#i had a dream about stains being all over all the sheets/surfaces i was sitting/laying on omg that's fricking it what the heck

[that-was-anticlimactic]

waiting for my period to start is literal terror like i can hear the metaphorical suspenseful music playing and feel nervous and can’t stop checking to see if he’s here and can’t stop thinking about when will it come? will i need to throw away any underwear this time? what if it comes in the middle of the night? should i just sleep on a towel?

[divinolenta]

comforting childe and diluc after a nightmare 

character x gender neutral reader, fluff (angst?)/sfw

trigger warning: brief mention of blood and death

additional notes: this was requested by a lovely anon ♡ i had fun writing these (had the most fun picturing what nightmares they would have but you didn’t hear that from me)! i listened to “the moon song” by karen o while writing childe’s scenario and “butterfly’s repose” by zabawa for diluc’s, which is why i’ve included lyrics in their respective scenarios! feel free to imagine yourself singing another song to them, if you’d like :) there are potential spoilers for their backstories, so read at your own risk.

childe:

he is cold, frigid air nipping at his skin viciously as he flees, blinking away snowflakes that cling to his eyelashes. pursued by ravenous wolves and beasts, he loses his footing, falling into a seemingly innocent fissure in the earth. recognizing the dark realm that haunts his memories, he panics, searching for an escape. no, please, not this again. 

too late, he lands, trapped in this hell once again. pain jolts through his bones and a gasp leaves his lips when he places weight on his sprained ankle. struggling to stand, childe grips the sword in his hand, hope dying when he finds that several monsters block his path. slaughtering them quickly, childe wipes off the blood that splattered on his face. 

“b-brother?”

he turns around, shock evident on his face when he sees his younger siblings, cowering away from him. the snow surrounding them is stained with crimson, and his hands are slick, viscous blood slowly dripping on the floor. tonia wraps her arms around anthon and teucer, shielding them with her body. childe takes a step forward, and extends a trembling hand toward them, calling their names weakly. 

“stay back! you....you monster!” a shriek rips from tonia’s throat, gripping her brothers’ closer to her, her terrified expression mirroring theirs. childe recoils at the lack of recognition in their gazes. no matter how heroic and righteous he believed himself to be,  he is merely a tainted soul, a monster who could never redeem himself.

lurching awake, childe’s momentary relief is quickly replaced by bitter contempt. a nightmare? he almost laughs, running a hand through his mussed hair, but his hammering heart and shaking hands tell another story. childe needs a breather, and he eyes the door, longing to escape the past and lose himself in the beauty that nature offers. perhaps he will meander along the ocean and watch the waves kiss the shore and recede, and let it wash away his sins. sitting up, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, but it creaks underneath his weight and childe cringes at the sound that resonates throughout the room. 

“where are you going?” you ask groggily, squinting blearily at him. 

“i just,” childe begins, but before he could continue, shudders ran through his body, interrupting him. you tug him back into the warmth of the duvet, hands cradling his face while you peer at him in concern.

“i’m sorry...” childe squeezes his eyes shut, hands clenching tightly. he tries to calm down his erratic breaths, apologizing meekly as his hands try to nudge you away. 

what if he hurts you too?

but you hush him, pulling him closer so that his head rests against your collarbone, limbs tangled together. 

you start to sing, the familiar melody striking a chord in his heart. your voice is hoarse and muddled with sleep, but you gradually fall into a soothing rhythm, like the euphonious and undulating cadences of a piano.

i'm lying on the moon

my dear, i'll be there soon

it's a quiet starry place

time's we're swallowed up in space

we're here a million miles away

childe sheds his brash and arrogant exterior and allows himself to get pulled under by the overwhelming tides of his emotions, just like the waves of the ocean that he adores so much. he feels like he’s fourteen again, but this time, you’re here with him. he grasps your shirt tightly, and anchors himself, tears leaking from his closed eyes, falling on to your skin, seeping into the fabric of your shirt. 

there's things i wish i knew

there's no thing I'd keep from you

it's a dark and shiny place

but with you my dear, i'm safe

and we're a million miles away 

he is consoled by the fact that you do not view him as a monster, and when he’s with you, he can be whoever he chooses to be. he does not need to be tartaglia, childe or even the ajax he used to be, rather, he is content with simply being your lover and spending every hour of the day with you. 

diluc:

the moment diluc sees his surroundings, he knows. he knows what’s going to happen, and how everything will go down. the carriage rocks back and forth as it travels over the uneven path, and everything is calm. too calm. swallowing thickly, he turns to his father, heart twinging at the sight of his familiar figure, with hair of flame, so similar to his own. 

horses whinny frantically in the distance, and diluc tries to warn his father, but is cut off by the carriage toppling over as they lose control of the reins. a roar shakes the very earth and diluc is thrown against the side of the carriage, hissing in pain when his hand gingerly presses against the bruise on his head.

“father! wait!” diluc scrambles to his feet when his father begins to rise to his feet to investigate and protect the transport fleet. his father looks at him inquiringly, and diluc advances, clutching the hem of his coat in an effort to make him stay.

“you mustn’t go, father, your life will be in peril.” he implores, and even though he tries his best to keep his voice steady, the anguish he truly feels does not fully dissipate.

“i can’t afford to lose you again” is what diluc wants to say, but can’t muster the courage to form the words. 

“my son, is that not what a man like your father should do?” his father rests a heavy hand on diluc’s shoulder, and his heart sinks in response. 

“but, father-” diluc presses, but his father simply shoots him a reprimanding look.

“i’ll be back soon, just wait for me here.” he lets out a booming laugh, and ruffles diluc’s hair with an affectionate gaze, before walking off, summoning his weapon. 

horrified, diluc calls out, but his pleas fall on deaf ears. he desperately wills his body to move, but it’s like vines have erupted from the dirt and tangled around his legs, trapping him in a prison of thorns. 

all he can do is stand there, watching from the sidelines. even as his father gulps his dying breaths, all diluc can do is clutch on to him, and pray to whatever god that still remains, while the very light of his soul eclipses.

and like an incompetent fool, all diluc does is weep and regret. 

hands shake his shoulders, and diluc snaps out of his dream, released from the tormenting illusion. his gaze meets yours, and when he reaches up to touch his face, his fingers come away damp from the tears that streak his skin.

you’re seated on the bed, sheets pooling around your waist. your brow furrows, and diluc opens his mouth, about to let false reasurances tumble from his lips to alleviate the look of unease you don. how many times had he dreamed of the incident? how many times would he continue to blame himself?

diluc himself does not know the answer. 

you lean forward, hands tenderly brushing away the tears that remain, and diluc loses himself in your eyes. eyes really are the window to the soul, he thinks, everything is so clear, like how he knows that the sun will rise, signalling a new beginning. your eyes betray every emotion that flicker through their depths.

“i’m okay.” he whispers, but both you and him know that he’s lying. diluc lies back down, and he gestures for you to do so as well, but you situate him so he lays with his head in your lap. 

you card your fingers through his hair carefully, your delicate touches evoking a chill that runs down his spine. you begin to hum softly, voice lilting in an ethereal melody before words surface and accompany it. diluc feels like he’s simultaneously floating and sinking. he wants to weep, for barbatos was lenient enough to grant him such a caring and understanding lover to someone as undeserving as he is.

for a moment, he wonders if you are perhaps hestia incarnate. the warmth and love with which you behold him with is surreal, and god knows that diluc is not capable of replicating or returning such affection. 

the shadows in your head

they've got you down again

got you feelin' low

your voice is an intimate whisper, and diluc welcomes the warmth that it entwines him in. he catches your hand, bringing it to his lips so he can press a chaste kiss against it. moonlight slants against your features, and diluc can only stare in awe as you continue to sing, body slightly swaying along as your hand aimlessly caresses his hair. 

but it's time to rest, now 

let it all melt now

wipe your tears 

“thank you.” he murmurs, eyes falling close as your voice lulls him into a sleep. one that he knows will not be plagued with nightmares. you don’t respond, but diluc can hear the hint of a smile in your voice.

it’s a sight to behold: diluc ragnvindr, a man with a renowned reptuation of having a heart of ice, melting in your embrace. out of everything, perhaps your love is what ignites him, and brings back the fervor that was once lost. 

[karlnapity]

(tw: derealization, panic attack)

Fundy hasn’t been doing well for a long time. That much is obvious.

It’s rather common knowledge, really. Poor Fundy, poor kid who’s lost his dad, poor kid who hasn’t recovered since, all that.

Poor kid who was given a wide berth, and has since then lost his friends from lack of attention.

Niki will be the first to admit she’s neglected her friendship, and it eats her alive. She abandoned him, when he needed her, and he still needs her, but he still scares her, just a bit, still sets her on edge.

She can remember when he first told her about Ghostbur. He was near hysterical, still unchanged from the clothes destroyed by the explosion on the Sixteenth. He burst into her home, shaking, telling her with a frightening little laugh that he’d seen him, and she thought he’d lost it, for lack of a better term.

But she let him indulge in his fantasy, because he looked terrible, and she was worried about what he’d do if he knew it wasn’t real.

So she let him rant about the arguments he had with this “ghost,” let him talk in circles about it, offered meaningless insight here and there.

But there was only so much she could take. She couldn’t tell him, but she still couldn’t just listen to him talk all day long about a man she’d rather forget.

So yes, maybe she did abandon him.

She ran far, started her own path, her own journey. Forgot about Wilbur, forgot about L’Manburg, focused on Tommy, and Jack, and tried her very, very best to ignore the nagging voice in the back of her head that told her to check up on him.

And then she met Ghostbur, and everything came crashing down.

Was Fundy right all along? Because she couldn’t have gotten it wrong, he was out of it, he was worrying her, he was fucking crazy. Did Ghostbur being real change anything?

And she knew she needed to see him again. It had been long enough, she’d gotten it together, she’d gone through her own damn breakdown, and she had to see whether he was ok, too.

So here she stands, in front of his house. When she asked around, it seems it’s been radio silent, but she won’t be deterred. She's determined when she wants to be.

She knocks, hesitantly, but when there’s no response she grows impatient, bangs harder. Still nothing. Is he not home, or something?

After yet more silence, she tries the door. Unlocked. She pushes in.

It’s a mess. Everything is scattered, furniture knocked over and paper lying on every available surface. She can smell ink in the air, almost hovering over the room.

And in the middle of it all, in bed, lies Fundy. The covers lay over him haphazardly, and a blanket sits on the ground next to the bed.

She feels an awful lot like she’s intruding, as she watches him twist and turn in a seeming nightmare. She sighs, and goes to get a mug of water for him, submitting the fact she’ll have to wait for him to wake up.

He looks terrible, she thinks, as she peers at him out of the corner of her eye. He seems to have lost weight since she last saw him, and she can’t ignore the dark circles under his eyes. His fur seems unkempt, something she’s never seen before. He’s always taken pride in it before.

She looks around the house. The papers she sees have ‘diary’ scribbled across the top, and even if she’s concerned, she won’t invade his privacy like that. Instead, she simply leaves them alone, opting to instead tidy what she can.

She throws open a window, hoping to air out the fumes and brighten up the place. It feels oppressive.

He makes a noise in his sleep, and she turns to see him curled in a ball, ears pressed flat to his head. She sympathizes.

When he lets out a whimper, she considers, briefly, waking him, but remembers how she almost lost a hand the last time, and sighs, pulls a broom from a closet.

She accidentally knocks over a pile of paper, and quickly goes to right it. The writing isn’t legible, so she doesn’t worry about reading it, but the scribbling in the margins and the vicious crossing out sets her heart pattering anxiously.

This is worse than she had feared. Anxiety creeps up her spine, leaves her biting a nail, peeking at the bed.

And he starts awake.

He’s breathing heavy, the rasps and gasps the only noise in the house.

He lifts a clawed hand to his chest, trying to catch his breath. She doesn’t dare move as he puts his hands over his face, brushing fur out of his face. His breathing slows, after what feels like hours.

She clears her throat, gently, and he jumps. They catch eyes.

Guilt settles heavy in her chest. He looks half-dead, the crazed look in his eyes incomparable to what she worried about months ago.

“Hi,” she says carefully. He tenses as she leans the broom against a wall, and yet more as she pulls a chair up to his bed and settles. “How’s it going?”

His eyes flit desperately over her face, seemingly searching for something. Whatever it is, he doesn’t find it, and he instead shifts to sit straighter. “I’m ok. Just a dream.”

She nods. Trust is a two-way street, and it’s worth being a little vulnerable. “I used to have these nightmares where I’d have to lock myself up so I didn’t do anything. I get it.”

His face pinches, and she has a feeling he didn’t absorb any of what she said. He stands, practically sprints to the doorway, peers out. He lets out an audible sigh of relief, leans against the door as he closes it.

He fixes her in the eye. “Can you go now? I need to write stuff down.”

She can’t stop a frown from appearing. “I’m sorry?”

“Can you go now?” He repeats, slower, as if she hadn’t understood.

“I, uh. I wanted to talk to you. Catch up. It’s been a while.” She stands, watches him.

“Ok, well, I need you to go. I have shit to do,” he says, gathering a quill and a few sheets of paper. He scribbles something down.

“What are you writing?” She asks. He grits his teeth.

“It’s important. I can’t tell you.” His voice grows higher with desperation.

“Fundy,” she says, quietly, pleadingly.

He whirls to face her. He’s squeezing his quill in his hand, and ink is already coating his hands and arms. He drops it, raises his hands to his hand and lets out a keen. “Stop...”

Any doubts she had have been erased. He needs help.

She steps forward, envelops him in a careful hug. He clings to her, hands roaming over her back and shoulders as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear.

“Are you really here?” He whispers, and her heart hurts.

“Yes, yes,” she murmurs in response. They sink to the floor. Fundy hiccups.

He starts to laugh. It’s broken, angry, upset, devastated, but he laughs, and he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t stop, even when he starts to sob, even when he coats Niki’s shirt with tears, even when his voice is growing rough from overuse, even when she begs him, silently, to stop, to be quiet, because he does still scare her.

But eventually, he seems to give up. He lays limply in her arms, his breath still hitching from crying. She pets his fur, working out the small mats with her fingers.

“Please talk to me,” she begs for what seems to be the hundredth time.

“I have. These dreams.” His voice stops and starts, as if he’s not sure if he should say anything, but she nods, encouraging him to continue. “I saw Wilbur, and I saw me, and these stupid fucking books keep telling me I’m in danger, and they’re from me, and there’s this person trying to get me, and. And. I don’t think I’m real, anymore.”

She shushes him as he starts to cry again. She wishes they were fucking qualified for this.

What right did this world ever have to break them this much?

“You’re real,” she promises. “They’re just dreams, ok?”

He shakes his head, desperately. His voice is hysterical. “They’re not just dreams, Niki, you have no idea what they can do, what they’ve done, you don’t know. They’re so much more than that.”

She pulls back, takes his face in her hands. His fur is wet, stained from tears, and his eyes are crazed, and she can tell he isn’t completely there. She holds his snout gently, rubs circles with her thumbs, and his eyes close a bit in comfort.

“They’re just dreams, I promise.” She presses a kiss, gently, on his forehead. “They trick you like that.”

He shakes his head. “The desert-”

“Shh. Come on.” She pulls him to his feet, looping an arm around his shoulders. She guides him to the door, and they peer out together. “There’s no desert, ok?”

He nods, hesitantly. She grins, and they drags him out on a walk.

He looks pale in the sunlight, desaturated, somehow even more unhealthy. The weather is wonderful, but he’s still almost crouched, flinching at every noise. She tells herself it’s good for him.

They walk to her new base, and he protests every step of the way. He tells her he needs to write down the dreams, he tells her that someone is still coming for him, he tells her about Wilbur and a younger Fundy and books written by him, and she tries very, very hard to convince herself he’s ok, just upset.

Grieving is an easy excuse, but it’s the only excuse she’s got.

Once inside her base, HBomb greets them, and Niki shakes her head, just a little, when he turns to Fundy. HBomb purses his lip, a concerned look already on his face at simply the sight of their friend, but lets them pass.

She’s showing him around when it happens. He’s finally relaxing a bit, his claws no longer clenched, his ears no longer flat, when he makes a sort of gasp behind her.

She turns to see him with a hand to his head, stumbling for support against the wall.

He fixes her with the most terrified look she’s seen in her life, and her blood goes cold. He reaches for her, and she grasps him.

“It’s happening,” he hisses, and his legs give out. She follows him to the ground, holds him close.

“What is?” She asks, concern tinting her voice.

“He’s coming,” he murmurs, and passes out cold.

She reminds herself, steadfast, as she and HBomb help him to a bed, that it’s just a dream, even as he twists and turns and whimpers.

It’s just a dream.

[moon-lixie]

It's complicated - Lee Felix

word count: 2.116k

song: Unrequited love (& other clichés) - Breakup Shoes

cw: none, it's more fluff coming your way in a high school au :)

Part 1 | Part 2

On, off, on, off, on, off. The tiny lamp sitting on his desk became the victim of the void haunting his head. If there were words to express what he felt then he wished he knew them, he wished he could have a vast vocabulary that helped him give a name to the feeling that wrapped his heart without hesitation.

On. He tapped one last time at the lamp before observing the objects laying in front of him. The mere sight of the never ending lines on the medium size, green book made him feel sick. Everything was too much, too difficult, complex beyond his understanding, confusing.

The sapphire pencil that was meant to help him take notes now tapped insistently against his thigh as he attempted to concentrate. He hated studying but at this point he would be glad to concentrate on millions of books if that meant occupying his head with something else.

His eyes travelled to his window which meant staring at the window in front of his, the one with white curtains that rarely blocked his view of the carefully decorated room. There was the nightstand and the tiniest bit of the bed that he couldn’t fully see from where he was sitting. Even when the lights were off he could still manage to imagine the pair of converse laying on the floor in front of the bed and the yellow hoodie resting on the edge of the bed.

He snapped out of his train of thoughts when he realized what he was doing, yet again staring like a creep into someone else’s room. Such thoughts always scared him beyond words. It made him anxious to think about the fact that he spent so much time looking out the window, not to admire the flowers in his neighbour's garden but the room of someone else.

Maybe he was a creep, maybe he was crazy and at the most unexpected day he would do something worth getting him into a psychiatric ward. No, definitely not. The bottom of his pencil now rested in between his teeth; he just watched out of curiosity and fascination, that was all.

A heavy groan filled his room before he rested his forehead against the cold surface of the table. The graphite threatened to stain one of the pages of his notebook but it just couldn’t, because there was nothing he could write or draw despite how his fingers ached to do so.

He wished there was a way to turn into a poet or the best of artists in just a couple of seconds, because his heart ached to express itself in some way. And since it was impossible, Felix sat there drowning in nameless sensations.

Off. His fingers quickly hurried to turn off his lamp as soon as the room in front of his flooded with light. Breath abandoned his lungs and in his mind there was now silence, the one he had been wishing for in the last hours.

He didn’t dare move or even breathe too loudly. Despite nobody being able to see him he felt observed and scrutinized; maybe he was just experiencing what you would feel if you were to catch his eyes staring at you.

You entered the room looking tired and like always, the yellow hoodie found its way to your fingers in order to bring you comfort after a long day. Without thinking it for more than a second he turned around and felt his cheeks turning bright red. He always turned around and wondered, who the hell changes in front of their window? Because he surely did not and perhaps you should stop.

Minutes, maybe seconds, passed by and he turned around once again to face the window. You sat in an unorthodox position in front of your desk, right in front of your window, as if it was meant to be that his eyes could reach your room and yours could reach his too.

He needed to stop or else he would go mad. He needed to get you out of his head or else his mind would explode.

Careful and gentle steps guided him to his bed before he decided to plop down on it. He needed to get away from that window. Perhaps even block it with something. No, that would be definitely going too far.

This time his groan was muffled by the fluffiness of his pillow. It smelled like vanilla, would you smell like vanilla too?

He screamed this time a little louder than what he usually allowed himself to be while the rest of his family was at home. That’s it Lee Felix, get your crap together and stop sounding like such a creep.

After a couple of minutes he sat on bed and hugged his pillow tightly, letting a pout hang loosely on his lips. His fingers pinched the soft material of his pillow harshly before releasing it and going back at it again. Everything was a loop, his actions, his thoughts, and the feeling of helplessness.

Maybe he just needed fresh air, a new life, and exchanging rooms with someone so he couldn’t look at you anymore.

The stairs barely bulged under the weight of his steps, even his family seemed to mind more as they threw questioning looks in his direction. But he quickly excused himself by saying he wanted to take a walk and in no time he was being greeted by the night air.

Off. He saw the light disappear from your room and he cursed under his breath, because even when he tried to escape from your thought he couldn’t help but take a last glance at your window.

Sprinting, he was now sprinting just to get away because the uneasiness in his stomach became even more unbearable as seconds passed by. And then time was the one sprinting as it passed by swiftly before his eyes finally closed and his back pressed against his mattress.

You smelt like lavender and felt like clouds. You felt real, warm, and truly mesmerizing. Your lips were two soft cushions that brought clarity to his mind, because as he kissed you there were no more doubts haunting his chest. He wanted to be there with you and that was the only answer.

His hands felt the skin of your arms, your hair, and the fabric of the sheets of your bed. The bed that was in the middle of the room he had seen so many times from afar. And meanwhile, you giggled happily and allowed him to take a good look at you from up close, to every single detail of your face, your hands, your hair, your lips…

He woke suddenly, beads of sweats threatening to race each other to see which could make it faster through his forehead. Adorable, Felix. You couldn’t have a cute dream, you had to go and dream you were making out with your neighbour.

Liking you was complicated, but everything is at that age. Almost making it out of high school but still having to go through many boring classes and overly complicated situations. That’s why his mind was a complete disaster.

Seeing you from afar or even daring to look at your window was complicated, but the kind of complicated that made him eager for more and feel his heart flutter. So maybe he was fond of complicated, as long as it wasn’t in a math textbook.

On. This time it wasn’t his lamp or the light of your room, it was the music dancing its way from his earbuds to his brain. The only thing that kept him sane through the mess that was life.

And then it wasn’t your window that he stared at but the back of your head, how you would look out the window of the classroom, and how your elbows moved as you scribbled on the pages of a textbook you couldn’t seem to care less about.

Off. He quickly paused his music before looking at your direction. You had talked to him while you both stood waiting for the bus to arrive but he hadn’t heard a thing.

“Nothing, I’m sorry.” You quickly muttered before flashing him an apologetic smile; he wanted to punch himself in the face.

After that he put his earbuds back on his ears but he didn’t play anything, hoping that you would have something else to say while the two of you waited, or maybe during the suffocating time sitting by your side on the bus, or perhaps right before you both entered your respective houses. But you didn’t and he felt stupid for not saying something himself.

This time he avoided his room for as long as he could, avoided the lavender smell of his sister’s room that made his heart beat rapidly, because you smelled like that in his dream. He avoided the thought of you for as much as he could until he needed to go to his room.

On. He had hesitated on the door of his room and then over the lightswitch, but he eventually turned the light on and noticed your light was on too.

Liking you was complicated, but it was even more burdening to wait like an idiot in front of his window for the rest of his days. Fuck it. He was going to die one day and if this needed to be it, then at least he would perish while trying to do something.

His feet moved quickly, almost flying as he walked down the stairs. The cold night air greeted his face when he opened the front door but that was still not enough to sober up his hazy mind. Even when his knuckles knocked loud enough on his neighbour’s door, it was still all a blur.

You being the one opening the door was like a slap in the face, it took him off guard and forced him to think straight. He felt his knees go weak and his hands grow clammy. Running away could never be a good option but it’s the only thing he could think about.

You greeted him with a calm smile; his mind trying to come up with an excuse for his presence only thought of releasing an awkward laugh to break the silence. This was definitely more complicated than watching you from afar, but your eyes were glued on him and there was no going back.

A loud sigh followed his small laughter before his fingers messed up his hair. “To be honest it’s just driving me crazy.” The words flowed without much thought and he could see your expression growing confused. Smart way to phrase it, good job you idiot.

“You said something to me earlier.” Yes, yes! Perfect excuse, keep going. “And I can’t stop thinking about it. What did you say?”

It was your turn to laugh awkwardly, reaching one of your hands to scratch the back of your neck. “I just said it was a really nice day, that’s all. I guess I was just trying to make small talk.” Eyes travelling to your feet, it looked the exact way that made his heart stop and forced him to stare in awe.

“It’s in fact a really nice day.” Fingers nervously playing with each other betrayed his effort to appear calm. It was complicated to come with an excuse and standing there in front of you, but it would be more complicated to walk away now and spend a hundred nights regretting not saying something more. “I’m not really a fan of small talk but I’m sure we could find something interesting to talk about. Would you want to take a walk with me?”

His nerves didn’t even have a chance at haunting him because you immediately nodded and asked him to wait for you for a second. Your figure disappeared when you closed the door and his knees almost gave up on him. Well, that wasn’t hard was it?

Talking to you and laughing at the top of his lungs wasn’t so complicated; going to bed and reminiscing on his short walk with you wasn’t as tortuous as watching you from afar; dreaming about holding your hand was easy and so he decided that next time he would.

Next morning when he woke up his eyes travelled to your window once more. Despite soaking himself in enough you as he could the night before, so that your existence would linger by his side for longer; he still couldn’t help but look for you behind the white window frame.

It was awfully complicated, but the kind of complicated that he wished to experience every single day.

[konohababy]

seven | kageyama t.

synopsis: a recap of the last seven years you spent with tobio kageyama  warnings: angst (??) word count: 3.4k notes: this has gone through so many rewrites it’s not even funny but here we are thanks for taking the time to read this if ya do ;)

̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.°

24

Tobio Kageyama breaks your heart beneath a heat-stricken sky in the middle of September.

“Y/N,” He begins. Pauses. Turns the words over in his mouth before loosening his fingertips around yours and steeling his spine.

“I don’t think I love you anymore,” He says, and you don’t fail to miss how even his voice is.

It’s a confession. A truth. It’s a dust mottled secret that’s been festering beneath his ribs and the ending line of a love story that had never really been close to perfect. Yet, it doesn’t hurt like you thought it would.

There’s no tectonic force of agony or a foretold shatter of pain when he says it. You’ve been to the depths of Hell and back with Tobio Kageyama, have returned with strings of gold laced around your necks and glittering jewels slung across your bodies. You’ve chased after rainbows to the ends of the earth holding his hand, racing against the tick-tock of a ballroom clock, and you suppose that was only a matter of time before the hands were set to strike midnight. And a part of you had always known that it wasn’t going to be long until Kageyama realizes just how much faster he is without you either.

When you look up at him, there’s a petal-soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, and a faint drumming of your heart as you nod.

“I know,” You whisper, and he finally lets go.

23

Kageyama’s signature is stark upon the dotted line.

Embellished with a flourishing heart at the end, it stains the paper in bleeding, dripping ink, marking the contract with a finality that he can’t quite erase now.

Standing in a room of flashing lights and congratulatory applause, Kageyama’s grinning wildly as his pulse catches in his chest, coming to the realization that this—it’s another step forward. It’s a pipe dream and a fantasy come true at the hands of his efforts. Two years from now he’ll be stepping off of a plane to play volleyball in Italy, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that fact.

There isn’t a hint of regret clouding his mind that afternoon, no hidden qualms about the possibility of having to leave you and his life behind in Japan. You’ve always been able to understand the parts of him he hides below the surface; so you’ll know how important this is to him, right? Yet when he leaves the office, his fingertips are awfully still, tucking his phone deep into the pockets of his slacks without a single thought to call your number. He’s not entirely sure why.

When he slides beneath the sheets with you later that night, face flushed red after celebrating out with his teammates, it’s your voice that has to cut through the heavy air.

“Italy, then?” You ask quietly, but it’s not as if you don’t already know the answer.

Kageyama turns to you, eyes settling on the outline of your figure as you lay beside him, hands resting upon your stomach and eyes glued to the ceiling. Even through the ink-spilled darkness of the room he finds that he can still make out the familiar shape of your face, lit beneath the silver sheen of moonlight. He likes to think that he’s memorized nearly every part of you by now, every shape, color, and contour, but for some reason, he can’t make out the expression on your face tonight. He doesn’t really know if he wants to. There’s a breath. 

“Ali Roma,” He replies. “Two years from now.”

Your teeth catch onto your bottom lip. “You didn’t say anything.”

He swallows.

“It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

22

Yachi falls onto the carpet of your living room floor, sighing into the comfort of the rug as she scans the picture frames littering the walls.

She hums to herself, musing. “How are you and Kageyama?”

You look over at her from your seat on the couch, eyes finding the gaze of your best friend’s as you take another sip from the wine glass in hand.

It’s a simple question, really. Easy, and impossible to get wrong, but at the sound of his name it’s as if you’re suddenly searching for all the right things to say.

You know she doesn’t mean anything by asking, she never does, but the fact is that nothing has been the same since that evening last year—when a simple question spiraled into a bruising punch, a third-degree burn blistering open beneath the heat of reality.

And reality is that you and Kageyama are no longer the lovestruck kids you were five years ago.

You no longer eat dinner at the same time anymore, already fast asleep in bed by the time he comes home from practice, walking in to a cold plate and an empty table. You don’t stress over planning out extravagant date nights and weekend trips out of town, afraid that doing so would only spin the hourglasses back into a repeat of the last year. You no longer entertain his sister’s questions about marriage, telling her that you’re “not quite there yet” despite having been together longer than most. He doesn’t tell you when he’s scheduled to go out of town, when he’s planning on coming home late, and you can never really find the time to watch his games on TV anymore.

Reality is that the bed suddenly feels too small to hold the both of you when he comes home, and that every kiss goodbye has begun to feel like the real thing.

Reality is how he manages to attend your university graduation, bringing you a brilliant bouquet of your favorite flowers only to whisper an apology against your lips when he has to leave early. It’s how you find that you no longer mind his absence anymore.

You know that the story is coming to an end, that the magic is fading, but being together is too familiar for either of you to let go. You’re both holding on to the frayed ends of something that used to be, whether it’s out of comfort, fear, or a fierce loyalty to the lovestruck teenagers you once were before. The walls of your apartment are decorated with bittersweet memories of silhouetted scenes and honey-sweet kisses, moments suspended in time that will forever be a reminder of just how much you once loved each other. It’s just that you’re not entirely sure if you’re ready to turn the page just yet.

Yachi reaches up to poke your cheek, drawing your mind back to the warmth of your apartment. You bite your lip, the glass in your hand already gone empty.

You sigh. “I don’t know anymore.”

It’s an acknowledgement of reality.

21

“When are you leaving?” You ask him one evening, leaning against the doorway of your bedroom.

Kageyama spares a quick glance up at you from where he’s kneeling on the floor, packing a large duffel bag in preparation for his upcoming game somewhere down south. 

He settles back onto his heels, calloused hands resting atop his lap as he shrugs. “Tomorrow.” 

A brow quirks up in surprise. “Tomorrow? I thought we were supposed to go out tomorrow?”

He looks back at you. A minute-long pause overtakes the room while he mulls over your words, turning them over and over in his head until he realizes the mistake, the shattered promise hanging in the air. His eyes close shut as a deflated “shit” leaves his throat. 

“I’m sorry,�� He sighs, gazing back down to pull the zipper of his bag over the white and gold of his uniform. “I can’t.”

You nod silently, accepting his apology. It’s not as if you’ve ever been a stranger to his hectic life of pro-volleyball, fully understanding that if he has to leave then he has to—you’re not exactly standing in a position to complain. But you know that life has begun to speed up for him, pulling him along with a hurried pace, and in that time, he’s managed to miss your anniversary, your birthday dinner with your parents, and a promotion party that you had worked so damn hard to get. It’s been months since you’ve really been able to sit down and enjoy each other’s company like you used to, so for one night, you’d like him to take this break just for you; to pretend that you’re both 18 again and dancing beneath the neon lights of Tokyo with your hands intertwined and your pulses caught in your wrists—a confirmation that you’re still as in love as you were that one morning four years ago, standing in the middle of a snow-dusted Miyagi. So you bite your tongue, and try again.

“It’s fine,” You tuck a lip between your teeth. “Maybe we can do something tonight instead?”

Kageyama doesn’t answer right away, only meeting your words with a heavy silence as he rises onto his feet. It’s only then that you notice the gym clothes he’d purposefully left out on the bed.

Your heart stops. “Are you really?”

He sighs, taking a step forward, but it feels like more than that. It feels like betrayal, you think. A bruising force gripping at your insides as your nerves ripple with something close to heartbreak.

You’re drawn aback. “We haven’t been able to spend time together in months, and the one chance we have, you’re gonna choose to bail on me for volleyball practice?” 

He frowns. “It’s not a choice.”

“Yes it is,” There’s a scoff of disbelief. “It’s always a choice, and you always choose to leave. Is it that necessary to go tonight?”

“It’s an important game.”

“It’s always an important game!” Your voice raises, just shy of a shout. “You know you’re ready for it, you told me so this morning! So why can’t you just stay for once?”

“We can go on a date when I come back—”

“That’s not the point!” Your brows furrow, staring incredulously at him. “The point is that you aren’t around anymore. You don’t care about us. About me. How much shit have you missed out on this year alone? Our anniversary, my birthday, my promotion party at work, dinner with my parents, lunch with our friends—when was the last time you actually asked about my day or sat down and had breakfast with me, Kageyama? When was the last time it wasn’t all about you?”

You lick your lips, tasting the bitter amalgamation of salt and chapstick as his silence pulls out the tears. Your chest constricts. You’re not entirely sure how you’d missed it—how all the absences and all the “I’m sorry’s” were nothing more than a trail of breadcrumbs leading you to the edge of something more. 

And you don’t have time to regret anything you’re saying; not when there’s a world of anger and frustration forcing their way through your veins, unraveling the knots you had oh-so carefully tied up once before. But they’re only side effects of the bigger problem festering beneath your skin—the fear that he’s leaving you behind, and that he isn’t going to stop and wait for you to catch up.

“Look, I’m sorry this isn’t about you for once, Kageyama, but I’m going insane—”

Is it wrong to want to know that he still cares? 

“—it’s always about you and your stupid volleyball games and your stupid interviews and your endless meetings and oh my god—aren’t you amazing?”

Is it wrong to want to know that he still loves you?

“Look at you, Tobio Kageyama, the king of volleyball! I can’t—”

You can’t keep up.

In a house where every wall is covered with reminders of how successful he is, is it wrong to want to know that you and your efforts are as equally cherished?

You want to see him happy, you always have, but once upon a time you had told him you’d be with him every step of the way. So what do you do when he’s the one who takes the first step ahead without you? 

The words die in your stomach before they meet the backs of your teeth, swallowing them down your throat upon the realization that enough damage has been done. Your lips no longer taste of salt and chapstick, but of blood and smoke. You’re toying with the pages of a cautionary tale now.

But it’s one night. A heartbeat of a moment. And in the grand scheme of things, it means absolutely nothing, but at the same time, it’s everything more.

Kageyama’s hands are at his sides, fists clenched tight to where crescent shaped indents line the flesh of his palm. He watches you quietly, eyes trailing down the sight of you and your tear stained cheeks as a shaky breath falls from your mouth. He knows he can’t fix this. 

After all, he’s tired of being held back. He supposes you’re tired of chasing after him.

20

“I’m sorry,” Kageyama mutters, eyes dropping to the floor.

His face is uncertain beneath the yellow lamplight of the desk, mouth pulled taut as he mumbles out the third apology of the night. It’s not common for him to be this expressive—so it’s enough to tell you that this rift has been bruising his heart for awhile now.

You let out a breath, falling back into the warmth of your shared bed with a sigh. It almost feels like a hug, you think, with the scent of his cologne woven into the sheets and the comfort of the night sky brushing against your cheeks, his brand new trophies gleaming from where they sit upon your bedroom shelves.

There’s a roll of your eyes when you look at him. A comforting tone lacing with your words. “Stop apologizing, I already told you that it’s okay.”

Yet Kageyama doesn’t reply immediately, switching his gaze from whatever’s on the ground to the open window hanging beside him, blue eyes catching onto the fractured constellations splattered across the night sky. You follow his gaze, embracing the silver sheen before you pierce the silence, calling his name with a certain softness.

“Kageyama,” You say, and his gaze shifts to meet yours. “Tell me about your day.”

He only nods then, drawing in a breath as if to tug his thoughts back down to you, allowing the words to leave his tongue with a melting ease. He tells you all about his new teammates on the Schweiden Adlers, the new strategies they’d tried out at practice, the Spanish phrases he’d picked up from one of the older players, and the way he’s been subject to what was called “hazing.” And you watch as his expression settles into one of gleaming enthusiasm, the worry on his face dripping away beneath the pale grasp of moonlight. By the end of his stories, he’s smiling, lost in the absolute dream that is his life.

Every comma, every question mark pulls you closer to the edge of your seat, hanging onto his every word like they’re the beginning of a brand new arc. It’s hook, line and sinker when you look at him, realizing that his world is being seen with pure, unadulterated color, threading gold between his fingertips like the ends of a rainbow, and it’s enough to be just be a part of that story.

He finishes, looking over to meet your eyes. “How was your day?”

You grin, readying the words at the tip of your tongue. You’re ready to tell him about the internship you’d secured in the heart of Tokyo, expose your pride over passing your final exams, and relay the conversations you had with his older sister over lunch the day before. To tell him that you’ve missed him lately, that it’s hard not being able to see him everyday until—

“Kageyama!”

There’s a knock. His head snapping back to see a figure peeking through an unlocked door, silhouetted, but still there, nonetheless. Your heart falters.

“Hirugami’s been trying to call you; He wants to go over some things again before the game tomorrow.”

Kageyama turns back to the camera, watching you through the screen as an apologetic look drapes across his face.

“Sorry,” It’s the fourth apology of the night, and the same words you’ve been hearing on repeat since the first week he got signed months ago. He sighs. “I should go.”

He pulls his phone from where it’s propped up on the hotel desk, bringing your pixelated image along as he readies himself to leave the room. You hate how familiar the scene seems, the bitter feeling of déjà vu arising that you’ve been trying to get used to with his longer hours away from home. Forcibly, you smile; finding that it’s much more difficult to do so this time around.

Your voice drops into a soft whisper. “It’s okay.”

You should be happy for him.

He steps out into the hotel hallway, and by the time he offers you a small smile, the pad of his thumb is hovering over the red ‘end call’ button. He looks at you.

“Happy anniversary.”

You nod, hope fluttering in your chest that maybe, maybe, you won’t feel like this by the same time next year. You give him a small wave. “Happy anniversary.”

Kageyama doesn’t linger long enough to hear you say anything else before he hangs up, leaving you back in Tokyo beneath a haunting silence and a darkened room. Rolling onto your side, you toss your phone somewhere across the mattress, groaning defeatedly into the sheets with a slight shudder. You’re not entirely sure when the bed had become so cold.

19

You’re the first person he calls after leaving the office in Tokyo.

He’s a whirlwind of emotions, pride kicking up in the depths of his stomach as his fingertips reach for your contact name with a melting ease. It’s only a short ring that passes before your voice echoes through the receiver, all hushed and curious while the butterflies erupt beneath his ribs.

“I’m going to play on the Japan National Team,” He announces proudly, not immediately noticing the curious attention from others standing around him at the station.

He chooses not to care though. Chooses not to give a damn about the looks he’s getting regarding his volume because his dreams are finally, finally tangible. He listens happily as you let out a squeal of excitement, never mind the fact that you’re also in the middle of your university library during exam season.

“Holy shit!” You gasp, pulling a busy, gleaming smile onto your face. “That’s amazing! You’re amazing!”

There’s a moment of silence bleeds over then, but he’s quick to break it.

“Thank you,” Kageyama blurts, almost sheepishly. “For being here for me.”

Your face softens; warming in the rare exposure of vulnerability as your bottom lip catches between your teeth.

“I’ll always be here for you,” You breathe out. “Every step of the way. Just don’t forget me when you’re famous, okay, hotshot?”

���Of course not,” He grins to himself. “You’re coming to the top with me, you know.”

Your pulse drums louder in your stomach. “I know.”

There’s another pause until Kageyama breaks it once more, continuing to ride the high of a freshly signed contract. It’s another blurted sentiment.

“I love you.”

Your smile widens. “I know.”

“Say it back,” He grumbles, knowing that the words have always sounded better falling from your lips anyway.

So you do.

18

Tobio Kageyama tells you he loves you beneath a snow-kissed sky in the middle of December. 

In the pale light of morning when the world’s blanketed in white and the windows are frosted over with ice, he finally says the three words that have been clouding the depths of his mind for months.

“I love you,” He admits; doesn’t quite realize how unfamiliar they feel until they’re leaving the tip of his tongue. 

He pauses, suddenly unsure. “I think.”

You allow a small laugh to leave your lips then, an airy, melodic sound drifting along the silence of sunrise as your fingertips reach out to intertwine with his in the open space between you two. 

You know it’s not perfect. It’s awkward and it’s confusing, and it’s a bit far from the breathtaking confessions that the storybooks had always foretold, but you don’t mind. You know you don’t need a chorus of singing birds or the magic of a rabbit hole, the frayed ends of a rainbow or the tick-tock of a ballroom clock counting down to midnight.

The only thing you really need is this—the story of you and him, walking along some snow-dusted sidewalk in the middle of Miyagi with your hearts stitched onto your sleeves and your cheeks kissed red, and it’s the only thing you suppose you’ll ever need to read.

You offer him a small smile.

“I think I love you too,��� You reply, and he holds onto you just a little bit tighter.

[dirt-cup-draco]

Severus Snape x Reader- Starstruck (2/2)

Part 1 found here---> Ta Da

Previously:

Wand still posed against your neck he dragged you back to the abandoned house. Only when you were safe inside, having cast a protective charm on the place, did he release you. Spinning on your heel you brought your palm up to his cheek swiftly, the sound of you smacking him ringing out against the silent night. “That was for acting like a pig,” You sniffled, pride wounded.

 And then, you grabbed the front of his robes, lips slanting against his, all teeth and tongue. His hands stalled just above your hips, unsure of what to do next. “And that, was for saving my life,” You panted. 

Too concerned with your safe arrival it went unnoticed by all in the order, including yourself, that for the first time since he was a schoolboy, Severus Snape was a little bit flustered, and a whole lot starstruck. 

You wished that you could say the days after your rescue had been peaceful and filled with bliss. In reality, you found yourself overwhelmed during the day and terrified during the night. Molly was darling and you appreciated her to no end, but you were growing weary of the questions and constant attention. When she realized you weren’t fond of answering her prodding inquiries, she pretended as if nothing was wrong. You were glad for it but you caught her long glances and pitying stares. 

Sirius tried to be helpful too, having more insight on what you might’ve been through than Molly, but his attempts also fell flat. His best idea was to coax you to eat, encourage you to put the weight that you had lost from being withheld from food and water for all the time that you had been tortured and on the run. You wanted it to help but you had no appetite, but the demons in the back of your mind made your stomach churn with memories you wanted to forget. 

It all came to a head one night when Arthur had joined you all for dinner. He was a bit too boisterous, a bit too excited. He was a fun and loving man and you never wanted him to change, yet the way he slammed his silverware down on the table as he told another joke you weren’t quite listening to startled you and his long and deep laughs unsettled you, reminding you of the taunting you had endured. 

Your hands began to shake and you felt your heart begin to pound relentlessly. You stood, hands quivering and face pale as you looked apologetically to the friends in front of you. “Excuse me,” You squeaked, leaving no other explanation as you ran upstairs, finding the room that Sirius was allowing you to stay in “for as long as you needed”  he had said. 

Severus watched with what appeared to be boredom but deep beneath the surface he felt some...concern. Ever since you were a first year in Hogwarts, Severus had been able to see a fire within you, it seemed as if current events had been steadily stomping that fire out. It caused an ache in his chest where he hadn’t thought one possible. 

“Oh dear,” Molly sighed beside him, worrying at her apron as she began to gather dishes. “The poor dear,” 

“No use in pitying the woman,” Severus vocalized. 

Molly ground her teeth together, rounded cheeks flushing red. “She’s been through-” 

“I didn’t say she hasn’t been through difficult and unspeakable things,” Severus remarked, taking no time to apologize for his interruption of Molly’s oncoming scolding. “But pitying her will not take that away. Y/N needs space,” 

“She needs care!” Sirius interjected. “Something I don’t think you’d know about,” 

Severus bristled, his steely gaze locked on his old tormentor. “I shall be turning in for the night. The meal was filling as always Molly,” He chose his words carefully, knowing the balance in grimmauld place was an unstable one. The rest of the order let him retreat in silence, keeping their mouths closed, lips pressed together in thin lines. 

Severus took the room across from yours, lingering in the hall for just a moment. He heard nothing and assumed you must have fallen asleep despite the horrors that were clearly plaguing you. You had opened his eyes to something new that he had never considered before: opening his heart again. Your kiss had left him rattled to say the least. 

He told himself it was simply out of relief and appreciation but you always had a kind word for him, a sympathetic smile, when everyone else in the room only had cold shoulders and clipped sentences. You were objectively, a pretty woman. He could appreciate the shape of your body, the lilt of your voice, the edge to your wit. You had intelligence and nerve but you didn’t use it to ground others beneath your feet. Your kindness was given freely. 

Which is why it had begun to pain him, pondering of the weight of your torture and how it must be eating away at you. He would take your struggles and burdens onto his own shoulders if he could and that is how Severus knew you had captured his heart. It had been decades since he had cared for anyone other than himself. 

Being unable to rest, Severus took out a book and settled against his headboard for the night, his readers slipping over his nose as his head started to nod some time after ending the seventh chapter. The words blurred on the page but suddenly snapped back into focus as he heard a scream that melted into a whimper and ended with a cry. He was at full attention now as your senseless pleas and screams rang from your room. 

Had you begged and cried in a similar way when you had been tortured? Severus couldn’t bear the thought of it.

Climbing from his bed he padded across the room, rough wood floors creaking beneath his feet. It seemed your cries didn’t only wake him, for when he opened his bedroom door he found Tonks and Remus peering out of their bedroom with bleary and sleep glazed eyes.

“Should we wake her?” Tonks asked, looking between Severus and her husband, a yawn tugging itself from her lungs. Remus gave Severus a long look as he closed his bedroom door behind him, taking a step forward to your room. 

“I can help her,” He explained as the werewolf continued to eye him wearily. 

“I thought she needed space,” Remus had an argument resting heavily on the tip of his tongue.

Suddenly, your voice rang out clearly, “S-severus please, help me, I’m so scared.... so scared.... They’re coming!” It seemed you were still dreaming but you had spoken. It seemed you wanted Severus. 

Taking small pride in this, Severus tried to give Remus a reassuring look that appeared more like a sneer. The couple retreated back to their room as you continued to cry out into the night. Opening your door slowly, Severus surveyed the room, turning on a small lamp that stood in the far corner of the dusty bedroom. It cast a warm glow over the room that hopefully wouldn’t bee to strenuous on your eyes. 

You tossed and turned in your covers, the sheets spinning themselves around your legs and your pillows having fallen to the floor. You whimpered, pressing your face into your mattress as your imagination brought up something despicable to you. Your cheeks were stained with the clear tracks of your tears and Severus prodded himself to approach you. 

“Y/N,” He spoke clearly and sternly but it seemed you couldn’t hear him. “Y/N, you are only dreaming,” He tried again, hand resting gently on your shoulder as he shook you awake, the sudden and foreign rocking waking you in a panic as you shot up. Severus stepped back quickly and narrowly avoided your forehead colliding with his. 

Your breaths were coming out sharp and quick and your head dashed from side to side rapidly, taking in your surroundings. You relaxed some when you realized you were in grimmauld place, safe from any death eaters that may want to harm you. “Oh god,” You cried out, dropping your head into your hands before your head popped up a second later, eyes finding Severus’ as if you were surprised to see him there. “Please tell me you were the only one I woke,” 

“Then I would be lying to you,” Severus answered honestly and you grimaced, guilt filtering through you. “They don’t mind, it’s understandable that you haven’t been sleeping well,” 

“And you? Do you mind?” You had to asked, wiping at the remnants of your tears that had crept past your eyes while you slept. 

“If I was asleep when the commotion began, it might have caused some upset,” 

“Why weren’t you asleep?” 

“Why did you call out for me?” Severus asked instead, eyebrow raised and lips pursed in curiosity. Heat crept up your neck in an obvious blush and Severus liked the rosy color on you. 

“I don’t remember,” You lied. You were fixed with a pointed stare and your defense crumbled. “Because you saved me, I feel better around you. You arrived in my time of need, when you’re around it feels like no one can hurt me,” 

Your honesty, however slow coming, was without filter and Severus could feel his stomach flip in a pleasant way. You felt safe with him. 

Sitting at the end of your bed, Severus set a steady hand on your knee and you seemed to appreciate the gesture, a small smile working it’s way on your lips. “Would you-” He began but clammed up as you continued to look at him. Shaking his head, he decided to abandon his proposition. 

“Would I?” You prompted, voice still shaking from your wicked nightmares but you were starting to tease again and Severus took that as a positive sign. 

“Would you- That is to say-” Severus stumbled, cheeks now rosier than yours. 

“Yes I would like you stay with me,” You finished for him, hand reaching for his. 

“Then I will stay,” 

You held tight when he intertwined your fingers with yours as he maneuvered your bed, laying on his side and holding his arm out straight in front of him as you pressed your back against his chest that was rising and falling with slightly quickened breaths. 

You kept his hand in yours and pulled his arm to rest across your waist and wrap around you. Severus relaxed and tugged you tighter against him, legs tangling with yours. “Is this only because I was the one to your rescue? If it had been someone else-” 

“I didn’t want it to be anyone else,” You said simply, not leaving room for argument and too exhausted to say more. 

It was all Severus needed to know as he kissed the back of your neck in a shy show of affection, the both of you drifting off into a long and peaceful rest. You dreamed of a hooked nose and inky hair while he dreamed of floral shampoo and a kind smile. 

It went unsaid even as Severus crawled into your bed the next night, and the night after that- and many more nights to come- but you were both a little bit starstruck and certainly falling in love. 

Tag List: @angelinathebook @thehumanistsdiary Those who might like part 2: @paigelin @starofthedawn @giveusbackourbucky @purpledragonturtles

[artificialqueens]

End of the Day (Crystal x Gigi) - Ashley

A/N: The plan was simple. All Crystal had to do was pretend to be her twin for one week: sit silently in seminars, only leave her room for her basic necessities and stick closely to the set of rules she was left with. Only the rule that stated she “mustn’t bother the bitch from downstairs” became a lot harder for Crystal to follow once she had laid eyes on Gigi Goode.

Hope you guys like this!! Think of it as Breakfast at Tiffany’s meets She’s the Man only at a Russell Group where there’s a stereotype around every corner. Sending infinite thank you’s to Meggie for being a fab beta. p.s thanks so much for all the lovely feedback for Everything Has Changed (I could have cried reading some of it)…xoxo Ashley.

“No way.” Crystal dropped the pencil she toyed with, a laugh squeaking out of her throat at her sister’s audacity.

“It’s only a week,” she pleaded over the phone, the voice that had convinced Crystal to do stupid things since they were children making its reappearance.

“You seriously want me to pretend to be you just so you can jet off to Majorca to see that creep?” 

“Yes!” Elle ignored Crystal’s clear disdain. “That is exactly what I want. We used to do it all the time in school.”

“You’re crazy, actually insane.”

Crystal was used to her sister’s wild antics, but this plot may have been a step too far.

“But you love me.”

“I hate you.”

“It’s not like you have any plans.” Elle held no hesitation in poking the bear - the boundaries between the two twins almost non-existent.

“I have Depop orders actually,” Crystal snapped back, a tiny part of resentment that her sister was attending one of the best universities in the country whilst she was sitting at home making jewellery rising inside of her body but not quite breaking the surface.

“£200.”

Crystal stopped in her tracks - now she was listening.

“It won’t work anyway, people will notice!”

“They won’t. I don’t speak to anyone in my college anyway and my course friends won’t say anything, just stay in bed all day once you’ve been to my seminars. I’ll even give you my Disney+ password.”

A hint of worry rose in Crystal’s mind; she wondered how her more outgoing other half had managed to go to university and not make friends in her accommodation. Where Crystal was shy and nervous throughout the entirety of her education, Elle had never been afraid to put herself out there, always surrounded by one group of pretty girls or another. “So what am I supposed to do in these seminars then? It’s not like I have an extensive knowledge of anthropology is it?”

“All you have to do is sign in and sit there pretending to type - they don’t even pick on you I swear. And it’s the last week before we break up so everyone will be really chill.”

“£300,” Crystal responded, the idea of escaping the four walls of her bedroom whilst making three months of her usual income beginning to tempt her, cursing internally at how easily convinced she was.

“I can’t give you £300.” Crystal could hear that her sister was talking through a grin despite not being able to see her face, the grin that meant she’d won.

“Well, you can’t go to Majorca then.”

“Three hundred pounds it is,” Elle agreed. “But you better get me a decent Christmas present.”

“Deal,” Crystal responded, knowing she had already purchased her sister’s gift two months prior. “Now, tell me absolutely everything I need to know about collegiate life.”

“It’s a good job. I knew you’d say yes and already planned this part out.” Elle beamed, proud at her ability to convince her timid younger-by-ten-minutes sister to do almost anything.

***

If secondary school was supposed to be a jungle of cliques, then Elle’s college may as well have been the Amazon rainforest.

Walking through the incredibly hard to find dining hall for breakfast, Crystal could make out almost every university stereotype she could think of, each confined to their own special hold.

From the druggies to the athletes, to the Oxbridge rejects, to the girls who borrowed daddy’s credit card - they were all there and thriving. A small part of Crystal wanted to go and sit with who she decided were the artsy girls despite knowing her sister wouldn’t be caught dead doing so.

Trying not to draw attention to herself, she kept her head down as she made it to the front of the queue, Elle’s clear step-by-step of how she approached meals playing through her head on repeat, the weeks of planning for this moment all coming into play.

Only at that moment, she panicked, the child’s paint by numbers that were her instructions started to turn into a set of IKEA diagrams without captions in her brain. Wishing she’d stuck to eating a pot noodle in her sister’s room, Crystal’s body froze in a state of fear after dolloping a ladle of baked beans onto her toast. A tonne (or maybe ten tonnes) of bricks smacked her right between the eyes. She knew she wouldn’t be able to pull this off. The lack of self-confidence she always battled with ran thick through her veins, her thoughts turning to ways she could go home and return to the comfort of her hometown, willing to sacrifice her sister’s already flagged attendance and the three hundred pounds to be watching Bake Off with her mam in the kitchen.

It almost happened in slow motion, time losing its speed as the boy behind her walked into Crystal’s back, propelling her tray forward onto an unsuspecting blonde. An unsuspecting blonde who seemed the opposite of dumb.

“What the fuck?” She snapped her head around to Crystal, thick brows furrowed and pink lips pursed.

“I’m sorr-” Crystal started, beating herself up internally at how she had managed to do the exact opposite of laying low despite being only one night into her weeklong mission.

“This won’t come out!” The girl started turning her neck frantically to the back of her shirt, the white satin stained bright orange.

Her mouth opening but no words coming out, Crystal didn’t have a chance to apologise again before the girl had a swarm of minions dabbing her back with tissues.

“It’ll be okay, G.” One of them took her hand.  Crystal wanted to burst out in tears like she usually did at the smallest sign of conflict, pinching the skin on the back of her hand and looking at the white ceiling lights to stop herself.

“So long as people look where they’re going.” The girl, G, cast a terrifying yet beautiful scowl in Crystal’s direction before sauntering away.

So much for laying low, she sighed before leaving the queue herself, her body tingling as if she’d hit her funny bone over a dozen times. The girl’s stare still imprinted in the back of her eyes.

Having narrowly avoided a panic attack, Crystal thought hard about her old coping mechanisms and tried her best to remain positive as she did after these situations, sitting down at an empty table and giving herself a pat on the back that she had at least passed as Elle without any doubts, ready to take the rest of her day by storm (also known as sitting in silence and occasionally nodding her head as a bunch of middle ages men discuss human evolution and diversity).

***

Having achieved three B grades by the end of sixth form and the award for ‘most creative’ in their final assembly, Crystal always thought of herself as somewhat intelligent and capable of living in the real world despite her decision not to go to university like her sister.

Yet there she stood, her face in a scowl and her fist in a ball, completely and utterly perplexed by the laundry system.

After sleeping in her sister’s dirty sheets the night before, she had arrived back to the college with hopes of resting her head on a pillow that wasn’t mascara stained and washing her face with a flannel sans toothpaste blobs (which was basic hygiene in Crystal’s opinion, but she hadn’t expected anything more from her twin). Only those dreams were temporarily dashed as she spent an entire thirty minutes pressing buttons and swiping the card Elle had left her manically against an aged machine. 

Thirty-six internet searches and two desperate phone calls to her sister later, Crystal was beaming at the sheets swirling around, not a care in the world at how much of a psychopath she would look to anyone entering the room, the stress she had previously faced in getting the machine to work inducing her to stay and wait for the clothes to wash instead of leaving them like normal practice. 

Elle had seemed happy on the phone, gushing to Crystal about how tanned she’d gotten in such a short space of time and how delicious all the food was - Crystal shutting her down quickly by reminding her that such a tan would only alert their mother to the fact she’d spent a week abroad visiting the sleazy holiday rep she’d fallen in love with that summer rather than in the brown-bricked, straight from a horror movie, sixties’ style complex that Crystal was currently residing in.

Crystal made a mental note to text her mam later and tell her how much she was enjoying her time “visiting her sister” - knowing fine well that talking to her on the phone would probably cause her to crumble and confess their scheme.

She had always been a family orientated person, always choosing a night in the house watching movies over playing out with friends, crying buckets the day her sister moved out and started a new chapter of her life without her. It was clear her mother wanted her to get out into the world, knowing she was capable of more than selling jewellery online, but unlike her sister, Crystal wasn’t quite ready to leave her home yet, needing that extra push to get her feet moving that just hadn’t come her way yet.

She figured that spending a week pretending to be her sister may actually be a good start.

Lost away with her head in the clouds like usual, Crystal was snapped back to surface level as her phone chimed to signal the end of the cycle, only to find herself even more frustrated when she realised that no dryers were free.

Today really hadn’t been her day. 

She personally blamed the lack of lucky necklace around her neck (Elle telling her specifically during their planning stages that she would never wear such a monstrosity and Crystal following suit despite knowing it was only entrenched in their rules because her sister thought it was ugly). Her secret superstitious side kicking in, she thanked herself for bringing some of her jewellery making gadgets with her, figuring she’d have to make her own version of it, for now, it wasn’t as if she had any better way to spend her evening.

Seeing a dryer with two minutes left until it timed out, Crystal figured she’d simply wait until it had been emptied to use it, allowing her brain to return back to Pinterest for a short period of time.

But ten minutes passed and no one came to empty the machine.

She glanced at the other piles of clothes that lay on top of the machines, figuring it was normal to remove other people’s when none were free, the thought of her sheets staying wet and crinkled making her feel uneasy.

Opening the dryer, she was hit immediately by a waft of lavender, reassuring herself that it was okay to move the clothes and feeling almost proud of herself for making a leap the old Crystal would have ran from in fear of awkwardness. 

Being her most careful, she picked the clothes one by one and started to fold them, her brain subconsciously admiring the mystery tartan-wearer’s sense of fashion and wishing she had the confidence to wear some of the outfits. That was when her hands met a satin blouse, a familiar satin blouse with an orange tinge on its white back.

Before she had time to process that the clothes she was moving belonged to the pretty girl from breakfast, Crystal’s train of thought was interrupted by the devil herself.

“Admiring your handiwork?” She strutted over and snatched the shirt back from Crystal’s hands.

Crystal couldn’t quite place her accent but she knew it was Southern. Her overactive imagination hearing the girl whisper dirty thoughts to her in that posh voice without being able to stop herself.

Oh, fuck.

“I’m sorry.” Crystal turned to her, not even attempting to act like anything other than the soft wimp she was inside. “I didn’t mean to.”

Crystal looked into the girl’s eyes, almost seeing her melt a little before her.

She felt the tension between them, dense and heavy in the air.

“It’s fine,” the blonde responded, losing the passive-aggressive tone she’d carried beforehand but still not sounding entirely sincere as she began to throw her clothes into her hamper. 

Crystal couldn’t help but gawk a little as she began to strut away, her body swishing like a model’s as she made her way out of the room, pausing for a second at the door.

“Can you do me a favour, though?” the girl called back to Crystal.

‘I think I’d give both of my kidneys to you’ Crystal thought. Only it instead came out as an awkwardly stuttered, “Erm, sure.”

“Turn your music down, please.” She shot a sarcastic smile in Crystal’s direction. Crystal felt it burrow straight through her chest cavity and into her fast-beating heart. “I know that anthropology may be a bit simpler than most degrees, but some of us really struggle to work when all they can hear is your shit music directly above them.”

Her mouth dropping open to catch flies as the girl left the room for good, a pang of realisation hit Crystal.

Opening her phone and flicking through the dramatic guide to her sister’s university life that was now saved at the top of her notes, she found what she’d been looking for:

“12. DO NOT, under any circumstances, bother the bitch downstairs.”

Too late, Crystal thought to herself, wondering how many more of her sister’s rules she would have broken by the end of the week.

***

Crystal would be lying if she said she hadn’t been watching out for the blonde that week, whose name she had figured out (after an intensive Facebook stalking session) to be Gigi. 

Yes, she was lying low, not leaving Elle’s room other than for seminars and to eat - but that didn’t stop her from taking stolen glances at the girl across the dining hall or walking up that second flight of stairs to the room just a fraction slower than she did the first flight.

Three days at university and she’d somehow turned back into a fourteen-year-old girl fantasising about the most popular girl in the class.

Except this time, the popular girl didn’t even know her real name.

She felt like Tracy from Hairspray - one look and she could hear the wedding bells playing in the back of her head. 

But at the same time, Crystal knew what was at stake - leaving their interactions to intense eye contact and mumbled “excuse mes,” knowing that even speaking to Gigi again could blow her entire cover.

Yet, she somehow managed to do exactly that on Wednesday night. Or, technically, the early hours of Thursday morning.

At first, Crystal tried to ignore the argument below her, drowning out their voices with her headphones (partly because she felt like she was intruding and partly because listening to people screaming at each other, like a lot of things, made her cry). However, as the war below was still awaiting a cease-fire, snippets of conversation slid their way into the room.

“Why do you have to do this on every night out?”

“I just want what’s best for you.”

“You don’t know what’s best for me.”

She could hear the pain in Gigi’s voice heighten right before her door slammed, Crystal wincing in bed at the sound.

Expecting to hear male footsteps stomp away, Crystal was surprised to instead hear lighter ones, making their way up the stairs and past her landing, a muffled sob travelling through her door.

Looking out of the window, she squinted in the dark until she saw the red glow of a cigarette from their fire escape, the hum of an unfamiliar tune making its way through the thin walls.

She knew it was a risk, but it was one that Crystal couldn’t help but take when she thought of the beautiful girl from the laundry room freezing in the cold.

Grabbing her sister’s spare dressing gown, she made her way onto the landing, taking a deep breath before going out onto the fire escape.

Logic and speech pushed to the back part of her mind, Crystal simply made her way over to the other girl and sat down beside her, placing the dressing gown over her slim shoulders.

Even in the dark, she could see how perfect Gigi was.

The mole on the side of her cheek.

The soft pout on her lips.

Despite the mascara smudged down her face and her eyes stinging red, Crystal thought she looked like an angel.

“Hi,” Gigi spoke to her, dropping the cigarette she smoked on the floor and pressing it out with her trainers. 

“Hi,” Crystal spoke back, unsure of what to say to the girl, blood rushing through her at a rate of knots, nervous filling her body and bursting through her head like she was some sort of human kettle.

“I guess you know what I mean about the music now.”

“Yeah.” Crystal nodded in the dark. “It’s noted.”

“I’m sorry about Karl…” Gigi trailed off, taking some time before speaking again. “He just gets like that sometimes when he’s had a drink. I know he doesn’t mean it. I guess you know that.”

Unsure of who Karl was, or why she was supposed to know that, Crystal began to feel like she was drowning. Only instead of jumping on the next lifeboat, she swam down deeper for Gigi.

A part of her was afraid, afraid she’d read the aura surrounding the other girl so wrong, afraid that Karl was her boyfriend.

“Mmhmm,” Crystal responded, maybe a bit more high pitched than she naturally would have.

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s my best friend. But sometimes a part of me thinks that he just doesn’t have any idea who I really am if you get me.” 

Crystal couldn’t have understood any better at that moment.

All she wanted to do was tell her. To tell her how hard it was when everyone expected you to be the same as another person. How awful it felt when they never knew the real you, only a shell of the more outgoing sister.

Only she couldn’t, so she did the next best thing and placed her hand on the girl’s forearm, instantly getting a shock at how cold she felt.

“Do you wanna go inside? We can make hot chocolate,” she suggested, noting how Gigi’s body relaxed under her touch.

“He’s still in my room.” Gigi rolled her eyes. “I just can’t deal with him right now, it needs to be left for the morning.”

“You can stay in mine,” Crystal asked, squeezing her grip ever so slightly.

What was she doing?

This wasn’t part of the plan.

And it was certainly breaking some of the rules.

Potentially all of them combined.

This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

But nothing filled her with greater relief then when Gigi finally responded: “If you don’t mind, thank you.”

***

At first, she felt awkward as she let Gigi into the room, especially considering the fact it wasn’t hers. But after two hot chocolates each she had felt the most comfortable and at peace as she had since masquerading as her sister.

She watched as Gigi’s eyes made their way around the room, a kid in a sweetie shop, gawking at the treasures around her.

“What’s that?” she spoke between sips, pointing towards Crystal’s craft box that had been haphazardly set up on her sister’s desk.

“Oh.” Crystal went to pick it up, a flutter of warmth rushing through her at the thought of someone, let alone Gigi, being interested in her jewellery. “Just some bits and bobs I make.”

“These are so cool.” Gigi held a pair of scarlet earrings up and examined them closer, her mouth opening slightly as she focused. “Like the ones you had in the other day.”

Crystal’s face turned a deeper red than the earrings, the thought of Gigi remembering what she wore sending shivers down her spine - her head telling her heart on an auto loop that no matter what she thought about Gigi, all of Gigi’s returned thoughts were instead about Elle.

“Yeah,” she choked out, nipping her skin to bring herself back to reality.

“You should sell these!” Gigi gasped as she rooted through more of Crystal’s collection. “I sell the clothes I make on Depop, we’d make a great team.”

Crystal didn’t get a chance to respond. She was too busy picking the pieces of her exploding heart from the carpet and trying to put it back together again.

“In fact.” Gigi grabbed her phone and began to search.

Crystal decided that her thinking face was even cuter than her regular face.

She was in deep. Too deep.

 “I think I follow an account that does stuff like this, let me think, something to do with crystals…”

Way, way too deep.

“I’m feeling a bit tired.” Crystal blurted awkwardly, getting mad at her mother for never placing her in acting lessons as a child, ready for the inevitable week that she’d have to pretend to be her twin sister or else she’d be kicked out of university and murdered by their family. Seeing the almost defeated look on Gigi’s face, she tried again. “But you can show me in the morning?”

“I’d love that.” Gigi smiled.

Crystal wanted to rewind time just to hear that sentence again. She wouldn’t be too greedy, she’d only listen to it one more time. Two at a push.

Making sure to go into the en suite as Gigi got changed, Crystal returned to find her in bed, already asleep, her hair a sprawl of honey against the pink pillows.

She waited a second before turning off the light and getting into bed beside her, something about lying next Gigi sending Crystal into a sleepy haze despite the way her heart had been beating so fast just moments before.

She could hear Gigi breathing, snoring just a little, finding her own breathing starting to sync along.

Sleep was only minutes away from taking over her body when she heard it, the muffled cry coming from the other side of the bed.

“No.” She heard Gigi mumble as she tossed from one side to the other. “Don’t go.”

Crystal placed a reassuring hand on her arm without thought. “Are you alright?”

Gigi woke startled, her eyes beaming at Crystal like a young deer caught in the middle of the road.

“I’m fine.” She realised her surroundings and threw the quilt to one side, moving her body down to the bottom end of the bed. “I best be off.”

“Hey.” Crystal sat up, flicking the lamp on by her bedside. “It’s alright, we can-”

But before she could finish, Gigi was gone. Nothing more than the faint smell of lavender on the pillows and the dark ring of hot chocolate in the bottom of her sister’s mug.

***

Making her way back into the college that evening, Crystal waited by the entrance for a few moments, wondering if she could manage to get to Elle’s room without passing the drinks and shenanigans that were currently taking place in front of her, wondering if she could manage to make it without passing Gigi, more precisely.

Tesco carrier bags full to the brim of every comfort food she could gorge on (salami, cheese, salt and vinegar crisps and three different bars of dairy milk to be precise) as she watched her sister’s Disney+ alone, Crystal concluded that the coast was clear and made her way to the bottom of her stairs without passing Gigi.

The words of the note she had posted under Elle’s door the day beforehand were still dancing around Crystal’s mind like a puzzle that even Professor Layton couldn’t solve:

“Elle, please forgive me for this morning. I don’t know what happens when I get like that..we’re all having drinks at around 8 tomorrow if you wanna join? - Gigi.”

As much as she longed to join Gigi for a drink, Crystal knew that she couldn’t. She’d already put too much on the line, allowed herself to get too close, too emotionally invested. A short text from Elle asking if everything was okay scared her straight, there was too much at stake. Yes, she wanted more than anything to be the one who comforted Gigi the next time she had a nightmare, to make jewellery for her and kiss her forehead whenever she looked stressed. But family meant everything to her, and she knew if anyone were to find out what they’d done, the consequences wouldn’t be worth it. 

About to make her way up the stairs, Crystal felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Let me help with those,” the boy motioned to her bags, his voice familiar.

With dark hair slicked back, and skin the colour of caramel, it took Crystal a second to realise where she knew the boy from, remembering his face next to Gigi’s in their corner of the dining hall.

“I’m fine, they’re not heavy.” Crystal tried to walk away but was stopped by his voice, yet again.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come help? It’s been a little while, Elle.” He grinned, a smirk in his eyes that Crystal couldn’t quite trace.

“I’m sorry, I’ll have to catch up with you later,” Crystal responded, trying to remain calm on the outside as her insides reached peak panic mode, her brain mentally scanning her notes for anything mentioning this boy. Her search found no results.

“Oh I get it,” he laughed. “It’s one of your games.  Sure, you wanna catch up later.”

That’s when the realisation hit Crystal. Her sister was having sex with this boy. And she completely failed to mention it.

Trying to think of something to say, a heavy silence lingered between them. Broken by a familiar tone that managed to scare her half to death and turn her on at the same time.

“Karl.” Gigi shook her head as she made her way down the staircase, carrying what looked like a sippy cup of vodka red bull in her hands. “Do you mind not trying to shag every girl in college for five seconds?”

“I’ll see you later, Elle.” He muttered before strutting away with Gigi, Crystal making out the word ‘cockblock’ in their hushed conversation as they left.

She knew that Elle didn’t tell her everything.

Just because they were twins they didn’t have to know every detail of each other’s lives, even though they spoke every day. Crystal always knew that. But a part of her heart stung at the thought of her sister not even telling her about a boy she was sleeping with. Is that how far apart they’d grown since Elle came to uni? 

Fighting back tears, she made her way up the stairs and tried to call her sister. She knew she was being silly; a part of her had just thought she’d know when her sister was sleeping with someone. So many questions ran through her mind. Was Elle safe? Did she love him? Why didn’t anyone know? 

She tried to call again, no answer.

Gigi must have known, Crystal figured - slotting together their interaction the night before with the one they’d just had. Is that why Elle didn’t like her? Why they weren’t friends? Why she’d told Crystal to avoid her?

She answered on the fifth call.

“Hey, babe, I really can’t talk right now.” 

Crystal ignored her sister’s words, dropping her shopping outside the door and moving out onto the fire escape, the cold breeze hitting her face harshly.

“Who’s Karl?” 

“Oh.” She heard her other half’s surprise, she could see the look on her face, high definition in Crystal’s mind. “I told you not to speak to people, for fuck sake, Crystal.”

“Who’s Karl?”

“I can’t speak about this now.” Her tone lowered, clearly someone else was in her company.

“Who’s Karl?” Crystal asked again, not even stopping to think about how dramatic she was being.

Only her sister had hung up before she could get an answer.

Crystal didn’t know how long she’d been out there when she heard the door open, she didn’t even know if she was still crying or not.

“Hi,” Gigi spoke, almost a whisper, as she approached her. “We gotta stop meeting like this, hey?”

Crystal watched Gigi’s face drop a little at the sight of her, looking hurt the second she got close enough to see her tears.

“Yeah, I-” Crystal started but was swiftly interrupted.

Normally in films, it happened after a moment. 

The pair would talk, get deep about their issues, reach a comforting solution then sit for a moment in an all-knowing silence.

Then they’d look into each other’s eyes, letting them flicker down once or twice before meeting again, that lock not leaving until they were shut.

Next came the strand of hair, pushed away and tucked neatly behind the ear.

Finally, the kiss, slow at first then growing in passion.

Only Gigi had no patience.

It took Crystal a second to react, to realise what was happening, to press her lips back against Gigi’s, to race her hand through the other girl’s hair.

It was unexpected.

Yet it felt nothing but natural.

And right.

“I’m sorry.” Gigi pulled away, pausing to bite her tongue between her teeth, a nervous side of her appearing that Crystal had not yet seen. “I know that’s like the last thing you’re meant to do when someone’s upset but, I don’t know, you just looked so sad and-”

This time Crystal wasn’t going to let her finish.

She felt Gigi’s hands wipe the stray tears from her face before moving right down her body to her waist. Moving her body closer so she was almost straddling the other girl, Gigi pulled away for just a second to let out a breath. 

Crystal moved her hands round to Gigi’s back, further and further down until she was granted a nod of permission, letting them slide over the silky fabric of her skirt.

Before Crystal knew it she was being pushed back to the ground, Gigi’s long and beautiful body towering over her, as she got to her knees and began to kiss Crystal all over.

Gently, methodically, slowly. 

Crystal’s mind was carried away, far from reality and refusing to take away from the moment in front of her.

“I knew you wanted me.” She felt Gigi’s breath tickle her ear, sending hot flushes down her entire body, reaching her hands out to touch the other girl’s breasts.

“Fuck, Elle.” Gigi grinned, flicking a switch in Crystal’s body as she pushed herself backwards away from her touch.

She’d almost forgotten that part.

Looking at the other girl’s confused face, she was lost for words, pulling the strap of her vest top back in its place. She knew she couldn’t do it anymore, she couldn’t keep lying. She would have let Gigi sleep with her thinking that she was someone else. She’d become a monster. She had to tell the truth.

“What the fuck?” A voice came from the door behind them, Karl’s confused face flicking between the pair of them. “Is this a joke?”

“Shit,” Gigi muttered and stood up, but Crystal was frozen in place, her hands and feet turning numb with anxiety, the sky around them warping in time. “I can explain.”

Crystal watched as Gigi chased her friend back into the building, listening to her tell him she was sorry and she just got carried away. Listening to Karl ask if that was why she’d told him to stop sleeping with her. Listening to Gigi explain that it wasn’t it, that something had just changed recently. Listening to her life crumble around her.

And then she heard nothing at all.

Even when she knocked on Gigi’s door later that night, ready to give her the explanation she needed, Crystal heard nothing at all - eventually giving in and retreating to the cave of Elle’s room, with no plans to leave it until their train pulled in at the station. 

***

Looking up at the hideous brown bricks in front of her, Elle Barge never thought she’d be so relieved to see the college in her life.

One day earlier than she was supposed to return, she hoped that Crystal would forgive her for withholding some of the stuff she’d been doing at university, thinking that they could have one fun night together before getting the train home the next day, giving at least a hint of truth to their family when they arrived back.

Besides, her holiday romance meet-up hadn’t exactly gone the way she had planned when she accidentally met up with his wife. Hence her early departure.

She figured she’d just have to chalk this one up to being a good story to tell, throwing away her sadness at the thought of having a best-selling novel about her awful love life someday. 

Heck, she’d probably already have half of it written with just stories about Karl.

Walking up the stairs to her room, she rolled her eyes at the sight in front of her.

One thing she certainly had not missed was Gigi Goode braying on her door to tell her to turn her music down.

Surely, Crystal wasn’t irritating her, Elle thought to herself. The only music Crystal ever played was One Direction and she hardly blasted it.

“Ahem.” Elle coughed loudly enough for Crystal to hear from inside the room, praying she’d understand with her magic twin sense not to come out (also quickly texting her not to incase the magic twin sense failed them. Elle did not want a repeat of that time in year nine when Jackie Cox asked if they could read each other’s minds).

“Hey.” Gigi turned to face her, a strange look on her face that Elle couldn’t quite decode. Tension started to seep through the stained carpet and up the walls like lava.

“Hi?” Elle raised an eyebrow to her, more of a question than a greeting. 

“I’m sorry for ignoring you before,” Gigi started, nodding her head as she got into the rhythm of her speech. “I was just scared and I didn’t know how to say it but I can now. Please just listen and wait ‘til I’m done, I have to explain.”

Minefields began exploding inside Elle’s brain.

She simply nodded.

“I’ve been fucked over in the past. And it still scares me today. You know the other night? That was it, I haven’t felt myself get close to anyone in a while. And I know it’s bad because of Karl and I’m a shitty friend to him but honestly, I think that this is something bigger than that, cause I’ve not felt it for a while. And I think you feel it too. Look, I’m really shit at this but something changed this week, I saw you in this light I’d never caught you in. I might sound mad but I think that I need you.”

Looking back at the girl in front of her with dismay, Elle spoke back the only three words that rang through her brain at that moment.

“What the fuck.”

And then her door opened, her sister’s face peeking out around the corner, clad in the same expression she used to have whenever she’d spilt juice on the carpet or smashed plate. Her hair matted and eyes puffy, Elle immediately moved to her side.

And then Gigi uttered the three words as well - only adding a “fucking” in there too for good measure.

Killing the silence that lingered for some time, Crystal spoke the fastest sentence Elle had ever heard all in one breath: “I’ve been pretending to be my sister so she could go get fucked by a Spanish guy.”

“Wow.” Elle looked back and forth between the pair, recognising a glint in her sister’s eyes that was certainly not there before.

Crystal prepared herself and walked up to Gigi, placing her hand on her arm. “I wanted to tell you so bad. I was going to but then Karl came and everything got messy. I know you probably can’t forgive me, but I saw that bigger thing too and I let myself get carried away in it.”

Gigi looked between the pair and raised a hand to her mouth, letting out a hearty laugh. 

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Elle pleaded, fear rising inside her.

Silence filled the landing again, the twins standing sheepishly as they gave time for Gigi to process.

“If I’m honest I think I’m less confused now.” Gigi turned to face Crystal and grinned, showing an emotion Elle didn’t think the Barbie doll was even capable of showing. “This makes a lot more sense.”

Elle watched as her sister grinned back, seeing the genuine happiness on her face and throwing away all thoughts about whether or not she’d get in trouble.

“I think I might just be able to forgive you.” Gigi looked her up and down, pouting her lips in a joking manner. “If you let me take you out so we can talk this through over dinner?”

“Yes,” Crystal responded without hesitation.

“But first, could you tell me your name?”

“Crystal.” Elle watched as her sister reached out and shook the other girl’s hand, proud of the growth in confidence she could see - happy to see the return of the happy-go-lucky Crystal who wasn’t too scared to try anything new that she knew as a child.

“Crystal,” Gigi repeated, smiling to herself. “So Crystal, do you go to uni or just hang around at other people’s?”

“Maybe next year.” Crystal smiled back a sense of optimism in her voice. “Are we going for this dinner or what?”

Although it took her a minute to take in what she’d seen, a strange feeling inside of her as she waved her sister goodbye for a date with her bitchy downstairs neighbour, Elle couldn’t help but think that her disaster vacation had all happened for a good reason. In fact, she found herself almost shedding a tear as she heard her sister laughing at something Gigi said on their way downstairs, figuring that she might just see more of her sister than usual next term (and being nothing but happy about it).

[wlwreader]

Devil’s Adovcate

A/N: Alright I finally got this done whoo!!! (at 7am rip) I’m actually kind of proud of this one, mainly because this was a very self-indulgent fic and I also think the dialogue is slightly better than my other fic or at least imo but the ending is a bit rushed and abrupt. Still, I hope you guys like it as much as I do <3

Summary: A summoning incantation goes wrong (or does it?)

Warning: magic!cock, degradation, bondage, Mistress kink (I’m not sure I’d say it’s a master/slave dynamic so yah mistress kink?), anal, breeding, choking and I think that’s all?

WC: 3.3k+

Pairing: Succubus!Natasha Romanoff x Reader

You read over the words printed on the page in front of you once again, making sure everything was as it was supposed to be. You had found the book hidden in a far off section in a small quaint library. The store had appeared practically out of thin air and it immediately grabbed your attention with its high arches and tall windows. The cover of the book was plain. In fact the whole outside was empty, devoid of any text or title, just a brown leather-bound book. The teller had given you a secretive smile when you walked up to the counter with the book in hand and a wink as you left. The race home seemed to take forever due to your growing excitement to continue your exploration of the mysterious book.

That was a few days ago, now you stood in front of a crudely drawn pentagram and surrounded by candles on the verge of summoning (or trying to) a demon. The book you discovered contained spells, rituals, and incantations of all kinds and your curiosity couldn't be contained any longer. You had to find out if any of them worked. Reading over the words on the page again, you start to chant lowly. The flames on the candles start to flicker as you repeat the conjuration over and over before they’re blown out all together on the last iteration. You hold your breath and eagerly wait in silence. Nothing. 

With a sigh of disappointment, you flick the light on in your bedroom while muttering to yourself, “I can’t believe I even thought that would work.”

“Oh, it worked alright doll.” You jump in shock at the sound of another voice in your room before quickly spinning to face whoever spoke to you and you lose your breath at the sight. A beautiful creature stood in the middle of the drawn pentagram. Hair as fiery as the depths of hell and eyes just as red. Horns as black as obsidian curved back away from her face and draw your eyes to her pointed ears. Your cheeks heat up when you notice the skimpy clothing barely covering her body.

“What? Cat got your tongue, darling?” The grin she sends you is predatory and a shiver runs down your spine when you spot her fanged teeth.

“A-are you a—“

“A demon? Yes.” She slowly makes her way across the room towards you and you backpedal till she’s pressing you against the wall with her own body, “Though, I’m not your standard demon.” 

She crowds around you, hands flat against the wall on either side of your head and a thigh wedged between your own. A strange crawling sensation rises along one of your calfs and you stare in shock as a sleek, red tail wraps itself along your leg. Panic fills your chest as you realize that your trapped and utterly at this demon’s mercy. 

You hesitantly meet her steady gaze when she speaks up again, “I’m a succubus.” Your blush deepens and your eyes widen when you catch on to why she’s here. The spell was supposed to summon a demon who could grant you your deepest and darkest desires, you just never even considered the possibility that your sexual fantasies could factor in at all. Air fans across your face when she laughs.

“That’s right, sweetheart. I’m here to make all your dreams come true.” The muscles in her thigh tighten, giving you a sturdy surface to aid your subconsciously grinding hips and she chuckles lowly at the smear of slick left. “We haven’t even started yet and you’re already so wet.” 

Her nose runs along the curve of your neck, inhaling the scent of your arousal, before her lips brush along your ear. “Tell me darling. Is it the fact that you’re about to get the best fuck of your life that has you soaked,” A clawed hand snakes around your throat restricting your airflow and causing you to choke on a gasp. “Or do you enjoy the thrill of being in danger.” 

The predatory grin the paints itself across her lips leaves her fangs glinting in the low light of the room and your cunt clenches at the sight. Her grip tightens and you grip at her hand as hazy blackness slowly starts to creep into the edges of your vision.

 “Or maybe it’s both.”

Finally, her hand leaves your neck and you rub at the bruises already forming on your tender skin as you take in gulps of air, your lungs burning.

“On the bed. Now.” The tone of her voice leaves no room for arguing, not that you’d want to argue with a demon, and you scramble hurriedly onto your mattress. You sit waiting for her on your knees and take the chance to really look at her while she watches you. She’s gorgeous. Unnaturally so. Soft, pale, flawless skin only hidden by the strappy ensemble she calls an outfit. Her horns were much like a goat’s. Curved away from her face with rigids running along the length of them. You could see her silky tail swaying behind her, vaguely reminiscent of a cat’s tail in its movements. 

Her body shifting pulls you out of your admiring as she deliberately stalks towards you. Her gleaming red eyes seem to bore through you and you suddenly feel like a fly caught in a spider’s web. The bed creaks as she climbs atop it and she presses on your shoulder, leading you on your back. You feel the heat radiating from her pussy on your skin as she straddles your hips and you realize with shock that you’re naked, clothes nowhere to be seen on your body or in your room. As if they had just vanished into thin air. 

“What is your name?” you ask it quietly, fearful of her reaction.

Her hands trail up your abdomen and your stomach clenches at the unexpected heat that radiates from her touch. “Natalia.” She caresses your breasts, pebbled nipples scraping against the palms of her hands. You arch into the touch with a sigh. “Though, you’ll only be calling me Mistress from now on.” You watch in awe as she bows her head closer to your chest, her tongue slithering around one of your breast while the tip licks at your sensitive bud and you feel your clit throb as you imagine her fucking you with the long, serpent-like tongue.

Natalia’s fingers pinch and roll your other nipple as she takes the other one into her hot mouth, her pointed teeth teasing your areola as she lathers your breasts with attention. Your back arches off the bed while you moan, your hands reaching to tangle in her soft hair before her tail is wrapping around your wrists and pinning them above your head.

“No touching unless I say so. Understand?”

“Yes.” She grips your cheeks in one hand, her nails digging into your skin as she glares at you and you whimper.

“Yes what, slut?”

“Yes, Mistress.” 

Natalia hums in satisfaction while she releases your face. You watch as she sits up, one hand held out in front of her palm up and your mouth drops open in wonder as two clamps materialize in the once empty space. The throbbing in your clit intensifies as she attaches them to your pebbled nipples, a moan falling from your parted lips as she tugs on the chain connecting them. Her tail unravels itself from your wrists, but you’re only free for a few seconds before you’re face down on the bed.

“Arms behind your back.” soft rope is tied along your forearms, binding them together from your wrists to your elbows and straining your shoulders. She sits you up on your knees, the display of her strength while she manhandles you into position has a small stain forming on the sheets beneath you. More red rope appears in her hands, more slick gathering between your legs as she works. The rope criss-crosses along your chest in an intricate pattern, framing your breasts. 

“Now,” she tugs on the chain and you groan, thighs clenching together, “the real fun can begin.” She grins devilishly, fangs on display as she pushes you onto your back again. Clawed fingers scratch down your stomach, leaving reddish raised lines in their wake and pulling a shiver from you. Natalia rests between your parted legs, hands braced on the insides of your thighs while her warm breath ghosts over your slit for a few teasing moments. You whine, hips arching up towards her mouth, desperate to feel her touch. Her grip tightens on your thighs hard enough to leave bruises and she growls.

“Stop fucking moving, whore.”

You immediately still and she rewards you with a swipe of her tongue through your folds. The heat from her mouth is intense, mewls and whimpers slipping past your lips when she teases your opening.

“Please…” 

Her gaze meets your own as her tongue sinks into your cunt, pulling an appreciative moan out of you. Natalia’s fangs graze the sensitive skin of your labia, her nose pressed to your clit as her tongue reaches depths no finger, tongue, or dick has ever reached before. Your back arches as you cry out, shoulders starting to burn from the awkward position they’re tied in. She eats you out diligently, tongue flexing and curling sinfully while her eyes hungrily rake over your quivering, moaning form. 

One of her hands release your thigh and move to grip onto the chains of your nipple clamps before giving them a harsh tug that leaves tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. Natalia shakes her head side to side, her nose rubbing across your clit in just the right way that it has you cumming without warning. Your climax rushes through you quickly and unexpectedly, body trembling as you cry out. Panting softly as you come down, you shrink into yourself under her intense glare.

“I didn’t say you could cum.” She grips the ropes that adorn your chest and yanks you so that you lay face down across her lap. “Too busy moaning like a wanton whore to beg like a good little slut should.”

You whine pathetically as you squirm in her lap, “I’m sorry, Mistress.”

“Count.” Her dark tone sends a shiver down your spine.

“Wha—“ You cut yourself off with a yelp when she swiftly swats one of your ass cheeks.

“I said count, bitch. And don’t forget to thank me for each one.”

Another smack is delivered to your other cheek, harsher than the first and you grimace at the sting it leaves behind.

“One. Thank you, Mistress.” Natalia alternates between each cheek, every slap delivered only getting more painful.

“Eight. Thank you, Mistress.” Tears trickle down your face, a mix of your slick and cum coating the insides of your thighs. 

“Thirteen. Thank you, Mistress.”  You can’t help but moan each time her hand meets your ass, the skin painted red.

“Twenty. Thank you, Mistress.” By the time she’s finished, marks vaguely resembling the shape of her hand decorate your bottom. She gropes and caresses the tender skin, the heat radiating from her hands doing nothing to soothe the stinging sensation.

“I think you enjoyed your punishment a little too much.” Her thumb pushes through your folds (her long claw-like nails now gone), gathering the abundant wetness that’s pooled there. “You’re dripping all over my thighs you filthy girl.” 

Her thumb traces your puckered hole and you push back into the sensation with a pathetic whine. She spreads your cheeks before spit lands on the newly exposed skin. Natalia teases her thumb against the tight ring again, her spit acting as lube so that she can slowly sink her finger into you and you can’t help but whine. “Please, Mistress. Please fuck me.”

“Look at you. You’re so pathetic, begging me to use you as my personal fuck toy.” The words send a jolt of pleasure straight to your clit and you press your thighs together, desperate for any kind of stimulation. Natalia seems to take notice of the slight movement and soon her thumb is replaced with two slender fingers. 

“Oh fuck.” You moan, forehead pressed into the sheets on your bed.

“Aww, does the little whore want me to fuck her ass?” You nod vigorously while moaning after trying and failing to speak when her fingers scissor inside of you. She grabs the ropes that encase your torso, moving you till you’re face down on the bed. Her hips press flush against your ass, her hands groping your tender cheeks roughly, and you feel a foreign bulge that wasn’t there before.

“I wanna hear you beg for it, bitch.” Her voice is low, the slow grind of her cock through your folds making it near impossible to form a sentence but you still manage. “Pleeease, fuck me Mistress. Please fuck my ass, I’m just your fuck toy to be used and played with.”

“Mmm, that's what I like to hear. What a good little slut.” Her fingers gather your slick from your dripping cunt before stroking over her dick, wetting it. Natalia holds the base, the head of her member pressing against your tight ring and she watches intently as it slowly disappears inside you. Your groan turns into a full on moan when she bottoms out, one hand gripping your hip while the other grabs on tightly to the ropes trailing across your back. Her cock was big, larger than any toy or person you’ve ever fucked. You couldn’t see it, but you could guess from the way she was stretching you that she had to be at least around seven or eight inches.

Her pace is slow and gentle, letting you get used to the foreign feeling and you hum in appreciation. Though it doesn’t last for long. Soon you start pushing back into her, silently begging for more and she starts fucking you in earnest. Each stroke fills you entirely, her grip on the rope lifting your upper body off the mattress to pull you back into every thrust of her hips. Her tail snakes between both of your legs and wraps around the chain connecting your nipple clamps. Her movements jostle you forward and the resulting yank on your sensitive nipples has you crying out in a mix of pain and pleasure.

You can hear the soft moans of Natalia behind you under all the sounds of skin meeting skin and your own moans. Her pace quickens, your eyes rolling back into your head as her hand gripping your hip moves to rub tight circles around your neglected clit.

“Oh God.” 

She laughs loudly at that. “There is no God here, you silly whore.” Her fingers press harder into your clit and you wail, your body trembling from the plethora of pleasure. She pulls you up till you’re kneeling, the warm skin of her front pressed against your bound arms and your upper back. Her now free hand wraps around your throat and you subconsciously clench as her grip tightens. The resulting moan in your ear leaves you whimpering and her breath ghosts against your skin as she chuckles.

“Mistress, p-please.”

“Oh, does the little slut want to cum?” She coos and you choke out a ‘yes’ when her hand constricts around your neck. “Go ahead. Cum for your Mistress.”

With her tail tugging on your nipple clamps, her hard thrusts pounding up into you, and her fingers playing with your clit you see stars as you orgasm. Your mouth drops open in a silent scream, any possible noise stopped by the hand around your throat.

Before you’re even finished cumming, Natalia is maneuvering you onto your back with your legs propped on her shoulders and her cock disappears into your dripping cunt. There’s no waiting this time, immediately she’s pounding into, each thrust deep and purposeful. Her warm breath fans across your face as she leans in and your lips connect in your first kiss. It’s sloppy and doesn’t last long due to the moans falling out of your mouth, but the feeling of soft lips against your own lingers.

The obscene squelching noises as her dick plows into you repeatedly fill the room and your eyes squeeze shut when her member brushes against your g-spot. She dips down to kiss and suck along the curve of your neck when your head tips back as another orgasm rapidly approaches. The fluttering of your walls has Natalia pulling back, hushed moans spilling from plush lips. 

Your voice is shaky and hoarse when you speak, “Can I cum, Mistress? I’m sooo close.” Her pace slows considerably, making you whine pathetically while you squirm under her.

“You can cum when I do. Am I understood, slut?” Her eyes bore into your own and you stop moving instantly under the intensity of her stare. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Good girl.” She sits up on her knees and grips your thighs, your legs still balanced on her shoulders as she fucks you slowly. Her gaze sweeps over you hungrily, taking in your disheveled hair, flushed face, and heaving chest. “You almost look like a proper whore, all you're missing is my cum filling up this pretty pussy of yours.” 

“Fuck…” Her tempo picks back up, her thumb rubbing at your clit as she fucks you. Your toes curl as your orgasm starts climbing once again. “Oh, please, please, pleaasseee cum Mistress. I need you to breed me, need you to fill me with your cum.”

“Only since you asked so nicely.”

She leans down, your legs pressed back near your head as she brings you into a heated kiss. The new angle has you sobbing into her mouth, each thrust nudging against your g-spot. Her strokes get rougher and sloppier as she nears climax. Natalia pulls back from the messy kiss, forehead resting against yours while moaning lowly and you feel her cock twitching before you feel the warmth of her seed spilling inside your cunt. You follow right after, crying out as you cum. The intensity of your orgasm leaves your body shaking, the slow drag of her dick as she pulls out only prolonging it. You slowly come back down, small tremors still running through you as her warm hands caress your thighs.

“Holy fuck…” You laugh breathlessly, your now free hand coming up to run through your tousled hair after noticing that the ropes and clamps have disappeared. Your eyes finally open and you bolt straight up when you don’t see Natalia anywhere in sight. In fact, all the items for the incantation were gone, even the book and the pentagram drawn on your floor. Like it never even happened. But the marks that cover your body and the warm cum leaking out of your used cunt lets you know that it did. You flop back onto your mattress with a sigh before turning to look at the clock on your bedside table. 

There sits a foreign black box you’ve never seen and you hesitantly sit up to grab it. It wasn’t very large, nor was it small. There weren’t any discernible symbols or lettering of any kind marking the box and you shake it softly next to your ear, hoping it isn’t anything dangerous. After a silent moment of contemplating on whether or not you should open it, you do. A black leather collar sits inside and you eagerly pull it out to admire. Your fingers run over the soft padding along the inside before tracing the red stitching and stroking over the black lace that lines both sides. A ‘D’ ring sits at the front of the collar and with it, a large tear drop shaped tag that read ‘Mistress’s Slut’. You set it off to the side and peer back into the box. At the bottom sits a small note card with neat, curving handwriting.

“If you ever wish to see me again, just don this collar and I shall be there. Though consequences are to be had if you ever choose to wear it. For if you do, you will forever be my personal fuck toy to do with as I please. 

Hope to see you soon,

N.R.”

[dearsherlocked]

Fallen - A Sherlock Imagine

Hi! This is a series that I’ve been writing for quite some time now. I’ve revisited and revisited themes and characters over and over, and I could not face up posting it. But I think it is time I share a little bit of this work just for my sake. Here are the two first parts. There is more to follow! 

Summary: Five years after The Final Problem, Sherlock Holmes has been bored out of his mind. Having a hard time to teal with trauma and a less hectic lifestyle, he’s feeling like he is rotting away. That is until some very interesting case present itself and reveals to be intrinsically linked to him. Chasing after an assassin through London, he suddenly has to face who he really is. 

Pairings: Sherlock x Reader/Sherlock Holmes x John Watson

Warnings: At the moment, none, but might lead to smut. ;)

NOTA: My first language remains French. If there are inconsistencies, I am deeply sorry! 

Masterlist

The gusty wind pushed violently against the windows, causing a din in the small room in a central London’s flat. The night was already well underway, the reflections of the moon pierced the half-open curtains, illuminating the room with immaculate streaks. Inside, Sherlock Holmes’ face was tense. In his bed, lying on his back, his head tilted to the side as he murmured in his sleep. His eyes moved under the thin eyelids. He saw them, these two icy, impenetrable blue eyes, staring back at him, while the hands of his assailant aggressively surrounded his neck. He felt his lungs emptying as he struggled for breath. He felt suddenly euphoric; he was no longer breathing and he let himself go in this sea of uncertainty, lulled by the sweet feeling of an imminent death. Finally, his eyes opened and his irises increased. He was suffocating and his hands were shaking. Paralyzed, he lay in the same position for a moment. Then, when he regained his senses, he straightened up against the head of his bed, switched on the bedside lamp to his right and rested his head on the cool bedhead. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, then glanced furtively at the half-open drawer of his bedside table. He had to resist, he told himself, he couldn't spend his time running away from his thoughts and memories. He snapped the drawer shut and sighed heavily. Outside, London was still asleep.

Sherlock woke up suddenly later in the morning. He fixed the ceiling for a few minutes, paralyzed by the haunting images that took assault his dreams. He inspired slowly and scrutinized his surroundings. His mornings looked pretty much alike: he woke up whenever he pleased and his waking hour depended on the time he had gone to bed the night before, if he had gone to bed at all. Once awake, he usually struggled to stay in place in the large space that was his mattress. The room felt too quiet. He did not need to take a look at the watch he had left on the bedside table, nor had to open the curtains to guess the time of the day; he usually had an idea of the hour just by simply analyzing the ambient sound of the city outside. For instance, if the noise of the honking horns sounded steadily, he knew that the rush hour was at its height. On the contrary, if everything seemed too calm, he guessed that he was still finding himself at the hour of grace, when London, still asleep at dawn, was just beginning to move. At last, sometimes he could speculate that it was already past breakfast time: Mrs Hudson was already on the lookout, making as much clatter as she could, pretending to do some housekeeping in order to get him out of an unworthy sloth for a man of his age. 

That morning, Sherlock knew that the kettle that the landlady had left on purpose in the living-room table was cold. He sighed; he never liked to sleep, felt that napping was a total inconvenience and a fatality. But he had been bored out of his mind lately and sleeping was a good stretch out between the long hours of agony that had become his banal existence. He took his time to sweep out of the warm sheets and laid his feet on the cold wooden floor. He took a few minutes to enjoy the contact of the ground under his naked toes. He then scanned the room carefully; the pale hue of the day struggled to break through the dense curtains and dust particles floated through its glow. He took a deep breath and exhaled, shook his hair vigorously, putting in place some of the dark curls that had rebelled on his head during the night. He slipped on the clothes he had been preparing the night before and threw a quick shot in the mirror, replaced some curls again, slipped on his watch and headed for the living room. His first reflex was to grab the papers that Mrs Hudson always left beside the kettle. He peered out the main lines of the news, being about the only thing he enjoyed nowadays, and lost himself for a while. As he peered out the main lines of the news, his phone vibrated in his coat. He looked at it and smiled widely. 

It was a beautiful day; London seemed to be straight out of a golden-looking postcard. Sherlock stopped in front of the imposing building that housed the Diogene’s Club. First hesitant at the bottom of the stairs, he scowled and climbed the steps with a determined pace, trying to pull himself together. Inside, John Watson was leaning against the large wooden wall, a take-out coffee in his left hand. When he saw his friend, the doctor walked in his direction and smiled. ‘Still drinking that dirty water they dare to call coffee?’ Sherlock teased, walking with John in the long hall. ‘Each time I think it can’t possibly get worse,’ replied the doctor with an amused tone. ‘And yet each time you’re disappointed. You don’t learn.’ They stopped in front of the elevator doors. ‘Where’s mine?’ enquired the detective. John scoffed. ‘I didn’t bring you one.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Because each time I do and each time you spit it out and say it’s disgusting.’ ‘It is disgusting.’ ‘Then why would you want one?’ ‘Because now I look empty-handed’, replied Sherlock as they got out of the elevator. John observed his friend walking before him and shook his head. They stopped in front of a part-closed door. Mycroft’s office. They could hear him talking and he sounded concerned. ‘What is it today you think?’ enquired John. ‘No idea.’ ‘Is it another political scandal?’ ‘God, please no. We’ve had enough of these.’ ‘I have no idea what we are doing here,’ sighed John, annoyed. ‘Drinking crap coffee and waited to be called by his Holiness’, replied Sherlock. John scoffed as Mycroft opened the door. ‘I thought I heard voices.’ ‘Then you should consult, Mycroft.’ Sherlock said as he entered the office. He walked directly to sit in his brother’s chair. Mycroft sighed and looked at him, exasperated. ‘Thank you for coming on such short notice,’ started Mycroft. ‘You didn’t give us much choice,’ replied John, sitting in front of Sherlock. ‘I was with my daughter, it’s Sunday.’ ‘Aren’t you always with her?’ ‘That is sort of what parents are supposed to do, taking care of their child,’ answered John, placing his cup on the desk and crossing his arms in front of his chest. ‘Well, I am glad we sorted it out,’ replied Mycroft with a disinterested smile. He turned away to the fourth person in the room. The stranger looked quite ordinary and was about the same age as Mycroft. He was dressed in a posh suit and his salt and pepper beard gave him a severe expression. He looked overall not impressed. ‘This is Darius White, head of the foreign desk’, said Mycroft, pointing to the stoic man. ‘Oh hello,’ replied John, extending his hand. The man stayed in his seat and barely acknowledged the doctor. ‘And this is my brother, Sherlock Holmes,’ added Mycroft. Sherlock waved impatiently. He never was one for introductions. ‘Shall we begin?’ asked the older Holmes, walking to close the door behind them. Darius White nodded and turned at John. ‘Good morning gentlem – ‘ A noise cut him mid-sentence. Sherlock just had taken a sip of John’s coffee and spat it out noisily on Mycroft’s desk, staining the many papers accumulated on the surface. John frowned and looked at his friend, both amused and annoyed at the same time. Mycroft, on the other hand, rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. ‘Sorry, do please continue’ murmured Sherlock, not bothered at all. ‘There has been an assassination of a member on a prolific CEO yesterday.’ ‘Who?’ asked John, suddenly intrigued. Mycroft slid a photograph over John. John gave the photograph to Sherlock. ‘He was not very liked by his pairs,’ added Darius White. ‘Doesn’t make it easy to circumscribe the potential suspects.’ Mycroft cleared his throat. ‘Yesterday, Lennox Burton got out of a meeting at five in the morning, there had been some important transactions during the night. His driver took him home where he was supposed to rest for a couple of hours before returning at his office for a lunch meeting. The driver came back at Burton’s penthouse around noon but as his boss wasn’t answering his calls or coming down, he used his emergency key to enter the penthouse and that’s when he discovered Burton’s body.’ Mycroft pushed another picture to John. Lennox Burton was spread on the floor with what appeared to be a sea of blood around him. He switched on to the next picture, it was a close-up autopsy photograph of the wound: a perfectly horizontal and clean cut on the neck. ‘Neat’, whispered Sherlock. John shook his head. ‘Did somebody see anything?’ he asked. ‘Was there any CCTV in the surrounding areas?’ ‘Evidently not,’ replied Mycroft. ‘Whoever was being the attack managed to alter it.’ ‘So,’ cut Sherlock. ‘It was premeditated.’ ‘Naturally.’ ‘And you want me to find who killed him?’ ‘Quite so.’ Sherlock frowned. ‘But there’s more,’ he thought out loud, staring at his brother. ‘There have been in fact about four similar killings in the past month’, added Darius White. ‘And you think they are related?’ intervened John. ‘Evidence points that way.’ ‘These aren’t just random murders,’ laughed Sherlock. Darius White chuckled. Sherlock Holmes was quick indeed. ‘The first three murders were committed on criminals. Sex-traffickers, drug-dealers, mostly,’ he replied.  ‘But this murder is different,’ observed Sherlock, ‘it was committed on an apparently respectable man.’ ‘Are you sure they were killed by the same person?’ interrupted John. ‘Well, we will need to know for certain. This is why we called you, gentlemen,’ replied Darius White solemnly. ‘I will need to see Mr Burton’s house of course,’ declared Sherlock. ‘I will text you the details,’ said Mycroft. ‘I guess Scotland Yard is involved?’ ‘Already there, brother mine. As usual.’ Sherlock stood up, quickly followed by John. As they exited the office, they heard the grave voice of Darius White advising Mycroft to insist on the confidentiality of this case.

[a-collection-of-villainous-aus]

Coffee Au pt 2

PART 3 OF THREE

It was the end of the day, Acylius and Demencia wanted to do nothing more than just sink into one of the comfy seats and doze off but work still had to be done.

 As Flug was cleaning away mugs and other items he could still taste Black Hat on his tongue, lingering in its flavor the apple of Eden, he wanted to bite again, savor him anew but the demon was not exactly famous for being sweet so no doubt the next would be bitter…right?

 “Boy what a day, am I right or am I right tree man!”

 Acylius was silent as he looked over at Black Hat’s empty seat, he’d seen him leave, some work emergency no doubt, money had been left on the table but he’d found himself disappointed that the demon wasn’t still there demanding to be served after hours, crazy as the day had been it had actually been surprisingly fun to have him around.

 “It is strange... “

 “What that he digs you and not me? “

 Demencia teased gently nudging him.

 “Please be serious for one moment, you will not believe this, but I do feel as if I know him from some other life...there were things today that felt... so familiar.”

 Exasperation filling his voice as he walked off to pick up a latte glass that was half full, grumbling they should not order the large if they were not going to drink it all.

 “Oh, like what?”

 “Well, when we kissed after you suggested he could help...”

 Touching his lips as he looked over at the kitchen, whispering

 “It did not feel like the first time.”

 “Pffft seems I was right he wanted to lip lock and suck your soul right out of your-”

 “Demencia, that is enough!” Flug dropped the glass he was holding, it shattered across the floor spilling its cold contents, liquid started seeping through the floorboards, oh dear she realised perhaps she’d pushed a little too far as his eyes lit up and she was dragged forward Darth Vader style only without the throttling . His hand engulfed in cerulean flame, claws extended forward and with a flick she was off her feet hovering, snarling “I am trying to run a coffee shop, not a brothel while we are friends  I do not need you interfering with my love life.”

 In all her years she’d known Acylius, the lizard girl had never seen such a fire as this burning within him, damn Black Hat must have more of an effect than he was willing to admit, rolling her eyes she responded “You think you could put me down, also you old fart what love life, you’re like fifty and have boned like what …once and that was with someone who was for hire to play as Black Hat, I mean I’ve offered cause who doesn’t wanna climb that tree and sit on your branch, but you were as flustered as a sinner in church.”

(Remember demon so not like human 50 XD )

 “Woman…argh!” Acylius tried to keep a straight face, but honestly he could never stay mad at her, a chuckle left him as the demon shook his head and set her down

“You are hopeless.” “Yeah, yeah I know I’m a lost cause, but why is it so hard for you to believe he likes you?” She returned while straightening out her uniform. “Please, I do not think he would find a suitable partner in a barista who tortures people for information on the black market… holy…” Acylius went quiet and blinked looking at Demencia “Is that why the Black market is called that! My alternative profile is in that world...I need a drink ...am I working for him and not…know what no this is too much too soon, I am going downstairs, I am going to drink and torture that man until he is a bloody pile.” Demencia gave him a deadpanned expression in response “One: it is not for you to decide who he wants to bone and two: you seriously only just figured that out, you’re smart but sometimes really dumb.”

 Acylius sighed and just walked off hearing her call out after him saying “And what about this!” It was easy to imagine her gesturing towards the spilt coffee “You clean it up, ASSBUTT!” Demencia huffed; she should never have let him watch Supernatural, mocking his sentence in a whiny voice before getting to work and only smiling as she swore she could hear the muffled voice of him saying “I heard that!” Pffft of course he had, demon senses and all, it was no surprise and yes it probably wasn’t wise to try and interfere with her friends love life, especially when it left her to clean up duty instead of getting to play just how long  can we make our victim scream.

 Picking up the pieces of broken glass she paused looking out the window, wondering up on that high hill where Hat Manor sat, what the old demon was doing now, heh maybe he was even day dreaming of Acylius, that’d be pretty adorable.

 Hat manor stood silhouetted, painted on a sea of blue and purple, diamonds scattered over its surface, there was no moon tonight, though this is not what we are here to do though, while the night sky held its beauty the home held its secrets deep under the foundations. Down winding stair cases of stone, walls lined with torches that came alight as Black Hat passed them with bright emerald flames leading to a room, large extravagant, doors locked with spells reacting to his presence, opening out to show the pristine display with a red carpet. Glass cases that remained in a constant polished state appeared liquid with candle light reflecting off their surfaces, to many people these items would be considered odd in the sense they to anyone else held absolutely no value…but to Black Hat they were treasures and when each one was touched he could remember a small moment attached to each and every one of these things… Recalling how his Acylius had taught him to use a barbers blade for shaving, he himself did not grow stubble or the such unless he wanted to and he had suspected the same of his Doctor, who liked to do human things as simple as that.

It was not that he’d allowed Black Hat to shave his face that had made the memory but that he’d trusted him so close to his throat with a blade, it may not have killed him even if he’d wanted it to slit it.

Though that was the thing with anyone else he would have hacked them to pieces and laughed, in that moment he’d slowly brushed the razors edge along his flesh, intently focused on the task at hand, leaving him mesmerized at just how intimate a simple act could be and how it felt to be trusted by him.

The demon had not been down here in some time, that did not mean what was here had lost any meaning, no on the contrary  at times being here caused so much pain he could hardly bare it.

 Walking slowly through this world of past wonders, there were mannequins in neat rows wearing suits, everyday clothing to swim wear and pyjamas, some clothing items pressed into picture frames, stopping in front of one case in particular a small quirked at the corner of his lips, on a cushion sat an old tattered Bear, blue after some chemical accident when Acylius had been a child or so the doctor had told him. This was kept for more than one reason, one Acylius had loved it dearly and two even as a grown demon he’d found him sometimes napping with the damn thing tucked under his arm, apparently you could never be too old to enjoy a favored gift from the past, claws making soft tapping sounds on the glass.

“What an odd name for a child’s toy…Five o Five…then again there is that silly old bear named Winnie the Pooh…”

 He said to himself in passing thought.

Just being here already felt as if a hand had reached in around the void that passed for his heart and was slowly crushing it, glancing over at the beautiful cello he and Flug had played together, the intimacy of creating music on the same instrument so passionately had near rivaled their passion within the sheets…before you wonder yes Black Hat even had their four poster royal Georgian bed perfectly made as the doctor would have wanted it.

 Lab equipment that museums would beg to have, first edition books that could very well be the only remaining copies of the texts within some of them…yes he’d saved practically everything, did it perhaps make him obsessed…incapable of letting go, you might think so and yes it probably was the case.

He himself could not forget the way the barista had kissed him, it was a perfect match to the way his Acylius performed such affectionate acts, the same passion a memory so real and tactile rising to the surface and layering perfectly to match the movements of want. Thinking back on this afternoon as he’d sat there sipping his hot chocolate, listening at times to the inane conversation of others and hearing the name of the Café he’d failed to read the name of upon entry in favor of warmth than the cold weather. He stared at one dark oak closet a mannequin stood in there locked away, blood stained clothes, the salt of tears within the collar, even a beast could weep when its heart was broken, shoulders tensing just at the minor scent of iron and acid he adverted his gaze. Could that Barista really be Acylius Flug reborn, the man who’d lay dying in his arms , promising him he’d find him amongst the stars…rambling about artists who place their soul upon the canvas, full of hope and pain, madness full of splendid wonder and final words being of love until  there were none. Kisses upon lips that no longer held their warmth as a mournful cry left him whimpering like a child lost in the wilderness of the vast world.

 Acylius’s body no more than a limp doll that had lost its light and as with all demonic forms he turned to smoke and ash washed away with a tender breeze littered with embers while all he could do was watch.

 Even though he had barely understood what his lovers last message had been, for years he’d sought out painters who favoured the night skies, though none matched the pure emotion of which Flug had spoken until one Starry Night in France just outside the Ravoux Inn he came across such an artist. A rough looking creature really with a missing ear, in fact he’d nearly passed him until this man had grabbed his arm and Black Hat had at first thought him mad until he spoke of a spirit tall and pale, scars and ears not human and eyes so blue no matter the blend of colours he’d tried to use the ever changing hue had been impossible to match.

 Up the stairs of that humble place the artist called home he entered, moonlight pouring through an open window, curtains swaying ever so delicately behind the easel sat a canvas not long since painted on, just as promised in thick oil paints of swirling night time wonders, blacks, blues bright shining yellows in a myriad of hues there stood Acylius eyes closed within the heavens.

 “I have dreamt about this man yet I do not know what sins I have committed to bring devils and spirits at my door!” Black Hat given him a look before replying “Even Angels it would seem have mercy on a fallen devil.” He’d without second thought left a fortune upon the old bed in the artists room and taken what was rightfully his, news of his death had been reported not but a few days afterwards which even in the demons opinion was a great tragedy.

 Now on the wall here it hung still years later, framed in gold with a bench for him to rest upon, other pieces at either side by Flugs hand were portraits and sketches of Black Hat…but this one in the center had been a gift from the beyond , a promise that he was coming back.

That barista had to be him, had to be his Flug; the café was named after a painting no one but he and the painter knew about. Could it be, he’d finally truly found him amongst the stars.

(this is a poor version of the Artists work I was inspired by, especially if you figure out who I was talking about...but as my own work I like it XD)

[setoangel01-fanfiction]

Alteration

Rocker and the Mechanic - Chapter 11 (Previous Chapters)

Fandom: Sing 2016 AU

Pairing: Johnny x Ash

Rated: T

Chapter Summary: A sudden (and unexpected text) puts yet another wrench in Ash's plans.

Fanfiction.net

A03

Ash's tongue still refused to budge where it decided to take permanent residence on the bottom of her mouth. Loosely-crossed arms tense, gnawing the inside of her cheek as her eyes drifted toward the cracked concrete underneath her feet. The finite hairline cracks cascading over its oil and grease stained surface in an erratic pattern.

As she stood there and stared at them, she wasn't sure what she was thinking.

Wondering if something she was visualizing in the floor would have her think of the perfect words to say - but unsurprisingly, nothing came.

Ash simply was not an animal who encouraged or comforted in any sense and the one question that irked her more than anything was where did the cold-stone rocker go? For why the hell was she even worrying about what to say to this guy she just met mere hours ago? Who cared if he has an incredible singing voice and should be some hot-shot international superstar singer with talent and looks to spare? So what if he wasn't happy working in this dingy garage making lackluster payment when he had the potential of selling out stadiums?

If Johnny didn't care to follow his dream then why should she make it her problem especially when she had her own career to worry about.

Resolute sigh leaving her lips, Ash glanced back up to the gorilla in sheer frustration and confusion boiling deep in her chest.

Johnny, for the most part, was silent as well.

Steadily cleaning up the area around her bike: sweeping, wiping at some newly spilled oil, putting away tools, extra parts, and many dirty cloths that were littering the floor all while she looked on in barely concealed annoyance.

For even though it shouldn't bother her, it did!

Hoping to put her own frantic anticipations to rest, Ash opened her mouth, hoping for some biting but inspiring words to filter out but none did. All that came out was a groan of frustration tinging her lips. Knowing full well that Johnny was not at all up for debate, and if she was being honest - neither was she.

Adrenaline wearing off a long time ago and even with her small siesta, she was simply exhausted. The past few weeks dealing with Lance's emotional strife and her own faltering career and questioning her future for the umpteenth time was a lot for anyone to take. Mix in this handsome stranger with a hidden talent that would remain so was just the cloyingly sweet icing on this hellishly salty cake.

So, she took a page from Johnny's book and remained silent.

Tearing her lingering gaze away from Johnny, who was still cleaning, Ash strolled over to her guitar case to dig out hopefully enough funds to pay him. Before reaching it, she glanced to her left to see her long forgotten phone still plugged in next to his toaster. Not wanting to forget it in her haste to leave after paying him, she climbed atop the nearby stool and pulled the plug out of the wall.

Mind made up, she knew she should just leave - pay the bill and drive off without looking back.

It worked before so why not now?

After all, this was not her problem or her battle (she had enough battles yet to win) so why even bother trying with this stranger? Ash let out a short breath, one hand stuffing the cord into her leather jacket pocket while she powered up her phone with the other.

Tempted to just stuff it in her pocket and forget it, Ash didn't mind the distraction right now, so she reluctant watched as he phone slowly powered up.

A long loading screen later, she noticed there was over ten missed calls and texts. A quick scroll through let her know they were mostly from friends, the few that did still care (or pretended they did), but it was three missed calls and latest two texts that had her heart thump painfully in her chest with sudden panic.

Moon.

Buster Moon, the koala; the huge, hairy-eared boss she acquired merely a month ago after her performance at a restaurant where he happened to be dining at with a friend. She sang more subdued than normal for the venue but she still noticed him watching her unabashedly and sitting next to a sheep who played on his phone most of the time.

Ash didn't think much of it until the small koala approached her as she was leaving, handing her his card asking her if she was interested in joining his Moon Theater Group.

A question she answered with a glare and a "Sorry, but uh, fuck no". She refused to be part of a group or duet again.

Yet Moon didn't relent, just chuckled lightly at her choice of words and gave her his card anyway. Lack of jobs had her calling him the following week; telling him she wasn't interested in groups, freelance gigs - and surprisingly, that's what he gave her.

Setting her up in numerous gigs (the guy apparently had lots of ties around the city) and even gave her the largest venue she ever played…and now she just missed what apparently was another great opportunity if his frantic texts were anything to go by.

"Fuck!" she grumbled, looking at the time and already knowing she was almost an hour late yet it didn't seem to be over. Buster had just called her five minutes ago and she knew the place was close - at least, she thought it was.

"Um...is uh, everything alright, Ash?" Johnny's concerned voice rang out out nearby.

"Yeah." she answered tersely, "Just my boss."

Ash's eyes flitted over and over again to his message.

'Where are you!? You were supposed to be here an hour ago! Remember?' it read.

In that moment of anguish a few hours ago, she indeed was heading there to prepare even if she didn't care to hardly remember it now.

Mind so overwhelmed with her own grief and anguish over the entire situation to even care about a job waiting for her. Perhaps it was Lance's spiteful text she'd received or seeing him in a cafe that afternoon with one of the girls he was caught cheating with. Maybe it was simply feeling like her own life was in a downward spiral and she was merely waiting for herself to hit the ground. A lifeless husk scooped out of all her organs and now fluttering away on the slightest breeze. Nothing but mere ashes (her name fit more than ever) from the hellish flames she found herself facing ever since he cheated on her and didn't seem to give a single shit.

If anything, he was probably proud of it.

Ash grumbled lowly while sending a Buster Moon a quick, 'Be there soon' before placing it in her pocket. She just hoped he would wait for her…

"...is everything okay?" Johnny's gentle voice finally had her reeling; eyes lifting from the illuminated screen and up to his face that was now clean and free of the grease that stained it. Dammit, he was so handsome.

"Y-Yea. I'm good." she lied, heart palpitating painfully in her chest in fear she was going to lose yet another manager (a fucking good one too), "Lemme get your money so I can get out of your hair."

"Oh, it's okay, there's no rush."

"Yeah there is. My boss called and I'm already late so I need to go."

"O-Oh. Okay."

"How much is it?"

"$2-oh, uh, $110 should do it." Johnny chuckled and scratched his nape when she flashed him an incredulous look. She knew it was too little with as many parts as he replaced and electrical problems tended to be damn expensive but she sure as hell wasn't arguing even if the guilt would rest painfully in her gut later.

Ash opened the locks and began digging frantically through the sheets of music to find her small black clutch buried underneath. The skull and crossbones pattern greeting her a few seconds later, Ash pulled it out, opening it to only find a $20 bill staring back at her.

"Are you fucking serious?!" she cursed under her breath, digging through other pockets in hopes there was any more cash stored. Panicky and grumbling beside herself, not even noticing Johnny cautiously approaching.

Ash suddenly asked over her shoulder, "Do you take credit cards?"

"Uh. Sorry, no." he replied, hands wringing a small red rag (out of nervousness or habit, she wasn't sure).

Ash groaned, "Oh God…" burying her face in her hands and letting out a guttural sigh. Out of all the fucking things that had already gone wrong - the one time someone shows her kindness, she can't even pay him back. What the fuck else could go wrong?

"Hey." he said, laying a hand on her shoulder and Ash jolted at the sudden warm touch. Blue eyes peeling open in utter panic to meet his gentle brown eyes.

"I'm sorry!" she gasped, "I-I swear I got more at the ATM yesterday, it's just been hell. I have a gig to go to but I swear afterward, I'll bring you the money or even Paypal it to you tonight if you do that sorta thing! I swear…"

Johnny didn't say a word, just removed one hand from where it was in his pocket; holding it out to her where her keys dangled loosely from his fingers.

[forgedasset-a]

Grief (jfc)

Physical pain doesn’t come close to the pain that he’s being forced to endure. Loss was a concept he was all too familiar with, and it’s been a long time since he’s bothered to grieve anything, or anyone. Everything would eventually fall apart, everyone would leave him. It’s his damnation for surviving the fall, for cheating death when it had finally claimed him. Death was often seen, visited by death more times than he can count. Usually, it came by his hands, or it were those that were around him. Simple, easy to move on. No connection, no memory that tied his bond to them. And his mind? Well, there were days that he’d forget his own name. There was no guarantee that he’d even remember them, their passing. Or if he’d even been responsible. Time and time again, it was the same story. 

This time, it was different. Death had come, and it had claimed once more. Taking someone that meant everything to him, that had easily become the world he would give, and do anything for. When it comes to pain, there’s different ways to cope. Some laugh out of the sheer shock, tears instantly run for others. Anger, frustration - denial until they see the body being put under the ground, and some… shut down. A reaction that Bucky had taken to. He felt numb, the world becoming muted, time slowing down. 

Voices called him to no avail, the tight pressure in his chest keeping him from reacting. For days, everything had seemed slow, unreal - a horrid nightmare that he expected to wake from. Eyes would reopen, and he’d be laying on his side. Face nestled into her hair, inhaling her scent while his arm locked around her waist. He’d pull her close, and press kisses to the nape of her neck. Whisper praises in her ear, until he’s worked his way across her jaw and has reached the right angle to steal a soft, lazy morning kiss that’d leave a smile plastered on his face. Because she was there, and she was his - and he was hers, and everything had worked out. After all the long fought battles, she was at his side, where she was meant to be. 

Every morning, he would wake to an empty bed. Where the realization would once more come, and it’s as if he’s reliving the moment of her death all over again. Again, he’d force himself to shut down to spare himself the full blow of the pain. 

Today, he notices that her scent is already fading as he rolls onto his stomach and onto her side. Face buried into her pillow, eyes closed. Smell of her shampoo is hardly present, and even the sheets hardly carry the scent of her perfume. She’s fading from his life, and he hardly realizes, because he’s so damned stubborn he doesn’t let himself feel her passing. Bucky could almost fall asleep in his current position. He’s hardly slept, spending long nights alone, staring at the ceiling, contemplating, thinking… rewinding the moment of her death in his mind. Over, and over again. Torturing himself, by thinking of all the different things he could have done to save her. If he’d reacted seconds quicker, if he’d pulled her out of there the moment he had a bad feeling… if he’d been able to shield her. If he’d forced her to stay back, she’d hate him for it. She’d hate him, but she’d be alive to do so. He could live with that, he could live with knowing she despised him, over her being cold and dead, and under dirt. 

Alarm starts to blare from his phone, vibrating as it plays an unfamiliar song. Today’s the day that all of those that had passed, would get their grand memorial. They’d be mourned and remembered, and then buried to be forgotten. 

Getting ready to show up is dreadful, sitting in the car for a while, until he’s mustered up the strength to walk inside. Chosen location is large, and grand. Men and women adjourned in their best suits and gowns, those that didn’t even know them - dressed in black, and having the audacity to present speeches. About how the individuals that had passed, had fought bravely and will never be forgotten. How everyone will forever be grateful, thankful for their sacrifice, about how they would be repaid by given the best tombstones in a private cemetery, where they will be worshiped as heroes for eternity. So much shit spewing from their mouths, it was unbelievable. People were mourning their loved ones, this should have been private. This should be the time they get to say goodbye, but instead - as everything else, it had turned into a public affair that was being streamed. 

Light dims, and the attention is finally on the deceased. Names are called out from the list that resides at the podium, opportunities to speak of them coming. Some names, he recognized. Names that were dismissed, until they’d called out Lorna Dane. 

Instantly, he draws in a rattled breath. Unable to exhale, chest tight, jaws clenched. Certain that if he lets out that breath and allows himself to catch another; everything he’s fought to keep hidden away, is going to come pouring through. Many speak of her, praise her. He’d like to think that if she could hear what individuals thought of her, how she’d live in their memory and how she’d touched their lives; she’d be proud. But, disappointed that he’d been a selfish coward that couldn’t stand to speak of her. He couldn’t bare it - the burden is so heavy on his shoulders, it’s a miracle in itself that he hasn’t collapsed yet. Little did he know that it was just the very beginning of things, because today, was the day where this became real. There was no avoiding it, he couldn’t lie to himself anymore and pretend that this was a dream, a vivid and shared hallucination, that there was a mystical fix to it all. 

It becomes real when the graveyard clears out, and he’s left alone. Standing next to the pile of dirt in front of a grand tombstone. Made of black marble to match the other fallen heroes’. Names and dates engraved, insignia of their organization and alliance dead center, and a thank you marked at the very bottom. But her name stood out above all the other words, large and bold, a silver engraved Lorna Dane. As much as he wanted to convince himself that she wasn’t the one in that box, he couldn’t. He wanted to believe that she was just pulling another one on him, that she was going to show up when he’d least expect it. And he’d hold her until the day that she truly was meant to die. 

Pain is inevitable. One can distract themselves from it, pretend it doesn’t hurt. Avoid the situation for as long as possible, numb themselves out as much as possible. But it always comes, and it’s always ruthless.  Hitting so suddenly, that his breath hitches and holds. Heart aches, the pit of his stomach feeling so hollow, he feels so hollow. Day is beginning to turn into night, and the weight has finally brought him down to his knees. Flashes of memories running through his mind so vividly, her smile, her touch, her warmth and comfort. Her voice and laughter, the taste of her lips against his. Soft skin under his touch, bright eyes that he’d never have the pleasure of looking into again. Her face was the first he’d seen when he woke, distressed and afraid. She’d comforted him, had walked him through his second chance at life. Helped him when he needed her, feeling the phantom sensation of fingers threading through his hair to pull it back into a messy bun or braids to fight off the heat. 

And he’d been the last face that she’d seen before her eyes closed, never to be reopened again. He’d failed her, all the promises of keeping her safe and sound - of protecting her til his last breath. Promises, of how they’d escape and never be found again so that they could live their happy ever after, now laid six feet under, just as she did. “Fuck.” Voice cracks, tears stinging and pricking, threatening to fall.

               Blood pools from the palm of his hands, screams and debris coming from every direction. It’s dark, their only exit slowly being cut off. Panic has taken claim over everyone, trying to escape - trying to bring their friends, their family, and their lovers through that exit with them. Blood seems to have painted every surface, limbs sprawled across the ground; bodies draped over the remains of each other. Even he had sustained injuries, the deep gash in the crook of his knee causing blood to squelch - for the wound to reopen and close again with every step he took. Slowing him down, making her feel heavier than she was. Light was dimming, every step he took was a desperate attempt to get her out. Begging her to stay with him, that they were so close... she’d be at a hospital soon and she’d get fixed up. But the blood is flowing quick, injuries so deep that even if he’d gotten her to a hospital; there was no salvation. “I got you, baby... I got you.” He’d spoken this phrase to her so many times. Every time, he’d gotten her out. They’d both made it. Bloodied and bruised, sore and scarred; but they made it. “Keep your eyes open, Lorna... we’re almost there.” 

              Every word he’d spoken fell upon deaf ears. She’d been dead minutes after finding her, pale skin stained red. Dead weight in his arms, without a warning. Without a word. He wouldn’t have known, he wouldn’t have stopped. He only wanted to get her out, on that stretcher. Where he’d hold her hand and steal a kiss, tell her it was over, and they’d see each other soon. The ambulance would take her and he’d eventually find her, and they’d walk out of the hospital, hand in hand. Fate had other ideas. Instead, he’s been told that they can’t take her. They can’t take her, because she’s dead, and there are others that need the assistance that are still alive. But he’s stubborn by nature, and stubborn for his love for her. Denial is instant, and he begs and begs - something he promised himself he’d never do. He just wanted them to kick start her heart with adrenaline, get it beating again. Anything, but there was nothing. She’d been dead for far too long, and he hadn’t even realized... he hadn’t realized how the world was so cruel, that it let him carry the love of his life, dead in his arms. 

“I’m sorry, baby.” Hardly a hushed whisper. No one else would have heard him. It wouldn’t have mattered, because he’s alone. Alone, how he’s meant to be. Head is kept low, unable to even look at her tombstone. Warm tears dribble down the bridge of his nose, crescent teeth marks imprinted against his bottom lip. Biting so hard, he’s sure to draw blood soon. Biting, so that he can keep himself from crying out, to force some false stability into himself. A man that’s broken and battered with nothing more to lose. He’d just lost everything, with nothing more to gain. There was nothing more to give. All he could do now, is mourn her loss. Every day, he’d relive their first, and final moments together. Forcing himself to torture himself with her memory, out of fear of forgetting her. Terrified, that one day he’s going to wake up and he won’t remember she had even existed, that he’d been ready to drop everything in his life for. Truth be told? There were instances where he wondered if they were ever meant to end up together. Always seemed, that life had other plans for them, instead. 

Meant to fall in love, meant to hope and desire. To see a future together, but never meant to get there. From day one, she was destined to die in his arms, and he was destined to grieve her every day since. 

Which, he does. Every single damned day, he grieves for her. Some days, feel a little easier. Others, it hits hard, taking away his will, making breathing even seem impossible. Forcing a facade in the eyes of others, only for it to crumble the moment he gets home. To their home. Their home, that still has everything where she had last placed it - untouched, making him see her everywhere. Side of her bed is usually left untouched, not wanting for her scent to completely fade away or mix with his own. He still lays on his side, facing the direction she would always lay in. In his sleep, he’d instinctively reach over to put his arm around her. Metal would fall against the soft sheets, would sometimes stir him awake. Eyes would open in the dark of the night, to nothing. But today? Today, his will falters. Where he holds her pillow and buries his face, where he lays on her side to feel somewhat close to her, where the pain of his loss takes reign once more. It’s been exactly ten days since her death. Ten days, that he’s gone without her for the first time since he was brought out of cryo. 

Three years, that he could have spent with her, wasted. Three years, that could have been spent holding her, loving her, cherishing her. Telling her he loved her, and protecting her. Instead, he’d been selfish and left her. Now, she’d left him. Only this time, unlike him leaving - there was no coming back. Never destined to reach their future together. 

 Send “Grief” for a drabble about my muse grieving when yours has died.  @emeraldhellfire

[nothingofvaluewaslost]

STORY: Vision’s Prisoner

Conny has been married to Tobias for a couple of years. She loves him, but fears that their disagreement about whether to have children will lead to her either letting Tobias down, or force her to leave him. At wit’s end, she makes a wish on a stone she once believed was magic. When Tobias wakes the next morning, Conny is in a coma.

Supernatural/horror.

If you enjoyed it, go check out my Patreon.

Vision’s Prisoner, by Christina Nordlander

Whither go ye, nameless wizards,

with robes out-reddening the sunset gleam?

– We fare to find the jars of Solomon

and liberate the imprisoned genii.

(Clark Ashton Smith, Two Myths and a Fable)

While Conny was waiting for her gate number, she wandered through Arlanda Airport and stopped in a deserted gallery with a reflecting grey flagstone floor and one glass wall. She sat down on a bench in front of the glass, backpack at her feet. She was on ground level – unexpected, after having walked up and down several escalators – and a ramp of ballast and chain-link mesh blocked her view. It didn't show much of Stockholm, but she could see the bend of an overpass, and a high red and white billboard that might belong to the area outside the airport. There was no way out, just an emergency exit with a green latch. The sky was a white surface.

Perhaps for the first time came the thought that she could walk out into Stockholm and leave the Kristianstad flight. Aunt Katrin, her children and their families lived here; one of them might give her a place to stay until she'd found a job. If she hadn't had Tobias waiting for her, she could have done it.

Tobias picked her up at the airport. That impulse could only have come when she couldn't see him. He was heavily built, his shoulders a bit bent by their own muscle-mass. When she nuzzled the side of his neck, she felt a faint wild smell that she'd forgotten while she was home. He might not be beautiful, after four years of marriage she didn't even know whether she could judge that, but he reminded her of a tame bear.

He insisted on carrying her suitcase up the stairs. The light inside was yellow against the night. She laid up folded clothes and balls of socks on the couch while he was sitting in the computer chair, one leg pulled up, working on his comic. When she emptied the backpack, her fingertips brushed something cold, and she took out the stone and put it on the cloth on the armrest. Tobias spun from his sketchbook and lifted it between his thumb and index finger.

“So you have got rocks in your luggage!”

It was a polished stone, perhaps snow quartz, about as wide as his thumbnail. She had forgotten about it until she'd found it in the drawer of her old night table.

“My grandmother's old house had a very beautiful window. It was leaded, like a symmetrical pattern with red glass, convex glass as well, and semi-precious stones like this set in the window-frame. Martin and I used to sit in the window and count them, it was the most beautiful thing there. When Grandmother died and the house was going to be sold, I nicked one of them to have as a memento.”

“Aww.”

Perhaps he was imagining how cute she'd been as a child. He put the stone back and ruffled her hair.

“There was another reason I kept it, truth be told. I got this idea that it had magical powers.”

She gave a laugh.

“I think I was six years old. My bike got stolen, and... I was ashamed, as well, I think I'd left it unlocked in the bicycle stand, and I was afraid that mum would say it was my fault. I walked around with it in my pocket, squeezing it and wishing the bike would come back, and the next day I found it on the street a couple of blocks away.”

When she told it, it sounded too perfect. Perhaps it was something she'd read in a children's book and remembered as her own memory. She couldn't even remember the colour of the bike. The moment she'd taken the stone was still clear: she'd run off to get the smallest screwdriver and pried it out of the putty while the world became metallic with rain on the other side of the window.

Tobias had gone to the library, he had a proper job. She was going to clean the flat once she'd sent a couple of CVs, but the spare room was so full of furniture and boxes after the move, moving them took as long as vacuuming. The lace curtain, like in a summer house, laid a mist over the terraced flats and a pastel playground in the gap between two blocks.

It had been at least a couple of months since last time they'd had a fight about kids. She'd worked on the arguments for the next time he'd mention it. He'd asked why she didn't want to, and when she'd said it would take too much of her life, he'd called her selfish. (As if she wouldn't sacrifice everything else for him, do all the housework, never go home again.) Were people less selfish when they had children because they wanted something cute to play with? It would be eighteen years, and perhaps more, of putting Conny to the side and becoming Mum. He talked about having kids as if it were possible to keep something of yourself while you were living for someone else, every day. Why should she have to justify it? If she didn't want kids, she shouldn't have to. It was her choice as much as his.

It wasn't just her choice. If he wanted them as strongly as she didn't, she would ruin his life.

That was the point where she couldn't finish the thoughts. The only way to get away from that future was to leave him, and that would hurt him more.

On the windowsill stood a little sharp plant. She poked the soil to see if it needed watering, and it was dry and crumbling.

Throughout the autumn, she'd used to say “home” out loud to herself whenever it got harsh. She had been home.

“Conny,” she whispered on her way to the sink. “Come on, Conny.”

She was alone in the bedroom when she undressed, she could hear the tearing sound of the bathroom tap. When she hung up her jeans, the keys fell out, and they jingled against something hard when she put them back. She put her hand in the pocket and felt the smooth stone.

Perhaps that was the only way out she had left, to hand this over to supernatural powers. She rubbed the stone between her fingertips and felt only cold, no texture other than the traces of the putty where it'd been set.

She put on her warm pyjamas and crawled into bed. After a while she took the stone from her desk. It was an amulet, at least. If it really had been able to grant wishes, what would she have wished? That she'd never met him, or that he would forget her. Not that, that would have been controlling his mind.

She wouldn't be able to keep her hand closed around it all night, and he might say something, so she put it under her pillow like in some childhood ritual. She got a sensation that she could feel it through the pillow, “The Princess and the Pea”, but what she felt must be the knowledge.

Before she fell asleep, head halfway over on Tobias' pillow so that she could hold him in her arms, she remembered that it was the bunches of flowers on Midsummer Eve. The strongest memory was of being silent while picking them and the rest of the evening, but you were supposed to put them under your pillow and sleep on them to dream of your future husband. She’d done it, back in the age when you believed in that sort of thing, and mum had never complained, even though it must have left stains and dark seeds on the rough white sheets. In hindsight she had remembered one night when she'd dreamt about a guy who looked like Tobias, fair-haired and broad-faced, but his name had been different. It was as credible as the stone's powers.

Perhaps she should have put it in the pillowcase to keep it hidden, but she never remembered if she'd had time to do it.

He had been at the point of falling asleep, or perhaps he already had, when Conny jolted and cracked the sleep. Her arm thudded into the mattress. He couldn't see anything without turning on the light, but she gasped as if she was going to scream.

“Conny? Are you awake? Did you have a nightmare?”

She tossed again, and he was about to shake her awake, but after that her movements stopped, her breath got softer. She didn't say anything. When he sank back, he assumed that she had slipped out into a calmer dream by herself.

It wasn't until he got up that it became clear that something was wrong. He'd had breakfast and got dressed, and she was still asleep. She didn't react when he bent over her and gave her a light peck on her nose. She didn't move. He shook her, he'd never had to do that, and while touching her he noted that her skin was warm. He held the back of his hand in front of her mouth and felt the draught of breath, faint as a cat's. After a couple of minutes he pinched the inside of her wrist, next to the green-blue veins. His fingernails left impressions like bloodless crescents.

He called the hospital, and while he dialled the number he talked to her immobile body as if she could hear and was in pain: don't worry, Red, it'll only be a couple of minutes, soon they'll be able to take care of you. He was told to put her in semiprone position, and was about to shout at the polished female voice, just because he hadn't remembered it himself. Where had he learnt it, in the scouts, at school? Her body was floppy; she’d always been heavily built for a woman, but it was as if unconsciousness had made her bigger and heavier. Her neck lashed when he turned her over.

They took her to the hospital and left him in an empty waiting room. By that time something dark lay on his brain, and he moved torpidly as if he hadn't slept. A kind dark-bearded doctor led him to an office and said the word “coma”.

He got to answer questions. He didn't know the exact time, some time after midnight, but he could describe the moment when it had happened. The doctor nodded to what he said. If he was in shock, it would be best if it lasted until he got out of the hospital. He offered to call Conny's family, but of course they couldn't let someone next of kin do it, they would take care of it themselves. As long as the shock lasted, he could go where he wanted.

A brain scan showed no injuries and no tumours. That had to improve her chances. He received information: she might die; she might wake up with permanent or transitory sequelae. (It wasn't like in films, where people arose from coma as if from sleep.) He said that he would take care of her if that happened, and didn't know if they heard him. Her brain had been smooth and clean under the camera, that had to give her a larger chance of waking unspoilt. It was unlikely that it would last longer than five weeks, the doctor said.

“Those cases you've probably read about, where people have woken after twenty years, they're among the absolute exceptions. But I can't lie to you, you know: we can't guarantee anything.”

The last time he saw Conny, she was lying in a hospital bed beneath the flashing sunlight. His gaze bounced to her face, as if they would have noticed if he had hesitated. Her face wasn't going to give him nightmares, though it had a stupid, childish expression that it might have had in regular unconsciousness. She had tubes in her nostrils, with the same lustre as the IV, though they looked stiffer. His mind was still walled off, but his body had a presentiment of how it would feel if someone brushed them and they were driven deep through the mucous membranes. Her mouth would taste the blood.

He managed a grin that clicked in the corners of his mouth.

“I know you'll take care of her.”

A couple of years ago, it had been back in Lund, he'd had romantic thoughts about her becoming bedridden, so that he could throw everything aside to care for her. It had been so divorced from reality that he couldn't feel any guilt over it. Even then he had realised how hypocritical it was: if he wanted to do everything for her if she got ill, why didn't he do it now? He'd had similar dreams about mum and dad.

This was better than anything the superficial Tobias of that time could have wished. The nurses took care of her physical needs – he didn't know what her body did now, if it took a whiz and relieved itself as soon as something filled up. They had to use bedpans. There was nothing revolting about her, unless you counted the breathing tubes in her nose. Even his chirpy fantasies must have included physical discharges and the snappiness of boredom or pain.

If she was going to die, this was preparation for him, without corruption. She wouldn't be aware of it; she had slipped into it while she was sleeping.

He wasn’t able to stay by her sickbed. He would have done it if it would have made anything better for her, if she'd been aware, but the hospital took better care of her than he could have. He had to work, in order to pay the rent, but he was going to have money to spare now that it was just him at home. He saved it up, that was for when she came back. For a while he read everything he could find about coma, as if he had a bigger chance of finding the cause than the doctors. After work he drove a detour to the hospital and sat down on a folding chair by the bed.

“You can talk to her if you want,” a nurse said.

As if she were a potted plant or a cat. He did anyway:

“Don't worry, Red, I'll manage.”

And:

“I'll buy you something really nice when you wake up, I'll make you a lemon parfait.”

Her brick-red hair was smooth under his hand. They had to wash her, perhaps they put her in a plastic chair under a shower. Towards the end, he noticed that she'd lost weight. They could give her nutrition, but not maintain her muscles.

That was fifteen minutes a day; it was unlikely that she would wake up while he was there. It was difficult to stay longer, he needed to get home and start tea. All he could do for her was to wait until she came back. She lay in her prison of time. The body he sat guarding was a coffin in the shape of a woman.

The first night he'd spoken to mum on the phone, and she'd said that he was welcome to come home. He hadn't said no, but so far he could manage in the flat. As soon as he got home, mum and dad would spoil him as if it was he who was injured. Valdemar would want to sit up and watch videos with him; Danielle would be a bit more adult than last time he saw her, a bit less teasing after this. It felt as if all that sweetness might make him forget her.

Five weeks after that morning was the thirteenth of February. That night, he'd dreamt about the first time he'd met her, in Lund when they trained in the same football club, she with her long hair piled up under a red baseball cap that made her look too young to be at uni. The colours were bright like in a Japanese dating-sim. She stood in front of him on a grassy bank, and behind her he could see the field and the pale skyline. She was wearing a jacket with a pale wing print on the back. He woke up with the drug of hope inside him.

One evening, in the last fine light before sunset, he was about to change the sheets, as much to waste a few minutes as because he needed to. When he tore the pillowcase from the pillow on Conny's side, something smacked into the wood of the headboard. At first he couldn't see anything, and looked under the bed in case it had fallen on the floor, but when he got up he found her white stone. He hadn't seen it against the sheet.

It was cold when he put it on the chest of drawers.

There was no way for it to have ended up under the pillow if she hadn't put it there. What had she wished for? He took it again and held it to his forehead under the fringe. It didn't have a smell, it was stone.

Nothing else had succeeded. It wasn't going to make her state worse. That night he put the stone in the chilly space under the pillow, and until he fell asleep he drew the words “take me to where she is” through his brain until they were nothing but machinery.

Something had changed, already in his sleep. It wasn't a nightmare, but it was chaotic, even more chaotic than normal dreams. Sometimes he had no body and was just a drifting point of view. He moved through a building that seemed to consist of nothing but sheets of glass, facing unlit rooms or a sky with black and red ribbons of clouds. He had control over his movements, and he knew that if he went back he would get out of here, but at least he was doing something now; perhaps he would find her here and be able to free her. A bed was standing behind and below one of the glass walls. He hit the glass to break it, but in hindsight he didn't know if anyone had been lying there, or whether it had been she.

White sunlight made his eyelids flip open. He lay in a bed that didn't feel like his and Conny's; the bottom was plywood beneath the mattress. It was his room at home: the red-lacquered dumbbells lying together in the corner, the green loop-pile rug mum had bought with him in some furniture department store. Had he decided to go home, then? He couldn't remember anything since the night he'd gone to bed with the stone under his pillow. He could strain the memory until it hurt, without finding any empty spaces. Had there been an accident? A suicide attempt? He couldn't remember, but he couldn't believe he would have done that. He looked at his hands and arms, and didn't see anything different. He was wearing the same faded blue pyjamas as when he'd gone to bed.

Someone made a noise in the staircase. It sounded like mum. He was about to go out and give her a hug, but his gaze had stuck in the window. The sky, the terraced flats and the trees had such brilliant colours that it could have been a dream, but the realisation didn't change anything. A red house in the furthest block was being torn down; the façade and roof were a shell in front of a searing sky.

He looked down at the desk. A mobile phone lay diagonally across the corner, where he'd put it every night, but it wasn't his: a flat black iPhone, not his chubby grey one. He opened the address list and saw most of his numbers, but not the one for the hospital or Conny's mobile.

He knew the hospital number by heart, the way he’d learnt hers. He wasn't able to sit down while waiting. He had to wait again after asking.

“I'm afraid I can't find a Conny Hyltén,” the receptionist said. “Could you spell it  out for me, please?”

He gave her middle name and maiden name and Social Security Number, admitted the ninth of January, in coma. He was about to describe her, but his voice failed when he couldn't remember what her face had looked like. He was certain that she had been heavily built and had red hair. Her face was as vague as if he'd only read a description of it.

No young woman had been taken there in a coma at that time, not even with a similar name. He couldn't remember what he said to the receptionist. He turned off the phone and could finally sink down on the bed. He pinched himself, first in the fat side of his palm, then on his upper lip until his eyes misted, and swung his hand into the tabletop, smacking his fingers. This was how he'd hurt her when he'd thought he could wake her.

He tapped in her mobile number, quickly so that he wouldn't stop himself. While he waited for a response his heart beat as if he were poisoned, but all he got was a few seconds' silence and a “you have dialled an incorrect number”.

Mum was hanging up washing over the stair rail when he walked into the hallway. He gave her a hug, perhaps too hard, because she took a step back and looked at him.

“Are you all right? You look a bit shocked.”

He managed a grin.

“I think I had a nightmare.”

It felt like he needed breakfast, his body was faint, but he couldn't eat until he knew. He found the phone directory, big and floppy, in the cupboard over the worktop, tossed it on the ironing board and started turning the pages. Her name wasn't there, but he was looking under H. Her maiden name was Kiessl. He leafed ahead to K and saw it.

For a long time he stared at the name as if he could already see her. She was in Danderyd. He had no mental images of it. He forced himself to make the call before he started believing it. It could be a namesake. It could be his own madness that had entered his eyes.

“Yeah, hello?”

It was her voice. He drew a breath to shout, as if that could bring her here.

“Conny? Is it you? Are you all right?”

The last bit was so lame, he could have chuckled at it. All he wanted was for her to say something, so that he knew she was there.

“With whom am I speaking?”

Her voice had become harsh. He felt the cold sweat like tickling down on his palms before he spoke again:

“My name is Tobias Hyltén. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Who are you?”

He could have hung up; he needed to process all this before he could say anything more. Something so chaotic might have frightened her. That was the unselfish reason: once he hung up, he wouldn't know that she was alive.

“I'm sorry. I want you to know that I'm not stalking you. All I want is for you to take care of yourself.”

He put enough feeling into those words for her to understand that it wasn't a threat or an obsession. She didn't reply, and a few seconds later she hung up. He supported himself with one hand on the worktop and kept his finger on her name. It didn't fade.

In this world she was alive. He could go to Stockholm and find her, maybe even today, as soon as he’d got dressed. Perhaps he didn't even need to do that. He could live here, look for a flat, and know that she was well. Perhaps she was happier.

His body was lying at home. He could go to the apartment, here, but he wouldn't see anything, and perhaps there were people living there. Mattis at work would try to contact him when he didn't turn up. Perhaps he would call his family. People would force a way in and take it to the hospital.

He wondered if there was any possibility that they would wake up.

THE END

[mickey-milkovichs]

meet me in new york - lorraine/delphine (atomic blonde)

lorraine meets delphine in new york (1100+ k)

-fluff and smut (delphine’s alive and reads lorraine her poetry)

also on ao3!

Lorraine’s spiked stilettos click clack on the spiraling metal stairs, the small sounds becoming a booming echo throughout the cavernous stairwell. Her hand, pale and slender, elegant but blanketed with fading bruises, pinches a long cigarette between two fingers as it trails lightly on the wrought iron roses of the handrail. She’s chosen this building, an anonymous twelve story New York walk-up, well past it’s prime, as her permanent residence.

It’s former glory is faded. The bricks are crumbling, the richly patterned wallpaper stained. Fallen and broken bits of glass from a dusty chandelier lay on the marble floor. Years ago this building would have been filled nightly with New York’s elite, networking and socializing and ladder-climbing, but not anymore. Now it’s perfect. No one will find her here.

Lorraine reaches the eleventh floor and turns left. She approaches the corner suite that she’s decided to claim and jiggles the sticky glass doorknob vigorously until the door shoots open. Once inside the door frame she allows herself to relax, sighing and slumping against the wall as she pulls her pumps off. She throws her vinyl jacket onto an antique, moth-eaten embroidered chair, reaches down to massage her aching feet, and then walks slowly into the room, hand on the back of her neck. She sucks in a deep lungful of smoke and slowly exhales it into the dim room. Despite all of the new propaganda about smoking being bad for you, she doubts she’ll ever give it up.

“Mon cheri?” A husky voice unfurls from the darkness. A shadow materializes, walking slowly towards Lorraine. Light from a lone street lamp filters softly through the large, cracked bay window to reveal Delphine’s face.

Delphine smiles slowly, seductively, but secret relief shines in her eyes. “You made it.”

“Of course.” The corners of Lorraine’s lips twitch upward.

“I have been waiting for you.”

Lorraine smiles fully, strides slowly towards the brunette and grabs her hips through her floor length black silk camisole. She leans in, whispers, “I’m glad,” in her ear. She nudges the girl’s thick hair out of the way with her nose and kisses her on the soft skin behind her ear. “I told you it would work.”

“Mmm, yes, you were right. It wasn’t easy but I did it,” Delphine chuckles, trying to maintain her train of thought as Lorraine trails her lips over her delicate skin. “My maman always told me to listen to more experienced women.”

Lorraine laughs softly, her warm breath hitting Delphine’s inner ear in a way that makes her toes curl. “Did she really.”

“No, that’s a little life lesson I learned on my own.” Delphine pulls away and bites her lip, staring into Lorraine’s ice blue eyes with her deep chocolate ones. The surfaces swirl with emotion.

The pair stumble towards the bedroom together, Delphine leading the way.

Lorraine slams her down onto the sagging bed roughly. After a month apart, she’s ravenous.

Delphine gasps as Lorraine touches her everywhere, ripping her black lace bodice and biting her thighs.

The two women move together, writhing and moaning, panting each other’s names into the hot, muggy New York air. Sweat drips down their bodies and mixes together with each new position. They can almost feel themselves unfurling, into each other and into the space of the room. Somehow this moment together seems even more viceral than all their times before.

Afterwards, as the two lay entwined between each other and sheets, Lorraine smokes and looks at the set up Delphine’s put together. A lava lamp, posters of naked actresses and punk bands tacked up, sprigs of white roses in an empty drinking glass, clothes piled on a chair, an ashtray, piles of papers on a rickety desk. It’s far from the glamorous apartments of their former life, but it’s safe, and somehow already feels like it belongs to them, feels right.

“Ah, I have some things for you.” Delphine untangles herself and hops out of the bed. She selects a few sheets of paper and settles back onto the bed, folding her legs under her. She hands one to Lorraine wordlessly.

It’s a charcoal drawing, a simple silhouette of a naked woman, obviously amateur but beautiful nonetheless. It’s of her, Lorraine, the empty space of the blond hair, nose shape, and a particular scar on her thigh give her away.

“I made it of you. You filled my head while you were away—the worry, the waiting. Missing your touch…,” Delphine reaches out and strokes a finger up Lorraine’s thigh. “I decided to try my hand at art in between my poetry. You were all I wanted to draw. I—I’m so glad you got here safely.” She whispers the last part, bowing her head to try and hide her emotions.

Lorraine pulls the girl closer. “You were all I could think of. You got me through those last few weeks. I knew I had to come to you, to keep my promise.” Lorraine reaches out and catches a single tear on the tip of her finger as it slips down Delphine’s cheek. “Shh, don’t cry. And this--,” she whispers as she holds the drawing up, “is beautiful. Merci, mon cheri.”

Delphine smiles shakily. “I have more.” She sniffles delicately and sits up a bit straighter, but remains slumped against Lorraine’s side. She reaches out and grabs another paper, the most worn one in the pile, and reads in a quiet, strained voice, tired from screaming in ecstasy and crying in relief.

a young girl people call her wild but she’s not, really she just has visions in her eyes

intrigue, drama, danger excitement is the word the makes her heart beat faster she daydreams in her small room the harsh winds and rain beat against her window as she sits, huddled under her thin blankets trying not to cry this life is just too small her heart is shrinking

she hunts and hunts and hunts she gets what she wants intrigue drama danger only it’s not it’s too much

and then someone saves her and that person is the embodiment of everything she’s ever wanted and the girl thinks she can settle for smaller dreams if only she has this woman and maybe that’s all she ever really wanted? a simple life with wild love where her heart can grow

Delphine looks up as she finishes. “That’s all. I thought it time I try my hand at making poetry, as I said I wanted to.” She bites her lip again, but this time she seems nervous, and so young.

Lorraine stares, trying to keep her face smooth and tame the storm of feeling within. “Delphine...my angel, I haven’t saved you, you’ve saved me.” She reaches out and grasps Delphine’s hand, placing it over her own heart. “Can you feel it? My heart’s beating again. You brought me back to life.”

Delphine smiles radiantly as more tears slip down her cheeks. Lorraine kisses away each tear as it falls and settles her girl into her arms, holding her close all through the night.

[sonofhistory]

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

American Revolution RPF, American History RPF, 18th Century CE RPF

Nathan Hale (1755-1776)/Benjamin Tallmadge

Tags: Young Love, Last Kiss, Brief Smut, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Emotional Roller Coaster, Cuddling & Snuggling, This is the last time they ever see each other, Foreshadowing Death, Fight Scene, Tags will be updated

Part 2 of the Early American History | Stories They Won’t Tell series (fics places in the series get rearranged by date in happens in)

All Fic Total Words: 9,187

____________________

September 15th, 1776 || 3:47 p.m.

6 days, 7 hours, 50 minutes till Nathan Hale’s death

“But here, I think you’re wrong, to blame,

your gen’rous muse and and call her lame.”

_______________________

         Nathan Hale could not sleep. His eyes floated back up to the roof of the tent, staring at the sheeting fabric sewn together at the corners in the flash of a simmering candle in the oil lamp. He lifted Ben’s head off of his bare breast, setting it on the single pillow he was lying on and sat up on the cot stiffly, his space filling. With goosebumps rising on the sleeping man’s surface, he tugged the blanket up to the undercut of their chin, slipping off feet onto the ground, grabbing his shirt from the corner of the bed, sliding it over his arms and shoulders but not bothering to button the front up.

         He ran his fingers through the front of his hair, combing it back with his nails, sitting back down on the edge of the cot, narrowing his shoulders and his eyes once again dipped to the sleeping man on the bed. With his curly, unruly cinnamon locks, without a ribbon now, the strands tumbling messily against his lower back and his collar bone, barely sweeping the curve of his spine. Nathan sighed, his shoulders declining, fixing out his tense muscles. He wondered what time it was now, it was still dark, perhaps three in the morning? There was no ability to rest left in him, wide awake now. He gazed at Ben’s chest as it fluttered up and down, and his ears twitched in their state making him wonder just what kind of dreams played behind those eyelids this night.

         Their brows arched, etching out further those two wrinkles at the center of his brow--he was only twenty-two, why were there already markings on his sheath?

         Tenaciously, his own hand departed the cot and aligned upon those two nicks, tracing them with his cracked nail as one would gentle rub a stain from their clothing; they were anything but so. Riveting longingly at a portrait of the most perfect being in his perspective. Fingers stumbling across a dancefloor of flesh, with hands that had already memorized the contours of his spine, ears absorbing the music of those sleepy sighs escaping from his lips. He wanted to write down exactly how he felt as his vision scoped down, trailing the indigo veins until they culminated at his wrist, he knew the paper would remain empty. He could not of described it any better.

         Of everything he’d ever seen in his twenty-one years, of anything he’d touched, he kept on touching him , wrapping his grip around that wrist where it lay limp, rising it to his lips, pressing a kiss into his lifelines. It was his bronze laughter, it spread across rooms as hues of the same shape transform the skies. The Connecticut boy felt like scarlet and the most consuming passion, with its vehement divulging shades ripping their pictures around his silhouette. Their lips would meet delicately enough to not crush the rose petals of his skin, no less the devotion as the colors erupted together in the atmosphere revealing the most dazzling display of light.

         Dawn was breaking as their interaction stole form across the heavens. A fleeting juncture in a world that romanticized the universe. Nathan’s palm glided up to flicker down his abdomen his touch merely ghosting with fluttering wings like a butterfly, Ben’s gut tightened, coiling in on itself. His smoothing caress arrived to those hips that did not feel quite the same, protruding a little too much and a stomach that now revealed the bottom rib when he inhaled. Nathan frowned, just as exquisite as before in his most innocent form. But, Nathan Hale craved so much more than just form. He wallowed for depth, and for a soul. Something to burn him up with purpose and desire, wishing to be reduced to ashes by it but learn that he could rise from the embers just as fast. An attraction for things that would destroy him in the end.

         Nathan lay his now tired skull back upon the pillow, his face falling allineate with the man he’d studied so earnestly. Their noses brushed, he shut his eyes slowly, edging closer and pressing a kiss against Ben’s lips. Maybe it was an aspiration for the taste of his lips that flashed him to the scent of everything after it had rained, but the sunshine comes out. The lapping sound against the slippery cobblestones and the shamrock moss in between each carving pebble. Tree bark, pine needles weaves with how calm lakes feel against his skin on steamy summer nights with beads of sweat shimmering down the back of his neck and Ben’s form slipping between the water, stunning in the reflection of the moon across the rippling water.

         It was every marvelous memory swaddled at the corners of his mouth. He eased his burdens to share his joy and content in his sorrow. Every breath exchanged between urged jaws tasted limitless. Boundary lines pleading with ardent flesh with only that nods could utter. Out of his mortality, that hungers and his tongue that comes to know the semblance in seeking reason. The curvature of his lover’s waiting body fits into his wanting hand, breast warm as sunlight, pressures quick between his thighs. Ben was still asleep as he let go, sensing a stranger shift in his bones as if doing something for the very last time without knowing it. The last time he’d kiss, or the last time he’d kiss Ben?

          He felt his heartbeat on his fingertips as he shifted phantom strokes over Ben’s eyelids, spiraling down his nose and around his cheek before sloping to his chin and he drew his pads off, stationing a hand on their chest above his frantic heart. Air plummeted all to quick out of his lungs and he failed to breath, something warmed his veins and his eyes widened. Underneath the layers of skin, and the ribs, the muscle and bone, he was closer to anybody that he had ever been in his entire life. His palm was becoming a prisoner to the rhythm of that pulse.

         “You keep your soul in your eyes, Damon.”

         “Is that so, Pythias?”

         “You unlock it for selective few, but whenever it tis’ there, it guides its arms to the center of my chest.”

         “Then you must keep your soul in your chest.”

         “How so?”

         “Silly question. My soul can always find you.”

         Nathan blinked, as the absence of day ceased and darkness crawled back towards the Earth. Those ravenous tinctures of bronze and scarlet brimming up the heavens, shallowing across the tent. Still blind to the time, it must be four-thirty.  

         It was time to leave.

         Reluctance with strings like a violin swarming about him and leaping him back, he shook them off loosely, tipping back up, throwing his feet to the floor and hovering off the cot. He buttoned up the front of his open shirt, plucking down the sleeves to where they washed the coat of his forearm. Pausing to pull the blanket back up to Ben’s chin before passing across the tent; gathering his coat, slipping it over his arms, straightening out the collar remembering Ben’s tormented eyebrows meeting at the center of his brow as he did the same, standing above him, his outline against the eventide and Nathan’s arms behind his head with the most innocence he could establish. For justice, perhaps a copy to keep with him so that he’d carry a movement with him, he mirrored Ben, rubbing two fingers over his collar to straighten the material.

         He stood, tugged his boots on, rounding up all of his hair with two hands at the center of the base of his neck, re-doing the ribbon and looping it into his golden fibers once again. He circulated his eyelids, ripping at the corner of his eyes and not sensing the least bit of exhaustion. He tucked his waistcoat into his waist and slid the jacket completely over his torso, ceasing; he was done. Something plunged in his stomach, a cloudy pit of despair; there was nothing left. A moment of dread waded over him. He was done.

         Nathan Hale glanced back over to the cot and the man with his face buried in the pillow and rouge coating his eyelids. He didn’t want the chaos to leave him, not ever. It kept him wild, in strange ways of unique attraction. Tonight everything seemed to of made sense, except for the way Ben made him feel. He would depart from his eyes and he wondered if he would remember when he was gone how beautiful it was to feel. How guilty he felt knowing Ben would be waking up in the morning with half shut eyes, reaching automatically for the spot in the bed and remember just about all of his depression.

         Tears threatened to drowl from him, but he blinked them back sternly disciplining himself, composing, clenching a jaw in retaliation. He strided back towards gape of the tent, prepared to step out when he heard the cot’s joints creek. Incoherent murmurs flooded the room and he turned back, following the sound and landing on Ben. What began as a mere rustle revolved into kicking, rolling his neck back and forth whimpering. Nathan breathed, rejoining the foot of the cot when the screaming started. “No!”, a shout forced from the sleeping man’s throat, his chest racing up and down, sticky sweat clinging to the strands touching his forehead, “You can’t take him!”, a sob billowed in his chest.

         Nathan gathered on his ankles, throwing himself onto the cot, “Ben! Wake up!”

         Ben didn’t change, tears flooding onto his cheeks like oceans. His eyelids barely parted, and a sob emerged from his lungs, throwing himself into Nathan’s neck. “Nathan?”

         “It’s me”, he pulled him close into his neck, whispering softly in his ear.

         “You were gone,” he let out another whimper and covered his eyes with his hand, still half asleep, “You were gone.” He buried his face in the crook of Nathan’s neck, shaking, hands clinging to his shirt, balling his fists, his neck began to feel wet. “Please, Nathan…”

         Nathan’s own chest began to ripple, holding back his own emotion by cupping a palm over his aperture, muting himself. “Benjamin, I am not going anywhere.”

         “You were gone…”

         “I promise.”

         Ben grew limp again, flirting with sleep it seemed. A few mutters passed the space in his lips before there were words, “...soft as rose petals…” mentioning the hands clinging to his back.

         Nathan quivered, stamping the tears from his eyes, squeezing them shut, “I’m not going anywhere.” He breathed, setting Ben back down on the pillow once again and rising back again on unsteady feet. He held clamped knuckles between his teeth and his trembling chin where it landed in the palm of his hand, inclining, feeling bile rise in his throat that he swallowed down. He smoothed his shirt again with vibrating hands, zipping over the creases Ben’s fists had formed by those nightmarish portraits behind his dreams. He shook his cranium knowing just as well that he would never be back and in a violent or delicate acceptance, a battle shuffled in his chest; the place where Ben had once pointed to his soul.

         He grasped the lapels of the tent, parting them patent and treading out into the shimmering dawn luminescence. Breathing in the meadow air, gratified that there was not breeze to mask the warmth. He deviated the opening, peering his eyes back to Ben where they navigated the curve of his body on the cot. Reluctance to blunder away. The parts of the New York boy pulsated inside of him, knotting fingers around his ribs, daisies danced across his spine, pushing between the vertebrae, a garden of dashing roses wilting away. The floating petals plucked off of the stem, gliding to his domestic layers. He witnessed them poking up through his skin and already felt homesick for the places that were never really his own.

         “Goodbye, Damon.”

         Nathan knew Ben’s lips were moving to form syllables, Pythias. .

         Nathan Hale took his last look of Benjamin Tallmadge before shutting the opening, hesitant to step off into bigger things as he landed into their air. The very same bronze and scarlet coasting across the horizon, trailing up towards the sky where he said he might find his words written in the clouds. He smiled, fluttering lashes; the fusing intensities were searing his skin and he knew the familiarity of watery rain-slickened petals.

         He started away, not looking back; his lover’s kisses singing to the flowers inside him.

[mintyvan]

roadtrip - the south

Part 2 of 7. If you haven’t read the first part, it’s right here! 

In this chapter, our female character gets a little blinded by vengeful hurt, and our dear Van is conflicted in his love for her. Enjoy!

______________

Nights blur into days, and days blur into nights. North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Duke, Wake Forest and William and Mary are all explored. She buys some kind of paraphernalia from each one, and the sun deck in the back is littered with pennants and mugs. His left arm is now sunburnt from hanging cigarettes out the window, they've both gotten tanner and wirier, and her hair is thick, tangled and slightly less than clean.

"It's time to stop somewhere," she declared, irritable.

"Oh, c'mon Y/N, it's part of the roadtrip magic."

"I've been shaving my legs on the hood of the car using the windshield water at gas stations. I'm sick of small bathrooms. You've been wearing that same shirt for three days and I've been wearing the same underwear for two."

Smoke puffed out of his mouth unexpectedly as he laughed offhand. "That was more than I needed to know."

"So will you?"

"Fine," he sighs with a flirty smile, and they pull into an old motel, a faded sign above them flashing Harbor Motorcourt. The neon buzzed, scattering little rusty sparks on his shoulders. The night was warm and damp, crickets chirping in the tall grass. They are on a South Carolina shore, tall reeds on one side of a gully, the ocean on the other side. Small islands spread into the blue water like mysterious inkspots floating into the sunset-stained water. Evening is falling, thick and black as sin, a southern summer night.

The light in front of the office flickered; a few cars are scattered in the parking lot. She thinks it's beautiful; there is something old and secret about it, like a place where some terrible, beautiful thing has happened.

"One room, two beds please," he asks, and the old lady behind the counter with the horn-rimmed glasses peers at him suspiciously. She moves slowly, eyeing them, muttering to herself.  They take the key, walking under the lacy, peeling white-painted iron work hazy with spiderwebs. A big moth flutters between them and disappears into the dark.

Their door creaks and sticks; she almost expects a skeleton to fall out when they open it. Looking inside, they grimace. The carpet is old and worn, the walls gaudily covered with cream silk embroidered wallpaper. A tacky lamp and two dubious beds are thrown in, along with a tv and mirror; the tub has a rust rim and the water drips ominously like small footsteps in the dark night. She shudders involuntarily.

"There's something about this place..." he notes thoughtfully, shaking his hair out with his fingers, and she feels his discomfort as well. They check the bedsheets; thankfully, they are more or less clean. They each sprawl out on their bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

"I know this sounds stupid, but don't you get this feeling like something's weird here?"

"Yeah….it's southern gothic," he replies, voice coming out quieter than he wanted, and they both fall silent for a while, lost in their own thoughts.

Each takes a shower, each avoids each other, and they both crawl under the scratchy sheets in their respective beds, but can't sleep. She kicks her pajama pants off; the air is thick, hot and stifling, the crickets screaming outside their window. She feels as if a hand is pressing against her throat.

On the other bed, he tosses and turns. He is scared, he realizes; this was the feeling he can't name. The night seems to seep in like a disease through the air vents. Reeds moved slowly like fingers outside. He trembles under the covers.

Her eyes are brimming pools, tipping, spilling; she feels the cool liquid trace it's way down her cheek. Her thighs stick together and her skin is sandpaper. She shivers. The blue light from the neon casts unearthly shadows.

She sees his dark form moving around. The clock reads midnight.

"Van."

He jumps, startled, a tiny movement. She sees his eyes gleam in the dark.

"You scared me." Eyes wide.

"Where are you going?" she whispers, throat dry, a plea. She clambers to her knees, covers falling around her.

"To the shore. Can't sleep."

"Don't leave me," she breathes, reaching an arm out into the dark quickly. It brushes against his shoulder like a wraith. He is still for a moment.

"Then come with me."

Mutely she obeys, throwing one of his sweatshirts over the t-shirt and underwear she is wearing. She gets up, and he looks at her standing there in the blue light. She seems like a little child; long, awkward legs sticking out bare from the sweatshirt that skims her thighs, messy hair hanging in her face, terrified eyes shining in the night.

They walk to the edge of the surf, listening to it lap quietly against the shores. The waves roll in, rhythmic, faceless, like a mysterious voice in the night.

They sit on the sand. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, wondering what he is thinking about, wishing in some sort of strange way that she could touch him. She has clean hair tonight; sand is sticking to her legs, but she doesn't mind.

He is barely more than a dark shadow beside her. She reaches out her hand and places it delicately on his face.

Her thumb makes out his cheekbone. His nose. His crooked mouth, the strong chin, his ears, his hair. He says nothing, but stands very still, very cautious.

Her hand pushes him back on the sand, flat.

She lays down beside him, scared, shivering. They lie there, shoulders touching.

Her hand raises up, landing on his leg; her elbow moves across his stomach as her hand raises to his hip, fingers pressing the bone that juts out there, before the muscles of the abdomen.

His hand slowly moves beneath hers, on the sand, until it hits her thigh. His fingers scrape across her skin.

The thick night air and the lapping of the waves surrounds them. Above them a devil moon suddenly emerges from behind a cloud, casting their faces in black and silver. They are both rigidly looking straight up at the sky, not daring to move their heads an inch, to look at each other.

They both draw their own hands back suddenly, scared by the fierce light illuminating their secret actions.

The surf laps.

His lips are dry. He hurts from being so close to her, he hurts from her touch. It has turned his whole body rigid.

"Why." His strained voice confesses his feelings for him.

Her lips curve upwards slightly in a desolate, bitter smile.

"This is how it felt last autumn. The whole time I was near you. It hurts, doesn't it."

He is silent for a moment, drinking in the regret, and then speaks. "So you want to punish me now?"

"I don't have to. You're punishing yourself," she whispers, eyes brimming moonlight.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he hisses, fighting back waves of heated nausea.

"Because you want me now. It's too late. I came back. I threw myself at you like an idiot. You kissed me, you touched me, you made me believe, and then you were gone before it was even Christmas; I should have known it was just retaliation."

"It was only the same thing you did." His eyes burned with the weak affirmation.

"Then I believe it's my turn again," she smiles, cheerful as death. She flies to her feet. "C'mon Van! C'mon!" she screams, laughing, dancing on the sand madly. "Aren't you hot? Aren't you stifling? Let's go for a swim!"

Then she's flying over the sand, and she disappears into the dark waves, as though they had swallowed her whole, erased her immediately. He's at the water's edge in a flash, waves soaking his ripped jeans.

"Y/N, stop it! This isn't funny!"

The dark shimmers quietly under the moonlight. Her head does not surface.

He runs in, slicing through the water, desperately diving under, but nothing can be seen; the night is dark and the water is India ink; salt water is in his eyes, his mouth, he yells for her and dives under again.

It is then that he feels her pass under him, and she touches his ankle, light as a poisonous jellyfish.

He surfaces desperately, and there she is, walking out of the water. She stands on the shore, her graceful silhouette like a blue heron's in the moonlight. She steps across the sand like a ghost, disappearing into the sand dunes.

 *

He wakes up, hearing the shower run. He watches her as though in a dream as she steps out of the shower in a towel, daintily making her way across the room. Modestly, she shuts herself in the bathroom to change and proceeds to towel-dry her hair. She smiles at him as though last night never happened.

"It's lunch; I brought you a donut and some ciggies. Sound good?"

"Uh, sure." He is confused, cautious. Last night was something entirely evil and different from anything he’d experienced before.

They hop into the car; she drinks coffee out of a 7-11 Big Gulp cup that she sticks into the dashboard compartment because it does not fit into any cupholder. She hums along softly with the radio -- it's the Clash, from London Calling.

"Hey remember a long time ago when you wrote down all the verses to that one song you ripped from the Clash?" she grins, pulling her hair back with a rubber band, shoving it into a worn out Yale baseball hat. The sleeves on her ratty shirt are rolled up, a shirt that shows a big bottle of clear liquor in front of a South Carolina flag and says Absoloot Southern on the front; she's got another one that says Skank the Yanks or Yanks are Stank or something of that sort. She picked them up at some convenience store, somewhere near Charleston. The hem on her rolled up jeans is frayed all the way up to her calves, and she's wearing beat up Converse Chuck Taylor's. All she needs to look like a little boy is a baseball glove.

"Yeah, it was that night," he says softly, wincing. He looks at her. "You look like Benji’s halloween costume last year."

"And you look more like Hugh Grant than Hugh ever did. I'm buying you a voucher for the hair salon though, that hair’s got to go." She digs around in the duffel, looking for something to read to the both of them to pass the time. "Ok, tough decision. A Good Man is Hard to Find, by Flannery O'Connor, or From Death to Morning by Thomas Wolfe?"

He winces again at the clear blows, but banters as if he’s fine. "You're really into this southern literature thing, aren't you."

"Yeah, I was even thinking we should go see Natchitoches where Kate Chopin wrote the Awakening. I hear it's beautiful."

"You an’ your women's lib."

"You say it like it's a bad thing," she says lightly, dangerously.

"I'm not. You're not the bra-burnin’ type. Don't get offended."

"I'm not offended," she says, her lips a thin line.

They drive in silence until they hit another town for the night, splurging a little on a cheap hotel. He sits on the balcony, smoking furiously, biting his lips and trying to settle down; below him, she floats quietly in the swimming pool like a corpse, occasionally doing a lap.

Neither of them sleep much that night.

*

They'd reached Savannah, the beautiful city of trees dripping spanish moss that swayed in the soft breeze; the city of old houses and lacy ironwork, blooming camellias and mockingbirds. They stay in the Pink House for a night, reveling in the soft jazz. They drink iced tea and smile at each other softly, wishing they could forgive because everything is too beautiful to stay so ugly between them.

He smokes on the terrace at night, and she comes out between the fluttering mosquito nets and extinguishes his cigarette, her hair tangled, swaying, her smile as mysterious as the Mona Lisa's.

He wakes up one fresh morning, knowing they'd stayed there too long; elbows resting on the balcony rail, he looks out through the lacy, thick branches where the moss softly sways above the cascades of delicate flowers.

She comes out, arms stretching, yawning, ruffled. She sits in a lacy iron chair, watching him as he smokes.

It is his shoulders that always soften her. She loves the way the dark shirt hangs on him, over his broad shoulders that always seem so tense, and his long hair brushing just above. It always sends a soft shiver down to her toes; it is easy to love his body, harder than it is to love him.

She curls her legs up underneath her, watching him, smiling slightly to herself.

"Morning."

"Morning," she replies, soft, mellow, almost singing it. Her blood is warm and rusty in her veins, mouth thick and slow, legs loose and fingers languid. He looks at her, eyebrow raised, sensing all these things immediately. He knows her language when she wants to be touched. But, he doesn’t dare.

Her toes curl and uncurl, and she smiles from behind the hair that dangles in her face.

He is puzzled by the mysterious longing, like the scent of azaleas and honeysuckle,emanating from her.

"Sleep well?"

She nods, watching him intensely. "You didn't though. You had bad dreams. You said, “oh no,” all of a sudden. I was going to get up and walk over to you, but you suddenly sat up quick and your hands were balled up in fists. You were breathing hard. Do you remember?"

He does not reply.

"Sorry I woke you up."

"Wanna tell me about it?" she asks slowly, carefully.

"Not really." But he did want to. He always wants to.

She shrugs gently, and picks honeysuckle off the vine, rubbing them between her hands absently. She keeps picking at them, taking out the stem and letting the drop of nectar fall on her lips.

"Does that taste like anything?" he asks, for lack of something better to say.

She is now standing in the doorway of the balcony, mosquito net curtains fluttering around her softly.

"Sure. Come here, try one."

He walks towards her, unsure.

She deftly separates a stem.

"Quick, it's gonna drip," she orders, and he tips his head and she lets it fall on his plump lips. He licks it.

"Almost can taste it. Not too bad."

"Want more?"

He shrugs. "Alright."

Then they are tangled in the curtains, her mouth pressed feverishly into his, as his hands guide her, moving her backwards. His mouth tastes like honeysuckle and smoke, tangy, sweet. He loves her arms and legs tangled around him, and he tosses her down on the bed, as she giggles, sitting up. He takes his shirt off, and then they're both quite serious. Van stands between her legs, and she kisses his stomach.

There is a tattoo of something on her upper back, near her shoulder. He traces it with his fingertips. They are tangled in the sheets, slow and soft and warm, lazy, urgent, as he lets her touch him as she pleases. She is shy and demanding.

His hands push her thighs apart, touch the cotton edge of the space between them.

She lets him, and she is too warm and struck still of green fire to protest, to push away the gentle hand making it. His hand muffles her mouth as she moans.

But it is over, and she quickly turns away, jumping into a cotton dress. He sits on her bed in his dark jeans, bare chested, wishing for an explanation of what has just happened, but she has none. She begins tossing things into a duffel bag, avoiding his eyes.

"Packing, huh."

"We've stayed here too long."

He nods thoughtfully, truly sorry that she is right.

That morning they leave Savannah.

They drive furiously non-stop, through Alabama, then Mississippi. It is late at night, and they stop at a Waffle House.

"Very nice."

"The atmosphere?"

"Van."

"Ok, so it's full of smoke, everyone's scary, the food is disgusting. Half the trucks parked out there have a gun rack."

"I should've bought that rebel flag shirt a few gas stations back."

"If you really wanna fit in, I can knock a few of your teeth out or get you pregnant," he grins, then wishes he hadn't just said that.

She grimaces. He changes the subject. "Well, we've managed to make it down this far in one week. Twenty something hours. I guess we sorta took it slow. You wanna go west?"

"Ooh, Route 66. I wanna see that Barbie museum."

He rolls his eyes, mouth parting in a half-smile. "Whatever, fine."

"Oh, you like Barbies too?"

"Not even Elton John likes Barbies. Who am I, Liberace?"

"I wouldn't say that too loudly in here if I were you," she smiles.

They pick at their grits, waffles and eggs, eating around the grease pools and cigarette ashes.

"This place is depressing."

"Understatement. Waffle Houses are to the south what The Streets are to music; devastating misery served in good-sized portions," he says, pouring salt over his eggs.

"Yeah, Mike Skinner would have a field day in here. He thinks he knows dead souls; he should see that trucker over there with greasy hair down to his waist and a belly that barely fits in the booth eating his grits alone."

"Stop, you're making me cry."

"Another thing you shouldn't say too loud in here."

"You and your stereotypes. Aren't guys allowed to cry?" he says lightly, grinning mockingly.

"Only if you're a flaming homosexual watching that Dawson's Creek episode where Joey and Pacey break up."

"Hmm, someone has a secret fetish."

"Ok, everybody knows Pacey and Joey broke up."

They finish up and get back in the car, and he drives during the night because he can't sleep, and because he is thinking about what happened that morning, and about the silky skin on her legs, about her fast hands and slow tongue. About how she flew to her feet so fast, ashamed of that sound she'd made, about her nervous movements.

It's hard to concentrate on the road.

He has so much to think about.

*

The land is flatter, drying out after the swamps of Louisiana. They stop at a laundromat in a small Texas town, where a local girl with dyed blond pigtails and booty shorts wearing cowboy boots winks at him, leaning against a dryer.

Y/N rolls her eyes and stuffs clothes in a washer; they've been reduced to undershirts and unraveling denim. Everything else is worn, sweaty, gritty.

He ignores the blonde. Washers rattle under the neon lights, the smell of detergent surrounding them. A fan with dirty blades whirrs in the corner; he buys her a Coke from the machine and they laugh at the blonde's dirty look. It is hot, and they sit on rattling dryers, making jokes about vibrations.

They've gotten along a little better these days, her lightening up, seeming to forgive him a little more each day. He is careful with his words, careful to show her he is willing to swallow his pride.

She reads out loud, the shaking of the dryer making her voice hilarious.

Her voice rolls easily over the words, as he stares up at the ceiling fans. She is reading about shells exploding like fireworks, dark nights, thick, sticky earth, shrapnel shrieking, buzzing like insects. All Quiet on the Western Front. He remembers his classmates reading that book in lectures just before he left school. He wasn’t much for reading.

They walk into a grocery store next door and split a large nachos, dripping cheese onto her leg and laughing hilariously. The air is hot, dry and bright under the Texas sky.

The sky is huge, blue and cloudless, like a plastic bowl over them. Her hair smells like sagebrush and leather, like sky.

He is in love again, although he would never admit it. No matter what she does to him from now on, he will take it humbly, forever captive to her fingertips. Of course, he would never tell her that now.

They drive on, to the next water tower, to the next roadhouse, to the next ranch.

The road stretches out long and flat before them, colored orange and dust and blue.

It's late at night, when the sky stretches out for miles and miles, clear and dark and magnificent. It's a bolt of black glass studded with rhinestones, just like the windows at the bar where they've stopped. A neon sign flickers and hums, the parking lot is filled with cars that reflect the pink buzz against the clear black sky.

"Okay, Van, this is not safe."

"Stop worrying. I'm a guy with a knife and a high tolerance for alcohol. I won't let anything happen to you, as long as you don't insist on going someplace alone."

She still makes a displeased face, scrunching her slightly burned nose. Her skin has become soft and dark rusted, like the miles of Texas terrain. His is still a little pallid but taut and tense over every muscle, sharply contrasting the black fabric of his undershirt that bunches up around his boxer line where the rough black denim rides carelessly over his form.

The neon night makes her lightheaded; she feels sleazy and glamorous and the night suddenly takes on less emotional significance.

"Let's go get sloshed," she grins, jumping up.

"Whoa, right, love. Don't even try any funny stuff."

"Stuff it, mom. I'm letting it all hang out tonight; I suddenly have an urge to line dance."

He coughed over his cigarette, laughing. "Please suppress it."

"C'mon, I just bought cowboy boots and they look good with these ripped denim shorts! Very honky-tonk chic!"

He rolls his eyes, flicking the butt of the cigarette onto the gravel. "You just used the word chic. You're not real good at this letting it all hang out stuff are ya."

"Whatever. It's night. It's warm outside and we've been sweating and traveling with ice instead of AC all day; I might as well work up one last sweat before wiping off tonight," she grins, swaying a little. He stands there, watching her in that parking lot, swinging her arms around, hair in her face, neon sign buzzing above her. The picture is contagious.

"Fine. Don't talk to strangers."

"If you don't."

They look at each other and smirk. There is something burning in their veins that is set alive by this ugly, shakily lit parking lot. He could swear she has just given him a come hither look. She's not sure herself that she hasn't.

They stride into the joint; it's full of cigarette smoke, loud music, and glasses clinking under dim lights and loud laughter; on the right there are couples dancing, moving, people stumbling, they yell of the bar-waitress. He grins crazily; he's right at home, but he can sense her apprehension. When he opens his mouth to say something, she turns to him with eyes glimmering full of bar-lights.

"Come on!" she yells, exhilarated, and from that moment he only follows in her wake.

She slashes a path through the crowd, attracting several appreciative looks that make him uncomfortable. It's a rough crowd; she's so young and careless and loose-hipped, with her long arms and swinging hair and wild smile.

They down shots and resist advances; the alcohol sloshes over the bar counters while she downs Bacardi, one shot of Jack Daniels and Perrier between them all just to keep herself busy.

Her legs stride onto the dance floor, and an arm grabs her around the waist. A decent enough Texan with blue eyes and a skylit drawl is teaching her steps, and before he realizes she's swinging around and round the dance floor, her hair drifting through the cigarette smoke like a ghost.

Van observes feet; he's very good at learning anything through careful observation. It's all basic. A little more complicated than the basic grind he's used to from basement club holes, rock clubs, and the always almost lethal rave spots where dancing is almost an art of war.

He glides through the curtains of smoke, clutching a pure Smirnoff, mouth burning, eyes focused. It's not long before she's glued to him, and they're sliding, moving, familiar; she throws her hands up and the bottle of Smirnoff spills all over her shirt, making it loose and slippery on her skin.

The only thing they hear is the music, and the loud pound of their own hearts, and her short breath. His hands are on her; she is strong, flexible and breakable. Her lips are silver glass, their skin is chilled, then burning against each other. Her fingertips are ice, clutching his arm, their bottles fallen to the floor unnoticed. Everything is a play of lights, spiderwebs of smoke, his damp skin against hers. They dance, her hair sticks to his face, his hands are relentless, taking her apart piece by piece. She is dizzy now.

"Air."

They stumble outside under the black neon velvet night.

Her mouth is on his now, and she's pressed against the rough brick, and it's rough on her back but she doesn't notice the pain.

"You're drunk," she slurs.

"And you."

His lips are fierce against hers, slivers like ice between hers. Her mouth tastes like grapefruit and vodka.

He shudders, feeling the heat build up, tearing into him. "God, you’re fucking beautiful."

"Am I teasing you?" she asks beneath doe-eyes, rubbing her hips against his. He smiled widely, eyes closing in drunken haze, feeling every movement with fierce intensity.

"Yes, babe. I don't mind much. But stop toying with that unless ya fuckin’ mean it."

"Is that a threat? ‘Cause I --."

The duel is tongue against tongue, unforgiving; he presses the tip of his between her teeth. The only sounds are of distant music, buzzing neon, and her small, muffled moans and gasps. She clings to him, feeling a weakness seize her legs. Her hands are fast, harsh, they grasp his back and press him against herself, as if to hold her against the wall.

"Car," he points, between sucking kisses on her neck.

"Car is good. Wall is fine. Top of Empire State Building, a public library, a laundromat, White House bathroom."

She grins weakly. The movement of his hands down her back is quick to silence her as they walk.

"All in that order? This trip will take longer," he grimaces, opening the backseat door.

"Car first."

"Not very romantic."

"This is Texas. This is as romantic as it gets."

"God, never thought I’d hear you say that."

Their hearts beat in the night air.

"I have......stuff....." she begins.

"Stuff. Yes. Stuff is great, great to have.....prepared."

There is a small, drunk, awkward silence.

The moment is gone, slipped. The feeling is still there. They stand a few feet apart, regretting the fact that they'd started talking.

"God, it must have been the moment."

"Still want to." He questions, but it comes out flat.

"Yes," she grins.

"But not now."

"Correct."

He sighs. He knows they're both drunk and he's glad she's stopped it. He couldn't have if he'd tried.

They drive out into the night, letting the chilly air cool them off, and he wills himself to calm. They are too restless to try to sleep, and too forgetful to remember not to drive although they've drunk. But the road is long and empty under the huge sky, and they drive, bloodshot eyes until they hit the sunrise that slips over the flat, rusty land, painting their faces in pinks and golds.

All they remember of the night before is a dim, heated fog, and a buzz of neon.

At least, that's what they pretend to remember.