#if you read this far then in spirit i am handing you a crunchie or other chocolate bar/snack of your choice

[ghostieblotts]

Today really is the day for applying my pragmatics module to saf, huh

[neon-kazoo]

Hero and Villain Go to a Pumpkin Patch

Hero gazed out into the countryside through the open top of the trailer. As Yelp had promised, there were gourds galore spread out over the many fields and rolling hills. The tractor pulling them steadily chugged along, filling the air with engine noises and a slight gas smell that had Villain plugging their ears and wrinkling their nose.

Naturally, they were both on a hay ride, on their way to a pumpkin farm, as enemies often are at the start of this season.

“Why is there so much hay!” Villain grumbled, tossing some into the air in frustration as they pulled at the pieces that were stuck to them.

Hero mercifully decided not to mention that that was the whole idea of a hay ride, instead pointing out, “You’re the one that insisted on wearing a cape to a farm.”

“For the last time, it’s a cloak,” Villain stressed, rising up slightly to attempt to shake off the pesky straw velcroing itself to their attire.

“Nice try, you don’t have a hood.”

Hero tugged Villain off their knees, lest they get in trouble for standing up

The rest of the ride included Villain unsuccessfully shifting and picking at their clothes while Hero, quite helpfully, made sure some pieces landed in the other’s hair before they departed the trailer.

After that, it was a quick bee-line to the collection of squash and pumpkins laid out on a lot of colored wood chips. Hero insisted on a picture, plopping down on a large and plump orange pumpkin to pose in front of the villain.

“I thought heroes don’t break rules?” Villain asked, smirking.

Hero defended automatically, “I’m not breaking any-”

Villain pointed to one of the clearly displayed signs reading “no sitting on pumpkins” in large red print.

“Oh.”

Villain snapped a picture just in time to capture the pumpkin collapsing into a heap of seeds and chunks beneath Hero.

…

“I still can’t believe that pumpkin cost 300 dollars.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have had to find out if you didn’t destroy it.”

Hero’s mouth formed a line as they pointedly looked away from the all-too amused criminal.

“Your face was priceless by the way,” they continued, much to the chagrin of their enemy.

Hero cut a glare that would make any villain proud.

“There’s a place for a better photo,” Villain consoled, pointing towards a board with the painted bodies of a farmer family, immediately regretting it when they clocked the expression on the Hero’s face.

After handing their camera off to a random patron, Hero and Villain found themselves at the back of the board. Hero immediately headed for the tallest hole, rising up onto their tiptoes to be seen from the front. When they realized Villain wasn’t stepping forward, they directed them to the lowest hole.

“That one will work,” they gestured, before returning to face the camera.

Reluctantly, Villain kneeled down in place for the photo.

When they got it back, Hero’s smiling face was plastered on that of a flannel-clad man with a pitchfork, holding his faceless family close in a field of hard-earned pumpkins. And Villain, with their face filling the hole of the dog at the bottom.

Relentlessly, Hero skipped towards a building with a line winding around to a small serving window.

Following, Villain scanned the sign and gaped.

Hero turned to them, eyes sparkling as they requested, “I’d like an apple cider, please!”

“I am not paying 30 dollars for inferior apple juice.”

Villain crossed their arms.

“It’s not juice, it’s cider. Come on, have some fall spirit.”

Villain did not have any fall spirit, however they did now have a lighter wallet, a happier hero, and a hot chocolate for themselves.

They sipped slowly, watching steam curl and unfurl into the air above their novelty mug.

“I can’t understand why you like this season so much. It’s far too cold.”

“It’s all in the leaves, Villain,” Hero replied.

“The leaves. They’re…crunchy.”

“They’re beautiful.”

Hero tilted their head back, gazing up at the red, orange, yellow, and brown canopy. Villain followed their lead, watching the light stream through the gaps of the balding branches with the slightest sense of wonder. The wind picked up, and it was like the trees were sparkling. Rich colors rained down as the gust blew through.

Totally not beautiful at all.

The nemeses next found themselves at a table with a medium size pumpkin sitting in front of each of them. They had both been entrusted with a small array of carving tools, which they made quick use of cutting into the vegetable and scooping out seeds and guts.

Sufficiently covered in the remains of mutilated gourds, Hero glanced over from where they were carefully scraping at their logo carved into the side of their designated pumpkin. Their mouth fell open in horror at their enemy’s work.

Safe to say, Hero earned a blue ribbon, and Villain earned a lifetime ban from the carving contest.

The criminal and the crime fighter soon took to wandering the perimeter of the farm, following the fencing in front of the surrounding deciduous trees.

The wind blew and Villain rubbed at their arms and pulled their cape tighter around themselves.

“It’s too cold to be outside,” they complained, causing Hero’s head to whip towards them.

“Since when are you such a wimp? If you’re cold, just say so,” Hero challenged.

“Ok, I’m cold.”

“I have just the thing,” Hero replied cheerfully, reaching into their concerningly-large pocket and pulling out some knitted material.

“What…are those.”

“Mittens.”

“No. That,” Villain pointed to the woolen blob on top with an accusatory finger, “is an abomination.”

“It’s. A. Mitten.”

Hero spread out the knitted hand-warmers before them. Villain thought they were more likely to be mistaken for a failed crochet project.

“…why are there only three.”

A grin spread cheesily across the Hero’s face, a glint of mischief in their eyes.

“Couple gloves!”

Slow, painful realization overcame the Villain.

“No. Absolutely not. I am not holding your hand.”

“I thought you said you were cold?” Hero tilted their head, asking with seriousness, “Would you rather have your fingers fall off?”

That, in Villain’s opinion, was a gross exaggeration of the current temperature of their hands.

They did, however, relent when they realized how terrible it was to have an imbalance between their hands, one wrapped in wool and the other exposed to the cutting wind. Better to look dumb then waste a valuable asset like the feeling in their fingers, Villain rationalized.

Hero let them keep pretending that was the real reason their fingers stayed intertwined until it was time to go home.

———

A lot of these ideas are included in @thepenultimateword ’s Flufftober challenge. I started writing this before the challenge was posted, but it deserves some recognition, go check it out!

[of-muppets-and-men]

Penumbra

Chapter 6: Nightfall

New Chapter is here, bit late but here. Link here if you prefer AO3.

“...With the Soul King as my witness, I pronounce thee Husband and Wife. You may kiss the bride.”

The voices of a thousand souls cheered to the high heavens. Captains, lieutenants and beyond.

Ichigo gazed upon his wife, awestruck by her radiance. All the while, their friends from far and wide had come to share in their happiness. He leaned down to better meet his wife’s tiny frame, caressing it in his arms. Ichigo’s beloved bride met his affection with her own, intertwining her arms around his neck. Her eyes glimmered like the moon, deep violet stealing his breath away. Before he knew, Ichigo’s eyes had begun to water.

“Hey… What’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing…” Ichigo said dismissively, “I love you, Rukia.”

“Hmph, Fool.” Rukia giggled, “I love you, too Ichigo.”

The love of his life’s lips were mere inches from his own, a moment he’d waited a small eternity for. How could this moment possibly get any better?

*BEEP BEEP BEEP*

Ichigo shot up in his bed, heart a flutter and breaths heavy; an alarm clocking making its duty known. His dreary eyes scanned the desolate room around him, growing more disappointed by the second. Everything he saw, he recognized all too well. The bland drapes, the lamp, Orihime’s vanity; Not to mention the ugly duvet cover she’d bought when she moved in. All the pieces fit; Ichigo was home… Or at least in the real world. The young man sighed and mumbled under his breath, wishing he’d never woken up.

“God damnit… Another one?”

A gentle slam and the alarm ceased all noise, prompting Ichigo to make ready for another day in the clinic. A slow shamble into the bathroom, and Ichigo found his reflection staring back at him. So much had changed, most notably himself; his spark growing dimmer and dimmer as days past. The licensed doctor brushed his teeth, his unmotivated stare unwavering before the stranger in front of him.

Gargle, spit, rinse. Same old rut.

Freshening up out of the way, the young man made his way to see what concoction Orihime had made this time. But, he couldn’t help but stop in front of the closet. Ichigo stared at it longingly, his hand half-cocked and reaching for the handle. What am I doing, he argued with himself. There was no way she’d be in there… but it didn’t stop him from trying.

Slowly, the door slid open and he’d been right. Nothing. Nothing except for extra sheets and a spare futon. Pointless but still… it would have been nice.

Ichigo quietly slipped past his son’s room, Kazui still fast asleep. Good grief, waking up at 6 in the morning sucked. It was about halfway down the stairs, however, when the smell hit him. Sweet? Spicy? Burnt? What was Wife doing down there? Cautiously, Ichigo made his way into the kitchen, step by step, the smell singeing his nostrils. He peeked his head inside, his brow more furrowed than it had ever been to see Orihime behind the stove; Apron on and chopsticks in hand.

“What on earth are you making?” Ichigo probed, nose crinkled. 

His wife whipped around in joy, “Oh morning, Ichigo! I’m making Okonomiyaki!”

Her husband moved beside her to inspect the pan, “What’s in it?”

“Oh just some honey, chili flakes, onion, eggplant, red bean paste and calamari.”

“Sounds Lovely…” Ichigo winced in horror at the bizarre combination while Orihime beamed with pride. 

But given his wife would likely never change, he shook his head and planted himself at the dining table. Pulling out his phone, Ichigo sifted through his messages, double checking for pre-scheduled appointments. Fortunately, it was only a handful of routine health check-ups from around the neighbourhood. While her husband attended to his business, Orihime became unusually sullen while breakfast continued to simmer.

“You mumble a lot in your sleep…” She remarked, just loud enough for him to hear.

Confused, Ichigo answered with a question, “I do?”

“Mhmm...” Orihime replied, not turning around to face him.

Silence enveloped their quaint little kitchen. Ichigo stared woefully at Orihime, her typical spunk replaced by weariness. As she plated his Okonomiyaki, Ichigo’s gaze shifted back to his phone, fiddling through the apps and emails. He knew all too well what she was implying. But the problem was, would they ever address it?

After the Quincy war ended, their marriage felt like more of a courtesy than anything else. Something to fill the void following such a bloody conflict. One that threatened the very fabric of existence. How could anyone feel normal again? But nothing on Ichigo’s end felt genuine. He did care about Orihime and loved their son as much as any father should. But it wasn’t the same; a fact they both subconsciously knew. 

Without so much as a word, Orihime placed breakfast in front of her husband, garnishing it with bonito and seaweed flakes. It smelled odd, but looked edible enough. If only Yuzu hadn’t moved out.

“Thanks for the meal, Hon.” Ichigo said tentatively, before grabbing his chopsticks.

“You’re very welcome.” she smiled, “Would you like some coffee to go with it?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Of course not, silly.” Orihime replied jovially, before giving him a peck on the forehead.

Ichigo watched his wife saunter back behind the kitchen counter, fetching the things she needed. While she fiddled in and out of the cupboards, Ichigo attempted to sample her cooking. Crunchy, tangy and little too sweet for his liking, but otherwise not as bad as he initially thought. He struggled to finish it, but soldiered on if only to spare Orihime’s feelings. His wife came back to the table, two mugs in hand. She handed him his and took the adjacent seat.

“One Cream, One Sugar. Just the way you like it.” Orihime bubbled.

“Thanks.”

She gave him a smile in return before blessing her breakfast, “Thanks for the meal. Oh, should I wake up Kazui?

“Nah, it’s Sunday. Let him sleep in.” Ichigo chided, “Plus, it’s not like he has anything better to do other than annoy Kisuke and the others.”

A chuckle from Ichigo matched a giggle from Orihime. Their boy was undoubtedly a little rascal, but they loved him nonetheless. He may have very well been the sole reason his parents hadn’t divorced yet. But there wasn’t time to dwell on that; the clinic was opening in an hour. The pair finished breakfast and washed the dishes together before Ichigo went on to do his routine check-ups around the clinic. Ichigo lamented on how mundane his life had become. His lingering youth missed the rush of fighting, of killing hollows. Foolish as it may have been to want conflict, he couldn’t help but miss the old days. 

If only the others were around… If only she were here.

Meanwhile...

“My Zanpakuto?”

“Yes, child. Now if you want to walk the path of a Shinigami, you must recite my name.”

Katsumi became entranced in the woman’s voice, as if she were flowing down a calm river caressed in the warmth of the sun. But at the same time, she was confused. Her mother had never mentioned anything like this. Did everyone experience something like this? Did all zanpakuto have a person-like form? What the hell was going on?

Meanwhile, her zanpakuto’s spirit waited patiently at arm’s length. She tilted her head and smiled lovingly at Katsumi. As if reading the girl’s mind, her zanpakuto sought to ease her racing mind.

“Take your time. It’s overwhelming for everyone at first.”

Katsumi’s eyes brightened a touch. Little did she know her blade was one of the more kind and polite ones. But the young soul still had much she wished to know. 

“But how will I know your name if you don’t tell me?” the girl asked curiously.

“I am you and you are me. I believe your mother told you that we zanpakuto are extensions of the soul. Therefore, I do not need to tell you because you should already know…” Her blade lectured, “Here, maybe this will help.”

Her zanpakuto pointed the blade she’d been carrying in Katsumi’s direction, hilt waiting for Katsumi’s grip. Tentatively, the girl took the sword, unsheathing it in all its glory. It shocked Katsumi to feel its weight or lack thereof. It was practically weightless despite its impressive appearance; feeling so natural in her palms. The girl gasped and marvelled; a zanpakuto that was well and truly her own. The spirit knelt beside, smiling at her delight. Katsumi, brimming with excitement, chopped with her blade and then raised it single-handedly into the air, roaring in victory. Her zanpakuto hadn’t stopped smiling, placing her hands over Katsumi’s.

“I look forward to the battles before us, for my name is…”

“...Tōgetsu” Katsumi breathed confidently.

Mere seconds after Katsumi recited her zanpakuto’s name, the beautiful scenery around them began to collapse. Naturally, the girl began to panic. The river drained into the void, the bridge crumbled into dust and the grass around her faded and wisped into ash. For the first time in this world, she felt afraid. She wanted to cry, wanted her mother to help her, but once more Tōgetsu eased her fears.

“Don’t worry. You’re just waking up, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” Her zanpakuto soothed while rubbing her back.

“But there is something you must know. My power grows and shrinks depending on your fears. Become too afraid and I will shatter like glass, but should you stand your ground and fight, we’ll be invincible. Remember this always.”

Tōgetsu cupped Katsumi’s cheek; a touch that felt so much like her mother’s. Her whimpers turned to giggles as she relished in the embrace. 

“Do you promise to remember?” Tōgetsu asked.

“I promise.” Katsumi said with conviction.

“Good. Till we meet again, little one.”

The two shared one last hug as darkness swallowed them both. The last thing Katsumi could see being Tōgetsu’s smile. It’s warmth caressing her into the light of the morning.

“KATSUMI!! KATSUMI, WAKE UP!!!” a voice frantically called out to her.

The aforementioned girl opened her eyes to see her mother clutching her shoulders. She was standing on her bed for some reason with something in her hand; her knuckles had gone white from gripping it so tightly. Katsumi looked down to see her sword, only it wasn’t. It was bigger now, far bigger than a normal blade. It’s blade had become large and vaguely sickle-like. More strangely it was hollow in the middle, save for metal bands lining the inside. Still dazed from waking up moments before she looked back into her mother’s eyes for comfort.

“Mom? What’s going on?”

“Shikai…” was all she said in return, equal parts shocked and amazed.

“What?” Katsumi replied, puzzled by the word.

“It’s nothing. You were releasing spirit pressure like crazy so I thought something was wrong.” Yoruichi explained.

In an instant, the blade shrinked back to normal, confusing Katsumi yet again. How did zanpakuto grow like that? And what on earth was ‘Shikai’? The girl desperately looked for answers in Yoruichi’s golden eyes but her mother said only one thing.

“I guess we’re starting your training sooner than I thought.”

[wordswithkittywitch]

Donner, Blizten, and Pooka

The traditional host for Billy and Zoë, DeviantArt, is being recalcitrant, so I’m posting it directly to my tumblr this year. If AO3 had a spot for original work, I’d use that just because I love how straightforward their system is. I should look for a better platform, I guess. But for now, this year’s is hosted on tumblr. (I don’t know why I never say Zoë and Billy. I guess it’s just that I’ve been saying their names in alphabetical order since 2002, and I’m not likely to start now.) This is actually an idea I've had since the first year I starting writing these, and I'm so glad I've finally done something with it.

This year’s story has a few instances of gruesome imagery, but no major triggers behind the obvious “character death”, as you know at least one character, be it recurring or otherwise, is going to be a dead one.

With no further ado, enjoy 2019′s addition to the Billy and Zoë universe.

(4940 words, 9 pages, several horror elements. Because it’s a freaken horror story.) Recomended audio accompaniment.

           Donner, Blitzen and Pooka

No, this isn’t the same story as last year, just the same exposition

          Billy and Zoë were always said to be good kids, not getting in fights, making the sports teams, honor roll, debate team, cheer squad, chorus and band. Both moderately popular jacks-of-all-trades, they managed to make prom king and queen even though they were just friends, and got scholarships to the same college. Billy played sports year round, but managed to talk about other things, mainly debating, singing or playing clarinet. Well, not when he was doing those things, as they involved his mouth. He had a tall, muscular build, his features seemingly mismatched. He had soccer legs and basketball feet, baseball arms on a football torso, which his head was thankfully not too small for, his white blond hair contrasting with his cheeks, which were always red for some reason, be it anger, embarrassment, or chill. Zoë’s body, however, seemed more perfectly constructed. Her complexion was warm and comforting like a cup of cocoa and she had shiny black hair, large brown eyes, long willowy arms and legs rippling with muscles and small, athletic breasts that did not get in the way when she cheered, played the flute, lacrosse, tennis or cricket. Both frequently smiled, especially when the life-long friends found out they were going to college together.

         It was a bright, cold day, one of those days in mid-December when there’s finally what to Billy’s mind counted as an “adequate” amount of snow. It was just so hard for him to really get into the spirit of things when the weather looked less like a Christmas card and more like a whole lot of dead plants stuck together with asphalt. Why someone who went for a jog through the woods every morning before class was so excited about five inches of snow was beyond even Zoë’s understanding and also Billy’s ability to explain. The cold air just felt so… crunchy on his lungs. It sounded bizarre, even to Billy, but once he’d been going long enough that he didn’t feel too cold, running in the snow was so refreshing.

         So, despite the fact that his cheeks looked like the entire cheer squad had slapped the shit out of him and there wasn’t exactly what one might call feeling in his fingers, Billy was in a very good mood. He turned away from the main road and jogged into what was charitably called the cross-country trail by the college track team. It kept the name mainly because very few people were wiling to reassess it. There was nothing quite like going over broken ground to get the blood pumping, Billy thought. He was immediately greeted by the smell of pine and the crunch of unbroken snow under his feet. He took it from the fact he couldn’t hear water trickling that the river had finally frozen over. He couldn’t see it from the trail, but from his previous morning jogs he knew that it ran parallel to the trail for about half a mile.

         Some people asked him, and quite rightly, when exactly a first-year college student had found them time for a morning jog, but it was early in Billy’s athletic career when he learned how to have the “Why am I doing this? It’s way too cold out. It’s way too early. I hate every choice that led me to jogging in the snow.” during the first ten minutes of the jog itself instead of for a twenty minute block beforehand, so that saved a lot of time. It was all a matter of dedication and mind over matter. Also, he had dropped his 8:00 AM ethics lecture within the first month, so that gave him plenty of time. He could drop one course if it gave him enough energy for his other classes, this college had a notoriously high freshman drop-out rate, and Billy refused to be just another fresher who dropped off the face of the earth.

         It was nice to have a jog into the thin strip of forest that the college seemed have bought to be a pleasant stripe of green forty feet in the background of the models in their early thirties wearing backpacks that came around about once a year to pose for photos that would make the college look more fun-loving and ethnically diverse on the website. It was one of the few places on campus that was far enough away from the Laundromat basement to not smell heavily of dollar-store Febreze knockoffs. Even on days when he had to substitute his morning job for an afternoon jog, because after all, no amount of Red Bull can hide the fact an all-nighter was all that stood between Billy and a “incomplete” assignment, especially not if you were the teacher’s aide who had to read the damn thing; Billy almost never saw any other students or faculty on his jogs. Unless, of course, you counted the caretaker’s distressingly fat Maine Coon a part of the faculty, but Billy had only encountered one student who was willing to argue Timmers worked for the college, and that person was a third-year law student who had just smoked a bag of marijuana so large Billy honestly wondered if it was now available at Costco.

         The fact of the matter was that Billy had never seen another human walking the cross-country trail at eight in the morning, so when a slender figure stepped out from between the trees Billy let out a manly exclamation of surprise that he would insist did not sound remotely like a three-year-old girl stepping on the tail of a cat of the same age. Fortunately, that slim figure was Zoë, and she’d been friends with him long enough that there was no point in trying to fake having dignity in that moment.

         “Zoë!” Billy exclaimed, deeper than his previous scream but still high enough that he took a moment to cough and compose himself before he continued, “What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?”

         “I don’t want to hurt you,” Zoë said urgently, which is never a good way to start a conversation. She held out her hands in that position people usually only take if they’re trying to calm down someone who is on the verge of throwing a fit or if they’re pretending to tame a flock of velociraptors.

         “You look like hell,” said Billy, which was true. She was still wearing the outfit she had been the night before, but appeared to have taken her morning shower anyway. Water dripped miserably out of her sweatshirt and dribbled down her leggings, her long black hair plastered to her face in a single black, tattered sheet. Her makeup ran down her face in long black streams that made her eyes look large and hollow, and heavy brown stripes that showed thin strips of bluish-pale skin between them.

         Despite knowing as little about makeup as he could manage, Billy was aware that Zoë was not exactly a beauty vlogger and her usual approach to makeup involved pulling random tubes of liquid out of her coat pockets and saying things like, “Oh shit. I’ll just blend it out I guess.” or “Or don’t look at me! Don’t look at my eyes, I hate this, I guess I’m just catwoman now!” or “I guess that’s what blotting is for.” Somehow seeing it running off her face made it look more dramatic and distorting to her features, rather than “I’m a woman performing a musical recital and if I do not rub something on my face it will appear from where the audience is sitting that I have rubbed something on my face, but in a way I do not want.” That was definitely not the effect it was creating now; now it looked like something had tried to rub her face off her head.

         Billy thought that he could see faint white etching of frost forming on her hands and up her neck, but he was fairly sure that was an optical illusion caused by the thin light through the branches and the part of his sock that melted snow had now soaked through sending a “it’s too cold out here to be alive” message every few seconds.

         “Billy.” Zoë said urgently. She stumbled forward, her legs seemingly unwilling to bend properly. Her hand grasped his shoulder, so cold he inhaled sharply with pain. It was like the mere touch of her skin on the fabric of his sweatshirt was actively stabbing him through to the bone with knives so cold his flesh stuck to the blade like lips on cold metal. She looked into his eyes and he shuddered again. There was something wrong with her eyes, they looked concave, like the eyes on fish that has no business being still sold as edible at that age.

         With apparent effort, Zoë forced out another four words. Though the phrase was short, each word was spoken with the slow intensity of someone fighting both the urge to scream in someone’s face and the urge to collapse with exhaustion. Billy was far too distressed by the state of his friend to notice that, as thin and breathy as her voice was, she didn’t inhale before speaking.

         “Leave the reindeer alone.”

         Startled and not yet getting a concept out of what Zoë had just said, Billy pulled away from her instinctively. He tried to parse out a meaning from her statement, but with only half of a mind on the subject, as the rest of his mind was taken up by worrying about what Zoë had done to get in that condition, it seemed meaningless.

         “What happened to you?” Billy asked, trying to fight his urge to recoil and losing. Zoë simply shook her head and began to back away. Okay, she was clearly not in a state to discuss it, maybe once she had warmed up and was in a safe place and dry clothes he, or maybe a therapist, could get her to talk about what had happened. Billy didn’t like the idea of that, he was bad at giving emotional support and would much rather hurt whoever hurt his friend. To be honest, he didn’t have any experience fighting someone physically, but he was very big and muscular and thought he had pretty good odds beating up someone if he had to. After all, he was motivated, and more importantly, he was eighteen, and eighteen year olds have an inflated concept of their ability to come out on top in a fight.

         Someone had hurt his best friend and he needed her well enough to tell him who it was before he beat the tar out of them. That meant getting her inside immediately. She probably already had hypothermia, based on the fact it was late December and she was dripping wet.

         “Let’s get you inside.” said Billy, taking a cautious step towards Zoë. She drew further back, stepping over a fallen branch without taking her eyes off of Billy. He put up his hands as unthreateningly as possible.

         “You’re going to be okay.” he insisted, moving closer. Zoë shook her head, she looked like she might burst into tears at any moment, but god what was wrong with her eyes? Every time Billy tried to make eye contact with her, he felt something deep inside himself forcing him to look away before he figured out what he was looking away from.

         “Leave the reindeer alone.” Zoë repeated, her voice low and urgent. Billy lifted his hand, and much quicker than he would have expected, she spun around and walked briskly back into the woods. He broke off into a run after her. Cross-country it was. While it seemed that every branch in the forest was trying to high-five his face, Zoë moved forward quickly without appearing to be impeded by the woods at in the least. Branches cracked loudly as he pushed by them, snow crunched beneath his soaking wet sneakers, his breath came in long ragged gasps as he ran. Strangely, it seemed like the only noises in the forest were the ones Billy was making himself.

         “Zoë!” Billy cried out, not expecting her to react but desperately wanting a noise to blot out the awful silence around him. She didn’t appear to hear him at all, and she certainly didn’t call back. Zoë made no sound. Not even the woods made a sound, no birds chirping or squirrels chittering threats to animals fifty times their size, no distant sounds of other students waking up in the campus just beyond the trees.

         Billy had no idea how she managed to walk that fast, but at least it meant she was doing better than she looked like, he wouldn’t have expected someone who looked as bad as she did to be able to walk at all. He should have caught up to her by now, Billy thought, pressing on with a fresh gust of effort, but she seemed to only get further away the more he ran. He ignored the pain and the wet and the branches lashing out at him, not daring to take his eyes off of Zoë least he lose sight of her. She was getting harder to follow, her wet gray sweatshirt blending into the shadows between the trees. She moved silently behind a tree and failed to emerge from the other side. Billy blinked furiously and forced himself forward a few more yards, as his mind argued between the two ideas that if she stopped behind that tree, he could catch up, and the fact that tree was too young and thin to hide a toaster behind it, much less a teenage girl. He grabbed onto the tree when he reached it, more to stop himself from falling facelong into the snow than anything else.

         Bent over double, face red as plastic holly, Billy gave up on catching Zoë and tried to catch his breath instead. He was fast enough on the sports field, but he knew that in a footrace Zoë could overtake him nine times out of ten. The tenth time Billy wasn’t sure if Zoë was just sick of being asked to a rematch and let him win one. She was shorter, but had much longer strides than he did. Billy pressed his eyes closed and cursed himself internally for not thinking of this sooner. No one went off the trail in these woods, she could run as fast as she could, but her footprints would still lead Billy to wherever she stopped.

         He opened his eyes but didn’t straighten up. He looked at the snow. Billy wasn’t much of a tracker, but he could tell the difference between four inches of untouched snow and snow someone had just walked through. He was so sure she had been standing just here when he lost sight of her, that this was the tree she had darted behind. He glared at the tree accusingly, as if it were the tree’s fault that he lost track of her. Taking a deep breath, Billy drew up to his full height and looked around. Behind him, there was a distinct path he had been crashing along as he chased her, but aside from that Billy had no indication of where he was. He inhaled deeply, and the cold air was like daggers on his heaving lungs. How could he had been enjoying the weather less than half an hour ago? It was less than half an hour, wasn’t it? How long had he been running through the woods? He might not have been used to running between trees but he was still exhausted. He even didn’t feel this tired at the end of a football match, so how long had he been in the woods? He looked around, trying to remember which way the shadows were falling when he started his run, less to guess at how long he’d been out there and more to see if he’d gotten turned around. He must have done, Billy reasoned, as the woods weren’t that deep. It was just a strip of young trees between the quad and the river, wasn’t it? He should have been able to see at least one of them from any point in the woods.

         Finally, Billy’s eyes fell on something other than glittering white snow and twisted branches. In the snow, not far from him, the trees thinned enough that there was what should have been another stretch of unbroken snow. But this snow had fresh tracks left in it. Sadly, he could tell in a moment that these were the tracks of an animal, not Zoë, but they were so odd that for a moment, Zoë flew from his mind. They were large, but delicate and round, cleft in the middle like a deer but with two dots behind them. Part of Billy thought that they looked a little like rabbit ears with little round eyes under them, but he had as little experience with rabbits as with deer.

         The strange thing about the prints is that they started in the very center of the clearing and moved out into the deeper woods, like some giant hand had placed the animal delicately in the center of the clearing and let it wander away. Billy put that thought out of his mind, because it was ridiculous, it was creeping him out, and if the animal had held still while the snow started to fall that could have covered its tracks. Probably. Not that it had snowed in the past week, but Billy put this out of his mind and moved closer to the tracks.

         These tracks were broad and easy to follow, even with him churning up the snow beside them as he traced their path. He asked himself why he was following these tracks when Zoë was clearly in danger of something, but he found himself reluctant to give up on them and look for signs of someone who hadn’t left any tracks he could follow until this point. There was a movement at the edge of his vision, and Billy began moving towards it before he fully looked up. Maybe these tracks had lead him to Zoë after all. There was something grey moving between the trees, and his heart shot up in his chest with hope, failing to quiet down appropriately when he saw whatever it was it was far too large to be Zoë. And whatever it was, it was moving towards him.

         Billy held still for a moment, not daring to move lest whatever it was spook as easily as Zoë did. Maybe it was her, after all, and she was just much closer than he thought she was. No. It was coming out of the trees now, it was looking at him, and it was clearly what left the hoofmarks.

         As he had been conscious the past few years, Billy was aware of the movie Frozen and was able to think “Yeah, I guess that looks like the reindeer owned by dude who people keep saying I look like, so I guess that’s what reindeer look like.” despite the fact a small part of him had until this point always pictured reindeer as looking more like Bambi than Sven. Whatever it was, it was wearing a bright red bridle so it was clearly tame. Also, he rationalized, a wild animal wouldn’t be happily trotting up to a human it had never seen before.

         “Hey.” said Billy weakly, holding up his hand and immediately feeling stupid for doing so. The reindeer cocked its head and trotted forward a few more steps.

         “I, uh, don’t have anything…” Billy said quickly, patting down his pockets. A reindeer with a bridle walking up to a random human was definitely something that had broken out of a petting zoo. That would account for why the red bridle covered in round brass bells.

         “I know.”

         Billy blinked hard and cocked his head. The reindeer looked down at him. Billy had really not expected reindeers to be this big, but that didn’t account for where the voice came from.

         “Who’s there?” asked Billy, looking around.

         “I am.” said the reindeer. Billy hadn’t caught its mouth moving but that was definitely where the sound was coming from. He took in the bizarre appearance of the enormous creature. It’s antlers seemed to branch up forever into the trees, its thick creamy-white mane shook gently with every breath. Thick white and brown fur covered powerful muscles and the smell coming off of it was like nothing Billy had ever experienced. Because he was watching it so closely, he could see the dark, furry lips form the words, “You’ve lost your friend.”

         It wasn’t a question.

         Mind racing, Billy desperately tried to figure out what the appropriate thing to do in this situation was. Either he was losing his mind, in which case what he did next didn’t really matter, or a reindeer was talking to him.

         “Do you know where Zoë is?” Billy asked carefully. The animal smiled. It’s mouth wasn’t suited for it, and there was something very odd about the teeth.

         “I can take you to her.” the reindeer replied.

         This was weird. There was no getting around that. He had just found a talking reindeer in woods that were much, much bigger than they were on the outside, but the important thing was that Zoë was still missing.

         “I promise,” the reindeer said slowly, with a warm and husky voice. Billy couldn’t quite understand how the animal’s lips were forming English sentences, but they were definitely moving in time with the speech. Tentatively, Billy reached forward and touched the animal’s head. Warmth immediately flooded into his hand, and the reindeer rubbed against it affectionately. It reminded Billy how cold he was, and suddenly all he wanted was to bury himself in the animal’s fur and start feeling his fingers again.

         “I promise to bring you to Zoë.” the reindeer repeated. Billy flexed his cold fingers. If he was this cold, then Zoë, soaking wet and turning blue, needed help now. The last doubt out of his mind, Billy moved to the reindeer’s side and tried to figure out the fastest way to get up it. Steeling himself, he took a firm hold of the red bridle and swung his weight up on the animal’s back with all his might. He got a leg over and pulled himself into a balance, and it seemed to him that the reindeer flexed its muscles to settle him more firmly astride itself. Warmth flooded up into Billy from the thick, shaggy fur.

         For a moment, there was nothing but the stillness of the woods and the ragged warm fur beneath Billy’s hands. Neither of them moved. Then, he heard the animal’s voice again.

         “Dear god, you are stupid.” said the reindeer.

         Before Billy had fully registered what the reindeer had said, the thick, warm fur wriggled around his hands like maggots eating a corpse and tightened onto every part of him it could grab. Like thick cords, the fur wrapped itself around his fingers, his wrists, and up his arms. A sickening thought crushed the air out Billy’s lungs: This was not a reindeer. Billy knew almost nothing about reindeer but this was not a reindeer and it never had been one.

         The reindeer arched this neck back and laughed, its mouth opening at entirely the wrong angle and showing entirely the wrong set of teeth. It was as if someone had transplanted a wolf’s mouth into a reindeer’s head, but did it wrong so that the mouth could open up to an obtuse angle. A long, horrible tongue rolled past the fangs and writhed in the air like a dying snake as the creature snarled out a sickening noise that was slightly an agonised screech but mostly a cruel laugh.

         Billy became aware of the fact he was screaming and probably had been since the fur moved. The creature’s laughter rang through the icy woods, echoing and shattering icicles off the trees. The animal reared, and Billy hoped for a moment it would throw him off but the fur moved like snakes, rooting him firmly to the spot.

         Then it ran.

         Ice-encased branches whipped across his face, but could not dislodge him even when he pulled with the force. The forest was still morning-bright, the sunlight cracking through the branches and casting a thousand periwinkle-blue shadows dancing around the snow like dying spiders. The not-a-deer’s hooves passed over the landscape, sending a flurry of snow in its wake.

         Before them, the woods appeared to finally thin. They were reaching the edge of the woods, and a last gasp of hope awoke in Billy’s chest. If they got out of the woods, would the not-a-deer let him go? Was that it’s plan all along? Sunlight danced on the ice, and Billy’s breath caught in his throat. He knew what the thing’s destination was. He threw himself as hard to the left as he could, but something… momentum? The twisting fur? The sheer will of the creature? Righted him again. There was nothing Billy could do.

         They were heading right for the river.

With a leap, the not-a-deer broke out of the woods, hanging in the air for a moment, the icy surface of the river sparkling beneath them like a delicate spun glass sheet.

         “The ice!” Billy screamed. “It won’t hold us!” But even as he wailed these words, Billy knew that was exactly the idea. The crash of hooves meeting ice was enormous, but even that was drowned out by the sickly crack of the ice’s surface giving way. Billy’s last scream was cut off as the water hit him; he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move, all he felt was the water shredding icy cold through his whole body, it felt like even his heart forgot to beat.

         Billy knew he was going to die. He would probably drown before he froze to death, and all that was left to do was decide if he was going to die with his eyes closed or not. It was the only choice he had left in this world. Billy forced his eyes open against the icy water. At what he saw, he almost wished he hadn’t.

         Zoë’s body floated unfettered mere yards away from him. Her eyes were closed, her skin was discolored, and her hair floated around her face like smoke. Blood cut red streamers in the water from where something with a large mouth and sharp teeth had removed a chunk of her leg. But still, he could see it was just a taste missing. This was where the thing took it’s meals. This was not a dinner table, this was a larder. This was were the thing brought it’s meat to eat slowly over the long, cold winter.

         There was something else in the water, something small and moving towards him. It didn’t swim, it didn’t float, it merely stood upright in the water, pulled ever closer to Billy by some unseen force. It was also Zoë. But it was Zoë as he saw her in the woods before this all started. She was underwater with him, but water dripped off her heavily, tears rolled down her cheeks from her sunken, lifeless eyes. Billy knew no sound could carry through water, so when he heard Zoë speak, he knew she wasn’t using her mouth to do it.

         “I told you.” said Zoë’s ghost, her voice trembling. “I told you.”

         Billy couldn’t respond, his lungs full of water, but his last thought as the cold and the water and the shock drained what little life was left in him, was this:

         I found Zoë after all. I found her.

         Above the surface, the ice rocked gently and slowed in its movements. The world was quiet, but after a few moments, one finch let out a tentative twitter. The silence of the wood was broken. The thing had fed once again. A few more animals dared to start moving. What appeared to be a small clump of leaves stood up and stretched its back. Timmers shook snow out of his fluffy mane and trotted delicately to the edge of the river. Humans were so horribly predictable: they see an animal and automatically assume it’s there for their benefit. Timmers had long since stopped trying to warn the students about the pooka himself, no amount of purring around their ankles or hissing and charging from the woods or growling ominously at the river seemed to do any good. Every human who had gone to the river had met the pooka and every human who met the pooka were drowned by it.

         Timmers thought that this time, leading a real human with a real voice, even if they were a ghost at the moment, to the next victim would have some effect. The plan had almost worked perfectly: the ghost had spoken to her friend, the human was warned, and he still jumped on the reindeer the first chance he got. Timmers stretched out his body in the feline equivalent of a sigh of resignation and turned back to the caretaker’s cottage, where a tin of good wet food and an army blanket twisted into a turban-like affair waited for him in front of the electric heater, Timmers’ salary for his important work on campus, even if no one bothered to listen to him.

         There was just no helping humans.

[amethystwitch]

Autumnal Asks

🍁 crunchy leaves:  what's your favorite noise/sound to hear?

Laughter... :)

❄ chilly air:  are you a warm weather or cold weather person?

I am a Spring/Autumn type person. I love the feel of the sun on my skin but only if there is a cool breeze along with it. I can’t stand being too hot, I don’t do sunbathing. I can’t stand being too cold either. I wear several layers in the winter, even around the house. lol

☁ misty mornings:  what time do you wake up? What for?

I wake/get up between 5 - 6am. As we have a big babied, spoiled ginger cat but for some reason, he let’s my husband sleep in. He comes to my side of the bed only, to yell in my face and scrat things if I ignore him. He’s not even hungry, he’s just bored and wants someone to play with. lol

👕 oversized sweaters:  what sweater weather outfit are you looking forward to wearing? (Bonus if pictured)

Um..i recently bought a long sleeved, off the shoulder type top which has white and black striped arms and a black body bit with bats all over it. lol I thought it looked pretty fun. :D

🎃 carved pumpkins:  what holidays (popular or pagan) are you celebrating this fall?

Halloween/Samhain.

👻 ghost stories:  what books are you reading, how are they?

I’ve just finished reading Serpant and Dove. At first I thought it wasnt what I was expecting and wasn’t sure if I was going to be into it but I kept reading and I totally got into and now I cant wait for the second book to come out! :D It’s about a witch that is forced into a marrying a witch hunter, he obviously doesn’t know she’s a witch. It’s set in the witch burning times. :) I am currently reading Garden Spells, which has a Practical Magic vibe to me. I’m enjoying it so far. :)

☕ hot coffee:  what's your drink this fall?

I usually live on green tea, peppermint tea, cappucino, or black coffee. In the autumn I usually throw in a hot chocolate every now and then too. :D

👐 cold hands:  anyone to hold them?

Yes. I’ve been married for 17years. :)

💀 spooky shadows:  any increased spiritual activity?

My husband is more in tune with the spirit world then me and yes he has had a bit more activity lately.

🍎 apple pie:  what's cooking? (Or planned to cook?)

I do plan to make something for halloween. Spooky themed. Not 100% decided on what yet though. :)

🔥 scented candles:  5 favorite smells

Coffee, Bread, Chocolate, Baked goodies like cookies, Spiced fruits at xmas time, like orange and cinnamon.

☔ hurricanes:  what do you do on rainy days?

Snuggle with my cat in a blanket and read.

🌱cinnamon:  what are your favorite spices?

Cinnamon. Cloves. Nutmeg.

🍂haunted hayrides:  do you see your friends over the summer or do you have to wait till fall?

I don’t have any friends...

👺 monster masks:  what's your makeup/morning routine?

I don’t wear makeup. Havn’t for decades. I do cleanse my face though and use a face cream.

🐱 black cat:  what pets do you have/want?

We have a Ginger and white cat called Roman and he’s 13 years old. :)

[keeroo92]

Savior, Bloodstain, Hellfire, Shadow Ch 6

May 28th, 12:36 am

V

V wakes up with a start, his awareness returning to him instantly. His eyes shoot open to see a faded blue wall and horribly patterned carpet. He doesn’t see you and panics; the last thing he remembers is being dropped by Griffon and sending the bird to get you.

 How did I get here? Did Griffon reach Y/N?

He turns around and the tension leaves his body as he spots you lying on the floor on his other side. You look like you’ve been through hell, fingertips and forearms bloody, dirt caked across your body, tracks of tears lining your cheeks.

 Did Y/N… climb the last ten feet?

The second he thinks it he knows it’s the truth. His stomach roils with guilt and shame, knowing you only had to do it because of him, because of his weakness. He had failed you, again. And you had probably saved his life by bringing him inside. He stands up carefully, leaning heavily on his cane, and looks around to see what he can do to help you. There’s a bathroom to his left, a set of double doors in front of him. He steps to the doors, opening one slowly just in case. He doesn’t hear any demons and opens the door further to look beyond it.

Massive shelves span the cavernous room, full to bursting with books of all shapes and sizes. There’s a desk before him on the right and some computers to the side, groupings of comfortable looking leather sitting chairs scattered around, and posters on the walls showing smiling children reading books encouraging them to "Read!".

 I’m in a library.

Even as Vergil, he had loved libraries. He wanted to peruse the shelves, hands practically itching to feel the spines of the volumes of knowledge, but that would have to wait until you were taken care of. He returns to your side, checking on you briefly. You seem to just be sleeping, so he goes into the bathroom and wets some paper towels. He sits by your side and gently wipes away the dirt and blood as best he can.

 Marginally better.

Next, he summons Griffon, the bird appearing in a burst of black shards and immediately yelling at him.

“V! What the fuck, man? One second, I was headed to grab Y/N, the next POOF! What the hell happened? Is Y/N okay?” he bird asks anxiously, clearly concerned about you.

“I think I lost consciousness. Y/N appears to have climbed the last ten feet and carried me here to safety. I don’t know where she found the strength, but she saved my life,” V replies seriously. “She’s over here, and I need your help. Can you lift her legs while I take her arms? I want to bring her inside the library.”

“Yeah, yeah I can do that. Jeez, she really went through the ringer for ya…” Griffon says, making V’s stomach churn again in shame as the demonic bird takes your ankles in his talons. V lifts your torso, hands gripping under your armpits and the pair of them move together to bring you to one of the sitting chairs V had spotted. They settle your sleeping form into the leather chair easily.

“Griffon, can you go look for her bag? I didn’t see it before,” V asks as he takes a seat beside you in an identical chair. It’s so comfortable he gasps slightly, only then realizing the exhaustion tugging at his limbs, begging him to rest. He roughly pushes it away, ignoring it.

“On it, pal!” the bird caws and flies back to the entryway. In the meantime, V uses more paper towels and washes another fraction of the dirt off you, respectfully avoiding any areas he deems inappropriate to touch without your express consent. His heart is choking him as he imagines what you had to do to get here. He starts to shake, hoping you’ll forgive him for failing you.

“…V?” he hears you mumble.

“I’m here, I’m fine,” he responds gently.

“Damn straight you are. You’re welcome, by the way,” you groan back, not bothering to open your eyes.

“I know, and I cannot thank you enough. You saved my life, and thoroughly risked your own to do it.”

“Heh, guess we’re even then. You saved my life the day we met,” you remind him with a rueful chuckle. It does little to assuage his guilt, but he smiles at you anyway.

“Rest, Y/N. It’s my turn to take care of you now,” he murmurs gently and you settle into the chair, easily falling back into slumber. He hears Griffon returning but his eyes don’t leave your face, still wrestling with his inner turmoil as you rest peacefully after your ordeal.

 What if she had fallen? She could have died, took the risk of dying, for me. Why? Why would a person do that?

“Here’s the bag, Shakespeare,” his summoned friend says, interrupting his musings as he drops your bag at V’s feet. He lands on another chair nearby, his demonic gaze watching you rest.

V reaches down to pick up your bag, grunting slightly as his still-sore body complains loudly. Pulling it into his lap, he starts digging through it. Unfamiliar with the items within, it takes him a long time to find what he thinks are bandages. He also pulls out a bottle of water and a few granola bars, setting them on the table next to you for when you next wake up.

He struggles to unwrap the roll of sticky fiber, mind remembering the way you crafted his cane’s sheath with a small smile. Your hands had been so sure, so practiced. He fills his thoughts with memories of you, all the moments of cunning and strength you’ve shared with him in your travels so far.

The look on your face after you’d killed your first demon with nothing but a frying pan. The way you had chosen to stay, even after his warning that you might not survive. How you had trusted him to guide you past the Empusa Queen, steps never faltering as he had signaled you to run. How you had pushed him up that ladder with tickles.

“He sits down with holy fears, and waters the ground with tears: Then humility takes its root, underneath his foot…” he recites thoughtfully.

 Y/N is so much stronger than I will ever have the chance to become. If only I had more time.

He reaches for your arm, about to wrap the sticky bandage over your scraped forearms when Griffon speaks up.

“Uh, V, won’t that stuff hurt?” the bird inquires, stopping his hands as he thinks about it.

“Ah… yes, I suppose it would,” he replies softly.

He sets the bandage down carefully and looks through your bag once more, digging through the tubes of ointment and bottles of fluids to reach a stack of individually wrapped parcels. He reads the label.

“Gauze patch…”

He glances at Griffon and they both shrug. He tears the wrapping off, finding a soft patch of cloth within.

 Much better.

He lays the patch on your scrapes gently, hoping he isn’t making it worse through his clumsy attempts at first aid. He takes up the sticky bandage again and slowly wraps it over the patch, cursing each time it sticks to itself or the patch shifts away from your wound as he pulls the fibers tight. After several minutes, he manages to create a lopsided wrapping, the gauze hopefully still covering the actual wound beneath it. He holds the roll in his hands and tries to tear it by hand to no avail; the fibers are too strong.

“Griffon, if you would…” he says in a resigned tone, and the brazen bird hops over like a crow. He leans close to your poorly wrapped arm and snaps his sharp beak through the bandages.

“You suck at this, V,” he says rudely and V nods, already brutally aware of his shortcomings.

They repeat the entire process on your other scraped forearm, and the second wrapping is slightly less haphazard. Griffon cuts the bandage and V puts the roll to the side.

“I don’t know what else I can do,” he mumbles sadly.

“Then rest, dumbshit,” Griffon tells him, half with caring and half with frustration. V nods, releasing his hold on the beautiful bird, and Griffon dissolves into a cloud of glittering black shards. They rush at him and sink into his skin, marking him with Griffon’s presence. He leans back in the chair beside you with a sigh.

 My failures keep growing. What if I cannot reach Urizen? What if I fail in what matters most?

He falls asleep with that thought into a troubled sleep.

________________

May 28th, 4:27 pm

You awaken slowly, blinking open your crusty eyes with a low moan. You turn your head at the sound of cloth on leather and see V already leaning toward you, a wall made almost entirely of glass behind him letting the sunlight through. A stack of books lies next to him, one in his hands even as his emerald eyes find yours. He smiles at you gently.

“Good afternoon, Y/N. How do you feel?” he asks you kindly.

You take a moment before answering. Assess the damage. Your exhaustion has faded significantly, down to a low current of mild sleepiness. Your limbs are sore all over, muscles not used to climbing screaming at the abuse they endured the night before. Your stomach growls loudly, announcing its emptiness.

You flush slightly as you speak, “Sore and hungry, but better. How about you? You rested at least a little, right?”

You glance meaningfully at the stack of books on the table by his elbow and he has the grace to look embarrassed at your questioning tone. He clears his throat, holding out a granola bar to you. You take it.

“Yes, I rested for a bit. I thought some reading would help rejuvenate my spirit,” he replies.

You raise an eyebrow and unwrap your snack, the first bite of crunchy goodness making your mouth flood. When’s the last time I ate? You can’t remember. You devour the bar in another few bites and accept the water bottle V holds out to you, gulping it down quickly. As you lower the bottle you finally notice the bandages on your forearms, a mediocre but passable effort. You glance at V and he blushes.

“I… dressed your wounds as best I could. I apologize for my clumsy efforts,” he mumbles, looking away from your eyes. You smile, letting out a low chuckle.

“V, why on Earth are you apologizing for taking care of me? Thank you,” you reach out and touch his shoulder as you speak, wanting to feel his skin. His eyes shoot to yours at your touch, holding your gaze as you speak. A smile twitches the corners of his mouth upwards, and he puts his hand atop yours on his shoulder.

“You’re most welcome,” he says softly, emerald gaze seeming to bore into your very soul. The air between you almost crackles with energy.

You look away first, suddenly acutely aware of the dirt and grime covering your body. It looks like V washed some of it off, but he politely didn’t go anywhere near your hips or thighs. You stand, withdrawing your hand from beneath his.

“I’m going to go clean up a bit,” you tell him and walk toward what you think leads to the entryway, easily finding the restrooms near the front door. You duck into the restroom and stare at yourself in the mirror.

Your hair is greasier than you’ve ever seen it, hanging limply around your face. Your shirt, with the bottom inch of its hem missing, is stained brown and red from the dirt and blood covering it. Your bandaged arms aren’t much cleaner. Looking down at your legs, you see more of the same; blood and dirt so thick your skin feels stiff. Your shoes match the rest of you, their previously white fabric now ruined.

The faucet spews water out when you test it and the soap dispensers are full enough. You strip everything off, locking the door almost as an afterthought. You plug the sink and wait for it to fill, adding plenty of soap. You fill a second sink with just water and get started, plunging your filthy clothes into the soapy water and scrubbing at them with what remains of your fingernails until the water turns nearly black. You move your clothes to the other sink, rinsing them as best you can as the first sink drains. You repeat the process a few times, refilling the sinks each time until you’re satisfied.

You wring out your clothing and bring it to the hand dryer mounted on the wall, taking each piece and holding it under the warm jet of air until its dry. It takes quite a long time, especially on your pants and shoes, but eventually you finish.

 Now, for my body.

You fill the sink once again and remove V’s bandages to get the skin underneath scrubbed as well. You take what an old friend would call a “hoe bath”, splashing water against your torso with your hands and scrubbing as best you can. Your arms and legs are easier, able to be brought directly under the running water to scrub and rinse. You pay special attention to your armpits; you sweat through your deodorant ages ago. You use paper towels to dry off and dress, unlocking the door and returning to V feeling like a new person.

He’s still sitting where you left him, reading a think volume that seems to hold yet more poetry. He looks up as you approach, and his eyes widen slightly.

“How on Earth did you manage to get that clean?” he inquires, brow furrowed.

“The bathroom’s got soap, I splashed myself for a while and washed my clothes in the sink.” You tell him, and you glance at his own clothing. The black hides the grime better than your own clothing did but you can tell he’s almost as filthy as you were.

You blush as you continue, “Do you want me to wash your clothes too?”

He turns scarlet, taking a quick glance at the sorry state of his attire.

“I suppose that would be prudent…” he says slowly and you almost laugh at him.

“Alright, come on,” you say, beckoning him to follow you. “But you’re going to help me wash my hair as payment.”

“That seems fair,” he answers you, carefully marking the page he was on and setting the book at the top of the stack. He stands and follows you to the bathrooms.

“Go in there and take off anything you want me to wash. I’ll wait out here and you can hand me your stuff through the door,” you explain, cursing your cheeks for betraying you with a fierce blush.

He blushes too, and you feel a little better knowing he shares your embarrassment as he enters the men’s room. You wait by the door, trying not to imagine him undressing himself and failing spectacularly. You’re trying to imagine what kind of underwear he wears when the door cracks open just enough for a tattooed arm to reach out, holding a stack of fabric. You jump slightly as your inappropriate thoughts are interrupted by the very subject of them.

“Thanks,” you choke out as you take his clothing. His arm retreats without a sound and you stand there for a moment, your brain having to restart itself. You mentally shake yourself and head back into the ladies’ restroom, setting V’s clothes on the counter and filling the sinks yet again. He’s given you his pants and his leather vest, and you immediately picture him waiting in the men's room in nothing but his underwear and sandals and the image both makes you giggle and excites you. You wash the pants easily enough, but the leather makes you pause.

 Doesn’t leather need to be cleaned a certain way? Somehow I doubt commercial hand soap is good for it…

You decide to play it safe and use a wet paper towel to wipe it as clean as you can, not using a drop of soap. A few dry paper towels later and it’s barely damp. You set the vest aside to dry his pants on the vent. Finished, you drain the sinks and bring his clothes to the door of the men’s room and knock, waiting patiently for him to answer the door.

“That was fast,” he says as his arm reaches out blindly. You hook his clothes on his fingers and he withdraws. It takes him a fair amount of time to dress and come out, but when he does he looks almost as clean as the day you met.

 How the hell does his hair stay so damn clean?

Baffled, you set the thought aside for now.

“Shall we wash your hair?” he asks mildly, and you smile, leading him into the ladies’ restroom. He blushes as he enters, as if entering the forbidden area with you embarrasses him.

You stand in front of the sink and bring the water to a comfortable temperature, then lean over carefully until your head is under the flow. V steps forward and starts gently rinsing your hair under the stream, his hands careful. He takes his time and your back starts to ache at leaning like this for so long as he gets a handful of soap, softly massaging it into your scalp. The feeling of his hands rubbing your scalp makes you forget the pain in your back, your mind focusing on the simple pleasure of his touch. He rubs tiny circles on the sides of your head and you let out a low moan of pleasure at the feeling.

His hands falter and you blush heavily, praising your lucky stars that your face is hidden. His fingers start moving again, making smooth strokes and you forget your embarrassment as he begins to rinse the soap away. You see the dirty water swirling at the bottom of the sink and watch it disappear down the drain happily. The suds get fewer and fewer until V pulls away.

“All finished. I’ll get some towels,” he informs you and takes a few steps away. He brings a stack of paper towels over and presses them into your dripping hair, absorbing the worst of the water. You stand up slowly, holding the towels in place, and walk over to the hand dryer. You partially dry your hair, running your fingers through it as you go. Once the dripping stops, you stand up straight again and look at V.

“Thanks for your help,” you warily say, remembering the moan and blushing again.

“It was my pleasure,” he replies with a roguish grin, eyes sparkling in amusement.

You turn your tomato colored face away from him, walking back to where you had last seen your bag. V follows you, taking a seat next to you and resuming his reading. You try to put his presence in the back of your mind, but its difficult. Your eyes are almost drawn to him; he looks so handsome with his nose in a book, brows furrowed and lips parted in concentration, elegant fingers occasionally turning the pages.

Your mind reflects on your interactions and impressions of the man. There’s no denying how physically attracted to him you are, and your deeper connection with the poet has been growing over the last few days considerably. His focus, his determination… the way he almost dances through battles as if there’s no danger of death… you know you never would have been able to get him here without his example. You never would have been able to make that climb for anyone else. The fact that it was him that needed you made all the difference.

 This goes so far beyond the physical now… I think I’m starting to fall for him.

The realization makes your stomach flip, as if merely thinking the words would somehow alert him to the nature of your musings. You glance at him to find he hasn’t moved, still quietly reading the tome in his hands, and your anxiety settles.

It takes you twenty minutes to rewrap your arms, though normally it would only take ten.

You put the bandage roll away and stand. There’s still a little daylight left and you don’t want to waste it.

“Are you ready to go, V?” you ask him.

He almost mournfully closes the book without marking his place, setting it aside to stand. He stretches his long arms and his expression shifts to the focused, determined look he wears most of the time.

“I am,” he replies simply.

The two of you walk out the doors together, both sad to leave the library behind. It had been a nice respite from the chaos, and it felt incredible to be wearing clean clothes again. But as much as you wanted to linger, Urizen was still out there. You take one last look at the shelves of books and turn away, focusing your mind on the task at hand.

Once outside, V flicks his arm to the side and summons Griffon, his tattoos changing from near-black to become almost invisible.

“What’s on the agenda today, folks? More demon murder? More fighting for our lives?” the feathered fiend asks as he appears. He flies a few circles around you and V, stretching his wings happily.

“We need you to scout ahead and check for any demons that are beyond our skills to defeat,” V responds, indicating the direction you intend to travel. Griffon sighs, flaps twice and yells back at the pair of you as he departs.

“If I die it’s all your fault!”

You and V both shake your heads and start walking, following Griffon’s path from ground level. You cross the street and enter a small parking lot, a few lonesome cars still waiting for their drivers to return and claim them. You don’t waste energy talking, focused on traversing as much of the area as you can before what little daylight is left runs out. V seems to be thinking in the same vein, as he doesn’t speak either.

You travel in companionable silence for a short time, crossing the parking lot and walking past a fast food joint before Griffon returns.

“Faithful scout-bird on duty, ready to report!” he calls to you as he lands on V’s outstretched arm. You and V wait for him to continue and he does so almost without skipping a beat.

“It doesn’t look too bad, a couple groups of Caina and Empusa skulking around but no Queens or anything that I can see. Should be a pretty easy run,” he says and starts preening his feathers.

You sigh in relief; you knew another day like yesterday would have been too much to handle.

“Excellent,” V says as he steps forward, casually gesturing at Griffon and the beautiful bird vanishes in a cloud of black shards. You follow soon after him.

The next block is deserted, not a single demon bothers you as you pass a massive furniture store. It isn’t until you enter an industrial area that you spot them ahead, a group of four Empusa slurping at a puddle of what might be human remains. Your stomach churns at the thought, remembering that not everyone had been as lucky as you were and survived.

 This shouldn’t take long.

For a moment you grin at the change within you – the first Empusa you had ever seen had made you quake in fear, and now here you are, about to face four with total calm.

V's arm flicks out and Griffon dives forward in a whirlwind of dark flecks, slashing one Empusa with his talons, and the time for thinking is over. V flicks his arm to the side, bringing Shadow into existence beside him in a cloud of black shards. She roars defiance and leaps forward, slashing her claws against the same demon Griffon attacked. You turn your attention to the next foe, knowing V will clean up after his summoned friends.

You set your sights on the bug-like demon in front and to your right, pulling out the revolver and firing quickly. The single shot misses entirely, and you switch to your hammer and dagger, stashing the gun away in frustration. You dash at the Empusa, slashing furiously with your dagger and bringing your hammer in for a heavy blow to the head and the Empusa dies seconds later. You look around but V has already taken care of the other three, ending the battle before it even seemed to begin.

It isn’t until the streetlights flicker on that you realize how late it’s gotten.

“V, we should look for a place to stop for the night. Keep your eyes peeled,” you say, looking around yourself.

“Let’s continue a bit longer, we’ve almost reached a residential area.” He responds softly, and you nod. An actual bed would be heavenly. You press on, keeping your eyes open for the next threat. It doesn’t take long.

The familiar red webbing appears again as you turn a corner into a gas station. Instead of the usual Caina’s and Empusa’s, however, you’re faced with a trio of lizard like demons. They jump from one foot to the other, hopping forward in an odd loping pattern.

“Y/N, stay back!” V shouts, then snaps his fingers in a high arc and the black of his hair fades away into a stark white. You watch in amazement as a meteor descends onto the demons, striking all three as it hits ground. The meteor’s impact area bubbles, and the ground rises to form a vaguely humanoid shape. It’s huge, and you wonder how you and V can hope to overcome this new foe until he jumps onto its back, sinking his cane into its shoulder and seeming to steer it back into the enemies.

The massive creature swings its club-like fists at the lizards, hitting them repeatedly, and follows up with a well-placed laser. The path of the laser explodes a short time later, and all three enemies vanish into a cloud of black dust as V jumps off the huge creature. It puddles down soon after as the red webbing dissipates.

You stare at V, open mouthed, as his hair fades to black again. Oh, that must be where that… thing comes from. His… hair.

He chuckles lightly, leaning heavily on his cane as he strides over to you.

“What… what was that?” you finally choke out. Griffon flaps over to you, landing on a nearby mailbox as he answers.

“That, girlie, was Nightmare. Pretty cool, eh?” the bird cackles at the look on your face before V points his cane at him, and he vanishes into V’s tattoos with Shadow following soon after.

V nonchalantly points to a nearby building, a hotel if you had to guess. There’s no sign still standing.

“Let’s take a look, perhaps there’s somewhere we can rest in there.” He murmurs quietly. You look closer at him, concerned. He looks exhausted. Summoning Nightmare must be tiring… I hope he doesn’t have to do that too much tomorrow.

You nod, and the two of you proceed into the building. The front door opens easily, and inside you see the markings of a hotel as you’d guessed, the front desk and sitting area of the lobby a dead giveaway. You’re tempted to rest there until you see how much the ceiling has cracked, and you decide a more stable area might be wise. There must be a massive root under the building, as there’s several sections of the ground floor that have shifted by several feet, causing rubble to block the majority of the inner doors. Finally, you find a door that’s been left open, and inside find a tiny room decorated with the boring standard hotel aesthetic of trying not to offend any guests. The comforter on the single bed is drenched in blood, and you try not to think about the fate of the room’s previous occupant as you drag the sodden thing to the hallway, leaving only a top sheet on the bed. There’s no couch anywhere to be seen, and rubble is strewn across the floor. V begins clearing some room off, presumably thinking to sleep on the floor. No, he needs to rest for real, you think before you take his hand, pulling him toward the bed.

"V, you need to rest as badly as I do. Come up here and share the bed with me," you say, blushing furiously. His eyes sparkle with humor as he nods, following you.

"Much appreciated, Y/N," he says, his voice like velvet again. Did he know he was doing that? You flush slightly, and his lips twist into a familiar smirk. Oh. He knows. Dammit.

You slide between the blankets, body celebrating the simple joy of sleeping on an actual bed as V lies down beside you, carefully facing away from you politely. You rest your head on one of the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as V settles in.

"Well... goodnight, V. Sweet dreams," you mumble. You drift off quickly, exhausted from the last two days.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @aqua-ref!

Read on AO3

******

Give Me To A Ramblin' Fae

In the middle of winter, when the moon is heavy in the sky, dripping with milky light and offering, whole and raw, its' power, the Hale Pack gathers around the Nemeton, they dance and they sing, and they shift into their animal skeins to frolic, to chase each other with yipping howls and laughing barks.

Derek has Laura's throat held gently between his maw, and she whines at him to let go, but rumbles approvingly, because he doesn't often win these games of theirs; it is not a matter of low power, more of the target he chooses. The Alpha's heir will, after all, be more difficult to beat than the others. She nips at his ear playfully, urges him along, and they weave through the barren, wind-beaten trees, their paws soaked with snow-melt, muddying the crunchy ivory-fluff that chills the ground beneath them.

There's an undulating, calling, rejoicing howl from their mother that has them leaving a chestnut hare to its' frightened peace in order to return to her, to the Pack.

Through the branches, they can see the sky, all adorned in twilight, hosting, now, a parade of riders, their pandemonium an awe and a terror. Spectral beings ride black mares and stallions, ominous dogs of bared teeth and frothing spit and hideously haunting eyes are careening, entwining and twisting around toned legs and pristine hooves as the steeds gallop forward, heedless. Blackbucks and stags dash, their riders luminescent smoke and vicious intent. Creatures with starlight-encrusted, stained-glass wings, and horns which they blow to hail their passing, fly gracefully around the nocturnal horde, singing or shrieking, cavorting and cackling.

It's a dreadful, terrific sight, that streaks through the night sky, and when the Pack's howl breaks out, full-force, hopeful and evocative, every wolf lifting their song to the ghastly, ghostly peoples as they pass, some of those dragonfly, stardust folk descend, screaming and giggling, a gaggle of raucous temerity, as they gather the wolves in their airborne festivities, and launch them toward the procession.

The whimsical, urgent needs, and maddening power that surround The Hunt quickly seeps into the Pack, makes them drunk and giddy, all of them running with ancient spirits, wildlings, Fair Folk of every type.

Derek's lungs are stung by the rush, his blood electric with the adrenaline when an ephemeral, fey, svelte-lithe boy with bull's horns, skin like cream sprinkled with cinnamon, and mosaic wings that inspire the feeling of fertile soil and fields of growing, healthy, rain-soaked things, comes to him. His oak-silk curls are plaited with holly and mint, a leather-bound necklace hangs heavy around his long, dainty, breakable neck, a crescent moon-charm at the hollow of his throat, surrounded by crystal orbs and autumn leaf-charms, brass acorns and pine-cones, he wears nothing else, unashamed in his nudity.

"Hello," the boy says, bright and sweet, his voice like the delicate silk-dew mist of a cumulus cloud, and Derek feels himself tilt closer without even meaning to. "You're gorgeous. I wonder what you look like in your human form? Honestly, I wonder what everyone here looks like in their human forms. We all have one, you know?"

Honestly, no, he didn't, he was kind of caught up in the romanticism of it all.

All scents are clouded by the musk of wild, old magick, stained by an odd, dense-soil ecstasy, and a part of him, vivid and, for one, fanatic moment, overwhelming, wants to eviscerate the aroma The Wild Hunt carries, if only so he can learn what this boy might smell like.

"Everyone who sees us thinks we're malevolent or scary, but, honestly, dude, we're just escorting the spirits Grandmother Death didn't have the time or patience to get to to their respective homes. We've all still got day jobs—I mean, you have a day job, pretty wolfling that you are, don't you?"

Numbly, helplessly, and a little more sober, now, Derek nods.

The boy grins at him, crooked and terribly endearing, fire-light eyes sparkling in the dim, mist-fog, shadowed light.

"See?" He says, gesturing, "Even Odin's got one, Odin, the God of knowledge, inspiration, creative and intellectual pursuits, the dead, fucking road rage—that guy, the head honcho, the one at the head of this whole operation. Like, in this economy, where barely anyone has the Sight anymore, and the number of people left who believe are too few and far between, what else are we supposed to do? It's not like causing havoc and stealing things is going to garner us any good-will, man, so here we are, doing the good work, and then tomorrow we'll go home and agonize over our bills just like everybody else." The faerie heaves a sigh, before blinking and seeming to realize himself, his cheeks burn a vivid, enchanting crimson when a harassing, incredulous, exasperated wail sounds from above.

"Oops," he breathes, a nervous giggle edging in, "I am so not supposed to do that, and I've just been rambling at you, and—" the wail comes again, more pressing this time. The boy groans, eyelashes fluttering down in mortification. "Sorry, I'll see you later, maybe?" Fragile, paper-thin wings flutter, and bone-nimble fingers tangle in the fur at Derek's flank to help the faerie wade close enough to press a candied, chaste kiss to his wolven cheek.

He says, "I'm Stiles, by the way," and grins like he isn't aware of how dangerously beautiful that expression is, before he zooms away in a sweeping, upward glide.

Derek gets a small glimpse of another fae, donned in a flowing, powder-blue toga-dress, with moth-like wings and magma curls flowing down to her waist, admonishing Stiles exhaustively, before their speed, much more than the wolves and the steeds and the dogs, has them blurring out of sight, catching up to a cluster of swarming fae up ahead, too far to spy on any longer.

Derek tries to get his thundering heart to calm and wonders why he ever thought love at first sight was a superstitious, optimistic myth, if not an outright lie.

Days later, after all the Dead have been put to their proper rest, a few offerings of milk and cookies meant for 'Santa' were traded for faerie favors, and quite a few more rogue, feral creatures were stolen and re-sewn into ravens or crows or hunting dogs, of the ilk to sleep the whole year away, and only wake when The Wild Hunt, again, takes place—Stiles is trying, valiantly, to focus.

His mind keeps tracing back to eyes like stars winking to tenacious life, to obsidian fur and sinewy muscle, a warbling wolf-song that lilted like a lullaby, all hymn-hope, resounding howl, to the way sharp, ink-fluffy ears kept flickering to him, listening and curious and three shades shy of entranced. He doesn't know why he's so caught up on it, this is the sixth year he's been old enough to participate in The Hunt, and they have wolves with them every time, thousands of Packs from all of the world join them, so why was he so attracted, distracted, by this one?

What was so special about him?

Other than the, you know, sand-escaping-his-fingers, barely tangible, general everything.

Stiles sighs despondently, and Lydia, who's probably been talking about Important College Things, hits him upside the head promptly.

"A—ow!" Stiles rubs the back of his head, glaring balefully at her. Her hand retreats to flick her hair over her shoulder in one fluid, deflecting motion, as if to dissuade anyone who might've noticed her uncouth action from registering it as more than a figment of their imagination, nothing to see here, folks!

He loves her, he does, but some days he wants to strangle her.

Just a little.

"You were sighing again," she points out, lashes grazing her cheeks as she looks down at her book, flips the page flippantly, like studies on how mathematical algorithms affect neurology bore her. "It's starting to get annoying, Stiles."

"Shut up. It's not like I can even do anything about it," he laments, complaining even though he knows it'll only be a study in disappointment and masochism, at this point. "Who is he? where does he live? work? For all I know, I'm infatuated with some Turkish Lord who I won't even have the slightest chance of seeing again until next year."

Lydia snaps her book shut with a sound that manages to be both refined and abrupt enough to startle. "What on earth were you doing galavanting with the lower-tiers, anyway? We aren't supposed to talk to them, Stiles—"

"But, he was—"

"If he had been a ghost instead of a solid, you could've been lost to the spirit-tide, and you know The Hunt doesn't discern when it comes to a close—you could be on the other side of the Veil by now, instead of sitting here, fawning!"

She's heaving by the end of her rant, cheeks flushed, sea-glass eyes glittering angrily, and Stiles knows her fury is borne from worry, from a very real fear. He remembers his mother, how she was all love and sweet-tempered fire, how she gave coins to the more corporeal spirits, gleefully hugged and spun yarns and danced with all the riders, always careful of the spirit-tide, of getting caught in its' undertow, until she got sick, and couldn't remember to be.

Neither Stiles nor Lydia had been old enough to go, yet, and Stiles' dad was human. Lydia's grandmother, they think, tried to stop her, to save her, but ended up just as lost and mourned as she.

He feels guilt curdle in his chest and exhales heavily. "I'm sorry, Lyds, I am. I don't know why I did that, I'll—next year, I'll stay in the upper-tiers, like I'm supposed to," he inclines his head solemnly, reaches across the library table to hold both her hands in his, "I promise."

She squeezes his fingers, sniffs, her voice evaporated misty at the edges, "You damn well better, you idiot."

He offers her a sincere, sorrow-tinged smile, and tries to put the entire thing out of his mind.

It's New Year's Eve, and Stiles is exhausted, between studies and random research stints and trying to keep the Kelpies three doors down from killing and/or getting killed by the vampires that live in the apartment downstairs, he thinks he has every right to be. Still, though, Lydia put at least a quarter of her heart and soul into organizing this party, and if he hadn't come, he's sure she would've had him flayed.

So, here he is, sleep-deprived, delirious, eying the bar and wondering if getting drunk when all he's been living off of for the past three days is coffee, is at all a good idea. It isn't, it really fucking isn't, but...

But he's got nothing else to do, and tomorrow it'll be a new year, right? Might as well live a little.

Derek smiles briskly at the lady with a bird's nest of raven-black hair as he hands her her drink, and purposefully ignores the blonde at the end of the bar who's been whistling and snapping at him imperiously for the past fifteen minutes.

He's half tempted to text Cora and ask her what the hell she was thinking, pulling him behind the counter to fill in for her so she could go after the strawberry-blonde party hostess with a number and a cheap pickup line caught in her too-sharp teeth, because, yeah, he's got enough experience not to flounder (he'd found himself hiding from the rain in a drag bar while he was still in high school, and they let him hang out despite his age because he was a good enough cook that as long as he didn't touch the alcohol, they didn't care, and when you're in that sort of close-knit, street-smart gritty, overprotective Pack-like environment, it's impossible not to learn the tricks of the trade), but his customer service has always been shit.

With someone like Peter as an Uncle, he's capable of plastering on a smile and flirting a pretty lie with the best of them, he just doesn't fucking liketo. In fact, it's something he actively avoids unless lives are in danger.

Then a voice, one he remembers, all whispered silk-cotton dream-thread collecting raindrops in its' seams, starts murmuring a sugary melody in his periphery, and his eyes snap to its' source with a breathless, near frantic urgency.

And there he is.

Like Fate.

Like a fucking miracle.

He looks different, horns and wings gone, still with the wind-swept, earthy curls, though their holly-mint braids are nowhere to be found; dressed in a long-sleeved, charcoal gray shirt that cling to his lithe, agile-built muscles, an unzipped crimson hoodie layered over it, skin-tight jeans and ridiculous, neon-orange vans, but there's that leather-bound charm necklace, heavy around the length of his pretty throat, with a crescent-moon hanging just at the hollow, and it's him.

The rambling faerie he met on The Wild Hunt, absently humming a tune as he messes with his phone, patiently waiting for a bartender to notice him, at a college party on New Year's Eve.

The surreality of this is... not lost on him.

"Hello," Derek greets, sliding into the boy's- Stiles', if he remembers right- space.

"Oh, uh," he looks up from, and pockets, his phone, a little bashful, "I always thought you had to make eye contact to get, like, served, or whatever, but, um, hi?"

Derek tries to bite back a smile.

Fails.

"Hi," he repeats, and the boy blinks at him dumbly for a solid five seconds before just breathing:

"Wow. You're gorgeous."

And Derek can't help it, he barks out a laugh. "You said that last time."

"I did? Wait, I did? When?! I've met you?" he sounds outraged, on his own behalf, scandalized, even. "No," he denies, "no way, I would've remembered meeting someone like you and then doing something as stupid as calling you gorgeous to your face without any sort of filter—and, wow, smooth sailing, me. I am so sorry about that, by the way, color me extremely embarrassed, but. Yeah, no. No way in hell I've committed the same social faux-pas twice with the same person, I refuse to believe it."

Derek smirks, even as something warm and giddy and compelled sets up camp in his heart, with a kind of tenacity that says it'll be staying a long while.

"Well, I wasn't exactly a person at the time," he points out, "but I appreciated the compliment both times, Stiles, so you... really shouldn't worry about it."

"I—you—" Stiles sputters, freezes, mouth agape and molten-caramel doe-eyes very, very wide, before he seems to reboot. "You are kidding me," he says, feelingly, before pitching forward over the counter to grab Derek's face with his hands, searching his eyes intently.

Derek tries to be anything other than amused and endeared.

Fails, again.

"Wolfling," Stiles accuses, awed. "I didn't think I was ever going to see you again."

"Rambling fae," Derek muses, hushed, leaning further into Stiles' space even as he pushes the boy down into a bar-stool, because while he might not take offense, the other on-duty bartender, or, even, the party hostess, might. "Neither did I."

Stiles sucks in a very deep breath, and then spills out any number of tangential, spiraling questions, what's your name? Where do you live? Are you a bartender? can I have your number? I'd really like your number. Are you—

Derek crushes the rest in a kiss that tastes like sunlight and cherry-tart and ozone, Stiles melts into it with a helpless, keening whine, his spine curving up, shoulders opening, head tilting, whole body blooming like a flower, begging to be plucked, held, kept, known.

He answers what his fleeting thoughts will let him, mutters the words into Stiles' warm, slick-wet, receptive mouth, his name, that his Pack lives in town, that he isn't, but his sister is, and he's covering for her. With a drawn-out sigh, he does force himself to pull away, eventually.

Probably not soon enough, honestly.

"Take me out," Stiles says immediately, dazed, lips kiss-bruised enchanting, and then flushes that same, deep, candied, lascivious red as before. "Or. I mean. I want to date you. Can we go on a date? Not right now, obviously, but—"

"Yes," Derek grins, overwhelmed, blood champagne-effervescent, "yeah, I'd really like that."

Stiles exhales heavily, laughs, a little incredulously, shakes his head at himself, and then smiles, soft and marshmallow-fluffy up at him, "Awesome."

Derek begins to think that, maybe, he needs to give Cora a fruit-basket. Or, possibly, Odin, and that's... well.

That may well be the cherry on top of an incredibly strange, unusual, wonderful meeting.

[dhaturainnoxia]

Do all of them from angel to wobbly :D :D

Omg here we go

angel; do you have a nickname?

Already answered 🖤

awe; how old are you?

A couple centuries

baby; favorite color?

Black and white. dark red. silver. rose pink.

bloop; spirit animal?

Snake or maybe chameleon

blossom; favorite book/movie/song?

I’m not sure about book or song but my favorite movie is The Shining.

blush; what was your stuffed animal as a child?

A kitty named Sam and one named George

breeze; most precious childhood memory?

Oh god I don’t have many of those lol

bright; mermaids or fairies?

Not too into either of them really

bubbles; do you have a best friend?

I think so

buttercup; showers or baths?

Showers but baths are nice too when I want to relax

butterfly; dream destination?

England, always has been.

buttons; are you religious or spiritual?

I consider myself very spiritual.

calm; favorite scent?

Midnight.

candlelight; what did you dream about last night?

I’m not sure something weird and unsettling probably ):

charming; have you ever been in love?

Yeah :/

cozy; eye/hair color?

Grayish blue eyes. My natural is hair light brown but my coloured hair is black n white

cuddly; what’s your favorite time period?

The 1980’s. But I have a love for different eras like the late 60’s and the 70’s too.

cupcake; favorite flower/plant?

I don’t know if I can choose just one, I love flowers and plants they make me so happy.

cute; what did you get on your last birthday?

High & depressed on the floor lol

cutie pie; most precious item you own?

Maybe like my Saint Laurent sunglasses my good friend bought me in NY or lipstick Marilyn Manson gave me

cutsie; what makes you happy?

Plants, psychedelics, the people in my life, concerts, dressing up, clarity, beauty of all things, music, seeing goths in public lol

daisies; describe a moment when you felt free.

Every time I take psychedelics I am pure and free.

daydream; how do you want to be remembered?

As someone eccentric and loving.. beautiful and accomplished and dark... understanding and passionate and interesting...

daylight; favorite album of all time?

Fuck umm... I literally can’t answer this, i have favorite albums but it just depends on what mood I’m in.

dear; zodiac sign?

Virgo sun, Taurus moon, Aqua ascending.

delightful; concerts or museums?

I love both.

dimples; have you ever written a letter?

I believe so.

dobby; dream job?

House wife. Rockstar or artist. Lol

doll; how do you like to dress?

It depends. Goth shit like trad or newer in varying forms, vampire, 1800’s ghost, snake woman, or angel babydoll. I take on different forms.

dovey; any paranormal/magical experiences?

Both. And I believe in them heavily.

dreams; do you want or have any tattoos?

I have two, a double headed snake and a cross. And I do want more, most if not all religiously themed.

drizzle; do you believe in aliens?

Already answered 🖤

euphoric; talk about someone you love.

Already answered 🖤

fairy; do you have a pet?

Not mine but a cat and a dog live here.

fluffy; ocean or mountain?

Already answered 🖤

forever; where do you feel time stop?

I don’t really feel time at all..

froglet; are you a good plant owner?

I used to be 😭😭

garden; how many languages do you know?

Only one ):

gem; who are your favorite tumblrs?

I don’t know anymore lol

giggles; what is your aesthetic of choice?

Dark and sexy and kinda fucked up I guess.

glittery; do you like anons? why/why not?

Yes cause I get bored loll

glow; list the top 5 things you like about yourself

Everything I see could be better.

heart; silk or lace?

Already answered 🖤

honey; coffee or tea? how do you take it?

Love both but drink tea more. I like both with sugar.

hugsy; do you enjoy people watching or bird watching more? why?

Hmmm... I’m not sure I guess I don’t do much of either.

hunnybunch; what sounds help you sleep?

My fluffy blanket 👼🏻

jewel; what’s your favorite kind of weather?

Not too hot, not too cold, light breeze, autumn kind of weather.

jiggly; what do you usually like to do on weekends?

Go out with my friends!

joy; do you laugh loudly or giggle more?

I do both.

kinky; do you blush easily?

I’m not suree.

kisses; what romantic cliché do you wish for most?

Ugh god.. just all of it...

kitty; what’s your favorite time of the day?

Afternoon when it’s more relaxed

ladybug; what’s your favorite artist to listen to when you’re sad?

Fuck um.. again it depends on what type of sad I am...

love; what is your favorite season and why?

Autumn 😍 chilled weather and crunchy leaves and I can wear most of my wardrobe and actually be okay outside

lovey; what is your favorite flavor of macaron and ice cream?

I’m not sure but I like dulce de leche and peanut butter and cookie dough and cheese cake flavors and moree

magic; what are five flaws you have?

Oh god I have more than that

moonlight; do you prefer soft pastels, warm neutrals, or cool darks?

Cool darks

munchkin; what do you look for in your significant other?

Passionate, romantic, understanding, patient, creative, dark, thrives on touch, sex fiend, kinda into some fucked up shit, likes to dress up with me, dominant, makes me laugh, intellectual.

paddywack; how would you describe a perfect date?

Getting picked up with a flower and a hand kiss, we both stuntin LOOKS, maybe go out some place cute to eat, maybe walk along the river and talk for hours.

pebbles; how do you spend free time by yourself?

Self care, cooking, listening to music, cleaning.

precious; what is something valuable that you learned in your life?

Almost everything happens for a reason even when it feels like tragedy at first.

pretty; do you like to cook or bake more?

Cook but I could bake too. ((:

prince; how would you describe your handwriting?

strung together

princess; do you play any instruments? if not, are there any you wish you could play?

Already answered 🖤

prinky; how do you relieve stress?

Inotoxication or getting off really.

pumpkin; what is your favourite kind of fruit/vegetable?

Strawberries or watermelon for fruit and my fav vegetable is probably broccoli.

rainbow; what was the last line of the last book you read?

The grace of the lord Jesus be with all. Amen.

roses; what is the most significant event in your life so far?

Omg I’m not sure

smile; what is one thing that has greatly affected you?

Perception

shine; art or music?

Always both.

shimmer; do animals tend to like you?

They do! Which is weird because they kinda annoy me lmao

smitten; do you collect anything?

I collect CDs, vinyls, art, and all things I can wear.

smoochies; how many pillows do you sleep with?

Five lol

snuggle; what is your favourite candy?

Lollipops!

snuggly; do you have a camera? if so, what kind?

No just on my phone ): I’d like to get a Polaroid camera tho

sparkle; do you wear jewelry?

Always!

spooky; sunrise or sunset?

Both are beautiful.

sprinkles; do you like to listen to music with headphones or no headphones?

Rather listen to it with no headphones

starlight; what was your favourite show as a child?

Courage the cowardly dog or spongebob lol

soft; describe your favourite spot in your house.

MY BED 😂

soothe; digital or vinyl?

Vinyl babyyy

squeezed; who do you miss right now?

My angel

sugary; what traits do you value most in friends?

Funny, understanding, spontaneous friends

sunshine; do you prefer for things to be practical or aesthetically pleasing?

They can be both tho right

sweet; do you find it easy to open up?

Ehhh

sweetie; do you like kids? if so, do you ever want to have any?

Not really and noo

thimble; is there somebody you look up to? who are they?

I look up to Marilyn Manson lol

toot; what is something you find unique about yourself?

My outlook

tootsie; what kind of friend are you?

A good one I hope

treasure; what was something that made you smile today?

Ghostlyy

velvet; are you an early bird or a night owl?

Night owl ):

whiffle; if you could have a magical power, what would it be?

To shapeshift or bend people’s will

whimsical; do you prefer doing stuff at home or going out?

Either really but probably staying at home, it depends on my mood

whiskers; do you usually wear makeup?

Hell ya

wiggly; are you a messy or tidy person?

Ugh.. I’m both if that makes any sense.

wispy; do you like the place where you grew up? do you think you will live there when you get older?

It’s okay but hopefully not lol

wobbly; have you ever wished upon a star?

Of course I have

[brattykeith]

What Happened to Your Face?! (Klance)

My piece for the exchange I did with @kymmo-draws ! I hope you like it~!

Prompt:  They would like teen klance (13-17): Teen klance making fun of each other during puberty (voice cracking, acne, etc) then meeting again after like 5 years to see that "oH he's hot".

“Lance, it’s 3 o’clock in the morning,” Hunk announced miserably as his best friend chatted away wildly into his ear. He snuggled under his blanket, his cell phone practically vibrating against his pillow with the force of Lance’s voice.

“Hunk, time is just a concept! Like aliens! Or Keith Kogane’s pride when he realizes that Lance McClain has become the number one bachelor at the Garrison!”

“Number one?” Hunk repeated with a yawn.

“Hell yeah! I can’t wait to see that pizza-faced nerd’s expression once he realizes that he’s been defeated in all manners of seduction and popularity!!”

“I don’t even think Keith was all that popular? His older brother Shiro was, Keith was just super smart, right?” Hunk noted, snuggling deeper into his bed.

“Hunk! You’re ruining it!”

“I mean, he never even dated anyone back then, right?”

“HUNK!”

“Fine, fine,” Hunk yawned again, turning to nuzzle his pillow. “How’d you even know he was back in town?”

“As you know, I am a being of many connections and-“

“Pidge heard from her brother Matt who’s friends with Shiro, right?”

“Hunk!”

“Yeah, yeah,”

“Anyways, Matt and Shiro are going to go to the Arus Diner tomorrow for lunch and they’re dragging Pidge and Keith out as well, we need to be there!”

“For some pizza?” Hunk asked hopefully to his pillow.

“No! Well, I mean, yeah, but after I metaphorically walk all over Keith’s face with how attractive I’ve become.” Lance reasoned.

“Sounds good.” Hunk answered with a yawn of finality. “Don’t forget to put your facemask on for the night.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, see you, buddy!”

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Keith stared intently at his phone, doing his best to mimic Pidge in ignoring their brothers’ pathetic attempts at flirting.

Matt and Shiro were a trainwreck, but that flaming train was decorated with heart-shaped confetti and good intentions. If your idea of flirting was complimenting someone on their choice of pizza toppings then you needed serious help. Keith and Pidge caught each other’s eye, sending a glance at their idiot brothers as the pair chatted happily about constellations. God, what a bunch of nerds.

Pidge and Keith had a running bet about who’d manage to propose first.

The loser had to wear a dress for the wedding.

Keith managed to sneak another piece of pizza out from between the bubble of love and affection that was Shiro and Matt’s conversation, doing his best to inhale the slice before any more residual affection could infect it.

It wasn’t that Keith didn’t like the idea of love, rather he’d just never been in love. In high school, he’d been smart but not attractive. His grades had gotten him clearance to go on a diplomatic mission with Shiro to another flight program in Asia. It’d been nothing more than a student exchange, but as a result, Keith had learned a lot and made a few friends, like Regris. Regris had given Keith the full Korean skincare routine do-over, at least until Keith had shown zero comprehension of anything concerning makeup. By the time Keith was set to leave he’d narrowed it down to three steps and Keith’s acne had mysteriously disappeared. It also helped that in Asia sword fighting was a perfectly acceptable way to get fit and healthy, he’d gotten a few pounds of muscle to boot. Allura had called it a ‘glow up’ when he got back.

The loud shatter of glassware had all of them jumping, worst of all Shiro who both Matt and Keith placed a placating hand on. Keith sent a glare over to whoever was responsible, blinking when he realized that it was some tall, cute guy that was currently staring back at him. Keith blinked, a small blush dusting his cheeks, at least until Pidge barked out an annoyed ‘Lance!’

Lance?

Lance?

Lance?

Keith was staring back now, flashbacks to the kid with acne and baby fat galore. There was no way. First off, this guy was taller than Keith. Back in high school Keith had managed two inches on Lance and had used both to his advantage in every fight that Shiro hadn’t personally broken up. Second off, this guy’s skin looked nice, like Regris had also shipped him a bottle of Korean skincare magic. Third off, he was fit, and it showed in the line of his jaw and the curve of muscle in along his forearms. Keith felt his cheeks grow redder after noticing that particular bit.

What. The. Fuck.

“Keith?” Lance choked out, sounding like he was the last person he expected to meet here. And suddenly Keith found himself checking himself over and mentally wincing over the fact that he was only wearing a black t-shirt and yoga pants. He combed his fingers through his hair and managed a surly glare in response.

“Oh, hey, Keith!” Hunk greeted, walking up behind Lance with a mouthful (and plateful) of pizza. “How was Asia? Is their program any better than ours?” He asked conversationally, seemingly unaware that his best friend since preschool was having an aneurysm right next to him.

“It was fine,” Keith managed lowly. Shiro had recovered from his small bout of anxiety and looked prepared to dive between Keith and Lance the second one of them threw a fist at the other. Keith decided that it was far too dangerous to attempt eye contact with Lance and instead turned his attention to the glass of soda Lance had shattered across the floor. “Uh, are you going to get that? Or leave it for the waitstaff like an asshole?” Keith cringed after the words left his mouth, even though high school him would have high fived him for it.

Keith didn’t high five anyone, not even Shiro.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

No. Nonononononononono. Lance’s spirit had projected to a plane of existence where he was free to scream about how fucking cruel the world was. It was cruel. Miserable. And, worst of all, it knew Lance’s type.

Lance hadn’t been the only one to change, and in hindsight, he’d know that was a possibility, but at the same time, this was just cruel.

Keith Kogane was gorgeous.

Lance was dying.

Keith was currently watching Lance through thick lashes, lips turned into the cutest pout in this side of town. His hairstyle was questionable, but it somehow suited him, framing pale skin perfectly. His acne was gone, and maybe that’s why Lance was just now noticing that Keith’s eyes were in the spectrum of blue and violet and utterly gorgeous. Not to mention his voice-cracking had left him with a low, raspy voice that did things to Lance’s spine whenever he spoke.

Lance had recently come to terms with his bisexuality, but Keith Kogane was going to make him full on gay.

Hunk would never let him live it down.

Speaking of Hunk, his best friend nudged him hard in the side, forcing Lance to return to his body.

“W-what…?” He croaked, continuing to stare at Keith.

“Oh boy,” Hunk, who had lived through all of Lance’s previous crushes, muttered under his breath.

Keith seemed to not even want to meet his eyes, turning his attention to the glass at Lance’s feet.

“The glass you dropped?”

Lance had dropped a glass? Lance glanced to the floor to see that he had, in fact, dropped a glass of soda.

“Oh!” Lance looked around, finding a waitress that was side-eyeing him thoroughly. “Hey, I’m sorry. Can I get a broom or something? I’ll clean it up.” He offered. The waitress huffed out a breath before walking to the backroom. Lance snuck another glance at Keith, only to notice that Keith was eyeing him back.

This wasn’t what he’d planned at all. He planned to thoroughly ruin Keith Kogane’s life, only now Keith Kogane was ruining his.

With his face.

“So,” Shiro began, looking to play peacekeeper, “how has it been on this hemisphere? Iverson still making freshmen cry?”

“Of course,” Hunk answered when Lance seemed marginally more invested in his staring contest with Keith. “Just the other day he made this poor kid run out of the classroom in tears.”

“Classic Iverson,” Shiro noted.

“What happened to your acne?” Lance blurted out. The table descended into silence as everyone’s attention drifted to Keith.

“What happened to yours?” Keith fired back.

“I outgrew it, obviously.”

“Same. Obviously.”

Lance bristled at the same time Keith stood up and Shiro was on his feet a moment later, a literal wall between the two of them.

“Easy! Hey! Easy you two!” He ordered firmly. “Let’s not start a fight and get kicked out, alright?” He directed this mainly at Keith who sent him a look right back.

“Shiro’s right, Lance,” Hunk muttered under his breath. “This is the only place in town where the cook knows how to probably toast the cheese on their pizza for that nice crunchy char. Do not ruin this for me.”

“I can’t help it that his face looks like that!”

“Like what?” Keith snapped.

“Like it somehow figured out how to become hot?!” Lance fired back. Keith opened his mouth to retort, only for Lance’s words to actually catch up to him.

“W-what?” Keith managed, eyes wide.

“What?” Lance repeated back at him. Keith’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“You just said-”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Lance cut him off in a panic, looking as if he was prepared to turn tail and run.

“Oh my god,” Hunk muttered under his breath, turning away completely.

Keith glared at him for a long moment, looking as if he didn’t know what to say in response to that.

“Sir!”

Lance jumped, looking to his left to see the waitress from before frowning at him in disapproval. Lance was pretty sure he broke a world record for ‘fastest glass disposal in presence of sudden new crush and various friends’ because under a minute later he was shooting Keith a flustered glare as he grabbed Hunk’s arm and dragged (read: Hunk walked him over) to a booth on the opposite side of the restaurant.

“Okay,” Lance whispered, shooting furious glances over at the booth Keith was still occupying. “Change of plans.”

“Mm?” Hunk hummed, munching at his pizza.

“Only, I have absolutely no idea how to change the plans.” Lance hissed. ‘How did he do that thing with his face?!”

“What thing?” Hunk asked between chews.

“The gorgeous thing!” Lance hissed, crowing in anger when Hunk burst into laughter. “Hunk! Keep it down!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Hunk giggled. “Have you considered asking him out?” He suggested amiably.

“Me? Go on a date with Keith Kogane?!” Lance cried loud enough to turn a few heads. “I can’t do on a date with him, we were rivals for years, Hunk! Remember that one time he was walking down the hallway and I clotheslined him and-”

“Lance,” Hunk said, eyeing his pizza critically before he took a bite. He met Lance’s gaze evenly while he chewed. “What are you going to do if someone else from school sees how much he’s changed and asks him out?” He asked casually.

Lance slammed his hands on the table, scrambling to his feet and all but running over to Keith’s table. Hunk watched him go for a long moment, vaguely wondering if he’d be able to get some sleep tonight.

[noisymouse]

Retro Food Day 1

Today we are making:

Sardine mousse bullshit!

Oddly.... I actually recognize the font used in this recipe, because I have other cookbooks with the same font. (dear Australia, did you only have one cookbook typesetter working in the 80s?) So from this and from the brand of gelatin recommended,  Nevermind! I see a note here that someone has a North American cookbook with the same font. Apparently it was popular everywhere at the time. I guess the better question then is why do I have so many Australian cookbooks from the 80s?......

I am guessing that this recipe is actually likely from *Australia* rather than North America, and is probably early 80s rather than 50s, so maybe it’s cheating a bit to include it in my cooking. BUT, I did find other similar 50s recipes for various fish mousses and pastes, so I feel that this one is in the same spirit. It just had the most ridiculous presentation, so I included it.

Let’s get started.

Substitutions:

The recipe calls for Davis gelatine, but the only brand of gelatin available here is Knox. A little reading tells me Davis gelatin is an Aussie brand, and that it’s made from beef. Knox is made from pork which means it’s a bit firmer. This is just mushed up fish though so I don’t think the difference in texture will make a huge difference.

I will be using horseradish sauce instead of actual grated horseradish because I don’t know where the hell I could find fresh horseradish.

Mmmmm, grey fish mush!

The prep:

Hollowing out lemons is actually a lot of pointless work. I find that’s a common theme with retro recipes, there is a lot of emphasis on arranging very simple ingredients in complicated ways. I can only assume this was in vogue as a way to show off how much labour you wasted on a dish, or else to try and make simple bland food seem fancy and fun, or a combo of the two.

This is........ incredibly fishy, but surprisingly edible when eaten with crackers. It’s not really tasty enough to make me want to make it and bring it to a party rather than buying, like, just some liver pate or something. And if I wanted an incredibly fishy and oily snack for crackers, I would get a can of smoked oysters, which taste better, and don’t involve wasting my damned time scooping out crap out of lemons and hurting my hands with the lemon juice. And check out that awesome grey colour. Doesn’t that just get your stomach rumbling?

I personally strongly object to the texture, btw. I hate canned fish bones with a passion, I never buy canned salmon because the texture makes me gag. I tried to pick as many of the sardine bones out as I could but there’s still little crunchy bits here and there.

The final verdict:

Reasonably edible but far too much work.

EDIT:

No, I have changed my mind, the final verdict is that this is gross. After eating this portion I had an oily fish taste in my mouth all night and it made me feel queasy. I never want to look at this crap again.

[cathygeha]

REVIEW

The Military Wife by Laura Trentham

A Heart of a Hero #1

What an emotionally deep and thought provoking book this book proved to be! I have enjoyed every book I have read by this author and found this one perhaps the best so far. With so many men deployed right now and wars throughout the world this book reminds the reader of the effort soldiers put in to become warriors and also speaks of the impact their chosen profession may have on them and their families.

Sitting here I began to write that “this is the story of two families” but in fact it is much more than that as there is a ripple effect that one life has in and on the lives of the many around them. There are parents, siblings, significant others, progeny, friends stateside and in the military and perhaps more that I am not listing. This is, in my mind, a tribute to the soldier and to his family and I look forward to reading more in this series as soon as the books are written.

This story flips moves between the present and the past with almost every chapter and though I don’t usually like that way of telling a story it really worked in this one. I felt I got to know Laura, Noah and Bennett in ways I might not have if he story had been more linear. It eventually tells the story of how Laura and Noah met and how their relationship progressed. It tells of the friendships both of them forged and how those friendships impacted them as those around them. It made me feel for both of them and wish that things could have been easier. So much is given up sometimes to be with the person one loves...and this book managed to convey this while also conveying so much more.

What I liked:

* Laura’s strength

* Laura’s mother for supporting her daughter as well as her honesty

* Noah’s sunny disposition, openness and ability to love

* Bennett – what a wonderful person he proved to be

* The depth to the story

* The way PTSD was dealt with in Allison’s family situation

* The military wives being there for one another

* What I assumed to be “honesty” in looking at issues I had not thought of before

* The story and how it flowed

* The idea that it is okay to lean on someone else

* So much more

There was nothing that I disliked in this book. Sure, there were things I wished could have been different in the lives of some of the characters but isn’t that true of real life, too!

NOTE: This story was so good that I stayed up till 3am to finish it ;)

Thank you to NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press – Griffin for the ARC ~ This is my honest review.

5 Stars

BLURB

A young widow embraces a second chance at life when she reconnects with those who understand the sacrifices made by American soldiers and their families in award-winning author Laura Trentham’s The Military Wife.

Harper Lee Wilcox has been marking time in her hometown of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina since her husband, Noah Wilcox’s death, nearly five years earlier. With her son Ben turning five and living at home with her mother, Harper fights a growing restlessness, worried that moving on means leaving the memory of her husband behind.

Her best friend, Allison Teague, is dealing with struggles of her own. Her husband, a former SEAL that served with Noah, was injured while deployed and has come home physically healed but fighting PTSD. With three children underfoot and unable to help her husband, Allison is at her wit’s end.

In an effort to reenergize her own life, Harper sees an opportunity to help not only Allison but a network of other military wives eager to support her idea of starting a string of coffee houses close to military bases around the country.

In her pursuit of her dream, Harper crosses paths with Bennett Caldwell, Noah’s best friend and SEAL brother. A man who has a promise to keep, entangling their lives in ways neither of them can foresee. As her business grows so does an unexpected relationship with Bennett. Can Harper let go of her grief and build a future with Bennett even as the man they both loved haunts their pasts?

EXCERPT

Chapter 1

Present Day

Winters in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, were temperamental. The sunshine and a temperate southerly breeze that started a day could turn into biting, salt-tinged snow flurries by afternoon. But one thing Harper Lee Wilcox could count on was that winter along the Outer Banks was quiet.

The bustle and hum and weekly rotation of tourists that marked the summer months settled into a winter melancholy that Harper enjoyed. Well, perhaps not enjoyed in the traditional sense . . . more like she enjoyed surrendering to the melancholy. In fact, her mother may have accused her of wallowing in it once or twice or a hundred times.

In the winter, she didn’t have to smile and pretend her life was great. Not that it was bad. Lots of people had it worse. Much worse. In fact, parts of her life were fabulous. Almost five, her son was happy and healthy and smart. Her mother’s strength and support were unwavering and had bolstered her through the worst time of her life. Her friends were amazing.

That was the real issue. In the craziness of the summer season, she forgot to be sad. Her husband, Noah, had been gone five years; the same amount of time they’d been married. Soon the years separating them would outnumber the years they’d been together. The thought was sobering and only intensified the need to keep a sacred place in her heart waiting and empty. Her secret memorial.

She parked the sensible sedan Noah had bought her soon after they married under her childhood home. Even though they were inland, the stilts were a common architectural feature up and down the Outer Banks.

Juggling her laptop and purse, Harper pushed open the front door and stacked her things to the side. “I’m home!”

A little body careened down the steps and crashed into her legs. She returned the ferocious hug. Her pregnancy was the only thing that had kept her going those first weeks after she’d opened her front door to the Navy chaplain.

“How was preschool? Did you like the pasta salad I packed for your lunch?”

“It made me toot and everyone laughed, even the girls. Can you pack it for me again tomorrow?”

“Ben! You shouldn’t want to toot.” Laughter ruined the admonishing tone she was going for.

As Harper’s mom said time and again, the kid was a hoot and a half. He might have Harper’s brown wavy hair, but he had Noah’s spirit and mannerisms and humor. Ben approached everything with an optimism Harper had lost or perhaps had never been gifted with from the start. He was a blessing Harper sometimes wondered if she deserved.

“Where’s Yaya?” She ruffled his unruly hair.

Of course, her mom had picked an unconventional name. “Grandmother” was too old-fashioned and pedestrian. Since she’d retired from the library, she had cast off any semblance of normalcy and embraced an inner spirit that was a throwback to 1960s bra burners and Woodstock.

“Upstairs painting.” Ben slipped his hand into Harper’s and tugged her toward the kitchen. Bright red and orange and blue paint smeared the back of his hand and arm like a rainbow. At least, her mom had put him in old clothes. “Yaya gave me my own canvas and let me paint whatever I wanted.”

“And what did you paint?” Harper prayed it wasn’t a nude study, which was the homework assignment from her mom’s community college class.

“I drew Daddy in heaven. I used all the colors.” The matter-of-factness of his tone clawed at her heart.

No child should have to grow up only knowing their father through pictures and stories. Her own father had been absent because of divorce and disinterest. He’d sent his court-ordered child support payments regularly until she turned eighteen but rarely visited or shown any curiosity about her. It had hurt until teenaged resentment scarred over the wound.

Noah would have made a great dad. The best. That he never got the chance piled more regrets and what-ifs onto her winter inspired melancholy.

“I’m sure he would have loved your painting.” Luckily, Ben didn’t notice her choked-up reply.

He went to the cabinet, pulled out white bread and crunchy peanut butter, and proceeded to make two sandwiches. It was their afternoon routine. Someday he would outgrow it. Outgrow her and become a man like his daddy.

She poured him a glass of milk, and they ate their sandwiches, talking about how the rest of his day went—outside of his epic toots. His world was small and safe and she wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

Her mom breezed into the kitchen, her still-thick but graying brown hair twisted into a messy bun, a thin paintbrush holding it in place. Slim and attractive, she wore paint-splattered jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt that read: I make AARP look good. Harper pinched her lips together to stifle a grin.

“How’s your assignment coming along?” Harper asked.

“I’m having a hard time with proportions. It’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure my man’s you-know-what shouldn’t hang down to his kneecaps.”

Harper shot a glance toward Ben, who had moved to the floor of the den to play with LEGOs. As crazy as her mom drove her, she was and would always be Harper’s rock. The irony wasn’t lost on her. As hard as she’d worked to get out of Kitty Hawk and out of her mother’s reach when she was young, she’d never regretted coming home.

“It’s been a while for me, too, but that’s not how I remember them, either.”

“A pity for us both.” Her mother pulled a jar of olives out of the fridge and proceeded to make martinis—shaken, not stirred. She raised her eyebrows, and Harper answered the unspoken question with a nod. Her mom poured and plopped an extra olive in Harper’s. “How was work?”

Harper handled bookkeeping and taxes for a number of local businesses, but a good number closed up shop in the winter. “Routine. Quiet.”

“Exactly like your life.”

Harper sputtered on her first sip. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I hate seeing you mope around all winter.” Her mom poked at the olive in her drink with a toothpick and looked toward Ben, dropping her voice. “He’s been gone five years, sweetheart, and you haven’t gone on so much as a date.”

“That’s not true. I went to lunch with Whit a few weeks ago.”

“He was trying to sell you life insurance. Doesn’t count.”

Harper huffed and covered her discomfort by taking another sip. “What about you? You never date.”

“True, but your father ruined me on relationships. I have trust issues. You and Noah, on the other hand, seemed to get along fine. Or am I wrong?”

“You’re not.” Another sip of the martini grew the tingly warmth in her stomach. Their marriage hadn’t been completely without conflict, but what relationship was? As she looked back on their fights, they seemed juvenile and unimportant. It was easier to remember the good times. And there were so many to choose from.

She touched the empty finger on her left hand. The ring occupied her jewelry box and had for three years. But, occasionally, her finger would ache with phantom pains as if it were missing a vital organ.

“You’re young. Find another good man. Or forget the man, just find something you’re passionate about.”

“I’m happy right where I am.” Harper hammered up her defenses as if preparing for a hurricane.

“Don’t mistake comfort for happiness. You’re comfortable here. Too comfortable. But you’re not happy.”

“God, Mom, why are you Dr. Phil–ing me all of sudden? Are you wanting me and Ben to move out or something?” Her voice sailed high and Ben looked over at them, his eyes wide, clutching his LEGO robot so tightly its head fell off.

“You and Ben are welcome to stay and take care of me in my old age.” Her mom shifted toward the den. “You hear that, honey? I want you to stay forever.”

Ben gave them an eye-crinkling smile that reminded her so much of Noah her insides squirmed, and she killed the rest of her drink. She was so careful not to show how lonely she sometimes felt in front of Ben.

“Harper.” Her mom’s chiding tone reminded her so much of her own childhood, she glanced up instinctively. Her mom took her hand, and her hazel eyes matched the ones that stared back at Harper in the mirror. “You’re marking time in Kitty Hawk. Find something that excites you again. Don’t let Ben—or Noah— be your excuse.”

Harper looked to her son. His chubby fingers fit the small LEGO pieces together turning the robot into a house. She had built her life brick by brick adding pieces and colors, expanding, taking pride, until one horrible day she’d stopped. Maybe her mom was right. Was it time to build something new?

LAURA TRENTHAM is an award-winning author of contemporary and historical romance. She is a member of RWA, and has been a finalist multiple times in the Golden Heart competition. A chemical engineer by training and a lover of books by nature, she lives in South Carolina.

--

Buy-Book Links: https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250145536

[papermoth-bird-blog]

New Orleans: Clowns & more curious things.

I’ve always thought the best way to really learn a city is to walk until you can’t walk anymore, and then, take the transit. I know I have a tendency to romanticize things, but New Orleans is feeding this reciprocally. I mean, it’s definitely more dangerous than the cities I’ve spend time in before, but it also has an air about it that draws you in. This is the start of Carnival season & many of the houses are decorated with beads and Banners already. Some even have floats parked in their backyards (7th ward). King cake is front & center in terms of deserts. It’s the most sugary thing I’ve ever tasted- crunchy, gooey, buttery- like candy-cake. Almost felt like something a 7 year old would make if left to their own devices in the kitchen.  Not usually my style at all, but it was worth it for saying I have. Other local foodie things that I liked a lot more were Swamp pop (particularly the Satsuma one) & Voodoo chips- which Asa and Leon definitely got me hooked on. Apparently you can get Voodoo chips everywhere in the states- but it’s definitely a Cajun thing, so I’m glad I tried them here first. 

New Orleans is as bright & filled with life, as it is dark & full of death. The houses are colourful and decorated, but many of them still have the spray paint markings left on them during the post-hurricaine search. For every fun-feathery mask, there is a decapitated Crocodile head. For every person playing jazz, there is a person behind a curtain reading palms, or tea leaves, or tarot cards or crystal balls, or what have you. 

Yesterday, I decided to get my palm read... because when in Rome. And let’s be honest, the reason I’m here in the first place is for similarly mysteriously-provoked reasons. I decided to go to Bottom of the Cup, which is one of the more established fortune-telling joints- and honestly, you probably pay a premium for that too. I was fine with it though, cause I’ve been pretty good so far about staying on the low end of the budget. So I’m sitting in the cafe for a good 20 minutes patiently with my camomile tea, when my reader rushes my me & kinda grumbles for me to come in. It was a man, which I didn’t realize would be strange for me- but I don’t think I’ve every had my fortune told by a man before. He honestly looked like something out of Tim Burton sketch book. Tall, thin, austere-looking. He was wearing black skinny jeans, rolled above the ankle with shiny black boots. He also had on a peacoat  that had the collar popped up beside his ears- which he kept on, even when inside, because everyone is freaking out about the “cold” in NOLA right now (it’s 8 degrees.. which is unseasonable cold here, but by comparison, it’s fine). He didn’t ask me much, but my Sign, which is Aries. He told me I didn’t have typical Fire hands- actually more Watery (but I had fire fingers apparently). Which is funnny, because most people, when guessing think I am a Pisces through&through. Honestly, I thought what he told me was pretty accurate- that I would be unhappy to settle doing one thing for too long, that I tend to have really deep-genuine connections that are slightly ephemeral by nature (because it would take a lot for me to settle down with one person). Something about a triple life-line? anyways. Anyways, what was more interesting,  was (maybe cause of my broken fate line?) he brought up that he really think I should do DEATH MEDITATION. I kept a pretty good poker face, but I was all WTF IS THAT. Basically he wants me to sit there & visualize my body decaying & sinking into the ground- apparently this will both help with any anxiety I feel (dunno bout that) & open me up to receiving messages from spirits. Of course, I’m thinking of the whole “go to new orleans to learn about death” thing. So might have to give that a shot soon. I have a recording of it too-- so for any of my close friends- we can listen to it together (Katie & Mare... I know y’all might want to). Charlie also mentioned I should be careful with my manifestation, because I’m very very good at it & I should use it more sparingly. Which I again, kinda poker-faced, because That has been another huge thing that has come up in my life more recently- I am really good at manifesting exactly what I’m seeking. Even freaky, off-the-beaten path type stuff... stlll looking for a witch for a place that has no seasons though, Mare.  (As another tangent, I have this thing where I test out if I can manifest certain songs as I’m walking though areas where the radio is playing. So far, fleetwood mac, rising appalachia & bob dylan have alllll met me there- which sure, could be co-incidence, could be magic???)

This, however wasn’t the most novel, or most curious thing I’ve been up to so far--- which has to be Clownless. Which, as you may remember from my previous post, is the all-clown cast adaptation of the 90s classic film ‘Clueless’. It was “staged” in the Marigny, in a very DIY type-theatre in what was either an old warehouse, or a large garage. The front was open & held a art show with works featuring clowns. Bright ones, Macabre ones, all sorts. Many people were dressed as clowns too- which made Asa wish that we had had time to dress-up before hand too (alas, we were at Sarah-Jane’s art show, which would have definitely of been less-appropriate). We were all jammed in the car tho, which meant we definitely looked like clowns as we all tumbled out of the front seat when we pulled up to the theatre. The play itself was a host for crude, queer, self aware comedy. It was definitely funny, but a little “sticky” at times. Overall, so glad I went, cause I mean, when else am I going to get that opportunity again?! It is funny how often clowns are coming up for me on this trip so far- I really don’t think the world is usually so clown-y. Maybe it’s me, maybe it’s the Zeitgeist. 

After the show, we all went back to the house and got into a big discussion about how odd Louisiana is as a place. I mean, it has a lot of influences- French, Spanish, English, American & the huge legacy the Slave trade has left on the place. The liquor laws were the fist thing. (I already talked about that though). Asa started to tell me about this strange tradition here called “Prison Rodeos” which is as barbaric and horrifying as you can imagine. It’s like modern day gladiator trials. Prisoners can win money by staying in a chair for the longest amount of time while a bull attacks them, and other “fun” stuff like that. And people go to these things. In droves. On the bright side, they also have prisoner craft-market things that the prisoners can sell their woodworkings, or leather-workings, or what have you. Asa showed me the really beautiful ostrich wallet & the really odd “Highwater dragon” sculpture that he got when he went. The fact that there are more people in the prison system today than were ever slaves really jumps out to me here. It’s “out of sight, out of mind” though, and so it isn’t really being thought of as the HUGE issue it really is. It’s been a super humbling experience in that way. 

Though not as horrifying (?) I was also told about other traditions that come from the swamp- including a certain kind of roast that I now forget the name of. But basically, it’s a roasted hog, stuffed with a racoon, stuffed with a Nutria (Which is a giant, swamp dwelling, dog-sized rat). And apparently this is an actual tradition. I’m not one to judge, but I sure am glad I am a vegetarian & have a valid cop-out for indulging in that one. 

Another tradition, which is far more familiar to me is ‘Fais Do-Do’. Which is the Lousianan answer to a Ceilidh. These fiddle parties, however more likely take place in a neighbourhood street, more so than a kitchen (probably cause of the heat). I’ve yet to go to one, but I’m working on manifesting one while I’m here still. 

In the 7th especially, I’ve found a lot of people have been greating me with “I hope you are staying warm.” Which I’ve just smiled about because, in Canada, this is late summer/ early fall kind of weather (which is kind of my favourite). I mean, there are still flowers in bloom here! Full blown blooming Magnolias. Too be fair, it is unseasonable cold here. A couple of days ago it was 8 degrees! Which happened to have been the same temperature it was in Halifax that day (but okay, it was unseasonably warm there that day). Yeah, I do wish that I was experiencing the normal 18-degree “winter” they have usually, but it’s definetly been okay with me. The only thing being, the houses and buildings aren’t entirely equiped for weather like this. The floors are tiled, ceilings really tall- designed to keep the house as cool as possible, which is great, except on days like these when they are then cooler than even the outside temperatures. 

If this was winter, I really started to wonder what summer was like over here. I mean, I can only imagine it being a little bit unbareable. Asa’s friend Satori described New Orleans as “Seasonally Biblical” in reference to not only the heat/humidity, but also the awe-striking influx of insects (including, termits & other kinds of swamp bugs). Apparently there is pretty much a mass exodus from the city, for those that can afford to leave. 

I love how people dress down here too. A lot of the people in the Bywater dress super gothic (and for that I am happy). Lace, black, pin-stripes- It’s a style Jack White would be pleased with. Many of the folks are also wearing fur in this weather- very 1920s vibes, but with slightly weirder & wilder cuts/colours. On my first day I even saw a man dressed up like a full voodoo priest (not even in a hokey way). He was just casually sitting on Elysian-Feilds, eating an ice cream bar. It was kinda glorious. 

Every morning, I’ve been the first to wake, which has kind of been nice. I usually eat my breakfast in the backyard with the cat & listen to the mardi gras beads lining the fence blowing in the wind. I then journal a little & think of all my gratitudes. It’s super peaceful & grounding. Missing the hali-fam rituals though. Overall though, I’m quite enjoying the amount of alone time I’m getting. Travelling alone so far, as been super rewarding. I feel braver & confident & more autonomous than ever. The only down side, I’ve discovered so far, is that you have to ask strangers if you still have powdered sugar on your face apres-beignets. 

[onceandalwaysenglishmajor]

Rebirth

THE GREED!HUGHES FIC IS UP. My computer is on it’s last legs, but I finally managed to get it typed. Really pumped about this fic, actually. I hope you enjoy it as well. Definitely moved cannon around to make this work. @ladywiltshire @dailymaeshughes

Read on AO3 here.

Bido crept after the Fuhrer. He knew in his heart this was a bad idea, but the Fuhrer had Greed, and everyone else… everyone else was dead. Bido scrunched his eyes shut for a moment. He couldn’t think about that right now. If he just followed Greed… Maybe, just maybe, everything would be ok.

Bido followed the Fuhrer all the way to Central, then deep beneath the city. Not good, not good, not good, not good, Bido chanted in his head. But still he followed. The scene that followed was like something from a nightmare. Bido watched from the rafters as Greed screamed and cursed as he was lowered into a vat. Bido shoved his fist into his mouth to keep from crying out, tears streaming down his face. The leader, Father, they called him, collected a red liquid from a little spigot at the base of the cauldron they dropped Greed in. Father studied the liquid for a moment.

“Well, Greed, maybe I’ll have use for you again someday,” he said before tossing the vial to Envy. “Put that somewhere safe, until we find a decent host vessel.” Envy muttered about not needing someone so useless as Greed and stomped off. Bido followed.

“Useless fool, Envy muttered. “Never did anything for us, just ran off to ‘live his own life’. What an idiot. He got what he deserved. Good riddance. Now, I suppose it’s time for Lust and me to have some fun.” He grinned evilly. “That Hughes has been poking a little too close to the Truth, and it’s time to do something about that.”  Shoving the vial in a cupboard, Envy stomped away. And Bido did something he had become very very good at in the Devil’s Nest: he stole the vial.

Continuing to follow the Homunculi didn’t seem to be a good idea. But Bido did it anyway. At least it gave him a clear path out of the hell hole under Central (and this from someone who lived ---had lived--- in a place called the Devil’s Nest) and out into the open air again. Why he continued to follow after that was a question Bido couldn’t answer. Really, he should be running as far away as possible. When the Homunculi entered the Central military headquarters, Bido stayed outside, hiding himself in some bushed behind a phone booth.

“Greed,” he asked the vial cradled in his hands, “What am I supposed to do now?” Tears streamed down his face, and Bido curled in on himself, a little ball of pain. How long he stayed like that, Bido didn’t know. A commotion by the phone booth caught his attention.

           “I need to speak to Roy Mustang now!” a voice barked. A moment of silence as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line, then a string of numbers. Bido watched in horror as Envy cornered their prey, switching faces with a manic smile. The man hesitated, gun wavering in his hands. And Envy struck. Bido waited until the Homunculus was gone before creeping out of the bushes. The man in the phone booth lay in a pool of his own blood. He was still alive, but barely. Bido looked at the vial clutched in his hand, then back at the man. This was probably an awful idea. But everything had been awful since the Fuhrer showed up under Dublith. It can’t get much worse, Bido decided. Cradling the man’s head in his lap, Bido uncapped the vial and coaxed the liquid down the man’s throat.

***

Not dead then, Hughes thought. But this might be worse. Like burning and freezing at the same time. Like his very soul was under attack, being torn slowly to ribbons, surrounded by a dense red fog.

Well, your soul is under attack, another voice intruded smoothly. Name’s Greed, and this body is mine now.

Like hell! Hughes thought back at him.

Feisty, aren’t you? No wonder you go in trouble with the family.

Family… That THING that attacked me… I’m sure it was a homunculus… You’re a homunculus?

Bingo! Give the boy a cookie! Though I’m what you’d call the ‘black sheep’ of the family. The red fog started to coalesce, forming a face, fangs bared in a leer.

You’re doing quite well, fending me off. I didn’t expect so much resistance from the original soul.

I have too much to live for, Hughes growled. The face, Greed, laughed.

I like your spirit! Greedy for life. I’ve got control now, I suppose there’s no harm in letting you stick around. You amuse me.

What the hell? Hughes asked, though it no longer felt like he was being torn to pieces.

I’m only going to say this once, because I don’t do explanations, Greed said. I’m a homunculus. I think you figured that bit out. This body is now mine. Got that? Mine. I’m letting your soul stay because I find you amusing. So, you’re also mine. The end!

***

Greed opened his eyes. Bido peered down at him nervously.

“Greed?” he asked. “Is... is it you?”

“Yeah, I’m Greed,” the homunculus started, only to be interrupted by the rather lizard-faced man letting out a sob and clutching Greed tightly to his chest.

“I thought I’d lost you forever!” he cried rocking back and forth. Greed was so shocked he didn’t pull away.

“Um,” he started, fully intending to ask who the hell the lizard man was, but he was again interrupted, this time by a pair of Amestrian servicemen, a dark-haired man and a blonde woman.

“Hughes!” the man cried. He only refrained from dropping to his knees next to Greed at the woman’s quietly bitten ‘sir!’. Greed pushed himself out of Bido’s lap, into a sitting position.

“Listen, all this attention is flattering, but I don’t know any of you people.” Mustang’s face fell and Bido let out a strangled sob.

“We need to move,” Hawkeye said calmly. Greed noted that she’d drawn a gun at some point. Not that it could hurt him, but the little lizard man who seemed so fond of him… Mine now, Greed thought, well, a bullet could definitely hurt him.

And the Hawk’s Eye doesn’t miss, Hughes added helpfully in the back of Greed’s mind.

“The car’s just around the corner,” the woman was saying. “Can you move?” This was directed at Greed, her voice carefully neutral. He staggered to his feet with a wince.

What the hell happened to you? he asked Hughes mentally.

Your siblings, Hughes replied drily. Out loud, Greed said,

“I can manage.” He started a little when Bido slipped under his arm, supporting him. Mustang led the way, Hawkeye following covering the group with her gun.

“Ooo, this is nice,” Greed cooed, sliding into the back seat. Mustang and Hawkeye had a quick, whispered conversation that ended with Hawkeye in the passenger seat, handgun still at the ready and Mustang in the driver’s seat.

We’re doomed, Hughes said morosely. If I’m still alive, this might kill me.

What are you going on about? Greed asked.

Roy’s driving. If we survive this trip, it will be a miracle. Before Greed could respond to Hughes, Mustang punched the accelerator, throwing Greed back into the seat. Hughes might be right about this he thought sourly.

“Do I even bother to ask where we’re going?” Greed asked.

“No,” Riza told him firmly.

She’s pretty, Greed thought. I wonder…

Don’t even, Hughes chided him. First, she’s totally off limits. Second, Roy would roast you into crispy crunchy pieces. Third, he wouldn’t get the chance, because Riza would take you out herself. And I’M still in here too, and would like to keep my body intact.

MY body, Greed corrected distractedly. The rest of his focus was on not engaging his ultimate shield and digging his claws into the smooth leather seats.

“Sir?” Riza asked as Mustang brought the car to a stop. “Do we really want to use the same location as where we kept Barry the Chopper?” Roy shrugged.

“Well, we already know it’s a decently secure location, and our equipment is still here, so we can radio the rest of the team for back up.” It was silent as the moved into a somewhat rickety room, empty except for a rundown table and a couple chairs that had seen better days. Greed and Roy sat down at the table. Bido hovered just behind Greed, as if he was still afraid to let the homunculus out of his sight, while Hawkeye took up a defensive position by the door.

“What makes you think I’m just going to go along with this?” Greed asked. Mustang’s shoulders sagged, just a little.

“Your powers haven’t fully settled into Hughes’ body yet. The cut across his, your forehead hasn’t healed yet. You’re still vulnerable.” Mustang took a deep breath through his nose. “And… we might be useful to each other.” Greed cocked an eyebrow at Mustang.

“Now you’re speaking my language! What did you have in mind?” Greed asked. Mustang winced.

“An exchange of information,” the colonel said.

“Mmm, I’m already in the head of military intelligence,” Greed said, tapping the side of his head. “You’re going to have to do better than that!” Greed leaned his chair back, crossing his ankles on the table.

“Who the hell are you?” Mustang asked, doing his best to keep the pain of seeing this… this thing that looked like his long time best friend but wasn’t out of his voice.

“I don’t usually do freebies, but, notoriety is one of the many things I want, so, I’ll tell you who I am. I’m Greed the Avaricious. I want it all. Everything you can think of. Money, power, sex, status, prestige. I want it all. I am Greed distilled and personified. If you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m a homunculus. Though if I’m reading Hughes’ memory right, the existence of homunculi was part of what he wanted to tell you. Why did you show up just then, anyway?” the homunculus asked. Mustang ran a hand through his already messy hair.

“Hughes called me. I caught a little bit of what sounded like an attack, so I got his location from the dispatcher. I guess I was too late.”

Don’t let him beat himself up, Hughes spoke up in Greed’s mind. He’ll worry it like a dog with a bone, obsessing over whether or not he could have saved me.

He’s not my friend, it’s not my job to comfort him, Greed thought back. He could feel the displeasure radiating from Hughes, but chose to ignore it. It was his body now, and Hughes was just one soul. He’d had centuries of being formed from a philosopher’s stone, he could deal with cranky souls. He dragged his attention back to Mustang.

“I guess I was too late, though,” Mustang was saying, “because when we got there we found you.” He frowned. “How did,” he gestured vaguely to Greed, “this happen, anyway?” Greed paused. He didn’t actually know. His first memory was of arguing with Hughes as he fought for control of the body. Bido made a small noise, as if seeking permission, so Greed nodded magnanimously. No sense in admitting there was something he didn’t know.

You know, I can feel you rolling your eyes in there, he told Hughes irritably. Settle down, this probably concerns you too.

I thought nothing concerned me anymore, Hughes responded snarkily, as I’m just a soul sharing your space…

Just shut up and listen, would you? Greed told him.

“It all started under Dublith, after we grabbed Alphonse Elric…” Bido started.

“Alphonse Elric?” Mustang shouted, slamming his hands on the table. Bido flinched. Greed glared at Mustang.

“Hey, leave him alone!” Greed growled. “You’re the one who wanted him to tell this story.”

“Are Ed and Al all right?” Riza asked. They all turned to look at her, having almost forgotten she was there. Her focus was on Bido, though.

“Are the Elric brothers all right?” she repeated softly. Bido nodded.

“Yes, their teacher showed up, then Fuhrer Bradley, and that’s when things went horribly wrong for us…” he shuddered, looking at Greed in desperation.

“Everyone else… the rest of the Devil’s Nest gang…” he choked, “are… are dead!” He buried his head in his hands.

Comfort him! Hughes scolded inside his head. But Greed was frozen. Flashes of another body, of another life, of a group of chimeras like Bido who were under his protection, who were his swept through Greed’s mind. Coming back to the present, Greed found himself gently patting Bido’s shoulder. Did he decide to do that? Greed wondered, or was it somehow Hughes’ influence? No, that was impossible. Bido pulled himself together to continue the story, explaining how he had stayed hidden and followed the Fuhrer, and everything that had come after, up to pouring the vial (which he hadn’t known was a philosopher’s stone) down Hughes’ throat.

Things that seem like a good idea at the time…Hughes commented drily.

“I can’t believe he melted me down!” Greed said irritably. “Well, I can actually, this is the guy who makes homunculi who are vice personified… But he melted me down!” Greed huffed. “So you’re out to take down my baby brother, Wrath, right? The one you know as Fuhrer Bradley? Why don’t you set your sights a bit higher and take out my old man while you’re at it?” Greed glanced at a rather dazed Roy Mustang. “If that’s your goal, I’ll cooperate. At least until we take Father down. Then all bets are off.” He leered at Mustang, and threw a wink at Riza for good measure. That shook the alchemist out of his stupor, though his lieutenant acted like she hadn’t seen.

So that’s what Hughes meant when he said she was unavailable… they’re a couple.

I wish! Hughes muttered. They should be, but they won’t. Military regulations, Roy’s ambition, the shadowy past they have that neither one of them will talk about…Hughes heaved a long-suffering sigh. If you’re going to be using my body, please remember to pester Roy about needing a wife. And by ‘wife’ I definitely mean Riza, but don’t say that. I have bets going about how long this is going to take them.

What is with your pathological need to parent everybody? Greed asked. He could feel Hughes’ mental shrug.

Pay attention, I think they’re going to decide what to do with you… us.

That’s not denial, Greed threw at Hughes before turning his focus fully outward. Roy and Riza were finishing up a non-verbal conversation. Totally married, Greed noted.

Put money on it, I’ll add you to the pool, Hughes chimed. Roy stared at him, hard. Bido shifted nervously behind him, even though the full intensity of the glare wasn’t directed at the chimera. Greed didn’t flinch.

“The lieutenant and I have decided to accept your offer. There are a couple other people I trust that I’m going to call in, then we can discuss… how we proceed.”

“Team Mustang, right? Breda, Havoc, Fuery, and Falman?” Greed asked. Mustang cocked his head.

“Yes… but what did you call them?” the alchemist asked.

“Team Mustang. That’s the label in Hughes’ mind.” Greed said.

You didn’t have to tell him that! Hughes scolded. The faintest ghost of a smile brushed across Roy’s lips.

“He would,” Roy muttered, barely audible. He continued, louder. “My team are the only ones we can trust. And you can’t just wander around Central wearing Hughes’ face. We’ll have to figure something out, maybe fake your death…”

“And why can’t I ‘wander around Central’?” Greed pouted. Mustang looked at him pointedly.

“As much as you look like Maes Hughes, you’re not him. And I’m not going to let a homunculus rummage through any more state secrets than I have to,” Roy threatened.

“Is that so?” Greed glared back.

“Boys. Enough.” Riza’s commanding voice cut through the tension, and both Greed and Roy leaned back. How does she do that? Greed wondered.

“But I agree with the colonel,” Riza continued, “you can’t go to work as Maes Hughes. We’ll have to figure out an alternative.” As Greed watched, all the color suddenly drained from Roy’s face.

“Oh my god,” he said, “what do we tell Gracia?” Hawkeye’s face dropped, matching Roy’s pallor. She stared at Greed in horror.

“Who’s Gracia?” Greed asked. Hawkeye and Roy just stared at him, too caught up in their own thoughts. Hughes, however, had no such issues.

Gracia is only the most wonderful woman on the entire planet! And she married me! And… no wonder Roy’s panicking, I should probably be panicking too, but there is no way we are letting them tell her I’m dead when I’m not dead… Well, this is going to get complicated. But Gracia is so strong…” Hughes continued babbling about the virtues of his wife and Greed felt his jaw drop just a little.

“Wife?” he said not realizing he was speaking out loud as well as to Hughes. “I have a wife?”

No, Hughes corrected, I have a wife, and you’re just currently renting space in my body.

How are you so chill about this situation? Greed asked. Really, you should be curled into a ball of existential doubt right about now. I mean, you managed to survive joining with a philosopher’s stone, but even so, why the hell are you so calm?

Would it change anything? Hughes asked pragmatically. It happened, I have to deal with it. I’ll have a break down later, after I know my family is safe, will that work for you?

You’re almost as snarky as Envy, Greed told him.

I refuse to be compared to someone your conscious labels as ‘the garbage lizard’, Hughes responded.

“We can’t tell her this,” Roy said, finally having recovered enough for speech.

No, no, no Hughes chanted.

“I agree, sir,” said Riza. “Maybe the idea of faking his death you suggested…”

Like hell! Hughes growled. Then the deluge started. Memories, emotions, overwhelming sensations, all focused on Gracia. These were… Hughes feelings? What was going on? Greed felt his control slipping. What? How could his control be slipping? Greed scrabbled to regain his mental balance in the face of so much raw emotion, but it was too late. Hughes had momentarily gained control. He blinked.

“Roy?” he asked. Mustang frowned.

“Yes? It hasn’t changed?” Roy said, an edge to his voice.

“Roy!” Hughes wrapped him in a quick spontaneous hug, lunging across the table. Roy stiffened.

“It’s me! It’s actually Hughes. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to maintain control, though. Greed is not happy. So I need you to listen to me. DO NOT lie to Gracia about what happened to me. Don’t do that to her. You don’t realize how strong she is. She can probably help, honestly. GRACIA NEEDS TO KNOW.” He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. When they opened again, the cheerful brown had been replaced by a hard purple. Greed planted his hands on the table, panting heavily.

What the hell was that? Greed growled.

I couldn’t let them lie to Gracia, Hughes said, utterly unrepentant.

Don’t do that again, Greed said.

No promises, Hughes replied blithely. Greed groaned.

You’re impossible, he groused.

You better focus, Hughes said. Roy’s starting to look worried.

Greed turned his focus outward.

“Do what he says, for the love of all things good, and don’t lie to his wife!” And there was no more talk of lying to Gracia. Much talk of what, exactly they would tell Gracia, but not of leaving her out of the considerations.