starting to develop callouses on his fingers again. Thankfully. It made playing easier.

It didn’t get him any closer to getting Desmond to talk. When Desmond wanted music he mimed playing the violin. That wouldn’t do. He needed to get Desmond to start talking. He needed to show progress to the mistress and master. That he was doing right by them. That he wasn’t fucking up their son. Of course he also bitterly thought if they were really worried about the state of their son’s development they should be the one raising him!

Altair had taken to playing the lullaby each night now to Desmond. He sat on the bed with the violin as Desmond lay under the covers. He mimed playing. “No,” Altair said. “If you want me to play you ask, with words.” Desmond frowned. “I know you understand me, Des. If you want me to play you a lullaby you need to ask me.”

Desmond scowled at him and mimed again that he wanted Altair to play. “I’m not going to play unless you use words, Desmond.”

Desmond scowled and rolled onto his side, pouting. Altair didn’t leave yet. “Just ask me to play, and I’ll play all night if you want,” he stroked the boy’s hair gently.

Desmond sat up. His mouth worked and then in a very bad way went, “Altear plaw.”

Altair’s eyes widened. “Play? You want me to play?”

“Plaw,” Desmond said and mimed using the bow. “Plaw, plaw.”

“Okay. I’ll play,” and he tucked Desmond back into bed. “Thank you for using your words,” he said, holding onto the hem of the blanket. “Using our words gets things we want, see?”

“Yeas,” Desmond said. “Plaw.”

“I will. You’re such a good boy,” and he kissed Desmond on the forehead. Then he sat up and took up the violin and started to play the lullaby. Even just the few days his hands were more deft and sure than they had been the first time he played. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sound of the song washing over him, reminding him of being a child himself. In his bed Desmond yawned and Altair kept playing. He played it a few times and at the end of the last bar hung onto the last note, letting it fade slowly into the air around them and opened his eyes. Desmond was sound asleep, curled up under the covers.

Altair got up and put the violin away. He always took it back to his closet room with him every night. He liked having it near. It reminded him of his father. Of his life outside the castle.

He closed the door softly and when he turned around his heart was in his throat. Malik was leaning against the wall just next to the door. “Ah, sir, did you need anything?” Altair stammered stupidly, looking down at his chest and not his face but at least not looking at the ground.

He flinched when Malik put a finger under his chin, making him look up. “Just a bit higher,” he said nicely.

Altair swallowed, “Can I do something for you?”

“Yes,” Malik stood up properly and Altair really wished he’d just leave him alone. “Come with me.” Altair did follow and was glad Malik had turned away so he could avert his eyes. He didn’t lead Altair to his room but to another room. A bigger room. A ballroom perhaps? Altair had never been in here. A small couch had been brought into the middle of the ballroom. Malik went and sat on it and Altair was destined to stand before him. He started to get nervous, his hands trembling. “Play for me,” he said.

“What?” Altair choked.

“Play for me. I’ve heard you practicing. Let’s hear you now,” Malik reclined into the back of the couch.

“Ah- alright,” he put the violin case down and pulled the instrument out, retightening the loose bow. He swallowed and put the violin under his chin. He needed to think of something. He closed his eyes to try and think of some music. Anything. Something came after a few seconds, piercing through the panic. It was an up beat song but not very quick so he could keep up with the tempo. He used to play it a lot during festival days with other string players. It was a song for spring and reminded Altair of flittering butterflies.

The sound filled the ballroom, the high ceilings and marble floor creating perfect acoustics for the sound. It made it sound like there were five players in the room and not just Altair. He opened his eyes to look around the room he’d never been, his hands knowing the song well enough to not need his supervision. It was a high vaulted room with beautifully painted walls and a place to sit along the sides. And while spectacular wasn’t really of interest to Altair. The dining room was as magnificent and he saw that every day.

His eyes eventually rested on Malik sitting in the sofa and he was watching intently. It made him faulter and Altair lost tempo, his fingers scattering across the neck awkwardly. He blushed, looked away, and pulled himself together. He looked back at Malik and Malik was just enraptured by the playing. He wasn’t anywhere as good as he used to be but Malik didn’t know that. To him this was the height of how you played this instrument.

Finally the song ended and Altair lowered the bow. Malik clapped, smiling widely. “That was marvelous. Absolutely fantastic,” he said brightly.

“Thank you,” Altair said humbly.

“What’s your name?”

Altair wasn’t sure why he was surprised Malik didn’t know his name but he was. He supposed it would have appeared beneath him to ask the masters the name of their human nanny. “Altair,” he said, “Altair Luthier.”

“Such a name hardly belongs here in the mountains like this,” Malik said. “Is your family from here?”

“Yes, sir,” he nodded. “Five generations.”

“And before that?”

“I... I don’t know,” he admitted.

“You look different from the other humans in the town,” Malik remarked.

“Yes. My family and some others in the valley are darker skinned,” he admitted.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Apologies,” Altair bowed, “Your driver named you when you first arrived but I forgot most of it. I know you’re the master’s guest, Malik,” he apologized.

Malik chuckled. “It is a mouthful for you so far north, I don’t blame you for forgetting. I am a member of the Sunfaire coven far to the south. William and I are... well friend is such a strong word among our kind. He and I have an understanding. I am visiting for a time.”

Altair wasn’t sure why he was being told this. But the vampire wanted to converse with him. How odd. “Is there a reason? If he’s not your friend then why would you come here? Especially as it will be winter soon and the winters are frigid here.”

Malik smiled slightly. “Yes. I have heard. But there is unrest in my homeland. I disagree with the direction of my coven and how they are dealing with the unrest. So I took myself out of the picture until it is over.”

“Oh. How long will that be?”

“Who knows? A year? Five years? A generation? Humans have such a hard time letting go of their petty squabbles. Now play something else for me.”

“Alright,” Altair said slowly. He brought the violin back up, thought about what to play and decided to just do the lullaby with some flourish. The lullaby made him feel better as much as Desmond. But he added a bit more to it. A pitch change, a tempo shift, the rearrangement of some notes. The familiar song made him feel more at ease even with Malik watching him so closely.

Malik didn’t stop him and he just kept playing. Eventually leaving the lullaby melody for something else. Just something his fingers did without much thought. But he didn’t let it get sad like he had a few days ago. The music soothed him and even though he was the one playing it he felt himself being lulled to sleep by the music. He was also very tired. Playing with Desmond and practicing all day made him so tired. He hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in years it felt like.

A hand grabbed his wrist and he realized he was about to fall over. “Oh— uh—“ he felt very foolish at Malik holding his wrist. “Apologies. I uh— I almost nodded off there,” he flushed in embarrassment.

Malik didn’t scold him or even seem upset. “I suppose it is well past sunrise.” He delicately took the bow out of Altair’s hand, loosened it, and put it in the case. He took the violin as well and closed it in its soft lined case. Then he picked the case up but didn’t offer it to Altair. “I will carry it for you,” he said and motioned for Altair to go. He was mortified. A vampire? Carrying his violin?

“N-no, I can do it,” he tried to reach for it.

Malik just put a hand on his chest. “You’ve provided me with beautiful music tonight. It is the least I can do is carry a bit of weight before you go to bed.”

Altair didn’t know what to do and felt trapped. Eventually he just nodded and headed for his closet. Malik followed behind. “You play so well. Does the coven know you play?”

“I don’t think so,” Altair said.

“A pity,” Malik scoffed. “Or maybe for the better. I get to enjoy it all on my own without their racket,” he chuckled. “Well, of course, me and Desmond.”

Altair just laughed awkwardly. “I can take it now,” he said outside his door and held his hand out for the case.

“This is where you sleep?” Malik’s brow furrowed even as he surrendered the case. The door wasn’t like the other doors in the castle to everyone else’s rooms. 

“Ah, yes. Thank you,” he bowed. He waited for Malik to leave but the vampire didn’t. “Uh?” he looked up and Malik was just standing there. “Aren’t you also going to go to sleep, Malik?”

“I’m a polite guest. It’s rude to leave before someone you walk home has gone inside,” Malik said. Altair looked at him, shrugged, and opened his door. He was surprised when Malik put his hand on the door before he could close it.  “This is where you sleep?” Malik asked again, sharper this time.

“Ah? Yes?” Altair said, swallowing, trying not to cower.

Malik said something in another language, he sounded very annoyed. He looked down upon Altair’s little cot shoved into the corner and the tiny stool and water jug and basin. Then he looked at Altair. “No wonder you’re asleep on your feet.”

“I was very busy today,” Altair said.

“You’re sleeping on a board with a furred rug over it and no pillow,” Malik said it out loud and Altair looked down, humiliated. He didn’t like to think of it like that. “I don’t know how William and Kaley expect you to look after their son in a state like this.” He seemed genuinely angry about it. “In my coven we’d never allow the humans to stay in such a place. Oh I am having words with them,” he growled.

“No, please don’t,” Altair grabbed his arm. “The mistress already treats me so coldly, please don’t speak to her of this.”

Malik’s black eyes were narrowed. “You deserve better than this, even if you are a human,” Malik said. “Even the cattle are more well off.”

That rattled in Altair’s skull. “What?” he asked softly.

“Have you ever been to the cellar?”

“No. I’m not allowed down there,” Altair said just above a whisper.

“They have beds, and chairs, and places to sit comfortably in their confinement. Hell they even have space for things, personal items and entertainment. They haven’t even graced you with a shelf,” he motioned angrily to the closet. “What have they told you it was like down there?” Altair repeated the words the Matron had told him often. “Hah. Hardly. This coven hasn’t hunted fresh food in decades because they take good care of their livestock. They keep them well fed and fat. I’ve seen what you eat. Cold food you bring from the town. I’m sure they wonder why you even go there when they bring hot food up here every day to the outer cellar door for the humans. Mocking them like the food they bring isn’t good enough?

“No. I will certainly be speaking with William and Kaley of this because this is unacceptable. Even my servants have their own shared rooms thrice as big as this and only two people sleep in it,” he motioned to the room angrily again.

Altair was about to have a break down. He let go of Malik and was just sitting on his cot, staring at him. He’d suffered this place for three years, taking care of that horrible pulsating chrysalis and then their little son and they acted like a closet and providing him a small amount of money to buy his own food was a kindness. First he’d been forced to leave his home, his life, his livlihood, and now this came to light? He put a hand over his face and cried.

Malik stepped into the closet and knelt by him. “Altair?”

“Please sir, just go away,” he said thickly.

“Yes but-

“I wish to be alone. Please. Allow me that,” he looked at Malik with tearful eyes. 

Malik looked stricken. He didn’t even react when Malik reached up to wipe away his tears. “I think you’ve been alone enough,” he said nicely. “And I don’t want to leave you here. You don’t deserve to sleep here another night.”

“Where else would I go?” Altair asked with a mad smile. “The garden? I’ll just sleep under the rose bushes huh?”

“Not quite what I had in mind, no,” Malik said. “But there is an extra bed in my chambers.”

“Wh-what? No. No I couldn’t,” Altair said quickly.

“I insist.”

“But-

“Altair,” he said with some impatience. “I know William has told you to obey any vampire in this castle, yes?” He nodded. “Well, I am one. So you will obey,” he said sternly.

“I don’t wish to intrude-

“Get up,” Malik stood. Altair hesitated but did stand. Malik pushed him out of the closet and stalked him down the hall back to the hall where his and Desmond’s quarters were. Altair wrung his hands the entire time nervously, nearly wringing the skin clean off. Malik opened the door and bullied him inside. “You can sleep here,” he said, showing Altair to the bedroom.

“W-what? No. I couldn’t. That’s your bed. I couldn’t push you out of that.”

“You can,” Malik said. “I have my slab,” he pointed to the sarcophagus in the corner of the room. “It’s really quite comfortable. You won’t be putting me out.”

“Yes but-

“Altair,” he spoke over his nervous prattling. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Last night,” Altair said dumbly.

“Really slept. Slept well? Got an honest to goodness real night sleep where you didn’t wake up as exhausted the night before? Hmm?”

Altair didn’t answer at first. But they both knew the answer. “Since I came here,” he said softly.

“I thought as much. Now please. You do a hard, thankless, task, you deserve a good’s night sleep. Now I am insisting you take my bed for the night.”

Altair still hesitated. But Malik didn’t seem a bad sort. And he seemed genuinely angry about the closet. He was being genuine. “Alright,” he finally said.

“Good,” and Malik put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry your only interaction with vampires has been this coven,” he growled. “I assure you, we aren’t all like this. Most of us appreciate our human workers. This is why William and I have an understanding, but he is not my friend.”

“Oh. Thank you,” he bowed because he didn’t know what else to do. “You’ve been... very kind to me.”

“Only what you deserve,” Malik grunted. Then he released Altair and went to the sarcophagus. He removed his night coat and stretched out his arms and his glass-like strangely insectoid wings unfurled from his spine to also stretch out, straining to their full length. Altair had only ever seen Desmond’s tiny, useless wings. He’d never seen an adult vampire’s full wings. They were colored on the back like a moth or butterfly. Then they curled back up against Malik’s back and he climbed into the sarcophagus, closing the lid without another word.

That just left Altair in the bedroom of a vampire. He swallowed and took off some of his clothes. Just so he wasn’t sleeping fully dressed but more dressed than he’d usually sleep. Then he carefully sat on the bed, watching the sarcophagus like Malik would climb back out and call him a fool for believing such things and throw him out. But Malik didn’t. Altair inched his way further onto the bed and under the covers. They were the softest, most luxurious sheets he’d ever felt in his life. Even with the comforter he felt cool under them. And the pillows were great and plush, cradling his head gently.

Altair sank into the softness with a content sigh, eyes closing. He opened them enough to turn the lamp on the bedside table off before he closed his eyes. He slept better than he had in years.

[dreams-of-valeria]

For the Xmas request thing can you do 7-Fluff and 1-Smut together?

@chiefharbour asked:

For the Christmas prompts, could you do Smut # 1 & #9? I’m living for your writing!

Cold cuts

F7: Christmas gifts

S1: Secret Santa

S9: Dealer's choice (Surprise)

Pairing: Jim Hopper x female reader

Warnings: Age gap, language, dirty talk, Hopper being his sexy-ass self, SMUT

A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the sweet things you guys have said! I am overwhelmed with all the love and although this isn't strictly secret santa, I hope you like this one! Merry Christmas!

Word count: 3,156

You swayed your hips in beat with the smooth acoustic that pervaded the air of the small kitchen, as you wrapped your Christmas gift to Hopper.

Elvis crooning about being left alone on Christmas rang from his record player and with you alike, because it was 10 pm and your boyfriend wasn't home yet. You found it odd to call him your boyfriend--juvenile even, but maybe it was just the townsfolk rubbing off on you. They definitely were, considering you just said townsfolk.

As long as their opinion on age gaps in relationships didn't rub off on you, you didn't care.

Two years ago, you were just the new girl in town whose sole reason to pick Hawkins was to leave her bankruptcy behind as she paid off her student loans. A lot of help your marketing degree was doing you in a place where people called the ATM a banksy. You hated living there and missed the nice life but little did you know that meeting a certain policeman would make it all worth your while.

What followed after that fated and chaotic meet at the bank was petty banter and frustrated sighs, which took both of you a month to understand was pure sexual tension and once you'd fucked and got that out of the way, you had plenty of time for the romance.

Neither was of you was very fond of the chocolates and flowers bit, but were experts in the nude. Sure, there were plenty of gooey and touchy-feely memories along the way, and the amount of gentleness Hopper showed threw you at times. But at the same time, you loved how rough he was with you in bed. It was what you were both good at and you had no complaints. Except for the tardiness.

You sighed as you did the final knot and wrote his name on the card, vowing not to bring it up. You would not be one of those people who chastised their partner over the amount of time they spent doing their very crucial work. Provided it didn't extend beyond 11 pm. Your patience really started to wear thing close to the witching hour.

You headed to the tree and placed the small present by the trunk, grinning in anticipation. You couldn't wait to see his face when he opened it. Your heart beat in wait as you tightened the bow of your grey robe, and fidgeted with the ornaments to cut time.

You noticed that your present was the only occupant under the tree, and told yourself not to be disappointed if Hopper forgot to wrap his. Or get you a gift in the first place.

It was unlikely, but still a possibility. He was just so fizzled out lately, and you hoped it was only a bad streak.

You had just corrected the tilt of a rogue red bauble when the lock turned behind you and your boyfriend (--lover?) walked through the door, brushing the snow off his coat and boots.

“Hey, stranger,” you greeted him at the entrance, leant against the wall with your arms crossed. His face looked flushed like you'd just sat on it and rode it to your climax, and there was something to be said about his unruly hair.

“I know I'm late, baby. Some people, I swear to God . . .” he grumbled as he passed by you, leaving an ice cold kiss on your lips before he settled before the fireplace, warming himself up.

You watched him as he rubbed his hands together, and the way his arms flexed underneath that tight uniform shirt. It was the hottest thing you'd ever laid eyes on, and never failed to leave you wet and wanting.

“Dinner smells amazing,” he commented with a smirk, shooting you a look from under his thick eyebrows. They matched his beard, all rich and prickly, and you suspected one of the reasons he kept it was because of the noises you were making when he went down on you.

“Did you spend all day cooking for me, darlin'?”

You smirked at him with your arms crossed.

You couldn't cook to save your life. Which meant your significant other was calling Swanson's TV dinners his darling. Nevertheless, the endearment made your knees weak. And your panties damp.

“Oh you know how I can't resist my gastronomy when I'm waiting on my tardy hunk.”

“Gastronomy?” He frowned as he kicked off his boots.

“Word of the day,” you told him as you took a seat on the couch next to him. “I thought we could do presents first.”

“I'd rather do you first, but sure,” he shrugged, turning to face you as smiled. You shook your head and watched him with a face-splitting grin, expecting him to retrieve his present from under the tree. But he just sat there watching you quizzically, dumb as the doorknob that's been keeping you company on Hopperless nights.

You sighed and told him what he was supposed to do, but he simply twisted his face unwillingly. “I'm burned, sweetheart, could you get it for me, please?”

“It's two feet away, Hop.”

“I'm not as young as you are anymore.”

“Oh really? You weren't born with a receding hairline?” You snapped as you fetched him his present, but he man laughed, which nearly made his eyes close. You absolutely loved those laughs.

“Should have thought of that before you fell in love with an old man, kitten.”

“I'll remember that for next one,” you teased, making him laugh again as he took his present with a thank you.

Maybe it was your excitement rubbing off on him, but he suddenly seemed thrilled that he had a present with his name on it. You imagined he didn't get a lot of presents before you, when he lived in that Godforsaken trailer like a hibernating hermit. You'd flat out refused to move into that rectangle and that was when he had mentioned a cabin his grandfather had owned, and the two of you had made it your own.

“Let me guess, it's a sign up sheet to Smokers Anonymous?” He teased as he undid the ribbon, and you found your back straighten in anticipation.

“Don't be silly, that's for New year's.”

He let out an amused snort as he peeled off the paper and opened the small box, and his smile died immediately on seeing the content.

It was exactly what you'd expected. He frowned deeply at the piece of paper, with the words 'Pull Me' scribbled across in your handwriting. Hopper looked up at you for answers, but you simply got to your feet and made your way over to the record player, and changed discs. You figured after Elvis, Eartha Kitt would set the mood just right.

“I don't understand,” Hopper let you know as the disc crackled for a few seconds before the song started. You wordlessly made your way over and stood in front of him with a smile, hoping his gaze would land on the ribbon tied around your robe.

It did soon enough. They didn't make him the Chief for nothing. A smirk spread across his lips when he saw it, perfectly capturing the naughty but playful mood Eartha was lilting.

You saw his eyes darken as his hand tapped his thigh, signalling you to get on. You gulped down your heart in your throat and straddled him, kneeling on the couch on either side of his legs.

“Closer.” Hopper demanded, and you leaned forward until your waist was inches away from his face. He moved his hands out of his lap, and you hoped he would touch your bare legs, and slide them up to the apex. Your heart thud in anticipation, and nearly flatlined when he locked eyes with you and took the end of the ribbon into his mouth and held it firmly between his teeth. It took you a moment to understand you had to move back for the bow to come loose.

His eyes were on you throughout the delicious process, but only until your robe parted and revealed a glimpse of red lace.

Hopper's breath caught and he looked up at you to confirm his suspicions, and you smiled as to say yes. Before he could tear your robe away, you stood to your feet again, Eartha Kitt's silky voice giving you courage.

You lightly swayed in place to the beat, and slipped the robe off your shoulders bit by bit, until you were standing only in your lingerie: a red demi cup lace bra with matching panties and a garter belt.

Hopper's breath caught, and you witnessed first hand what it looked like for a person's jaw to hit the floor. Just to up the ante, you moved around in an impromptu dance with the music, giving him sexy rolls of your hips and a view of your back, and watched him grow restless in his seat.

His knuckles blanched from squeezing the edge of the couch, but a ghost of a smile still lingered on his lips. You watched the crotch of his pants shift from within and smirked, turning around to give him another look.

The song was approaching its end, and you could hear the couch springs shift. But you still yelped when his arms closed around your waist and pulled you back to straddle him as he attacked your lips.

The disc had screeched and absolute silence lingered for a beat, before Hopper slipped his tongue into your mouth and your body reacted. Loud.

His hands were frisky and urgent, just like the first time you had sex. You couldn't wait to get each other naked and take everything as quickly as possible. It didn't turn out to be quite as quick as you imagined, just like when you fantasized about him with your fingers in your underwear before you knew each other, fucking your brains out.

His calloused hands cupped your breasts and kneaded, and given the sheerness of the bra, it might as well not have been there at all. It wasn't in the next second, as his fingers unclasped the hook while his tongue still teased yours, danced with yours.

You pulled back for a breath of air, and he locked eyes with you as his hands ran over your erect nipples, pinching and twisting them until they matched the color of your lips.

“F-fuck . . .” You hissed, grinding your hips onto his bulge as his tongue teased your nubs, and you fisted your hands in his hair, goading him to swallow you whole.

Between his prickly beard and moans that vibrated through you and the friction of his pants against your clit, you could feel yourself close to your release, and started to pant in welcome.

But he clamped your hips down captive and bared his teeth against your nipple as he spoke.

“Not so fast, baby. I get to tease you too.”

“Hop, please,” you panted as your vision blurred. “I'm so close.”

He smiled wickedly.

You knew exactly what begging did to him.

“Then finish,” he breathed, before shifting you onto his left thigh. You also knew exactly how much he loved it when you rode his thigh.

“Yes, sir,” you grinned despite your aching need and started off slow, watching him as you rubbed your core against his thigh. You did it knowing it would make him cocky and let it go to his head, but you loved the dominant side of him. Especially in uniform.

Your moans escalated fast enough as you grinded against his thick cord of muscle, and Hopper helped you by flexing occasionally, hitting your clit in a rhythm. Your hand squeezed his shoulder as the other steadied yourself against the couch, and the zing birthed from your apex, and then exploded until it touched every nerve ending, and you collapsed in his lap into a moaning mess.

“That was nice,” you panted, moving your head that was on his shoulder so you could see his face, but only saw neck. Licking your lips, you kissed your way up his neck, and Hopper's answering groan was everything.

You nipped along his skin, determined to leave a bruise. Somewhere his collar couldn't hide it. Hopper said it made him look unprofessional, but you knew that secretly, he loved showing off to the entire town what you did to him. He certainly returned the favor.

Your fingers set to unbutton his shirt as you devoured his neck, the warm flesh yielding easily under your lips. Hopper was in his undershirt by the time you'd moved back to his lips, and his fingers lightly trailed down your bare back and ending behind your knees.

You yelped again when he threw your back to the couch and hovered above you, throwing his white tee over his head and onto the floor. You stared up at him with pure, unrestrained lust, and his eyes drank it all in. Every pant and heave of your naked chest spurred him to pace up undressing, and the way you licked your lips nearly sent him off the edge.

“Do you know how gorgeous you look right now?” He panted as he unbuckled his pants, kneeling between your legs.

“Yes,” you smirked, sitting up to help him get his pants off, but he pushed you back down, tutting as he pinned your arms by your sides. Your hips inadvertently met his, and you locked your legs around his waist, feeling him hard against your core.

“Tell me what you're thinking,” Hopper pleaded, kissing down your neck.

“I was thinking how nice it would be to watch you fuck me like this.”

“Yeah?” He gritted his teeth as he kicked off his pants completely, and his erection bounced free.

“Yeah,” you panted, lifting your hips as he slipped your panties off. “How nice it would be to watch your cock disappear inside me.”

Hopper groaned into your neck as he positioned himself at your entrance, and teased you by rubbing himself between your folds.

“What else?” He watched you roll your hips, wanting more.

“We'd finish and then have dinner.”

Hopper paused his teasing to glance up at you in confusion.

“And then I can hound you about not getting me a Christmas gift.”

He chuckled, kissing your nose. “Baby, I am the gift.”

Your back arched when he pushed inside all the way at once, and you could never get used to the feeling. Of how it made you feel full. Complete.

“Oh, God,” you moaned, fingers digging into his biceps as he moved.

“I did get you a gift, by the way--Godamnit, you feel so fucking good.”

“Yeah?” Your words were punctuated by his thrusts, slow but relentless. “What is it?”

“All good things to those who wait.” He whispered in your ear, before angling himself differently. “Hold on,” he instructed, and your hands immediately flew to the couch, gripping whatever they could. You knew what was coming.

Hopper got up to kneel and grabbed your hips, before starting a rhythm of deep, penetrating thrusts that made your teeth clatter. You held on to the arm rest as he moved, as he made your body feel incredible with only a few inches of his. Well, quite a few inches.

You smiled and bit your lip as Hopper's moans quickened, and you knew he was close. He reached his thumb down to your clit and rubbed, and you felt that zing ready to explode again. You sat up on your elbows and watched him disappear deep inside you, as his fingers helped you along to a climax that was even more spectacular than the last.

You fell back as stars formed in front of your eyes, and soon felt his release inside you, before Hopper's heavy, spent body collapsed on top of you.

You panted out your highs, wrapped in each other's arms like that. The only sounds were from the crackling fire, the heartbeat in your ears, and the breath of the man you loved above you. This was exactly how you saw your evening pan out.

After a while, when you'd circled your fingers in his damp hair, he asked, “Where'd you get the lingerie?”

You smiled. “Believe it or not, Flo helped me.”

He snapped his head up to look at you, face blanched.

“Not like helped me pick it out, jeez baby,” you chuckled, smoothing his hair back. “I meant she told me about a store in Carbondale.”

“That's two towns over,” he commented, nuzzling his head back into the crook of your neck.

“I know.”

“Looks like Flo helped both of us,” he said after a while, and freed his arm from underneath you.

“So you liked it?”

“Of course,” he smiled, hovering on his elbows above you. “You want me to get exercise one way or another, but I didn't mean this is what Flo helped with.”

You frowned, seeking out answers from his crystal blue eyes. Hopper sighed and stroked your face, leaving a feather like kiss on your lips.

“She pushed me--well, threatened is the word really, that if I didn't stop jerking around and give you this gift I've been carrying around for a year, she would burn my hat.”

“You've been carrying a new microwave around for a year?” You frowned.

“No. What? No.” Hopper shook his head. “Wait, you wanted a microwave?”

“Yeah? To cook dinner.” You said in a matter of fact voice, and he sighed with his eyes closed.

“I'm sorry to break it to you, princess, but I'm not spending that much money on a girlfriend.”

You stilled, and his playful smirk was the only thing that kept you from going off the rails. And then when he held out his gift to you, your heart did go off the rails.

“However, I would change my mind if it was for my wife,” he smiled, holding the small diamond ring between his fingers in the space between you. You could feel your jaw drop this time as tears came to your eyes, and your hand flew to your mouth.

You knew about his history. You knew he had had an unsuccessful marriage, and still, he was willing to try. For you.

“So, what do you say, kitten? Microwave or not?”

You chuckled through your tears, holding his face in your hands to kiss.

“I'm gonna reheat so many leftovers for you, baby.” You sniffled, and watched his lips form into a grateful smile. And it only grew as he slipped the ring onto your finger, shedding a few tears himself.

“Sorry I didn't have time to wrap it.”

You chuckled between kisses, stroking his hair lovingly. “You can make it up to me.”

“Newly engaged sex?” He grinned, eyes full of adoration.

“After dinner,” you promised, standing corrected.

The evening did not pan as you'd foreseen.

And you were grateful.

J.

[hideawayintheimaginationworld]

Was there one time where the neighbors mistaken Ballora as Lefty's wife?

“So you don’t have a woman in your life?”

Lefty shook his head, Bob Mackenzie was one of the neighbours he got on so well with that he decided to come over to his house after Bob said his wife took the kids to school and she was running errands, and Bob asked if Lefty wanted to talk considering the kids were at school, Delilah and Stanley were at work, and much to Lefty's absolute shock, Matt actually took Spring somewhere, granted he did say he was taking him to see the Rockstars at the Pizzeria but Lefty counted that as a father-son activity.

It did mean Lefty was alone and Bob did notice and asked if he'd like to have a conversation.

They were just chatting in the backyard, sitting under the shade, enjoying coffee, Lefty in his human disguise looked like a normal person, black hair and golden eyes, he certainly couldn’t tell Bob that he was a monstrous animatronic, he would panic. He was surprised Bob or his family didn’t notice the “visitors” after Midnight because Bob sometimes told Lefty he heard Fetch barking at strange hours, unaware Fetch was actively scaring away an intruder like Funtime Freddy.

And yes he knew it was Funtime Freddy because he chased him away, it wasn’t as brutal as their other encounters which often left Lefty in a state of barely holding himself together, Funtime Freddy still tripped Lefty over when he knocked over a garbage can which Lefty fell over, he was surprised the racket didn’t wake up a neighbour.

Lefty didn’t have any lasting damage however he had been walking funny this morning, he was kind of limping on the leg and it was actually Pete who bugged him enough to look at it (he reasoned it might be because of how Lefty looked out for him in the past) he found his leg wasn’t functioning correctly because of a slight fracture in his knee joint, which he fixed but it was taking time for his leg to start working normally again. His injured leg was why he wasn’t working today.

Bob shrugged, “That's strange, I've seen a woman coming around your place regularly, is she your girlfriend?”

Lefty shook his head again, “No I don’t have a wife or girlfriend, I don’t have an interest in getting into a relationship at this point in time.”

Lefty himself actually didn’t see an appeal in romance but he had reasoned if he possibly found the right person (his case an animatronic or magical entity like Frostbear or Shamrock), he could potentially fall in love.

“Is she your sister? She looks too young to be your mother.”

It had struck Lefty in that moment to ask, “This woman... does she have like blueish hair?”

“Yea, that’s who I’m talking about.”

“Oh I see...” Lefty nodded, “The woman you're talking about is Ballora.”

“Ballora?” Bob sounded confused by the name, Lefty knew it sounded strange.

Ballora was an animatronic, Lefty knew she was created by William Afton but she seemed defective as she had a much more caring nature than what Afton preferred so he deactivated her and left her to rot in a Scrapyard, where Lefty found her four years ago while looking for Funtime Freddy, he dragged her away back to the pizzeria and completely repaired her, replacing broken exoskeleton parts, giving her a new animatronic skin, completely restyling her to restore her.

These days Ballora was living in the more centre part of town, she was a dance teacher, who was particularly teaching all kinds of people, from little kids, to adults, some were even using her dance lessons as a form of physical therapy, Lefty couldn’t really dance well, he could dance reasonably but Ballora was a thousand times better, she had the perfect structure to do things like pirouette and grand jeté where as Lefty was more designed to be cuddly with more focus on his personality than body. Lefty found he was better at singing.

“Yes, she's a good friend of mine, now I know there's nothing wrong with having a friend from the opposite gender, we aren’t attracted to one other,” Lefty nodded.

“She comes over regularly I’ve noticed, she isn’t like a friend with benefits?”

“No, she's just my friend,” Lefty replied.

Bob nodded, “I see,” accepting that as an answer, “I couldn’t help but hear from my daughter Cindy, she said she saw a rabbit in your window.”

“Rabbit?” Lefty asked, he was hoping he wasn’t talking about Spring, he tried to keep the kid away from being seen by anyone.

“Said it was wearing a top hat.”

“Oh no, it was a toy, Ralpho,” Lefty replied, “It's like the Plushtrap Chaser, you know those?” He didn’t want to tell Bob that Ralpho was sentient and extremely petty, doing stuff like waking Lefty up at five am, hiding his car keys in a stupid place like how he hid them in the coffee powder once, but Ralpho did shake some of the worser behaviours and was often sleeping in Hazel's room, always insisting he never liked her but liked the stuffed animals because they were comfortable as a makeshift bed.

“Yes I’ve heard of them.”

“It's a robotic toy that plays the cymbals and says things, it belongs to my daughter, the only pet I have is Fetch.”

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Piggy’s Had Too Much Wine

This fic is highkey a vent because my younger brother is an asshole who never stops calling me fat

DISCLAIMER: By writing this fic I am not saying that Katy Richardson is fat. She is not. And even if she was, she would still be drop dead gorgeous. This is a fictional story about the character she plays, not her.

Word count: 3159

TW: Body shaming, body image issues, self harm

--------------------

  “Damn, girl, you got enough in your face?”

Joan looked up from the forkful of food she had just put in her mouth and blinked at Anne smirking across the table at her. She chewed slowly, like a sheep deep in thought, then said after swallowing, “Huh?”

Anne nodded at her meal. “You got a lot to eat there.”

  “I know,” Joan said, shifting in her seat. “I’m hungry.”

  “That’s new,” Cathy observed. “Usually you don’t like eating during lunch breaks at work.”

  “Well, we’re not at work,” Joan said. “This is a restaurant.”

  “We know that,” Cleves said. 

  “And the food is good here.” Joan went on hastily. “I like it.”

  “Maybe a little too much,” Kitty said from behind her glass, earning her a sharp, but wounded look from Joan, which she countered with a petty sip of her drink.

  “I’m paying, anyway,” Joan continued. “Why does it matter what I get?”   “It doesn’t, honey,” Aragon settled her. “Don’t worry about it.”

Joan nodded and then took another bite of her meal. She couldn’t help but feel a little awkward as she did so, as if she were eating like a pig out of a slop trough, but tried to ignore it. It was fine. Everybody had to eat. There was nothing embarrassing about it.

  “So…” Anne started again. Aragon gave her a warning look, but she either ignored it or didn’t see it. “What made you want to come out with us? Usually you never go out.”

Joan shrugged. “I got lonely. And there isn’t anything good to eat at my apartment, so…” She shrugged again.

  “Ah, so that explains why you’re stuffing your face like there’s no tomorrow,” Kitty nodded wisely.

Joan ruffled, face inflaming with red. “I said I was hungry!” She yelped, her voice pitching slightly.

  “Don’t get mad,” Kitty held her hand sup. “I thought you were just trying to starve yourself or something.”

  “You do never eat,” Jane put in her two cents.

  “Well, I am now,” Joan grumbled.

  “Do you have a date?” Cleves asked. “Maybe you’re looking for someplace good to take them?”

Anne snorted. “If Joan had a date, then I hope they have a belly kink because she’s going to be packing after this.” She took a sip of her drink, then breezily added, “More so than she usually is.”

A few giggles swept through the tables, while others snapped their heads around to gauge Joan’s reaction. And she did not look happy about what had been said.

Joan’s fork was raised up for her to take another bite, but frozen in midair. Bright red consumed her face like the blooming of a rose in spring. She unconsciously wrapped her free arm around her stomach while slowly setting her fork down with the other. She sat hunched against the table for a moment, then was grabbing her purse and dumping money out on the table.

  “You can pay with this,” She mumbled.

  “Come on, Joan,” Anne said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be such a baby. It was just a joke.”

But Joan doesn’t listen to her. She stood up and shoved her chair in roughly. Tears of humiliation could be seen shining in her eyes.

  “Oh my god,” Anne groaned. “Are you going to cry? Are you serious? You’re literally thinner than half of us here! What do you have to cry about? Or even be embarrassed about?”

Still, Joan doesn’t listen. She slung her purse of her shoulder and stormed out of the building, her arms wrapped firmly around her stomach the entire time.

------

When Joan got home, she shoved her fingers down her throat and cried. So much for a good meal. At least she got to pay for it.

------

That night, Joan stood in the shower with a box cutter poised over her exposed belly. She wondered what it would be like to find clarity in its blade. Cutting off pieces of herself would make her feel more whole. A heavy decision with a light outcome. It would just be like how they cut meat at slaughterhouses.

Make yourself an animal. Make yourself less human. It’ll make the process easier.

But the pain was bright and sharp and unbearable, even with the smallest of slices, and she threw the box cutter at the wall.

Joan sunk to the floor, sobbing, thin trails of blood running from her stomach. The water dissolved the red into unfolding petals of flowers across her pale skin before sliding into the drain.

What did she have to be embarrassed about?

She looked at herself in the mirror after getting out of the shower and asked herself this. What does she have that makes her so embarrassing? What does she have to hate?

She wasn’t overweight. She wasn’t obese. In most people’s terms, she was the normal example of thin. It was just her stomach, it wasn’t that bad, or that’s what they say.

  “You’re not even that big,” That’s because you haven’t seen her with her shirt off.

  “It’s just your stomach, it’s not even that bad,” But that’s what people see the most.

  “You aren’t fat so stop saying you are,” And she wished she could, but tell that to the insecurities rebounding inside of her head.

When she wears jeans, she has to pull the waistband up over her stomach or else she would be doing an impression of an English muffin for the entire day.

When she wears certain shirts, she has to suck in her stomach or else everyone will see the not-actual baby bump she’s sporting.

When people jokingly (or sometimes seriously) ask if she’s pregnant, she has to force herself to laugh along because if she shows that she’s offended they’ll pull out the “you’re not fat, you don’t know what it’s like, you have no right to be so whiny.”

When someone says they wished she had her body type, she has to act like it’s some worshiping compliment when really it just makes her feel guilty.

And she gets it, she does, she knows how hard it must be for actual overweight people, but goddamnit, when she heard someone point her body out so rudely, it was enough to destroy any confidence she had in herself.

She wanted to cut it all off. All of it. Until there’s nothing left but a gaping hole left in her abdomen from where her ugliness used to be.

If only.

------

Joan hadn’t expected not eating to be so goddamn hard. She only ate a few things a day, but having nothing at all was absolute torture. The fact that she couldn’t go twenty-four hours without food did not help her confidence in her weight or body, but it was also too much for her to handle. She /had/ to eat. She could find a different way to lose weight.

------

Exercise was a bust. Turns out she has really bad stamina. She threw up when she attempted to jog an entire trail. She walked the same trail the second time and still felt excruciating stitches in her side during the entire hike. And then she waterlogged herself and felt even sicker. AND THEN her legs were sore for days. She hated it.

------

When starving herself and jogging failed, Joan turned to the local gym. She bought herself a membership and went in with the most confidence she could muster. The first day, her foot slipped and she got her leg caught in the turning pedals of the bike machine. In her attempt to escape, she sprawled right out of the seat, screaming. She hasn’t gone back since.

------

Two weeks have passed since the incident at the restaurant. Joan was still thinking about it, no matter how hard she tried to distract herself. Anne’s words and the laughter that followed just kept rebounding through her skull.

Hunching over her work desk, Joan carefully felt her stomach. She hated how soft and pudgy it was, as if she were actually pregnant like how people liked to joke, but with a deflated baby. She poked the roll of fat and wrinkled her nose in disgust. Her nails curled into the skin as her anger mounted.

Why did she have to look like this? 

She had rewatched the recordings of the Sunday Sessions and noticed how much her stomach stuck out. Had she always looked that fat? Why didn’t anyone say something? Were they laughing at her while the Live went on? Were they looking? God, she even looks awful in her overalls. If she can’t wear her overalls anymore, then what’s the point of anything?

Joan whimpered. She scratched harder at her belly.

Cut it off. Cut it all off. Make herself good, whole, pretty. People will like her more. She’ll finally have friends. Yes. Yes. Good.

Tears streamed down her cheeks. Stinging pain streaked all across her poor tummy. Her fingernails were claws and she was marring herself.

Give them a reason to like her. Just don’t let them see what lies underneath. Just smile and be pretty and stay thin. Cut it off.

Joan wondered what would happen if she scratched too deep. What if her skin split open? She’s heard of evisceration that has happened like that, granted it usually wasn’t caused by excessive clawing because of body hatred. Would pulling out some of her organs make her thinner? Surely she didn’t need her large intestines /that/ much. It had it in its name- “large.” It’s too big. It takes up too much space in her. It’s definitely making her look so swollen and gross.

Pull it out

  “Joan?”

Joan’s hands froze. Her entire body froze. She swallowed thickly, shutting her eyes and cursing herself in her mind. Then, she’s wiping the tears from her face and turning to the queen in her doorway.

  “Yeah?” 

Jane peered at Joan curiously. Strangely, the usual annoyance in her gaze was missing. She even looked a little worried.

No, no-- Jane doesn’t care about her. Jane thought she was fat, just like everyone else.

  “Are you alright?” Jane asked.

  “What? Oh, yeah. I’m okay.” Joan said. She forced a light laugh. “I was watching some animal videos. You know The Dodo? God, those always make me cry! Don’t tell the director, please? I don’t want him to think I’m slacking.”

Jane looked at her computer screen, which definitely did not have an animal video on it, then nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

  “So, what did you need?” 

  “Oh, uh. Tim needs you. Something about lighting malfunction.” Jane said.

  “A music director’s work is never done,” Joan chuckled dryly. She got up and walked out into the hallway, Jane stepping back with her. When she closed the door, faint bloody smears were left on the knob.

She and Jane both noticed it, along with the blood on her fingertips, but neither said anything.

------

You lose weight when you’re stressed. You also gain weight when you’re stressed. The fact that Joan was worried that her costume was tighter than usual does not help the latter.

------

The costume was definitely tighter. Or maybe it was always this tight? NO, there’s no way… Well, whatever it is, it’s making the waistband cut uncomfortably into her belly when she sits down. But maybe it rupturing her organs from the tightness may not be so bad. The loss of mass inside of herself could help her lose weight.

------

Joan tried to not eat again. It’s working a little. She’s restraining herself well enough. But it’s awful, so awful. The hunger pains are the worst.

------

  “Joan?”

Joan turned to the doorway of her dressing room to see Aragon standing there. 

  “Yes?”

  “Are you almost done?” Aragon asked.

Joan furrowed her eyebrows at her paperwork. “No.”

  “Wonderful,” Aragon said. “Come on.”

Joan blinked. “What?”

  “Come on,” Aragon said again. “We’re going to my house for dinner.”

  “Wha-- But I said I had work?”

  “It doesn’t matter right now. Let’s go.”

Joan hesitated, then gathered her belongings and walked out with Aragon. If it weren’t for her undying loyalty to the queens and that she was kinda afraid of Aragon, she might have refused. Too late now, though.

  “What are we having?” Joan asked meekly on the drive to the queen’s house.

  “Lasagna,” Aragon answered. “And, no, before you ask, I’m not going to add every single existing spice into it.” She rolled her eyes. “Can you believe that Anne really thought that?”

That got a tiny giggle out of Joan. Aragon flashed her a quick smile, then focused on the road ahead of her.

  “I hope you’re hungry.”

  “I am a little,” Joan said, and that’s the moment her stomach decided to growl obviously loud. Her face flushed bright red and she wrapped her arms around her midsection as Aragon laughed.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Aragon chuckled.

Joan remained flustered for the rest of the short car ride. And then she was just embarrassed when they pulled up to the queen’s house and realized she was going to have to eat in front of them again. She was already preparing herself for the humiliation.

Weirdly, though, the house was empty when they walked in.

  “Everyone is out eating,” Aragon said, catching Joan’s confused expression. “So it’ll just be us.”

  “Oh… I’m sorry you had to miss that.”

Aragon waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. It’s quite alright. Now come help me reheat this lasagna.”

Half an hour later, they were eating. Except Joan just stared at her plate, wringing her hands anxiously in her shirt. Her stomach was dying for the freshly made lasagna, but she really didn’t want to add the calories to her already thick body.

  “Joan? Aren’t you going to eat?” Aragon asked.

  “Oh, uhh-- I’m not that hungry, actually.” Joan said.

  “But I thought you were earlier?”

  “That was earlier.” 

And then Joan’s stomach growled. Redness enveloped her face as she hunched her shoulders in and looked at the floor. Aragon gave her a sympathetic smile.

  “Eat, honey. Please.”

So Joan does eat. She eats more than she actually wanted and after four plates she feels stuffed and sick- both physically and mentally.

  “You really were hungry, huh?” Aragon mused, picking up Joan’s plate. Joan whimpered below her. Instantly, her maternal instincts flared to life. “Joan?” She knelt beside the chair and set a hand on Joan’s back. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

Joan sobbed. She looked up at Aragon and tears were rapidly streaming down her cheeks.

  “Oh, sweetheart… Come here.” Aragon pulled Joan into her arms and the girl slid off the chair to be enveloped in them. She noted that Joan didn’t hug back, rather kept her hands firmly gripping her stomach. Things were starting to fall into place. “Shh, shh… It’s alright, baby. It’s alright.”

  “No, no,” Joan shook her head. “No, it’s not. It’s not, Catalina, I--” She practically screamed. “I hate myself so much.”

  “Joan…” Aragon helped Joan up so she could sit on the couch. The girl instantly curled into her upon sitting down. “Joan, honey, why? What’s wrong?”

  “I-I--” Joan cut herself off with a tight whine.

  “Is this about what Anne said?” Aragon asked.

Joan nodded with a feeble whimper.

Aragon looked absolutely enraged. “Goddamnit, that bitch--” She hissed. She pulled Joan against her firmly. “I’m so sorry, baby girl. This has been eating you up, hasn’t it?”

Joan nodded again. “It’s--it’s all I’ve been thinking about. It’s been killing me, Catalina, it’s been killing me…” She sobbed into Aragon’s chest. “A-and I know it’s stupid because I’m not overweight, not really, so I don’t have the right to complain, b-but--”

  “Oh no. Don’t you dare.” Aragon pushed Joan back and cupped her tear-stained face, making the girl look her in the eye. “Don’t you dare say that, Joan. You have every right to feel the way you do. You can be upset if you want to, regardless of your body type. You can be tall or short, black or white, skinny or fat- it isn’t just overweight people who have body image issues. So don’t be guilty over that, honey.” She brushed some hair out of Joan’s face. “But just know that the things you are thinking are not true.”

Joan pulled away and shook her head. “They are.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach again.

  “They are not.” Aragon said. “Joan, you are not fat.”

  “Yes I am!” Joan cried. “Have you SEEN my stomach? I’m fat, Catalina! I’m fat and gross and--” She dissolved into tears again.

  “I have seen your stomach, Joan.” Aragon said gently. “Am I supposed to be disgusted by it?”

Joan nodded, not looking at Aragon.

  “Why?”

  “B-because,” Joan stammered. “It’s ugly…”

  “Honey, you are not ugly.” Aragon said. “You are anything but ugly. You are very, very beautiful.”

Joan answered with only a tiny, “mmmm.”

Aragon pulled Joan back into her arms. Joan curled into them, her head finding its spot on her chest.

  “I don’t care about what you look like, baby. You’ll always be beautiful in my eyes. Not ugly or fat.” Aragon said.

  “P-please don’t say I’m not fat,” Joan begged quietly. “I-I can’t-- I can’t believe you. Not right now. It’s too-- I--”

  “Shh,” Aragon pressed her head underneath her chin. “I understand, honey. But just know my opinion will never change about you. You will always be my perfect girl.”

Joan sniffled. “R-really?”

  “Really.” Aragon confirmed.

Joan was quiet for a moment, then nodded. She finally hugged Aragon back, practically burying herself against the queen.

  “I-I don’t know how long it’ll take,” Joan whispered. “For me to not see myself the way I do…”

  “That’s alright,” Aragon said. “I’ll be here helping you every step of the way.”

  “Thank you.” Joan nuzzled into Aragon’s warmth. She winced when her stomach cramped. “I think I ate too much…”

  “Oh, my poor baby,” Aragon cooed. She lowered one hand and rubbed comforting circles against Joan’s belly. “I used to do this with Elizabeth, you know. She was such a fussy girl.” She chuckled. “Don’t tell her I told you that.”

Joan giggled. “Your secret is safe with me.” She leaned her head against Aragon’s chest and relaxed into the feeling gliding across her full stomach. “I can see why she liked this, though.”

  “Oh yeah?” Aragon smiled at her. “I’ll have to see if she still does, then. Ha, she would be so red!”

Another giggle. “She’d kill you.”

  “I’d like to see her try.”

Joan smiled slightly. Her hatred for her own body was still clouding her mind, and she knew she was going to continue to have problems over it in the near future, but it suddenly felt like they would be easier to deal with. She had someone who loved her, who thought she was perfect and beautiful, regardless of what she or her stomach looked like. 

Well. At least there was one good thing about having a soft, chubby tummy. More room to get belly rubs.

[inspirationdivine]

The Best First Impressions || Morgan & Lydia

Lydia and Morgan finally meet. It’s a time. 

(drug manipulation tw)

It was a warm spring day. There was no breeze, and the sun shone brightly overhead. Lydia wasn’t the only one headed to the beach, but she’d recently stumbled across a little alcove that was tricky to reach, so few people did. The jagged, uneven boulders that blocked the way in would challenge even those with the best balance. Fortunately, Lydia had a winged advantage that helped her balance, and with no one watching, she was over in no time. Only a small handful of people were here, most lazying in the sun. Setting down her beach towel, Lydia slid off her dress to reveal a yellow bikini, and promptly waded into the water, shivering in delight at the liquid chill. 

Morgan had grown guilty over sinking down in the pool so often and found that a steady walk to the beach offered a different brand of nothing to fill the day with. The ocean had its own movement, it’s own pressure, so fierce it seemed like chaos. She let out the air in her lungs slowly and sank, eyes open, deep into the current as the waters churned and her body was carried back and forth in the saddest lullaby rock. But dead girls didn’t sleep. And sometimes, Morgan thought, they didn’t think much of a little mischief. A woman’s leg passed her as she drifted. She reached up and found she could just graze her skin. With the weight of the ocean pressing around her, the pressure was so faint it was more akin to grazing the idea of skin, the concept of a body. When it passed again. Morgan grabbed her ankle and pulled, just long enough to submerge her hair and bring her face to face with Morgan’s dead eyed stare. She was pretty, she thought distantly. She almost felt bad for ruining her perfect hair. Morgan let go and watched her. 

Of course, at such low tide it wasn’t surprising that the seaweed was thick in the water as she swam along. It brushed along her calf, but Lydia was no spring chicken and knew better than to startle at such a minor thing. The water was so cold it was soothing, refreshing her mind and pulling her away from nicotine stained painting and surly humans. It stopped being soothing, naturally, the moment a claw wrapped around her ankle and dragged her underwater. Her wings plunged underwater as Lydia tried to get her bearings, blinking a few times before seeing the face in the water in front of her, pale and dead in appearance. Lydia shrieked soundlessly, bubbles erupting  in front of her as Lydia writhed to be released. It - whatever the hell it was - let her go and Lydia gasped as she broke the surface, coughing and hacking up water as she struggled straight for the shore, looking frantically behind her at the dangerous depths. Wasn’t anywhere in this town pleasant?

Morgan stayed where she was a moment, watching the woman retreat before the waves pushed her ashore enough to make breaking the surface easy. Somewhere faraway, she imagined she was falling too easily into these petty crimes against social norms and decency. But the look on people’s faces, the wrongness of it all, struck something familiar inside Morgan that she couldn’t get to on her own. It brought her almost up to a real feeling. She lifted her head above the waves and spouted an arc of water from her mouth. “Careful out here, the beach can be a weird place,” she said. She crawled up the sandy floor and lay where the water could leave the faintest of scratches on her skin as it washed over and back, not noticing the clams scuttling up behind her. 

It had followed her up. The woman had followed her up - Lydia realised, not a mindless beast at all but a prankster. Coughing, Lydia rolled her shoulders to dry her elytra and wings, glamoured as they were. “Oh, you’ve had your fun, haven’t you?” As her heart slowed, Lydia became less afraid, and more impressed. It was at the very core of who fae were, after all. Tricksters and mischief. Lydia coughed again, the salt water burning the back of her throat. Perhaps not too impressed. Her eyes slid past Morgan as the sands began to shift. “You should take your own advice. Behind you!”

Morgan shrugged in reply to the woman’s question. She was taking this all very well for someone who had been frightened enough to scream. She wondered if something had happened to her to make her used to this sort of thing. She certainly didn’t look very dead, so it couldn’t be that. “I have a lot of time on my hands,” she deadpanned. And try as she might, no walk or scare was going to change that. There was no running out, no sleep, only another hour to fill and another one after that. So there was no alarm when she turned and saw the giant clams toddling up on strange spindly legs. She inched back on the sand. They looked like some nightmare version of a children’s cartoon. Too big for their feet and too strange and real to be cute. She continued to stare as one of them opened its strange clam mouth and chomped eagerly on her toes. “Shit,” she said. More mystified than anything else. She inched farther away and held up her foot, toe bones already sprouting back, for the woman to see. “Did you know it was gonna do that?” She asked. 

"I can tell, accosting strangers like that," Lydia replied haughtily. "Perhaps you should consider a hobby." She wrung out her hair, watching the other warily. And then watching as the large clans arose, on squishy tendrils that didn't look like any creature she'd ever seen. Lydia didn't feel as alarmed as perhaps she should have. She watched distantly as it descended on the other woman's toes. In fact, Lydia surprised herself with a giggle. Blood oozed out of Morgan's foot, followed by bones. In the background, people were screaming. "Nope! Oh look - it might do it again!" Lydia chuckled as the clam wandered closer, looking to take another bite.

Morgan looked quizzically at her foot, which was already red with muscle and tapering with raw skin. The woman seemed to be okay, to think it was even funny and well, as Morgan lowered her foot to the giant clam and pulled away again, teasing it as she would her cat Anya. The clam snapped and scuttled, agitated, and maybe it was the breath Morgan drew to ask (because, seriously, this had freaked Erin out into logging off on her and she saw dead parts all the time), but it became kind of funny to her too. Elsewhere on the beach, people were falling over as the clams munched on their lively flesh. At least one foot of a sunbeather was not growing back anytime soon. Morgan snorted and continued her tug of war. “Shit you’re right!” She said, as the bone broke clean off and she crab walked back a few feet to show off again. “Come and see!”

Lydia watched with a wide grin on her face as Morgan teased the clam with her foot, swinging it too and fro. It bit her and Lydia gasped “Oh! You’re a zombie! That explains so much! I do not think my limbs would-” Morgan’s leg snapped off. “Oh you naughty little thing. Darling, does that hurt? No- no, don’t bite me!” Lydia giggled as she hopped back, out of the beast’s reach. This was so bizarre. The most bizarre thing was that Lydia aborred gore.. She had absolutely no stomach for it whatsoever. Yet here she was, laughing as veins and flesh stitched themselves together. Something was entirely wrong and Lydia could not find it in herself to care a single iota. 

Morgan gasped with delight. “Oh my god! You know what I am!” She kicked the clam back with her other leg and got to her feet, giggling, beside herself as it bowled into another one and flailed like a turtle on its back. She staggered up to the woman, clumsy on her still-growing feet. “No one in town knows what I am unless I tell them! They’re so dumb!” She stumbled into her, laughing still. When was the last time she’d actually laughed like this? She didn’t even remember anything being this funny when she was alive. “It doesn't hurt like you’d think. I can’t feel anything like you’d think. Not my feet, or my girlfriend, or the ocean. You know it’s just kinda heavy, like melted jello! What are you? You’re too smart to be norma--oh look!” Another beachcomber bit the dust, arms flailing like they were going down a waterslide and not into a fat clammy mouth.

“Your leg is regrowing as we speak! It is completely obvious! However, I bet you don’t grow legs every time you meet someone. Oh!” Lydia gasped, giggling so much she was finding it hard to breath. “Those humans dying bloodily over there don’t bother you too much, do they? Good grief, now that is a sight!” She disgracefully snorted in between her laughter as a human was pulled apart by two clams playing the most darling game of tug of war. “Oh, I feel so many things. All the time! It’s just so much sometimes.” She put her hands on Morgans shoulder as more laughter bubbled out of her belly. “You know I think-  I think-” She booped Morgan on the nose and giggled some more, “I think we’ve been drugged- Oh no!” As the clam surged forward, snapping at Morgan’s ankle, Lydia tried to pull the other woman out of the way, and instead stumbled so that they fell backwards, Morgan landing on top of her. Lydia’s burst out laughing again, like a teenage school girl with far too much soda in her belly. 

They went crashing down together and Morgan barely stopped her nose from cracking against the woman’s, hands bracing herself on either side of her damp head. She burst out laughing in her face and rolled off splashing sand in her hair. “Drugged! That’s--that’s the word! Mmhm, too smart to be normal--oh!” There went another set of toes. Morgan staggered up drunkenly and pulled her new friend with her. “We have to get you out of here before you’re dead like me. I did that, you know? And now look at me!” She bent her head sideways as if she might dislocate her head, then pushed them further up the shore, towards the road, squealing. “Ooh, we names, otherwise, imma call you Sandy, Sandy.” 

Lydia giggled, grabbing her purse as Morgan staggered upright and pulled her with her. “Yes yes I agree! I’m not human so I would just be dead dead which would suck there is so much I still want to do!” She followed Morgan up the shore, shaking sand out of her hair. “This is your fault! First you got me wet -”Lydia giggle snorted at that, clutching at her belly- “Then you threw sand in my hair. Hey!” A car honked them as it buzzed passed, and she pulled Morgan onto the other side of the road. “I’m Lydia. And who are you, trickster drowner zombie… person!” Lydia clearly thought this was the height of wit, snickering again.

Morgan blew a raspberry at the passing car as she flashed it the finger. She turned back to Lydia, grinning, and got up on her toes to help brush out more of the sand. “Morgan,” she replied. “I mean you could call me trickster zombie, but Morgan comes off way easier to say. And I didn’t reeeally drown you. I let you go on purpose, you know. Do I get your other card, Lydia, or is that a secret? I’ll give you a whole finger if you tell me,” she said, waggling her brows with amusement. Just don’t set it on anything pretty, it turns to goop after a while.” She laughed again, but it was more effortful to draw air to make her laughter float float as it had before.

“Morgan! That’s fun.” Lydia rolled her eyes and snorted. “You drowned me a little! Did I mention the hair getting wet?” Tragically, the more she spoke, the more she began to cringe at herself, especially the giggling and childish speaking. “Please, no fingers. I already have a dear friend who gives me bones and dead gifts. Keep your finger. Or donate it to the clams. Up to you. Let’s just say I’m much more upset about getting my wings wet than my hair.” Lydia shivered, still in a bikini, still covered in sand and still completely wet. Looking at the pair of them, Lydia couldn’t help but laugh at the situation, sitting down on a grassy embankment. “Do you think that’s a common occurence?”

“Well my humblest apologies for the fright. I didn’t know you were gonna be so nice,”Morgan said, frothing up with one more giggle as she joined Lydia on the grass. She hadn’t cared about how Lydia had felt at all was the thing. It was one of the strange twists of not being able to feel right. Everything was far away, especially strangers. She worked on squeezing out the water from her own hair and clearing off the sand from her one piece bathing suit and shorts. She had to concentrate, eyes on each gesture so she could tell when she was actually done. “You have a friend like that?” She asked. It sounded like Deirdre’s language, but she was sobering up enough to want to hold her tongue. “Your--oh. I see. Um...yeah, that’s...a good idea. They didn’t get hurt, did they? Or the rest of you? I can’t tell, you know. I try, but it’s only been a little while since I became...this.” She looked over at the bloody beach and back to the road. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “This whole place seems kind of cursed if you ask me. Hopefully not too common. It’d be nice to be able to come back.”

“Indeed. I don’t much share her fondness of death, but she’s one of my favourite people in town,” Lydia mused, settling back to look at the blue sky over had, as goosebumps ran up her body. “No. Although I suspect if we’d stayed giggling much longer I would have ended up like those humans over there. What do you think? Six deaths? It might even make it into the paper.” Sighing, Lydia shook her head, because human death was no longer as amusing as it had been a few minutes ago, and now it was starting to make her feel a little nauseous. At least she had company to distract herself. “So you can pretend to drown more people?” Lydia asked with a wry tongue in cheek smile as she looked the young zombie over. “New to being a zombie, but not new to the supernatural. No wonder you’re filling your time with underwater trickery. The clams weren’t there last time I went to that specific alcove, which is all the more pity. Perhaps now they’ve eaten they’ll return to nests… or whatever it is that clams do.”

“She is, huh?” Morgan said softly, her smile turning lopsided. In the fae world in town, as far as she knew, that could only be Deirdre. She turned her attention back to the sand on her shorts to avoid any telling attention from Lydia. To be with a human was, apparently, unspeakably wrong, but was a zombie much better? She could live as long as they could, and she could...do other things, she supposed, not that she could think of any. “I guess if she’s like you, she’d be pretty tough to beat,” she shrugged. “And I don’t…” she hesitated, trying to be as truthful as possible without embarrassing herself. “It was just kind of an impulse,” she said. “I don’t make it a habit...underwater, at least. I did grab an ankle in a graveyard yesterday, though. They ran away before I could say anything else. Um...I didn’t used to be like this.” Well, she had sold rocks to lonely old ladies in Arizona and hockey moms and desperate teenagers. And she had helped Vera land a monkey’s paw. And Kaden that bowl. But it had seemed different then. No one, at least, had screamed. Or run for the hills. She looked over her shoulder at the carnage, which appeared to be dying down at last. She winced. Those poor people. And those body fragments, split and bleeding into the sand, the muscle still red and-- Morgan looked back to the street, hands over her stomach. “However many it is, it’s not pretty. But maybe the rest of the world will catch a break, yeah. Do you, um, need help getting to your car or anything?” She offered. She didn’t feel any hunger pull from here, not while she was looking away, but she felt better getting on the move sooner.

Lydia’s eyes flicked sideways to Morgan, at that small sweet smile, but didn’t say anything at all about it. Recently dead zombie with a girlfriend? There were probably not that many in town, after all. “You don’t have to defend yourself to me. I’m fae, we’re fans of trickery, however temporarily frightening it may be. I have no doubt you’ve changed plenty, recently, there is not shame in that” She turned her gaze to the beach, the bloodied sand as cars began to slow and take out their phones to document the carnage. She wondered if anyone had called animal control, or an ambulance. It didn’t seem likely. Lydia shrugged, looking back at Morgan as she rose to her feet. “No, I don’t need any help, but if you’d like to walk with me, then I’d certainly like the company.” Lydia replied. “At the very least, I’d like to get to know the woman Deirdre is so fond of a little better in person.”

Morgan’s confidence lasted only until Lydia dropped her girlfriend’s name. She went still, a deer in a trap, and opened her mouth stupidly, saying nothing. “How--how do you--” She was doing a terrible job of discretion. If it had been a gamble before, it was confirmed now. She hadn’t even needed the ability to blush. “You said...she’s one of your favorite people. A-are you..are you the one she told about me?” She was careful online, though she no longer flirted with other women. They had only been out a few times, and Deirdre, in an unwitting twist of luck, had a way of going on things that looked like dates, but that she insisted were nothing of the kind. Maybe it was safe. How else could anyone know? “You should know I’m bound not to say what she is. She offered to release me, but I said no. I want her to be as safe as possible.” She searched Lydia’s face, but her coyness was inscrutable. “Um...anyway...a walk is good.” She looked guiltily back at the beach and lamented not having her new phone with her. Someone else would surely call for help though. “You can lead the way I guess.”

“She told me when you died, although she certainly hadn’t planned to.” No human was worth a rift between them, but that didn’t make Lydia curious. Perhaps it was folly to hope that there would be something special in this one, that continued to shine through now she was a zombie. She had to have been extraordinary. It was the only way Lydia could reconcile it in her mind. “As you should. Promises should be kept regardless of the magical intent holding them. Darling, I have no plans to trick you into revealing something you would rather not.” Not that Lydia would need to plan it, if it came to that. Lydia smiled, holding her handbag close as she began walking to her car, careful not to expose her bare feet to anything dirty in the grass. Ugh, driving would be quite the nightmare. 

“Thank you, for being there for her,” Morgan said. “I mean I know you--it’s nothing to do with me, I know that, but still. Thank you.” She offered a tentative smile. It was too late to wipe the ‘please like me’ look from her face, so Morgan shifted her attention ahead of them and hoped that when the clam juice had altogether worn off, Lydia thought the whole ocean incident was still a harmless, fae-tastic time. “And I agree, about promises. I mean, I’m dead so magic isn’t really…” She couldn’t finish the thought and shrugged it off like a bad chill. “But I never needed the magic before, so it feels the same, so I just pretend that it’s still...yeah. So,” she tried to imitate her brighter, livelier self, “How long have you two known each other? This place is good for making fast friends, I’ve found.”

“Just don’t die again. That would be rather unfortunate,” Lydia replied, looking at Morgan with a raised eyebrow. “Deirdre has kept your confidence, I know very little about you, nor the circumstances of your death. All I know is that Deirdre was so upset that she could barely keep herself standing with the weight of it. I don’t want to see her like that again.” Just as quickly as her sterness had appeared, she smiled again. “I have no doubt she appreciates it. We’ve known each other four months, I think? We met at Al’s diner of all places, but we have a lot in common. Like you say, we clicked fast. So how did you meet her?”

“I don’t want to do that to her either,” Morgan replied firmly. It was true, and all the more difficult for how her presence seemed to carry that kind of grief in her wake no matter what she did. “I didn’t plan on dying. But, I was cursed, and I was looking for a cure, and some ghost--jerk,” Now that they were both more themselves, Lydia seemed too proper to swear in front of. “Wrecked my spell to get answers and loosed the poltergeist I was interrogating on me, and then I died. And then someone tried to help me, and...here we are today.” Not the whole, detailed truth, but the gist. She sighed, helping her to drop the anger hiding below her over her mortal life. Had to work on her first impression. “That’s really nice,” she said, in a way she hoped sounded light and friendly. “We started talking on the social network, every day, without really meaning to. And then I met her at karaoke night, just out of the blue. She has the most incredible--” Everything. “The most beautiful voice, if you haven’t heard her before. And Al’s really does have the best pie. We’ve had some good memories there too.” And some less great. Morgan remembered coloring them fondly because everything had worked out alright in the end, but had it? Had it been worth it to lose her to this? Would it still be worth it if Morgan didn’t know how to come back?

So she’d beat the curse, Lydia thought, but heard enough frustration on Morgan’s voice not to say it. No wonder the woman was angry, though, for someone else to change her life so much, so cruelly. Even if it had turned out for the better. Morgan would at least come close to deserving Deirdre now. But like with Regan, understanding that would take time. “I’ve not heard her sing before, no. It sounds like you’ve had a lovely time together.” Smitten. As she should be, for a woman like Deirdre. Lydia pulled her key from her purse and clicked open her car. “Do you want a ride?”

“We did. Lots of them, really. She’s amazing,” Morgan murmured wistfully. Realizing she was no longer sharing anything useful but staring off into space, remembering shared slices of pie at Al’s, weekends up late with Grey’s, and mornings with lazy breakfasts and braiding her soft hair. The cemetery dates, the dinners, nights talking with nothing but wine sustaining them. They’d been happy, so happy Morgan had gotten reckless with her life. And now they were...here. Like this. She looked back at Lydia. “I’d really appreciate that, actually. I walked, and it is far, even if I don’t get normally tired. If you’re really sure it’s okay?”

“Of course she is.” Lydia replied, eyeing Morgan as the Zombie gazed into the middle distance. Deirdre was wonderful, charming, and at time a little unusual, but it added to her charm. She wasn’t yet convinced by this newly-unhuman person. She certainly couldn’t imagine what Deirdre could have seen in her before. Of course, Lydia had been wrong before. She smiled amicably. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it, my dear. You’ll have to tell me your address, though. Or wherever it is you want to go.”

“O-oh. Right.” Morgan sputtered under Lydia’s strange matter-of-course grace and airs. She wanted to know what she really thought about--anything, really. She couldn’t tell if she liked her or was just humoring her, and whether or not this was some kind of weird fae best friend test. She gave Lydia a small, sheepish smile that didn’t sit right with her. She gave it up quickly and said, “Just...home. I mean, Deirdre’s.” She gave the address and folded her hands over themselves as if she might break something. “Thank you, Lydia. Really. We should...I don’t know. Meet properly. Less trickery, maybe some drinks. I was good at cooking, before I died. And I know a lot of fae-friendly recipes now.”

Deirdre liked her secrets, it appeared. As Lydia quickly realised when Morgan gave the address, she actually had no idea where the fae lived. As Lydia settled in to drive, she looked over at Morgan one last time, and offered a genuine smile. “Drinks sometime would be wonderful, darling.” In so many ways, the zombie still behaved so very human. That was okay, though; it was entirely fixable.