#it was concrete porch stairs and i was winded

[sleepy-hyperfixations]

i did, once, actually fall down some stairs and then just laid there for like 5 minutes

[haddonfieldwhore]

seasons - michael myers

michael myers x gn!reader

summary: living in the myers house throughout the year

note: this is something out of my comfort zone, but i was inspired by the incredible @visceravalentines and a work she did in a vignette style <3

warnings: smut, mentions of death & blood

word count: 1.6k

winter

the myers house is always cold. no radiator or wool blankets can fight off the draft that rushes in through the gap where the windows don’t close flush with the frame. the wind whistles past the glass that’s coated in a layer of frost; the front walk ices over and the garden fills with snow. the floors creak louder in the winter months. michael rarely eats, but when it gets really cold, you can get him to drink a cup of black coffee, your legs over his lap on the couch as you try to defend yourself from the cold air with a layer of blankets. he is always warm.

you yearn for a shred of his body heat on the nights he doesn’t come up to bed, finding yourself alone more often than not. on nights he does actually come upstairs to sleep, he swallows his pride and lets your snuggle into his chest. anything to stop the teeth chattering.

•

it’s by far the coldest night of the year. no amount of clothing or blankets can warm the chill that runs through you. it’s in your bones and it doesn’t want to let go. michael hears the squeak of the faucet on the claw foot tub upstairs from the kitchen as he searches for you. his footsteps echo up the stairs, and the bathroom door creaks open as you sink into the water. you look up at him expectantly, arms wrapped around yourself in the bath. he unzips his stained coveralls and steps out of his boots. once his clothes are gone, he walks over and sinks into tub behind you. the soapy water overflows the edge of the porcelain, spilling onto the tile floor, but you don’t care. you lean back into him, and look to the side to see him drop his mask on the floor stop his clothes. you don’t turn to look at his face, instead closing your eyes and tucking your face into the crook of his neck. he is warm. and for the first time in months, you are too.

spring

the porch of the once clean white house sinks about half in inch each april, when the rain seeps into the not yet green grass. the wood is rotten underneath. the left hand railing wobbles on its post if you put any weight on it. flowers no longer grow in the soil of the garden; there is too much death in the earth. water creeps through cracks in the dated foundation, pooling on the floor of the basement and staining the concrete.

his boots track mud into the house, the rug on the front step might as well be for decoration only. you’ve asked him to wipe his feet before coming inside, but he either forgets after listening the first time, or simply doesn’t care.

the wind blows the branches of the trees against the side of the bedroom window, casting claw like shadows across the pale yellowed wallpaper.

you sit up with a start as your heart pounds against your ribcage, likes its screaming to get out. your eyes adjust as the unsettling shadow creeps in through the night. it’s frightening, but it’s familiar.

besides, the man sleeping next to you is far more frightening than anything that dare try to snatch you in the night. you lay closer to him and let his deep snores drown out the rattling of the trees. your monster will keep the other monsters away.

•

the roof leaks in the kitchen. decades of water have faded the colour of the tiles where the floor dips and the water collects. sometimes you step in the puddle in the middle of the night, dampening your socks, when you stumble through the house in the dark to grab a glass of water. the fridge light is burnt out. you forget to change it for days.

spring is the season of new life, but instead the myers house is haunted by death. decay. the wallpaper peels. the ceiling leaks.

but it’s home.

summer

heat surrounds the old house, and all its inhabitants feel it. the pitcher of iced tea on the kitchen counter is sweating, a drop of condensation rolling down the side to gather around the base of it. two glasses sit next to the jug; one used. one untouched. despite the heat outside, there remains a permanent chill inside the house. it’s there year round. unrelenting.

haddonfield isn’t usually this hot, and the heat wave has you considering venturing into the cellar. michael spends a lot of his time down there, but you dare not follow him. as are all things with michael, the unspoken rule is that is his space. his alone. sometimes he is down there for days, his side of the bed empty when you go to sleep and the same when you wake up.

the window box air conditioner rattles against the cracked wood frame. a few mosquitoes lay bleached and lifeless atop it. the sheer curtains do little to block the sunlight from slipping through. tiny dust particles float through the air in the beams.

the sun sets late, and you’re nearly asleep on the couch as you’re finally able to breath the air around you, the house no longer suffocated by the summer heat. your eyes feel heavy, but you fight to stay awake as you hear heavy footsteps up the basement steps. the third step from the top creaks. he doesn’t sit with you. he just watches you from the kitchen doorway. you know he’s there. he knows you know.

•

his teeth sting against your sunburnt skin as he bites into your shoulder, his mask pulled up to expose his mouth. rarely do his lips meet yours. his teeth are far more familiar. you welcome them. he knows when you can’t take anymore, and relents, satisfied with the mess he’s made of you; disheveled beneath him. the room is silent now that the bedframe has finished thumping against the wall. you can faintly hear a frog croaking somewhere outside, likely under the porch in the overgrown grass. your legs like jelly, michael pulls you into his side by your arm. it’s the closest thing to affection he can show you. you wrap your arms around him and hope he doesn’t push you away. he doesn’t. it’s the closest to happy he’s felt in a long time.

fall

something changes in the air in haddonfield as soon as the first leaf falls. they know something awakens soon. something in him. people walk faster on the sidewalk in front of the house. they keep their heads down. they cross the street.

the house smells of pumpkin as you curl up in bed, a candle on your nightstand. the flame casts a soft glow throughout the room, the same orange as the leaves that flutter to the ground outside. the bed is empty next to you. you see him less in the fall, as he spends more time in the cellar.

you don’t know what he does down there. sometimes you wonder if he truly does nothing.

you don’t ask. he wouldn’t tell anyway. truthfully. you don’t care. if he is there, he is safe. the town is safe from him. you don’t have to worry.

•

you hear his name in whispers and in the wind all throughout the town. as october 31st approaches, people don’t stay out as late. there’s less people on the streets and in the stores. but they’ll still all be out on halloween. there is a line between the fear and the reward, and they dance along it.

it’s october 30th. you haven’t seen michael in 3 days. you hear his footsteps and the third from the top stair creaking when he comes up to get the food you’ve left out for him, so you know he is still here. for now he is still here.

you hear more footsteps that night, as he ascends the second flight of stairs and his heavy boots shuffle into the bedroom. the door hinges squeak, and you turn your head. the wind whips the tree branch against the window again. but he’s here. you’re safe.

michael kicks his boots off as the bed dips next to you and he lays down. something is different. his scarred hand reaches out for you, and you set your book down, blowing out the candle with a puff of air. before you know it he’s pulled you on top of him. he’s still in control,you’d be a fool to believe otherwise. he guides the rise and fall of your hips as his nails leave crescent shaped bruises in your flesh. you’ll cherish them until they fade.

he thrusts into you like it’s the last time, and you wonder silently if this might be a goodbye.

you fall asleep in his arms. he’s gone when you wake up.

•

he’s gone for four days, but to you it feels like four years. the marks he left on your body have faded; you wish they hadn’t, checking for them each time you get dressed. the only glimpse of him you see is on the news, and by the second day you wonder if he is dead. no one seems to know.

this year was worse than last year. more bodies - more blood. the house is colder without him, and it feels like it’s swallowing you like a sinkhole. you consider going to the cellar, though you know he isn’t there. the third step from the top creaks as your foot lands on it and you change your mind. you don’t consider it again.

he returns on the fifth day, bruised and covered in dark blood. your wonder how much, if any, of it is his. he washes it off before you can find out.

like nothing happened, he is next to you in bed again. like nothing happened, he lets you cling to his body, but he holds you a little tighter than usual. he missed you too.

you hum contently. you’re home. but it’s not the house. it’s him. and it always has been.

[nanamis-bigtie]

↬ fushiguro toji x gn!reader ↬ jjk masterlist // kofi

cw: smoking, meet ugly (kinda?), size difference prompt: "A little tongue-tied, are we?" from this list requested by @wltheraway

When you saw him for the first time, you assumed his hunched figure is one of the concrete pillars—and almost dropped your bag with toilet paper when he turned head your way and nodded. Dressed in gray sweatsuit, hood pulled on head, he was blending in perfectly, completely still but the tilt of head and disinterested flick of dull eyes, scanning you from head to toes before turning back to boring them into the empty street.

You had no idea a man can turn himself into a stone like this, like a predator awaiting its prey, and it was freaking you out for the first few days. But with time the weird neighbor from the apartment next to yours became as natural as street lanterns and stairs and moribund flowers in pots on the railing. He was there every night, smoking, staring into distance, and greeting you with a dry nod. No word exchanged; no proximity closer than the few steps separating your doors. Just his hunched shoulders, broad back, hood pulled far into his face, and smoke dancing in the flickering light of the old lamp on the wall.

That's everything you've ever gotten out of him, but it's become weirdly familiar, to be welcomed by his silhouette as soon as you climb the stairs on the way back from work. No matter how exhausted you are, all tension disappears once your eyes meet. He's your first step into the night and blessed rest, the guardian of your private time and safety of your little rented apartment. Funny enough, he doesn't look particularly safe himself, and if you ran into him somewhere on the street rather than in front of your door, you would bolt straight away.

He's a silent enigma to you—until tonight. For the first time he's turned front to you from the beginning, and you can catch a glimpse of his features, gentler than expected from his posture. And younger than you've given him, even if obviously far into his thirties, maybe forties.

"You got a light?" He shows you unlit cig, so little in comparison to his thick fingers.

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry—the tension having nothing to do with nervousness.

"Sure," you want to say casually but nothing wants to come out of your lips as you shake through your pockets, finally fishing out a lighter.

He beckons you closer and leans down to your hand. You know he's big but from close, in raw comparison to your frame, he's enormous. Your knees start melting, almost give in as he tugs the hood away, revealing his handsome face in its full glory.

Green eyes flick up to meet yours, scar at the corner of his mouth adds a mean streak to his smirk. His huge hands cup yours with ease, shielding the little flame from the wind as he lits the cigarette and takes a breath of smoke, with a deep, guttural groan of relief to it.

"A little tongue-tied, are we?" He leans in even closer, his nose almost brushing yours. "Don't be scared, I won't bite you."

He blows smoke into your face and returns to his spot, his dry chuckle echoing through the empty porch and street below, "If you ever untangle it, I wouldn't mind knowing your name."

i deleted all the trace of the bday event i tried to run but i got two requests & decided to give them a try. if there's interest, i can put it back and take a few more reqs for drabbles~

divider by saradika

[oreoambitions]

Lena finds Kara on the stairs behind the bar - a strange place to be in the early afternoon and even stranger beneath the damp grey spittle that has been passing for rain these last weeks in National City. She’s sitting on the bottom step with her bare knees pulled up to her chest, head down, arms wrapped tightly around herself as though she might otherwise unfold forever and ever and ever until she’s nothing. Lena hesitates a long time in the doorway. Kara must know she’s there - must have known for some time, even, that she was on the way - but she doesn’t look up. Something in Lena wants to speak, but the words all tangle in her throat. She wants to crack a joke about those shorts and this weather, or demand to know where Kara has been, or apologize for everything, for- Silence gets the better of her.

She moves down the steps one cautious step at a time, heels unwieldy on damp wood. The puddle Kara is sitting in will soil Lena’s pants. She hesitates, and she hates herself for hesitating, and she wonders if Kara has noticed the hesitation and the hatred both, and then she sits down before she can think any more of it. Cold seeps through fabric in an instant. The concrete at the foot of the stairs is littered with fresh ash.

“Have you taken up smoking in your absence?” Lena means it as a joke but it comes out bitter and she wants to cringe.

Kara lifts her head to stare at the ash for a long moment, fidgeting all the while with something in her left hand. “It’s spring cleaning,” she says at last.

“Spring cleaning,” Lena repeats. Then, when Kara doesn’t elaborate, she says, “I suppose it is that time of year.”

Kara laughs a little at that, dry and humorless. The wind whips through the alley and Lena wishes she’d brought a coat. Trust a Kryptonian to have a mental health crisis outside in this kind of weather. Trust a Luthor to have trouble responding appropriately. She reaches out one trembling hand to rest on Kara’s shoulder, and almost takes it back when Kara looks away, but then, looking away and moving away are not the same. She stays.

“Kelly said it might help,” Kara explains at last. “It doesn’t really get rid of anything, but just writing it down wasn’t enough, so we thought-”

“You burnt your journal?”

“Mmm. No. I wouldn’t do that. But… I wrote down some things. Feelings I’d like to get past. Stuff I’m having a hard time letting go of.”

“So then you came out here and you burned it all.”

“Almost.”

Almost. Kara sets the lighter down, bright baby blue plastic obscene against the wooden steps and the heaviness of the moment. Her other hand closes even tighter, as though the lighter, now free from her grasp, poses a threat to whatever she’s clutching there.

“What did you burn?” Lena doesn’t know if that’s the right question. She doesn’t know if questions are appropriate right now at all, but it feels like silence is the wrong answer, so she tries. Better to try anything than nothing.

Kara responds in a monotone, as if reciting from a book. “The destruction of Argo. The collapse of the multiverse. Mon-El is never coming back. Winn is never coming back. Krypton is never coming back. What do you do with the things you can’t change and can’t shoulder?”

Lena wants to say, you shoulder them anyway. You’re a hero; shouldering the hard things is what you do. It feels like the wrong thing to say. Kara looks like a child, trembling and grim in the cold and the quiet. Silence gets the better of Lena again. She reaches out for Kara’s clenched left hand and and slowly, gently, worries a scrap of lined paper from between her fingers.

Kara stands up. Lena stares a long time at the scrap, at the words I’m in love with her in Kara’s tidy ballpoint scrawl. Kara is halfway through the back door of the bar before Lena chokes out her name.

“For what it’s worth,” Kara says, “I think you and Andrea make a lovely couple.” And then, as though the words are bitter on her tongue, “I hope she makes you happy.”

Lena is left on the back porch with the ash and the rain and the sound of the back door closing.

[hanselbelle]

The Heart of Sunnyville III

Before Aling Tesa’s roosters crow, vehicles of the elders who must go to work sneak out of the gates of Sunnyville 3. With the sun not out, the stars and moon dominating the dark blue sky, the school services of the children come and go unnoticed, except, if you’re listening close enough, for the murmurs of their parents’ goodbye. 

A hint of red appears in the sky; red turns to orange; orange turns to yellow: the sun has risen up, telling the moon and the stars to go to sleep, and saying hello to the subdivision as it engulfs the entire place with its brightness and warmth. The plants in front of each house light up at the kiss of their friend, their roots that are buried deep into the soil inside their pots grow longer and thicker, their stems and petals become vibrant in delight. Smiling old women grab their watering cans to water their lovely plants until their smiles turn into grins at the sight of them blooming. Some of these women stay in front of their houses to bask in the sunlight to get their Vitamin D, some will return back inside to prepare breakfast for their grandchildren who are not old enough for school yet. But not Aling Remy: she refills her watering cans to water the plants at the park. In turn, the mango and banana trees sprout fruit for Aling Remy to take. 

The peace is disrupted by the time the owner of the dogs, and the parents with their infant or toddler walk around the now sunny Sunnyville. They walk around the five long streets, walking through the crevices between houses. The elders chat, the dogs bark at each other, the infants and toddlers babble and laugh, and in the middle of Sunnyville where all the streets lead to, there lies the heart of this place: the park that owes its being to Aling Remy. There they meet, welcomed by the stray dogs and cats who claimed it; acting like kings and queens who demand food from their visitors. At the park, nature is alive. There the fresh wind blows, the earthy smell of soil ushers the passersby to sit on the bench and join the conversation of those who are already there. 

Four houses down the park, an elevated bungalow with concrete rails stands quaintly surrounded by two-or-more-story modern houses. My tiny body sits on its concrete rail with my uncle’s camera at hand, filming the scenery until my great-grandma beckons me inside to make me breakfast because I am not old enough to go to school yet.

Moss covered our concrete front porch, basella alba serves as the curtain of the porch which my uncle and father trim twice a month. Potted plants line up on either side of the stairs, syngonium in wilkins bottle pots are hanging on the wall beside the door. Three plastic chairs outside by the window: a perfect place to bask in the sun early in the morning, that is, when basella alba are recently cut. 

Opening our oak wood door allows the breeze to pass through the wind chime, eliciting a cadence of the soothing clang of clapper against the tiny iron tubes. The walls are painted lime green, the pecan-colored laminated floor smooth beneath my bare feet after I stepped out of our grey welcome mat. Above the door frame is a portrait of my two younger sisters and me drawn by my father, next to it is a plain brown-framed square wall clock. By the window, an old tube TV was on a black stand. Across is a brown sofa set with duct tapes instead of stitches — in my uncle’s defense, bringing it to an upholsterer might damage it more. In the middle is a round hickory brown coffee table where I prefer to sit despite the chidings of the elders; they say being close to the TV will harm my eyesight. Little did they know, I find myself more adorable wearing eyeglasses. The spaciousness of our living room obliges us to run, and even ride our bikes with training wheels without worrying about destroying anything. 

Connected to the living room is the dining room; its walls are decorated with long narrow portraits of Chinese art, and a mirror large enough to fill half the measure of the wall. There is the extended wooden dining table; extended when my father’s family grew up. The chairs, like the table, are wooden. Three out of ten of those chairs have pillows on them, so the children can reach their food. A door in the living room is my uncle’s bedroom, while the one in the dining room is my father’s. Between is where the bathroom is located. 

As my uncle got a job abroad, his room got converted into my siblings' and my room. A full-sized bed, two study tables, and a large dresser are inside. The window has a sill where I like to kneel, with my elbows on the window frame, my cheeks on my palms. On the wall are posters of various cartoon characters, and yet another portrait of me and my siblings. I deemed the corner as a solitary space: a space enough for my body to fit, serene enough to fill my imagination with books and k-zone magazines on my lap. This area I love for obscure reasons is the area that gave me a wonderful childhood; an area that taught me to love quietness and stories. 

In my parents’ room, which has been my father’s room since he was a teen, has its walls covered in band posters, paintings, and doodles. My mother once had complained about it, insisting to have it repainted, but my father would disagree saying that his room is the sole reminder of his creative youth. Though a mere child, I find his argument hypocritical, for he would pinch my sister’s hip whenever he would find a pencil or crayon-drawn stick figures on the wall. 

The kitchen is my least favorite part of the house: located at the very back, the light dimmed, and unnervingly silent. Once, a family friend who claimed to have her third eye open, said a white lady lives beside the sink. I always wondered if that is the reason why my great-grandmother and grandparents live in a separate house, preferring to visit us in the morning and afternoon, and would haste to leave before dusk. 

At four in the afternoon, after waking up from a long nap, hours after my school service escorts me back home: I kiss my mother’s cheeks before coming down to our moss-covered stairs that used to be perilous for my younger self. 

Kuya Aiden, a boy four years older than me, awaits me on the basketball court with our other friends. Roaring shouts of young boys are tolerated until six, but until then, their thundering voices are heard throughout the subdivision along with the cheers of the watchers. 

By the time we get bored, we will go back to our respective houses to grab our bikes (mine with training wheels) and meet each other in front of Ate Diane’s house across the park. The wind, as I like to think, greets me when it whistles, making the leaves of the trees rustle in response, as though greeting me just as exuberantly as the wind. “You’re punctual,” my friends often tease me, laughing and jabbing my sides, saying that I must have gotten awards for being the most punctual student in the class. I laugh, of course, I laugh hard as they do. I appease them with a nod of my head, agreeing that I was snubbed for not receiving the said award. Call me selfish if the reader must, but I enjoy the hug of the coolness of the park. Its whistles and breeze are made for me. The park might be our rendezvous, but it is I’s and the wind’s tryst. 

The laughter winds down (no pun intended), the jokes get old, Kuya Aiden pedals his bike, and we follow him like his own little army. This is the part where the residents complain; whining at how loud my friends’ hollers are, how the thuds of our bikes clatter when we pass the rumble streets, the continued hitting of the bells of our bikes that some confuse as the bell of Mamang Binatog: grumpy residents learned to hate afternoons because of us, but who does not love the noise of the laughter of the children besides old people? Certainly, not the streets of Sunnyville, for as we pedal faster and louder, the sun shines brighter causing sweat to trickle down our backs and faces, the swoosh that trails us — Sunnyville, I believe, thanks us by filling the noiseless void of its streets. Along with the singing of the birds and the barks of the dogs, we fill it with the colors of our fast-ending youth. 

On the third left turn from the park, on the third street, we are met by an intimidating slope. It is steep, and when one mistakenly swerves their handlebar, one might crash into a house that forces one to roll down the slope and end up wounded. Young, dumb, and free as we are, we take the danger as a challenge, especially me, who has training wheels — what should I fear? The wound will hurt, sure, but the wound will heal. I may fall, but the concretes of Sunnyville will catch me. My pride is bigger than the number of wounds I can get, and so I push the pedal forward with my tiny feet: at the tender age of 10, I have never felt more alive. 

Once drenched and reeking, Kuya Aiden looks up at the setting sun knowing it is his responsibility to bring us home before dark. It is the sun’s call to stop us from exhausting ourselves, the moon and star’s duty to guide us home safe if we ever decide to stay for a while, and if we do stay until the night, the gates of the subdivision protect us from the harm the outside may bring. And so the blue sky turns to yellow, to orange, to red, and to black; the court turns mute; the streets silent — Kuya Aiden flicks his flashlight on, and a little army of ants in a colony that we are, we follow our leader to lead us back to our homes. 

The joke of punctuality is now long forgotten among our group of friends, it is replaced by “when’s the wedding?” and “yies” and coos directed to Kuya Aiden and me. He responds with a hearty laugh whenever the joke is brought up, not knowing the concept of love, but dreaming and seeking it as an oblivious teenager. I, too, laugh, and unlike Kuya Aiden, I have found love in the solitary of the night the park gives. 

Eight in the evening is the perfect time for him to pick me up from home; the perfect time to walk down the streets towards the park; the perfect time to look at the night sky; the perfect time to gaze up at Orion; the perfect time to appreciate the hues of orange emitted by the street lights; the perfect time to hold his strong arm — the perfect time to be. 

Stray cats and dogs are already fed at this time, all are sleeping soundly on the benches and stone tables. We pick up the cats on the bench we prefer to sit, place them on our laps and pet them until they go back to their deep slumbers. Under the night sky with trees hovering over us, Sunnyville knows better than to assume Kuya Aiden and I are the lovers in this scenario. Sunnyville knows my love for the park: it saw the way I gaped at the park when I was 4, it knows the reason why I hurry to bike my way to feel the breeze before my friends could when I was 9, and it understands why I bring my best friend there with me every chance I can get at night when I turned 14. 

With the serenity of the dark, the hushed conversations and secrets we say are guarded by the trees who swore not to tell anyone. At the park, we are honest and bold: we unleash our skeletons from our closet, we talk about the things we’re not supposed to talk about, and we confess our infatuations for the people we are not supposed to love. At the park, he cried when he loved a man. The coldness envelopes us with comfort and assurance, the park lets us be us without judgment. At the heart of Sunnyville, my heart first beat for love, and at 15, when my uncle sold our house to move to another place, my heart broke into two: I buried the other half deep into the soil of the park, hoping it will sow another tree and will bear a fruit for Aling Remy to take.  

[arctic-hands]

Why do we even have stairs everywhere, surely it's easier on everyone's knees to go up ramps up to porches or hills or up to walking bridges. I can't imagine it's any harder to make a ramp out of concrete or what have you than stairs

Also for that matter stop making the disability ramps so long and winding that it takes more energy and time (and if you're using a cane or crutch, more steps) to get up to what ableds can get to in 5 seconds. Do you know how many times I've just opted to hobble up the steps with my cane because the long ass ramp would cause more pain and fatigue than the stairs? At the main entrance to the HOSPITAL??

[letterstomygrandma]

Grandma’s

I visit your house

It helps me sleep.

Always starting to enter from the back side door.

Opening the metal screen door.

And skipping every other step

Up to the converted sun porch.

Take a left to the kitchen.

Where I get some saltines out of the metal canister.

Remembering cutting my finger badly behind the fridge. Who knows why my little fingers were back there.

The gray and stainless steel kitchen table.

The sink where many children took baths.

There was the door to your room, the bathroom, and the hall living room from the kitchen.

Your room was sweet. It was my mom’s when she was a child.

The bathroom connected to many rooms. To the room where you and grandpa used to sleep. It used to be where your two boys slept too.

That room was the biggest. I remember sleeping in there with the fan on smelling the humidity of summer. Looking at books my mom used to read. Some of real life like monkeys on the cover.

The mirrored dresser with a stool and a pineapple lamp. That pineapple lamp is with me now. With the constant need to super glue the amber beads upon it. It’s in a box in Oregon.

The living room with the secretariat, the upholstered rocking chair, the glass topped wooden table. The record collection and record player.

All those are elsewhere now. I gave the rocking chair to my postpartum doula. The table sold to an antique shop. The record collection now sold or donated…or maybe some my mom still has. The record player we kept trying to fix but no one had the needle for it.

The orange couch with one arm I had through my 20s. A flowered sofa that I don’t know where it went. On the mantel was a 50th anniversary gift to you from the kids. A little room with a glass top on it.

The grandfather clock. My mom found a note upon it after you died that wrote that it was for her, “when I’m no longer needed.” My mom still has that clock. My daughter loves clocks because of that clock and points out “ghi-ga” every time she sees one. It means tick tock.

Winding back into a hallway and dining nook. Where the hand blown glass my mom brought back to you from Paris when she was 16 resided.

On the small table there were always placed candles or salt and pepper shakers for the holiday. I remember turkeys.

Back through the kitchen…take a right down the stairs and to the basement where a treasure trove of memories reside. I spent a lot of time there. As a child I would always seek out the basement and attic of houses. Something secret. Something quiet. A place to stare off. A place to peer in.

When entering the basement on your right was the study. A typewriter from what I’m guessing would’ve been the 40s. A red glass vase full of coins. Quaker oatmeal containers full of native arrowheads found on the farm.

In the main basement area was the shower. It was kind of in the middle of everything, but it worked and had hot water. There was memorabilia of decades past including a cardboard crocodile from my mom’s prom. Around the corner were more dressers with other things. I can’t remember as much of what was in them now.

Near the front of the basement was grandpa’s tools. Small drawers.

When you leave the basement you can take a right…

And find yourself on the concrete patio with the smell of spearmint. Walk toward the backyard down the concrete path with the laundry drying. The path ends where the old white shed and pear tree are. Memories of Sugar, my mom’s dog seem to creep in. Also, a memory of my mom doing a back handspring in the grass when I was a child. Me, with awe and disbelief while I watched her. She may have been 40.

Meander to the other side of the yard, where the huge rose bush grows. Light pink flowers with the best perfume. My dad over the years taking a piece and replanting it at each home that we lived. It grows in Oregon today.

The garage didn’t stand out to me. Except for the blue and white toddler carriage that my mom and I used.

There’s more. Much more. What I have with me today are your wedding ring, your scarf that still smells like you, and a costume diamond snowflake pendant. After recounting all of that I’m beginning to feel sleepy. I love you grandma. Night night.

[circe69]

the rain stings.

simon "ghost" riley x reader ( ˘ ³˘)♥ A/N: hey doves, this is an excerpt from a maybe book i would love to write in the future, but i decided to turn it into a first-person pov fic for simon riley for the time being. ps: header is from pinterest!

♡　♥　♡　♥　♡　♥　♡　♥　♡　♥　♡　♥

“I’ll do it!” 

He screams from inside the rain. His raspy voice made the inside of my chest rattle.

“I’ll swear I’ll do it one day.” 

I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about. 

I took a step closer on the wooden porch. The planks were so wet and soggy I felt like I was going to fall through. 

“What do you mean, 'You’ll do it'?” 

I take another step down one stair, holding on to the slippery handrail, as his leather boots squeaked across the concrete.

The rain left streak marks down his face, pooling around the top of his lip before dropping into his open mouth. 

“What do you mean?” I ask again, softly. I take another step down as my hot exhale contrasts the cold wind. 

He closes his eyes. 

He opens and licks the water off his lips. 

“I’ll make you fall in love with me.”

Thunder roars across the sky as his statement finishes. 

I couldn’t tell if God was agreeing or laughing. 

He whispers and steps closer to me, “I’ll make you want me. I’ll make you feel bad for ever hating me. I’ll make you proud of me for doing the bare minimum because you won’t even care. You’ll love me that much.”

He steps closer again, now on the bottom step of the porch; one below the stair I was standing on. His teeth clenched, causing the muscles in his jaw twitch. The movement alone made me want to run my tongue along his stubble, but thankfully his voice interrupted my thought.

“I’ll do it.”

I looked at him confused, as if I didn't catch on, but the truth is that my teeth were aching with regret. I knew all these things were going to be true eventually, if they weren’t already. 

I had always seen him as someone I probably shouldn’t argue with. I saw him as someone who was going to surpass my expectations, and I was scared of that. 

One of his knees was in between mine, and even though I was on the step above him, he was still a few inches taller than me.

I reached out my hand to wipe away the water from his face with my thumb. To be completely honest, I actually didn’t know if it was rain or tears, but it didn’t matter. 

I opened my mouth to say, “I-I think you’ve already done these things.”

His eyes found mine. Deep brown irises looking into mine for more of an explanation. 

“I think about those things all the time. I think about you all the time. I do feel bad for ever thinking you were less than what you are. I’ve always been proud of you for doing such miniscule things because I love you so much, I’ve never cared what it was. I’ve always been excited that you even took time to talk to me.”

He pulled my face with his palm and kissed me, but I kept talking into his lips.

“I’ve always loved you, and I’ve always hated myself for it.”

He groaned when I opened my mouth to slide my tongue across his. It was an act of desperation, almost an “Yeah, you were right the whole time.”

His lips parted from mine and went to both sides of my temple, while his hands made fists in my hair. 

[pedros-mustache]

i guess i’m just thinking about domestic!din and his brood living in tornado alley and the inevitability that, at some point, they will have to take shelter from a storm...

(strange yearnings below the cut)

there’s a cellar adjacent the barn. it’s ancient, the sloped steel doors rusted, the pale blue paint chipped. underground, where it is cool and damp, it’s not much better. concrete floors and cinderblock walls, a single light bulb that swings back and forth. cobwebs cling to every corner, and the air smells of a time long ago, before din and before you.

when the tv shuts off, interrupting davin’s favorite cartoon, and the emergency notification system begins to sound its grating, incessant whine, you sigh and put down your kitchen knife. third time this week. fuck, you hate the storm season.

grogu is down the stairs first. he thunders out the screen door, headphones tight over his impressive ears. dumbo—someone at school called him dumbo and he’s been in his room all weekend. you watch him, hands in his jacket pockets, shuffle to the cellar where he throws open the doors and disappears beneath the dusty kansas earth, likely where he’s been hoping he could vanish. you ache for him.

lifting jysell from her highchair, you prop her on your hip. “come on, davin.” you pull a milk bottle from the fridge and swipe your daughter’s blankie from the counter. better to be prepared than be stuck in the cellar empty-handed. “turn off the tv. we’ve got to down in the cellar for a bit.”

your tone remains straightforward, bored even. the last two tornado warnings have amounted in nothing but a few wasted hours underground. not that you’re complaining; you’d rather err on the side of caution than flirt with danger. still, for the middle djarin, each descent down the steep concrete stairs is a horror in and of itself.

the tv continues to flash its dull grey warning. davin continues to sit cross-legged on the rug.

“davin, did you hear me? it’s only for a little while. put on your shoes and follow me outside.” 

sidestepping your son, fingers ruffling his dark hair, you switch off the tv and grab the door handle. the screen door protests when you push against the frame, but not as loudly as davin protests the sudden end to his evening of entertainment. he flops to the floor, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, as he kicks his ankles up and down. a whine far louder than that on the tv pours from his mouth like angry hornets.

you set your jaw, eyes squeezed shut. count to five—take a deep breath—don’t shout.

the basement door opens just as davin’s cries sway jysell to her own breakdown. she squalls in your arms, wiggling for a freedom you refuse to give. din looks between you and davin, a cringe wrenching his mouth to the side.

“i just heard over the radio. sorry.” 

you shake your head. “it’s fine. just... get your son.”

he slips into the living room, footsteps remarkably silent for a man of his breadth, and kneels beside davin. he places a large palm in the center of his son’s heaving chest. “i’m gonna pick you up, okay? you can cry as much as you want in the cellar.”

davin’s frustration only mounts at the mention of the cellar, and he fights din’s easy grasp with flailing arms and legs. up and into his father’s arms, he wets din’s grey t-shirt with his tears, and his arms seal tight around din’s neck. you brush his leg as din slides past you onto the porch. 

nobody likes a tornado.

in the confines of the cellar, jysell calms and busies herself with chewing on grogu’s jacket strings. he smiles at that and pulls her onto his lap so she has better access to her snack of choice. 

davin refuses to be parted from din, even when you reassure him that his dad won’t go anywhere until after the storm has passed. he shakes his head and presses his cheek to din’s shoulder, face turned away from you.

din shrugs, broad hand smoothing up and down davin’s spine. “can’t help it that the kids love me more,” he says.

you frown. “din.”

he tosses an elbow to your side. “kidding.”

rolling your eyes, you lean your temple against his unoccupied shoulder and wind your arms around the crook of his elbow. “we could move, you know. somewhere we wouldn’t have to do this as often.”

din is quiet a moment before he nods. “yeah, we could.” then he kisses the crown of davin’s head. “but i sure would miss this.”

tagging some domestic!din peeps (no pressure!): @gaiuswrites @skeletonstwins @saradika @queen-sands @headinthestarz​ @fan-of-encouragement​ @sharkbait77​ @thosewickedlovelies​ @pleasedin​ @ezramando​​

[maple-writes]

WHG 18: The Big Day

whg tag list: @concealeddarkness13, @ratracechronicler, @pen-of-roses, @drabbleitout, @onmywaytobe

let me know if I missed anyone!

--

Antonio had forgotten it was the day of the reaping up until the butcher’s daughter was not there waiting for him. He sat on the back doorstep and meowed just in case. She was usually here by now, and he was hungry. It was far easier to be fed scrap cuts of meat in exchange for purring and allowing her to scoop him up and cuddle him than try and make a living for himself. Was it shameless? Maybe. But it was sure easier than learning to hunt.

His ear swiveled as footsteps came up behind him. Twisting around he looked up at an old woman with sad eyes.

“Oh kitty,” She sighed mournfully as she crouched in front of him. “Your friend’s not coming today.”

Had she turned twelve already? He mewed and rubbed his cheeks on her outstretched hand. She smoothed the orange fur on his head and down his shoulders and he couldn’t help but purr.

“If luck is on her side she’ll come back tonight.” Something about the worry in her voice suggested she didn’t have that much hope. Her family, they hadn’t seemed to be the well-off type. The woman stood and Antonio weaved alongside her leg, pressing against it and wrapping around with his tail. “I’m sorry kitty, I have to go now.”

She reached down for one final pat and was on her way, leaving him sitting alone on the shaded concrete of the back doorstep again. His tail flicked as annoyance grumbled in his stomach. He’d just have to try somewhere else for breakfast and that wasn’t going to be easy today. Not with everyone preoccupied with dressing up and getting ready and whatever other rituals they did for the reapings. She had better come back tomorrow.

Antonio got up with a tall stretch that arched his back and padded off along the alleyway. The cracked concrete was cool but not too cold on his paws and the breeze tickled his whiskers. For now it was quiet but soon the noises and fanfare of the reaping would be broadcast throughout the district. It would drift through the air even when he hid himself in the farthest corner from the main plaza.

He slowed as he passed a familiar sunny porch. Breakfast could wait. He hopped up the low stairs and flopped down on the warm concrete. Stretching out on his side he flexed his claws and closed his eyes. The toddlers who lived here were probably gone so there would be no one to chase him off and grab at his tail today. The sun warmed him right though his bones even with the light wind.

Still, it was too bad about that girl. She’d been kind to him even if technically he was deceiving her. But she didn’t know that. Whatever happened would be out of his hands. Not his problem. He curled, resting his cheek on his front paws. After all he was just using her for food, nothing more. There would be others... There would be others. If he played his cards right Luka would probably find something to share anyway.

More footsteps came from out of the alley. His ear flicked but he didn’t bother opening his eyes. Chances were they were just on their way to the reaping, maybe running late. Maybe running an errand or two.

“Antonio.”

His eyes flew open and his head shot up and the look of satisfaction on a pair of peacekeeper’s faces said immediately that he fucked up. He should have fucking known.

One of them reached for him and he hissed. They knew, someone must have tipped them off but maybe just maybe he keep up the con. Just long enough that all their colleagues laughed them off and he could go on his way. But instead, without missing a beat, the other threw a blanket on top of him.

Everything went dark and he struggled in the fabric until he felt himself lifted in the air. The blanket wrapped around his legs he couldn’t move, only glare and hiss and spit with his ears all the way back when they uncovered his head.

The other peacekeeper snorted. “You really aren’t going to give up the act are you? You’re literally wrapped up like a burrito and throwing a fit. We know who you are.”

He growled. There wasn’t anything else he could really do. No fucking way he was going to let them win so easily. He’d hidden for years. He could pull it off longer. He wanted to bite them at the very least. But they didn’t seem phased. Tucked under one of their arms like he was nothing more than a bristling package they took him away.

Assholes.

[glitterge1pen]

Its Fall And You’re Small (no like actually you’re three inches tall)

Wakatoshi Ushijima x reader, sfw, word count 2,864, Secret World Of Arrietty/Borrowers AU 

Ushijima stood still while you fastened the blades of dry grass over his shoulders. Ushijima then traded places with you, tying your knapsack over your shoulders and around your waist. Fall was starting to creep up. The weather outside the window was breezy, the first yellow green leaves of the season floating about. You and Ushijima share a hard gaze.

“Are you ready?”

The window box is full of flowers and herbs that tower over you. The soil damp from an earlier rain, the air chilly. You were happy that you had managed to find some older jackets and shawls for you and Ushijima. It had been awhile since you had been outside so you weren't sure what to expect.

The window box is full of flowers and herbs that tower over you. The soil damp from an earlier rain, the air chilly. You were happy that you had managed to find some older jackets and shawls for you and Ushijima. It had been awhile since you had been outside so you weren't sure what to expect.

“Do you want to go first?”

Ushijima asks, beginning to untie some of the rope he had around his waist.

“You always make me go first”

You say, taking the rope and winding it around you.

“I can go-”

“No it's okay, I know you just hate doing it,”

You say with a smile, Ushijima hums as if to agree with you. He ties the last knot and nods at you.

“See you at the bottom”

And you jump from the window. Your little hands holding onto the thin strand of rope, pushing through the air. Goosebumps spreading over your skin as the ground gets closer and closer. One final rush of air as the rope tugs taut and you’re suspended just a few inches from the wet concrete.

Placing your feet on the ground you start to anchor the rope around the fire escape, removing it from your waist. Once you have it situated, you give the rope several hard pulls. In a matter of moments Ushijima is next to you, his eyes still closed even though the rope has already halted the fall.

“Ushijima, its okay, you're on the ground”

“I know”

He says but remains in the same position.

“Ushijima,”

He gets down. Helping you pack up the rope. This was the easiest part of the journey but you already felt your back getting heavy. Your knapsack was filled to the brim with supplies to trade. The sun had set not too long ago but it would take another hour or so to make it to the park. A whole city block stretched before you. You take one last glance up at the window of your home, several stories above and then head off.

Ushijima and you travel along the wall of buildings and homes. Most were apartments like the one you lived in. Buildings that tower over you, so tall they block the sky. You and Ushijima move fast for your size, running and zipping around patches of dandelions that stretch from the cracks in the sidewalk, trash waiting to be taken away in the morning.

While it feels like you and Ushijima are moving at the speed of light, you actually aren't advancing that far down the street. You're only inches tall, and with the added weight of the supplies takes a toll. You put one foot in front of the other, trying not to think about anything but reaching the park, but there's a sound.

You stop. Your body suddenly on fire, overheating in the heap of yarn you have on. You pull on Ushijima’s arm who is a few paces ahead of you. He stops as well, looking at you with concern. You back up into him, swiveling your head as you try to find the source of the sound you had heard. Ushijima starts to look around, he leans into your ear, the tip of his words brushing against you but you hush him.

There across the street is a cat. Gray and sulking in the alley as it watches. You point it out to Ushijima. The two of you bolt for the nearest front porch stoop. There's a package waiting at the top, if you could make it to the box before the cat. Ushijima clasps his hands together, you use his hands as a step, hosting yourself over the first stair. Then lend your arms to Ushijima. You put your whole body into pulling him up with you. You continue up the other two stairs, lifting each other up best you can.

Underneath the soft warm light of the front porch you can make out the cat and its shadow even better. The feline having approached some since you last checked on it.

“Check the bag”

You say to Ushijima. He digs through the bag on your shoulders trying to find something that can cut through the cardboard box.

“This should work,”

Ushijima says ,having found an exacto blade tucked away in the bag. The two of you work together to drive the blade into the box. The cat now curiously watching in the sidewalk gutter below. You press down as hard as you can on the blade. An opening emerges and you push through it first. The cat was crawling up the stairs now, keeping low, its eyes trained on Ushijima. You were trying to fit him through the cut in the cardboard but he was stuck somehow.

“You have to get in here,”

You say a bit desperately. Putting down the knapsack to yank Ushijima in with you. Still he can't seem to get himself in the box with you. The cat pressed to the ground on its haunches. Ushijima half in half out. He too, now panicking as he uses his arms to move apart the cardboard more.

Just as the flurry of cat fur jumps next to the package, you manage to bring Ushijima in with you. The force making you stumble and fall flat on your back, crushed under Ushijima and his own knapsack. He rolls off quickly but his face reappears over yours.

“Are you okay?”

He asks and you nod.

“Are you?”

“Yes, but I don't want us to be late,”

Ushijiam says, looking out to meet one of the cat's green eyes. Its paw came to swipe at the box. Throwing you off balance and forcing you to fall again. You and Ushijima sat on the cardboard waiting for the cat to become bored. You were cuddled into his side, cold again now that the threat of the cat was less.

“How much time do you think has passed?”

“I’m not sure, I can't see the moon from here,”

You say standing and moving towards the hole in the cardboard. The cat was at the bottom of the stoop, licking its paws.

“I think we should be able to leave soon, we’ll have to make up lost time somehow” “That won't be easy, this is the most we’ve ever brought with us”

Ushijima then starts to put his knapsack around you.

“I only have the empty tins and jars, I think you have the heavier load, I should carry it”

“That's not really fair, those are my ointments and medicines-”

“I’m the faster runner,”

You sigh, knowing that Ushijima is right. He is faster, so he should get more of the burden.

“Fine, but on the way back I can carry more”

He nods. You two help each other readjust the bags and then take another glance out of the box. The cat was gone from sight but it could still be lurking around. Cautiously, you step out first. Holding your breath in as you take in your surroundings. The twinkle of city lights, the hum of distant people as the night begins to awake more, the occasional thunder of a car driving by. But no cat.

Ushijima follows you and you're on your way again. Back on the sidewalk running even faster than before. You can see the end of the street now, the bumps of concrete that you'd have to zig-zag through. You wait at the edge of the street.

“I know you just hate doing this”

Ushijima says taking your hand in his. One last survey of the crosswalk before you two dash into the street. The cracks in the black concrete harder to navigate than the smooth gray sidewalks. But then the other side is there. You're at the park. There are grasshoppers, spiders, bugs, and dewey grass, and the path is smooth again. Your chest is heaving from all the running but the rush of anticipation and excitement is cursing through your veins again.

Running still, you two move along the edge of the grass, where it meets the park path. The route was familiar and you both veer into the overgrown grass at the same time. Heading for a large tree not too far from the path. You circle the base of the tree, trying to find the opening.

“You’re here!”

It’s Yachi, she flies at you, embracing you and Ushijima. Kiyoko is with her and gives a gentle shoulder pat as a greeting.

“Where have you two been?”

“Cat”

You and Ushijima speak at the same time. This part of the tree is hollow and infested with mushrooms that other borrowers use as tables. Various candles light the hollowed tree trunk, it's as bright as late afternoon. You know everyone, people greet you, shake your hand, hug you, give you gifts, which you return with your own gifts.

You wander around with Yachi and Kiyokop trying to find an empty table to set up shop. The tree would be lively all night, till the moments before dawn when everyone would depart. You're still searching for your own spot but you stop by Yachi and Kiyoko’s table. They have paints, papers, and jam. Yachi tells you the best of the batch this time around is the strawberry jam, but Kiyoko argues it's the blackberry. You take a jar of each, and a set of pigments. They take a bundle of flower petals and lotion from you, and a tin from Ushijima.

There’s a mushroom not too far off from the girls that isn't occupied. You empty the knapsacks there. Ushijima is one of few borrowers that crafts jars and tins, a lengthy process. You use those to house the various medicines you pack. Chopping up claritin and ibuprofen, taking swabs of chapstick and sunscreen to melt and fill tins, but also making elixirs from herbs and different flowers.

“Oh it's just you,”

“Oikawa be nice,”

Iwaizumi says, already starting to sift through the items laid out on the table. The boys had some of the biggest bags, filled to the brim with fabric and clothes they made. While Oikawa attempts to bicker with Ushijima, you pull Iwaizumi to the side.

“Do you have them?”

“Yeah, I’ll find another time to give them to you. Think you can meet me at Kyotani’s table? And you have the flower seeds?”

“Yup! Even gave you some instructions to help make sure they grow right,”

You had promised Iwaizumi some flower seeds in return for a nice pair of leather gloves for Ushijima. The pair of gloves he used now when he was working were not up to par with leather. But the material was hard for borrowers to work with. You turn back to the other two, Oikawa now trying to barter for a medium sized tin in exchange for some thread.

“Did you just get here?”

You ask them and Iwaizumi nods.

“There was a group of kids out playing late and we couldn't get around them,”

“We were just talking to Kiyoko and Yachi, they said you ran into a cat? Those things are dreadful,”

Oikawa said pocketing the tin. The boys say they’ll try to come back later to talk, but they still need to set up. More borrowers come to visit you. You put out a paper for requests to take. Barter and trade trying to grab things you need. There's a lull in people and you tell Ushijima you’ll be right back.

In the crowd you search for Kyotani. His table was always easy to spot because of how busy it was. Sure enough, right in the center of everything, where people were serving food and handing out beer was Kyotani. For having such a popular item, he seemed to hate having to give what he had away. Or maybe he was just bad at trying to strike good deals.

You push through the line of people. Assuring them you aren't going to grab anything from the table, that you just wanted to speak to Kyotani.

“Hey! You see Iwaizumi anywhere?”

Kyotani breaks his eyes away from the girl who was offering him tea bags and some basil leaves to look at you.

“Not yet, he has some fabric he’s supposed to bring me though,”

Then he turns back to the girl. You look at Kyotani’s table. Every centimeter was covered, you couldn't even see the mushroom underneath. Kyotani bound books. Copying each word onto the paper, and then binding the pages. Some books were nicer than others. Each one scraped together from different materials, and therefore worth a different cost. You stand to the side of the table and catch a glimpse of a stack of books that have a reserved sign over them.

One of the books catches your eye. It had been a favorite of yours, but had been lost last winter when the apartment had a ceiling leak. You had to wonder who else would request the book. Maybe you could ask to borrow it until the next swap.

A tap on your shoulder. It's Iwaizumi. With a proud smile he shows off the gloves.

“Oikawa did most of the fabric cutting for this, drove him crazy,”

“I can't imagine,” you say tucking the gloves away, “and these are for you”

In a moist cloth sack you've tied in a knot, is the flower seeds.

“They’ll grow inside if you tend to them properly,”

“These are gonna be great, Oikawa has been wanting to dye fabric with a color like this,”

You laugh.

“Are we all going to be wearing pink and red a few months from now?”

“Probably, thanks again,”

Iwaizumi and you give your goodbyes. You zip through the crowd eager to get back to the table. You knew you couldn't show Ushijima the gift just yet but the excitement hung about you. You could see the unmistakable hair of Nishinoya from the distance you were at. Tanaka with him. They lived close to each other and they did their bartering together as well.

“Noya, I was saving this for you,”

Ushijima pulls out several tins with clear plastic tops from the knapsack. Ninshyoa’s face lights up.

“These are perfect!”

“We’ll see how they do out in the sun!”

Tanaka says enthusiastically. The boys give an array of dried fruits and meats in return for the tins Ushijima made them. They run off, still blabbing loudly about the tins and how they can use them.

Most everything that you two had come with is gone. The mushroom instead littered with items you needed to pack up to bring home.

“Oh, I got this,”

Ushijima hands you a makeshift mug of hot chocolate. The leaves the mugs were made out of were temporary objects. Whoever served food often used them because they were easier to carry.

“I cant believe its already the time of year for this,”

“They had apple cider too, I wasn't able to get any of that though”

You and Ushijima take a moment to drink and relax before packing. Dawn was not too far off. Others had already left, wanting to make the journey home in the dark. Several of the candles had already been blown out.

“Hm,”

Ushijima’s dissatisfied hum catches your attention.

“This isn't going to fit,”

“What isn't?

You ask, but he blocks your view from whatever it is he’s holding. You try again but he says nothing. You tilt your head in confusion, not knowing how to help.

“I was going to save this for a better day,”

It's the book. Your favorite book, back in your hands.

“When did you even have time to grab this from Kyotani?”

Ushijma’s face falls.

“You knew? I thought I kept it a surprise,”

“No, I didn't know! I saw it at his table earlier,” you reach to your side, “when I was grabbing these for you,”

You hand him the gloves stares down at them, mouth open in shock.

“You got these for me?”

“Who else would they be for?”

You say with a hearty laugh, happy that you were able to stun him.

“Can I hug you?”

Ushijima akss, still looking down at the gloves.

“Yes,”

You say, but he’s still in owe of the gloves. It takes him another moment before he tightly wraps his arms around you and whispers a thanks.

༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

A/N; Kyotani and the books again :p also first time Ive even mentioned Nishinoya on this blog, he's actually my favorite character from the series. 

[bush-viper-cutie]

Chapter One: The New House

Pairing: Snape x OC

Word Count: 2,472

Rating: E

Plot:  Severus, forced to live with his parents once again, moves into a new house with them… except the house itself isn’t new. Its old, very old indeed.

Warnings: none

A/N: Snapetober! I will be posting chapters often to this slice-of-life gothic slow-burn romance I have in my head :D Not following any prompts but I hope the general atmosphere of these chapters are spooky? Mixed with some gothic… maybe some supernatural elements ahead ;) Enjoy :D

Posted: 10/1/21

Chapter List

Next Chapter –>

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~*~*~ = time skip

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Severus Snape hated his life. His parents were awful, his family had no money, no support from anyone, and everyone he'd ever known hated him. The majority of his 20 years of life had been like that, except for a small bit of it where it wasn't, where it had been alright. For a few quick years, he had one friend who understood him, although it was now as he sat in the backseat of his father's car, looking up at the clouds, that he wondered if she ever did.

The clouds coated the sky, covering every sliver of sunshine with thick grey. No light broke through and as a result, everything looked as miserable as his life felt. The droning of the car engine and tires on concrete grated his ears as he tried for peace of mind.

His father's suitcase - sandwiched above Severus' trunk and his mother's large bag - dug into his side, poking at him deeper with every turn the car took. They'd been driving for almost an hour but he knew they weren't even close to their destination; they were still inside the city, still inside its limits. He didn't need to know where they were going, even if he'd like to, he knew his father couldn't afford to move to any city nor any country home close by.

His mother sat quietly in the passenger seat, watching classy houses with nice, white picket fences and short little rose hedges pass by as they drove. She looked away from the window when they stopped at lights or when his father needed to look at the map for directions; Severus suspected she didn't want to know if any of the four-member families out on their daily evening walk around their block looked in to see who owned the beat-up little pile of scrap metal driving by their house.

He didn't care though. He hardly cared about anything lately. The last time he could remember caring was the scroll parchment he'd received for graduating Hogwarts. That was all he'd wanted for two years. After he'd lost his only friend - his only best friend - he focused on school and school alone. He thought everything about his life would change the second he got hold of that certificate. For a few long days it had felt like a first-place trophy, but it wasn't. It was what it was: A certificate, of completion, of participation. Nothing more.

Maybe he could have been something. If he'd gotten a job, saved up while living with his parents, and finally moved out, leaving them behind forever... But he didn't do that. He spent two years wasting time meddling in a bigoted cult working, selling potions for scrap. Hardly making enough to stay off the streets pretending like it was better than living at home just because the new sinking ship he'd found himself in was with his friends. Maybe eventually he could have made it work if it hadn't been for the Aurors who busted their small section of Death Eaters dedicated to making money selling illegal potions.

He supposed they threw themselves a party, thinking themselves big-shots, catching a handful of young adults making money out the back of a shady pub. He remembered the headline in the Daily Prophet: "Fourteen Death Eaters caught and awaiting sentencing". He supposed his mother thought herself a saint now too, bailing him out, saving him from days of "possible abuse" as if it were any worse than the prison he'd lived in all his life.

At first, he couldn't figure why - not for the life of him - she'd even care what happened to him. He wasn't a child and he wasn't her problem anymore. He knew she derived some sick pleasure knowing he not only owed his existence to her but now his freedom as well... and then it all came out. They bought a new house and it wasn't built to be kept up by two people, hell not even three but he was sure his extra pair of hands would come very handy to them.

They didn't even need to pay him. Not only was he their child, but that bail money was something he couldn't even attempt at paying back, and not because it had been a lot. She'd paid it in wizarding money left over from her witch days and she knew his wand had been broken as part of his sentencing. He'd have to beg some stuck-up department deep in the government for a wand permit which cost money. Then he'd have to buy himself a new wand, then work to pay her back all while "bumming" it at home while his father yelled about getting a "real job", one that didn't involve "devil magic" in the "devil society" that was the wizarding world. And he was sure he wouldn't be able to show up for work with a bruised eye or swollen jaw, even if by some miracle his employer could look past his new criminal record.

He held in a wince as the car turned again and the top luggage fell onto his head. He was back to old habits trying to pretend he didn't exist.

"Hey," Tobias said, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. "Fix that."

Without a word, Severus shoved the luggage back onto the pile behind the driver's seat and sat back. They were on the outskirts of society now. The scenery had turned to country, and the smog of the city had cleared, though the skies were still dark.

His father stopped for a few moments and refolded the map on his lap. His mother carried on watching the world outside, unresponsive to either of them or the happenings inside the car.

"What's that say," Tobias handed Severus the map and lit a cigarette while he waited, not bothering to open the window.

Severus brought the map up to his eyes and squinted. His eyesight was poor and worsened by the approaching dark. "S-starts with 'c'..."

"S'got a double 't' or 'h'?"

"'H'." Severus handed it back and Tobias started driving again.  He took several turns and headed onto a rougher road.

Within minutes the tame country became wild and morphed into a long stretch of woods. For the first few minutes, he hadn't even noticed despite being completely focused on the environment that passed them, like his mother still was. The first few trees seemed to go on, and just when he thought they'd clear them and continue driving past open fields, the trees persisted until he realized they were deep inside a forest now.

A few more minutes passed and they finally did exit the forest into a wide field of dead chopped trees cleared to the side on either edge of the steep hill the car was climbing. Severus sat up finally, hearing his spine crack and snap into place after being hunched over for the better part of the day. He liked the colorful mushrooms and bright green moss growing on the black logs of the discarded trees.

"Here," Tobias grumbled, rolling down the window. He flicked his cigarette butt and rolled it back up.

Severus sat forward and looked out the windshield up at the house they were approaching. It was large and clearly abandoned, probably for a good decade. The shingles were covered in dead leaves, the paint was chipping, the windows were gray and smeared with dirt likely blown during wind storms. The porch was missing a step and the columns holding up the covering were slanted. It was more yellow at the top and browner at the bottom - rot on the foundation most likely.

He slumped back in his seat. At least, if it turned out horrible, if it came down the second they stepped inside, or the walls melted from mold before their eyes, their old home was still waiting for them, the cursed thing. Almost all houses back home on Spinners End were abandoned. No one to sell to, no one to buy decrepit eyesores in the shadow of rundown factories. But at least he still had the option if it all went wrong.

~*~*~

Severus stuffed his suitcase into the closet, kicked it in, and shut the door. Unpacking could wait. He turned around and looked at his room as a whole. It was small, located up the stairs in a corner. It had a slanted roof which was odd, considering there was a third floor above him. It would do though, it was on the opposite side of the house as his parent's room, so it would certainly do quite nicely.

He moved to the window and looked out to watch the mist settle below. His father was gone to town to purchase things they'd need: a lighter apparently for the fireplaces since this house was built before furnaces and never renovated. He felt like a poor house servant to a rich Lord, but it was better than feeling like a roach in his old home. They needed coal too, or maybe wood, whatever old metal kitchen stoves and ovens used.

Severus walked out of his room to look down the hall again. It was a larger house than he was used to - it practically felt like a palace - and was sure it would take a few days to memorize how to find the correct corridor places.  It wasn't Like Hogwarts, which typically took several years to memorize the right paths.

He walked down the opposite way he came and observed the way the dust clung to the walls giving the blue wallpaper a very muted look. The original owners liked their colors, practically every room had a different color to it. Corridors were blue, bedrooms green, dining room orange, library red, kitchen white, bathrooms pink... At least none of the colors were very offensive to the eyes, even without the dust they were all very muted and earthy.

He had explored the bottom floor, the second floor had all the bedrooms, and the third-floor stairs must be around somewhere, hidden. As he walked a new corridor he noticed there were spaces on the wall which had, at one time or another, held frames or mirrors but they were long gone. He turned the corner to a long hallway with very tall windows on one side. He could see the mist again and possibly behind it was more to the forest surrounding the house. He mentally noted which turn brought him to the back wall of the house. He walked on and at the center were the stairs to the third floor tucked into a gap in the wall opposite the windows.

The handrails were covered in dust and between the wood pillars were cobwebs that swayed as he crept up. There was an open floor filled with ghostly sheet-covered furniture. A chandelier holding half-used candles lay on the floor with a long chain still connected to the ceiling. Its crystals refracted light from the large windows on either side of the room.

He sat on a couch - not bothering with the cloth - and sighed. Eventually, they'd put him up to getting all this old stuff down so that his father could sell it, although, they'd already been inside once before and said they couldn't find the stairs to this floor - or large room.

He got up and walked back down the stairs peering into the small crevice between the handrail and wall. When he reached the bottom step he noticed the indent on the edge of the left-hand wall and pulled on it. A little ring popped out and when he pulled on that, the wall rolled out. No, it was a door. He pulled it further and closed it behind him. He stepped back against the windows. The wallpaper blended seamlessly and would have been hard for him to tell that it was a door at all. He pressed the blue-colored ring back against the wall and walked back to his room.

~*~*~

Severus heard a car door slam and sat up in bed. His father was finally back with the supplies to hopefully get dinner started. His nap must have been a few hours because the sun had already dipped below the tree lines.

"Severus," his father called out to him, his echoes from one side of the house bounced off every wall to reach Severus' ears. "Now."

He swung his legs over the bed and left his room, stumbling down the dark hallway towards the front of the house. He stopped at the foot of the stairs looking down. His father was smoking again and had dropped several grocery bags on the floor. He blew the smoke out of his mouth and looked up at Severus, then motioned for the bags and pointed in the general direction of the kitchen.

Severus obeyed and carried them in, placing them on the counter - which had been dusted - and started taking out the contents. The only modern appliance in the house was the fridge, tall silver and brand new; it must have been the real major cost of the house.

His father had bought a large head of cabbage and a pack of sausages. There were matches but no coal which means they might be having cold soup for dinner again. He put everything away and came back to stand at the door.

He stepped aside as Tobias entered the house again. Severus thought about stepping out and walking around for a bit, not wanting to be in the same house as his parents, but felt the distance between his room and theirs was enough for today.

He turned to the stairs and saw his mother holding the banister looking down at him.

"Tomorrow there'll be a list of chores for you in the kitchen," she said. Her stiff voice echoed throughout the house and she kept her eyes on him waiting for a response.

He gave none and she left, unbothered. It was the way of their relationship. She'd ignore everything he said, and he'd do the same. He walked up the stairs, hearing how they creaked and groaned under his weight, echoing off walls and resonating down the hall. He headed to his room and closed the door. It was only around nine, fully dark, but he was done with the day. Dinner wasn't worth facing them and staying awake any longer wasn't worth the boredom and loneliness.

He took his pillow out of his trunk and fell onto the bed, almost disappointed it didn't break and send any amount of adrenaline or chemical of any kind to his brain. He moved his pillow, slid his arm under it, and closed his eyes.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

Chapter List

Next Chapter –>

[captaincharmer]

don't look up

Besides being cold, it also rains every day, and if it's not raining, it's snowing and if it's not snow, it's the wind. There is not one minute of peace.

I returned home slowly, trying to keep the heat inside my coat, cursing the idea of ​​shaving my head before winter. Even with a beanie on, I still got chills from the cold.

“Fucking hell of a day.” I cursed, looking down the endless street that led me home.

I wasn’t really sure if I wanted to get home. My parents needed to sign the warning letter I got from school. I was written up because I got caught drawing in geometry class again and the school doesn’t like my drawings. Well, okay, maybe I wasn’t written up so much because I was drawing 5-eyed, sharp-toothed monsters, and maybe it was more because I hate geometry and I'm one step away from failing the class. Or both.

A I’m walking down the street, looking at the houses and the initial signs of pathetic Christmas decorations; the light covered bushes, the Santa Clauses with their hats freezed over from the amount of snow, and the sidewalks, so swamped with ice that if there was ever something underneath, it was now just concrete water.

One of the houses on the street had a Jesus on the cross in the garden and other various religious style Christmas decorations around it... all swallowed up by the ravages of the cold.

I’m reminded of the time a nun came to one of the career days at school and the poor woman ended up seeing one of my drawings. She knelt down and asked God to save my soul from hell, just like my grandma did when she saw them too. I got lectures from both of them to stop drawing demons. I may not be the purest of people, but I tried to explain to the woman, pleading on her knees, that they were just drawings and that I didn't believe in Heaven or Hell, there were no such things as demons, just like there were no such things as angels and stuff. It was fun.

I kept walking, watching the houses, each one worse than the one before. One had a penguin dressed as Santa, which I thought was okay. Another one had a punk styled snowman. I thought of trying that one this weekend, I actually kinda liked it. The next house was the best. It had a trampoline.

I stopped, looking at it at the side of the garden. It was hidden by some trees full of branches that had been abandoned by its leaves, now only covered by strips of ice. I examined the house, there’s a pile of newspapers on the porch, one of the windows was broken and the snow was not shoveled from on the stairs or the sidewalk. Nobody lived there.

I looked at both sides of the street, as empty as my geometry notebook. I rushed into the garden, tossing my backpack somewhere, and started climbing into the trampoline.

It was always my favorite thing to do when my parents rented them for my birthday parties, but they stopped paying for them when I turned 13. They also wouldn't let me play on them even on my stupid cousins stupid bithdays as well. “You're too big Evan, you can't play with the kids anymore, Evan. It's going to hurt them, Evan.” Stupid.

"Nice!" I exclaim, climbing up and flexing my knees. I feel the trampoline sway and creak.

I start to jump. There's a lot of accumulated snow, it bounces and flies everywhere. Snow falls all over my body, but I don't even feel cold anymore. The effort of jumping warms me up and my laughter creates dense white clouds in the air around me.

I pick up momentum and go higher, higher, and higher. When I'm about to touch the farthest branches from the trees, I lift my feet up and lie down in the air, letting myself fall onto my back. I look up at the cloudy gray sky and, for a second, I remember a silly thing that my grandma used to say when I played.

“Be careful, Ven! Always jump on your feet, dear. Be careful on those playthings! Don't look up!”

From one second to another, in the time that it takes for this memory to come to my mind, of me falling and hitting my back on the trampoline, It just doesn't. My back doesn't touch the trampoline, but the snow flies around me as if it had. And now, as I'm looking up, snow flying around me, I'm also looking down.

It was so quick, it was so fast. The same time it takes your body to slow down and start falling after you jump up. The moment when inertia ends and gravity pulls you back down.

Then, what once was a gray sky was now red, orange and black. It was boiling hot and I could see pairs of big, dark eyes staring back into my soul. Its teeth were roughly my size, its mouth smiled at me as if it saw my soul as dinner. Horns grew out of the sides of its heads, protruding from its shoulders along with the strange collection of wings and other limbs.

I was looking down as if I was falling straight to Hell. Suddenly, I feel my body going up and the snow swallows me up.

I'm back on the trampoline, face down and buried in the snow. Right then I start screaming and kicking. I sit up, dripping with sweat, my heart is racing and my body is shaking. I dig into the snow in a pointless desperation to find something that I couldn't even say what it was. I found only the fabric of the trampoline. Nothing beyond that, and snow.

"Fuck!" I hurriedly stood up, shaking and falling down from the stairs to the floor.

I shake the snow off my body and run in a hurry, trying to put my backpack back on as I fix my beanie, almost falling from my head. My ears were burning. I trip over a stone walking through the garden, fixing myself until I'm on the street again.

With my heart pounding and my breathing uneven, I walk on autopilot in a straight line trying to understand what happened. What was that? Was that Hell? But I was looking up!

I couldn't stop sweating.

Even so, in the midst of my despair, a little voice inside me insisted on asking itself:

"If I was looking up, could that actually be Heaven?..."

I stop in the middle of the street, euphoria taking over my body.

"And what if I jump the other way and look down, what will I see?"

Guess I'll have to stop by that house tomorrow to find out.

--D.

https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/tru9c4/dont_look_up/

https://www.wattpad.com/story/306199879-don%27t-look-up

[joonkorre]

Ed io vivrò con te/Tutti i miei giorni

@drarrymicrofic prompt: suburbia

after moving places and moving on, i have a few thoughts. AO3

Draco has been waiting for this day for a long, long time.

It’s a bit of a surprise that he’d return to a place like this, after all this time. But really, it’s not surprising at all.

Draco ambles out of the alley as if there wasn’t a thundering crack seconds earlier, then heads down the familiar sidewalk. Parts of it are covered with grass that has spilled from overgrown lawns, thick and depressed from being trampled over. He stops for a moment and stares at a particular crack in the multitude of cracks on the path. A tiny bouquet of wild violets has broken through concrete, purple nestled within green, barely fluttering in the afternoon wind. Draco peers at it a moment longer then continues.

The people here don’t care about fences, but those that do like theirs to be metal chain link. Some have gone burnt-orange with rust, others have vines trailing up and leaking through. Dominating sidewalks and front yards are big, ancient trees with broad branches that no one bothers to trim, leaves so dense that sunlight doesn’t bother to puncture. There’s a house with a clearly brand new arbor gracing the walkway up to the front door. Littered behind it are white Romanesque statues that have yellowed and browned with time, plus a squeaky swing set surrounded by lupines and marigolds. Its neighboring house is clean-cut and perfect, save for the inexplicable presence of tires seated under a slumbering willow.

Cars roll down the road, some with monotonous purrs and others with bass beating from half-lowered windows. Following them is the rattling of bike chains, are dress shoes and trainers and sandals slapping against pavement. Keys jingling, tender greetings, children giggling, the simple act of shutting off the outside world to immerse in the inner with every closing door. Draco can’t hear what the old women chat about as they sit on the front porch, each with a cat in her lap and a bottle in her hand, but he can guess. Something about the weather, perhaps, or the state of the world. What their lives were decades past, when they’re less this, less melancholic yet content at the same time. Draco marches on.

The house at the end of the block is a two-storey with red bricks and indigo lumber, a large garage and no car. Of course, the owner might not be home, but Draco knows better. Walking up the graveled path, he’s careful not to bump into the raised beds that weren’t there before. The stairs are swept. The railings aren’t gritty with dirt. Just beyond the top steps, a beige package leans against the door.

‘Bad,’ Draco thinks, picking it up and patting away a bug from the sealed opening, ‘whoever delivered this should’ve set it to the side. He’ll probably step on this when he opens the door, then it’d be a waste.’

He can knock, but a doorbell’s been installed. Draco’s thumb circles its button for a second. He presses once. A twinkling chime resounds through the door, a nameless song hushing while footsteps amplify. Draco’s heart thumps so heavily that he can feel it in his throat. As the door opens—its piercing creak now smooth and nonexistent—that treacherous thump hushes, too.

“Good afternoon,” Draco says, lifting the package, knowing full well what’s in it. “Guess the delivery man sent me along with this, hmm?”

[thiswasinevitableid]

Could you do an Indruck (or OT4 because you got me into the whole pairing :) ) NSFW ghost prompt? Go nuts, I just love your writing and I trust your creative vision.

Here you go! I went with the OT4. And I’m so glad you like that pairing!

The kitchen box is half-unpacked when there’s a knock on the door. Duck figures it’s the take-out he ordered, so he’s surprised to see a tall guy in nice jeans and short-sleeved dress shirt decorated with Jackalopes. Unless the Thai place uses male supermodels as delivery boys, this isn’t his Pad Thai. 

“Uh, hey, what can I do for you?”

“I’m your downstairs neighbor, so I wanted to come up and introduce myself. I hope I’m not interrupting dinner.”

“Nope, still waitin on it. Nice to meet you, name’s Duck.” He holds out his hand and Mr. Gorgeous shakes it. 

“Joseph. Oh, um, here” he produces a small greeting card with a sea monster on it, “welcome to the neighborhood.” His pocket rings, and so he excuses himself, hurrying down the stairs with his phone to his ear. The card contains a gift certificate to the coffee shop on the corner. 

They don’t cross paths again right away. It’s more that Duck will move Joe’s packages into the main hall rather than leave them on a rainy porch, and Joe delivers Pinecone the cat back to him after she slips out the door and down the stairs while Duck wrestles his keys. 

As it warms up, they use the pool around the same time each day (which is how Duck learns Joe’s had top surgery, same as him), and start talking more in the lobby when they see each other. He learns Joseph works for the FBI in the UP, the agreement being he can make X-files jokes as long as Joe gets to make Smokey the Bear references in return. The way Joseph laughs, water streaming down his honest-to-god defined abs as he pulls himself onto the edge of the pool, makes Duck glad he’s never seen a boyfriend coming or going from the other mans apartment. 

Tonight, he’s done helping Joe get all his groceries up the stairs in one go, and decides to go for it. 

“Hey, uh, Joe? You doin’ anythin tomorrow night?”

“No.” He studies Duck’s body language and gives an encouraging smile. 

“In that case; wanna get dinner?”

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

“I think this building is haunted.”

Duck, head still resting on Joe’s chest after jacking him off as thanks for an excellent blowjob, laughs, “That’s some interestin pillow talk you got there.”

“Are you that surprised?”

“No, you fuckin nerd.” He nips his collarbone, shifting so they’re each on their sides, facing one another, “for real though, why do you think we got ghosts runnin’ around?”

“At first I thought I was imagining it, or that I felt like I was being watched because the cases studies I was reading put the suggestion in my head. Then things started moving around the apartment, and now and then I swear I hear people whispering. I tracked the sound one day and it was coming from the wall that looks out onto the street. No one was down there, and if it were the result of an echo or strange acoustics, I’d notice it more.”

“Huh.” Duck pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue.

“Still, I’m not ready to say for certain that it’s haunted. That kind of thing requires concrete evidence that I just don’t have. Sorry, shouldn’t talk shop when I have a, um, guest.” He wiggles back into Duck’s space, kissing him gently, and Duck forgets what they were talking about.

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

He knows Ouija Boards are a dodgy investigation tool at the best of times, but today he came home to find all his laundry folded when he had, much to his chagrin, had to leave it in the bag in a rush to get to work. 

No one has a key to his place. Which means whoever did that had another way in. 

He clears his throat, “If there is a ghost or other supernatural entity in the apartment with me, I wanted to say thank you for putting my clothes away.”

Nothing but his own creeping humiliation, then a slight chill across his face. The planchette moves

U.R. W.E.L.C.O.M.E

“HAH!” He whoops, “I was right! My apartment is haunted. Okay, um, spirit, do you have a name?”

B.A.R.C.L.A.Y

“It’s nice to officially meet you, Barclay. You’ve been spending a lot of time around me.”

Y.E.A.H S.O.R.R.Y

“You don’t need to apologize, I don’t mind it. You’re not malevolent, and if this was your apartment when you died, I can’t very well get mad at you for hanging around. Are you able to become visible?”

YES

“Is there, um, a reason you’ve never materialized around me?”

D.I.D.N.T W.A.N.T T.O S.C.A.R.E Y.O.U

“You won’t, I’m a professional. And I’m curious about the person I’m sharing my home with.”

The planchette trembles, unsure of it’s direction at first. 

S.H.Y

That explanation never occurred to him. 

“That’s alright. If you ever change your mind, know you don’t have to hide on my behalf.”

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

“Barclay, even I can tell that was an invitation to interact with him. What more are you waiting for?” Indrid cocks his head. 

“Maybe he’s just trying to appease me because he’s scared of ghosts?”

“Those ‘paranormal romances’ on his shelf suggest otherwise.” Indrid touches Barclay’s cheek. They’re in the wall, their shared nature meaning they can see, hear, and touch each other without trying, “dearest, you’re clearly fond of him, and he’s eager to meet you.”

Barclay’s beard scratches his palm, “Yeah, I know. I’m just...I like to take things slow and, uh, I guess this is no exception.”

Indrid chuckles, dryly adds “Yes, I recall how long after propositioning you it took for you to practically bang down my door.”

“Okay, hot little art punk who literally asked me if I wanted to see what his tongue piercing felt like on my dick is the exception.” He kisses Indrid’s cheek before drifting away. 

Indrid floats up into his former apartment, now occupied by Duck Newton. He spends most of his days on the couch while Duck is off at work, watching T.V or reading or, increasingly, playing with Pinecone, the only being he’s materialized for in some time. He’s been content to never alert Duck to his existence, but yesterday he overheard him remaining skeptical at the idea of the building being haunted, much to Joseph’s disgruntlement. Indrid’s as well; Barclay isn’t the only one who finds Joseph attractive and charming. 

So he thinks Duck deserves some low-stakes haunting of his own. 

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

Duck’s having a hell of a week. The hinges on his cabinets must be going, because they keep falling open, his router keeps getting unplugged (probably by Pinecone), and no matter how he insulates, there’s a chill in the living room. 

Worst off all, when he pulled the fridge away from the wall to see if it was to blame for the cold spot, it revealed a hole into the wall that is just big enough for Pinecone to get into. Which she did, last night, and will not come out no matter what he tries. 

When he walks into the living room after work, his brain stalls out. The good news is, Pinecone is no longer in the wall. 

The bad news is she’s floating at a fixed point four feet about the floor. 

His cat notices him, mrrps, and lands on the floor. All Joe’s talk of ghosts suddenly feels very real and points at one conclusion.

“Holy shit” he picks up the black and brown ball of fluff, “my cat’s fuckin’ possessed.”

“Not quite” the voice in his ear is quiet, lilting.

“JESUSFUCK.” He spins to face an invisible interloper, Pinecone firmly in his arms. 

A smile, and only a smile, appears a fear inches above his eyeline, “Do you still doubt the building is haunted?”

“Wh--motherfucker, you’re Joe’s ghost and you decided to talk to me? To what, make a point?”

“Yes and no. Yes in that I wanted you to stop doubting my existence. No in that Barclay is the former resident of Josephs’ dwelling. I am a former resident of this one.”

The implications of there being a ghost dedicated to his apartment hit him like a train, “Have you just been hangin around me since I moved in, watchin my every move?”

The smile wavers, “Nono, nothing so alarming. I usually come here when you’re at work, or spend time with Barclay in the spaces between walls and worlds. That’s, ah, not to say I haven’t been in the armchair while you were watching T.V on the couch, but in my defense you have very interesting taste in documentaries.” The ghost notices Duck’s alarm, and the smile fades from view, “I apologize. It was rude of me to be in your space without permission. Space is a much more malleable thing when you’re a ghost, but that is no excuse.”

“I mean, yeah, it’s fuckin creepy.”

Pinecone jumps from his grasp, winds herself in a circle around what must be ghostly legs. 

“But uh, my cat likes you. And she can be skittish. I, uh, worry about her gettin lonely on days when I work late. So you can hang around when I’m out. But other’n that we gotta play by vampire rules; you don’t come into my space unless invited. Deal?”

The smile flickers back into view, “Deal.”

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

Joseph, all too aware of his own perfectionist nature, tries to avoid jealousy. It only ever serves to poison him against others and his own fragile inner being. 

But lord almighty is he jealous that Duck got a verbal, physical visit from his specter, Indrid, while Barclay doesn’t so much as whisper in Joseph’s vicinity.  It had been hard to be envious in the moment, because he was too excited by the news, to the point that he climbed into Ducks lap and started kissing him because all his adrenaline needed an outlet. 

Then Duck had frozen, asking if he thought the ghosts would watch them hook-up. Joseph pointed out that Indrid had promised to only visit when invited and Barclay was polite, so odds were good they were truly alone. He kept the fact that Duck’s suggestion made him instantly hard to himself.

(Duck picked up on it anyway, if the jokes about Ghost and the supremely satisfying make-out session were anything to go by).

He’s making fried rice for dinner, is mid-way through chopping green onions when his phone buzzes. A glance over his shoulder reveals it’s not a work call or an emergency. Suddenly, something cold and strong grips his right hand and there is, without a doubt, a human frame pressed to his back. He can’t move his hand, follows the line of his knife and sees the next chop would have caught his finger.  

“Barclay?”

“Yeah. Sorry I, uh, just didn’t want you cutting a finger off.” The hold on him disappears as that baritone drips down his spine. 

Joseph turns just as Barclay comes into view; he’s taller than Joseph, a rare thing given he’s six-foot, with shaggy brown hair and a short, coppery beard. Full lips and brown eyes round out the face that is straight from Joseph’s fantasies.

“Wow. Um, I mean, thank you for saving me a trip to the emergency room.”

“No problem.”

Drawing on years of training, he tries to keep the other man talking, “Were you just passing through?”

“Kinda. This is gonna sound weird but, uh, I loved cooking when I was alive. Sometimes I like to be close by when you’re cooking so I can get some of the sensations again.”

Joseph steps to the side, gesturing to the cutting board, “Do you...want to help me make dinner? If you can interact with my body, you should be able to prepare veggies no problem.”

Barclay hesitantly steps to the counter, shakes his head when Joseph offers the knife, “I have to dematerialize first. Being visible and being solid take so much energy that I can only do one or the other.”

“Fascinating. Just, um, I hope I get to see your face again.”

Barclay disappears, and a half-second later an invisible hand squeezes his arm, “Think I can manage that.”

Barclay joins him for dinner regularly after that. Duck recovers fairly quickly to Joseph’s spectral assistant, especially when Barclay makes him french onion soup. Joseph suspects Duck is also getting used to ghosts in general, since more than once he’s knocked on the door and walked in to find the ranger conversing with Indrid (though Indrid insists on remaining dematerialized). 

Tonight it’s just him and Barclay, and Joseph is busy sticking his foot in his mouth.

“I’m sorry, that’s a rude question-”

Barclay chuckles, “Not really, it’s kinda the first thing everyone wants to know about ghosts, right? Why we’re here? Short answer is, uh” he sighs, “I had a heart condition but not the time or money to get it checked out. Fucking thing failed me one Sunday morning at that was it. Poor Indrid found me. We had a casual thing going and he had a key to my place. Came to check on me when he heard me hit the ground.”

“Oh Barclay, that sounds awful for you both.”

“Yeah, death isn’t my fave.” Barclay lays down, disappearing so his head can rest properly in Joseph’s lap. The agent feels around until he finds soft hair, petting it as Barclay continues his story.

“At first I thought my unfinished business might have to do with Indrid. But when he died pretty soon after, I kinda figured it was more that when I died, the direction I went was the ‘become a ghost’ one and not, like, the ‘rest in peace’ one.”

“Do you wish you could move on? Because I have access to a lot of classified occult information.”

The head under his hand turns, the direction of the motion suggesting Barclay is looking up at him, “Gotta be honest, lately being a ghost has gotten way more interesting.”

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

It takes two drawers before Duck finds where he put the AAA batteries. The package is already open, and when he gets to the living room his Carbon Monoxide detector is floating, back removed as fresh batteries click into place.

“Damn, ‘Drid, the thing just started beepin about it’s low battery.”

“Such things cannot be delayed. Trust me.”

“....Oh fuck, is that what got you?”

The detector slips back onto it’s wall mount, “Yes. I, I was always so careful, trying to prepare for every possible disaster. When Barclay died I, ah, I found it harder to do daily tasks. One of those was replacing the batteries in this” a plastic tap, “the low-power beep kept bothering me, so I detached it, planning to fix it in the morning. Then the next morning, and the next, and so on. Well, I put it off one too many times. A mundane, pointless death if there ever was one.”

Duck sets the battery package on the table, opening his arms. Cold fingers cling to the back of his shirt as Indrid hugs him. Duck does his best to soothe the ghost, rocking them subtly in a way that works wonders on his living friends. 

“Thank you” spectral eyelashes flutter against his neck as Indrid burrows against him. They say nothing else, staying in the embrace until Pinecone pads over and demands dinner.

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

Duck just means to drop off the books he borrowed from Joe, finds the door unlocked and figures the other man is home, probably cooking or yelling at a bigfoot hunting show.  When he doesn’t see him in the living room, he pokes his head down the hall. 

It takes a moment for his brain to process what he’s seeing. By the time it does, he’s already backing out the door. 

Okay, he just walked in on his sorta-boyfriend getting railed by a ghost, face buried against the bed, moaning while a cock he couldn’t see spread his ass open over and over again. That’s fine, that’s completely fine and not hot at all, he’s just taking his pants off in his living room for unrelated reasons. 

“Ah, Duck?” 

“Fuck!” He looks around, trying to work out where Indrid is and how much he can see.

The couch cushions shift, “I apologize, I thought you were out running errands.”

“S’okay” He pulls his hand out of his boxers, “I, uh, I was just, uh, tryin to, uh…”

The ghost waits patiently for him to come to the truth.

Duck sighs, slumps down on what he’s pretty sure is a free spot, “Walked in on Joe and Barclay.”

“I see. Does it bother you?”

“No. I, uh, kinda got the sense they were into each other, and we ain’t exclusive.”

The smile appears next to him, invisible fingers tracing up his arm “Does it do something else to you?” 

“Indrid, please I already got the weirdest fuckin boner right now.”

“And I am offering to help. I know I often joke about sharing Barclay’s taste in men but…” a light, chilly kiss on his cheek, “I share Joseph’s as well. I would very much like the chance to show you what I mean.” The fingers and lips teasing his skin cease their touches; space to refuse that Duck appreciates. 

“You know what? Fuck it” Duck works his pants the rest of the way off, throws his boxers after them, “get on your knees, sugar, and show me what you mean.”

“Ooh, I get a pet name!” Indrid claps, excited, rests his hands on Duck’s knees after he spreads them. Duck tracks his position by his smile, is unprepared for how strange it feels when it dives between his thighs. He’s used to Joe, all hot breath and enthusiastic precision. This is like the time an ex tried using an ice cube but way, way better, the chill heightening the sensations rather than numbing them. 

It’s also teasing, and he grunts, tipping his hips up, “‘Drid, please.”

“Patience, sweetheart, I haven’t done anything like this in years, I intend to take my time.”  A playful tongue drags up his dick. 

“Sugar, I’ll let you do this every day for a week, figure out how to give a ghost a fuckin hand job, anythin, but if I don’t cum soon I’m gonna combust. So get that cute little mouth where it belongs and suck my dick.”

The smile sharpens, “Make me.”

He threads his fingers into Indrid’s hair, shoving him forward. The ghost moans, tongue working across his folds in rapid swipes. Curious, he tugs on the soft strands and a messy purr vibrates up his dick.

“Someone like it rough?”

He feels the responding nod. Tightens his grip, “Then fuckin suck it like I told you too, sugar.”

Cold lips envelope his dick, Indrid moaning as he sucks. One hand rubs what his mouth can’t attend to, but the other leaves Duck’s knee right before Indrid’s whimpers grow shorter.

“That’s it, get off while I fuck your face, fuck, Joe’s really onto somethin with this paranormal shit, you’re so good sugar, fuckme that’s good. C’mon” he jerks his hips, orgasm building mercifully fast, “make me cum, like that, right fuckin there ohfuck.” He cums, feet scuffing on the rug. Indrid’s moan turns to a gasp as he pulls away, cum making a damp spot on the ground. 

Duck pets his hair, “Sure showed me.”

Indrid snickers, turns to press his face to kiss his palm.

“‘Drid? You, uh, you don’t have to, but could I see you? All of you?”

His hands cradle air as a man forms before him; lanky and bony, hair dyed silver with black roots showing, pierced ears and lip, tattoos coating the arms that stick out from a white tank-top. He bites his lip, awaiting judgement as Duck sinks off the couch to sit with him. 

“Not gonna lie, sugar, mighty peeved you kept usin my pens and didn’t even let me see this face everyday as payment.”

Indrid blinks, then laughs, loud and relieved, “I’m glad you approve; I am not everyone’s type.”

“Sure as hell are mine.” Duck puts his hand through his knee, frowns, “wish I could hold you and see you at the same time. Be that as it may, know you’re always runnin cold. You, uh, wanna join me for a little afternoon nap?”

“Of course” he fades away, and takes Ducks’ hand.

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

Duck’s never seen Joe this excited which, given that they went to a “Cryptids in Film” exhibit last weekend, is saying something. 

“Ready?” His boyfriend tightens the strap-on harness, sporting Duck’s favorite of his dicks. 

“You know it, darlin.”

Joe climbs onto the bed, makes a suave roll onto his back and pats his thighs, “Then come here. I want to see as much of you as possible while I fuck you.”

“You’re the boss, handsome.” He sinks down with a groan, slowly rocking his hips to get warmed up. 

Joe gropes his ass, growling, “Lord, look at this. Your ass is incredible, Duck, just like the rest of you.”

He dips down to kiss him in reply, messing up that dark hair and leaving a hickey on his collarbone. A chill runs up his spine and he shudders; two days ago, after the two ghosts and two humans hashed out who was dating who and what that meant, Joe admitted to a fantasy in which he and Duck were rudely interrupted by two horny paranormal entities. 

Duck kisses the corner of his mouth, grinds down with a whine, “c’mon Joe, know you can go harder than that.”

“The angle isn’t to my advantage.”

“Well then” purrs a voice from their right, “let’s remedy that.”

Duck’s pulled sideways, the momentum enough to reverse their positions and pop the toy loose.

“Now, pet, you are going to start fucking him again, and I’m going to fuck you to insure the pace is the perfect one for my dear Duck.”

The strap-on slides back in, Duck arching when it does. Joe’s hips snap forward, propelled by something other than the strength of his muscles. 

“AHlord, Indrid, yes. Is, is that good?” His blue eyes focus on Duck, who pulls him down into a kiss, panting as Indrid uses Joe to fuck him hard and fast. Then Joe’s head whips up and sideways, an invisible cock forcing it’s way into his mouth to muffle his moans.

“Fuck, that’s it babe, get me hard so I can fuck you when Indrid’s had his fill.”

“That may take some time. Never fear, I have other plans for my pet.” 

Joe squeaks, and Duck watches the muscles of his ass flex in new ways as black silicone appears and retreats from view over and over. From under him, Duck has a singularly good view of his lips stretching to accommodate Barclay, who’s busy demanding he look him in the eye when he takes his cock. He runs a loving hand up Joe’s chest, strokes the cheek not bulging with the head of a thick cock. 

“Fuck that’s hot.” His body agrees, but in spite of his boyfriends’ joint efforts and the obscene view making him wetter by the second, his orgasm eludes him. 

“J-joe, ‘Drid, please I, I’m real fuckin close but I need more pressure or, fuck, or friction or somethingfuck, hell fuckin yeah that’s it.” He pumps his hips, Barclay having freed Joe to bury his face in Ducks’ neck and put strip of the harness holding the toy where Duck can rub off on it. 

“That’s it, like that Joe, ‘Drid, fuckfuckfuckfuck” He gasps, eyes rolling back in his head as the orgasm shoots through him. It’s perfect, made more so by the knowledge that Indrid will let him bask in the aftershocks. 

Joe, however, is in for something very different. Duck is still getting his vision back when the harness takes an unceremonious flight off the bed. As he sits up, the plug takes the same journey, and he knows Joe will insist on cleaning it even more thoroughly than usual now that it’s been on the rug. 

His boyfriend is on his knees, lowering with incremental bursts of effort and jerks of his hips. When he stops with a moan, it looks as though his ass is hovering in mid-air. Phantom indentations press into his hips. 

“Very good pet” Indrid’s voice is turning breathy, “no, lean back so Barclay can fuck you raw while I make short work of this tight” Joe jolts up as Indrid bucks his hips, “little” another jolt, “ass” a final jolt before Joe tips backwards, opening his legs. 

Duck watches, mesmerized, as Joe is spread open, feet lifting off the blanket as more indents appear beneath his knees. The agent, usually so articulate, does nothing but moan at the invisible intrusion. 

“Fuckin-A, I’ll never get tired of this babe, you’re fucking dripping for me and it’s so fucking hot, how much of a fucking needy, dirty guy you are.”

Joe reaches one hand forward, trying to run his fingers up Barclay’s chest. The other extends towards Duck, and the ranger crawls so he can take it, kissing it as the indents of Indrid’s arms wrap around Joe’s lower belly. 

“I’d hold tight, dearest.”

“Why-”

Duck’s answer comes in the form of a yelp from Joe. To anyone else, it would look like the agent is trying and failing to wrestle the air. His back arches, making every sinful line of his body tense, while his hands claw at the bed and Duck’s arm and his legs bounce uselessly in the air. 

Duck peers around, careful not to bonk his head into Barclay. From here Joe is on full display, both holes stretching and twitching to take what they’re given. He wishes it was easier for him to get hard again; all he can think about is sitting on Joe’s face while the others fuck him like this, catch this sobbing moans in his skin while he’s reduced to nothing but a plaything for the paranormal. 

“Damn, darlin, you’re takin it like a champ. Maybe next time I’ll film it for ya, so you can see how fuckin hot you look getting fucked to pieces on some ghost dick.”

A louder sob of pleasure, and as he goes to soothe him with kisses Barclay grunts, “Don’t you fucking pull away, don’t care if you just came you’re fucking taking it all.”

“Do hurry up with him, Barclay. Ah, perfect, thank you.” With that, the forces bouncing Joe in the air come only from beneath him, Indrid pumping mercilessly into his ass and punching little “ah, aah, ahnns” out of him. He’s so blissed out that Duck can’t help himself, steadies his face in his hands so he can kiss him while Indrid cums with a high cry. 

There’s an “oof” as Indrid rolls Joe’s head into Duck’s lap. A hand turns Duck by his chin so he can get a kiss before Indrid becomes visible. Barclay appears at Joe’s feet, does his best to lay parallel to him and then disappears.

“You always did like to spoon immediately after.” Indrid says fondly, drifting to sit beside Duck. 

“Mhmmm” comes the rumbly reply.

“You okay, darlin?” Duck brushes the hair from Joe’s face as blue eyes flutter open. 

“Never better. Oh!” He sits up abruptly, Duck is more used to his boyfriend’s post-orgasm bursts of inspiration than the other two and thus doesn’t jump in surprise, “I found a potentially useful book at work the other day…”

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

“So, uh, how long do we have?” Barclay brushes lint from his shirt, stepping outside the chalk pattern on the floor somewhat hesitantly. 

“As long as the candle burns. Which is why I bought one that can stay lit for at least ten hours.” He offers his hand and his fully visible, touchable boyfriend takes it. Indrid, having more trust in occult processes, practically leapt over the chalk a moment ago to kiss him and Duck. Joseph draws Barclay into his arms, “which is all to say: we have plenty of time for date night.”

[tenderlyrenjun]

[spring and winter]

Your favorite time, or one of, to stare at Renjun is when nature falls by his sides (him below you is a comparably pretty sight). He just has this magnetism about himself, even without his compulsion ability, though you assume that it does nothing but aid the mysticism. And the very first time when you met him, peach blossoms began flowering into his hair. Your Mom held a springtime viewing party to watch the petals’ initial bloom on the first day, but you missed it. Since then, you have continued missing the first bloom of spring - which is saying something, considering that a few millennia have passed.

“Hurry, Handong!” you shout over your shoulder, carelessly adding an honorific after your older sister’s name as an after thought. You brush past a handmaiden carrying soul, and she spills a few drops on your tunic and sash, clutching the clattering tray tightly above her abdomen. The gravel you cut through spins under your feet, causing you to stumble, briefly, into the wet cement being assembled for the Third Consort’s new spa house. You regain footing and fix your ties, acting as if nothing happened, then look for your sister. She is still catching up. “We’ll miss it!” 

This path is meant to be a shortcut into the east garden, crossing through the courtyard rather than walking along the smooth concrete pathways, yet Handong almost takes an equal (re: slow) amount of time. You stop running to see why she takes so long, shaking your arms to a halt. And your chest almost heaves breathlessly when you see her: she is barely adjusting the beads on her hairpins. 

“Why are you going through there?” Handong scolds, shaking her head. A pearl falls out of place, making you roll your eyes. You cross back to the cement and grab her hand, dragging her through the loose stone paths. Your half-brother returned earlier this week with new shoes from his expeditions in the South - shoes that are suitable for play and running around, yet Handong seems to insist on her straw slippers, which easily get pebbles stuck between the blades. Both of you ignore each other’s complaints and she ultimately complies with the way you sweep her into the viewing party, guests stopping to stare at your wrinkled states.

Handong tries to calm your robes before hers, but you dive under a tree branch to catch a peach bud before it falls on the ground. The winds are strong today, you notice, cautiously turning over one of the damaged leaves. It is late in the afternoon, according to the skies, yet the temperature reverts back to winter and you shiver, when another breeze brushes through your hair. You have not cut it since your last birthday ceremony, which is another reason why Handong keeps trailing after you, constantly fixing your image, especially around the nobles.

A gong goes off in the far corner, and you spin around to hear it better, already knowing that your Mother is going to make an announcement about the impending blooming - it will start in seconds, so the speech will be brief. You hear something about good fortune and prosperity, but everything washes away when you drop the peach bud. Its frosted cover was too much to hold, so you let it melt through your fingers. Unfortunately, it rolls down the small hill that the trees are built upon, bouncing into the son of your father’s associate. He looks down, dubiously turning his head, scanning a quarter circle to his left. You are torn over whether to want to see his full face; his eyes, or at least the one you can see, are perfectly shaped, like a phoenix’s, his lashes curtained over the pretty brown irises. And his nose is gorgeous too, charming and strong. The temptation to see him shrouds Handong, and you slowly step away from her, captivated by this mysterious stranger. Sure, you know that your father often has ministers, princes, officials, high ranking people stay at the estate, their families too, occasionally, but you never entertain them like one of your older siblings. Now, you wish you did, or at least, you wish that you talked to your sisters more so that you know who he is. The stranger picks up your peach bud with his robe’s sleeve - smart - and turns it over with his fingers. He touches the frosted leaves first then cracks it open a little bit more. You giggle when someone at the front screams at the tree, broadcasting its bloom, because he jumps, crossing his hand over his heart. His smaller friend, slightly younger, laughs at him too, making the ambience less formal than you felt.

You reach him just as everyone turns around. He is mid-laugh, throwing back his head into the newest breeze. And that is when Nature picks up - the sun overshadowing the skies with a soft orange hue, the winds rough housing amidst relaxed petals. One lands on his shoulder, then immediately falls to the ground as he casts his eyes on top of the tree, craning his neck taller than his own height. You follow his gaze circling over the horizon of headpieces and robes until finding the opened flowers and pinkening fruits. 

“Wow,” he breathes. His next statements is so awe-stricken that you look at him again, visibly curious as to what he has to say. He meets your eye, blinking slowly, and you match his speed, not wanting to miss his beat. “It’s beautiful.” You’re beautiful.

“Yes,” you agree, and bow your head slightly, more timidly than you had been earlier, suddenly conforming to traditional respects. You peek above, through your lashes, feeling a few petals join your aquamarines. He holds out his hand, waving the formalities, and you stand straighter, making no moves to point at the main event. “It is.” You are, too.

Renjun holds up the fallen bud, within his fingers, looking from it to you, lingering more on your face. “Is this yours?” You nod slowly, anticipatorily. He grabs your wrist gently, bringing your palm Heavens-facing, between your bodies. You unravel the nervous fist, and he places the flower back in your hand. “Don’t lose it.”

“I won’t,” you swear impulsively.

“Don’t lose it,” he repeats, curling your hand into another cage for the seed, like reburying it for a new spring. “Or I will have to bring you a new one.”

“Your presence sounds like a gift. What do I get for keeping this safe?”

“Must all things need gain?”

You tilt your head to the side, your smile incapable of settling down. “Only when it is enjoyed.”

“And my presence is enjoyed?” he asks, eyebrows raised. His companion stares between the two of you, amused but rolling his eyes. You neglect it though, completely forgetting about any other person, behaving as if your father handpicked you to entertain this guest. “Is my presence enjoyed?” he repeats, hearing nothing (but seeing everything). You nod your head, hesitantly, only becoming more enthusiastic after his tension increases. “Well, then, I will have to bring you more peaches.”

Renjun’s favorite time to look at you occurred after that moment in the spring, but it precedes yours by one season: winter. He no longer sees the first snowfall of the year, barely catching the reflection in your eye, if he is lucky, when you extend your hands to catch raining snowflakes. However, unlike you, he actively tries to view the first snowfall, purposefully sitting on a porch or stairs, always with the same small cup warmed by tea. The original time that he missed the precipitation, he had just returned from the matchmaker’s manor with your half-brother. He strained a small kettle of tea, then went to sit outside, at a small table set up by a servant. 

Renjun stirs a small lemon slice as he reclines into a wooden chair. He hovers a hand above the metal fire pit, spreading warmth through his fingers before transferring it into a blanket that he lays across his lap. During his stay at your family’s main estate, over the last year, he has seen snow exclusively fall during the winter. And although the previous season does not indicate its next’s behavior, he fell into a routine that loves the outdoors.

You enjoy it too, he reminisces fondly, a smile on his face as he recalls this morning when you met him at the Western Bridge just to hear the whistling of a monal. It was a good way - the best way - to begin his morning, laughing when you (poorly) tried to recreate the songs. Your siblings are far better musicians than you, yet he always prefers to hear your voice; it does not matter whether you speak or sing, everything he feels so deeply for.

As he finishes a cup, wondering why the sky has still not given him his request, you run through the gates adjacent from his room, exhaling boisterously and inhaling shakily, to keep laughing with your sisters. Renjun relinquishes his cup to the cold, leaving it on the table to go see all the noise you make.

“Shh, shh,” Handong giggles. It is a rare sight to see your older sister break the rules with you; he figures that she must be drunk but her cheeks are not twinged by alcohol, nor does she sway so easily in the air. Although, the mask of night is worn on all your faces, and Renjun desperately wishes to see yours.

You swing a picnic basket by your side, one of your sisters mirroring you on the side of your interlocked arms. He feels a bit deviant, creepy. His position makes it look like he hides behind a tree, spying on you lot, and he does not do much to alleviate that assumption, crouching smaller and closer as you begin to speak:

“Ah, Mother should have a viewing party for the snowfall tomorrow morning. It would be fun to run, fun to play -”

“In the cold?” Feifei scoffs, draping herself behind Handong’s robes.

“It would be pretty to see the snow in the morning light,” Xiaoyun comments beside you, giving an argument that you nod at your sister.

You break out of her grip, dropping the basked on the freshly dewy grass to spin around outside, picking up your robes so that your feet can roam freely. Your arms stick out, as if expecting to catch snow. Seeing nothing fall, you tilt your head back to your amused sisters. “What? It’s fun! I’m excited for winter. Winter means the solstice; solstice means a break from studying; a break from studying means festivals; festivals mean -”

“That you get to spend time with a certain chancellor's son?” Handon interrupts. Your face tightens as your sisters ‘ooh’ and giggle knowingly, and Renjun wonders if he shall hear more or speak at this - surely, by now you must know where his room is located; you spend enough time walking around the compound with him to know it. But you never budge, just enduring the teasing as your sisters get closer, shaking your shoulders into reality. He hopes that you know he likes you too, likes you more and more everyday in fact.

“I heard that he went to the matchmaker’s house this afternoon.”

You push Handong’s shoulder, as a stop it gesture, though the half-embarrassed smile on your face says that this is all in jest, that you might appreciate the validation, even if it comes from your sister, not him.

Renjun takes a step forward, beyond the tree, intending to make himself known, but one of your sisters interrupt him. 

“Look!” 

Her voice is neither malicious nor suspicious, so he keeps his eyes focused on you, subconsciously walking backward when you spin around to look at her. Anything Renjun might have said or thought gets choked by his brain, tongue twisting so tightly that he drops his jaw. He watches your hair twirl with you, the top catching a crown of snow. Wow. Perhaps, if the matchmaker grants his proposal, his first gift to you will be a real crown. Renjun thinks this may be a dream, because he can almost hear a fleet of flutes accompany your excited laughter as you run into the circle formed by your sisters.

Renjun smiles widely, quietly tapping a couple times on the tree. His eyes capture the second layer of snow on the ground, then dare to glance at you one last time before retiring to his room. You catch him, in that moment, when he leans suavely on his arm for support, just staring, fondly. He waves a little bit and you do too, raising your hand slightly until he retires, walking backwards to burn this instant in his memory. You break the gaze first, Handong excitedly whispering something that Renjun cannot hear. He stays a second longer, trying to hear what has you screeching with giggles. You are loud, but he hopes to keep you that way, intending to make you as equally happy for as long as you will let him.