#it turned yellow and by the following evening was overripe.

[z-ikavirus]

[ezras--moon]

Hot Knife

named after this Fiona Apple song

Came up with this idea a few days ago, talking about it on Discord with the hoes I decided it needed to happen immediately.

Feeding Javi on his yacht turns into something more delicious than fruit.

18+ Minors do not interact

word count: 2623

Warnings: food play, oral (m receiving), Javi G being a whimpering mess, spoiled boy Javi

 Applying a fresh layer of sunscreen to his glowing skin, curls still wet from the dip in the sea you’d just taken together, wearing only a towel wrapped loosely around his hip - you couldn’t help but ogle Javi.

The sun was relentless this afternoon, but that made the fruit you were eating somehow even more delicious and satiating. Thinking about grabbing the can of whipped cream out of the cooler off to his side, an idea sprouted in your head.

These strawberries were dark red, almost overripe, parts of them even softening already, but the sweet deliciousness was only outperformed by your lover’s presence next to you.

“Baby, hurry up, I wanna feed you” you purred, your sunglasses sliding down your nose just enough for his devastating beauty to nearly blind you, sending a tingle of affection through you.

He put the sunscreen back underneath his lounge chair where the sun wouldn’t heat it up too much, then curled his soft lips into a smile. “You want to feed me?” “Yes.” you emphasized, getting out of your seat and crossing the distance between your bodies. 

Then, impatiently, you straddled his lap, his hands instantly finding your hips and squeezing you with a low hum in his chest.

The scent of the lotion mixed with the salty air of the coast, a warm breeze tickling you as you reached over to pick up a particularly large strawberry with chocolate sauce drizzled on, messily dripping down onto his chest and getting your fingers sticky.

“Open up”, you said, one hand splayed on his sternum as the other brought the sweet red fruit up to his mouth. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest and he complied with your request. Your own mouth agape, eyes locked on his lips and tongue as he let you pop it into his mouth, not without more chocolate sauce getting all over his chin.

You leaned down to lick him clean and he laughed; a beautiful sound, making your heart jump.

As he chewed, you’d already picked up a piece of pineapple to follow up with, and he cocked his head curiously.

“Is feeding me really all you’re looking to do right now, princesa?” he teased.

“Be quiet and let me do this, baby” you shut him up, pushing the juicy yellow fruit against his lips.

His hands began to wander, first up your sides, then coming to rest on your thighs where he pawed and squeezed.

The yacht gently swayed in the waves, just off the coast and out of view from the harbor, and you watched Javi chew. A deep breath of relaxation rose and fell in his chest and he closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the weight of your body trapping him right there and the tastes of the treats you were feeding him.

“Yeah, that’s right baby, open wide” you cooed when a particularly big piece of watermelon found its way in front of his handsome face. He whimpered at your words, squirming a little underneath you.

As the juice ran down his chin and neck, he reached over to grab a handful of grapes, tilting your chin down with the pad of his thumb and groaning at your lips closing around his fingers and sucking as he fed every single one to you.

You leaned in to tongue and lap away more of the juice on his face and kissed him softly at first, growing hungrier for something other than fruit.

“Hand me the cream” you breathed, nudging his nose with your own, then discarding your sunglasses off to the side. He popped open the cooler next to his lounge chair; the hundreds of ice cubes inside glistened like his wet lips in the sun.

“My love, what are you-” he began, but was cut off by you gently pushing two of your fingers between his lips and onto his tongue, and he sucked on them lightly. “Good boy” you praised, “such a good boy for me, baby.”

He whined, a desperate and needy sound that vibrated through his chest and into your fingers. With some polite pressure on his bottom teeth, you made him open his mouth again and squirted some of the whipped cream onto his pink tongue.

It made you smile, the way he took everything you were giving him so eagerly, just the way you liked it.

Your fingers stayed where they were, encased in his hot mouth as he let the cream melt into a puddle and dribble down onto his clavicle.

“God, you’re beautiful - you’re so hot, Javi” you hissed as you slowly pulled your hand away from his face and steadied yourself on his chest.

Feeling him up, letting your fingertips go on a little adventure all over the expanse of his sun kissed skin, you found the trail of dark hair leading down beneath the towel.

He was blushing at your words, watching you get to work as you lifted your weight off of him and moved down between his knees, untucking the corner of his towel that was holding it in place.

His own hands gripped the armrests of his lounger, white knuckles as you sighed, enamored with the sight of him slowly coming into full view. 

You took your time peeling away the towel to either side of him and your eyes feasted on his soft tummy and his cock already half hard beneath your face.

But you didn’t let him have it all just yet - you were going to leave some marks first.

With a featherlight touch of your fingertips tickling the insides of his thighs you crawled up to nuzzle his neck, feeling his strong arms loop around your shoulders as you pressed open-mouthed kisses and bites to his skin like leaving your personal signature on a work of art.

The chocolate sauce picked up off the little table between the loungers came in handy then as you popped off the cap and painted a generous swirl around his left nipple, the syrupy sweetness quickly laved away by your eager tongue.

Javi hissed when you circled his nipple, closing your lips around it and giving it a soft nudge with the tip of your tongue before coming back up with a wet pop. “Fuck” he breathed between gritted teeth, a shudder rocking through him.

You grinned before kissing his mouth again, this time letting your tongue gently press into his own, the delicious sweetness of the fruit still lingering.

You parted with a string of saliva connecting your lips to his before it broke and dribbled onto his chin where he wiped it away with the back of his palm, darkened eyes watching you go down between his legs.

Javi reached out to brush your hair behind your ears and cup your cheeks in his palm as you settled in a somewhat comfortable position with the whipped cream in one hand and the chocolate sauce in the other, planning to make him moan and beg for your pussy right there.

“I love you” you almost sang with a smile; he smiled back, crows’ feet at the edges and dimple prominent as ever, and the soft skin of his thighs was so warm and inviting.

You used him as your culinary canvas as you had the cream and the sauce turn him into a walking dessert platter. He took the initiative to hand you the tray of fruits and berries, which you accepted with a giggle and put down at his feet within your reach.

Squishing a strawberry and some raspberries into pulp and letting the juice and the cold mush mingle with the mess on his belly, you finally came down propped up on your elbows and lapped at his skin.

Was it healthy to eat away the sunscreen like this?

It didn’t matter to you then, all you could think about was the heavenly sounds he was about to make at your command.

He watched you lick him clean with his mouth agape, burning desire in his eyes and huffing breaths increasingly desperate as you worked your way down to his happy trail.

The hair was sticky with chocolate sauce, the mix of the flavors so good you let him hear a moan first, hoping to encourage him to join in the wordless love song - and he did.

A pained groan in his throat as he carded his fingers through your hair, the deep rumble in his chest spurring you on to wrap your hand around the base of his shaft.

His groan was cut off by a gasp when you flattened your tongue against the underside of his cock, licking up to the ridge just below the thick head where you left a sloppy wet kiss.

Your fist just lightly tightened around his girth and he grew even harder, making it difficult to form a fully closed grip around him.

Leaving kitten licks at the most sensitive parts you let him wait a while longer for your mouth to capture him completely. You wanted to watch him fall apart bit by bit, knew which buttons you could push to get him there.

“Please, my love” he finally breathed, and you smiled at him. “Not yet, big guy” you denied, instead letting the chocolate sauce aid you a little bit in your quest to turn him into your main course of the day.

You spread the sticky liquid all over him with your hand, giving him a few tugs and earning a gorgeous array of breathy grunts and his fingers in your hair curling and tugging at the roots.

His cock looked so filthy like that, glistening in the sun, completely covered in burnt umber sweetness. Finally, you fed him into your mouth agonizingly slowly, torturing him for as long as you could muster before you’d grow impatient yourself.

The heady taste of him, just the tiniest hint of sea water lingering there, along with the chocolate was new and exciting and you hummed at your discovery - this was something you’d have to have again some time.

Making a mental note of it and tucking it away neatly behind your bubbling need to feel him hit the back of your throat, you let him guide your head further down his length until your nose was buried in his dark curls there.

You swallowed around him once, twice, making him buck his hips in reflex with a gasp, before moving back up and sucking away the sauce you’d coated him in.

“So needy” you tutted, stroking him languidly and keeping your eyes fixed on his. There was this intoxicating glint in them, his lashes and thick curls of hair slowly drying in the sun shielding him from the sting of the light burning down.

“Yes, I am so needy” he agreed, stroking your cheek with his thumb and loosening the grip he had on your hair as he smoothed it away from your face.

He was slowly getting to where you wanted him, but it wasn’t quite enough yet. Slowly continuing to pump him with your fist, you leaned in to leave a trail of wet kisses from his balls to his inner thigh, settling there to leave another mark matching the ones peppering his throat.

Javi’s breath became increasingly labored as he watched you suck, lick and bite at the sensitive skin and soon there was a beautiful reddish bruise blossoming under your lips.

Giving it a loving peck before going to throat him once again, you watched him sink down and lean back in his seat, head rolling back with his eyes closed, giving you a wanton cry.

You hummed around him, vibrations through his groin turning him into even more of a mess in your hands. Whipped cream came into play when you squirted a straight line of it right over the juncture of his hip and his thigh, wiggling your tongue as you ate it up - and he was eating it up too, with his eyes feasting on what you were doing to him.

“Baby, please, I need it, please” he begged then, breathless and eager to fill a hole, any hole, and those words finally convinced you to give him what he craved.

“Want me to make you cum in my mouth, sweet boy?” you asked, loving the way he squirmed and leaned into your touch when you made him plead for release.

“Fuck- god, yes, please” he whined, and with one more satisfied smile you went back down on him.

He filled your mouth so tightly, lush and thick and warm just like his skin in the sun, your right hand finding his soft belly and your left loose around the base as you drooled all over him.

You got him nice and wet, coming up for air and to spit on the head, spreading your saliva with your hand generously pumping - he was so hard.

You let your jaw go slack and started to bob your head, twisting and slurping and humming against him as the series of whines and grunts you’d been craving filled your ears.

The noises he made were praise enough for you, but they came paired with soft reassurance in words whispered as the waves splashed against the luxurious boat. The sound of seagulls fighting over fish and crabs in the distance and the wind in your hair were fading into the background.

“Oh- oh, god, yes baby” he babbled, tilting his head and biting down on his lip “keep going, don’t stop, please”

You had no intention to stop now.

You’d teased him enough to get him there quickly and the way he was throbbing on your tongue indicated he would be filling your mouth with his release soon - you couldn’t wait any longer either.

A palm cupping his balls and gently thumbing at the soft skin coaxed a filthy, guttural groan from his chest, his fingers in your hair curling tight again.

With a wet pop, you let him fall from your lips only to huff a command, “cum all over my tongue, beautiful boy”

He was back in your mouth in an instant, sucked down your throat and pulsing as his thighs tensed up and the intricacies of his pebbling skin around his trimmed hair all you could see with how deep he was buried.

Then, he did as you’d told him a second ago and his hot release hit the roof of your mouth and then the back of your throat as you kept bouncing your head on his cock like any of your other holes usually would.

Tight lips closed, you caught all of it, not a drop escaping the suckling vacuum you formed around him. 

His guttural moan punctuated by his hips bucking into your face satisfied you deeply and yet left you wanting more. Your hands were all over him then as you moved off his cock and back into his lap to kiss him with your mouth full of his cum.

You shared his release like it was the whipped cream long forgotten rolling away from the lounge chairs and leaving speckles of white all over the wooden flooring.

He moaned into the kiss as if you were still sucking his fat cock, which was twitching with residual pleasure underneath you. 

Steady on his shoulders, swallowing what was left of him in your mouth and parting with one last sloppy kiss on his pillowy lips, you cradled your head in the crook of his neck, his arms looping tightly around you.

He held you there as he caught his breath and you listened to his heartbeat, smiling to yourself. 

Yeah - you could do this every day for the rest of your life.

[automaticlovercomputer]

Creating a Vertical Cucumber Garden: A Simple Guide

Transforming your gardening space by creating a vertical cucumber garden is a wonderful way to optimize space, improve plant health, and make harvesting easier. This approach is ideal for small gardens, balconies, or any area where space is limited. Here’s an easy-to-follow guide to help you set up and maintain a vertical cucumber garden.

Benefits of Vertical Gardening

Space-Saving: Perfect for small spaces, allowing you to grow more plants in a confined area.

Better Airflow: Reduces the risk of fungal diseases by improving air circulation around the plants.

Ease of Harvesting: Easier to spot and pick cucumbers hanging from the trellis.

Healthier Plants: Keeps fruits off the ground, reducing the risk of pests and rot.

Materials Needed

Cucumber seeds or seedlings

Trellis or vertical support structure (wooden frame, metal trellis, or netting)

Garden ties or soft twine

Fertile soil and compost

Watering can or hose

Step-by-Step Guide

1. Select the Right Cucumber Variety

Choose a variety suitable for vertical gardening. Vining types like 'Marketmore,' 'Straight Eight,' and 'Lemon Cucumber' are excellent choices.

2. Prepare Your Growing Area

Find a sunny spot in your garden or balcony that receives at least 6-8 hours of sunlight daily. Ensure the soil is well-draining and enriched with compost or organic matter.

3. Install the Trellis

A sturdy support structure is crucial. You can use:

Wooden or Metal Trellis: Sturdy and long-lasting.

Netting: Stretch strong garden netting between two posts.

String System: Tie strings from the top of a frame to the ground.

Ensure the trellis is securely anchored and stands at least 5-6 feet tall to support the growing vines.

4. Planting Cucumbers

Seeds: Sow seeds directly into the soil after the last frost date. Plant seeds about 12 inches apart.

Seedlings: If using seedlings, transplant them when they have at least two true leaves and the risk of frost has passed.

Place the plants close to the base of the trellis to encourage vertical growth.

5. Train the Vines

As the cucumber plants grow, guide the vines towards the trellis. Use garden ties, clips, or soft twine to gently secure the vines to the support. Check regularly to ensure the vines are climbing correctly.

6. Watering and Fertilizing

Watering: Cucumbers need consistent moisture. Water deeply at the base of the plants to avoid wetting the leaves, which can lead to diseases.

Fertilizing: Use a balanced, all-purpose fertilizer every 3-4 weeks. Avoid excessive nitrogen, which can lead to lush foliage but fewer fruits.

7. Pollination

Cucumber plants need pollination to set fruit. If natural pollination is insufficient, hand-pollinate by transferring pollen from male flowers (those without tiny fruits) to female flowers using a small brush or cotton swab.

8. Pest and Disease Management

Pests: Look out for common pests like aphids, cucumber beetles, and spider mites. Use insecticidal soap or neem oil if necessary.

Diseases: Monitor for signs of powdery mildew or downy mildew. Ensure good air circulation and avoid overhead watering to minimize fungal issues.

9. Harvesting

Cucumbers are typically ready to harvest 50-70 days after planting. Pick them when they are firm and green before they become overripe and turn yellow. Regular harvesting encourages the plant to produce more fruits.

10. End of Season Care

At the end of the growing season, remove the vines and any plant debris to prevent diseases from overwintering in the soil. Clean and store the trellis for future use.

Tips for Success

Mulch: Apply mulch around the base of the plants to retain moisture and suppress weeds.

Companion Planting: Growing cucumbers alongside beans, corn, or radishes can enhance growth and deter pests.

Crop Rotation: Avoid planting cucumbers in the same spot each year to reduce the risk of soil-borne diseases.

By following these simple steps, you can enjoy a thriving vertical cucumber garden, even in a limited space. Happy gardening!

[casspurrjoybell-25]

The Healer of Shakkara - Book Two

*Warning Adult Content*

Chapter 3 - The Insight - Part 1

Zenír walked slowly down the long, evenly spaced rows of trees in the Haven's sprawling orchards.

A soft breeze stirred the autumn leaves, making them rustle and whisper among themselves, while the scents of dry earth and overripe apples spiced the air.

The sunlight warmed his skin with the last heat of a season passed and the cool shade held the promise of colder times to come.

Using the long, slender staff of carved wood he'd been gifted upon arriving here, he swept the ground for obstacles and listened to the satisfying crunch of dried leaves beneath the soles of his soft boots.

Though he could not see it, he knew from what the others had described that the full fire of fall color surrounded him as the leaves of the fruit and nut trees turned yellow and orange and a deep, vibrant red.

He remembered the beauty of such seasonal displays, though he had not properly appreciated them when he was able and though he no longer mourned the loss of his sight, he felt a pang of regret that he could not see it now.

It was but a small pang and among the many other pleasant sensations of the afternoon, quickly passed and was forgotten.

The quiet peace that had come to rest in his heart since arriving in this place was deep and still and not easily disturbed.

He could not recall a time when he had felt as safe as he did here... able to truly let down his guard.

He was far from helpless and could defend himself well enough but the world favored the sighted.

Cities were built for those who could see and even his closest friends sometimes forgot, in casual conversation or the heat of action, that he could not perceive things as they did.

Here, though, in the sheltered valley of The Haven, he could live at his own pace, go for walks without fear of getting lost and rest easy in the knowledge he would not be preyed upon for his disadvantages.

Finding a pleasant spot to sit in the shade at the base of a tree, Zenír began to hum softly under his breath and then to sing.

He'd had little call to use his voice for several months and it felt good to give it a bit of exercise.

He sang the first short ballad that came to mind... one with a pleasant, if sorrowful melody.

I lost my love in Orneon, at Kyrnis by the sea. His ship was foundered in the waves, he ne'er came back to me.

By Fate's kind hand he did not drown but made his way to shore.

And there he met a maiden fair, Of me to think no more.

To Orneon I traveled far, to Kyrnis by the sea.

And so it was I saw him there, as happy as could be.

With broken heart and broken steps, I left him there to stay.

In Orneon to live and dwell but I shall not away.

I lost my love in Orneon, at Kyrnis by the sea.

My heart shall lie there evermore and waves shall bury me.

As he sang, he became aware he was no longer alone and smiled when Iksthanis's deep tones broke in upon the silence that followed the final note.

"That's a damned depressing tune," said he. "Don't you know any happy ones?"

"The original is worse," Zenír said, tilting his face up in Iksthanis's direction.

"The scorned lover murders the unfaithful man in a fit of jealous rage and then buries herself at sea."

"Or himself," Iksthanis said mildly. "Personally, I can't imagine hurting the one I loved, even in a fit of rage."

"That's why it's called 'insanity.' It makes you do things you would never do while sane."

"Even so," Iksthanis said, settling at his side. "I know in my bones that I would never harm a lover."

"A lover..." Zenír repeated half under his breath and turned away, knowing from the heat in his face that he blushed like a virgin.

Feelings had grown between himself and Iksthanis over the last year or so... so slowly he hadn't noticed at first.

Among all his companions 'Thanis had always been the most thoughtful and aware of his needs.

He always made sure Zen had a proper serving at meals and helped him navigate new and difficult spaces without making him feel like an invalid.

Gradually, though, his care had grown more attentive and more intimate.

A casual touch, a word, an inside joke, a small token here and there... little things added up to become something that neither could ignore... sweet as honey, hot as coals... sharp as steel and dizzying as heights.

When Iksthanis touched him, Zenír imagined sparks of fire on his skin... when he got close, Zenír's stomach fluttered and his heart beat as if he'd run a mile.

He'd never reacted in such a way to anyone and it had taken him a little time to understand what it meant.

Their friendship had outgrown its bounds and from attraction had edged towards love.

"The only lover I want, if he'd only deign to be mine," Iksthanis said and gently turned Zenír's face back towards his own with the palm of his hand.

Zenír felt the warmth of his breath and imagined the brush of his lips.

"If you will have me as I am, then I am yours," he whispered.

Iksthanis released him with a sigh, making Zenír miss the warmth of his nearness and shiver at its loss.

When the silence stretched too long, he lowered his head.

"Have I said something wrong?"

Iksthanis sighed again, though it was a fond sound and took Zenír's hand.

"No. I only wish... you could see yourself... as I see you.. beautiful and strong. I want you to understand... that you are a gift to me... not a burden. Until you do... I will dream and wait for your heart to catch up to mine."

Zenír frowned.

"'Thanis..."

"Never mind," the other man said and patted his hand. "Come. We've been summoned to the council chambers again. Apparently our young P'Yrha has gone missing and our friends here are considering what is to be done. You wouldn't happen to have any idea where he's gone, have you?"

"No more than do you," he said.

"Hmm. He's gone after Sev, plain enough. What will you tell the council?"

"The truth," Zenír said, allowing a hint of humor to color his tone.

"I haven't seen him."

[pagetreader]

After years of pinning for a man who had never seen past the line of platonic affection for her, Penelope was startled to find her thoughts lingering upon a very different face that afternoon. While Colin had been a dear friend to her, he’d never complimented her in the same manner as Mr. Tallmadge had. 

The latter had been eager to prove to her the worth she possessed within the first few minutes of their meeting, which was more than she could say for any man she’d come to be acquainted with in any capacity. What’s more, he’d been interested in the discussion of various academic subjects, particularly literature – her favorite, as it were. The only academic interest Colin appeared to possess was in his own anatomy. 

Knowing this caused Penelope to wonder if her love for the former was merely out of nostalgic familiarity, a childhood infatuation. In a sense, he was the safest choice, yet the two of them sadly had very little in common as adults. 

And so the youngest Featherington daughter permitted herself to think fondly of the clever and dashing Mr. Tallmadge with a little less guilt than before. Colin, after all, would never know he’d been mentally replaced, nor, did she think he would mind if he did, at least not for reasons beyond his slighted vanity. 

That night at the party, after satisfying the obligatory pleasantries, Penelope tried not to look too eager as she combed through the lively crowd in search of the subject of her daydreaming. Though earnest, she was also nervous. Upon their reunion, should she patiently await the fulfillment of his promise to dance or continue their earlier discussion of Hamlet? Perhaps he’d enjoy hearing her latest musings concerning the symbolism of Ophelia’s flowers in Act IV. 

The sudden shock of a cold drink splashing over her was quite the brisk jolt and Penelope nearly forgot her etiquette as she gasped, standing rigidly as the liquid dripped down into her stays and soaked through the fabric. 

"Apologies," she heard a familiar voice say, "but if you're Lady Thistletown, could you possibly wait until...? Oh." 

Then their eyes locked and she was gazing upon the face she’d been so determined to memorize mere hours before. Instantly, her gaping curled into a delighted, if not embarrassingly doltish smile. 

“Oh, M-Mr. Tallmadge!” she chirped in serendipity. 

Upon realizing who she was, he appeared embarrassed for his mistake, "Miss Featherington! I'm so sorry...are you hurt? Did I perhaps ruin your dress -- which looks lovely, by the way -- or...?" 

“It’s quite alright. Perhaps now Mother will not force me to wear it a second time. I’ve never much cared for the yellow she prefers me in. I feel akin to an overripe lemon…” 

Tallmadge chuckled ruefully, "Well, I've certainly given us a wonderful start to this evening. Would you like to get revenge and throw a flute of wine on me, perhaps? I'm already covered, so you might actually be doing me a favor."

“Don’t be preposterous, sir,” she insisted as she accepted the handkerchief he offered to dab at her front, “The wine has done little to impede your dapper. Besides, I’d sooner jump from the balcony than purposefully inflict harm upon you.” 

Oh my. Maybe she was being far too forward in her reassurance. Hopefully he didn't take offense to it.  

“I was hoping we might –” 

Unfortunately, that was when one Cressida Cowper, in all her wretchedly self-absorbed glory, made her presence known, her snooty posse following close behind. 

“My goodness, Penelope. I saw the accident from across the room and simply had to check on you. Are you alright? Your dress looks a dreadful mess,” she lamented, feigning a pout as she slapped her fan closed against her palm, “You should really clean yourself up before you become more of a spectacle.” 

With a fiendish little smirk, Cressida turned her attention toward Mr. Tallmadge, and while she had no true interest in him as a prospective husband, she did very much enjoy being the center of attention. 

“And what is your name, my good sir? I’m certain I’ve seen you before, but have not had the pleasure of learning your name.”

“There’s plenty of romance to be had in the pages of Hamlet,” Penelope said, surprising him further still. “Upon Ophelia’s death, Hamlet declares he loved her more than a thousand brothers ever could. His need for vengeance blinded him to that truth until it was too late.” Her smile faded a touch. “Of course, I suppose that is far more tragic than romantic in the end…” 

"Love and heartache go hand-in-hand, as far as I'm concerned," Benjamin replied, his expression rueful. "We often don't realize what we want, nor what we need until it's too late...but mercifully, most of us are granted the chance for happiness. Stories like Hamlet are more of a cautionary tale rather than the norm."

A faint pink touched Penelope's cheeks, much like rose petals bleeding into porcelain, and she laughed while admonishing, “Oh, you’re incorrigible, sir.”

"I don't deny it," he agreed, a sheepish grin lifting the corner of his mouth. "Though I confess, that's a far nicer word than anything I've heard growing up."

The young woman seemed to think a moment, then she held up her hands and reassured, “N-no, no. It would be an honor to spend the night with you, Mr. Tallmadge. O-on the dance floor, I mean!” 

Although Benjamin wished to tease her, he let her continue on, “And if a fraction of that time could be spent speaking academically, I would be most pleased.”

"Then we're in agreement," he replied, beaming brightly. "I'd be delighted to continue our talk, scholarly or otherwise. It's been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Miss Featherington."

Taking her hand seemed far too forward, given the newness of their friendship, so Benjamin settled on a bow of his head. "Until then..."

--

Although Benjamin would’ve much preferred to arrive fashionably late (if there was such a thing for men), his responsibility for Gregory required him to be there early – before the party, even, so while all the pomp and circumstance went on in the background, he tried to entertain his pupil with party-friendly jokes, a couple card tricks, and then, when even that failed to entertain him for long, he encouraged the young man to “people watch” and tell him what he saw. In Benjamin’s mind, it wasn’t rude at all; it was a creative exercise. 

His momentary reprieve came in the form of Violet Bridgerton, who came over and ushered Gregory off to meet some of the other young men his age. Although he was excused (for now), Benjamin knew to keep himself available, lest he be needed again.

Making an immediate path for the refreshments table, he grabbed a flute of wine and took a generous swallow, only to wince once he took a step back and crashed right into an unsuspecting bystander. His (mercifully white) wine spilled down over the front of his ascot, shirt and weskit, and he sighed while wiping off the front of his blazer with a handkerchief. Well, so much for making a good impression...

"Apologies," Benjamin said, turning around, "but if you're Lady Thistletown, could you possibly wait until...? Oh." All at once, the quip died on his tongue once he realized just who the accosted woman was, and embarrassed, he quickly apologized, "Miss Featherington! I'm so sorry...are you hurt? Did I perhaps ruin your dress -- which looks lovely, by the way -- or...?" Appraising her, he gave a rueful chuckle. "Well, I've certainly given us a wonderful start to this evening. Would you like to get revenge and throw a flute of wine on me, perhaps? I'm already covered, so you might actually be doing me a favor."

[coffeedrgn87]

Day 9: Autumn

Stepping out onto his private balcony, Laurent allows himself a quiet moment to relish in the sweet smell of overripe fruits, the crisp morning air, and pine needles. The scent of wood smoke, cinnamon and freshly baked bread lingers in the air along with dry grass and fading flower blooms. The nearby forest glows in various shades of yellow, orange, and red, encouraged by the slow-rising sun. Laurent watches it lazily stretch its rays along the morning sky and listens to the sounds of crops being harvested.

Flocks of birds migrate towards Southern Akelios for the winter, and the thought of Akelios fills Laurent with a restlessness he doesn’t know how to shake. It’s been getting progressively worse, and not even half a day in the saddle followed by an afternoon of heavy sword fighting can exhaust him enough to feel calm. He shivers, feeling a prickling of his scalp and a quiver deep in his stomach. The disquietude makes him twist and pull at the laces of his Veretian shirt, loosening them just enough to be able to slip his fingers underneath Damen’s golden wristlet. The metal is warm against his skin and feels all too familiar, but it does nothing to assuage the burning hunger he feels every day, all day.

It’s been two seasons, and Laurent doesn’t know how to survive a third. He closes his eyes and, taking deep breaths, he smiles wistfully to himself and dreams of Damen’s return. There’s a heavy weight in his chest. His heart stutters as he clings to the memory of the last time Damen enveloped him in his arms and held him tight all through the night. Laurent feels foolish for his maudlin thoughts, but he cannot help himself. It’s been too long, and he no longer feels complete.

He huffs out a soft laugh at the absurdity of it all, even feels a tiny bit angry over the fact that Damen has changed him so much, and slowly opening his eyes, he blinks a few times. Nothing much has changed. Autumn is still in full swing, but Laurent’s no longer interested in appreciating its beauty. Instead, he decides to head back inside and hide under the covers of his bed.

He makes it as far as turning around, then gasps, feels his mouth fall open and stares, eyes bulging. Shaking his head, he feels a flush of red surge up his neck. The colour flows into his cheeks, making his skin tingle. Laurent’s heart races in his chest, thumping against its cage, and a fluttery feeling spreads from the centre of his belly into the rest of him. His breath catches, and he feels the tender beginnings of a soft smile that continues to build as he scrambles to find his voice. It is shaky, halting, but with an edge of softness that makes Laurent flush even harder.

“Damianos,” he whispers.

Damen smiles brightly, and taking two steps forward, he spreads his arms. Laurent lets himself fall into the familiar embrace and presses as much of his body against Damen’s as he possibly can. The idea is to disappear inside Damen, if at all possible.

“You wrote mid-winter,” he murmurs, face buried in Damen’s chiton-lad chest.

Damen huffs out a laugh, and Laurent melts at the tender, loving kiss Damen presses to the top of his head.

“I had a change of heart about a minute after I dispatched the messenger.”

To Laurent’s absolute shock, a choked sob wrenches itself from somewhere deep inside his chest.

“I missed you.”

The quietly whispered confession results in wet eyes and stained cheeks, and Laurent is equally as horrified as he is astonished over the level of his mawkishness.

[millllenniawrites]

warmth (Poe Dameron x Reader)

words: 5.6k yes it is the longest thing on this blog shush

summary: The Resistance’s victory celebration quickly turns sour when their trusted Commander, Poe Dameron, recognizes a toxin in the air. This favourite doctor is the only one he trusts with the information he has. You’re the only one you trust to look after him.

warnings: smut (this is 18+ people); afab!reader; porn with plot; sex pollen so that automatically makes it dubcon; doctor!reader; swearing, drugs, dirty talk, Poe Dameron is so whiny when he’s horny holy fuck; bondage; oral (f receiving); unprotected sex (wrap it up folks); pet names (good girl, honey, sweetheart, baby); this relies on Poe’s spice runner past (the one I use in Helix, not the gross canon one) but it’s not directly dealt with and it’s super vague 

a/n: I was trying to find a place to feature Kade Sol who is my baby sunshine light of my life from the Helix series and I snuck him in here! also this was a worldbuilding writing exercise that somehow turned into the filthiest smut I’ve ever written so there’s that 

__

As the last First Order ship disappeared from the sky, a victory cry sounded through the Resistance fighters. Poe Dameron landed on the tarmac of Cida’s Travel Station, popping the hood of his X-Wing. He grinned, watching the rest of Black and Blue squadron land around him, all hopping out of their ships and rejoicing on the deck.

They didn’t lose anyone in the air today. That alone was cause for celebration.

It had been three weeks of trying to break the First Order’s blockade on the Cida system. King Caran had graciously accepted the help of the Resistance, backed by the New Republic’s ships, and allowed them to set up a temporary base on Cida Prime. In exchange for liberating their system, His Majesty had granted the Resistance usage of their hyperspace lanes, which would cut the transport time from the Hosnian system to D’Qar in half. An easy trade, if anyone had bothered to ask Poe.

Which no one did, these days. But he was doing his best. 

Kade, his captain, shook him from his thoughts as he called from the ground, “The King is asking for you, Dameron.”

He dropped out of his ship, quickly hugging Kade, grateful as always to have his best friend by his side, before jogging into the command centre of the makeshift air base, where King Caran and Admiral Ackbar were waiting.

“Commander Dameron,” the King’s booming voice sounded through the small room as Poe entered.

Poe bowed low, nearly folding himself completely in half. “Your Majesty.” 

A pair of Cidan guards’ in navy uniforms flanked him as he trailed behind the King and Ackbar. Poe found himself tuning out the negotiations, agreeing with Ackbar on instinct as the two men spoke. They took more twists and turns than Poe could count. He began marking various basins, leaking different coloured smoke as landmarks, in case he needed to find his way out. 

Not that he thought the King wasn’t deserving of their trust. This was a war. He just wasn’t going to risk it. 

As they entered what appeared to be the King’s office, Poe felt almost out of place. Like he was floating, a gentle burning feeling in his gut the only thing grounding him. 

In a turn of events Poe was not expecting, he found himself missing you.

He loved Kade. Of course, he loved Kade. His second. His partner in crime. But the flight home was sure to be a boring one without you.

It wasn’t tradition, necessarily. But each time the two of you had taken a mission together, it had been a resounding success. And on your way home, he’d celebrated between your legs. 

And you’d taken care of him after, like the good girl he knew you were. 

The burning moved lower, a sweet smell settling in his nose. One Poe recognized, from a time before the New Republic Navy. 

Fuck.

Voice panicked, “King Caran,” Poe stood, realizing he had interrupted the King. Breathing heavily, he scanned the room, eyes locking on a small stone in the corner. It sat on a warming plate, small tendrils of yellow smoke disappearing into the air.

Caran laughed, following Poe’s gaze. “You know your therapies, my boy.” The man seemed… pleased. Proud. “A gift, from us to you.”

“With all due respect, your Majesty,” Poe coughed, a phantom of the sensation he had only felt once before aching deep in his lungs. “Most organisms outside of the Cidan’s can’t handle Stiima the way your graciousness can.”

“My apologies, my friend. We thought that it would help to calm things. For negotiations, of course.” Caran met Ackbar’s eyes, anxiety evident. “Please understand it is simply the way we celebrate such a great success as we have seen today.”

“I understand, your Majesty.” Ackbar side-eyed Poe, concern evident. “Are you alright, Commander?” 

The ringing in Poe’s ears drowned out the last of their conversation. The next thing he knew, he was back on the tarmac, shouting, “Kade. Get everyone in the air. Now.”

He beelined for his shuttle, locking himself in the cockpit. Hand clenching as he felt himself relax into the passenger seat, the pain of his nails digging into his palm grounding him. 

“Poe, you good?” Kade banged on the door.

He didn’t answer, focusing on the 

Kade finally got the door open. “Poe, what the fuck?” 

“Fly.” Poe said through gritted teeth. “I need you to fly.” 

So Kade did. 

They didn’t dock to the main carrier, flying above it. They would wait until it jumped to hyperspace before they followed. 

Poe watched as fighter after fighter flew into the large ship. Ears filled with cotton, he barely heard Ackbar’s order over the comms for anyone in a shuttle to stay away from the ship.

Code Orange.

Quarantine protocol.

Poe couldn’t stop his mind from going back to you. The last time you were on mission together. The way your mouth felt.

Your eyes. 

The innocent way you would smile, naked and spread out under him… 

“Poe?” Kade asked, sitting forward in his seat. “Are you alright?” 

Poe hit a comm button on his dash, connecting him directly to command. 

“Commander Dameron, are you alright?” A young man’s voice came through his headset. 

“I need you to connect me to med.” 

“Is someone—” 

“Connect me to med, officer. I need to speak with the doctor.” 

*

You opened the hull door of Poe Dameron’s shuttle, a small case of bacta and other various medications tucked under your arm. Coughing into your mask as you entered the dark ship, you quickly located the panel to seal the door behind you, saluting the mech on the ground that would lock you in after the door eased shut.

The convoy had landed hours ago. The medic team had been slowly working through shuttles, administering antidotes to those that could take them.  

It wasn’t poison. You’d ruled that out early. But the obvious effects of dehydration were evident. Poe seemed to know what it was, from the way he sounded in the recording Ackbar had passed off to med, but no one else was familiar with the symptoms everyone seemed to be presenting. 

Looking around, you stayed still for a moment, letting your eyes adjust to the dark. You had been in his shuttle before; you knew you were in the cargo bay, and if you followed the wall to your right, you would find the ladder that would lead you to the cockpit. Your mission. The plan. Assessing Poe and Captain Kade Sol’s symptoms. 

But if you went to the left and pushed the thin black curtain aside, you would find the small closet that served as his bed on long missions.

Your bed, when you joined him. 

It was hard not to smile, remembering the long nights in hyperspace with the famous Commander. The way his curls tangled around your fingers. How his stubble felt against the inside of your thighs…

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you shook your head with a small embarrassed laugh and began to work your way to the ladder.

Even with the grey cloth pulled tight across your mouth and nose, you could still smell the musk of the air, heavy in your lungs. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it had a true weight to it, like slightly overripe fruit or warm spices, much worse than the three shuttles you had cleared before this. The rungs of the ladder were warm like the air, slick with moisture, a telltale sign that Poe and Kade had done as asked. There had been no air circulating in the ship since they landed. If any of the airborne toxins had gotten into the ship, it wouldn’t have had the chance to escape outside. 

You smiled as your hands brushed their oxygen canisters, hearing the slow leak of fluid. Always thorough, Dameron…

Your hands grazed the small railing that guarded the catwalk to the cockpit as you made your way down to the sealed door.

“Commander Dameron? Captain Sol?” you called, hoping they could hear you through the dense metal. “It’s Doctor--”

The hiss of the door caused you to jump and you stepped back, taking in the form of the Captain. The large man nearly filled the doorway, dark clothes making it difficult to see him in the blackness of the ship. “I know who you are. Command came through a little while ago.” His voice as gruff as always, but he said it with a smile. “I’ve had no symptoms, but I figure you still need to check me out?”

“Yes, Captain.” You nod, “If you wouldn’t mind going back into the cockpit for me…”

He grumbled something you couldn’t make out but did what you asked, sitting in the only passenger seat in the small room, empty save for them.

“Where’s Commander Dameron?” you asked as you knelt in beside Kade, fingers on his wrist.

You ran through the basics of your training as he talked. 

“Poe didn’t get so lucky. Got hit worse than most people, from what we’ve heard. He was in the King’s office. Said something about a… diffuser?” When you nodded, he seemed to relax. “That’s why he made the call. Asked me to lock him up until a medic got here. He was specifically asking for you, so I guess we got lucky.”

You were grateful for the dark, hiding the way you flushed. “Guess so.” Unable to hide the warmth in your voice, you gave Kade a small smile. “There isn’t a brig on this ship. Where—"

“His quarters. Stun cuffs magnetized to the wall.” He seemed almost embarrassed, ducking his head. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with him, exactly. Just that he hasn’t really stopped making noise since about twenty minutes after we landed.”

You hesitated. Generally careful about the information you give out to patients, you weren’t sure it would be appropriate to explain, but Kade and Poe were a package deal. Rarely did you see one without the other. They’d been joined at the hip since long before they had defected to the Resistance together.

“It’s a potent aphrodisiac.” You murmured, standing behind him and tilting his head to check for discolouration on his neck, “Most people got hit with… well, let’s call it Level 1 symptoms. Loose tongue. Unable to really control what they’re saying, or at least not thinking it through. Level 2 are action: making choices you wouldn’t ordinarily make. The… aphrodisiac part. If you get to level two, we’ve found they wear off in about three hours. No antidote needed. Just fluids and rest, after it all. But you’ve been in here almost a whole day…” and Poe’s condition hadn’t improved.

“Which means what? He’s at level 3?”

There wasn’t a level 3. 

Coming around in front of Kade, you nodded slowly. “Was he complaining of… pain?” you flinched as you said the word, knowing the man had no idea what you were truly asking.

“Right before he asked me to gag him. He had moments he was lucid… basically told me to leave him locked up, no matter what he said.” 

There was only one other person that had said the drug hurt, and she had been fine for a few hours now. 

Kade chewed idly on his bottom lip, seemingly lost in thought. “Not easy being locked in while your best friend is raving like a madman.”

“The gag was a good call. He’ll thank you once he’s back to himself.” You tried for another smile. “You seem okay. Vitals are normal. Rosa is just outside. I’ll let her know that she can open the door. She’ll give you a mask and escort you to showers, and then back to your quarters. They’ll send a medical droid to check you out fully before you’re allowed to intermix with the base. Just in case.”

“Thank you, doc.” Kade stood, heading out the door to the rest of the shuttle. “Poe is—”

“I know.” You nodded, not really thinking through your words. “Closet. Curtain.”

Kade paused, turning to look at you for a moment. His eyebrow twitched, just slightly, before he dropped down the ladder. You appreciated that he hadn’t said anything, having a sneaking suspicion that he didn’t know you only off your medical reputation.

Your excursions with Poe were a relative secret, not wanting command to restrict you going on missions together because of your… you weren’t really sure what to call it. Enough people had stories about him that you knew you weren’t exclusive, but being with him was different. It had always been different. 

Though you supposed all the people he took to bed could say the same thing. 

You pushed the heavy curtain aside.

He was laid back on his cot, only one of his boots on. Poe struggled against his cuffs, attached to the wall above his head, and whined through the gag in his mouth. The bed squeaked and shook. It was a significantly less pleasant sound when you were standing there, not on top of him…

You shook your head quickly, a reminder that you were working, before you knelt on the ground next to Poe’s head. His eyes widened as he focused on you. Reaching for the fabric cutting into his cheeks, your fingertips grazed his jaw. “I’m gonna remove this, okay?” you murmured before eased the gag out of his mouth, letting the loop of dark cloth hanging around his neck.

“Sweetheart…” he whined the moment his mouth was free to move, his voice cracking around the dryness of his throat. You set your med case on the floor and opened it quickly, digging through bandages and bacta patches before finding what you needed. You lifted a small canteen to his lips, letting the water trickle into his mouth. He coughed, spluttering a little before he was tilting his head away, gasping, “Please, sweetheart. I need…”

You shushed him gently, swiping a cloth over his lips. Trying to distract him, you softened your voice, “You got everyone out before it could get bad, Poe. Everyone else is safe.” 

He turned his head to look up at the ceiling, seeming to relax a little. Your eyes found his throat. Watching him breathe, swallow, reminded you of the way his skin tasted… 

Fuck. 

You coughed again into your mask, murmuring, “I’ll be right back.” and ignoring the way Poe whined as you let the curtain fall behind you. 

Once you were a few steps away from him, you could breathe a little easier. The air was hot, fucking scalding through your mask, and you tilted your head back a bit to force yourself to breathe deeply. Slowly. Calmingly. 

You reached up, touching the pad of the in-ear to firmly press it into your head, “Rosa? You copy?” 

The woman’s high voice came through, louder than before. Her voice seemed to be directed straight into your skull. “Everything alright in there, doc?” 

“Everything’s fine. Commander Dameron has symptoms we haven’t seen before and I think I’m contaminated. It’s not bad. I can work through it. But I’m going to take my comm out just in case.” You really didn’t need command hearing your unfiltered thoughts.

She grumbled, “Maker. You sure you’re alright?” You swore you could almost see the way her eyebrows furrowed. 

“Yeah, Rosa. I’m good. Level 1 or less. Just make sure those doors stay locked until we come off it. Don’t open them for anyone. Even the General.” 

She turned on the link long enough that you heard her laugh before she said, “Sounds good. If we need you, we’ll come through the cockpit.” A brief pause, “Stay safe, doc.” 

“You too, Rosa.” 

Pulling the plastic out of your ear, you double checked that you had it turned it off before returning to Poe’s side. 

He relaxed the moment you were back in view, hips stilling on the bed. You tried not to stare at the obvious tent in his pants. 

His eyes seemed to focus better than before, saying quietly, “I heard you. Talking to Rosa. You shouldn’t have touched me.” 

He was right. It was probably your proximity to him that did it. But you had to do your job. That was your only priority, of course. Of course…

“Like I’ve ever been good at keeping my hands to myself with you around.” You froze as the words slipped past your lips, unable to stop them. 

He didn’t seem bothered by the sudden accidental honesty, but his eyes glazed over again, trailing over you. “I miss your hands…” he groaned, biting his lip and sending a wave of heat through you. 

“Careful, or I’m gonna put that gag back in.” Voice sounding forced even to your own ears, you sat down on the floor, your back resting against the bed. 

He mumbled something you couldn’t quite understand, until he repeated himself. “Take yours off. The… the mask. If you’ve got it…” 

He was right. If you’d already been exposed, there wasn’t any point in keeping it on. It was hot. There was no one in there but you. You weren’t hurting anyone. You could take the mask off. It would be fine. You—

“Sweetheart…” Poe groaned, rattling the cuffs. 

You ripped the mask off your face, tossing it near your medical kit. 

“G-good. Can you… can you please take my arms down, honey?” he tugged at the cuffs again. If you had turned to look at him, you would have seen the desperation you knew was painted across his features. “It hurts.”  

His whine sent a pang of guilt through you. “Why did you know what the drug was?” you asked, hoping it would distract him.

“It’s used in party drugs. The way it burns… it’s not like anything else I’ve ever—” He shifted, trying to get more comfortable, despite the way his pants were twisted around his legs from hours of struggling. The fabric stuck against him and pulled, and he moaned, guttural and sweet and chipping away at the wall of self-control you had haphazardly built against him. 

“Poe,” Meant to be chastising, the word landed somewhere in the realm of yearning and breathless. 

“Anything, sweetheart. Please.” Rolling his head back and forth on the bedroll under his head, he sounded close to tears as he whined, “I think my dick is going to fall off if you don’t touch it.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, helping to break the cloud of arousal circling your head. “I don’t think that’s a medically sound diagnosis, Commander.” 

“Say that again…” he breathed. 

“Medically—”

“No.” 

Your sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the shuttle. 

“Commander?” 

He tilted his head back, groaning, “You say my title and I can’t stop thinking about being inside you.” 

“It’s just the drugs.” 

“You know it’s not just the drugs.” You could have sworn it was a growl with the way the low sound of his voice tore through you. “I need you to touch me, honey.” 

“Will you stop talking if I do?” 

“Come lay with me and give me one hand back. Then I’ll stop talking.” 

Negotiating meant he was lucid, if only partially. 

“I thought you said it makes it worse if I touch you.” You squeezed your eyes shut, like that could block out the image that his soft gasps conjured in your mind. 

“It’ll get worse before it gets better.” 

“Always got a fucking answer for everything…” You grumbled, but it worked. Carefully, you eased yourself up off the floor and onto his small cot and leaned over him. One ring of the cuffs released with the click of a few buttons. 

After freeing the gag from around his neck and tossing it to the floor, Poe’s free hand immediately reached for you, gripping your thigh. Even though the thick fabric of your pants, you could feel how warm he was. “Sweetheart…” 

“You said you’d stop talking.” 

“Lay down. Lay down and I’ll stop talking.” 

You had agreed to it. And when his fingers dug into your thigh and the wave of relief washed over you at his touch, you weren’t about to argue. 

So you laid down, back to him, letting his free hand roam up and down your side. Under your shirt. Down under the top of your pants that he didn’t bother to undo. There wasn’t any focus to his movements. Where he touched you, you relaxed, and as his touch moved on, your skin burned. 

You didn’t notice the high-pitched whine leaving your parted lips until Poe’s hand came to rest on your throat. 

“Does it hurt?” He traced from your jaw to your collarbone, over and over, putting just enough pressure on your neck that you were gasping. 

“N-no… Are you…? Does it hurt for you?” 

“This is better. You being close makes it better.” 

“It’s just warm.” That was the only way to describe it. It was like he had set you on fire. Everywhere he had touched ached. 

He groaned, breath hot against your ear as he rutted his hips against you. “Let me help, sweetheart…” No amount of squirming was going to make the heat go away and you couldn’t figure out how he could be so slow about all of this. “I can make you feel good. I can make it go away. Please…” His fingers trailed across the exposed skin of your stomach, soothing the burning feeling that wracked your body. 

You gripped his wrist, bringing his hand up under the hem of your shirt, needing his cooling touch. Arching your back, your ass grazed him and you groaned together.  

“Please sweetheart.” he begged, voice low and sending vibrations through your back where he pressed against you. “Let my other hand down. I promise I’ll make it worth it.” He rattled the cuff still glued to the wall for good measure. 

He didn’t have to ask you twice. Rolling over, you shoved him onto his back and swung a leg over his hips. Grinding down as you reached over him, you released his hands, leaving the cuffs on the wall, up and out of the way. He was quick to flip you onto your back, hand cradling the back of your head as his lips met your neck. 

“Pretty girl…” Poe murmured as his hand tangled in your hair, wrenching your head back to expose your neck. “Such a pretty girl for me… so fucking sweet…” 

“Poe… Poe, please.” The whine left you before you could fully decide what you were begging for. Just more. More of him. His hands on your body. His lips on your skin. 

The heaviness of the air weighed you to the cot, your knees down to the thin mattress as he slotted himself between your legs – still fully clothed – and you fell apart in his arms. Gasping into his mouth, body convulsing, you could barely move with the way he was positioned above you. You couldn’t open your eyes. You could barely breathe with the way every small movement sent searing heat straight to your core. 

“Fuck.” His dark eyes focused on your heaving chest. “Do that again.” 

He fought with the ties on your pants, tearing the sides as he forced them down your legs, taking your underwear with them.

 It was all you could do to keep from screaming as he sunk two fingers into you. 

Each movement of his fingers battled the heat coursing through you and let you come back to yourself, if only for a moment. His other hand splayed out on your stomach to keep you still. He pushed your shirt up and you ripped it over your head. 

Your head spun as you realized he was still completely clothed. 

Leaning down, he sunk his teeth into the inside of your thigh. Where you expected pain, pleasure ran down your legs. Following his trail of bite marks with soft kisses, up closer to where you needed him, he blew softly on your folds and you cried out, bucking off the cot. 

You could hear the squeaking of the bed as you squirmed. Each laboured breath Poe took as he nestled himself between your trembling legs. The rasp in his voice as he murmured, “...wettest fucking cunt I’ve ever seen...” before he lowered his face to meet the apex of your thighs. 

His mouth on you didn’t offer the relief you were so desperately searching for. It somehow made it worse, every swipe of his tongue followed by a trail of fire. 

You pushed at his head but he barely responded. “Poe… Poe please… I need your cock…” 

He hummed lightly against you, his tongue working you slowly, like you weren’t threatening to burn up underneath him. 

Finally, you grabbed onto a handful of his curls and pulled. 

He only looked up in mild annoyance. Gripping your wrist tight, he forced your hand to the cot. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you.” Though the words were soft, his tone was gruff. 

Poe slowed his soft circles on your clit and you whined again, pushing up into his mouth. “Stay still.” He mumbled against you. 

Each of his motions were so methodical, you could have sworn you were the only one dealing with symptoms. Until he glanced up at you with his almost-black eyes. 

You stopped breathing.

You weren’t afraid. You could never be afraid of Poe. But you’d never seen him so unhinged. Like he was going to jump, and you were coming with him. 

He snatched up both your wrists, leaning over you. Tipping your head back, you tried to kiss him but he moved further, up above your head. 

In one quick motion, he locked both your hands in the cuffs on the wall. 

“I need it. Please. I need--” He didn’t finish the sentence, hooking his hands under your knees and spreading you out for him. His tongue found your clit again and you couldn’t hear your own scream over the rush of blood in your head. 

He’d always been accommodating. He took constructive criticism well and was determined to get you off, no matter what he had to relearn, when the two of you had fucked before. 

Now, he took each of those little pieces and, like he’d been given the code to your body, he took you apart. 

Every stroke of his tongue would have seemed planned if not for the way he moaned into your skin, the way he grinded his hips into the cot beneath him. You gave up fighting against the cuffs, instead focusing on rolling your hips against his face. 

He held still, letting you move the way you wanted. Letting you use his tongue. Guiding your hips. It wasn’t until he set you down and you opened your eyes that you realized that he was dripping with you.

His chin glistened as he sat up and yanked his shirt over his head. His eyes didn't leave yours as he undid his pants, shucking them off and tossing them somewhere with his shirt. You didn't care. You didn’t care where his clothes were or where yours had disappeared to. 

“My-- the cuffs. Poe, I need to touch you…” 

Your hands were in his hair the moment he released you, pulling his mouth to yours. He tasted of you, and the heaviness in the air, and the familiarity of him that you’d grown so intoxicated by. 

Ordinarily, he’d tease you. Just like this, your legs spread for him. He’d drag the head of his cock over you until you stopped threatening him, until you melted and became putty in his hands and your begging became wordless. 

But he didn’t have the patience. You could see it in his face. He angled his hips, sliding into you slowly. 

With this, there was relief. But it came as quick as it went and you were again whining under him, your cunt clenched tight around him. 

He pushed deeper, his face tucked into your neck. “Relax, baby. Relax. You’re so-- so fucking…”

You didn’t know how he was going so slow. You didn’t know how he managed to stop, only halfway inside you. 

All you knew was that you needed him. 

You pulled his hips into yours. After two orgasms, there was no resistance. He bottomed out, gasping into your mouth. “Pretty girl…” 

“Fu… Fuck me. Poe please please fuck me--” You pulled at his shoulders, his hair, grinding up into him as much as you could with him fully on top of you. “It hurts. Please…” 

Whatever well of self control he’d been drawing from seemed to have dried up. Snapping his hips into yours, he kissed you. 

His tongue dominated your mouth, not giving you space to breathe. Or think. Or do anything other than take what he was giving you. Your nails dug into his upper arms, leaving little crescent moons behind. His soft gasps of encouragement had you writhing beneath him. 

“Perfect little… You take me so well, honey. Like you were fucking made for me…” 

His words alone threatened to take you over the edge. 

The burning came to a throbbing head in your core and you arched up into him, trying to pull him closer. Deeper. Anything to quell the fire inside you. 

“Poe… Commander… P-please let me cum…” You weren’t in control of your words anymore. You weren’t in control of anything. “I need you.” 

You wrapped your legs more tightly around him and his hips stuttered but he wasn’t stopping. Not for fucking anything.

“Let me feel you, pretty girl.” He growled against your neck. 

And you unraveled. 

The relief washed over you in waves as you lay beneath him. Between each peak, you could hear your own panting, feel the way your body fluttered around him. 

You floated in the bliss.

Vaguely, you felt yourself roll over. Something cold dug into your side, but you couldn’t figure out how to move. Or figure out how to want to. 

Your chest was still heaving as he traced along your ribs. A warm body came flush with your back. Fire trailed his dancing fingers. 

“Sweetheart…” A soft moan at your ear. Breath, warm on your neck, sending a ripple through you. He pressed his hips forward, his hard cock sliding against your ass. “I need more. Please?” 

You shifted your aching hips back towards him. “Please.” 

*

You weren’t sure how long passed before you returned to normal – sated and thoroughly exhausted, but normal. Your skin no longer burned at the gentlest of touches. You could stand to look at him, to draw over the planes of his chest as he laid beside you without feeling the unyielding need for his cock inside you. 

Your fingertips traced gently over the straining cords of muscle in his neck and he shuddered. 

“You bit me.” He finally whispered. 

You dissolved into a fit of giggles, curled up against his side. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you onto his chest. 

“I’m sorry.” You laughed against his neck, kissing over the hickies you’d left behind. 

“Don’t be. It was hot.” 

“Where’d I bite you?” You propped yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him. 

He tapped his upper arm, right underneath a series of bite marks. Ducking your head, you kissed over them, murmuring soft ‘I’m sorry’s between pecks. 

“It’s okay. Really.” He tapped under your chin and you met his gaze. “Was that okay? We’ve never used cuffs or anything before and I’m really sorry--” 

You kissed him to cut him off. “I’m okay. I trust you. You know that, right?” 

He didn’t answer. Instead, he rolled on top of you, an intensity in his eyes that would have scared you if you didn’t know him. 

“I’m glad it was you.” Forehead pressed to yours, you shuddered as his soft breaths fanned across your lips. “I was hoping it would be you.” 

Your breath caught. Gently, you brushed away the curls that fell in his face, tilting your face up and bringing your lips to his again. 

He mumbled between kisses, “Can I take you for dinner?” You were too stunned to say anything, letting him kiss your bottom lip gently. He lingered at the corners of your mouth, leaving light kisses behind. “Hm? Will you let me take you out, sweetheart?” 

“On a date?” 

“If you don’t want it to be a date, it can just be a thank-you dinner--” 

“It can be a date. Can it be a date?” 

Giggling against your mouth, he said, “It can. I’d like it to be.” 

“We should probably get out of this shuttle first.” 

“Maybe put some clothes on before that?” 

“Maybe.” Your nose brushed his. “Maybe I’d like to kiss you first.” 

“Maybe I’ll let you.” 

[herochicklyrrie007]

Apples

@hpsaffics

Day 12 Apple picking It had seemed like a horrible idea, being outside, picking things from trees, being outside! Pansy did not care of outside activities, she didn't care for the bugs that were flittering around her head. She didn't care for the buzzing sound that convinced her there were bees closing in on her. She really, really did not like bees.  She'd been stung by one as a child in one of her family's many gardens. It had not been a fun experience and she had absolutely no desire to repeat it. “Pans, come on, they said the that the trees on the far end haven't been picked over yet!” Ginny called. Pansy glared at her. “I don't like bees.” “Then ignore them. They're interested in flowers and while you are named for one, they're not interested in you. Come on, I want to get at least a bucket to try and make a pie for Sunday dinner.” “They sell pies,” Pansy muttered, following Ginny. “They sell apples too, in buckets, at the shop where we came in. No one would be the wiser!” “They don't taste the same as fresh picked ones, Pansy. And you agreed it was my turn to pick the activity. I didn't complain about the fashion show you nearly dragged me to last weekend.” “That's because it was beautiful and there were no bees!” Pansy argued, but didn't stop following Ginny down the row of large trees. She had to admit there was a light beauty in the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves. “It was boring. Now, here we are, according to the map, these are the ones we're after,” Ginny said, stopping and looking at a row. She set the yellow bucket down on the ground. “Looks like we can reach most of these without a ladder, although, some of the ones up there do look even riper.” “Can't we just hover them down and be done with it?” “No magic, you agreed.” “What was I thinking,” Pansy muttered, reaching out and plucking a red apple from the lower branch of one of the trees. She held it in her hand, looking at its perfect roundness. “One down, the rest of the bucket to go,” Ginny exclaimed. “Here, you work on this side and I'll go on that one, moving the bucket between us.” Pansy nodded, plucking off another apple and setting it in the bucket. She watched Ginny do the same, soon they were moving down the row of trees, each adding more and more apples to their bucket. That's when Pansy saw it, the perfect apple, she reached through the branches for it, only for her fingertips to touch something soft and not round. She peered through the branches and nearly laughed when she saw Ginny's eyes looking back at her. They'd both reached for the same apple.  Pansy let Ginny have it, laughing softly at how this could be considered fun, not that she'd admit it. And Ginny had been right, the bees were completely ignoring her, more interested in the overripe fruits that had fallen from the trees. Soon they had filled the bucket and were taking turns lugging it back to the shop at the front of the orchard. “Maybe this wasn't so bad,” Pansy finally said. “Told you that it'd be fun,” Ginny laughed. “I wouldn't go that far,” Pansy countered. “Fine, want to help me bake the pie?” “No, I have to repaint my nails, and wash the apple out of my hair,” Pansy stated. Ginny only laughed louder, knowing Pansy had no interest in cooking, baking, or anything that involved using their state of the art kitchen. Ginny didn't mind, she had no interest in the giant walk in closet Pansy had insisted as a necessity. Being different was what made them work.

[silence-burns]

Please Hate Me //part 37

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on: “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine​ Who would have thought that babysitting a god could be so much fun?

Genre: slow-burn, enemies to lovers

The vast sitting area of the rooms was where Loki and you spent the rest of the night. It was a comfortable place, clad in silks and velvets, but there was a certain tension in the air that prevented you from enjoying it fully. 

The sounds coming from outside, mostly from the wilderness of gardens beyond the balcony. They were nothing of what you might've experienced on Earth. The wild shrieks followed by soft cooing and voices unnervingly similar to child's laughter sent shivers down your spine whenever you tried to imagine what sort of creature might make them. 

And how close it was.

There was fruit left on the table in a large bowl polished to the point of mirroring whatever came close to it. Some of them resembled in shape what you knew from Earth, but there were many that didn't. 

You reached for a yellow roundish one and peeled the skin off. It had a sour taste of overripe mush. 

Loki munched on small blue berries while he sat by the fire. He did his best to remain calm, but his foot kept twitching nervously every now and then. 

"How many assassinations have you been through?" you asked when you sat next to him. He turned to let you put your head on his knees. 

"Two for political reasons, back on Asgard. Some idiots thought they could wipe out the ruling dynasty and take over. There was one more when Thor and I have been sent as ambassadors to a place newly conquered and visibly unhappy about it. And one when I just didn't get along with some noble. To this day I have no idea why," he stated with a smile that said otherwise. 

His finger followed the plane of your brow tenderly. 

"Sounds like you were a dick to the wrong person. You have that effect on people." 

"...could be."

A soft knock at the door ended the moment. You looked through the balcony. The colors began to shift. 

A man you'd never seen before waited for you in the corridor. You weren't sure if he was a guard, but the thin, needle-like sword by his side suggested so. Or maybe no one there felt safe anymore. 

Loki took your hand as you followed the silent man. He was as tall as the High Prince and the Queen, but of a slender build, almost as if he would break should any pressure be applied to his bones. What startled you the most was that you were finally able to see him clearly. The shadows still seemed to cling to him as a second skin, but there was no blurriness that made your head hurt like yesterday. 

His sharp and cold eyes noticed you watching him. There was no softness to his features. The untamed darkness of his skin shifted wildly as a storm front would swallow the sky in endless hunger. 

He guided you through winding paths between the pillars in shades of off-gray, partially hidden under the climbing ropes of tiny flowers. The breeze snuck between them, careful as to not make a sound. 

The man led you to a terrace bathed in shadow from overhanging roses. Their thick thorns and sturdy branches intertwined savagely, forming a close-packed, unbreakable surface. 

"High Prince." Loki bowed his head toward the lord waiting underneath the roses. You quickly followed suit. . 

The guard left you without a word, walking away on silent, bare feet. 

The High Prince wore a tunic of deep blues and intricate patterns of interlaced branches, or maybe animals, or maybe spiders with their long, thin legs creeping from behind whatever tried to run. The design shifted whenever you thought you finally grasped it. You turned your eyes away before it became impossible. 

"Despite the outrage among my people," he said in a tone rich with shimmering starlight, "I still hope this mess can be solved bloodlessly. And quickly." 

His head was close to the concentrated woven wall of thorns and roses above him. The Prince didn't seem to bother staying careful. His horns, painted with a silver dye, glinted sharply. 

"We'll do our best," Loki promised. "What happened on the day of the murder?" 

"Nothing beyond the usual. Asgard's ambassador had taken a liking to our library, and spent most of his days there, along with one of the librarian's assistants. And then one day, they were found right there, bloodied and cold." His hand moved. The long, spindly fingers were tipped with claws. 

He motioned towards a niche under the overhanging roses. When you first entered the balcony, you thought it was bathed in dense shadow. But shadows could never be red. 

"The lord had of course faded by the time his remains were found, and not much was left of him. We have moved the Asgardian’s… body to the rooms he used to occupy, and spelled it to remain intact had you any need to investigate it."

"We are terribly sorry for the loss," Loki said, watching the dark splotches of dried blood. Judging by their expanse, no one bothered to clean them. 

You wondered if, in a world where its inhabitants simply faded, and their life energy was returned to the core of their world, they were surprised to see such a mess left. You looked up at the roses in full bloom, their flowers meaty and wide open to the endless light of the sky without sun. 

The Prince followed your gaze. 

"Beautiful, aren't they?" For the first time since arriving, he addressed you. "I have never seen them bloom. The assistant's link to the core wasn't strong, but even it was enough to revive a part of it." 

Despite the warmth of the castle, you shivered. There was nothing human in the eyes regarding you with calculated care. 

"We'll do our best to bring this matter to a swift end," Loki said, taking a casual step ahead, cutting through that stare. "And investigate everything thoroughly." 

The smile he wore like an armor was edged and unpleasant. In a place where thoughts shaped reality, words could be knives, used carefully and meticulously. 

"I hope so." 

The High Prince left the balcony, his horns scratching the unyielding surface of roses. One of them was cut, and rained down in tears of red petals. The spiraling patterns of the lord's tunic seemed to look at you as he walked into the bright corridors with his hands clasped behind his back. There was something wrong with the shadows circling beneath his feet. 

You let out a breath you hadn’t noticed you were holding. "I try really hard, but the longer we stay here, the harder it gets to find at least one normal thing in this place." 

"I promise that once we're done here, I'll show you a world less… corrupted."

"I honestly can't wait." 

You walked over to the place where two people you'd never get to know had their lives ended. There was nothing special about the crumbling stone, corroded by the passing of time and the shifting currents of energy in the air. 

Loki reached into the depths of his magic in hope of finding any trace of whoever was behind it. But the Edge's magic was wild and tangled, and whoever paid a visit there, left no magical footprint. 

Loki came closer and reached over your shoulder. The curtain of roses lifted a little, showing a hole where the balcony's railing should've been. Beneath it, the castle's wall was in a rough state, with pieces missing. You both looked down through it, toward the ground. 

"I may not be an expert climber," you said, "but I have a feeling getting on this balcony through there wouldn't really be a problem." 

"I am an expert climber, especially when it comes to castles," Loki judged the distance and crumbled stone, "and it definitely wouldn't. The only question is, why not actually use the stairs?" 

"If I was a 7 foot tall High Prince with murderous intent, I'd prefer to stay out of people's sight too. And if I knew the whereabouts of the most hated person in my kingdom, I don't think it'd be hard to sneak into the place he passes on his way from the library every day."

"That sounds oddly specific, darling, and almost as if you suggest that the most important lord on the Edge wanted to murder that ambassador, but not in a way that would immediately start a war. Why do it sneakily and request an investigation? That sounds like extra steps leading nowhere." 

"That is a hole in my theory," you admitted, walking away from the dried swaths of blood. "But you have to admit he acts a little off. Literally everything is suspicious about him. And it would actually make sense if he started murdering people in order to keep himself from fading. You've seen what it already did to some roses. If he used more people..."

You leaned on the railing and Loki followed. The gardens the balcony overlooked were a tangled chaos of branches, flowers, and trees leaning heavily to the sides, as if in the middle of moving. Huge statues of people you had no knowledge about rose through them, staring with blind eyes. If anyone wanted to use them as cover to get to the wall, it wouldn't be a problem. But what for? 

You put your head on Loki's shoulder and felt his arm wrap around your waist. 

"My theory makes no sense," you said into the leather of his armor. 

"We don't have enough clues yet to make a sound one. Don't worry about it, we just got here." 

He sent you a soft smile, one he rarely let anyone see. It often caught you off-guard with how much tenderness could be found in his smallest gestures. It was a relief to have someone by your side, wherever you went and whatever you had to deal with. There was something reassuring with knowing that even in the vast expanse of the universe, you weren't alone. 

"Thank you," you muttered into his lips softly. 

Standing so close, you felt the moment his surprise shifted into something else. 

Loki pulled you closer into the kiss, with need and joy digging his fingers into the nape of your neck. He didn't force you, though, and when for the briefest moment something else caught your eye, he didn't stop you moving away. 

His lips were pink and the breath they caught, ragged. With heavy lids, Loki followed your gaze towards the gardens behind you. 

The Queen stood as still as if she already were one of the statues overlooking the gardens and the narrow, gravel paths winding between them. Her gown was made out of silk as ethereal and delicate as moonlight, and on anyone else, it would look regal and grand. But the fading was a cruel destiny, and one that paid no favor to those afflicted. The Queen clad in silks and jewelry like falling stars was barely there, gray despite the light bathing the world. Despite the remnants of life still dwelling deep inside her. 

Her eyes were empty to the home around her, no recognition or emotion showing on her face. She looked at a patch of flowers climbing over one of the statues, but it was uncertain if she actually saw them. 

An appropriate distance away, another figure stood. It was a woman with a headpiece covering her squat, stunted horns like morning mist on a spiderweb. A scar ran down her right cheek, old and badly healed. Her eyes were trained on the Queen, but her pose was stooped and bored. She must've been a guard delegated to ensure the well-being of the fading ghost of the Queen. 

"I might've just shifted into detective mode, because something is telling me that maybe we should think of looking for witnesses," you whispered. 

Loki shivered, feeling your breath brush his neck in a gentle caress. 

"Talking to her would be considered a great offense," he said with a slight rasp to his voice. "The ones who are fading are supposed to be left alone to reconcile with the core as their essence fades. It's a tradition, and an important rule." 

"When do we break it?" 

Loki eyed the guard. 

"...once she's alone. It shouldn't be difficult to find her, even though everyone seems to overlook her." 

"And that's why she could be a witness to so many things," you said with newfound hope. Something clenched in Loki's chest as he watched your face lit up. It was a beautiful sight. 

"Looks like we have a plan." He offered you his arm. "But before we spit on tradition, how about we pay a little visit to our lovely corpse?" 

"Of course." You took it. "I can't wait to see what he has to offer." 

[awrldalone]

13th January 2022, 11.01pm

Today I skipped school. 

I went to the hospital and waited for my turn for two hours, reading The Mysteries of Pittsburg and, once I finished it, the first few pages of Education Sentimentale. J., my friend from Korea, gifted me the first book. It is his favorite, and I see why.

It is warm, the color of juicy apricots, overripe peaches, a yellow that is almost orange, a sunny green. I liked the book, but more than the characters or the plot or the writing style, I liked the feeling of it. 

I miss summer. I never make the most out of it, and I regret it, and I miss it. I want to wake up late, I want to wear t-shirts and feel the sun kiss my skin. I want cherries and strawberries, and all the other fruits that almost seem erotic because of how delicious they are.

I had lunch with my father, but before that I wandered aimlessly around the town where he works. I had not been there in years. Even before the pandemic, it had been years, but when I was a child we used to go all the time. 

I do not have fond memories of it, I remember being upset, walking through the people on a Sunday afternoon, wearing a puffer jacket. Yet, seeing it from higher, now that I am taller, made me want to cry. 

I passed through a park, and in the shade the leaves were frosty. I used to think it was fairies at night, skating on the trees and jumping leaf to leaf. 

I recognised all the streets, all the shops. Nothing changed, they just opened a new bakery. The store were they used to buy my clothes when I was a child is still there. So are the restaurants we would go to with some family friends. There’s this one where, I remember, they had an aquarium, and I specifically liked the iridescent glass beads that covered the bottom of it.

I arrived to a parking lot and turned back around, I followed a small river and got back to the city center. Then I had lunch, quietly, with my father.

We have nothing to talk about. He asks about nothing but school, and he shares nothing about his life. I had salmon. He had soup. He is trying to lose weight. I hate when people around me are trying to lose weight.

At home, I did nothing for hours.

-c.

[alilbihh]

heliophile

masterlist

pairing: hoseok x reader

summary: helio·phile, noun (plural heliophiles)

A lover of the sun.

(or: You turn to look at him and find him already looking. He's stealing cherry-like fruits from behind the counter top and slipping them into the most bafflingly ugly pouch you've ever seen.

You engage in a silent staring contest that lasts approximately four long seconds before you speak. "Yo.")

genre: alien!hoseok, space!au (?), fluff

words: 2.3k

When you step out the space craft, you'd expected the air to be cold and frigid but it's not. It's warm, like if you were to look up, you'd see the blues and pinks of the horizon, the sun peeking just slightly behind the clouds.

You're on an odd planet whose name you can't pronounce, with too many consonants and not enough vowels and maybe, like, three F's. Too many F's. Too much everything.

The pilot is a prickly old man with grey hairs and crooked teeth, but you think he looks happy when you smile in his direction. The void between planets doesn't leave much room for anything but years of self-reflection, pinpricks of destinations, no place to call home. It must be lonely for him, you think.

Someone bumps into you and it's then you realize you're standing still and the people behind you are stepping off, and you breathe breathe breathe before doing the same.

You think it feels like an airport before you stop to think that it kinda is. The walls are a stark white and everyone is carrying around their luggage and it's-- weird. It's weird.

You'd done mild research on the place before leaving Earth, but it all still feels odd. Out of place. Like the whole three days on the space craft had been a fever dream. Like you'd woken up in your bed back at home and suddenly the sky was a light purple and there were two moons.

There are patches of green on the ground that look like grass but not quite. You step over them and continue your trek.

You pass by people with antennas and lurid pink skin and black filled eyes before you reach the outside and realize you're the only human. Or maybe you're an alien to them, too.

(You wonder if they also feel like outsiders.)

It's your seventy third day on the planet and you're milling through the market, trading ores for valuables like water and groceries. You haven't quite gotten over home yet. Still wake up hoping the sky will be blue when it never is.

Someone taps on your shoulder, and when you turn they're vaguely human-like, except when he speaks it's in the planet's mother tongue. It's an ugly language, with a slick, hissing enunciation that sounds like a secret. You hate everything about it, no matter the being that speaks it.

"You look like you're looking for something," He says, and you pick up on enough words to understand what was said. Tourist guides on the language can't help you forever.

The sky isn't blue and the language is ugly and you haven't heard your mother tongue be spoken for a bit too long, but this is meant to be your home. Even if you feel almost too untethered to yourself in it.

So you say, “I'm not. Thank you.” And that's that.

As a kid you dreamed of becoming an explorer, whose name was scrawled on storefronts and whose discoveries were put in museums back at home.

You still dream, sometimes, of places you've never been. Of tossing pebbles over streams that bleed pink, dipping your toes in the shoreline, of trying to decipher the poetry etched onto moss covered rocks, of running through the greenhouses on Mars, biting into the red-speckled fruits. Of trying to find a place to belong.

Your sleeps are dreamless these days.

(There are approximately fifty seven Earth-sized planets in the Milky Way alone.

Before, it made you feel full to bursting like an overripe cherry for the galaxy and its endless mysteries.

Now, it makes you feel small.)

It’s day one hundred and something when you're watching the condensation pool around your drink, making small talk with the holographic bartender and failing miserably when a man sidles onto the stool beside you.

"Do you want a tip?" You're saying, then realize holograms won't have a use for money, but slide a crumpled bill over the wooden counter anyway. It's Earth currency, just something you had in your pocket when you left, climbed into the nearest space craft and didn't look back. You're light-years away from where it could serve any sort of purpose, but maybe the hologram will want it anyway.

"Lifeform detected," it says, flickering blue like static. Not even acknowledging your money, the bastard. "Status: Earthling. What is your language of preference?" It starts cycling through all of Earth's languages when you don't respond and you just let it, try to guess which language it's speaking before it moves on to another.

The man is still sneaking interested glances at you, which you know because he's wearing gloves and a scarf and, like, three sweaters while cramped inside a bar made entirely of heat and sweat, even if you're sure it was warm outside. It's weird and bizarre.

You turn to look at him and find him already looking. He's stealing cherry-like fruits from behind the counter top and slipping them into the most bafflingly ugly pouch you've ever seen.

You engage in a silent staring contest that lasts approximately four long seconds before you speak. "Yo."

There are billions upon billions of languages this man could know, billions upon billions of different planets or stars he could be from, but he still smiles and says--

"Hey."

You swallow. "You were looking at me just now."

The man only hums. Tosses a cherry into his mouth, stem and all. "That I was."

He's wearing this awful yellow wool sweater over what could only be several other sweaters underneath it, and he's smiling something big when his mouth makes this heart shape that you hadn't noticed before because you weren't really looking but now you are looking and it's. Devastating.

"Well." You cough, then clear your throat. Take a sip of the drink you'd just remembered was still there. "Cool."

"Yes." The man says, skin tinted honey and gold. You've seen many skin colors, all from different colors of the rainbow, seen horns and pointed ears and too many eyes. And maybe his is the closest thing to human, but at the same time it's-- not. It's different. Too pretty to be human, like he's lived on the sun his whole life.

He's still smiling, something careful and charming, because apparently his mouth is incapable of resting in any other expression.

"What's your name?" You say because he's been staring for what could only be beyond what's socially acceptable, and then his grin gets impossibly wider, cheeks crinkling at the edges.

His name is Jung Hoseok and he was born on the sun. Visited Earth, once. Visited the whole Solar System, stayed in a humble cottage on Pluto for two years before moving because something was twisting in his gut, apparently. Something that screamed go, move, leave.

He left and left and left, found solace in the nothing of space. (Or maybe he didn't. If he's anything like you, you don't think he did.)

His name is Jung Hoseok and he's had the same froggy green underwear for the last four years and he has a small tattoo on his hip, a little sun, and when he presses you to the mattress he's warm warm warm, tastes like the honey gold of his skin. Like the sun.

His name is Jung Hoseok, and you haven't felt this warm in a long time.

You feel kind of like you're walking on the deck of the Titanic as it sinks, the room tilting slowly on its axis, all off-kilter.

Next to you, Hoseok sits in bulky winter wear and it's kind of funny. It must be hard to be constantly cold, but you think he manages.

You don't know what you're doing here, still doing here. But then an old steam train whizzes by and you feel-- strangely nostalgic. Like someone from the eighteenth century, plucked straight out of a Ghibli movie. You hadn't even known this was on the planet. (Maybe you never cared enough to look.)

Hoseok gets up, offers an elbow. "Well?"

So you follow him inside the train, sit on a plush red seat by the window, watch as the scenery paints itself blue then green then pink. You pass by a sunny forest one second then a snowy one the next. Hear laughing children and spot a mother with kind eyes and laughter lines.

Then suddenly everything fades and you're running on water and the sky is a light light purple that fades into a not-blue. An almost-blue. Blue.

You look away from the window and find Hoseok staring at you. Wonder if he ever looked away. Simply say, "Blue."

He smiles something tender and soft. Fond. "Blue." He agrees.

"S'blue, where I'm from." You look at the window again. The sky is starting to become more purple, but you think you like it. You hadn't before, wonder what changed. "The sky, I mean."

"I know." He nod nod nods, doesn't say anything else.

You both get off on a stop where you don't know where you are, and you lead Hoseok to a nearby farmhouse where the horizon line is burning against the tips of the wheat, setting the world on fire.

You blast through the blazing gold and when you collapse on the ground, no closer to the sun than when you started, Hoseok runs to lie beside you on the soil, brush a finger over the tips of the wheat leaning over him.

Your heart is beating so hard against your ribcage you think it might burst.

"How long are you staying?" You say, tilt your head to watch him.

"Hm," he hums, "Not long. I just crashed here for, like, supplies."

"Oh." Something claws at your chest, squeezes your lungs, takes over when you then say, "Are you looking for a co-pilot?"

Hoseok startles, turns quick, smiles something slow slow slow and then he's grinning. His eyes are wide and pretty and honest.

"We'll travel a lot."

"I know."

"We'll have to leave this place. Won't settle down any time soon."

"Yeah. I know." You breathe.

"Do you even know how to fly a space craft?"

"Uh," you stammer, "no."

You hear more than see the grin when he says, "You're in."

"What does this button do?" You ask, finger hovering over a red button that looks incriminatingly dangerous.

Hoseok hums, not taking his eyes off the monitor, and simply says, "Self-destruct."

You pull back immediately. "Are you being serious right now?"

"No." When you turn to look at him, he's grinning. You punch his shoulder lightly as he tumbles over in laughter, takes a hold of your hand softly. Doesn't let go even though you're sure it's faster to type with two hands.

Hoseok is a constant, you learn quickly.

You and Hoseok travel long stretches of nothing and get off on stops where neither of you know where you are. Sunken cities and civilizations built through secret, languages of clicking and hissing and too many rolled out R's, the setting of a blue sun on an unnamed planet.

Hoseok is always there, there to look out for you and guide you and sometimes, when he looks at you, you catch him smiling something soft and relieved. Almost as if to say ah, there you are.

The in-betweens are a big part of it, you think. Sitting back between destinations just to this, this constant. To Hoseok dancing in the living room to no music at all and to him clicking away at the monitor and sometimes, when you're lucky, to the stars filtering through the blinds and a hand around your waist when everything is warm, warm, warm.

"This is nice," Hoseok says on a day where everything feels slow, like the world is hanging on a drop of honey. An arm is looped over your back, the monitor clicking behind you in a comforting white noise, and there's a steady line of a heartbeat mirroring your own.

Hands are tugging at your face, pulling you in, sun-warmed lips meeting yours halfway.

"What's nice?" You murmur as you trail a hand down his face. You trace the crease between his brows, the slope of his nose, the apple of his cheeks. The dip between his lips.

Hoseok kisses the pads of your fingers. "Just-- sometimes, I used to go months without saying anything out loud, saying anything at all, so this is just. A nice change. Really nice." He trails off, sighs into your shoulder. Presses a kiss there, just because he can.

"Oh." You breathe. When you lean back to cup his cheeks, his eyes are half-lidded and honest and so impossibly fond, and you look and then really look, find traces of the sun.

You press your lips to the crown of his head and just breathe. The mood has softened and you're okay with that, okay with him lifting you up and bringing you to bed, pinning you in place, murmuring something soft that you don't catch.

You stay like that for the rest of the afternoon, soft and still. Hoseok must fall asleep at some point and maybe you do too, but when you look through the glass the outside is still the long black-blue stretch of dusk that it always is. You turn and your nose brushes over Hoseok's, and he looks so beautiful your heart stutters for a terrifying moment.

It's day three hundred and.. something. You're not sure anymore, stopped counting a while ago. Find that maybe you don't need to, not anymore.

(Once you'd run away from your planet, snuck onto a space craft and didn't look back until you realized how lonely it was out there.

And now-- now... Now you've realized that maybe it's not as lonely as you thought. That maybe home was never a place at all.)

a/n: y/n, sitting on the pilot seat of hoseok’s space craft: kowalski, analysis. hoseok: what

[baronessblixen]

Here’s my “shopping” fic for the @xfficchallenges challenge! Set after “The Goldberg Variation”.

Also tagging @today-in-fic

Ready

Mulder has never put much thought into grocery shopping. In and out in under twenty minutes, buying whatever he could grab the quickest and happy as long as he had orange juice and sunflower seeds. That’s him. Until today, that is. He’s standing in the produce department, leaning over his cart, staring at Scully. Yes, they’re grocery shopping. Together. Sharing a cart and all. What are the odds of that?

They got back from their latest case in Chicago where they left one Henry Weems to his luck. Their own running out, he thought, as they didn’t get to sit next to each other on the plane. They found each other after, Scully rubbing her eyes tiredly and Mulder wondering whether she’d used a stranger’s shoulder as a pillow. 

She didn’t have her car and so he offered her a ride. Good partner that he is. Until she remembered that she needed to go grocery shopping. Right now? Yes, right now. That is why he’s in the produce department, between the carrots and the apples, one half of a pair.

Scully is squeezing the tomatoes, scrutinizing them. He’s never seen her like this, in a grocery store. What an odd, strangely intimate moment to observe. He’s seen her naked, scared and hurt, but seeing her bagging tomatoes and licking her lips while doing so is a sight he’s unaccustomed to and wildly unprepared for. As if noticing his stares, Scully turns to him and carefully puts the bag of tomatoes in the cart. Their cart.

“You have to check them,” she says, giving him a side glance, “for ripeness.” She wanders off, knowing he will follow. As he does, one wheel spinning wildly, squeaking madly, he can’t help but wonder one thing:

Are they - him and Scully - ripe, too?

They make it through the aisles, a maze built out of products, barely speaking a word. From the outside, they must look like they do this every week. Exhausted couple goes grocery shopping before the weekend. Mulder looks around, sees other men like him, women like Scully, variations of them both. But are they a couple? Is this why he’s here? 

“Don’t you need anything?” Scully asks him as she puts a bag of flour into the cart. He stares into it, sees the small empty corner that he figures must be reserved for his purchases.

“Uhm,” he says, staring at the shelves. What is he supposed to do with flour? He briefly considers buying a bag anyway, just to make Scully happy, but decides against it. They move on, Scully occasionally stopping to load their cart. Mulder makes eye-contact with a father of two small children, who fight over what cereal to buy. He gives him a small nod in acknowledgment and grabs a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch for himself.

“Look,” he says to Scully, “I’m buying something.” He half expects her to give him a lecture about how cereal is just sugar and wheat, both of which are not good for him. Instead, she gives him a smile and says, “we need milk.”

We.

Not “you need milk”, not “I need milk”. It’s “we need milk”. Mulder quickly glances around, looking for witnesses. Did anyone else hear her say it? She said “we”! In his euphoria, he almost loses Scully. He quickly makes his way through the aisle, wanting to catch up with her. His cart crashes into someone else’s and he gets a dirty look. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the fact that they need milk.

He’s beginning to think they are as a ripe as the tomatoes Scully bought. Or even overripe.

Scully buys rice, pasta, yogurt and all kinds of reasonable food Mulder hasn’t had in his cupboards for years. If ever. He buys eggs and fresh orange juice, his purchases slowly tipping over to her side of the cart. Scully hands him two bags of sunflower seeds and he takes them from her, his fingers brushing hers in a silent thank you.

He’s lost all sense of time and space. They’re closer to the exit now – he thinks. Only a few aisles remain. Scully dashes into one and he follows, staring at shelves of feminine hygiene products. They’ve come a long way from fruits and vegetables to tampons. Mulder moves on slowly and finds himself in front of condoms. He stares at the colorful selection in front of him. Blue, green, yellow – condoms that glow. It’s been a long time since he’s had to even think about buying a box of condoms. 

“Mulder?”

“Hm?” Scully is next to him, her eyes darting between him and the condom selection.

“I’m done here,” she says, the words drawn out. “Do you need… these?” He can’t look at her. She’s pointing at one of the boxes that reads “x-tra large”, waiting for his answer. 

“Do I need these?” He parrots back and dares to look at her. Now he definitely feels like a tomato. Ripe or not, he knows they’re a matching color. 

“How would I-,” but she stops herself. They’re almost there. He can hear the incessant beep-beep of the checkout counter. “You don’t need them,” she says, meeting his eyes.

“I don’t.” 

Scully shakes her head. “Unless you have plans this weekend that don’t include me.”

“No plans,” he interrupts her. “No plans other than… this.” He makes a hand gesture towards the shopping cart. He can no longer say which items are hers and which are his. He’s beginning to realize that Scully never planned to keep them apart. They’ve been inching towards the inevitable since New Year’s Eve and his half-drugged, tender kiss. Maybe even before that. Ripe, he thinks again. They really are.

“Then we don’t need them.” The “we” is back and he likes this “we” - and its implications -  even better. 

“Or we could try out the glowing ones.” He beams at her. Not because of his joke. Well, not entirely. It’s because he understands now. He gets to go home with her. He gets to be with her. In every way. 

"Maybe next time,” she says. “Ready?”

“I am,” he says, swallowing hard. Scully puts her hand on the cart next to his. They push it towards the checkout together, their pinkies touching in a gentle promise.

[mandadoration]

YOOO, your writing is superb. Amazing work, 11/10, seriously giving me inspiration. Now! I just read raise the stakes and bby, I’m blushing. Really. BUT I’m also a pathetic sucker for fluff and hurt/comfort. Would you be willing to write a fic about the reader getting shot protecting The Child™️ and the ensuing doting-upon by Mando and Cara? The past instance mentioned in raise the stakes? I need that sweet, sweet drama. If you’re not, I get totally get it. Keep writing magnificently.

show your hand

word count: 2, 108

pairing: (established) mandalorian x reader x cara dune

Warnings: swearing, canon typical violence, hurt/comfort

a/n: Anon, I put little descriptions of things that might have happened just so people like you can crave more. Takes place before Raise the Stakes.

Read this on AO3

You’ve been working with the Mandalorian and Cara Dune for long enough to know what their footsteps sound like coming up the ramp to the Razor Crest. Be it rain or shine, good mood or bad mood, you can always tell who it is.

That clunky, unpracticed gait with uneven steps?

Not anyone you know.

The steady beeping of a tracking fob slowly speeding up?

Definite trouble.

You already know that Mando and Cara will scold you for being so careless and leaving the ramp open, but in your defense heat builds up in the ship really easily, and you don’t want to waste fuel keeping the air flow going. You peek out the windows up at the cockpit where you’ve been playing sabaac by yourself to see who it is, and you swear under your breath when you see a bounty hunter making their way up the ramp, and swear once more when you realize your blaster is sitting on the table in the hull downstairs. There’s no other weapons up in the cockpit.

Well, you’ve had experience with improvisation in the past.

You wonder if anyone has finally bought the dented pan from when you sent it through a previous bounty hunter’s face.

From your tool bag, you pull out the largest, heaviest wrench you can find, something meant for the large parts that dealt with hyperdrive, hefting the weight in your hands as you consider exactly how you were going to take the invasive bounty hunter down when you hear a whoosh of a door followed by familiar cooing and babbling.

No time to think. Only act.

Which is why you basically fall down the ladder and launch yourself at the hunter, wrapping your arms around their neck and bashing your wrench at their head, listening to the sickening crunch as you yell as intimidatingly as possible. Which wasn’t very scary at all considering that your voice cracks. The hunter lets out a garbled yell and throws you off, digging their elbow in your ribs, and you just barely manage to catch yourself before you hit your own head against some exposed pipes. Forget baby-proofing the ship. You need it more than the child at this rate. How many times have you almost chipped a tooth trying to use the refresher in the dark?

You scramble onto your hands and knees fast enough that you manage to swing your wrench again at their knee, lunging for the blaster on the table as they go down.

“Bitch!”

Before you can grab the blaster, the bounty hunter wraps a hand around your ankle, talons digging in the soft flesh, causing you to narrowly miss biting your tongue off in favor of hitting your brow bone against the edge of the table, making blood immediately well up and drip into your eyes. The wrench clatters across the ground and far out of your reach. You yelp, and kick them in the face with your other leg, hearing the soft crunch of cartilage as you claw your way out of their reach. There’s adrenaline pumping through your veins now, the combination of danger and fear mixed with sharp twinges of pain. The bounty hunter growls low and deep in their chest, grabbing your boot and yanking you back towards him.

A quick glance at the Child confirms your suspicions that they’re just watching you with interested eyes.

You grit your teeth and flip around so that you’re on your back, sitting up as quick as you can and swinging your fist at their face. Their face is a lot softer than you had initially thought, feeling akin to the skin of overripe fruit when you dig your fingers into them and it bursts, except that the skin of the bounty hunter’s face stays intact and immediately starts to bruise a bright green color. In any other circumstance, you would be completely bewildered, but if they didn’t finish you off, Mando and Cara would if you let the kid get hurt, so you tamp down any fascination with alien biology to slam the heel of your boot into their wrist and pull yourself free of their grip. It takes some effort to coordinate yourself to get your feet under you, head spinning from hitting it earlier, but you whirl around to look at the table where the blaster is.

Rather, where it was, because it isn’t there anymore.

“What the–”

You’re too bewildered and half-dazed to hear the sound of a blaster cocking, and your left leg buckles underneath you as a blaster shot goes clean through your thigh. You almost hit your head again on the edge of the table, and you think there’s blood in your mouth as you stifle a scream. But there’s your blaster, knocked onto the floor under the table, and you fumble for it, turning around and shooting the bounty hunter twice in the chest, and the once more in the head for good measure, sickly yellow blood splattering and pooling under their body before they can properly react. As soon as the last of their fingers finish their twitching, the sharp, hot pain in your thigh swells up and would’ve keeled you over if it weren’t for the fact you were already on the floor. You allow yourself one very loud, “Fuck!” before you drag your body and slam the button to the cot, shutting the door in the child’s face as you let yourself slump down and heave in pained breaths as you think about your next plan of action, head buzzing as the adrenaline starts to wean off. Your hands are shaking as you put the safety back on the blaster and set it aside.

Obviously you would have to call Mando and Cara back from whatever recon they were doing and get their asses back here before you bled out. You hope the blaster shot didn’t hit anything major; there’s a lot of blood. Actually, maybe you should try and stop the bleeding first. Or there might be more hunters and you aren’t in fit enough shape to hold anyone else back, so the sooner Cara and Mando came back, the better. But also the comms were back up in the cockpit, and you aren’t strong enough to drag yourself up a ladder with only your upper body. You really needed to start working out properly. Let’s face it, routine maintenance on the ship wasn’t cutting it. The child is making upset noises from behind the door, and shit, you actually needed to check on them to make sure nothing happened to them in the moments before you had launched yourself at the bounty hunter like some gackle bat. Then again, the button is way too high up, and you are way too tired to even think about moving from where the floor has suddenly become very comfortable.

Actually, sleeping on the ground sounds like the best course of action.

—

The sound of a panicked call of your name brings you up just enough to the surface of consciousness for you to moan a response. Someone lifts you up enough to cradle you in their arms, and the feeling of the bare flesh of a hand on your face lets you know it’s Cara without opening your eyes. She tugs one of your eyes open to check on you, and you frown and try to bat her hand away, but your hand is much too heavy, so you end up burrowing your head into the crook of her arm.  

“‘s too bright,” you slur. “St… stop it.” Cara sharply pats your cheek.

“No,” she orders, “stay awake. Shit, how long were you here for?” You groan when she puts her hand on the blaster shot in your leg, toes curling in pain as tremors run up your leg.

“It hurts,” you moan.

“Good,” she says, tone curt. “I’d be more worried if it didn’t.”

“Shit,” Mando hisses, somewhere above you. Or behind you. You’re not quite sure anymore because it feels like your head is full of cotton and your ears are filled with water. Some shuffling and there’s the steady beeping of a tracking fob again. “Guild member. Someone is still out for the kid.” Cara reaches over you, tugging something free from the body that lies just over a foot away from you, yellow blood oxidized to a muddled green. When you crack your eyes open, there’s a faint sheen of blue on Cara’s face, which is set in a serious expression, before she shows whatever she’s holding up to Mando. You hear Mando huff, and as your eyes slip shut again, the last thing you hear is Cara’s wavering voice.

“The puck isn’t for the kid. It’s for her.”

—

When you come to, you think that death is preferable compared to the wicked headache you have.

It feels like there’s some creature in your head that’s trying to get out, and your brow bone where you’ve cracked it against the table in your tussle isn’t helping with it in the slightest. Your entire body aches, and you think your ribs are bruised from how each breath in makes your wince.

Oh, and your leg. Needless to say, it really kriffing hurts.  

You make a pained noise when you try to sit up, and a figure blocks the light from the foot of the bed.

“No, no,” Cara says, “stay down.” It’s not like you can really move, save tilting your head up to look at her. There’s the slightest bit of space that she can sit down and scoot closer to you, minding your leg as she hands you a cup of water. It’s incredibly awkward. The cot itself barely fit Mando, and you were used to having more space sleeping on your mat on the floor. Still, Cara tilts the cup with utmost care, leaning over your body and cradling your head in her other hand as you take slow sips. Her brows are knotted with worry, and she catches your gaze when you blink up at her sluggishly. You push the cup away.

“What happened?” you ask her. Your voice is still thick with sleep.  

“Bounty hunter,” comes Mando’s voice. He leans against the doorway, if it can even be called that, to the cot. You really wanted to ask Mando if he would consider a more open floor plan considering how suffocated you feel, but the mood isn’t exactly appropriate. “We came back to find you bleeding over the floor.” His voice is tight, and you can see the tenseness of his shoulders despite how hazed you still feel.

“We thought that you were dead,” Cara says softly. She pushes back a strand of hair from your face. You sigh and nuzzle into the palm of her hand.

“Your lack of faith in me is disturbing,” you mumble. “I can handle myself.”

“You call that ‘handling yourself’?” Mando asks dryly, motioning to the bandages wrapped over and over again on your thigh. You can feel the familiar tingle of bacta underneath the aches. You shrug, pulling a face when it jostles your sides.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” you ask him. Then, “he is, right?” Cara nods.

“You did a number on him,” she says, a hint of pride in her voice. You relax.

“And the kid?”

“Asleep,” Mando answers.

“That’s good,” you sigh. “How long until we can get out of here?”

“We’re leaving in a couple of minutes.” You bolt up despite how your head spins and ribs ache.

“I have to do pre-flight checks!” you gasp. Cara puts a firm hand on your chest and pushes you back down with little resistance.

“You,” she says sternly, “are going to stay here and rest while we,” she motions to Mando and herself, “do the pre-flight checks.” You cock an eyebrow.

“When’s the last time you guys ever did a pre-flight check on the ship?” Cara looks at Mando.

“Not since–”

“Not since you hired me,” you point out. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve done substantial work since then. Including upgrades and new functions.” Cara has a knowing look on her face, and you’d bet that Mando does too. “You don’t know what half of this ship does anymore.” You put a hand on Cara’s wrist. “Let me do pre-flight checks.”

You know they’d give in. They always do.

Which is why a few moments later Mando and Cara somehow get you up to the cockpit, Mando carrying you there in his arms with a smug look on your face.

You’d come to regret that when you can’t get back down.

—

Forever Tag: @mabelleen @mando-vibes @isaissafail @adikaofmandalore @lavenderl3mons @jokersdoll​ @creamysacrilege​​

Pedro Tag: @mrsparknuts​

[stillness-in-green]

Spinaraki Week Level 2, Day Three: Folklore | Memory

For the folklore prompt, a yokai AU.  For the memory prompt...  Well, let’s just say that this is probably not going to make much sense if you haven’t seen Sarazanmai.

Spinner dies, but he doesn’t.  He’s empty, but he isn’t. He wants to connect, but he mustn’t.

(With apologies to Sakaki Deidoro, who probably didn’t deserve to be turned into a kappa zombie anymore than the ones in the show did.)

———–      ———–      ———–      ———–

“Sure I know him,” the man in the bird mask slurs, leaning back from them with a loose shrug.  “Think there’d be a guy in this uniform who doesn’t?”  

The air stinks of booze; there’s an open bottle in the man’s hand as he lifts it, a pointing finger drawing figure eights in the air, wobbling between Shigaraki and Spinner.  Spinner to Shigaraki, back and forth, Shigaraki to Spinner.  An invisible line of connection.

“Who’s askin’, that’s the real question.”  The man giggles, then hiccups at the end of it.

Spinner can’t feel it much in this form, but you don’t get involved in the sorts of things this would-be tengu is involved in if there isn’t something you want, or someone you love. He doesn’t even need to glance at Shigaraki to know this is their next target.

“No beginning, no ending, no connection,” he pronounces.

“We’ll open a door,” Shigaraki echoes, and sluggish alarm registers in bird-mask’s slackening mouth as Spinner pulls out the gun.

“Is it desire?” Shigaraki asks.  Around them, the humming of the machines changes pitch.  Bird-mask glances around wildly, hearing them for the first time.

“Or is it love?” Spinner asks, the word tasting like the flesh of an overripe plum on his tongue, cloying, too sweet.

“Let’s extract it and find out.”

The lights from the extraction chamber rise—focus—flash.

The sound of drumming drowns out the gunshot.

-

“How was it?” Toga asks, floating down from above to coil her arms around Shigaraki’s shoulders when they make it back to the hideout.

Shigaraki huffs.  “Just another one for the machine, same as always.”

“Usso…” The pout is audible in her voice.  Then she looks back over her shoulder at Spinner, her eyes glowing yellow as Shigaraki walks them both into the shadows. White fangs flash in her grin.  “Did you have fun today?”

He can’t not hear a mocking edge.  He tells himself it’s just how otters are, even their criminals.

“Like Shigaraki said,” he grunts.  “It was the same as always.”

She sighs, wistful as a fading flower.  “I’m sure we’ll find a lover someday.  Maybe that one’s boss?  Oh, I’m sure he’ll be otterly delicious.”

Shigaraki just snorts again, and in Spinner’s chest, his hollow heart aches.  Again.

-

“I’ve never met a kappa with such an empty heart,” the otter in the white lab coat says the first time Spinner wakes up on his table.  “How otterly fascinating.”

Spinner looks up at him, vaguely surprised that he survived the fall of the kingdom, but somehow not at all surprised that, having survived, his luck has landed him here.

“I am Chief Science Otticer Ujiko,” the otter introduces himself, and extends one fat paw towards him. “And I think there’s someone you should meet.  Someone who can help you understand.”

“Understand what?” Spinner whispers.  The lights above him are so bright, electric white and so much colder than any lamp or lantern from home.

“That those connections you kappa prize so dearly—are poison.  Usso…”

-

Shigaraki plays video games when they’re not out hunting for desire energy.  He’s unreasonably good at them, hands flying over controllers he never does more than glance at, instead staring fixedly at the TV screen.  He doesn’t seem to care what it reflects back at him, as long there’s some goal he can point his avatar at instead.  Preferably a bloody one.

Before the empire found him, Spinner had never touched a video game—or, really, much of any kind of human tech.  A stray talking children’s toy lost in the tall grass of a riverbank.  A drowned radio carried downstream by the currents until it wedged up against a rock in the riverbed and sat there leaking acrid mercury from its battery compartment into the water around it.

Shigaraki doesn’t comment when he comes back from an appointment with Ujiko and finds Spinner fumbling through an early level on one of his games, though the sound of the door opening startles Spinner badly enough to send the character onscreen careening into a bottomless pit.

Instead, he just takes the controller out of Spinner’s hands, navigates the jump for him when the character regenerates, and hands the controller back.  Then he drops onto the other end of the ragged couch and watches Spinner play.

“…Man, you really suck at this.”

-

They dance, ballroom-style, a thing Spinner only ever saw from a distance, frozen in human art.  He should be terrible at it, and maybe he is, but the music seems to guide his feet all the same.  Or maybe it’s Shigaraki, the emptiness at the bottom of his heart so very, very easy to follow.

-

“Why do you do this?” Spinner asks Shigaraki, not long after their first meeting.  “You aren’t one of them, are you?”

They’re staking out a local yakuza spot from a few buildings over, watching cars come and go.  In the dark, Shigaraki’s eyes could pass for normal.

“Why do you this?” Shigaraki echoes, not even looking at him.  “You aren’t one of them.”

“Because—”  Spinner can’t finish the sentence.  Shigaraki may not be an otter, but that doesn’t mean there wouldn’t be consequences for saying, Because of you.

“Connections,” Shigaraki says, “are bullshit.”  

His white hair stirs on the breeze from the open window.  

In the distance, Spinner can smell the river.

-

All For One strokes back Shigaraki’s hair, his grin a pale crescent against the black nimbus obscuring the rest of his features.  Shigaraki’s head twitches to the side but he doesn’t otherwise move, neither to lean in nor pull away when the Emperor of Darkness bows his head to whisper into his ward’s ear.

Whispering poison, maybe.

Spinner, waiting at the other end of the basement with Toga, watches the two of them, and wonders.

The otters want to destroy the circle, or so Shigaraki and Ujiko say.  Spinner doesn’t know why—the otters use desire energy just like kappa do, and destroying the circle of all will make it just as inaccessible to them as it would become to kappa.

There must be something they aren’t saying, not that anyone’s going to tell him what that might be.

He watches Shigaraki and All For One, and he thinks about pyramids.

-

Shigaraki hates.  He hates humans, hates kappa, hates otters, hates the circle.  He breathes it, swims in it like it's his own river of life.  It drips off his words, flows through his veins, powers his heart like a turbine.  When they dance, Shigaraki’s eyes never leave his, gaze boring straight through Spinner, as if he’s trying to dig his way into Spinner’s skull with his stare alone, the two of them carried fully by the intensity of his emotions.

Shigaraki leads—across the factory floor, up the escalator, out onto the broad balcony that overlooks the city, the thousands of city lights that shape themselves to the curves of the river.  He leads until the very end, where he pulls himself in close, guides Spinner’s hand to his chest, and splays himself out over Spinner’s arm as Spinner’s claws slip beneath his skin to pull his heart out of his thin white chest.

Spinner draws the organ—ember-red, ember-hot—to his mouth, breathing in the energy of it in shuddering gasps. Ujiko’s implant in Spinner’s chest gives an answering tremble and groans back to life, an uneven pulse that isn’t quite a heartbeat.

And so he’s ready to go for another however-long before they do this again.  A few days, maybe a bit over a week.  He could go longer without, probably, but the machines are always hungry.

Spinner is too.  Laying limp and lax in his hold, Shigaraki’s eyes flutter, his cheeks flushed, a thin whine audible beneath his breathing. Still, his lips are pulled up in a small, tight, fierce grin.

Spinner’s teeth itch. If he sank them into the hot lump of flesh clutched in his taut fingers, would he know why Shigaraki can smile like that?  How he can feel things so strongly and still want to throw it away?

I want to connect, whispers a dangerous, treacherous voice in his mind as he eases Shigaraki’s heart back into place, averting his eyes.  But I’m afraid.

-

Where Shigaraki came from. How he fell in with the otters.  Why he wants to destroy the circle—the sarazanmai could tell him.  The sarazanmai reveals everything.

There are a thousand problems with that, starting with the fact that Spinner is pretty sure that you can’t even perform sarazanmai with a human, and, whatever All For One and Ujiko have done to him over the years, it doesn’t change the fact that Shigaraki is a human.

Spinner turns over in his bed, limbs splaying out every which way.  It’s stiflingly hot in the hideout, both because it’s summer and because of the concentration of desire energy below the building.  He sits abruptly, tank top clinging to his skin, then gets up to open a window.  

Air moves over his face, a laggard breeze that still draws out a soft sigh of relief.  He looks out over the city, breathing in the smoke and the exhaust, the taint of sweaty humanity clinging to every corner of the place.  Beneath it all, he can still smell the river.

…The prince could turn Shigaraki into a kappa.  He’s done it before, or so the stories go, in very desperate times.  He’d have no reason to grant a wish like that anyway, not for a bedraggled, unconnected outcast like Spinner; he’d probably cough up a thousand brass plates before he’d even think about it.

Not that it matters anyway. The prince is dead, lost when the kingdom fell.  Shigaraki’s human, and human he’ll stay, brimming with the kind of raw emotional potency that has drawn youkai towards humans since before humans had even developed a word for connection.

There’s the shirikodama.  The thought arrives in his head so perfectly formed that Spinner looks over his shoulder, suddenly paranoid that Ujiko or Toga appeared to plant it there.  But Toga’s off running around with Twice tonight, and Ujiko never leaves the bowels of the processing plant.

Spinner shivers.

He has never swallowed a human’s desire, not even to hold it in his gullet long enough to deliver it to the prince like the noble delicacy it is.  He could, though.  The city is built on water; they cross streams and rills and offshoots multiple times every day.  It would be so easy to pull Shigaraki into one and let it carry them to the river, let its cool waters soothe away the fever of his hatred, if only for a little while.

Spinner would rest their foreheads together, pull Shigaraki close, and—and extract his desire, drink it down there in the river of life, and with no prince to surrender it to, it would just be his, only his.  All of Shigaraki’s memories, all of his emotions, the very soul of him, made one with Spinner forever.

And maybe he’d be safe there, safe and connected, no matter what becomes of the circle...

…He’s gotten hard.  Fuck.

Spinner makes his way back to bed, but it’s a long while before he gets to sleep.

-

In the morning, there’s a second game controller sitting on the floor, green next to the usual red, their cords winding around each other in a loose spiral.  Spinner stares down at it, then lets his eyes track up to the sound of the low laugh from the rafters.  Shigaraki looks back down at him, his form limned in red light.

“Spinner, I thought of another way for us to connect.”  The delivery is a bit too high, but the voice is Shigaraki’s.  The cajoling lilt of the cadence, though, is otter through and through.

“Knock it off, Toga,” he grits out past clenched teeth.

If the red glow didn’t give her away, the way her eyes flash gold would.  She winks at him, waves, and disappears, laugh lingering behind her.

The real Shigaraki comes out of his room a minute later, still half-asleep, and almost walks into Spinner before he catches himself.  Unselfconscious, he elbows Spinner out of the way and looks down at the—gift? Test?  Spinner hasn’t decided yet.

“Toga?” he asks, voice rough.

Spinner swallows and nods, hyper-aware of Shigaraki’s warmth, and stutter of his own heartbeat, and the grumble of bio-engine below.

Shigaraki exhales, a sharp gust that ruffles his bangs.  “Figures.”

“I can return it,” Spinner offers, which is stupid, really.  It’s not like he knows where Toga got it.  It might not have even come from a regular store; she sees Ujiko just as often as the rest of them, and he always has some new project he’s wanting to test.

But Shigaraki’s already wandering off towards the kitchen.

It’s another day, and there’s plenty of desire waiting to be found.

[therealmadblonde]

October 21

The Things are getting restless, but their restraints still serve. I stopped by Larry’s place this morning, to suggest he answer to the name “Lucky,” if so addressed by any woodsy denizen in his wanderings. This necessitated my giving him a little background concerning speculations as to his status. He’s agreed to be even more circumspect in his comings and goings. I filled him in on all the rest, too, since I considered us partners.

Everything, that is, save for Linda Enderby’s true identity. I was loath to destroy his illusions concerning the genial old lady whose company had given him such pleasure. Whatever had been learned there had been learned — and I doubted it could have been much in such a bizarre case as his, with him so guarded concerning it — and letting him live a little longer with his fond memory of the visit did not seem much in the way of risk taking. I resolved to wait a few days before revealing the deception.

“Hear anything more about the police and their search?” I asked.

“They’re still investigating, but they seem to have questioned everyone and now they’ve started searching fields along the way. I think the latest theory is that the officer might have been thrown from his horse — which did make it back to their stables.”

“I guess he didn’t wash up. Maybe he made it out to sea.”

“Possibly. I’m sure they’d be looking at any washups pretty closely.”

“I wonder what this beating of the bushes might mean to the Count, if they go very far afield?”

“I’ll bet if you check today you’ll find he’s moved.”

“So you think he has another place, too?”

“Of course. That’s his style. And he has the right idea. Everyone should have a place to run to. You can never be too careful.”

“Do you?”

He smiled.

“I hope you do, too,” he said. When I smile no one can tell.

I went looking for Graymalk then, to see whether I could persuade her to climb down into the crypt for me again. But she wasn’t anywhere about. Finally, I gave up and wandered over to Rastov’s place.

Quicklime wasn’t readily available either, and I began rearing up and peering in windows. I spotted Rastov himself, slouched in a chair, vodka bottle in one hand, what might be his icon clutched to his breast with the other. Something stirred on the windowsill and I realized it to be my erstwhile partner. Quicklime raised his head, stared at me, then gestured with his head toward the adjacent room. At that, he slid from the sill and was gone.

I made my way back to the near window of that room, which was opened slightly. Moments later, he emerged.

“Hi, Quick,” I said. “How’s it going?”

“Sometimes I wish I were back in the fields again,” he replied. “I’d be getting ready for a long winter’s sleep.”

“Bad night?”

“I got out just in time. He’s at it again. Drinking and singing sad songs. He could get us into a lot of trouble when he’s had too much. He’d better be sober for the big night.”

“I should hope so.”

We went off toward the rear of the place.

“Busy?” he asked me.

“Believe it.”

“Listen, Snuff, the boss doesn’t tell me everything, and Nightwind said — just a day or two back — that there are divinatory ways for discovering whether someone’s an opener or a closer. Is that true?”

“He’s right,” I said. “But they’re unreliable before the death of the moon. You really have to have some juice to make them work.”

“How soon after?”

“Several days.”

“So people could be finding out everyone’s status pretty soon?”

“Yes, they will. They always do. That’s why it’s important to finish any mutual business before then. Once the lines are drawn, your former partners may be your new enemies.”

“I don’t like the idea of having you or Nightwind for an enemy.”

“It doesn’t follow that we have to kill each other before the big event. In fact, I’ve always looked on such undertakings as a sign of weakness.”

“But there’s always some killing.”

“So I’ve heard. Seems a waste of energy, though, when such things will be taken care of at the end, anyhow.”

“…And half of us will die in the backlash from the other half’s winning.”

“It’s seldom a fifty-fifty split of openers and closers. You never know what the

disposition will be, or who will finally show up. I heard there was once an attempt where everyone withdrew on the last day. Nobody showed. Which was wrong, too. Think of it. Any one of them with guts enough could have had it his own way.”

“How soon till the word gets out, Snuff?”

“Pretty soon. I suppose someone could be working on it right now.”

“Do you know?”

“No. I’ll know soon enough. I don’t like knowing till I have to.”

He crawled up onto an old tree stump. I sat down on the ground beside him.

“For one thing,” I said, “it would interfere in my asking you to do something just now.”

“What,” he said, “is it?”

“I want you to come back with me to the crypt and check it out. I want to know whether the Count’s still there.”

He was silent, turning in the sunlight, scales shimmering. “No,” he said then. “We don’t have to go.”

“Why not?”

“I already know that he’s not there.”

“How do you know this?”

“I was out last night,” he said, “and I hung myself in a plum tree I’d learned Needle frequents when he feeds. When he came by I said, ‘Good evening, Needle.’

“‘Quicklime, is that you?’ he answered.

“‘Indeed,’ I replied, ‘and how go your farings?’

“‘Well. Well,’ he said. ‘And your own twisting ways?’

“‘Oh, capital,’ I answered. ‘I take it you have come to feed?’

“‘Yes. I always come here last, for these plums are my favorites and put a fine end to a harvesting of bugs. I prefer saving the best for last.’

“‘As it should be,’ I said, ‘with all endeavors. Tell me’ — for I was wise in these ways now, having lived with Rastov — ‘have you ever sampled the long-fallen plums, those which look wrinkled, ruined, and unappetizing?’

“‘No,’ he replied, ‘that would be silly, when so many good ones still hang upon the tree.’

“‘Ah,’ I told him, ‘but looks may be deceptive, and “good“ is certainly a relative term.’

“‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

“‘I, too, enjoy the fruits,’ I said, ‘and I have learned their secret. Those over yonder on the ground are far better than those which hang yet upon the limbs.’

“‘How can that be?’ he said.

“‘The secret is that as they lie there, cut off forever from the source of their existence, they draw upon their remaining life to continue a new kind of growth. True, the effects wither them, but they ferment from their own beings a new and special elixir, superior to the simple juices of those upon the tree.’

“‘They taste a lot better?’

“‘No. They do not. This goes beyond mere taste. It is a thing of the spirit.’

“‘I guess I ought to try it, then.’

“‘You will not be disappointed. I recommend it highly.’

“So he descended to the earth, came upon one of those I had indicated, and bit into it.

“‘Agh!’ he exclaimed. ‘These are no good! Overripe and — ’

“‘Give it a chance,’ I said. ‘Take more, swallow it down, and then some more. Wait just a bit.’

“And he sampled again, and again.

“A little later, he said, ‘I feel slightly dizzy. But it is not unpleasant. In fact — ’

“He tried another, suddenly more enthusiastic. Then another.

“‘Quicklime, you were right,’ he said after a while. ‘There is something very special about them. There is a warm feeling — ’

“‘Yes,’ I answered.

“‘And the dizziness is not quite dizziness. It feels good.’

“‘Take more. Take lots more,’ I told him. ‘Go with it as far as it will take you.’

“Shortly, his words grew harder to understand, so that I had to slide down from the tree to be sure I heard everything he said when I began, ‘You were with the Count when he created his new graves, were you not..?’

“And so I learned their locations, and that he was moving to one last night,” he finished.

“Well done,” I said. “Well done.”

“I hope he didn’t awaken feeling the way I did the other morning. I did not linger, for I gather it is a bad thing to see snakes when you are in that condition. At least, Rastov says it is. With me, it was humans that I saw last time — all those passing Gipsies. Then yourself, of course.”

“How many graves are there besides the crypt?”

“Two,” he said. “One to the southwest, the other to the southeast.”

“I want to see them.”

“I’ll take you. The one to the southwest is nearer. Let’s go there first.”

We set out, crossing a stretch of countryside I had not visited before. Eventually, we came to a small graveyard, a rusted iron fence about it. The gate was not secured, and I shouldered it open.

“This way,” Quicklime said, and I followed him.

He led me to a small mausoleum beside a bare willow tree.

“In there,” he said. “The vault to the right is opened. There is a new casket within.”

“Is the Count inside it?”

“He shouldn’t be. Needle said he’d be sleeping at the other one.”

I entered nevertheless and pawed at the lid for some while before I found a way to open it. When I did, it came up quite easily. It was empty, except for a handful or two of dirt at its bottom.

“It looks like the real thing,” I said. “Take me to the other one now.”

We set off on the longer trek, and as we went I asked, “Did Needle tell you when these graves were established?”

“Several weeks ago,” he answered.

“Before the dark of the moon?”

“Yes. He was very insistent on the point.”

“This will ruin my pattern,” I said, “and everything seemed such a perfect fit.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re sure that’s what he said?”

“Positive.”

“Damn.”

The sun shone brightly, though there were clouds about — and, of course, a goodly cluster off toward the Good Doctor’s place, farther south — and there came a bit of chill with a northerly breeze. We made our way cross-country through the colors of autumn— browns, reds, yellows — and the ground was damp, though not spongy. I inhaled the odors of forest and earth. Smoke curled from a single chimney in the distance, and I thought about the Elder Gods and wondered at how they might change things if the way were opened for their return. The world could be a good place or a nasty place without supernatural intervention; we had worked out our own ways of doing things, defined our own goods and evils. Some gods were great for individual ideals to be aimed at, rather than actual ends to be sought, here and now. As for the Elders, I could see no profit in intercourse with those who transcend utterly. I like to keep all such things in abstract, Platonic realms and not have to concern myself with physical presences…I breathed the smells of woodsmoke, loam, and rotting windfall apples, still morning-rimed, perhaps, in orchard’s shade, and saw a high, calling flock V-ing its way to the south. I heard a mole, burrowing beneath my feet…

“Does Rastov drink like that every day?” I asked.

“No,” Quicklime replied. “He only started on Moon-death Eve.”

“Has Linda Enderby visited him?”

“Yes. They had a long talk about poetry and someone named Pushkin.”

“Do you know whether she got a look at the Alhazred Icon?”

“So you know we have it…No, drunk or sober, he wouldn’t show it to anybody till

the time of its need.”

“When I was looking for you earlier, I saw him holding what looked like an icon. Is it on wood, about three inches high, nine inches long?”

“Yes, and he did have it out from its hiding place today. Whenever he feels particularly depressed he says that it cheers him up to ‘go to the shores of Hali and consider the enactments of ruin’ and then to contemplate the uses he has for it all.”

“That could almost be taken as a closer’s statement,” I said.

“I sometimes think you’re a closer, Snuff.”

Our eyes met, and I halted. At some point, you have to take a chance.

“I am,” I said.

“Damn! We’re not alone then!”

“Let’s keep it quiet,” I said. “In fact, let’s not speak of it again.”

“But you can at least tell me whether you know if any of the others are.”

“I don’t,” I said.

I started forward again. A small plunge taken, a small victory grasped. We passed a pair of cows, heads down, munching. A small roll of thunder came from the Good Doctor’s direction. Looking left, I could make out my hill, which I’d named Dog’s Nest.

“Is this one farther south than the other?” I asked, as we turned onto a lane which led in that direction.

“Yes,” he hissed.

I kept trying to visualize the pattern tugged in new directions by these new foci of residence. It was irritating to keep finding and losing candidates for center. It seemed almost as if the forces were playing games with me. And it was especially difficult to keep surrendering ones that seemed eminently appropriate.

At last our way took us to what seemed like somebody’s family plot. Only, the family it belonged to was long gone. A collapsed building lay upon a nearby hilltop. Barely a foundation, really, was what remained. And I saw that the remains of the family had been adopted, when Quicklime led me into the overgrown graveyard, all but the eastern side of its fence fallen, and that side atilt.

He led me among tall grasses to a great stone slab. There were signs of recent digging about the perimeter it had covered, and the stone had been raised and offset to the side, leaving a narrow opening through which I knew I must squeeze.

I stuck my nose inside and sniffed. Dust.

“Want me to check it out?” Quicklime said.

“Let’s both go down,” I replied. “After this walk, I at least want a look.”

I went through and descended a series of uneven steps. There was a puddle at the bottom and I stepped over it. There were others about, too, and I couldn’t avoid them all. It was dark, but eventually I made out an opened casket set up in a raised area. Another had been moved aside to make room for it.

I approached to sniff about the thing. What odors I might have sought, I’m not sure. The Count had been scentless on the night we had met, a very disconcerting thing to one of my temperament and olfactory equipment. As I drew nearer and my vision cleared, I wondered why he had left the lid open. It seemed most inappropriate for one of his persuasion.

Rearing up, I placed a forepaw on the casket’s side and looked down into the interior.

Quicklime, nearby, said, “What is it?” and I realized that I had made a small woofing sound.

“The Game has grown more serious,” I answered.

He climbed up to the ledge, then mounted the end of the casket where he hovered, looking like Pharaoh’s headdress.

“Oh my!” he said then.

A skeleton lay within, atop a long black cloak. It still had on a suit of dark garments, somewhat in disarray now, opened in front. Splitting the sternum was a large wooden stake, angled slightly, passing far down, missing the backbone to the left. There was considerable dry dust within and without.

“Looks like the new site wasn’t as secret as he’d thought,” I said.

“Wonder whether he was an opener or a closer?” Quicklime said.

“I’d’ve guessed ‘opener,’” I said, “but I suppose we’ll never know.”

“Who do you think nailed him?”

“I’ve no idea, yet,” I said, lowering myself and turning away. I squinted into nooks and fissures then. “See Needle anywhere about?” I asked.

“No. You think they got him, too?”

“Could be. If he turns up, though, he’ll certainly bear questioning.” I climbed the stair and emerged into light. I started walking back.

“What happens now?” Quicklime asked.

“I have to make my rounds,” I said.

“Do we just go on and wait for it to happen again?”

“No. We exercise caution.”

We slithered and trotted back to our own area.

 Jack was out, and I took care of business about the house and went looking for Graymalk to fill her in on the latest. Was surprised to encounter Jack engaged in conversation with Crazy Jill on her back step. He had in his hand a cup of sugar which he had presumably just borrowed. He ended the conversation and turned away as I approached. Graymalk was nowhere about. Jack told me as I walked him home that we might ride into town for supplies of a mundane nature sometime soon.

Later, I was out front, still looking for Graymalk, when the Great Detective’s coach passed, him still in his Linda Enderby guise. Our eyes met and held for several long seconds. Then he was gone.

I went back inside and took a long nap.

I awoke near dusk and made the rounds again. The Things in the Mirror were still clustered, and pulsing lightly. The flaw appeared slightly larger, though this could have been a trick of memory and imagination. I resolved to call it to Jack’s attention soon, however.

Eating and drinking and passing outside then, I sought Graymalk once more. I found her in her front yard doing catnappery on the steps.

“Hello. Looked for you earlier,” I said. “Missed you.”

She yawned and stretched, cleaned her shoulders.

“I was out,” she responded, “checking around the church and the vicarage.”

“Did you get inside?”

“No. Looked into every opening I could, though.”

“Learn anything interesting?”

“The vicar keeps a skull on the desk in his study.”

“Memento mori,” I remarked. “Churchmen are sometimes big on that sort of thing. Maybe it came with the place as a part of the furnishings.”

“It’s resting in the bowl.”

“The bowl?”

“The bowl. The old pentacle bowl they talk about.”

“Oh.” So I’d been wrong in assigning that tool to the Good Doctor. “That accounts for an item.” Then, disingenuously, “Now, if you can tell me where the two wands are . . .” I said.

She gave me a strange look and continued grooming herself.

“…And I had to climb the outside of the place,” she said.

“Why?”

“I heard someone crying upstairs. So I made my way up the siding and looked in what seemed the proper window. I saw a girl on a bed. She had on a blue dress, and there was a long chain around her ankle. The other end was attached to the bed frame.”

“Who was it?”

“Well, I met Tekela a little later,” she went on. “I don’t think she was too eager to talk to a cat. Still, I persuaded her to tell me that the girl is Lynette, the daughter of the vicar’s late wife Janet by a previous marriage.”

“Why was she chained up?”

“Tekela said that she was being disciplined for attempting to run away.”

“Very suspicious. How old is she?”

“Thirteen.”

“Yes. Just right. Sacrifice, of course.”

“Of course.”

“What did you give her for the information?”

“I told her the story of our encounter with the big man the other night — and the possibility that the Gipsies may be associated with the Count.”

“I’d better tell you something about the Count,” I said, and I detailed my investigations with Quicklime.

“No matter whose side he was on, I can’t say I’m sorry to see him out of the picture,” she said. “He was extremely frightening.”

“You met him?”

“I saw him one night, departing that first crypt. I’d hidden myself on a tree limb, to watch it happen. He seemed to ooze up out of there as if he weren’t really moving any muscles, just flowing, the way Quicklime can do. Then he stood there a moment with his cloak flapping about him in the wind, turning his head, looking at the world as if he owned it and was deciding what part of it would amuse him just then. And then he laughed. I’ll never forget that sound. He just threw his head back and barked — not the way you do, unless you’ve a special way of barking just before you eat something that might not want to be eaten, and that this pleases you, adds to the flavor. Then he moved, and it played tricks with my eyes. He was different things, different shapes, flapping cloak all about — even in different places at the same time — and then he was gone, like a piece of the cloak sailing away in the moonlight. I wasn’t unhappy to see him go.”

“I never saw anything that dramatic,” I said. “But I met him at even closer quarters, and I was impressed.” I paused, then, “Did Tekela give you anything besides the story on Lynette?” I asked.

“Everyone seems to be onto the idea of the old manse as the center now,” she said. “The vicar told her that it had served a much larger church, south of here, in the old days — one that the last Henry had ruined, as an example to the others that he meant business.”

“That makes it such a good candidate that I’m irritated at the Count’s bad taste in throwing off the calculations.”

“Have you figured the new site yet?”

“No. I should be about that pretty soon, though.”

“You’ll let me know?”

“I’ll take you with me when I do it,” I offered.

“When will that be?”

“Probably tomorrow. I was just going to walk up the road to see the Gipsies now.”

“Why?”

“They’re sometimes colorful. You can come along if you like.”

“I will.”

We headed on up the road. It was another clear-skied night, with multitudes of stars. I could hear a distant music as we neared Larry’s place. Beyond, I could make out the glow of bonfires. As we continued, I could distinguish the sounds of violin, guitar, tambourine, and a single drum within the music. We drew nearer, coming at last to a hiding place beneath a caravan, from which we could watch. I smelled dogs, but we were downwind and none bothered us.

Several older Gipsy women were dancing and there was suddenly a singer making wailing sounds. The music was stirring, the dancers’ movements stylized, like the steps of long-legged birds I’d seen in warmer climes. There were many fires, and from some of them came the smells of cooking. The spectacle was as much a thing of the shadows as the light, however, and I rather liked the wailing, being something of a connoisseur when it comes to barks and howls. We watched for some time, taken by the bright colors of the dancers’ and players’ garments as much as by the movements and the sounds.

They played several tunes, and then the fiddler gestured toward a knot of spectators, holding out his instrument and pointing to it. I heard a sound of protest, but he insisted, and finally a woman moved forward into the light. It was several moments before I realized it to be Linda Enderby. Obviously, the Great Detective was making yet another of his social calls. Back in the shadows, I could now make out the short, husky form of his companion.

Over several protests, he accepted the violin and bow, touched the strings, then cradled the instrument as if he knew its kind well. He raised the bow, paused for a long moment, and then began to play.

He was good. It was not Gipsy music, but was some old folk tune I’d heard somewhere before. When it was done he moved immediately into another on which he worked several variations. He played and he played, and it grew wilder and wilder —

Abruptly, he halted and took a step, as if suddenly moving out of a dream. He bowed then and returned the instrument to its owner, his movements in that moment entirely masculine. I thought of all the controlled thinking, the masterfully developed deductions, which had served to bring him here, and then this — this momentary slipping into the wildness he must keep carefully restrained — and then seeing him come out of it, smiling, becoming the woman again. I saw in this the action of an enormous will, and suddenly I knew him much better than as the pursuing figure of many faces. Suddenly I knew that he had to be learning, as we were learning other aspects, of the scope of our enterprise, that he could well be right behind us at the end, that he was almost, in some way, a player — more a force, really — in the Game, and I respected him as I have few beings of the many I have known.

Later, as we walked back, Graymalk said, “It was good to get away for a time.”

“Yes,” I said, “it was,” and I regarded the sky, where the moon was growing.

[thekitchensnk]

and the spider lilies bloomed in the fall (chapter 18)

Rating: T Warnings: Violence Pairing: Gin/Ran Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18

“They say that lovers doomed never to see each other again still see the higanbana growing along their path, even to this day.”

A girl collapses on a dusty road one day. A boy takes her home.

The girl lives.

—

(The boy doesn’t.)

Even weeks later, Ayame could not leave the subject alone. She brought the subject of Rangiku's victory up so frequently and so loudly that Rangiku had developed a scheme to feign deafness whenever Ayame started up.

"I just don't understand why you wouldn't-" Ayame would huff.

"What? I'm sorry, Ayame-chan, but I-"

"I said that I just don't understand why-"

"SORRY, AYAME-CHAN, BUT SUDDENLY IT'S VERY HARD TO HEAR ANYTHING. I think I might have blocked ears!" Rangiku would cheerfully lie.

Ayame would glare. "Don’t be so immature. You can't just pretend to be deaf to avoid conversations you don't want to hear."

Rangiku would momentarily pause in her efforts to mop the floor, and squint at her, digging at her ears. "SORRY, AYAME-CHAN, WHAT DID YOU SAY? I SAID I CAN'T HEAR YOU."

And Ayame would throw her cleaning rag down and storm off, leaving Rangiku grinning widely in her wake.

Whatever illness it was that Ayame seemed to have been suffering from also seemed to have passed. She was adamant that the vomiting spells which had plagued her were just her stomach adjusting to the inclusion of Rangiku into the cooking roster, reasoning which everyone else could quite easily buy, though which Rangiku herself contested hotly.

"There is no kitchen curse!" she would shout angrily. "You're just picking on me, like you always do!"

Regardless, one morning a little over a month after Rangiku's fight with the shinigami student, Chiyo had taken a long, hard look at Ayame, taking the girl’s jaw in one lined hand and examining her with brow-knitted intensity.

Ayame had gone pale and still, her eyes wide with fear as she suffered Chiyo's scrutiny.

"You've not been looking well lately, Ayame," Chiyo had said, slowly. "It's been too long since you've had a rest, I think. Take the morning to go into town. I have some things I need you to pick up."

Ayame had crumpled then with the release of that strange tension, and relief had filled her eyes.

"Of course," she had said weakly, her eyes darting to the door as she did so. "Thank you, Chiyo-san." She had made to leave as quickly as possible.

"Ayame," Chiyo had called after her serenely. At the sound of Chiyo's voice, Ayame had frozen in place.

To Rangiku, watching on, it had made for an odd spectacle indeed.

"Take Rangiku with you," Chiyo had said pensively. "It wouldn't do for you to take ill on the road on your own."

"Y-" Ayame had cleared her throat nervously. "Yes, Chiyo-san. We’ll leave straight away."

Which was how Rangiku suddenly found herself following Ayame through the streets of the fourteenth district, aching with a sense of sudden, dizzying freedom.

It was only seldom that she left the confines of the Floating Moon, and every time she did, she felt the openness of the sky towering dizzily above her. It was strange, but she never felt imprisoned until she was allowed out into the open, where suddenly she found she could breathe more easily. Today, the air was thick with water vapour and overripe with the potential for a storm.

As she breathed in, she breathed in water; the air felt wet and heavy and it lay on the two as they walked, clinging and soft, like an embrace. The sky was iron dark and gray, but it did little to suppress the energy humming under Rangiku's skin. If anything, the dark shadows on the horizon just made the bright leaves of autumn even more beautiful, and Rangiku more appreciative.

In fourteenth, the district had had the means somewhere down the line to plant decoratively- the elegant palm fan leaved gingko trees were beginning to turn butter yellow and the maple trees were sporting shocks of red and fierce orange. The air painted everything in soft focus, muting and blurring the edges of everything solid until it was as hazy and indistinct as a dream.

As Rangiku walked, she raised her arm up and let her fingertips brush against low-lying leaves the color of the sun rise, and she smiled softly to herself in the descending mist.

The sky was dark- so dark- but everywhere, the world was turning to gold.

I'm going to live beautifully, she thought suddenly.

Even if I have nothing else in the world. Even if I'm abandoned time and time again. Even if everyone says that I'm naïve and empty-headed. I'll live with my head held high and my fingers touching gold, and if I can do that, it will have been a life worth living. There is beauty everywhere for those who care to look, and I'm going to find it.

It was a secret vow she whispered to herself, and she held it close to her chest, tucked next to her heart with all the other small and profound things of which she was comprised- the taste of dried persimmons, abrupt kindness to a fallen enemy, the sound of a party in full swing. She felt warm, suddenly, in spite of the damp chill.

Even in the gray light, Ayame looked healthier, as if even just a morning off was good for her soul.

Rangiku was glad to see it. The past few weeks had given Ayame a wan, thin cast to her face.

"Ayame-chan," she called out happily, "I have money for mochi. Would you like some? We could get some tea to go with it."

It was testament to the heady power of a morning off that Ayame hesitated even for a moment. But in the end, not even a morning's freedom could curb Ayame's natural tendency to always, sensibly, obey the rules.

"We should do Chiyo's chores first, Rangiku-chan," she said, though a note of wistfulness was threaded through her voice. "Maybe once we're done with those though."

"I'm going to buy matcha flavoured mochi," Rangiku announced boisterously. "Matcha mochi, yuzu tea." She paused. "Matcha mochi, yuzu tea, and maybe a new ribbon from the market." She bounced slightly on her heels in giddiness. "Where do we have to go for Chiyo's stuff? What does she need us to get?"

"Lye soap, for laundry; jasmine oil for the bath."

"Do you know where we need to go for those? Where on earth do you buy jasmine oil?" Rangiku asked quizzically.

"Chiyo only ever gets the cheap stuff. There's a florist over on the corner that gives Chiyo a cheap price for her loyalty. That's where we'll go."

The inhabitants of the fourteenth were better heeled than the inhabitants of Rangiku's home district. By no means was anyone rich- certainly not by the standards of Seireitei nobility- but the inhabitants all had shoes, and looked to bathe at least semi-regularly. There were no children with hollow, empty eyes and naked backs here; no curdling stream of filth running through the street. Whores here did not heckle and solicit on street corners, but were obliged by law only to operate within certain areas of the district, over clean waters and arched bridges the colour of saffron.

The women went about with wooden combs in their hair, their healthy bodies draped in cheap cotton yukatas of every colour. It was rare to see a mouth of cracked and calcified teeth, and rarer still to see the pock-marked, poverty-disfigured faces which had been the norm where she came from.

It had been over two years since Rangiku had last felt rain dribbling on her face through a threadbare roof. Over two years since she'd had to bathe in a river. Over two years since she'd had only one stained, ripped and patched yukata to wear.

Sometimes she wondered whether the stains and watermarks of that old life were branded onto her soul, evident for anyone with keen enough sight to see. Would she always walk through busy streets with her fists clenched, ready to swing? Would she always scan dark corners and alleyways for the next attack? Would it show in her manners, in her speech? Was the dirt and shame caked on so thick and deep that she could never be rid of it?

Could everyone see it on her face?

And if they could, did that matter?

She was strong, she was young, she was beautiful. She was moving forward, striding forward. That had to count for something.

(But still, she feared those things burnt on her soul- the fears and the anxieties of abandonment and hunger. She feared them because she knew that they still had a hold on her and moved her in incomprehensible ways, like a magnetic field moves a compass needle. She could gather her things in a sack and walk a thousand miles from that place, but something of it would always be inside her; the fear.)

Here and now, she was indistinguishable from any other person living in the fourteenth district. Her clothes were every bit as clean as theirs. I look as if I was born here. she thought fiercely as she and Ayame walked through the cobbled streets. I fit in here. I’ll smack anyone who says otherwise. There was a rumble of thunder far off.

"Did you feel that?" Ayame asked suddenly. "I think that’s the rain. Did you remember to bring the umbrella?"

"Erm." Rangiku scratched at her head. She had heard that they were to have the morning off and had scrambled excitedly to find her money, like any person with sane, healthy priorities would.

"Rangiku-chan!" Ayame groaned in annoyance.

"Hey!" Rangiku protested hotly. "You have arms! You have legs! Why didn't you bring the umbrella?"

As they were bickering, the sky, thickly filled to saturation with water, finally burst. The rain which dropped fell in fat, heavy droplets which smacked against the ground. Ayame, fussy at the best of times, yelped in shocked outrage.

Rangiku grabbed her by the hand and began to run, overbalancing as she did so.

She only made it a few feet before she felt her arm yank in its socket.

"You're running the wrong way," Ayame shouted, though her voice was drowned out by the rain. Her chestnut coloured hair was stuck to her face with water.

"What?" Rangiku yelled back.

"Oh, for fuck's sake! You're runnin- you're running-" Ayame gave up and grabbed her arm and began to stride in the opposite direction. Rangiku followed blindly, an arm raised above her head to in the hope of some meagre cover.

The florist's was only two streets away, but they were soaked through and breathless by the time they arrived, Rangiku's fumbling with the door adding a good twenty seconds to the time they spent in the rain.

"Great!" Ayame complained, raising her hands in annoyance. "Chiyo gave me the morning off to improve my health, and here I am, soaked through and shivering!" She glared around the shop.

"That's not my fault!" Rangiku protested.

"I didn't say it was!"

"You aimed it in my direction!"

"I know you don't control the weather, Rangiku.” She drew herself up haughtily. “Don't be childish."

Rangiku glared mutinously. "You're not much older than me. I'm sure of it."

The shop assistant coughed politely, a hand as white as porcelain coming up to cover her delicate mouth, but Rangiku was pretty sure she could detect the hint of an amused smile beneath it. Ayame immediately looked mortified; Rangiku continued to shoot daggers at Ayame.

"I am," Ayame tried to smooth her clothes to make herself look a little more dignified, "so sorry about that. We didn't mean to create a scene."

Gin had seemed to make it his life's work to terrorise every shopkeeper he came into contact with. Rangiku hardly thought that raised voices and endless complaining warranted the level of embarrassment that Ayame was displaying.

Color flooded Ayame’s cheeks. "If you don't mind me asking,” she said in a quick bid to move on from the supposed shame of minor public disturbance, “where's Kojima-san? Is she working today? Not we have anything against you-" Ayame added hurriedly- "it's just that she has an understanding with my employer regarding prices, and my employer is very strict about this sort of thing."

There was a quiet, understanding amusement at Ayame's fumbling in the young shop assistant's violet eyes.

"Please don't worry," she said, her voice as soft and sonorous as glass chimes. "Is it the jasmine oil that you're here to purchase? I've been made aware of the arrangement, if so."

"Yes," Ayame said with a sigh of relief. "Yes, that's it. I don't believe we've met before. Have you only just started working here?"

"Six weeks ago," the shop assistant admitted shyly. "I've only just moved here."

"Oh? Did you travel far?”

The shop assistant's ears turned a delicate pink, as if she were about to divulge a shameful secret. "Inuzuri," she murmured, unable to look Ayame in the eyes.

If anyone could understand that feeling, it was Rangiku.

"Shit," she said appreciatively. "That's further than even me, I think, and I lived in the middle of fucking nowhere."

"Rangiku-chan, watch your mouth!" Ayame cried in shock.

"What have I done this time?" Rangiku complained in despair.

The shop assistant laughed then, an awkward, breathy laugh and the flush settled lightly on her cheeks. She looks good laughing, Rangiku thought. Healthier, more alive, more like a person. She smiled to see the woman’s composure waver.

"What's your name, shop assistant from Inuzuri?" she asked warmly.

"Hisana." The woman paused. “Just… Hisana.” No surname, Rangiku noted pityingly. It was not unusual for those from the poorest districts not to have one.

“I’m Rangiku, and this lovely lady,” she draped a clumsy arm over Ayame, “is Ayame.”

There was a short awkward pause whilst Hisana looked them over, during which the drumming noise of the rain filled the shop.

They were soaked, and their thin yukata had done nothing to prevent them from being soaked through to the skin by the weather. A cold, dim light filled the shop, second-hand light filtered through the rain clouds. Rangiku’s tabi squelched in her sandals as she shifted her weight, her chin raised pridefully as Hisana looked them over.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Hisana said formally. She looked at them thoughtfully for a beat. “What perfect names you both have for the setting.”

Ayame wrinkled her delicate nose, but it was Rangiku who explained.

“We get that a lot, in our line of work. Men always think they’re so original.” Rangiku put on a comically gruff, masculine voice. “’’Lovely little flowers. I’d love to pluck your petals,’ and all that rubbish. It makes my skin crawl. What losers. They always think they’re so original as well, the smelly goats.”

Hisana looked confused, but was too polite to pry further into their employment histories. It was, Rangiku figured wryly, probably why she worked at a florist and not behind the bar in a whorehouse.

“The rain is pouring down very heavily,” Hisana noted, “and neither of you seem to have an umbrella. Would you like to stay here while the rain eases off? I could make a pot of tea.” There was a desperate look in her eye.

Ayame looked torn- it was very wet outside, but she was uncomfortable imposing too long on someone else’s kindness.

Rangiku had no such qualms.

“Hisana-chan!” she cried out, tripping over her feet in an effort to take Hisana’s hands in her own. “You’re our very own saviour! Thank you!” She barely paused. “Do you have yuzu flavoured tea?”

“Rangiku-chan!” Ayame scolded.

“What? She offered!”

HIsana shook her head regretfully. “I’m afraid we don’t have any yuzu tea. Only standard green tea.” Anxiety entered her voice. “Will that suffice? Is that alright?” she asked, a slight worry in her eyes.

Ayame nodded firmly. “Pay no attention to Rangiku-chan, that klutz. Green tea would be lovely. Thank you for your kindness.”

Whilst Hisana pottered about making tea in the shop’s backrooms, Rangiku took the time to look closely at the wares.

Autumn was just beginning to set in, and the shop had wild bunches of the last of the summer cosmos on display, tied with string, pink and yellow and orange, childishly bright. The elegant, slender petaled chrysanthemum flower that was her namesake was also on display in singles and doubles, and she bent her head down to smell them, her nose filling with their green, aqueous smell. It was usually the second to last flower to bloom in the year. There had been no chrysanthemums growing where she had grown up, and she had scarcely known that she was named for a flower. It wasn’t until Yuki had offered to make her a cup of chrysanthemum tea that she had learned that fact.

As she cast her eyes around, they landed finally on a familiar sight, a scarlet nest of spindly protrusions, grown from a bulb, fierce and scarlet and beautiful.

Her eyes went wide.

He had been full of happy impatience, that day; all smiles and nervous movements. He had wanted to give it to her, that patch of ground, had wanted to make a present of it. She had not known at the time, but it had been his way of saying this is your home, this garden is mine but it is yours too, put something of yourself into it so that you can know that it belongs to you, that you built something here with me, that we were here together. "This spot is for ya'.” He had said. “Grow whatever ya' want here- onions, scallions, garlic, cress, cabbage. Whatever ya' want."

“Here. Give them to me. I'll carry 'em for ya’."

"They're pretty. This was a good idea ya' had. I wonder what these are?"

“The fox is having his wedding…”

He had given her a spot of her own in the garden in which to grow whatever she’d wanted, and she had wanted flowers. She had raced to the river and dug the flowers out of the riverbed with her bare hands, carrying them back bulb and all.

She had greeted him with mud on her face and arms full of spider lilies, and he had pronounced them beautiful.

He had barely looked at the flowers. She had thought that he must have been lying, just to appease her.

They were the first thing that they had put in the flower bed, and her spider lilies had returned every year after, as constant and steadfast as the rain. They had always bloomed for his birthday, and for hers too, thriving brightly as the world around them was beginning to decay.

It had been so long since she had seen them, and her heart ached all of a sudden for a ramshackle garden and a rundown house, for happy summer days, and for a boy made of smiles and silver, all so far away.

Hisana had returned with the pot of tea, and she poured a cup for each of them. In the damp autumn chill, the steam from the tea condensed quickly, spiralling and smoking in the air.

I need to have one, she thought. She burned with it, suddenly, the need to have some reminder, some memento, some thing that could tie her present to her past, something to convince her that it had been real.

(Because it had been real. Hadn’t it?)

(Hadn’t it?)

“Hisana?” Rangiku asked abruptly. “How much is it for one of these?”

Hisana’s hands flew to her mouth as if she had sparked off a catastrophe.

“Oh,” she said gravely. “I didn’t realise. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Rangiku’s face contorted in confusion.  “Huh?” she asked, her mouth a small ‘o’.

Hisana took her hand gently. “You’ve not lost someone?”

Rangiku blinked. “No…?” She laughed loudly, retracting her hand to thread it nervously through her hair.

“Oh. Then I’m sorry. The higanbana is not a pleasant flower,” Hisana said in a small voice. “We only stock them for O-Higan, so that people might commemorate their loved ones who have passed on.”

Rangiku was silent, her brow wrinkled.

Ayame looked at her gently. “They’re flowers for the dead, Rangiku-chan,” she said. “People put them near graves, so that vermin won’t get at the bodies.”

“I didn’t know that,” Rangiku said quietly, a strange despair curling in her belly. “I always just thought that they were pretty.”

Hisana was a kind soul, and she rallied quickly to try and brighten Rangiku’s spirits.

“They are very pretty, and they do look interesting. There aren’t many flowers that look like a spider lily, and not many flowers at all grow so late in the year. And there are so many stories about them. They’re interesting flowers really.” She smiled enthusiastically.

Ayame was contemplative. 

“They say that once upon a time, the flower was the most sacred flower of all,” she said pensively. “Two spirits were commanded to guard the plant. One guarded the leaves, and the other the flower. But the tragedy was the leaves and the flower can never grow at the same time, so the spirits could never see each other.

But the spirits fell in love anyway, though the stories never tell that part. They decided to run away together, to become everything to one another, defying every law of the gods in the process. The gods raged at their disobedience, as all gods do, drunk and violent in their power, and they decided to punish the lovers for their insolence, for daring to abandon their god-demanded duty.

They would never meet again for all eternity, and never will, not until every star in the sky blackens and sputters out. Not until the sun and moon embrace each other in the sky without covering one another up. Not even then. They say that lovers doomed never to see each other again will still see higanbana growing along their path to this day, because of those two spirits. Red spider lilies.”

Rangiku’s expression must have been strange, because Hisana took her hand gently and looked her in the eyes earnestly.

“They’re just stories, Rangiku-kun,” she said kindly. “It is also said that the higanbana light the way to the next life, for what that’s worth. So they’re not all bad. You shouldn’t let stories get in the way of a pretty thing. If you want one, you should buy one.”

But something of the melancholy of the story had worked its way deep into her heart, and she felt like an empty-headed fool all of a sudden to have liked them so openly and enthusiastically.

Knowing the sad truth behind the lovely scarlet flowers, she was certain that she would never be able to look at them in the same way ever again. Joy in their beauty and all of her fond, sun-lit memories would be tinged forever now with a streak of sadness, like a line of spilled blue ink.

She could not stand the sight of them.

Outside, the drumming of the rain was beginning to slow.

She laughed a bright, fragile laugh, but it sounded a little hollow even to her own ears.

"No, no," she said, "I wouldn't want something as depressing as that in my room, Hisana-chan. Only pink cosmos for me from now on. You've done me a favor in any case, because I was going to spend my money on mochi, not flowers." She grasped around desperately for a change in subject, so that the two women would stop giving her such pitying looks. "Good job that your boss isn't here! What would she think of Hisana actively stopping her customers from buying flowers, eh?"

When she laughed this time, it was more genuine.

Hisana blanched in anxiety.

"It's okay, it's okay," Rangiku said smiling, and sipped at her tea. "We won't tell if you don't."

Ayame glared daggers at Rangiku, who pulled a face at her in return. "When does O-higan start this year, Hisana-san?" she asked, kindly changing the topic for Hisana.

"Tomorrow, actually. It's a little bit later this year, apparently. O-higan follows the movement of the sun, or something like that," Hisana paused thoughtfully. "Or at least, that's what I've heard. It will end on the 29th though."

"Due to the nature of our, ah, work, it's very easy to lose track of time. Days and nights kind of all blur together. September already..." She trailed off suddenly into a fraught silence, looking unsettled, like the end of September heralded a death sentence.

Rangiku had other concerns.

"It's only a week until my birthday!" Rangiku yelped.

Hisana looked very confused.

"I do not know your line of work," she said politely, "but do you not have calendars there?" The question seemed genuine, but Rangiku pointed her finger at her all the same.

"Ayame-chan! Look at this! Hisana-chan has only known us for forty minutes, and she's already giving us sass about our inability to keep track of time. She knows us both so well already!"

Hisana looked shocked, but it only lasted a moment before she broke into a delicate, tinkling laugh. "I don't quite know how to respond to that. Happy birthday then, if I'm not fortunate enough to see you again before next week."

Ayame stood abruptly. "We should go, Rangiku-chan. We have chores to do, and the rain has eased off," she said shortly, her expression stormy.

"Eh? But I was having fun talking " Rangiku complained.

"We shouldn't infringe too long on Hisana-san's hospitality. We're keeping her from her job."

Rangiku was about to protest that the shop was empty, and likely to be empty for the rest of the morning, with the weather being as bad as it was, but she stopped herself when she caught sight of Ayame's troubled features. Her eyes narrowed.

"Okay," she nodded quietly. "Let's go."

If Hisana found their sudden departure rude or unexpected, it did not show on her smooth, polite face. "Don't forget the jasmine oil you ordered," she reminded them courteously.

Ayame looked at her. "Thank you. I might have, had you not reminded me." She paused, and her expression softened slightly. "Thank you so much for giving us shelter from the storm, and for the tea you made us. You didn't need to do that. Kindness is rare, even here. We appreciate it."

Hisana smiled sadly. "I've not met many people since I've moved here.” She ringed her delicate, pale wrists with her hands anxiously. “I left everyo- thing behind in Inuzuri. I spend most of my days here, in the shop, alone. It was nice just to have someone to talk with."

"Then I'll definitely come again when I next have a morning free," Rangiku vowed. Ayame gave her a sharp look, and she swiftly moved to correct her.

"Rangiku-chan doesn't get many mornings off, so that might be difficult," she said smoothly. "But I do. I'll definitely visit."

Rangiku was puzzled, but said nothing. They made their farewells, and left soon after.

As they turned the corner, Rangiku craned her neck to look back. Hisana sat behind the counter, alone. Her pale fingers played slowly with the petals of the spider lily.

It made for a sad picture.

The rain had stopped, but the cobbles on the street were slick with rainwater.

Gigantic puddles stretched across the street and captured the sky in their flat, reflective surfaces. It seemed to Rangiku that there was a second sky right at her feet, that she was walking above it, and that with every step, she might fall through the clouds. It was a dizzying, vertiginous feeling, like standing on the precipice and preparing to let herself fall. Her heart beat an odd, syncopated rhythm against her ribcage, and she could feel her pulse in her neck, and it made her feel slightly sick. A strange sense of unease settled over her.

They walked in silence, Ayame's face tight with some unspoken emotion, Rangiku's eyes downcast.

They bought the lye soap Chiyo requested, and stopped at a market stall so that Rangiku could buy her mochi, but by the time it was time for her to order, she had changed her mind and decided to buy herself hanami dango instead. It was almost time for them to be returning to the Floating Moon, and she figured that it would be more easy to eat dango as they walked across the bridge to get home.

Home.

She was just starting to eat the red bean dango, when Ayame stopped abruptly in front of her. Rangiku was so absorbed in eating that she walked barged into Ayame's back.

Her eyes flashed in irritation. "Hey!" she hissed, outraged. "Don't just stop in the middle of the road! I could have dropped my dango, and then we would have had to go back so that I could buy more." She pouted childishly.

Ayame closed her eyes and inhaled as if trying to reign in her temper. She exhaled steadily, and when she opened her eyes again, she said:

"You and I need to talk. Properly this time. No stupid games."

"I've not done anything wrong," Rangiku insisted immediately.

"No,” she said. “No you haven't. But you're making a huge mistake, Rangiku-chan."

Rangiku looked up from her dango and gave Ayame her full attention. "Hm?" she said, taking a bite.

"You're making a mistake." Ayame repeated quietly.

"What do you mean?" Something twisted nervously inside her at Ayame's tone of voice.

"Why are you here?"

Rangiku didn't understand.

"I work here.”

“No, Rangiku. You know what I mean.”

She didn’t.

“I need to eat, and this job's better than the alternatives,” Rangiku protested weakly. “And anyway, I like it. I like being around you, and Yuki-san, and Sayaka-chan, and Rin-san, and everyone else. I like being useful." To Rangiku, it was simple. She needed to eat, yes, but more than that, much stronger still, though she would never tell Ayame, she knew that she would sooner die than be alone again.

"Rangiku..."

Ayame sighed. Something in her seemed to crumple in on itself then, as if some iron pillar in her had collapsed under an immense weight. She looked Rangiku straight in the eyes, and her brown eyes were bright and almost desperate. Rangiku stared into them uncomprehending, and she tried to smile, to get Ayame to smile with her, but it was no use. Her gaze was almost too uncomfortable to bear.

"Not everyone is as lucky as you," Ayame gritted out. "Not everyone gets a choice. How do you think Yuki got started? She was thrown out of her house because she was found kissing girls, and had nowhere else to go. Sayaka? Sayaka was hooked on drugs when she was too young and trusting to know any better. Rin? Fled a marriage to a prosperous man who nearly killed her. She still has the scars on her back. Rangiku-" Ayame's voice caught in her throat, "don't make the mistake of glamorizing this. All of us were desperate. None of us had a choice. Maybe there are some girls out there who are lucky enough to have a say in whether they do this or not, and frankly, more power to them if they do. But never forget for a moment- for most of us, there is no choice, and there never has been."

Rangiku breath caught in her throat. "Why are you telling me this?" she asked weakly.

"Do you know how many of us get our start? We're sold into it. That's how it was for me, and that's normal." Ayame swallowed. "I've only just paid off my starting debt. I could leave, but there's no other way I'd be able to make money, so I'd just find myself back where I started, on the street. Girls like me- we’re trapped." She paused, and when she spoke, her voice was thick. "But you're not. You could leave today if you wanted. You could leave now. You've got power. You've got prospects. Why don't you understand? Why won’t you leave?"

Rangiku could feel a kind of hot shame curling in her chest. Her voice wavered when she spoke. "But who would keep you safe?" she said, her hands balling up in her yukata. "You need me." She was certain of that. "I keep you safe. You need me."

The look Ayame gave her was unspeakably soft.

Her words were not.

"We don't need you," she said gently. "We were alright before you came, and we'll be alright after you're gone." She paused, and when she repeated herself, she sounded so thoroughly matter of fact that Rangiku wanted to cry. “We don’t need you at all.”

Her cheeks were suddenly wet, and her dango felt sticky against her hand, but she barely noticed.

It's happening again, Rangiku thought dully. Why? Why does this always happen?

She had made this, this small thing for herself, this space of shared jokes and shared nights; she had folded herself inside it, had made herself indispensable to it in the hope that she would not ever have to suffer loneliness again. It was her sandcastle, standing small and proud on the shoreline, the work of childish hands and clumsy labour, and she had smiled to see it, to know that it was hers and hers alone.

But the tide was coming in. There was one truth for her, though never for anyone else it seemed: there could be no security anywhere in the world. Just this: the futile effort of building, building, building, just to see it all swept away in the end.

"That's the truth," Ayame said and her voice cracked. "We don’t need you. You'd never have to see any of the awful things you see regularly here ever again. Do you think it's healthy? To be responsible for the safety of so many people at your age? To have seen the things you've seen?"

Rangiku cheeks burned. Her mind replayed Ayame's words over and over again on repeat; we don't need you.

"Rangiku," Ayame said, her voice low and urgent. "Do you really think Chiyo is content to let someone like you sit around playing barmaid when you could be making her money? When I'm gone, the first thing she'll do is coerce you into whoring yourself out for her in my place. I'm on your side, and I will be even when no one else is- you have to listen to me."

It was this which snapped her attention back to Ayame.

"What do you mean, 'When I'm gone'?" she asked, her voice small and tremulous.

But Ayame was tight-lipped and would not say anymore.

"There is a place for you. Out there, behind those pale stone walls. The new term starts in January. If you aren't there, in that stupid uniform, when it starts-" her voice came out of her throat almost like a sob "-then I'll kick your ass into next Tuesday. I swear it. I will. I don’t have powers, but I’ll do it."

Rangiku was dazed. It felt as if the entire world had tilted sideways, like she had stepped through the clouds and she was falling through space.

"What is happening...?" she mumbled to herself in horrified wonder.

Behind gray clouds, the sun was beginning to dip below the skyline, and the shadows of the golden leaved gingkos and fire-garbed maple trees were beginning to crawl and lengthen over the cobbled street. What little sunlight was to be found played idly on the slow eddies of the river below.

She watched Ayame looked up at the sky, her expression unreadable.

How fragile, this life. How easily it crumbles apart.

Ayame sighed. Ragiku watched her as she readjusted her yukata neatly, as fastidious as ever.

"We'd best get back," she said with distantly. “The gong will be sounding soon.”

She walked ahead, and Rangiku watched her as her green-clad back got smaller and smaller , before finally disappearing around a corner.

Rangiku looked helplessly at the dango in her hand. Her hands were sticky, like a child’s.

With a heavy sigh, she lobbed the stick into the air.

It tumbled several inelegant somersaults before splashing into the water below. She was no longer hungry. She felt sick.