#me: should I add a wilting rose... is that too many feels?

[rosiesdiner]

@justaprick songs for rosie & vince final day what if I'd been born / fifty years before you in a house on a street where you lived? maybe I'd be outside when you passed on your bike / would I know? that I am the luckiest.

[aphroditestummyrolls]

This one is the last one! For both @devouring-time and @ladybastet92 who requested Smiling and Hugging! I combined the two prompts because they worked so seamlessly together, I hope you don’t mind.

This scene (something like it, from Yusuf’s POV, like the rest of the story) was in the original cut of chapter four, and I think this one is the one that’s finally gonna break open the floodgates for this rewrite. I changed a few things here, like the setting (I just wanted to describe Yusuf in the rose pavilion) and the POV (but I’m definitely gonna add some Nicolò POV to a few chapters— it really needs thing up), but I took the dialogue and premise. I hope you love this, it made me feel oh so soft. 🌸✨🍓

“Can I see you again?”

That was what he always asked him.

He had so many questions, always posed with a strange formality that didn’t reach his glittering brown eyes. The Prince almost looked hopeful, as if he waited with bated breath on the edge of Nicolò’s reply.

Nicolò could hardly find a single word in his entire head when faced with that breathless politeness, and those deep, warm eyes. He couldn’t even bring himself to say the yes, yes you can, whenever you like— please let me see you again on the tip of his tongue. There was something new inside him, and it clung to him like ivy, spreading over his bones and into his chest to grip his heart.

It was want— Nicolò did not often want, but he did. He wanted to see Prince Yusuf again. And the Prince wanted to see him— he asked him.

Nicolò hardly knew what to do. He’d never had such power. If he was needed, he was sought, and brought before his king. He was ordered, not requested by the elite. Was it a trap? Or had this strange foreign prince forgotten his station?

“Why do you always ask me that?”

The question caught him off guard, and he fumbled his words. “Because you have no obligation to do so, if you… if you don’t want to.”

He had only been able to nod. He had no thoughts beyond the tug in his chest of something— something that twined them together, ever tighter and harder to resist.

It was dangerous.

It was exhilarating.

So, the Prince returned to him, again and again. He asked questions, he told stories, he complimented Nicolò’s work.

Not you, he reminded himself sternly, the traitorous heat of a blush blossoming under his skin, his palms sweating a little. He only compliments the gardens.

But the look in his eyes when he said such things was enough to leave him permanently pink and flustered, his ears burning. It was too much, almost, to hold Prince Yusuf’s gaze, and yet Nicolò could not look away. He came back, again and again.

Like that day— that day at the pavilion, Yusuf had seen the roses fully in bloom for the first time. The jasmine was in it’s last days before wilting away, but it’s cloying scent still wrapped itself round the pillars, mingling with the roses’ sweetness.

Yusuf looked transcendently beautiful.

The soft white pillars of the pavilion flanked him with the climbing vines of red, white and pink buds, petals unfurling against the backdrop of green gardens and distant lavender mountains. The darkness of his curls, his closely trimmed beard, and the black silk of his tunic set a striking contrast to the riot of nature’s colors, framing him like the negative space between stars— like a constellation.

He was looking up, and the awe laid plain on his face would have been enough to make Nicolò truly arrogant, but it didn’t. Because as Prince Yusuf gazed up into the kaleidoscope of roses that weaved up and under and around the wrought iron roof above them, Nicolò was looking at the Prince, just as struck. Just as breathless.

He had a dazzling smile— that of a true diplomat. His lips were dusky pink, and his teeth were straight and gleaming. Nicolò had been stopped in his tracks by it more often than he cared to count.

But, this smile was different from all the others he’d seen from him. The tightness around his eyes had softened, gentling his features into something genuine and unguarded. He looked young, and Nicolò realized for the first time that the Prince could not be much older than himself.

“Oh Nicolò,” he breathed, the words curling and intertwining with the scents of roses and heady jasmine. Suddenly, his throat went dry— he was rendered speechless and utterly stupid, hearing his name spoken like that. “Nicolò, this is… it’s magnificent, you’re magnificent.”

He tore his gaze from the canopy of petals above them, fixed those eyes on him, and he called him that.

Nicolò was sure he’d gone redder than any flower he’d ever grown— his cheeks burned with it, and he pressed his lips tight together, willing his face to school itself into an expression tamer than the wildness that bounced up and down in his chest. He met the Prince’s gaze, and found that he couldn’t look away.

“Gr- grazie, I…” he stuttered, voice trembling with restrained emotion, lips curling into something bright and warm against his will. He couldn’t stop the smile. “Grazie mille, your Highness.”

He should leave. He couldn’t stand the emotions threatening to burst from his chest, growing between his ribs like seeds under the sun. Under the Prince’s gaze— so soft and young, so sincere— he couldn’t take those warm attentions at such strength.

He was one breath away from making a break for the chestnut groves, when the last of his resolve finally broke.

Yusuf took his hand. It was warm and strong. His fingers were long, as elegant as the rest of him, stained at the fingertips with charcoal smudges and dried ink.

“Nicolò, are you alright?” His smile was still there, but his eyes glittered with concern.

He couldn’t contain it for a single second longer, blurting out “Y-You are just so kind.”

He thought maybe the young Prince would laugh at him— and he wasn’t sure he could take that. He was overwhelmed, a lack of control threatening him in a way he’d never felt. He should run, he could burst into tears, he could lean in and kiss those pink, smiling lips—

Yusuf let go of his hand, leaving it too cold against the air, only to throw his arms around Nicolò’s shoulders.

He was holding him. He was hugging him.

It was barely a second, but it felt like a hundred years to Nicolò’s mind. He was frozen to his spot, rooted into the ground as he had been any and every time in the past when he’d had to brace himself for impact.

It had been so very long since someone had reached for him this way.

Just as quickly, Yusuf was pulling back, urgency reversing the action, and he was wide-eyed as he did. As if he’d burned poor Nicolò, the Prince started to back away, and through the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, his could hear his furtive apology.

“I should have thought, Nicolò, I should asked—”

And his arms moved without thought. “No!” he cried, and took the other man by the waist, reeling him back in.

The weight was steadying, comforting. It was as if a bubble had popped around them by feeling the reality of the Prince under his hands— he wasn’t some distant constellation, or a diplomat, or even a Prince. Yusuf was a man. He was young, and solid, and he loved Jasmine. He asked questions, and made requests.

A spell that had held Nicolò at the edge of propriety was suddenly broken, and he breathed the smell of Shea butter and coffee— Yusuf.

He had relaxed into Nicolò’s chest, deflating with relief and maybe something else— Nicolò felt almost like he’d been given whiplash, leaning into the man hugging him as he went from overwhelmed with pent up formality to the most at ease he had ever felt in the presence of another person.

The tip of Yusuf’s sweet, freckled nose brushed against the skin of his neck, and his beard was softer than it looked. Nicolò wanted to memorize the sensation of every single place they touched— he wanted to never let go.

But, they were out in the open, in broad daylight, only shaded from the world by a wall of flowers.

They had to let go.

“May I ask something of you?” Yusuf asked, just far back enough to hold his shoulders, arms length away, and Nicolò missed the way he could feel his heartbeat beside his own.

Nicolò beat him to it. “Yes, I would like to see you again.” He said, and he didn’t dare try to tighten his lips against his smile this time. The wildness of his joy could not be contained, not with his fingers bunched in the silk at Yusuf’s hips.

“Yes?” He grinned back.

“Yes.”

[burntuakrisp]

Friday Night Funkin: Vs Your Boyfriend/YB week mod dialogue (Fan made)

I know I already posted a link to this story, but I wanted to keep sharing it so I decided to share it again on here. Minors stay away.

Okay so first I want to explain some things. Over the past few days, I have decided to look at other fandoms that have had mods connected to FNF. Like the Happy Tree Friends fandom, thanks to the Flippy Mod. But recently I have discovered another fandom of a game that has my interest. It’s a visual novel called “Your Boyfriend” and it has got me hooked. It has a male Yandere who's cute as he is deadly.

Warning: This game is an erotic horror game, so minors should stay away, please respect the creator's wish and do not interfere with it. No minors allowed.

That being said, I want a mod of this guy, like really want it. Just so I can have an excuse to add him to the ever-growing mod lore that fnf has. The creator even made some sprites for a possible mod involving him. https://y0urb0yfriend.tumblr.com/post/652837913968672768/whats-up-nerds-im-making-the-animation-assets-for

But I have no time nor patience to make one. So I thought I could make dialogue for possible cutscenes for the nonexistent mod.

Sorry if I get this guy out of character, the game is not complete yet. sadly

Plus its literally Boyfriend vs Boyfriend.

So I hope you enjoy it.

Cutscene 1:

(Background cuts to Park, with a white bench.)

YB/Peter: Oh, Y/N, there you are. I was wondering where you went, darling-

???: Bep

YB/Peter turns to see Boyfriend with his trademark blue hair and microphone. Next to him is Girlfriend, sitting on top of the speakers as she always does.

YB/Peter: What the- Who are you?

Boyfriend: Bep Boop Ska boop beep.

YB/Peter: a rap battle? Well if you insist. Maybe I can impress my darling Y/N that way.

Song 1: (the song is a typical romantic sounding, with some minor off beats to give a slightly off feeling. YB/Peter is holding a microphone in one of his hands. In the other, he has a red rose. He is looking directly at the player as he sings. Boyfriend and Girlfriend are the same as they always been in these rap battles, with Boyfriend singing while Girlfriend bobs her head to the music. The song ends.

Cutscene 2: YB/Peter’s face looks a lot angrier as he looks at Boyfriend. YB grits his teeth as it now reveals his teeth are razor sharp and there are many of them.

YB/Peter: Why you little! How? How did I lose!? That was uncalled for, you little brat!

Boyfriend: Skee bop bo bep.

YB/Peter: My head does not look like a Golfball! And I don’t know what a Whitty is!!

YB/Peter: Okay, round 2, and this time I will not let you shame me in front of my darling Y/N!

Boyfriend: Ske boop bo po. (Boyfriend is confused as he does not know who “Y/N” is)

Song 2: the song is faster and tenser, with the off beats being much more frequent. YB/Peter grits his sharp teeth as he looks at Boyfriend and back to the player with a slightly more calm expression, before looking back at Boyfriend with anger. The hand that holds the red rose is being held so tight that it starts to bleed. But YB/Peter is too mad at Boyfriend as he sings. Boyfriend and Girlfriend do not care about YB/Peter’s anger. The song ends.

Cutscene 3: YB/Peter is beyond furious as he grips the rose so tight that the rose is completely wilted.

YB/Peter: Why you little pest!! How dare you mock me!!! Just who do you think you are!!!

Boyfriend: Skee dop bop...

YB/Peter: Your name...is Boyfriend....?

YB/Peter: .....

YB/Peter: hahaha.

YB/Peter: Hahaha!

YB/Peter: (face becomes crazed with teeth flaring like crazy.) HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YB/Peter: I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE!!! YOU ARE COMPETITION!!!

Boyfriend: (scared face) Boop.

YB/Peter: YOU ARE TRYING TO TAKE Y/N FROM ME!!! THAT'S WHY YOU CHALLENGED ME TO A STUPID RAP BATTLE!!! SO YOU COULD SHAME ME IN FRONT OF THE ONE I LOVE!!!

Boyfriend: (Aggressively beeps to tell him that is not true.)

YB/Peter: DON'T PLAY ME FOR A FOOL, YOU SON OF A B-! I'll have no choice but to teach you a lesson in knowing your place!!

YB/Peter: You and your little whore!!!

YB/Peter pulls out his knife and the screen cuts to red as the sound of the knife cutting something is heard, as well as the scream of a female. When the red fades out, what happened can be seen. Girlfriend is still sitting on the speakers but the lower half of her leg that usually crossed over has now been cut off, leaving a stump that is bleeding over the speakers. YB/Peter is holding the bloody knife in the hand that the microphone used to be. In his other hand where the rose used to be, he is holding Girlfriend's severed leg, bleeding drop after drop on the ground. YB/Peter's face and body are splattered with blood, but YB/Peter doesn't care as he has a psychotic blood lustful look on his face as he stares at Boyfriend.

YB/Peter: Now do you get it, Runt?

Boyfriend: (looks at Girlfriend)

Boyfriend: GIRLFRIEND!!!!!

YB/Peter: Not so tough now!!!! Looking for this!!!

Boyfriend: (Face is seething with Rage)

YB/Peter: Oh you want it back, then come on and face me!!! Y/N WILL be mine and there is nothing you can do to stop it!!!

Boyfriend: You...BASTARD!!!!!!

Song 3: Time for the bullet hell song that hurts your fingers. Boyfriend's face is filled with tears and hatred as he sings. Girlfriend, despite her leg being cut off and bleeding, is still bopping her head to the music. YB/Peter has a maniac look on his blood-splattered face as he sings. In one of the poses, YB/Peter seems to be biting or licking Girlfriend's leg, as to mock Boyfriend.

The song ends and the mod is over. I couldn't think of an ending.

[toadwarts]

Safe At Last

Two humans in love manage to escape from an abusive home and right into the twisted world of Mother Miranda's village. After fleeing from mutated monsters, they meet with The Duke, who offers them board and food in exchange for their work. It is their first night in his caravan, and they discover that they may have another person to add to their romance...

Fluffy and flirtatious, this is a self indulgent and simple fic about The Duke and polyamory. It is written first person, but made so you can also insert yourself into the narrative if you so please.

Read on A03 or Fanfiction! Or you can read here, below the Read More!

I stared down at my empty bowl, reveling in the warm feeling of a full stomach. The Duke’s cooking was more than high quality--it was incredible. It had been a long, long time since either I or my partner had a meal with high quality ingredients, and not something wilted, slightly green and fuzzy at the edges, or simply scraps from someone else’s meal. 

I looked over at my partner, a calm feeling unfolding in my chest. They looked right at home here in the back of The Duke’s caravan, surrounded by the wealthy man’s various wares. A content, dazed expression was fitted on their hard features, and when they met your eyes their own lit up. 

“Did you like your meal?” They asked, smiling as they nodded to my bowl. It was clearly a tease, since I had all but licked it clean. 

“I don’t know, did you?” I laughed, playfully knocking into their shoulder with my own.

“Yeah, I think I could eat this food forever!” They said, patting their stomach and leaning back on the elegant couch we were sitting on.  “Plus, it doesn’t seem like the vampires or lycans come anywhere near here.” Their gaze flitted up to the garlic hanging overhead, then back to me. “Do you feel safe here?” 

I paused. Before we had run away to find the village, my partner and I...had not had the best of lives. Trapped beneath my mother’s thumb for years into adulthood, we lived in a less than sterile and a more than hostile environment. It felt as if the trauma was as much a part of me as the bones beneath my skin. 

Then of course, the village...was not as dream-like as we had hoped. We had narrowly escaped a group of lycan like creatures before stumbling upon the Duke’s caravan. He had offered us a place to stay and some food to eat in the back of his wagon in exchange for work--seeking out wares, cleaning, and just a little bit of heavy lifting. It was our first evening here and so far… It seemed too good to be true. 

“I do feel safe.” I finally said, swallowing down the hard lump in my throat. “But that’s what scares me.” 

They leaned back, sighing heavily. “I know how you feel. It makes me wary, but...what choice do we have?” 

“He does seem nice.” I nodded in agreement. “Even if he is very interested in his stock.” 

My partner laughed, their hand encircling mine as they pulled me close. “It’ll be okay. Maybe this is what we’ve been looking for! He did say he travels...so who knows where we might end up?” 

“I don’t mind as long as it’s far, far away from there.” I whispered, suddenly choked up. I couldn’t believe we were really gone. That we were in this immaculate, clean and beautiful oversized wagon, with an immaculate, clean and...admittedly, beautiful oversized man. A kind man. We would never have to go back to that evil place ever again. 

“Never again.” They whispered, pulling me close and planting a kiss upon my forehead. “I love you, dearest.” 

“And I love you.” I returned, nuzzling into the crook between their neck and shoulder. 

The back of the caravan swung open then, letting the fading light of dusk in. “Well, well, how are we doing back here, little ones?” The Duke stood before us, leaning on an ornate cane to support his heft. He was a massive man, both in height and girth, immaculately groomed and dressed to the nines. He was the finest gentleman either of us had ever seen for sure, and we felt lucky to have been found by him. 

“We’re okay,” I said shyly, standing up. “The meal was absolutely perfect. Thank you so much!”

“Of course, of course!” The Duke smiled broadly. “I quite enjoy cooking, so if there’s anything in particular you have a craving for, just let me know. All I’ll need is assistance procuring ingredients, but that should be no trouble at all.” He heaved himself up the steps to the caravan, ducking through the doorway and coming inside. He had quite the mighty presence indeed, radiating a quiet elegance and strength despite his jovial tone and quaint attitude. 

“Is there anything you need us to do tonight?” I asked as my partner took our bowls. My feet ached terribly from running so much , and I shifted a little from side to side. Like The Duke, I was also fat, and unaccustomed to the sort of travel and fleeing we had been facing in the days prior. I yearned to sit back down, but my politeness won me over. 

“No dear, not tonight.” The Duke said. “You two just rest after everything you’ve been through. Tomorrow is an early day though, so do be prepared!” He walked over to the couch, settling down with a sigh. “I have some stock for Castle Dimitrescu, so we will be heading there.” 

“Castle Dimitrescu?” My partner said, dubious. “I heard...less than good things about that place. I’ve already dealt with enough vampire hags!” 

The Duke laughed heartily, as if my dear one had said quite the funny joke. “No need to fret! I have a truce with all of Castle Dimitrescu, as well as the other Lords you have heard about, so there is nothing to fear since you are now being employed by me. You simply have to look pretty and do a good job of peddling my wares.” He winked, leaning back. 

My partner blushed, and so did I. The Duke was also a rather straightforward man. 

I kept shifting from foot to foot, feeling uncomfortable but doing my best to not to show weakness. Before, weakness had gotten me beatings and beratings. Though The Duke seemed benevolent, I had no desire to discover if he had a dark side. 

“Are you alright, little one?” He asked, eying me up and down. “Feet hurting? After a long day, I certainly know how that feels. But you’ve had many long days, yes?” 

I grimaced. “Ah… Yes. They are, a bit.” I flushed with embarrassment. 

The Duke leaned forward. “Why not have a seat, my dear?” His face crinkled with concern. “No reason to cause further harm to yourself. Rest easy now.” 

I began to lower myself to the floor, but jumped back up when the large man’s jarring laugh rang throughout the back of the wagon. “W-What?” I said, flustered. My partner was then protectively at my side, their hand at the small of my back. 

“You don’t need to sit on the floor! While it is certainly a nice one, that will only hurt your back.” The Duke said. 

“But...there’s no where else to sit.” I looked around. Duke took up the couch we had been sitting on, and there was really nowhere else to go but the floor now, unless we went to The Duke’s bed further in the caravan. The thought made me flush. 

“You can sit right here, I don’t mind.” The Duke patted his sides. His ample belly and the arms of the couch made for a makeshift seat for sure. “And you too,” He said, pointing to my partner. “I know you, the strong type--never wanting to rest, always pushing yourself for everyone else. Come, be comfortable, and let’s chat.” 

I looked up at my partner, face red as a bushel of roses. I was delighted to see that they were too. It was rare that I saw my partner this flustered, and it made butterflies dance in my stomach. 

“Are you comfortable with that?” They asked me, squeezing my hand, a knowing look in his eyes. We had talked about this sort of thing before, but nothing had ever come to reality. 

I nodded, feeling like a storm of wasps was zooming around in my guts. The Duke really was incredibly straightforward, but it didn’t seem as if he had any ulterior motives. He just wanted to offer comfort and good company to both of us--and I guess it was obvious that both my partner and I thought he was pretty cute. 

My partner glided forward, hand still in mine. We stood before The Duke, who had a calm and knowing smile on his face. He offered his hands to each of us, which we shyly but gladly took. We climbed up on either side of him, settling down and reveling in the softness of his sides. We sat there stiffly for a moment, feeling completely out of our leagues. 

The Duke chuckled gently, his strong arms coming ‘round to encircle us. I felt myself go stiff when his hand brushed against my back, the cool metal of his rings soothing as he placed his hand there. “Is this alright?” He asked both of us coolly, looking from my partner to me. I nodded, locking eyes with my partner as he nodded too. 

My partner was long and thin, a wonderful contrast when sidled up next to the massive Duke. I was short and fat, but even I felt swallowed up by The Duke’s own plush body. He felt like the world’s comfiest...well, not human exactly, but something.

“Good, good. Last thing I want is to make my newest proteges uncomfortable.” The Duke nodded firmly before beginning to rub soft circles into my back. “Now, try to relax. The two of you deserve it. “ 

I let myself lean into The Duke, resting my head atop his pillowy chest. I relaxed into his side with a soft sigh, relinquishing myself to his soothing touch. 

“Protege?” My partner asked, their tone light. “Since when were we your proteges rather than just employees?” 

“I don’t let just anyone handle my wares!” The Duke announced with a chuckle. “I could tell there was something special about the two of you. I’ve heard of the sensation of le coup de foudre.” 

“Love at first sight.” My partner said coyly. “You don’t play around, do you?” They slid an arm over The Duke’s soft belly, reaching for my hand. Tenderly, I reached my own arm forward, taking their hand in mine in an embrace that came as easy as breathing to me. The feeling of my partner’s fingers squeezing mine atop the pillowy expanse of Duke’s midsection was heaven. 

“Oh no, not when there’s sales to be made!” The Duke laughed brightly. “And new friends to make. Perhaps more?” 

I reveled in The Duke’s scent--rich cologne intermingled with the faint touch of expensive cigar smoke. I looked into my partner’s eyes, bright as the sun itself. I let myself relax even more, cuddling up to The Duke and relinquishing myself to comfort. I was finally free, ready to face the world with the love of my life, and we had both run right into the arms of someone else with plenty of love to give. The future was surely ripe with possibilities.

Both of them smiled down at me, and I felt...safe. 

Safe at last. 

[feverinfeveroutfic]

chapter twenty five: a good boy

“that’s not how you move a closet! that’s the worst closet moving i’ve ever seen!” -jim gaffigan

Aurora had begun frequenting the San Francisco Bay Area more and more often from that point onward; given Sam was often riding back down to Los Angeles and onto Catalina Island, she only got to see her old friend for half of a day before one of them had to leave. Every single time, however, she noticed her growing bigger and bigger. To think that she had shown Sam another side to her all the while, and yet all she could think about was her mother's words in how when children were involved, things became harder to deal with. And even though he wasn't a kid anymore, she wondered how Alex was handling the whole feud between her and Aurora.

It only made sense to acknowlede it with him: he participated in her and Emile's wedding after all.

And in the meantime, Testament had fulfilled their time there at that studio and Eric had the final say with it all to Ruben, who made the mad dash back to the label itself in order to submit the new album. A month's time and they would take their stride alongside Metallica and everyone else: this little quintet out of the Bay Area about to nip at their heels and let the world know that they were in fact a force to be reckoned with.

But at one point, within mere hours of Eric handing the final tape over to Ruben, Sam found herself in a strange spot.

All the traveling to and fro between the Bay Area and Catalina Island. All the unsettled feelings and being divided up between both of her parents. The new beds each and every week. Every single time, a little harder on her. Every single time, she just wanted to stop for a second, if only to observe the oleanders as they bloomed against the San Francisco fog and the persistent cold despite winter's transformation into springtime. Some of them wilted and withered from the cold, but many of them returned once the sun poked out from behind the clouds, those five petals big and strong and either a deep shade of pink or pure white.

With Cliff, it was tulips. With Joey, deadly nightshade. With Alex, oleanders.

The end of April brought on the realization that Greg's birthday was coming up, as was Eric's. As if she needed more things to do as she met up with Alex at the cafe across the street from Ruben's house. Chuck and Tiffany had gone off somewhere else from that point out, and thus the two of them were once again left alone together.

He sat across from her and his long jet black hair fell down around his shoulders like a thick lush mane: that singular plume of gray stood almost upright over the right side of his brow like a little radio antenna. She eyed the collar of his shirt: the same shirt he wore when they made out in the pool room, and once more, he had undone the top two buttons and showed off a bit of his chest and his collar bones.

The soft scent of his cologne filled her nose even from across the table. He leaned back in his chair and kept his right hand close to the base of the cup. Sam leaned forward a bit as if she was making up for him.

“I still have yet to see your old high school,” she told him.

“I know you do,” he said with a thoughtful look on his face. “There's a lot you've just got to see around here, Samantha.”

He lifted his cup and brought it up to those sensual little lips, and then he lifted his gaze to her again.

“You sure you don't want anything?” he asked her.

“My dad's got stuff across the street,” she replied, and she sighed. He knitted his eyebrows together.

“Is everything okay? You don't seem like yourself.”

She lowered her gaze to the glass cover on the table top. How she wanted to be back in New York with Joey and also Marla and Belinda: it also felt like a million years since she had heard a word from the Cherry Suicides as well, even as she put on that shirt for another day that day. The fatigue settled over her like a wave of sorts.

Ruben had promised her a cup of coffee at any point during the day if she so wished but even after a nice warm one earlier that morning, she still had a bit of trouble waking up all the way for Alex right across the table from her. She sighed through her nose again and she propped up the side of her head within the palm of her hand.

“I can't keep doing this,” Sam finally said to Alex. “This incessant going back and forth between my parents' houses and taking the stinkin' bus every time. It literally feels as though I haven't made any art in a million years even though it's only been a couple of months since I started doing this.”

“Why's that?”

“Traveling is hard on me,” she confessed. “And by hard I mean, it's not like touring. It's getting on the bus right as I get settled into my dad's house or my mom's house. It's having to see you guys for a week only to vanish again for another whole week. I can't keep doing this.”

She folded her hands upon the table's surface and she gazed down at the glass covering there before them. She looked on at her own reflection as it looked back up at her: her own dark eyes gazed back at her. Her skin was still tight and smooth with her teenage days: still young Samantha, little Sammie, but she had reached the age of twenty four by some black magic.

“Well—remember what Eric and I both told you,” he said, “do what ever feels right to you.”

She raised her gaze back up to Alex, still with a thoughtful expression plastered across his face.

The cafe was quiet, except for the grinding noise of the coffee maker on the other side of the counter.

“I should ask you,” she began.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged her as he flexed his fingers on his right hand a bit: he returned his hand to the top of the table afterwards.

“How're you handling the whole thing with me and Aurora?” she asked him, to which he hesitated for a moment.

“It—actually hasn't crossed my mind all too much,” he confessed. “I've actually forgotten why you ladies were fighting each other in the first place.”

“She made your nineteenth birthday all about her,” she recalled. “And then when I tried to address that with her, she was a complete ditz and made everything about herself again.”

“Oh, yeah, that's right! Again, it actually hasn't crossed my mind very often. I've just had my mind on other things.”

“Like making an album?” Sam showed him a smile.

“Like making an album, right! Two albums to be exact. The New Order and now Practice What You Preach.”

“Germany, too,” she added.

“Germany, too! And ginger snaps.” She leaned forward again, and once more had her hands folded over each other. The fire opal bracelet Chuck gave her clinked against the glass underneath her.

“I made out with you,” she said in a soft voice.

“You made out with me or did I make out with you?” he asked her.

“Both.”

Alex squinted his eyes at her. He shuffled his feet under the table, and he flexed his fingers again.

“You alright?” she asked him as she eyed his hand.

“I'm feeling it again,” he admitted to her.

“Feeling what?”

“It.”

Sam lowered her gaze to the cup of coffee before him and she nibbled on her bottom lip.

“French up that coffee and we'll talk,” she told him.

“French? You mean Irish.”

“Nah, I mean French.”

Alex held still with his hands on either side of the cup. He looked up at her with those deep eyes focused and steady upon her. For a split second, she swore that he lowered his gaze towards her chest. He flinched those long fingers a bit.

She thought about the things that Joey had told her over the phone that one time and she thought about doing them to Alex instead. Her lips around him. His fingers down below the equator and his tongue up inside of her.

He picked up the cup and took a sip, and not for a single second did he remove his gaze from her. He never seemed more hypnotic before: a little loose back there in the pool room and he suddenly became Mr. Seducer. She thought about Joey's venom, the way in which he seemed to slide and slither about like the deadly nightshade he so sprouted from: Alex came from somewhere else, as if from a fever dream. Where Joey resided within the earth, Alex seemed to burn into her with those deep eyes.

She sighed through her nose and bowed her head a bit to bring attention to her chest. Once more, for a split second, he dropped his gaze by a mere hair.

It was there between them. It was real, as real as the grays on his head. As real as those deep eyes that gazed back at her as if he lured her in, much like those oleander bushes in the south land.

He flexed his fingers again and all Sam could think about was the day before wherein they were about to add the final touches before submission. She sat there in between Alex and Louie as Chuck was talking about going on tour that summer, and wherever they went from that point onwards was anyone's guess. The vibe that surrounded them was so tense and yet she sat there so comfortably in between those two men.

Louie mentioned something else about the poison garden to her and Aurora just happened to be there right next to him, now six months along and her gaze fixated on the clipboard rested upon her lap.

“I'm really feeling it, Sam,” he told her with a smile on his face once Eric picked up the phone to call up Ruben. “Our producer told us this new record could really put us forth.”

“Will it have a gift shop?” Aurora absently asked.

“Yeah, wolfsbane keychains,” Alex muttered under his breath, which in turn brought a giggle out of Sam.

He said it again right there in the cafe, and that time with a smile on his face.

“Yeah, wolfsbane keychains!” he exclaimed. “You and Louie have 'poison garden'—we should have wolfsbane keychains.”

“Wolfsbane, and not desert roses?” she asked him.

“You guys can have desert roses, too,” he pointed out.

“I say desert rose because I'm based out of the desert you know.”

“Of course! Desert roses for the desert rose right across from me.”

The door behind them swung open and Ruben stepped into the cafe with a blue and white tin tucked underneath his arm.

“Hi, Daddy!” she greeted him and she stood up and threw her arms around him.

“Hello, sweetie!” he returned the favor for her with his free arm. He then turned to Alex, who straightened himself up so he wasn't sitting so down low in the chair; but he handed Alex the tin. “Hey, son. Seeing as—you're such a hard working kid, these are for you.”

“What's this?” he asked him.

“What is it?” Sam echoed him as he took off the lid.

“Ginger snaps, baby,” he declared as he took a bite of that first little cookie.

“Ginger snap me up side the head,” she joked.

“Anyways, I've got the next hour off,” Ruben told them, “I'm in need of help for the two of you. Eric and Chuck both told me to bring in a couple of blank video tapes tomorrow because apparently the label wants you guys to film a music video in promotion of the new album.”

“Do you even have one?” Sam asked him.

“Yeah, it's somewhere packed away in that house—hence why I'm asking. Can't do it by myself. You know. You know how much that house still needs unpacking.”

“Absolutely!”

He then raised a finger to the both of them. “I'll be right back.”

He ducked away from them and headed back to the other side of the cafe, and right behind the counter there. Alex took another bite of ginger snap: the cookies in that tin were small medallions about the size of silver dollars so he could pop one into his mouth. Even though she liked him when he had a little bit of liquor in him, the sight of him eating those cookies brought a wave of comfort to her: she'd rather watch him get heavy from eating too many cookies than have his body go south from drinking.

If only Joey could get hooked on those as well.

“How are they?” she asked him.

“Excellent. The perfect amount of ginger, too. Sometimes they can be too much with it.”

She took one herself and he took a third one, and popped it into his mouth as if it was a potato chip. Indeed, he was right: it felt like a little kiss of ginger coupled with butter and some nutmeg.

“Speaking of ginger snaps, I guess Guns N' Roses are gonna be in town,” he told her once he swallowed down that bite. “Tomorrow night, I think.”

“Ah, cool! I wonder if Zelda got to see them again. She introduced me to them after all.”

“She probably did see them! They were back East just a few days ago. Prince actually got to open for them, believe it or not.”

“Wow! I wonder if she got to see him, too.”

“If she did, I envy her,” he admitted. “Prince is one hell of a guitar player. Hard to believe that album Purple Rain's actually five years old now.”

“I think it's funny that there's actually a guitar player called Prince—and you sort of came into my life like a dark heavy metal prince.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I wouldn't say it's funny,” he said, “it's definitely interesting to think about, though.” “A coincidence, would you think?” she asked him.

“There are no coincidences, Samantha—but everything has a purpose, though.”

“I just think of Belinda's first impression of you,” she recalled with a shake of her head.

“What was that?” He took another bite of ginger snap.

“She called you precocious.”

“I'll admit it,” he said upon swallowing. “I'd rather be seen as precocious than full of myself, even though I can be.”

“I can be, too,” she told him.

“I think it's better to be full of yourself with just the right amount of doubt thrown in all the while than be doubtful of everything and wear a mask of arrogance.”

Sam hesitated with her mouth slightly agape.

“I like you,” she told him.

“I like you, too,” he replied back to her with a raise of his cookie. “And I like the fact that you and now your father wanna give me cookies.”

“'Cause cookies are love,” she said.

“It's all spent doing fuck all,” he said with a straight face.

“Doing fuck all to fill your belly with love,” she pointed out.

“And my ass with ginger,” he retorted. It made no sense but she laughed at that anyway. Ruben returned to them and he rubbed his hands together.

“Come on, kids,” he beckoned them.

Alex put the lid back onto the tin and then with his free hand, he took the knit yarmulke out from his back pocket.

“Wow, I haven't seen that in forever and a day it seems,” she remarked as he stood to his feet.

“I haven't worn it in forever and a day,” he said, “mainly because we're going with your dad back to his place and not elsewhere.”

“Oh, I see!”

He tucked the tin underneath his arm and once Ruben held the door for the both of them, they crossed the street and back to the house. Ruben himself took to the linen closet and he encouraged them to take to the kitchen.

Sam knelt down before the small wooden table on the side of the room closest to the hallway. Nothing underneath there, but she did flash a glimpse over at Alex on the couch in the living room with the yarmulke on the arm right next to him. She missed her couch still, still there in the apartment in Hell's Kitchen. She pictured Genie curled up at the top, all by herself all the while.

Cliff sat there and drank Mexican hot chocolate with her.

She also pictured herself and Joey sleeping together on that couch: as soon as she thought that, she pictured herself and Alex together on that couch.

He stood up and turned around and she caught a view of the seat of his pants. He hitched them up and she couldn't help but let her eyes wander.

All those ginger snaps and incessant touring and working allowed his body to develop a lovely toned shape: slim and lanky, even slight, and yet he was nice and round in the rear end.

She had drawn Joey. She had drawn Frank. She had drawn Cliff. She had drawn herself.

She still needed to draw Alex: if only she could convince him of such, especially since there was no alcohol anywhere in the house. Even if there was alcohol anywhere in that house, there was no way it would fly by Ruben as he strode back into the front of the house. But she had to loosen him up somewhat, and there was only so much a ginger snap the size of a silver dollar could do for her.

Sam hurried over to Alex right as he turned around and he raised his dark eyebrows at her.

“What happened?” he asked her in a hushed voice given Ruben was right there next to them, and he delved through a small box he had tucked under the coffee table.

“Something has—come over me,” she confessed to him in a low voice.

“How so?”

She gestured for him to follow her. They got about five steps in when Ruben stopped them both.

“Where do you kids think you're going?”

“We're—going to look in my closet,” Sam told him.

“Of course, yes!”

She led him back into her bedroom and he left the door ajar behind them. She slid the doors open and she ducked inside first and pressed her back to the dividing wall behind her. Alex joined her with his back against a protective covering on a piece of dry cleaning.

She put her arms around his waist and she lingered closer to his face.

“Oh, I see what you're doing,” he said to her in a low voice.

“I want you loose again,” she confessed in a near whisper. She eyed those lips, smooth as ripe cherries and ready for her taking.

“I'm gonna fuck ya silly and then it's gonna be every man for himself from there on out,” he joked.

“Not if I'm the one who fucks you silly first,” she chided, “and it'll be every man and woman for themselves from there on out.”

“What's going on in there?” Ruben called from the next room.

“Nothing!” Alex and Sam called out in unison; she returned to him.

“Kiss me,” she begged him in a near whisper.

“Kiss you? Your dad's literally right there in the next room, Samantha!”

“Kiss me—the fact he's there will only make it sexier.”

“We are in your closet after all,” he pointed out.

“Just touch me already!” she insisted.

“What?” Ruben called out.

“It's okay, Dad!” Sam called out the closet door and then she returned to him.

“Okay, we really gotta do something or he's going to find out about us,” he told her in a hushed voice.

“And what if he does, Alex?” she demanded as she raised her chest up to him.

“Samantha, have you seen how he looks at me?” He dropped his gaze to her chest and he nibbled on his bottom lip. “He wants to skin me alive!”

“I don't think he does,” she assured him with a shake of her head. “I mean, he gave you ginger snaps for crying out loud, Alex. Now, when he and my mom were together and I brought Joey home with me, he definitely wanted to do things to him.”

“Why is that?” He frowned at that.

“Joey,” she started; even though she promised her mother to keep it under wraps, the cat was already out of the bag. “—I'm guessing reminds him of some guy my mom knew once.”

Alex snickered at that, but Sam smacked him in the shoulder.

“Ow!” he hissed, and then he rubbed his shoulder.

“What do you mean, 'ow'? I barely hit you!”

“A slap is a slap, though,” he pointed out.

“A slap is a slap like on your ass?” she asked him.

“Shhh!”

“What's going on in here?” Ruben's voice floated into the room right then.

“Nothing,” they both said once more in unison. He stepped into her bedroom and they peeked out of the closet together.

“Nothing in here, Dad,” Sam told him. “Really, there's like nothing in here.”

“I really haven't found anything in here, either,” he confessed as he pressed his hands to his hips. “I'll have to break down and buy some new ones, I guess.”

“There's a shop not too far from here that sells all kinds of stuff like that,” Alex told him.

“Oh?”

“It's right up the street here, actually. You just ask the lady in there about it and she'll show you and it's real cheap-o, too. One time, when I was little, my dad needed to tape a lecture and all I remember is him talking about how it was like a treasure trove in there.”

“Well, thank you, son, I'll—I'll be right back.”

Ruben bowed out of there and Sam turned to Alex once again.

“You are such a good boy,” she declared.

“Just doing what I can,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. The front door closed and Sam ran her tongue along her bottom lip.

“Why do you want me loose again, by the way?” he asked her as he pressed his hands to his hips.

“I want to draw you,” she told him.

“You wanna draw me?”

“Yes. I wanna draw you—the best way I can make love to you without getting you drunk. Or maybe I can if you so wish.”

“Nah, I get drunk, I wouldn't be able to stay in the seat.”

Sam turned to her courier bag there on the desk chair and she took out that brand new journal she had bought in Santa Monica for a brand new chapter in life.

“There's a stool in his room right down the hall,” she advised him. “Grab that and I'll turn the light on for you, Mr. Skolnick.”

He showed her a little smirk before he left the room. While he was in the next room, she peeled off her shirt and changed into one of those Death Angel shirts that she had brought along with her. She knew that if she ever had to eventually decide on a place to live, and she chose San Francisco, she would have to see them again, and that time in their home city no less. She moved the floor lamp in that room closer to the closet door, right in front of her.

Alex returned with the little black stool in question.

“Hey, cool shirt,” he remarked.

“One of many!” she declared and she gestured to the floor lamp right in front of her. “Have a seat.”

He closed the closet door and took a seat there on the stool.

“Tell you what—you draw me, you've gotta do it with Greg,” he said.

“Why?” she laughed at that.

“'Cause Greg could use it, that's why. You do it with Greg, I'll give you whatever the hell you so damn well please.” He hesitated for a second. “Gosh, that was a mouthful.”

She giggled at him.

“You're so sexy, Alex,” she said, “I should really draw you just for the fact you're so sexy—a bet or not.” He raised his eyebrows at that.

“You—wanna draw me? Should I strip naked or something like that?”

“Nah—you can leave your clothes on.” She stood up and walked on over to him. “Although—”

She reached forward to that third button and unfastened it for him with only two fingers. With her other hand, she did the same for the next one. Then the next one down. The next one down. Soon he stood there before her with his shirt open and a sliver of his bare body shown off to her.

“You only wanted to do that 'cause you wanted to undo my shirt for me,” he teased her, and he nudged his shirt back a little bit to show off a little more of his chest to her. She reached up and switched on the light for him.

“Oh, my,” she breathed out. “Oh, my, Mr. Skolnick.”

“Hey, now, Mr. Skolnick is my dad—I'm little Alex,” he insisted as he took his seat there on the stool. He leaned back a bit and showed off more of his body to her. The way the light shone down onto his pale smooth skin and onto the tops of his thighs.

“I thought you weren't little, though,” she recalled.

“To you, I'm not,” he teased her as he opened his legs a bit to get himself comfortable in front of her. He set his hands on either side of the stool's head and his eyes hooded a bit. His lips seemed extra plump and soft; his waist had slimmed down but also seemed a little bit thick at the same time.

Alex leaned back against the wall so more light cascaded over his body. The way the light bathed his body and made his already full face appear fuller, and his deep eyes even deeper. He tilted his head back and the light in turn made the skin on his neck, his chest, and his stomach appear so soft, smooth, and silken. Sam sat there across from him with her drawing pad rested upon her lap: every glimpse up to his body made her want to feel him some more. The scratch of the graphite made him seem much softer and sweeter.

To genuinely feel and touch him. Such a beautiful boy.

He cleared his throat.

“Remember on the road trip up to Carson and Tahoe we were talking about Georgia O'Keeffe?” he asked her.

“Of course,” she replied as she momentarily lifted her gaze back up to him.

“I think I spoke too soon.”

“Why is that?”

“You're absolutely filthy.”

“Filthy—ha! I don't think so.”

Alex raised his eyebrows at that.

“Seriously? You're absolutely loose. Loose like a loose—pussy.”

“Alex!” she said in a hushed voice.

“It's true, though. Although I will admit that that was rather tasteless.”

“Tasteless like my pussy?” she retorted back to him.

“Nah, I reckon your pussy's about as tasteful as that drawing you're making, hence the O'Keeffe reference.”

He clapped his hands together and stood to his feet with his arms in the air as if he had declared a victory. Sam leaned back in her chair and she eyed the slight curve on his waist. It was the most gentle curve she had ever seen, but the light on his skin made it appear right before her eyes.

“You might wanna take it easy on the ginger snaps, big boy,” she teased him. “You're getting kind of a tummy.”

He lowered his arms and looked down at his waist. He touched the skin there with the mere tips of his fingers.

“Not again,” he grumbled.

“Ever so slight, though,” she told him. “Like I can see it a tiny little bit around your belly button but you can't really see it with your shirt closed, though. It's gonna grow, though.”

He sat back down, and then he reached to his right for another ginger snap, which he shoved right into his mouth. She stopped drawing so she could watch him eat it up and then he reached for a second one and did the same.

“Could use some milk,” he said with his mouth full.

“Milk has fat in it, you know,” she pointed out, and he swallowed.

“Hence the point!” he proclaimed and he rubbed his belly with both hands.

“You are such a tease,” she scolded him, and he gave his black hair a little toss back with a flick of his head.

“Let me ask you something—what happened to you in that pool room?”

“I dunno. You kind of—woke me up, Alex.”

He showed her a smirk and straightened himself upright. She had a light soft sketch right there before her upon her lap but she figured it was something good to work from that point onward. A little extra dark shading with his hair except for the small gray tuft over his brow.

“Are you getting okay?” he asked her.

“Getting it good, my dear Alexander,” she said as she used the side of her pencil to shade in the side of his neck and the lapels of his shirt. “My dear Mr. Skolnick.”

She lifted up the drawing pad and showed it to him.

“Soft, silky, and utterly gorgeous,” she declared; he pressed a hand to his chest as if he had just seen the best thing ever.

“Think you can take it from here?” he asked her.

“Absolutely!”

The front door closed right then.

“That was fast,” she stated.

“I said it was literally right up the street,” he recalled as he closed his shirt; she kept that drawing on the seat of her chair and she hoped that Ruben wouldn't have to see it for himself as they headed back to the front of the house. He had gotten four fresh blank video tapes, much to Alex's surprise and slight disappointment.

“We're gonna need more than that, Mr. Shelley,” he said with a shrug. “When we did the video for 'Over the Wall', we used like six tapes. Well, and they were messing around with the effects of it, too.”

“Well, son, this is what I've got,” Ruben told him. “It's what they had, too.”

“So what do you think we're doing this for?” asked Alex as he fixed his shirt a bit more: Sam noticed the buttons were one off all the way up.

“Let's give it a try for 'The Ballad',” Ruben replied with a smirk on his face.

Sam and Alex glanced at one another, and all she could think about was when he picked her up from the side of the road, which she hadn't even told him about yet.

The whole thing with Aurora felt a little redundant at that point.

[lyssismagical]

Did my heart love till now? For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night

Parkner Week Day Four: “I will pepper in the fact that I am gay.” / coming out / first date

Peter slips out onto the fire escape, desperate to escape his obnoxious roommates for even a minute.

The city is dark and quiet, despite it only being eleven. Peter’s surprised, considering it’s New York, but the borough they live in is different than Queens or Manhattan ever was.

Harry and Gwen’s bickering follows him out onto the fire escape, so he shuts the window behind him, muffling their voices. They fight a lot. He knows they mean well, they love each other deep down, but they’ve both got big personalities, lots of opinions, and they’re both too stubborn to step down from a fight. Peter’s been appointed as the peacemaker of the group, but even then, there’s only so much he can do. It’s easier somedays to leave them to fight for a little while, get it out of their system, than to try to get them to reconcile.

It doesn’t help that they’re all struggling college students, desperately trying to make a name for themselves in a big city like New York. Harry wants to be a director or maybe join the fashion scene if he can, Gwen wants to make it as an actress, and Peter’s dream is to get on Broadway. They’re all nineteen, though, barely scraping by at NYU or AMDA, trying to pay rent with their minimum wage jobs as waiters.

It isn’t particularly easy, but when has anything ever been easy?

Just because the chances are slim and there will be a lot of struggle, doesn’t mean any of them are willing to give up on their dreams. They’re all prepared for the hardships as long as they have each other.

“What light through yonder window breaks?” A voice calls out from the street below where Peter’s feet dangle. “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green and none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady, O, it is my love!”

Peter hasn’t read Romeo and Juliet since he was in high school, but he’d know those lines anywhere.

He can’t see whoever is quoting Shakespeare up to him, too many shadows cast in the street, but the voice is deep with a southern drawl, projecting easily up to where Peter is.

“O, that she knew she were! She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold, ‘tis not to me she speaks: Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, od entreat her eyes to twinkle in their sphere till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing and think it were not night. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!”

“Do you just have it all memorized?” Peter calls out, knowing it’s meant to be his line. He can’t help the smile as the mysterious Romeo laughs from the streets below.

His voice is softer as he speaks without lines. “I played Romeo for three weeks worth of performances last year. I saw you sitting up there, and couldn’t help myself.”

Peter frowns, thinking back to last year. At AMDA, he auditioned for Romeo, but he ended up playing a background character with a single line instead. He was told it was because he was only a freshman, but it was a pretty big hit to his ego. He can’t remember who actually got the role of Romeo though.

“I don’t suppose you quote Shakespeare to just every sad looking person sitting on their fire escapes?”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Romeo says. “You go to AMDA, don’t you? I think I remember seeing you around… You don’t happen to work at that diner on 64th street, do you?”

Peter laughs. “I don’t know how you know that, but yeah, I do. I’m a sophomore at AMDA, double majoring in musical theatre and performing arts. And spending nights at that diner to pay rent.”

“Me and my friend get dinner there all the time. I remember you because Cassie kept pointing you out as one of the greatest dancers in one of her classes.”

The blush that creeps up Peter’s neck makes him feel warm all the way to the core. He’s been working really hard in his dance classes to get where he is now, it’s nice to get that kind of recognition. “That’s very nice of her.”

“I was pointing you out because you happen to be one of the prettiest people I’ve ever seen,” Romeo adds on. “And you have a lovely voice.”

Peter tries to summon any piece of confidence he can, but comes up mostly empty. “Would you mind stepping out of the shadows, so I can compliment you too?”

Romeo laughs again sweetly, and then he’s stepping out from where he’d been leaning against a building across the street. He walks to the middle of the deserted street until he’s properly under the light of the one of the streetlamps.

“O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head as is a winged messenger of heaven unto the white-upturned wondering eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air,” he says.

Romeo is gorgeous and Peter remembers him too. Harley Keener, a Junior at AMDA, in the same musical theatre program as Peter. Harley’s wearing a pair of tight jeans and a flannel, blond curls bouncy and messy, blue eyes wide and sparkling, hands lifted towards Peter as he recites his lines with so much passion and truth.

“You’re calling me and angel? When you look like you do?” Peter blurts. He can hear Gwen’s muffled voice rising behind him and knows he doesn’t have much more time until they finish their argument and come looking for him. “You were brilliant as Romeo, too. I played one of the guards, but I watched your performance every night.”

Harley smiles, showing off his adorable dimples. “I would’ve loved it if you could’ve played opposite me, though. I think you would’ve made an amazing Juliet.”

“I think the world would’ve rioted if they saw a guy playing Juliet. I think Shakespeare would’ve risen from the dead just to have a heart attack.”

Peter can barely stop grinning at the not-so-subtle hints that Harley’s into guys too.

“We’d make a pretty amazing duo, though, don’t you think?”

“My ears have no yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound: Art thou not Romeo and a Montague?” Peter calls out, putting on his best Juliet voice.

Harley laughs brightly. “You skipped a few lines, but I’ll let it slide if you come down here.”

“If they do see thee, they will murder thee.”

“Is that a no? O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?”

Peter shakes his head, already pulling himself up to his feet. “I’ll be down in five, Harley. You want to get coffee?”

“I’d love to get coffee.”

Grinning, Peter pries open the window and slips back into his apartment where Gwen and Harry seem to have finally gone quiet.

He changes into a nicer outfit quickly, nearly face-planting in his haste to tug his jeans on, and then he skips into the living room to say goodbye to his friends.

“You have plans?” Harry says when he sees Peter. “I thought you were staying in tonight?”

“I met somebody!” Peter practically squeals, bouncing on his toes. He can barely contain his excitement. He hasn’t dated anybody since high school, spending college focused on his career and education, but he’s not about to turn somebody like Harley down.

Gwen lifts an eyebrow. “You met somebody… on the fire escape?”

“We may or may not have been quoting Romeo and Juliet… We’re getting coffee. I’ll catch you both up when I get back, okay?”

Just as Peter’s about to turn away, Harry grabs his arm. “Wait, who was it? Do we know them?”

Peter, blushing furiously and so giddy like he’s a lovesick teenager, says, “Harley Keener. He played Romeo last year, remember?”

Both their jaws drop in shock, eyes wide. They remember him, for sure. It’s hard not to remember somebody like Harley.

Peter doesn’t bother sticking around any longer, racing out the front door to get down to Harley.

Apparently, Harley knows a nice coffee place that’s open at the late hours of night, so he leads the way, bumping shoulders, teasing each other, and making small talk mostly about their friends and school.

“I don’t know if this is too forward,” Harley says when they make it to the coffeeshop. “But I just wanna know if you’re into guys or not. I’m gay… If this is totally platonic, that’s cool too, I just want to know.”

Peter grins, unable to help himself. “I’m bi, so… I thought we were being pretty obvious how we felt by saying we should be two of the most famous star-crossed lovers there are.”

Harley laughs, leading Peter to the counter to give their orders. “I suppose… So, this would be a date?”

“I was kind of hoping so, yeah. If that’s okay?”

“It’s perfect, yeah.”

Harley pays, if only because Peter managed to forget his wallet in his haste to get out of his apartment, and then they start walking back to Peter’s apartment.

Harley talks about how he’s from a small town in the middle of nowhere, Tennessee, how he always dreamed of making it on Broadway like Peter, how scared he was submitting an application to AMDA, how much everything changed when he got accepted. He talks about his family, his mom and little sister back home, how proud they are of everything he does, how he’s going to work so much harder for them. He talks about his experience in New York, how different it is compared to Rose Hill, how much excitement there is, how fast it moves and how full it is.

It’s strange to hear about New York from an outsiders perspective. Peter’s only left New York twice. Both times for Academic Decathlon which took him to DC and to Toronto.

In turn, Peter talks about May, how much he loves her, how much she’s supported all of his decisions. He doesn’t say much about Ben or his parents, but he says enough that Harley links their free hands together and squeezes comfortingly. He talks about Harry and Gwen, about school and his job, how much stress has been piled on his shoulders by everyone wanting him to choose a more possible dream. How he refuses to give up on his Broadway dreams.

They make it back to his apartment all too soon, hands still linked, noses and cheeks red from the cold.

“This was really nice,” Peter murmurs. “I would invite you up to my place, but I have two roommates who are crazy obnoxious and loud and a lot. I’d really like to do this again, though.”

“Me too. I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while now, I didn’t think it would be like that. Quoting Shakespeare isn’t the greatest pickup line.”

Peter shrugs, tugging Harley a little closer. “It worked.”

“Is there anyway I could get your number?”

“I’ll give it to you in exchange for something,” Peter bargains, smiling dopily.

“And what’s that?”

“Kiss me?”

Harley doesn’t waste a second, pressing their mouths together and backing Peter into the brick wall of his apartment building, free hand grabbing Peter’s waist while trying not to spill his coffee. Peter wraps his arms around Harley’s neck and shoulders, smiling into the kiss.

Eventually, they do have to pull away, both of them grinning at each other and they let out twin breathless laughs.

Harley fishes a pen out of his bag, presenting it and his forearm to Peter.

He jots down his number with a little heart, trying not to think too much about the wiry muscle in his forearm and how much he really wants to see Harley’s biceps too. He leans up to kiss Harley once more before he pushes open the door to his building.

“I’ll see you around?”

“Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

Taglist: @littlemissagrafina  @spideygirl2003 @romeoandjulietyouwish @c-artara @shadedrose01 @likeaphoenix13 @pj-hermes-tonystark-obsessed  @you-get-killed-walk-it-off @kitkatwinchester  @emo-girl10 @justme--emily  @hold-our-destiny @imalivebecauseirondad @spiderman-peterman @dykeragee @maryserrao @heeeyitskay 

[therealjammy]

Call Me In the Afternoon

AN: I’m an angst writer. And yet this is pure fluff. Those of you who know me probably are wondering where the fuck this came from, and honestly, I have no fucking idea, but here you go anyways xx 

Title is from Half Moon Run’s song by the same name. 

----

You find Jamie in the rose garden, crouched over a bucket, cursing softly under her breath as she carefully snips the rose poised between her fingers. Her hair is a little lighter in the sun. It settles just above her striped shoulders like it’s afraid to touch them. And you are afraid to disrupt the moment, not wanting to burst the bubble she’s created around herself, but the image of scattered petals and greens is too hard to set aside, and the roses in your hands—cut by very inexpert ten-year-old hands—are in need of a rescue you’re not equipped to provide.

           You step forward, gravel crunching underneath your shoes. Jamie’s head turns toward the sound but she does not look over her shoulder.

           “Want some help?” you ask.

           “Did you bring me a G&T?”

           “Oh. No. I could, if you—”

           “I’m jokin’, Poppins,” she says. The kindness in her voice with the addition of the nickname feel akin to sunlight spreading through your limbs.

           Jamie stands with an audible sigh and continues, “Not much you can do here. Gardenin’s a bit out of your comfort zone.”

           “This whole job is,” you say, rather under your breath, but still loud enough to be heard. You set the roses by her bucket. “And anyway, these need your help.”

           Jamie picks them up and sighs again. “I might not forgive him for this.”

           You nod. The words slip out before you can trap them. “You should’ve cut them.”

           She fixes you with a surprised mask at your boldness. Before anything more can be read into it, you ask Jamie where she keeps her broom.

           Together, you’re a diligent team, you sweeping up leaves and parts of stems and several pairs of thorns and soft, silky rose petals, Jamie rescuing the roses Miles had given you earlier in the afternoon. You nearly make a comment about how there should be a way to stitch the roses back onto the bush and cut them again once they’re ready, but you don’t think she’ll find it as amusing as you do.

           Jamie says, after a while, “You should keep the petals. Let ‘em dry in your dresser.”

           They’re quite pretty, you think, gazing at the pile and the several more you still have to sweep. Red and white, sprinkled across the gravel like confetti. You say, “It does seem a shame to waste them.”

           “Little shit thought differently.” A pause. “Did you talk to him?”

           “I did. I said he owes you a thorough apology and needs lessons on the delicacies of gardening.”

           You think you see a smirk tug up the left corner of Jamie’s mouth.

           The silence that follows is comfortable, in the oddest of ways; yet somehow there’s a feeling of wanting to say something—but what? A comment about the weather? A question about lunch? Ask if Jamie is serious about the gin and tonic?

           Jamie breaks it first. “Rescued your roses.”

           You lean the broom and dustpan against the white table. Carefully, you take them from her. They look pristine. Good enough for an expensive flower shop. “Wow,” you say, pathetically, wishing you could say something more. “They’re beautiful,” or “You have very green thumbs.”

           “He must think you’re cute,” Jamie says, “if he’s cuttin’ my roses and handin’ them over.”

           Unwillingly, a blush crawls into your cheeks. “I don’t think so,” you say, shaking your head. “He gave them to me after apologizing for locking me in the closet.”

           Jamie’s face clouds over, but no thunder escapes her lips. Only, “We should put ‘em in water.”

           Quickly, you take a handful of rose petals and drop them into one of Jamie’s empty buckets and walk with her back to the house. You go in the back way and into the kitchen, greeted by the smell of roast beef, buttered rolls, and seasoned potatoes. The children, thankfully, are not at the table. You don’t think Jamie can handle even looking in Miles’ general direction without wanting to hurl a vase at his head. The kitchen’s population is just down to four.

           “Smells like heaven, Owen,” Jamie says, voice muffled by the under-the-sink cabinet.

           “We saved some for you,” Hannah says. “Though it was awfully tempting not to.”

           “Seconds are always encouraged here,” Owen says, sliding more onto a plate. He hands it to Hannah with a wink. Their affection for each other is warm, you notice, and getting warmer every day.

           “I hope your garden’s floating again, Jamie,” Hannah says.

           “It will be,” Jamie says. She’s filling a green glass vase with water from the sink. “Dani’s helped with the life preservers today.”

           You wave your hand. “It was only a bit of sweeping.”

           “And scoldin’,” Jamie adds.

           “Gentle discipline,” you correct. “The scolding we leave to this one.” You nudge Jamie with your shoulder, smiling at her scoff.

           The roses and their vase and your bucket of petals are set aside for lunch, on a far counter where they won’t get in the way. Before getting a bite in, Jamie requests a gin and tonic, her excuse being, “I’ll have to fortify myself against further bullshit.”

           “Good enough for me,” Owen says.

           The kitchen is warm and bright. Lunch is flavorful and filling. You realize, as conversations bounce around the room from one topic to the next, that your statement to Jamie may not have been wholly true. Being an au pair is out of your comfort zone, but in moments like these, it doesn’t feel as daunting.

           Like a married couple, Hannah and Owen insist on the dishes. Hannah shoos you away with a “Go have fun, you two. You won’t get many opportunities. Naps for the children are rare.” So you walk from the kitchen with Jamie, who pauses in the back hallway, green vase in hand.

           “Here,” she says, holding it out to you. “They’re for you, anyway.”

           “I couldn’t.”

           “Go on. The thorns won’t bite. They’re gone.”

           You smile. Take the vase. The roses, despite being cut early, smell sweet. You don’t touch their petals. Jamie had told you touching them made them wilt faster. “Thank you.”

           She nods. “Anytime.” Her hands find her jean pockets. “I best get back out. The sun won’t last.” She makes her way to the door, then pauses. “Don’t worry about the rest.”

           “I’ll see you for dinner, Jamie,” you say, the smile still tugging at you.

           She gives you a little salute, and turns to the sun.

           Making good on Jamie’s suggestion, you scatter the petals in the drawers that hold your clothes. They’ll dry, and leave a sweet fragrance in their wake.

           The vase you set on your nightstand, strategically placed to block the view of Eddie’s cracked glasses. Perhaps, you think, admiring them in the golden light coming through your window, as they slowly wilt, they’ll come to smell like someone else. Like Jamie.

[just-mirko]

lavender petals - part 1

MASTERLIST

Mirko x Reader

Angst, Slow-ish burn, fluff, 

WC: 4.1K

MANGA SPOILERS  IN LATER PARTS

  A steady and constant roll of tapping continued outside

where the rain poured down in fleets of cold water. The little drops all

together sounded like thousands of typewriters; the tiny stamps pressing fresh

ink stains into parchment. The storm did not only darken the sky but slowly,

the concrete was dampened into a charcoal shade and the glass windows collected condensation. The scent of petrichor had not reached where I was, but the

second I stepped outside I could already feel it overtaking my senses. have caused me to be

upset, and make me curse the heavens, but today, the rain started just as the

the shop was about to close, only 30 minutes till I would lock the doors and turn

around the little double-sided sign; switching it to “welcome” to “come back

later. I could not anticipate any customers would actively rush to my store in

the terrible weather, so I accepted it as an easy break where I could stay inside

and relax with warm herbal tea. 

            My shoes squeaked beneath me when I turned back to the

service counter. Aromas and floral notes were everywhere I stepped. Even if you

stood still, they still changed. orchids, roses, daisies, and violets all

dancing together in harmony. 

            Once I reached behind the counter, I could see every

corner of the shop in its array of colors that seemed duller than usual from

the lack of sunlight. Nonetheless, they still stood out against the dull pots

and glass vases.  

            ‘I should be done for the day’ I thought to

myself, already having swept the floor, put out the new flowers, and clipped

the old ones before the storm arrived. An overdramatized sigh passed my lips

when I went to sit at the stool next to the register. 

            Sitting behind the register was always slightly

inconvenient, because blocking my view of the entrance to the store was a

large, and I mean large, bouquet of fresh lavender sprigs. They were normally

used as filler plants but had just come in today and I still could not decide

what to do with them. Additionally, I lacked a new arrangement to add them too,

so they were left out to stand alone.

            By far they were the most prominent in the store. Their

sized rivaled all the large wedding table pieces we had. And the smell, though

calming, gave me a headache after being with them all day. 

            It is not like anyone would buy them either. They were not

as easy on the eye as a rose, three times as expensive, and once again,

typically used as filler flowers. 

            I settled on scrolling on my phone to distract myself

from thinking about what to do with them. I did not want to wait too long to

sell them lest they wilt.  

            ‘Oh look, my webtoons updated.’

            Fifteen-minutes passed quickly and mindlessly. Only 15

minutes till I could lock up and go home. The storm still had not relented, and

now, the rain was accompanied by large clashes of thunder and lightning. 

            These days life was quite simple. It was not exceptional

nor terrible, but a mediocre and peaceful existence that brought me the chance

to do what I loved. I had friends I visited occasionally, a small business that

was doing well with the white day just around the corner (an eastern type of

valentine’s day).  But no matter how many

flowers I had, it wouldn’t quell the little part of my heart longing for

something more. 

            “CLASH”

            The lightning what getting closer outside. It got louder

and louder, making me jump in my seat a little. 

            “CLASH”

            The rain slammed into the ground, but something else was

happening as well. Something in the background of sorts. 

            “CRASH”

            A resonating bang that sounded nothing like lightning

erupted nearby. A car alarm blared as well. 

            ‘Could it be a villain?’ I asked myself as I look

over the purple blossoms to see if I could see what was going on from outside

my window. Alas, it must have been a street down. 

            ‘Why would they fight in this type of weather though?’

Villain activity has spiked rapidly in the last few weeks as the League of

Villains had risen to power than out of nowhere disappeared without a trace. Not

to mention the capture of stain had encouraged many of the morally grey

antagonists to step out of the shadows in pursuit of their own type of justice.

Everyone had their own definition. 

            I tried to stay up to date on villain activity but so

much was constantly happening. Three times a week we got a new story. In the

beginning, the attacks seemed petty and selfish. Things like; “3 criminals rob a

local bank” or “Enraged fire-type quirk user burns down workplace” but today,

they were more organized, harder to stop. All the villains were working towards

a greater goal that was easier to see. 

            A little bit ago, one of the most popular quirks inclusive

department’s CEO joined the LOV after an all-out fight. Many were injured. It

was practically a bloodbath. Citizens remember seeing ice and blue fire merge

in giant tornados in the sky. The entire building disintegrated without a

trace. A witness with still in shock commented that she saw a UA student emerging

from the rubble, but that claim was shut down instantly by that student’s very

own teacher. 

            Unease was everywhere. People even began to stop trusting

figures of authority out of fear they might not be who they said. I was not a

target to any kind of villain myself, but who knows if I could become just

another statistic on the news.

            Police sirens came into earshot. 

            I guess it was a criminal after all. Soon enough I would

be able to find a nice little article online detailing everything that happened

with a cover image of an unscathed hero smiling at the camera as if all were

well. How they tried to convince us that all was wel-

            The chime of bells interrupted my thoughts when someone

came through the store door, very close to closing time. 

            When I looked up at them, I completely froze, unknowing

of what to do say, even think. 

            Before me stood… Mirko? Mirko. Mirko the Rabbit Hero. The

number #4 hero. The best female hero. And she was- Injured? 

            She stood with her shoulders rolled back but she was

panting heavily. Her platinum hair dripped water onto the pristine checkerboard

floors I just mopped. Across her, the skin on one of her shoulders was a crimson

slash. The blood that came from it dripped partially into her hair, staining it

slightly; and partially mixed with the water she was absolutely drenched in. She

looked cold in the light hero gear. 

            In her weak state, she still held an air of strength. When

I looked up in obvious shock at her condition, I was met with piercing red eyes

and a smile I would describe as manic on anyone else. 

            “C-can I help you—are you okay?” I stumble out when I

started to panic, realizing that she just fought the cause of all the racket

down the street.         

            My response only looked to entertain her, and she smiled

wider chuckled then pulled her hair over one shoulder: twisting it to ring out

the excess water (and blood).

            “Yea, you do sell flowers, right?” She said. We were

obviously on different pages. She seemed completely relaxed as she was still

bleeding a watered-down red puddle onto the floor. Meanwhile, I was seriously

concerned about her health. Online, I simply assumed that every pro-hero held a

façade. That they were not as cocky, brave, or positive as they seemed once the

cameras were cut. This though was a spitting image of every picture of her I

had seen. Despite that, nothing could have prepared me for this in person-encounter.

            “Y-yes I sell flowers” 

            I frantically scanned across the store for something for

my eyes to latch onto. My fingertips pressed hard against the side of the

resister to the point where my fingertips were turning white and my knuckles

began to cramp. 

            Mirko walked forward. Despite her injuries, she did not

have any limp and strolled casually over to some of the display stands

near the front window. I fidgeted with my finger while I stumbled over to where

she was. Her gaze we currently focused on some white lilies, though she soon

switched to some yellow roses. 

            “What is the, um, the occasion- For the flowers?” The

words tumbled out of my mouth. They felt out of order and out of place. Seeing a

hero in public is a strange thing. As amazing as they are, you always suspect

that there is an underlying threat of danger. You are both drawn to them yet

repelled by the hint. It's always ‘Why would a hero be here.” That wasn’t

the occasion now though. She was just- here for flowers? She was definitely just

off from work and needed a few band-aids; at most, stitches. My mind still had a

rough time thinking over why she so casual. I hoped this doesn’t happen often

for her. 

            Mirko’s fingers paused when she traced the outline of an

imported lily. 

            “A friend of mine got his ass beat up by a walking flamethrower”

The way she said that, so lightheartedly, with a slight smirk on her face, but

sadness in her eyes confused me. 

            “Is he a hero too?” I inquired; taken aback by the lack

of filter.  It had nothing to do with the

flowers, but my curiosity got the best of me. 

            “Hawks.” She shortly stated before turning back towards

me.

            A look of recognition must have crossed my face as she did

not explain any further and just continued. 

            “So…” She crossed her hands over her chest and looked up

towards me (we using Mirko’s canon height today cause she short short lol).  

            “What flowers would be best for ‘get better idiot’” Her

hair was still disheveled and soaking wet but the ethereal glow the rain seemed

to give her face made me want anything but eye contact. I shouldn’t really get

flustered so easily, but when a celebrity built like a Greek goddess steps into

your shop looking like she’s straight out of war…  

            “Well, I wouldn’t be able to make any custom arrangements

today because I’m closing-“I looked down at my watch for the time. “5 minutes

ago, but we have many premade sets and custom vases if you’re interested?”

            I tried to seem chipper and avert my gaze from her hair,

bleeding shoulder, and foot that was insistently tapping on the wet floor, but

in between each word I stole a glace that did not go unnoticed. 

            “That’s okay, I’m fine with a pre-made bouquet.” I

fiddled with my thumbs once more. She was really giving me nothing to work

with. 

            “Any flowers in specific you like?” I asked, grasping for

straws. Mirko’s expression was perfectly neutral and ambiguous. Even if she

gave me a color, I could work off that, but all I had was a name and extra

mopping to do. 

            ‘I wonder if blood will stain my tile’

            What she said next seemed to fit with the personality I

was slowly assembling her. 

            “You guess.” And with that, she turned to look at more

bouquets and potted plants that lined the shelves. 

            The lavender! I thought, finally thinking I had found a

way to get rid of them but realized that may not be well suited as a get well

soon gift. 

            Hawks. Hawks. Hawks. The bird hero. The bird men. Red

feathers, right? 

            Because of the hero’s color pallet, per

se, I was drawn to red roses and yellow daisies, maybe some red and white

lilies. I found an arrangement I thought fit on one of the shelves next to a

window, where it was still raining outside. I carefully picked the flowers up;

their silky petals caressed my hand. Two petals floated down onto the floor as

I relocated them back to the assembly station. 

            “Would you like a vase with this?” I questioned. Her ears

perked towards me, shocking me in the slightest. Of course, it was not unusual,

but with how she seemed to hear me from across the room without turning her

head made me fear that she would hear my heartbeat racing in my chest. This was

a hero. A real-life hero. God, I hope I do not mess this up. 

            “Mmmhnn,” She said, inflecting that meant yes. I walked

near a shelf where we stored them and looked at the variety of glass, plastic,

and even porcelain vases reserved for special occasions. My eye was stuck on a

red one that caught the soft lighting of the store beautifully. I reached up to

grab it and held the cool glass in my hand. With the sleeve of my jacket, I

began to brush off some of the dust, ignoring the mark it left.

            “Ooh, I like that one” I heard from behind me. Quite

startled I jumped, and the vase left my hand, seconds from crashing into the

floor. Before I could blink, Mirko had caught it agilely. 

            “The color is nice,” She said as she turned it over in her

hands, clearly pleased with having shaken me. 

            Honestly, the banter was a nice break from today. I guess

it would not hurt to lighten up a little. 

            “Yea,” I said with a gentle smile. 

            I had almost finished totaling her order and was putting

the flowers in the box to protect from the rain when I looked over at Mirko and

saw her quite intrigued by the lavender practically overtaking my desk. 

            “We just got that lavender in! It's fresh and quite relaxing.”

I hummed to myself, pleased with the wrapping I did on Hawk’s bouquet.

            “How much for them?” She asked turning to me inquisitively.

            “Well lavender isn’t normally sold alone but that’s about

10 arrangements worth” I said pointing to the sheer number of flowers. Upon

the counter, they were more than two feet tall. 

            “So?” She said, resting her elbows upon the table and leaning

in to smell the lavender even more. The ivory ears atop her head sloped

downwards a little more reminding me of a little puppy when they got pet. An

obvious show of their aromatic effects. 

            “Two-hundred, though I could definitely get you a smaller

amount if you would like, they’re sold twenty per bundle just because of how

hard they are to transport and a how delicate they te-“

            “I’ll take them all,” She said with an aggressive smile

and firm shake of her head. There was a switch in her tone like she suddenly

decided she revealed too much of herself to the general public. I did not like

thinking that though. That she saw me as the public. Everyone wants to be

special sometimes.  

            “How was errr- work today?” I asked, clearly insinuating

my concern for her condition.

            A small shadow passed over her face. Her eyes got a

little darker and the corners of her mouth turned down before her typical passionately

a confident smile came back.

            “Nothing I can’t handle” Those smug words were

accompanied by a flourished wink that was embellished her white eyelashes.

            “I heard a crash nearby. Was there a villain?” This time

she did not hesitate to answer. 

            She finished paying and gave me an address to deliver

them to tomorrow. One to a hospital, and one to a home address. I expected a

PO box and assumed her address was not something she just gave away, but that was

not the only thing I was warmly excited about. Instead of signing “Mirko” her

formal hero title on the receipt, She signed her real name, Rumi Usagiyama.

             ---

            The weather was much more considerate this morning. When I

awoke, golden rays filtered light through my lashes into my eyes. The faint

sound of birds chirping and bustling people in the city below faintly reached my

ears. 

            I lived right above my flower shop, making my commute to work

 conveniently. I chose to dress a little bit nicer today, opting for a cream-colored

turtleneck and dark washed jeans instead of my normal gardening attire. Spring

was right around the corner in Musutafu Japan. Winter was leaving and the city

was in the awkward middle state where it's too cold to wear spring clothes but

too sunny to stay in jackets. 

            Since yesterday was Saturday, I had today off, kinda. I

just had a few flower deliveries to complete before I could go back home and lay

on the couch eating watermelon sour patch kids (ichor itself) and reading

terribly done 9k fanfics online. (Wow! Our reader!! Is super!!! Self!!!!

Aware!!!!!) 

            My brain had completely blocked out everything that

happened last night, so when I checked my order list and saw Rumi

written in neat handwriting, my confusion was immense. 

            ‘So, It wasn’t a dream then…’’ huh.”

            I walked downstairs into my store. I saw a few

schoolchildren peeking in the dark windows since there were no lights on to look

at the flowers. I waved to them and then chuckled to myself when they left tiny

little handprints on the glass. Tall buildings could be seen across. A café, a

tattoo shop, a little library, and many small businesses that were nestled right

in the center of town where they got lots of attention. Around the back exist to

the stores were where most of the employees parked. My friend and co-worker had

called in sick this weekend, so it meant I had to do all the deliveries myself.

            I went over to the storage room. A wave of cold rushed

over me and sent tingles down my entire body. This was always kept cold to keep

the flowers alive longer, but always hated retrieving boxes from there. 

            I steadily grabbed the lavender-filled box and stacked

Hawk’s arrangement box on top of it. The white cardboard stood so tall in front

of me when I held them I could barely see when I walked out the back door and

over to my car where I nearly dropped them loading them into my car’s trunk. 

            I clumsily got into the driver’s seat and started the

engine to head to the first address. Hawk’s hospital. Right in the center of

town, it was only 10 minutes when you accounted for traffic.             

            The hospital was the nicest in Mafatsu, with white pillars

and balconies on some patient's rooms. Only the best for heroes. When I got out

of my car and drew near, the building felt like it was swallowing me whole in

its large size. 

            My soft footsteps appeared insignificant with prestigious

doctors and nurses bustling around in choreographed chaos. When I got to the reception

area, a pink-haired nurse with a kind smile greeted me cheerfully. 

            “Hello! How can I help you today?” She began typing before

I even said anything. Maybe a prediction quirk. 

            “Hey, I’m here to drop off flowers from Mirko for Hawks?”

            She nodded in understanding and scanned her eyes over my

body, then the box I was holding, all while typing fluidly into a computer. Finally,

her gaze broke and she looked down at a small printer that made a small sticker

with the words visitor pass in bolded font. 

            “He will be on the top floor, level 60 in room 219. If he

isn’t in his room, just call a nurse with the pager in there, he’s been getting

out a lot recently.” She rolled her eyes in annoyance. 

            “He really just wants to get back to work but whenever he

flies he leaves a trail of blood and feather in his path”

 Her hair swished when she leaned over to give

me the papery sticker. Her fingertips brushed against my palm for a second

longer than platonic before she went back and waved goodbye to me. Her cheeks were tinted slightly pink.

            The encounter made my heart rush but that might just because

it’s the first romantic-ish thing that has happened to me in a while. I mean

she was pretty- but we scarcely talked. My palm still tingled where our hands

touched though. I was so distracted I did not notice when I found myself in Hawk’s

room. 

            I had never delivered anything to a hero before. Should I

just drop them in and leave? My hand rested atop the doorknob questioning how

to do this. The fluorescent hospital lights desaturated everything including my

ability to make cohesive thoughts. 

            Just as I opened the door, I heard a shattering sound,

something collapsing, and then 

            “Wait no shit-“Another thing fell to the ground. “-fuck” I

carefully opened the door. To see Hawk’s the pro hero, clutching his side with

one hand, and holding a sideways IV drip in one hand, but the fluid bag itself

was on the floor, along with some kind of glass and a medical device I couldn’t

identify from the various dents and scratches on it. It did not look like he

noticed me yet, he was much too preoccupied. 

            “Hey should-“ 

            “AH!” He yelled turning towards me. I couldn’t flinch

fast enough before three-foot-long red feathers with murderous intent came

spearing towards my head. Within that instant in closed my eyes prepared to be

dead but when I opened them up, the feathers were hovering just centimeters

away from my skull.

            I shocked me that I was still holding the flower box when

I checked. My eyes were wide as I stood still, jaw open, not a single breath

leaving my mouth. 

            “Are you a new nurse or something?” The feathers remained

there. I gulped before answering, my body felt light, flight, or fight already taking

place. 

            “I’m a- a florist.” I gestured down at the box with my

logo on it, and he seemed to relax a little bit. 

            “Oh.” He replied and the feathers returned to beside him.

He tried to make the IV drip stand back up again, but in a futile attempt he

gave up, just letting it fall to the group beside the other tools. He turned away

from me.

            ‘He is obviously in pain right now’ He faced away just

to hide the scowl and how much he was now clutching his side. 

            He looked over his shoulder “Who sent you?”

            “Mirko” I responded relieve that he was no longer about

to kill me. 

            “Where should I leave the flowers?” 

            “The table next to my bed” I stepped over there. An

assortment of papers where there is messy handwriting that I had no place in

reading. Nonetheless, I caught the words “Touya.” Too bad I didn’t know any Touyas.

I sat the box down and opened it up.

            Luckily with everything that went on, I didn’t destroy any

of the blooms. 

            “Did Mirko say anything about me?” He questioned quickly.

As much as he tried to seem tough, he valued her opinion very much. 

            “Get well soon and all of that, nothing much, she was too

busy teasing me, you know?”

            “Mirko was? Teasing you?” His eyebrows furrowed in confusion

before settling into a knowing look. 

            “Ohhhh” He winked. 

            “No no, it's nothing like this I promise I just met her.” 

            “Mmmn k” He didn’t believe me in the slightest. 

            “Just watch out she packs a punch” 

            Hawks walked over to where the flowers were and observed

the arrangement. He had a particular fondness for the red lilies, the same ones

that Mirko liked. He talks about her punch though reminded me of the crashes

and villain attack last night.

            “I hope she’s okay, she seemed pretty beat up last night

after the battle.” 

            “Eh, she recovers inhumanly quick. Something to do with the

rabbit in her.”

            He looks over to me and paused. 

            “What’s your name?”

            “(Y/N)” 

            “(Y/N Hmmm) He mumbled to himself like he was getting

used to the way it sounded. 

            “I can’t imagine this will be our last encounter (Y/N),

It was nice to meet you.”

            I smiled graciously and sighed. 

            “Nice to meet you too.”

[lukatheselkie]

FrUk Week Day Seven - Free Day (Hair)

It took me WELL over 24 hours to decide on exactly what I wanted to do for this. I spent my entire actual seventh day trying to figure it out, and then some. So that’s why this is late. I’m not good with free days lol. But I’m proud of this! They’re so cute! (Also someone please draw France with his hair in the last part 🥺 I’ll love you forever. I would do it but I can’t art unless it’s TINY, a painting, writing, or I take FOREVER.)

    Francis scoffs loudly when he sees Arthur up close for the first time in months. “I can’t come over because I have business to attend to in my country, and you forget how to properly take care of yourself? Unacceptable!” Arthur can’t help but smile. His tone is condescending, but he knows it comes from a place of love. Francis takes his hand, and leads him into his bathroom. “Thank goodness I brought my shampoo. What have you been using?” He looks at the shelves in his shower, and scoffs. “Arthur! Two in one? Really? Must I teach you how horrible that is for your hair again?” He shakes his head, and starts the water for a bath. “I’ll wash your hair for you. I might be able to do something with the horrible state it’s in.” He lets the water run over his wrist for a moment, before plugging the tub after determining it’s a good temperature. “Honestly.” He shakes his head. “Get in. I’ll be right back.” He leaves the room.

    “The shampoo and conditioner you told me to use are too expensive,” he mumbles to the empty room. He glances at his reflection, and grimaces. His hair really does look awful. Maybe he’ll actually start using what Francis said was the best for him. He removes his clothes, carefully setting them aside. He adds a bit of bubbles to the running water, and slips into the bathtub. The hot water immediately starts working on muscles he hadn’t realized were tight. He smiles to himself. Francis must have noticed, and that’s why he started the bath instead of a shower. He’s more observant than most give him credit for. Arthur turns off the water, then tilts his head back and sighs in content. He closes his eyes, relaxing a bit more in the water. It feels too nice not to.

    “I’m glad I brought my hair care items! Non, I’m glad I’m staying a couple of weeks. One wash will do next to nothing for that amount of damage! Be glad I love you, I wouldn’t do this for anyone else.” He turns to the tub, and smiles when he sees his love’s eyes closed. “Good. You needed to relax. How long has it been since you let yourself unwind?” Arthur flushes crimson, opening his eyes slowly.

    “A week before we last saw each other.” Francis clicks his tongue. “I know. I should take better care of myself. I’m sorry.” He looks at him pleadingly.

    “Don’t give me that expression. And don’t apologize. You know I like taking care of you.” He smiles sweetly at him. “Close your eyes again. I don’t want to get anything in them.” Arthur does as he’s told, relaxing again. Francis sits next to the tub, filling a cup he brought with him with water. He pours it over the Brit’s head, wetting his hair. He runs his fingers through it, making sure it’s all wet. He nods to himself, and squeezes some shampoo into his hand. He rubs it into Arthur’s hair, smiling a bit at the bubbles it makes. He makes sure it coats his hair thoroughly, and lets it sit for a few minutes. He rinses it out carefully, making sure not to get any near his eyes. “One more. Your hair feels better already. Honestly, Arthur, why on earth do you use that stuff? It’s damaging your hair!” He shakes his head, opening his conditioner bottle. He rubs it into his hair, using a generous amount. It’s probably too much, but this conditioner is meant to heal damaged hair. A little extra won’t hurt.

    “I know. I’m going to throw it out. I won’t even finish it. I just wish what you told me was best for my hair wasn’t so expensive!” Francis chuckles quietly.

    “Taking proper care of your hair means spending more money. But it’s worth it. You don’t want it to be dry and brittle, do you? It’s so easy to break when it is! Then you have to get a haircut, get a treatment, there’s so much to do if you don’t take proper care of it! Besides, I like your hair the length it is. It’s perfect. Just like you.” He presses a soft, gentle kiss to his forehead.

    “Don’t be so sappy,” Arthur grumbles, face turning red. Francis lets out a bark of laughter.

    “Why not? I only speak the truth, mon cher. You are perfect to me.”

    “If I had my eyes open, I would be rolling them.”

    “Non, do not open them. I am about to rinse again.” He fills the cup with water, and pours it over his head. He runs his fingers through his hair, pouring more water over it. He does this a few times, until he no longer feels product in his hair. “There. Now you may open them.” Arthur opens his eyes slowly, immediately staring into his love’s.

    “Kiss me before I get you wet trying to kiss you, my beautiful.” Francis presses his lips to Arthur’s lovingly. He pulls away after a moment, smiling at him.

    “I shall leave you be. Enjoy your bath. I will be on your couch, watching something. Love you!” He runs out of the room quickly, taking his cup, shampoo, and conditioner with him. Arthur rolls his eyes, but sinks down in the water nonetheless. He feels better from the shampoo and conditioner. Maybe he’ll take a nap. That sounds nice. He closes his eyes yet again, feeling content.

~

    Arthur thanks the florist hurriedly, and hugs the two bouquets of flowers to his chest as he runs outside. He places them in his passenger seat, and turns on his vehicle. He glances at them every now and then as he drives home, making sure they’re okay. They make it without even a sign of wilting, and he rushes inside. He places one on his bed, and holds the other in his arms. He takes a deep breath and walks to the front door, waiting for Francis to get back. He doesn’t have to wait long. He opens the door for him, and holds out the bouquet. His eyes widen, and he smiles brightly. “Red roses! Oh Arthur. Thank you. So much. I love you.” He spins Arthur around, then kisses him passionately, being careful not to crush the flowers. When he pulls away, he also takes the roses.

    “That’s not all. Put those in a vase, then sit on the couch with your eyes closed. I want to do something else for you.” Francis raises a brow at him, but doesn’t ask any questions. He goes into the kitchen to search for a vase, and Arthur runs to his bedroom. Their bedroom, when his love is visiting. He picks up some scissors he placed on the bedside table earlier, and carefully cuts the flower heads off, leaving a bit of stem. He gathers them up, and goes to find Francis, who is exactly where he told him to be. The roses are on the coffee table in front of him, looking almost as stunning as him. “I’m going to touch your hair now. Please trust me, and don’t open your eyes!”

    “Oui, alright. But you better not mess up my hair! I put too much effort into keeping it flawless.” Arthur laughs quietly.

    “I know. Hopefully I’m improving it. At least for the day.” He can tell this catches Francis’ interest, but he doesn’t ask about it. Thank goodness. He takes a small section of his hair, and starts braiding it. When he gets a good start, he grabs one of the flowers and weaves it into the braid. He finishes the braid off, then adds another one. He braids another section next to it, weaving one flower into the area between the two from the last one. He continues on like this, alternating the design, until he’s out of flowers and hair to braid. “Alright! Now go look in the mirror.”

    “I am very interested in what you have done.” Arthur grins at him, and motions him toward the mirror. He laughs, and goes to look at his reflection. The moment he sees it, his hands fly up to his mouth. “Oh Arthur… It’s beautiful.” He turns and hugs his love tightly. When he releases him, he turns back to his reflection. There’s two-toned irises of many different colours woven into his hair, in the braids he felt Arthur making.

    “You’re beautiful,” He whispers, wrapping his arms around his waist. He presses a chaste kiss to the side of his neck. “They just accent your beauty.” He stares at their reflection, and smiles. “I can’t believe how lucky I am.” He smirks. “And you’re very lucky too, you know.” Francis laughs, turning his head to kiss the corner of Arthur’s mouth.

    “I am. What did you do this for? And don’t try to tell me because you felt like being romantic, I know you better than that.” The Brit laughs.

    “You caught me. I wanted to thank you for putting up with my stubbornness. I know I can be a handful sometimes. But you still love me. I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate that. Especially since you have to go back to France in a few days. I don’t want you to go, but I know you must. This is the least I can do to show you I love you.” Francis wraps his arms around him tightly.

    “I love you too. And I will cherish these flowers until they die. They aren’t coming out of my hair, I don’t care if I have to miss a day or two of washing it. These are more important. You are more important. I hope you know that.”

    “I do.” He nuzzles him. “Now get off of me before we get any more sappy.” He shoves him away, cheeks crimson. “I’m not embarrassed! You are!” Francis laughs, nodding quietly. There’s the Arthur he knows and loves. So very much.

[justtoarguewithyou]

9/24: Forgiveness

My contribution to the @swottypotter comfort minifest. did we all write about the prank? i hate the prank. ugh.

The moon was waxing, and Remus was already very tired. Friday would be a full moon. The first full moon of his last year at Hogwarts.

It was a shame the penumbral lunar eclipse wouldn’t be visible this time. Remus loved an eclipse because as the moon was obscured, he could feel himself waking up inside the wolf, which was fun. During an eclipse, he had little moments that were his own, when he could fully appreciate his friends, and their forest adventures.

He wondered what a total eclipse would feel like. When the moon was totally obscured, would it be what he imagined being an Animagus felt like? Total eclipses were rare, and even rarer that they would be visible where he was. But now he wondered.

He hadn’t experienced too many total eclipses in his 17 years. Only ten.

There hadn’t been one since before The Prank.

What a stupid thing to call it, Remus thought.

It hadn’t been funny, or harmless. Whatever mischief Snape had wanted to cause wasn’t worth his death. James had stopped Snape from reaching the wolf. Sirius didn’t come, and neither did Peter.

It had been his first full moon alone in ages. The wolf had howled long and loud over that.

Sirius, who had never hidden from anything in his life, had hidden from Remus the entire day after his transformation. Remus had been hurt and disappointed when he woke up in the hospital wing to James sitting in the chair by his bed.

James had been furious.

“We’re sending you to Coventry,” James had hissed at Sirius when he slunk into the common room that night. He hadn’t even been at dinner.

Sirius, looking even further crestfallen, had watched James turn on his heel, and march up to the dormitory. For the rest of the school term, neither James nor Peter would speak to Sirius, or look at him, or even acknowledge his existence in any way. If they had known how deeply it cut him, they would never have done it. But Sirius bore his punishment stoically, falling back on the lessons he’d learned in early childhood to avoid further punishment at his mother’s hand.

Sirius had been slightly ecstatic when Remus, on the other hand, had been furious with him and told him so. They had it out over several nights in the dormitory alone together. James swore dust fell from the common room ceiling from all the magic and anger rolling off the pair of them overhead.

Sirius had been defensive and embarrassed, and hated himself for what he’d done. Remus had been torn between wanting to hold Sirius accountable for his actions, yet extending him the grace to be a person who was capable of learning from their cock-ups. Though, to be fair to himself, this was a pretty monumental cock-up.

“I’m sorry, Moony, I didn’t think—it’s just the Black coming out, the familial madness,” Sirius said, not daring to call it lunacy.

In their more tender moments after Sirius had confessed his feelings only weeks before, Sirius said it was the Black lunacy that drew him to Remus, to his Moony.

“Bollocks,” Remus said vehemently. “No Black would’ve exacted any kind of revenge in such a careless way. They’re all Slytherins—they’d never get caught. You’re lucky Dumbledore didn’t expel you.”

Sirius hummed thoughtfully. “That’s true. But this does fall under the heading of wanton destruction, at which the Blacks also excel. Seems I’ve done a lot of that, if James and Peter are anything to go by.”

“Well. They’ll come around.”

The Prank had taken place on June 1, the last full moon of the school year. The wolf had run alone all summer. Well. Not run—the shed was always unbearable after running free in the Forbidden Forest.

Sirius had written several plaintive letters to Remus over the summer. And Remus had answered them; curt at first. But as the summer wore on, Remus was better able to fill the pages. They wrote about it, because they had to.

I still don’t understand, Sirius. I don’t think I’ll ever understand. How can you love me, call me your friend, more than your friend, and betray me? And not just me, but the wolf as well? And for what? If it had worked, and Snape had been injured, or died, or turned…I could’ve been arrested. Or worse, Sirius.

What if I had been sent to Azkaban? What if I had been kissed? Or, what if the Ministry had decided to not even extend me that courtesy. What if the Ministry had decided to exterminate me?

It’s absurd, Sirius. I’ll never really believe you did it. It feels imaginary; like this was some half-hearted attempt to establish a secondary character’s motive in a children’s novel…it makes no sense. Believe me, I know, having read a lot of novels.

I’ll see you on the platform the day after tomorrow.

The train ride had been a bit frosty. Remus knew that Peter hadn’t responded to any of Sirius’s letters, but had written to James and Remus. Peter was excellent at holding a grudge.

Remus also knew that Sirius and James had reestablished their comradery after an impromptu fistfight in the back garden two nights after they got home. Their battle resulted in a black eye apiece, a broken pinky, a cracked metatarsal, and various bruises to their arms, backs and stomachs. Sirius even had a bite on his tricep.

Fleamont had broken it up, whisked them into the greenhouse, and episkied them without comment. After a few silent moments—the boys looking and feeling foolish, and Fleamont’s eyebrows furrowed in consternation—he warned them against mentioning any of it to Euphemia. Luckily, she hadn’t seen any of it, having gone into the living room before the fight broke out.

“…unless you wanted an hours-long lecture on the immorality of violence as a problem-solving technique,” Fleamont had said, eyebrows still drawn together. “Though it might do you some good to hear it.”

James and Sirius had also established an armed neutrality regarding Snape: James was determined that they should ignore Snape this year, no matter what he did.

Sirius had agreed because he loved his friends more than he hated Snape.

Sirius still looked slightly ashamed as they met Remus on the platform. But Remus had smiled, and had been kind during their train ride. They had shared snacks from the trolley and talked about their upcoming NEWTS, and placed their annuals bets on the question of Lily going out with James.

Remus had held Sirius’s hand as they sat in the horseless carriage together, and Sirius’s usually ramrod straight posture wilted with relief; he might have cried, if it had not been for James and Peter’s presence.

The welcome feast was delicious as usual. Remus caught Lily looking sideways at James a few times, and felt good about his odds of winning the pot.

They had unpacked after, and spent time together in the common room. Sirius had managed to get a weak laugh out of Peter. At midnight, when James and Peter were snoring, Sirius parted Remus’s bed curtains.

“Come on, then,” Remus scooted over to let Sirius in. Sirius needed the comfort and the absolution of Remus’s arms.

As was their custom, Sirius still whispered “Good night, I love you,” and now added that he was so very sorry. Remus wished he didn’t have to add the second part, but he did.

“I love you, too,” Remus said.

Then Sirius cried, smothering his sobs with the pillow, and with Remus’s mouth as he kissed him. Sirius apologized over and over. And Remus, who loved Sirius more than he had ever loved anyone, cried, too, and caressed Sirius’s hair, and they kissed so gently over and over.

“This year will have to be different,” Remus whispered between kisses. “You can’t just say that you’re sorry. You’ll have to live it, too. It’s time to grow up, dauphin.”

Sirius could only nod desperately, as he took off their clothes because he needed the warmth of Remus’s skin. He fell asleep under Remus’s arm, with his face pressed to Remus’s rib cage, his fingers curled over Remus’s hipbone, his leg hooked over Remus’s legs.

The next morning, Sirius sent Snape to Coventry, and found that life was more relaxed and enjoyable when Severus Snape didn’t exist. Sirius began to accompany Remus to the library for homework, and had even remained awake during Arithmancy lectures.

Soon, their first full moon rose, and Remus was more himself than the wolf for a short during the penumbral lunar eclipse.

If Remus had brooded over the summer, the wolf had not. The minute the wolf emerged fully and sensed its companions, it headed to the usual play spots in the Forbidden Forest, choosing to run to the dell furthest away. The wolf was happy.

The transformation had been more mild than usual because of the eclipse and when Remus awoke, Sirius was tucked under his arm in the hospital wing bed, which Sirius had charmed larger to accommodate himself. Madame Pomphrey had stopped fighting that battle in their 5th year.

“Morning. Feeling all right?” Sirius asked.

“Yes, just fine,” Remus said, leaning into Sirius’s hand that gently touching his curls.

[mattzerella-sticks]

Half-Priced Chocolate

The day after Valentine's Day is great for many things. Basking in the glow of a night well spent, sharing the joy of love with your family, and eating chocolate priced considerably lower than it was the day before.

Except Sam can't enjoy any of that, because Dean won't let him. Because Dean woke up in a sour mood and has picked up the banners of war against romantic love.

Albeit, the three aforementioned things might make his conflict the shortest in history.

           Sam sits with his granola and his pressed juice for exactly seven seconds when Dean walks in. Storms in, trailed by a dark cloud that thunders and readies to soak through anyone unlucky enough to cross its path. Grey dead man’s robe already looking dark and wet, clinging to his body. He passes Sam and the healthy breakfast he prepared as they marched towards the fridge with murder and hunger burdened on his tense shoulders.

           Mornings like these warn Sam of a day spent tiptoeing around his brother lest he accidentally set off a bomb. Ignore muttered grumblings if he wanted to be spared listening to Dean spend hours talking about everything annoying him except the real problem. Bury his head in a book or website so Dean would find his own outlet and wear himself into an approachable mood.

           Only he’s riding a strong high, drunk on Eileen and careless enough to stomp around with his happiness.

           “Morning Dean,” Sam says, chewing around the spoonful of granola, “How’d you sleep?” Dean grunts, backtracked by sizzling bacon being slapped onto the pan. Undeterred, Sam continues cheerily. “Me? I had an okay sleep, I mean when I actually went to sleep… I had a pretty late night.” Sam sips at his juice, letting Dean’s silence balloon for a moment until he pops it again. “Eileen and I stayed up chatting for a long time… didn’t really want it to end.” He then describes the date he planned, setting up the tablet in the library. Watching his reflection while the screen loaded, fixing his tie and mussing his hair until Eileen’s face popped up over his. Her hair perfectly cascading over one shoulder, hiding one of the straps of the purple dress she wore. In front of her was a mirror to Sam’s set up, a plate of food, a candle, and a little rose. Eileen waved at him in greeting, and in return Sam signed his. “I mean, it was kind of difficult,” Sam confessed, “I promised Eileen that I would only sign the entire night – even though she told me it would be okay. But, oh man… you should have seen her eyes light up when I recited The White Rose by John Boyle O’Reilly. Was scared I got something wrong but she said my fingers were fine… those hours spent hunched over the laptop watching YouTube were really worth it to see her smile…”

           “Big deal,” Dean scoffs, back still turned, “you got your fingers to make some neat shapes. I can do that, too…” Then, he extends his arm to show his middle finger to Sam. Even if he wouldn’t face him, Sam knows his pursed lips and heavy stare burn holes in Dean’s head.

           “Wow, Dean,” Sam says, “I take it there were no presents under the tree with your name on it for Unattached Drifter Christmas?”

           “Bite me Sammy.”

           “I already have someone I can bite, thank you very much –“

           “Not like she’s here, though, is she?” Dean asks, finally turning. He crosses his leg at the knee, mockingly rubbing his chin. “Wouldn’t an in-person date be more romantic than sitting alone with your computer all night? That’s just an average day for you.”

           His balloon springs a small leak, and he floats towards the ground. “Okay, you’re seriously bringing down my mood,” Sam glowers, pushing his bowl away. “Can you take whatever bullshit you brought in and wade through it somewhere else?”

           Dean scoffs, “What mood? Pent up sexual frustration? Or did you take care of that, too, with your magic fingers.” He mimes around his crotch, sticking his tongue out with a disgusting wink. Snickers when Sam’s lips curl.

           His grip on his juice tightens, and he drowns the furious remark burning his tongue with the drink. Instead of playing into Dean’s game, Sam stirs his granola with an almost forgotten spoon. Ignores another jab meant to shake up his Jenga tower of patience. Dean lucky that each piece he pulls doesn’t damage the structural integrity.

           Except the tower wobbles. “Probably gonna have to get used to it, though,” he continues, leaning against the counter, “with how long the sabbatical Eileen’s taking, you’re gonna need it.”

           He jumps onto the line like a fish to bait. “What is your problem –“

           “Dean? Sam? What’s going on?”

           Across the room, Dean stiffens and whirls to the entrance. Face pale, Sam watches his brother hands tremble before hiding behind his open robe. “Cas,” he says, “what’re you doing back?”

           Castiel’s hands are also out of sight. He glances between the two men with trademark confusion. “I only stepped out for a moment –“

           “A moment?” Dean hisses. He peeks at Sam from the corner of his eye – red and puffy, now that he pays closer attention to those kinds of details. “A moment,” he says again, stepping closer, “Cas you’ve been gone for –“

           “Almost an hour, I’ll admit,” Castiel sighs, meeting Dean halfway, “I didn’t intend to be away that long, but the line at the store was tremendous… and the register system was glitching –“

           “The store? What were you doing at a store though?”

           A smile blossoms from his pursed lips, Castiel finally revealing his hands and the heart-shaped box in them. “I got this… for you.”

           Dean falters, stunned. Stares at the present with trepidation and awe. He reaches for it, caressing the edges and following the trail until his fingers skim Castiel’s hands. Flinching away like he touched the forgotten pan of overly crispy bacon. “For me? Why?”

           “Well,” Castiel starts, “I was lying up thinking about how we sort of celebrated the holiday backwards yesterday and… I wanted to make up for it.” Sam sees the flower of Castiel’s lips wilt. “Do you… not like it? I’ll admit, it was marked considerably low…”

           He can’t see from how Dean angled himself. But the shaky shoulders and how a palm drifts up to rub his face, Sam feels glad for his obstructed seating. “That’s because it’s the day after, you idiot…”

           “Dean?”

           “Shit, Cas,” he huffs, “no note, couldn’t have texted me or something –“

           “I… I wanted this to be a surprise,” Castiel tells him, “besides, after last night I figured you would need the rest. Three times at your age is exhausting –“

           Dean cuts him off, Sam blushing fiercely while his mind shades in the crude drawing the angel began. Aided by his brother’s finishing remark. “Well maybe if you didn’t renovate my insides my spleen wouldn’t have been squeezing my bladder.”

           “Guys,” Sam chokes, the granola catching in his throat, “guys what are you –“

           “Dean,” Castiel speaks over him, “what is this about?”

           “What is this about?” Dean mocks, chuckling darkly. He inches closer, eclipsing the heart from Sam’s view. “I thought you… I thought you left…”

           A serene wave of understanding washes over Castiel’s features, smoothing the lines marring his face. Sam wishes for a similar stroke of clarity. “Next time,” Castiel says, “I will leave a note. And text. And wake you… although you can’t be mad if I do, okay?”

           The next laugh is much lighter, Dean sniffling between rounds. “Yeah… I promise.” He turns again, Sam tactlessly falling into his seat from the whiplash of his brother’s emotional rollercoaster. Gapes as Dean flicks the stove off and leaves the ruined bacon in the pan. “Come on,” he says, rattling the box of chocolates Sam failed to notice where in his possession, “let’s see what fifty percent off tastes like.”

           They’re so close to escaping, except Sam finds his words. Buried deep under shock and confusion, they’re there for him to dust off and shout. “What the hell was that?”

           Dean stops, a hand over Castiel’s on his waist to slow the other. He finally remembers Sam’s presence, a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks. “Hey,” his face twitches, “you see all that?”

           “…Yes!”

           “Well,” he drawls, leaning into Castiel while he thinks, “it was a… a fight.”

           Sam feels his eyebrows recede into his hairline. “A fight?”

           “Yeah, look,” he huffs, pointing at Sam with the heart box, “I know you and Eileen are still new but sometimes couples who’ve been together for a long time get into them every now and then. But then you make up and move past them.”

           “Oh,” Sam scoffs, “so you two are a couple now?”

           “Of course.”

           “A couple for a long time…?”

           “We only made it official last night,” Castiel says, tone easy despite the pitched voices of the Winchester brothers, “while you and Eileen were on your date, Dean and I sat and drank and shared a few words… among other things.”

           “But,” Dean carries on, “we’ve practically been together for over a decade. This is just an – an upgrade from our previous situation.”

           “An upgrade?” Sam asks.

           “Yeah,” he nods, “now I can do stuff like this.” Quickly, in a blink, Dean presses his lips to Castiel’s cheek. Rocking on his heels from the momentum of pulling back, face aflame like a bad sunburn. Almost laughable if Castiel didn’t gaze at Dean with heavenly wonder. “Whenever I want…” Dean adds, trailing off.

           The desire to tease Dean bubbles forth, but whether exhausted or blinded by the natural glow on Castiel’s face, it pops and dies in his chest. He grabs his spoon and stirs his granola. “Okay.”

           “Okay?”

           “Yeah, okay,” Sam smirks, “that’s it. Happy Valentine’s or whatever…”

           “Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too, Sammy,” Dean says, being led out of the room by Castiel, “later, you’ve got to tell me how your date went. I’m sure it was great – Eileen’s a really lucky girl!”

           “Bye!” he waves, waiting until the two men fully disappear behind the corner. Leaving him in relative peace for a moment. But then Jack walks in, focused on the hallway. Sam thinks he can accurately guess what captured the younger boy’s attention, only hopes that his brother has enough wits about him to maintain restraint. “Hey,” he says, startling Jack, “you want breakfast?”

           Jack strides forward, sliding in across from Sam. “Why was Castiel holding Dean’s hand?”

           Sam rolls his eyes, “Because they’re dating.”

           “They are?”

           “Apparently,” he chuckles, “it’s their day-iversary.”

           Jack cranes his neck and glances behind him once more before leaning forward, near conspiratorially. “Is this a good thing?”

           “Uh… yeah?” Sam tells him, chewing around the granola and words carefully, “Dean’s happy, and Cas is happy, too… don’t you want them happy?”

           “I do, I do, I just…” Jack frowns, staring at his fists, “I wasn’t sure the Empty would agree to nullifying Cas’s deal. But since they’re together and he’s still here...”

           Sam chokes again, spoon clattering against the bowl when he drops it. “Excuse me?” he asks, coughing fitfully, “Cas made a deal with the what?”

[flutteringphalanges]

Summary:  After centuries together, an unexpected astronomical event occurs that causes the Earth to slowly be absorbed by the Sun. As the end of the world draws near, Dracula and Agatha spend their final moments together. Embracing their love in an otherwise chaotic conclusion. *Warning: Major Character Deaths*

Rating: T (M is if I choose to release the alternate ending)

Ship: Dracula/Agatha Status: Complete

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N:  This is a rather dark, but romantic one shot. Yes, I know the sun wouldn’t do this, but for story purposes and how the Sun played an important role in Dracula, it seemed fitting. I hope you guys like it (or find some sort of appreciation since, well, two major character deaths). Might consider releasing the M rated ending that goes along with the picture above. Feedback is greatly appreciated! Enjoy! -Jen

                                        When We Collide

In reality, something was bound to happen eventually. As the years wore on, the planet had become more and more of a wasteland punished by mankind. Overpopulation. Pollution poisoning the very air needed to flourish. The sands of time had been emptying away for decades. Centuries. The only surprise was how quickly everything came crashing down.

Agatha carefully examined every dress hanging from the rack in her closet. Her eyes studied them, feeling the fabric between her fingers. Humming a nameless tone, she finally decided upon a dusty blue summer dress. It felt fitting all things considered. A smile graced her features as she took it down and began to change.

Colonizing on other planets had been a failed task. For a few decades, a select few had been sent to live on Mars. But the experiment only lasted for so long before the leaders of the world and scientific communities pulled the metaphorical plug. Earth proved to be the only habitable planet. A place that too soon would be just as lifeless.

She decided to leave her hair down that day. Usually how she always wore it. No silly updos or complicated styles. Just normal. How she liked it. How Dracula liked it. Smoothing out the creases on her dress, the former nun exited the room, closing the door one last time.

The television was on in the living room programmed to the news. Her eyes flickered briefly to the screen, taking in the images of panic broad-casted across it. Even with less than twenty four hours left, some people still seemed to have hopes of escaping. Hiding. While others just wanted nothing more to add to the mayhem and disorder. She turned back around, paying no mind to it as the sound of footsteps pulled her attention away from the distorted screams.

"You look utterly exquisite."

Dracula smiled broadly as he strode over and took her hand in his. She was unable to suppress a small chuckle when he brought it to his lips and kissed the top gently. How gentlemanly of him. Letting her arm fall back to her side, she looked her husband over. Well-groomed, as he always was. For a moment, a wave of sadness fluttered in her still heart as she gazed into his dark eyes. Even though she'd known him so well for centuries, she couldn't bear the idea of being apart. But she quickly pushed past that, not wanting to upset him too.

"You look quite presentable yourself." And she pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Always have a way with cleaning up nicely."

The Count smiled before a flash of recognition crossed his features. "Oh, I got you a little something." Agatha watched as he hurried back into the kitchen only to return with a bouquet of fabric lilacs. "I know they aren't the real thing," he admitted as she took them. "But you can't find live flowers nowadays."

"They're beautiful," she smiled. "Thank you."

Dracula walked over and turned off the television just as the sounds of gunfire and screams vibrated through the speakers. He made his way back over to her, reaching down to interlock his fingers with her free hand. She felt his cool skin against the rising heat of their very home. The hot temperatures didn't bother either of them. Their flesh void of blisters and burns. A vampiric perk.

"I was doing some deep thinking this morning," Dracula began. "About where we should go? I thought about the shore, but it'll most likely be crowded. People are throwing parties. An interesting way to celebrate the end."

"I've never been one for parties." She admitted, squeezing his hand. "Where else?"

"The old abbey is out of the question for obvious reasons." He glanced down at the watch on his wrist-a gift from Agatha from years ago. "Fylingdales Moor in Scarborough? It'll be a walk, but we have all the time in the world." The vampire snorted at his morbid joke. "What do you say?"

Agatha pondered his words before giving him a smile. "It's a good thing I have my walking shoes then."

When the word broke out about what was happening, the media ate it up alive. Theories. Conspiracies. Not a place, person, or thing was safe from being blamed. In the end, no one knew exactly why it was happening. Why the very star that provided so much for life was now about to extinguish it all. The outcome was simple, the Sun was absorbing the Earth at record speed. As it turned out, the damned thing was really deadly to vampires after all. Oh the irony of it.

The earth and its vegetation surrounding the little manor Dracula had built for the two of them had grown brown and dusty. As the sun's rays drew closer, everything had begun to wilt away. Agatha tried not to look at her garden, at the ruined flower beds she'd put so much effort into. Even the vegetables she'd tended to-all of the produce she gave away for free at the farmer's market-gone.

"You always had the prettiest roses," Dracula said, breaking the silence. "I don't care what the judges at the festival said. You should've let me take out Mrs. Robertson when I had the chance."

"Murder is not the answer when winning a competition." His wife stated, rolling her eyes. "Besides, she was old. I would've had an eternity to beat another."

Dracula visibly flinched and Agatha felt a pang of guilt. He had, after all, promised her the world. Enteral life. Immortality. And yet, she felt truly fulfilled. Her experiences, her memories, how she treasured them. It was for those reasons she was at peace with what was coming. Agatha only wished Dracula felt the same.

"Dracula," she began. "I think we should talk…"

"No," the vampire said abruptly. "We agreed that today was going to be a good day. Let's not ruin it with such discussions." Agatha sighed in defeat as the man pulled her along. "Remember our trip to Sweden?"

"You mean the one where I refused to let you feed off an innocent Swedish man and thus you were unable to successfully pick up the language?" She smirked at the memory. "If I recall correctly, I believe you called our innkeeper a 'rotten potato'."

"You're lucky he didn't kick us out," Dracula remarked. "We would've been forced to sleep on a pile of rotten potatoes then." He couldn't help but smile at the sound of Agatha's laugh. "Quite frankly, I don't know how I've managed to put up with you for so long. You can be quite domineering you know."

"If it weren't for me, you've been lost a long time ago," she countered. "You're lucky to have me around, Count Dracula."

He met her eyes, his mouth curving into a genuine grin. "I suppose I can't argue with that."

Besides the sound of their footsteps, the environment around them was quiet. Many of the animals had succumbed to rising climate change. As water sources dried up, the creatures that depended on them died too. Agatha distinctly recalled walking by Whitby beach one afternoon to find that much of the shore had been covered with decaying fish carcasses. The smell was almost so unbearable that her stomach lurched. There weren't any visitors that day, or even the week that followed.

"We really should have reconsidered going back to Transylvania," Dracula stated, breaking the silence. "It would've been nice to see the castle again. Or even Hungary?"

"Yes, because we had the greatest time in Budapest." Agatha replied, giving him a look. "No, England has been our home for so long. It seems fitting that we stayed here. It's nostalgic."

"You and your sentimental nature," he husband scoffed. "Sometimes I wonder if you reverted back into your human form."

"And would you still love me if I had?" She questioned, studied his face carefully. "If I was human?"

"Even if you put a stake to my chest and called me a despicable beast-which, I might have, you've done in the past, I would most certainly." The vampire smiled and took her into his arms, kissing her softly. "You were always my most promising experiment."

"You and your elegant way with words." Agatha smirked, rolling her eyes. "I should have worked with you on that. But it would've taken away from that charismatic charm of yours."

"Are you mocking me?" Dracula asked, a brow cocked.

"Just merely stating a point." She answered, reaching down to once again reclaim his hand. For a second, her eyes glanced up towards the sky noting how scarlet it'd already become. "We should hurry. I'd like to enjoy the fields before it's too late."

It was odd that despite the millions of people who called England their residence were not out and about. Not once since they'd left their house had they come across another person. Not that they were complaining, both Dracula and Agatha wanted privacy. And as they approached the rolling hills of their destination, the vampires stopped.

"This looks like a lovely place." Agatha said, turning to Dracula. "Wouldn't you agree?"

The elder vampire's face had fallen void of emotion. He let go of his mate's hand and stared upwards, the corners of his lips turning downwards into a frown. Agatha forced a smile as she watched him, trying to hide her own disappointment. The air was getting hotter and they both knew their time was closing in.

"I lied to you."

At first, Agatha wasn't quite sure if she heard him right. It was an odd statement, something she hadn't expected. When she tried to catch his eyes, he didn't meet hers. Instead, he continued to look off into the distant as if deep in thought.

"Dracula…" She said hesitantly, reaching out to grab his arm. "What are you talking about? What do you mean you lied?"

The man merely sighed, pinching the brim of his nose before finally finding it in him to face his wife. "I promised you forever," he exclaimed. "From the moment I turned you, I assured you that I would make you last. Bond together for eternity. But this," he wildly motioned at the sky. "Is not what I meant."

"No, you're right…" Agatha began, moving closer. "It wasn't what either of us expected. But my dearest Count, you did give me a full life. Centuries that I would have otherwise never had." She reached up, resting a hand against his cool cheek. "I'm not upset or scared about what is to come. I'm not alone. I have you, don't I?"

"Well yes," Dracula agreed, still grimacing. "But now I've doomed us to becoming nothing more than ash-if we are lucky to become only that."

"Then let us become ash, or particles, or whatever else happens when we burn," she murmured. "If this was what life had intended for us, then in the end, I'm glad I was with you." Agatha chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Funny to think I wouldn't have agreed to that those many, many centuries ago. Back at the convent. You remember yes?"

"How could I forget," he smirked. "What a feisty personality you had as a nun."

"We went from wanting to kill each other to wanting to die together." Agatha sighed, gazing deep into his eyes. "Irony has truly followed us throughout the years. But I wouldn't change a second of it. Not a moment." The ground around them began to smoke, but she ignored it. "Do you love me, Count Dracula?"

"More than I'll ever be able to comprehend." He answered, pulling her close. "You, my beloved, have always been my true bride."

The air was scorching now, a blinding orange glow radiating from every direction. The skirt of Agatha's dress was now encircled by a brilliant ring of red flame. She didn't seem to notice though as she pushed herself up to kiss Dracula on the mouth hard. His arms wrapped around her as he held her close.

"Don't let go." she whispered, allowing her eyes to close for one last time.

"Never," he answered. "Not in a million years."

And together, as the mighty star drew in closer, the lovers were pulled into the Sun's welcoming embrace. Forever lost in their eternal love.

[skadisprawl]

Getting Fired

I wrote this in February of 2019, while working in a call center, on the day I found out I was going to be laid off from my job.  It helped me a lot to get my feelings out at the time, and maybe it’ll help other people, to know that they’re not alone.

---

It is 9:35am, and I have just found out I am going to be fired.

Well, not ‘fired’, exactly.  ‘Laid off’ is the official terminology they use for this sort of thing.  But it hardly makes a difference in the end, so why mince words over it now?  The long and the short of it is that very soon, I will not have a job.

And the worst part - after learning this horrible, immutable fact, I am expected to go back to work.

It is only 9:40, so I stop by the break room for a cup of coffee.  I rip open a pack of sugar, and add that to my cup.  I peel the top off a little cup of creamer and add that.  I use one of the flimsy little wooden rods to stir, and stir, and stir my pale brown coffee.  And then I dump it out.

I take my coffee black.

It is 9:45, so I stop by the front desk.  I chat with Sarah, the receptionist.  She’s nice, and bubbles over with enthusiastic observations on the weather.  She hasn’t heard the news yet.  I have been expressly forbidden from telling her - or anyone - until the people from corporate break the news to them first.  Sarah is scheduled to sit in on the 10:00am meeting with the bigwigs from the central office.  She has fifteen minutes until she learns that she, too, is going to be fired.  We all are.

I grab a small chocolate piece from the candy dish on Sarah’s desk and leave.  I don’t remember what Sarah was saying, or if I responded.  I might have left in the middle of one of her sentences; I can’t be sure.  At the moment, I’m finding it difficult to care.

I wander back to my desk, eyes down, slowly peeling the foil off my chocolate the whole way.  The foil is pink, and that means something, but I can’t think of what right now.

I sit down at my desk, and it is 9:51.  I had half an hour scheduled for that meeting, so I don’t need to be back on the phone lines until ten o’clock.  I briefly debate getting back up to go to the bathroom, rolling the slowly melting chocolate around in my mouth, but decide against it.  I have another break soon, and it hardly seems worth the effort of standing.

I roll the foil from the chocolate into a little ball, rubbing it back and forth between my fingers until it’s compact and smooth.  The foil is pink because it’s nearly Valentine’s Day.  Everything is pink at the moment.  There are buckets of flowers and stands full of bouquets at every convenience and drug store in town.  I’m not sure who would buy roses a full week and a half before the event, but the stores seem to be convinced that someone will if they’re stocking things so early.

I wonder if convenience stores hire seasonal help for Valentine’s Day.  Do they get an uptick in sales, with their half-aisle of red-and-pink-wrapped candy and stand of slightly wilted flowers?  Should I ask?  Probably not.  The corporate execs didn’t give any specifics in the brief meeting they called to break the news, but there was a mention of severance.  I should probably wait to hear if I’m going to get any before I jump ship for a two-week gig as a cashier hawking heart-shaped boxes full of subpar chocolate.

The clock on my computer changes to 9:52, and everything about this day seems so much worse with that tiny change.  Why did they have to tell me first thing in the morning?  They could have waited until the end of the day, at least.  Then I could have gone straight home and stared at the wall of my apartment, rather than feeling my brain turn to syrup in the dubious privacy of my cubicle.

My cube neighbor walks by, and I don’t turn to look at him, but his posture suggests he’s as shell-shocked by the news as I am.  I do catch the sounds of a deep and protracted sigh as his chair creaks and he sits down.  I don’t think the folks in charge thought this through.  They are always encouraging us to be upbeat, friendly, and helpful with the customers that call us on the phone.  I have a feeling none of us are going to be quite up to par for the rest of the day.  Although, who knows?  If there’s one thing you learn working at a call center, it’s how to fake a cheerful attitude.

As I waggle my mouse to clear the screensaver, I can see that there are already incoming calls stacking up in the queue.  Our managers have been covering the lines while all of us front-line phone jockeys were in the meeting, but they’re not as fast and efficient as we are.  They make the mistake of actually waiting for the customer to stop talking before they respond, which is only useful if you want to hear the same oh-poor-me life story from an elderly widow or a young mother on Medicaid two hundred times a day.  It might be rude to interrupt, but there’s only so many times a man can hear someone detail the results of their colorectal cancer screening before he gets desperate to shut them up.

Oh, look, it’s 9:59.  That probably means I ought to get back on the phone lines before the manager is forced to spend another half-hour listening to an old man mumble his way through the list of tests he’s had done.  I click open the drop-down menu that determines whether or not I get calls, and hover the cursor over the ‘available’ option.

There’s a brief, sweeping urge to just log out of the program, pack up the few items left in my desk, and walk out the front door.  It would be easier, probably.  Simpler.  A nice clean break, so I can focus on grieving for my financial security for a day or two, then pick myself up, dust myself off, and go out to look for another job.  But it’s not very smart.  There’s healthcare to consider, and the possibility of severance.  References, and my already-limited professional reputation.  There’s no way to walk out of this company right now and make it look good.

So instead I take a deep breath, paste a fake smile on my face (“Customers can hear your smile!” chirps my memory, in a parodied approximation of the woman who trained me), and click the little box that marks me as available for calls.  The phone rings immediately.

It is 10:03, and it’s time to get back to work.

[thepetulantpen]

Flowers/Resurrection

(Dryad Molly- with a dash of widomauk- for day 5 of @mollymauklivesfest !)

Caleb lays one last flower on the grave and watches as it regrows roots and pulls itself upright, becoming part of the garden that thrives where their friend lays dead.

He turns his back to it, wishing he could leave the grief behind as simply as he leaves the grave.

An afternoon breeze brushes past him and through the flowers; he can hear them rustle against each other, tangled and still growing.

There’s a louder sound then. Shifting of dirt.

Caleb looks back and just sees the flowers, still growing rapidly from Caduceus’ spell. Perhaps their sudden growth is upsetting the earth.

He should be leaving, returning to the others, but something roots him to the ground, some feeling, instinct, suspicion. It’s irrational but he just can’t move. Can’t leave. Not yet.

The dirt moves. It’s the flowers. Another blooms, beautiful lavender.

It’s nothing.

The feeling, whatever it is, subsides ebough for Caleb to turn away, then, as soon as his eyes are off the grave, there’s a sharp thwack. Caleb startles and spins around, hand already in his bag of spell components.

The stick holding the coat has fallen over, the ground under it risen up in a lump. The flowers part around a gap in the dirt and then there’s more flowers—

No. A hand, covered in flowers.

Caleb stares in disbelief as the hand emerges up to an elbow, hooking itself on the ground and pulling, pulling—

It’s Molly.

He’s shaking dirt from his hair, or what used to be his hair. Now, it falls as long strands of wisteria flowers, framing a face carved from purpleheart wood.

The same deep red stares out of the eye sockets, but they’re not quite eyes anymore, just a soft light filling the emptiness there.

He smiles, grin wide and bright as it always is, though carved from a light wood.

“Mr. Caleb! What’ve I missed?”

...

“Ah,” Caduceus looks over Molly and sips his tea, “Well that’s an unexpected result.”

“Unexpected? He’s a fucking tree!” Beau gestures towards Molly, the only one breaking the shocked silence of the room.

Molly is the center of attention and, as usual, he doesn’t mind one bit. He’s the center of his own attention, the rest of the world fading away as he flexes his new fingers, combs through his flower hair and concentrates on that odd sensation in the back of his head.

It’s like trying to remember a dream, grasping onto something hidden in his subconscious. It feels like something he’s forgotten- almost the same as discovering his bloodhunter abilities had felt- but it can’t be, all this is new, surely.

The feeling comes into focus a bit more, allowing Molly’s mind to grab onto the vague sensation and not let go until he pieces it all together. He closes his eyes, just feeling and listening now.

Warmth.

He feels grass at his back and sides, a comforting blanket beneath him. The heat of a campfire rolls over him, chasing away the chill of the darkness. Moss grows under his feet, carpeting a path over cold stones.

Strength.

A tree bears his weight easily as he ascends her branches, peering through the leaves. Flowers smolder into ash and spring back up, undeterred by disaster, right before his eyes. The dirt resists being interrupted by a shovel, weighing down any efforts to break its surface.

Growth.

He steps over a weed growing from a crack in the pavement, its roots gradually widening the gap and making its unwanted presence permanent. A field that has been razed to the ground by wildfire sprouts new bushes and flowers. In a dead wood, flowers bloom from corpses, using what life is left to combat the poison that threatens to overtake them.

Molly opens his eyes to the sight of flowers growing from his hands, his horns, his neck. They wind around him in colorful adornments, bracelets of peonies, a necklace of roses, and chains of marigolds hanging from his horns. There’s flowers everywhere now, some taking hold on this new body and others falling to the ground around his feet. He sees all different kinds, can recognize them from Yasha’s book; hyacinth, hydrangea, snapdragon, lilac- too many to name or count. A sunflower stem circles around his upper arm and stays there, blooming on the shoulder above his heart.

Caleb stares at him in disbelief, eyes darting around as if looking for the source of the flowers. Everyone is staring at him, and Molly smiles for the crowd.

They don’t seem to appreciate it much, staring just as slack-jawed as before, if not moreso. Caleb breaks the silence, clearing his throat.

“That’s a neat trick.”

Molly stands straighter at the compliment, happy to have something normal and familiar in this time of change. “Thank you, Caleb. I’m trying to learn how all of this works.”

“It’s very pretty!” Jester recovers next, moving to his side and grabbing his arm, making her the first person to touch him since Caleb helped pull him out of the grave, “Can I have one?”

Molly smiles and Jester is happy to see that hasn’t changed, as bright and sharp and mirthful as before, just with more wood.

“Go for it.”

Jester hesitates, bites her lip, screws up her face in concentration, then reaches up to very carefully pluck a marigold from his horn.

She looks down at it in wonder, twirling it between her fingers, then back up at Molly. “Did that hurt?”

“No, not at all.”

Beau approaches now, looking Molly in the eye for the first time since she called him a tree, and, without warning or ceremony, punches him in the arm.

There’s a crack of an impact as her knuckles collide with wood, leaving Beau wincing and shaking her hand. “Did that hurt?”

Molly rubs his arm, grimacing. Beau hits hard and, apparently, the wood doesn’t not count as armor if it’s his new skin.

“Ow, yes. Couldn’t have given me a warning or anything?”

“I didn’t even think it would do anything,” Beau’s face drops in mock horror and she looks over to Jester, “Does this mean that all trees can feel when you hit them?”

Jester giggles and Molly rolls his eyes, though the expression is mostly lost without pupils. Or real eyes, in the human sense.

“Do a lot of tree punching in your spare time?”

Beau looks about ready to give an emphatic yes to that and start a fight when Caduceus intervenes.

“Well, he’s not quite a tree. He probably has nerves and blood and such, which hurt when hit.”

“We could test that.” Nott loads a crossbow bolt and jokingly aims it at Molly, but Fjord steps in between them.

“Let’s not do that. Caduceus, do you know what the fuck is going on?”

Caduceus hasn’t really looked up from his tea and definitely hasn’t given Molly’s new state much thought, not even while the rest of the group had been panicking about it.

“There’s all sorts of things that could bring this about, in theory. Arcane or divine forces could have claim on his soul, or the magic of my spell could have taken hold in an odd way,” Caduceus downs the rest of his tea and begins polishing off the cup with a cloth, “You just never know. Life is funny like that.”

“Should we,” Fjord pauses, at a loss with this whole conversation, “be trying to, like, fix him?”

Caduceus glances at Molly, who’s growing a patch of snapdragons between the wood planks of their inn room floor. “I don’t think it needs to be fixed, if there even is a way to do so.”

“But—“

“I’m alive,” Molly interrupts, giving his input on this conversation about him for the first time, “That’s all that matters, I think. And I can do a bunch of super cool things now. Look.”

The snapdragon patch doubles in size, becoming a proper two foot wide bush. The wood creaks and Fjord is beginning to think that they’ll have to leave town very quickly after they exit this inn.

Jester, as she is prone to do, looks very excited. “This’ll be so fun! We can go out and make flowers grow everywhere! Oh, Yasha will love this-“

Jester’s face pales, turning sky blue. “Oh gods, Yasha. We have to tell her you’re alive.”

Molly has been so distracted with rising from the dead that he hadn’t even thought to question Yasha’s absence, figuring she’d just left to take care of something or get some space after their ordeal. Of course she’d be distraught, they buried him.

“You can send her a message, right? Just tell her, right now.”

“I can’t, I’m sorry. I don’t have it prepared,” Jester sniffs, tears already coming to her eyes at the sight of the panic on Molly’s face, “I’m sorry.”

Molly breathes in once, trying not to think of what he’d do if he thought he’d lost Yasha. He rubs Jester’s back reassuringly.

“It’s ok, we’ll just do it tomorrow. She’ll be fine,” he looks down and adds, to himself, “she’s always ok. She’ll be fine.”

He hopes she’s ok. He prays to every god he knows that she hasn’t done something stupid and he hopes with all he has, with this new wooden heart of his.

Beau nods along with them. “Yasha’s strong, she hasn’t given up yet,” she smiles and punches Molly in the arm again, much softer, “We should get you to bed, tree man. Dying probably takes a lot out of you.”

As much as he hates to admit it, Beau is right. He’s exhausted, lack of energy wilting his flowers and making his wooden limbs feel heavy.

He lets them lead him to bed, lets Beau fill his head with empty promises of Yasha returning. As he lays down to sleep, the bed seems just as soft as it was when he was human, and he’s grateful to still have that comfort.

He dreams of Yasha and storms and flowers.

No blood, no death, no Lucien. Just flowers.

...

Molly is waiting outside in the rain, ignoring Beau’s teasing about the possibility of him being struck by lightning and set on fire.

The dirt below him is growing a thick rug of moss and mushrooms, soft under his bare feet. His coat thrashes in the winds and the wisteria on his head gets in his eyes, but he pays it no mind.

He’s waiting out the storm, hoping this’ll be the one that brings her.

“Wild weather out here, hm?”

Caleb has to raise his voice to be heard over the heavy rains and thunder. He’s shivering already, rain soaking through his ratty coat.

“Gods, Caleb, you’ll catch your death out here.”

Molly pulls him deeper in the shade of a tree, presses his hand against the trunk, and feels the tree’s branches extend and its leaves grow broad enough to give them suitable cover.

Caleb laughs and blinks raindrops out of his eyes, staring at Molly’s worried face. “Did dying turn you into a mother hen, too? I’m fragile, but not that fragile, Mollymauk.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Molly grins, then adds, more seriously, “I’d feel better if you let me buy you a decent coat.”

Caleb looks down, feeling guilty on two fronts- being needy and making Molly pity him. “That’s not necessary.”

“It is necessary. I’ll have only the best for my favorite wizard. Besides,” Molly smiles, shifts to move closer, then hesitates, moving back, “if I just get you a coat, I know you won’t refuse it.”

Caleb hums, unable to refute that. He presses closer to Molly, grabbing his hand and resting his head against the tiefling’s shoulder. It’s nice, of course, just to be near Caleb but it’s even nicer now, when everybody else seems so hesitant to get close to Molly, in this strange new body.

It’s over too soon as Caleb pulls away, detaching himself and stepping back.

“So the storm did bring her, after all.”

Molly blinks in confusion, his thoughts too tangled up in the idea of Caleb Caleb Caleb to process what he means, then—

He turns and Yasha is there, standing in the rain.

Caleb leaves, he thinks, but Molly isn’t sure because he’s so focused on his best friend, his first friend, who’s been with him through new life and death. She’s ok and he’s so happy.

Whatever he’s feeling, Yasha is feeling double that when she sees Molly standing before her and breathing, albeit with more flowers than she’s used to.

“It’s a bit of a different look, I’m sure it’ll take some getting used to—“

Yasha pulls Molly into a crushing hug, lifting him clear off the ground. Molly puts his arms around her and is happy to see she doesn’t flinch at the touch of wood instead of skin.

She doesn’t say anything more, a woman of too few words to express the thousands in her head, just keeps hugging him as the rain begins to die and the last lightning strikes flashes in the far distance.

Yasha doesn’t fully let go of him even when she sets him down, holding onto his arm as if he might vanish if she looks away or breaks contact. Molly doesn’t mind, using his free hand to summon a daisy to put in Yasha’s hair.

“For your collection.”

He’s sure it’s just rain on her face and not tears, never tears for strong, stoic Yasha. He’ll pretend for her, if it makes her happy.

This is life, standing in the sunshine after a rainstorm with your best friend and just breathing. They’re alive, they’re not alone.

Family, always, no matter what form they take.

Molly looks up at Yasha, ready to say what he’s been thinking since he first saw her emerge from that rainstorm, the first time they’ve seen each other since the night she was kidnapped, but she beats him to it.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

[keeroo92]

My Brother’s Pain

For @dmcgenweek Day Three - Grief/Sleep

Takes place after the events of DMC5, before the epilogue scenes.

Vergil hated the Underworld.

Why?

Well, for starters, it was always so bloody cold. The chill of it set him on edge the instant he and Dante had crossed over. The familiar icy caress reminded him of his other visits to Hell. He knew from experience if he made it back to the Human Realm, it would take at least a week to feel warm again.

Second on the elder Sparda’s list of reasons to hate Hell was the smell. Every plane had a distinct odor to it, but there was always an undercurrent of wilting roses. Ever since his first “visit” he’d hated the fragrance of roses. By itself, the scent wasn’t worth noticing. But when you mixed in the plane's aroma they had landed on, it was abhorrent.

Wilting roses and wet canine. Only in the Underworld.

Add to the mix of unpleasantness the fact that demons attacked every ten minutes, and Vergil lacked the ability to imagine a worse location to find himself.

And Dante’s here, too. Ugh.

Regardless, he had a job to do, and Vergil would not allow failure to wound his pride. He allowed himself the luxury of wrinkling his nose in distaste as he flicked the Yamato to the side to expel the demon blood coating it, sheathing the blade in a single, fluid motion. Dante didn’t bother. His idiot brother absorbed his own weapon back inside his body without cleaning it.

“C’mon, Verg. Let’s get this done.”

Vergil scoffed, his long legs bringing him to his brother’s side within three strides as the man in red walked toward their goal; the Qlipoth.

“My sentiments exactly, brother.”

Gazing at the tree filled Vergil with shame. He struggled to believe how foolish he’d been to think summoning this monstrosity to the Human Realm would bring him greater power. How naïve to imagine he could somehow become stronger by splitting himself in half. No, his desperation had borne that idea; it didn’t bear further thought.

His new plan was to observe Dante and decide for himself if his methods might cause his own strength to rise if adopted. It was a strategy he’d never considered, but knowing the life his brother led and taking into consideration what his human half had experienced, it was worth exploring. Perhaps the answer was to indulge both sides of himself, as opposed to just the one.

Even if his assessment proved incorrect, it would not be difficult to eliminate the man. Not considering how many demons were nearby waiting to rip him apart. Utilizing them would be child’s play.

The two men reached the Qlipoth within mere hours. There was no change in the lighting to mark the passage of time, leading Vergil to believe this was one of the Realms without sunlight. One where despite this, instead of the land being eternally shadowed, it was eternally bright.

Sleep would be a challenge.

A challenge to face later.

Vergil followed his brother to the bottom of the tree, the pair of them drawing their blades together to destroy the last remnant of his idiocy.

The Qlipoth fell easily to their combined might, a great crash marking its descent as it struck the ground. Once the rumbles subsided, Vergil once again sheathed his blade with care while Dante absorbed his own.

“Well… that’s that,” Dante commented.

“Indeed.”

“Guess we should find somewhere to rest for a bit.”

Vergil hummed his agreement, his cold eyes already scanning the environment for potential sites. Because they were in the Underworld, the Qlipoth hadn’t vanished upon being destroyed. Some of its limbs met nearby in a passable approximation of shelter. It still left one side open to attack, but it was an advantageous find, regardless.

“I’ll take first watch,” Vergil announced as he led his brother to the somewhat sheltered spot. Dante shrugged, peeling off his crimson jacket to curl up underneath it. He used one of the sleeves to cover his eyes and soon enough he filled the air with his restful snores.

Alone at last.

Vergil made a point to sweep his stern gaze across the horizon every few seconds, keeping vigil as was his duty. Yet as his eyes fulfilled his responsibilities, his mind wandered.

He couldn’t help but wonder about Nero. His son. He wasn’t sure how to describe his impression of that fact, his emotions too out of practice to recognize. His very bones informed him Dante had spoken the truth; he knew the boy was his. Yet there was no sense of ownership or urge to claim him.

I suppose I no longer have that right.

He’d made so many mistakes, so many errors in judgement. A twinge of unfamiliar discomfort made him shift uncomfortably as he dwelled on his many failures. He tried to find the language necessary to describe what he felt, but lacked the terminology. This, by itself, was alarming. Vergil prided himself on his vocabulary, always having a word ready for any -

“Mom…”

His eyes shot straight to Dante’s as he mumbled. The sleeve of his coat had fallen away at some point, letting Vergil stare in confusion as his brother writhed in the grip of his nightmares. His twin’s brows met and his teeth showed in a pained grimace.

Dante has nightmares?

“Mom… stay with me…”

Vergil turned away, redirecting his focus through sheer force of will. He envisioned a wall between himself and his brother, one that sound lacked the means to penetrate. He clenched his jaw in frustration as the echoing cries of his brother’s pain intermittently interrupted his musings. His thoughts drifted to their mother, of course. If Dante’s nightmares reflected reality, then it seemed she had left him behind as well.

A rush of understanding and sympathy did its best to overpower him, but he brutally grappled it into submission. Even if Eva left Dante behind, his life was still so different from his own that he didn’t merit kindness.

“Vergil… find Vergil…”

Dante’s muttered words sent Vergil reeling. He must have misheard his brother’s ramblings. For a moment, Vergil maintained his vigil. Yet his curiosity refused to abandon his thoughts and soon enough he edged nearer to his brother. He heard the low moans between the muttered expressions, his own name mixed alongside their mother’s in a cacophony of woe. He stepped closer, now standing mere feet away to listen to every word that escaped Dante’s lips.

“Mom… come back… too late…”

Vergil froze, not daring to draw breath as he listened. He tried to assemble the puzzle pieces into a coherent image, but without more information it was a fool’s errand.

Suddenly Dante’s eyes opened. He instantly spotted Vergil crouched beside him and grimaced, sitting up hurriedly. At first, Vergil considered playing it off somehow, making an excuse. Yet something inside him proclaimed its distaste for the idea. Instead, he sat alongside his brother with a sigh, his form rigid.

The silence stretched on as the two brothers both searched for the right words to bridge the vast gap between them, each for their own reasons. Vergil spoke first.

“I didn’t know you had nightmares about Mother.”

Dante nodded, his white hair hiding most of his expression as it shifted from the motion.

“Of course I do. What a clusterfuck that was.”

Vergil hummed in agreement, unsure how to navigate these treacherous waters. He wanted to know what happened, what Dante had seen. Needed more information regarding the night that left their family shattered. He cleared his throat.

“I miss her, Dante.”

His counterpart looked at him through his hair, probably assessing the truth in his words. Vergil’s chest felt tight as he watched his brother’s expression soften, his pain reflected in his twins gaze as their eyes met for what felt like the first time in understanding. He focused on him, maintaining eye contact despite the overwhelming urge to look away.

Dante broke first, shifting his body to hide his face as he sniffled. Even as Vergil scoffed at the sign of weakness, another part of him wanted nothing more than to lay his arm across his brother’s shoulders and attempt to comfort him. The opposing urges clashed within him in a storm, resulting in him not responding whatsoever.

“I miss her too, Vergil.”

Warmth on his knee made Vergil glance down to spot Dante’s hand resting there. He stared blankly for a long moment, unsure how to proceed. Upon considering it, he could not deny that the contact felt… nice. He wondered when he’d last allowed someone to touch him, but nothing recent came to mind. Dante withdrew his palm, leaving Vergil to puzzle over his mixed reaction. He asked the question he longed to find answers for to give himself another moment to process.

“What happened that night?”

To his surprise, Dante responded.

“She… she hid me in their closet and… went to look for you. I heard her scream but that’s all I know.”

Would she have survived if I’d been there? Was her death my fault?

Vergil bit his lip to stop it from trembling, fighting to conceal his emotions. They swirled within him in a whirlwind. His anger, his regret, his childlike sadness and his grief. He took a halting breath, his shoulders twitching as he withheld a sob.

“It’s okay, Verg. Let go, I’m the only one here and you can kill me later, anyway.”

Vergil glared at his kin intensely enough to melt glass, the mere suggestion of displaying his pain for anyone to see abhorrent. Yet even as he held his angry stare, a tear slipped out and rolled down his cheek. Dante sighed, rolling his eyes at Vergil’s insistence on self-control. He leaned closer and wrapped his arms around his brother, awkwardly pulling the man into a hug. It was clear from the look on his face he expected to Vergil to stab him for it.

Vergil steadfastly remained rigid, his staccato breathing the only outward sign of his grief. Once again, some foreign corner of his being longed to return the embrace. Another portion of his being wished for nothing more than to see Dante with the Yamato embedded in his belly. Yet he did neither.

“I’m not letting go until you either stab me or hug me,” Dante muttered stubbornly.

I’ve stabbed him before and it’s gained me naught. Perhaps it is time for a different approach?

As he said, I can always kill him later.

Vergil raised his arms with reluctance, wrapping them around Dante with a clenched jaw. Somehow, returning the hug made it more difficult to hold in his pain, and all at once it became too much to bear. He shook under the force of his need to control himself, unable to do anything to halt the erosion of his restraint.

Dante patted his back, and the dam disintegrated. Vergil transformed into a pathetic mess of sorrow as his tears dripped down his jaw, his shoulders and chest heaving from the strength of his sobbing. He could feel his heart burning in his rib cage, the low ache he had grown used to evolving into an agony so soul wrenching he couldn’t remain silent.

His own frailty disgusted Vergil as he howled at the still bright sky overhead, expelling as much of his pain as possible with the power of his voice. Dante released him as the sound echoed, cringing from the volume. Even without his brotherly hug, Vergil found control unattainable. He angrily succumbed to the tide of misery within him, riding out the storm until it blew itself out.

At long last, he returned to himself. He felt like a wrung-out towel, devoid of moisture or coherence in the wake of his episode. His limbs were heavy, eyelids swollen and raw from the tears he’d scrubbed away. Only a faded ache remained of his previously tortured heart. He leaned back against the Qlipoth they sheltered beneath, taking deep breaths to calm himself further.

Dante stood, threading his arms through the sleeves of his coat.

“Get some sleep. My turn to keep watch.”

Vergil hastily searched for a response, some arrangement of words to reassert his strength. Yet what escaped his lips did nothing of the sort.

“Thank you, brother.”

For more than taking watch.

[gaysparklepires]

28. The Future

Read on AO3 - Links up top!

Carlisle and Edward had not been able to catch up with Ivan before his trail disappeared into the river. They’d swam to the other bank to see if his trial had picked up in a straight line, but there was no trace of him for miles in either direction on the eastern shore.

It was all my fault. Ivan had come, as Alice had seen, to make peace with the Cullens, only to be angered by my camaraderie with Jacob. I wished I hadn’t been experimenting with the effects of not hunting, if my senses had been at their normal sharpness, I would have noticed Ivan’s presence before Jacob had phased, before Ivan had gotten anywhere near us.

There wasn’t much to be done. Carlisle had called Taras with the disappointing news. Taras and Kate hadn’t seen Ivan since they’d decided to come to my wedding, and they were distraught that Ivan had come so close and yet not returned home; it wasn’t easy for them to lose their brother, however temporary the separation might be. I wondered if this brought back the hard memories of losing their mother so many centuries ago.

Alice was able to catch a few glimpses of Ivan’s immediate future, nothing too concrete. He wasn’t going back to Denali, as far as Alice could tell. The picture was hazy. All Alice could see was that Ivan was visibly upset; he wandered in the snow-swathed wilderness—to the north? To the east?—with a devastated expression. He made no decisions for a new course beyond his directionless grieving.

Days passed and though, of course, I forgot nothing, Ivan and his pain moved to the back of my mind. There were more important things to think of now. I would leave for Italy in just a few days.

I hadn’t told Charlie about the trip, and I stewed about whether or not I should. Edward and Carlisle discussed the plan for the hundredth time. If I were to tell Charlie, how to break the news to him just right?

Meanwhile, Emmett and Jasper were busy discussing the possibility for some sort of family vacation after I returned. South America seemed to be on their minds. Carlisle had some friends in the Amazon, and Emmett told me I’d enjoy hunting jaguars and panthers for a change. He had a whim to wrestle with an anaconda. Esme and Royal were looking at plans for the new kitchen Esme wanted to add to mine and Edward’s cottage. Jacob was off with Liam having a conversation about where they stood with each other.

Alice moved slowly—for her—around the big room, unnecessarily tidying the already immaculate space, straightening Esme’s perfectly hung garlands. She was re-centering Esme’s vases on the console at the moment. I could see from the way her face fluctuated—aware, then blank, then aware again—that she was searching the future. I assumed she was trying to see what my trip for Italy had in store for me until Jasper said, “Let it go, Alice; Ivan’s not our concern,” and a cloud of serenity stole silently and invisibly through the room. Alice must have been worrying about him again.

She stuck her tongue out at Jasper and then lifted one crystal vase that was filled with white and red roses and turned toward the kitchen. There was just the barest hint of wilt to one of the white flowers, but Alice seemed intent on utter perfection as a distraction to her lack of vision tonight.

Staring out the window, I didn’t see it when the vase slipped from Alice’s fingers. I only heard the whoosh of the air whistling past the crystal, and my eyes flickered up in time to see the vase shatter into ten thousand diamond shards against the edge of the kitchen’s marble floor.

We were all perfectly still as the fragmented crystal bounced and skittered in every direction with an unmusical tinkling, all eyes on Alice’s back.

My first illogical thought was that Alice was playing some joke on us. Because there was no way that Alice could have dropped the vase by accident. I could have darted across the room to catch the vase in plenty of time myself, if I hadn’t assumed she would get it. And how would it fall through her fingers in the first place? Her perfectly sure fingers...

I had never seen a vampire drop anything by accident. Ever.

And then Alice was facing us, twisting in a move so fast it didn’t exist.

Her eyes were halfway here and halfway locked on the future, wide, staring, filling her thin face till they seemed to overflow it. Looking into her eyes was like looking out of a grave from the inside; I was buried in the terror and despair and agony of her gaze.

I heard Edward gasp; it was a broken, half-choked sound.

“What?” Jasper growled, leaping to her side in a blurred rush of movement, crushing the broken crystal under his feet. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her sharply. She seemed to rattle silently in his hands. “What, Alice?”

Emmett moved into my peripheral vision, his teeth bared while his eyes darted toward the window, anticipating an attack.

There was only silence from Esme, Carlisle, and Royal, who were frozen just as I was.

Jasper shook Alice again. “What is it?”

“They’re coming for us,” Alice and Edward whispered together, perfectly synchronized. “All of them.”

Silence.

For once, I was the quickest to understand—because something in their words triggered my own vision. It was only the distant memory of a dream—faint, transparent, indistinct as if I were peering through thick gauze... In my head, I saw a line of black advancing on me, the ghost of my half-forgotten human nightmare. I could not see the glint of their ruby eyes in the shrouded image, or the shine of their sharp wet teeth, but I knew where the gleam should be…

Stronger than the memory of the sight came the memory of the feel—the wrenching need to protect those around me. For the first time since I’d been reborn, I felt cold.

I barely heard the confirmation of my fears. I didn’t need it. I already knew. “The Volturi,” Alice moaned.

“All of them,” Edward groaned at the same time.

“Why?” Alice whispered to herself. “How?”

“When?” Edward whispered.

“Why?” Esme echoed.

“When?” Jasper repeated in a voice like splintering ice.

Alice’s eyes didn’t blink, but it was as if a veil covered them; they became perfectly blank. Only her mouth held on to her expression of horror.

“Not long,” she and Edward said together. Then she spoke alone. “There’s snow on the forest, snow on the town. Little more than a month.”

“Why?” Carlisle was the one to ask this time.

Esme answered. “They must have a reason. Maybe to see...”

“This isn’t just about Beau,” Alice said hollowly. “They’re all coming—Aro, Caius, Marcus, every member of the guard, even the wives.”

“The wives never leave the tower,” Jasper contradicted her in a flat voice. “Never. Not during the southern rebellion. Not when the Romanians tried to overthrow them. Not even when they were hunting the werewolves. Never.”

“They’re coming now,” Edward whispered.

“But why?” Carlisle said again. “We’ve done nothing! And if we had, what could we possibly do that would bring this down on us?” “There are so many of us,” Edward answered dully. “They must want to make sure that…” He didn’t finish.

“That doesn’t answer the crucial question! Why?”

I felt I knew the answer to Carlisle’s question, and yet at the same time I didn’t. Like it was just there, waiting for me to realize it.

“Go back, Alice,” Jasper pleaded. “Look for the trigger. Search.”

Alice shook her head slowly, her shoulders sagging. “It came out of nowhere, Jazz. I wasn’t looking for them, or even for us. I was just looking for Ivan. He wasn’t where I expected him to be…” Alice trailed off, her eyes drifting again. She stared at nothing for a long second.

And then her head jerked up, her eyes hard as flint. I heard Edward catch his breath.

“He decided to go to them,” Alice said. “Ivan decided to go to the Volturi. And then they will decide.... It’s as if they’re waiting for him. Like their decision was already made, and just waiting on him...”

It was silent again as we digested this. What would Ivan tell the Volturi that would result in Alice’s appalling vision?

“Can we stop him?” Jasper asked.

“There’s no way. He’s almost there.”

“What is he doing?” Carlisle was asking, but I wasn’t paying attention to the discussion now. All my focus was on the picture that was painstakingly coming together in my head.

I pictured Ivan poised on the cliff, watching. What had he seen? A half-vampire and a werewolf who were best friends. I’d been focused on that image, one that would obviously explain his reaction. But that was not quite what he’d seen.

Ivan had seen someone who didn’t look like a vampire, or even a half-vampire. Someone who looked remarkably human.

Ivan…. The Denali Orphans… Carlisle had said that losing their mother to the Volturi’s justice had made Taras, Kate, and Ivan purists when it came to the law.

The Denali’s mother had broken the law; Carlisle himself had told me the story: She broke the rules. She clung too deeply to the mortal world and hid nothing.

With Ivan’s past, how could he apply any other reading to what he’d seen that day in the narrow meadow? He had seen me, looking entirely too human, happily bragging about how I had everything—the immortal and the mortal—and wanted for nothing. Exactly what Ivan’s mother had been executed for, exactly what Ivan and his siblings were nearly executed for.

The Denali clan knew of the precarious situation we all were in; the Volturi had demanded I be turned. I was to be turned, or we would be punished.

In addition, the Cullens were in league with werewolves, the Volturi’s greatest enemy. From Ivan’s point of view, it was all too clear; we had broken the rules and the Volturi would punish us and anyone involved with us.

Ivan, wringing his hands in the snowy wilderness—not mourning Laurent, after all, but knowing it was his duty to turn the Cullens in, knowing what would happen to them if he did. Apparently his conscious had won out over the centuries of friendship. Or perhaps his fear of retribution for his association with Cullens, their human, and their werewolf allies made the decision for him.

The Volturi’s decision was already decided; it was an automatic response to any kind of infraction.

“Think of what Ivan saw that afternoon,” I said in a low voice, interrupting whatever Emmett was beginning to say. “To someone who lost a mother because of involvement with humans, what would I have looked like? Especially after not hunting?”

Everything was silent again as the others caught up to where I was already.

“Human,” Carlisle whispered.

I felt Edward wrap his arms around me.

“Still human, despite the laws. I told Jacob I had everything—All of you, my human friends and family—Ivan must have heard. He thinks we’re blatantly defying the Volturi. And more than that, we’re associating with werewolves.”

The icy tension in the room only mounted as they realized I was right. The room just seemed to get colder.

No one spoke for a long time.

Then Edward whispered into my hair. “They’re not coming to hold trial.” He said quietly. “Aro’s seen Ivan’s proofin his thoughts. They’re coming to destroy.”

“To kill me because they think I’m still human…” I trailed off.

“And destroy us for associating with werewolves.” Carlisle finished, darkly.

“But Beau isn’t human, anymore!” Emmett growled.

“They won’t wait for us to show them that.” Edward’s voice was still quiet, gentle, velvet… and yet the pain and desolation in the sound was unavoidable. His voice was like Alice’s eyes before—like the inside of a tomb.

My eyes unfocused, seeing nothing. “They’ll destroy all of us… The wolves… What’s to stop them from killing everyone in Forks?” I gasped.

Little over a month…

Was this the limit, then? I’d had more happiness than most people ever experienced. Was there some natural law that demanded equal shares of happiness and misery in the world? Was my joy overthrowing the balance? Was four months all I could have?

“What can we do?” Royal demanded.

“We fight,” Emmett answered calmly.

“We can’t win,” Jasper growled. I could imagine how his face would look, how his body would curve protectively over Alice’s.

“Well, we can’t run. Not with Demetri around.” Emmett made a disgusted noise, and I knew instinctively that he was not upset by the idea of the Volturi’s tracker but by the idea of running away. “And I don’t know that we can’t win,” he said. “There are a few options to consider. We don’t have to fight alone.”

My head snapped up at that. “We’ve already sentenced the Quileautes to Death, Emmett! We can’t ask them to fight, too!”

“Chill, Beau.” His expression was no different from when he was contemplating fighting anacondas. Even the threat of annihilation couldn’t change Emmett’s perspective, his ability to thrill to a challenge. “I didn’t mean the pack. Be realistic, though—do you think Jacob or Sam is going to ignore an invasion? But I was thinking of our other friends.”

Carlisle echoed me in a whisper. “Other friends we don’t have to sentence to death.”

“Hey, we’ll let them decide,” Emmett said in a placating tone. “I’m not saying they have to fight with us.” I could see the plan refining itself in his head as he spoke. “If they’d just stand beside us, just long enough to make the Volturi hesitate. If we could force them to stop and listen, see that Beau’s not human anymore. That might take away any reason for a fight…”

There was a hint of smile on Emmett’s face now. I was surprised no one had hit him yet. I wanted to.

“Yes,” Esme said eagerly. “That makes sense, Emmett. All we need is for the Volturi to pause for one moment. Just long enough to listen.”

“We’d need quite a show of witnesses,” Royal said harshly, his voice brittle as glass.

Esme nodded in agreement, as if she hadn’t heard the sarcasm in Royal’s tone. “We can ask that much of our friends. Just to witness.”

“We’d do it for them,” Emmett said.

“It will take more than that,” Alice murmured. I looked over to see her eyes were a dark void again. “The Volturi won’t honor a truce with the wolves.”

“So how do we protect them?” I asked, watching Alice. Her eyes glazed over.

“Gather witnesses. Taras’s family,” she said. “Siobhan’s coven. Amun’s. Some of the nomads—Garrett and Mary for certain. Maybe Alistair.”

“What about Peter and Charlotte?” Jasper asked half fearfully, as if he hoped the answer was no, and his old brother could be spared from the coming carnage.

“Maybe.”

“The Amazons?” Carlisle asked. “Kachiri, Zafrina, and Senna?”

Alice seemed too deep into her vision to answer at first; finally she shuddered, and her eyes flickered back to the present. She met Carlisle’s gaze for the tiniest part of a second, and then looked down.

“I can’t see.”

“What was that?” Edward asked, his whisper a demand. “That part in the jungle. Are we going to look for them?”

“I can’t see,” Alice repeated, not meeting his eyes. A flash of confusion crossed Edward’s face. “We’ll have to split up and hurry—before the snow sticks to the ground. We have to round up whomever we can and get them here to show them.” She zoned again. “Ask Elena. There is more to this than just a human and werewolves.”

The silence was ominous for another long moment while Alice was in her trance. She blinked slowly when it was over, her eyes peculiarly opaque despite the fact that she was clearly in the present.

“There is so much. We have to hurry,” she whispered. “Witnesses in place. Stop Aro.”

“Alice?” Edward asked. “That was too fast—I didn’t understand. What was--?”

“I can’t see!” she exploded back at him. “Jacob’s almost here!”

Royal took a step toward the door. “I’ll tell him to come back—”

“No, let him come,” Alice said quickly, her voice straining higher with each word. She grabbed Jasper’s hand and began pulling him toward the back door. “But I’ll see better away from him and his pack. I need to go. I need to really concentrate. I need to see everything I can. I have to go. Come on, Jasper, there’s no time to waste!”

We all could hear Jacob on the stairs. Alice yanked, impatient, on Jasper’s hand. He followed quickly, confusion in his eyes just like Edward’s. They darted out the door into the silver night.

“Hurry!” she called back to us. “You have to find them all!”

“Find what?” Jacob asked, shutting the front door behind himself. “Where’d Alice go?”

No one answered; we all just stared.

Jacob shook the wet from his hair and pulled his arms through the sleeves of his t-shirt, his eyes on me. “Hey, babe! I thought you guys would’ve gone home by now...”

He saw my eyes, blinked, and then stared. I watched his expression as the room’s atmosphere finally touched him. He glanced down, eyes wide, at the wet spot on the floor, the scattered roses, the fragments of crystal. His fingers quivered.

“What?” he asked flatly. “What happened?”

I couldn’t think where to begin. No one else found the words, either.

Jacob crossed the room in three long strides and dropped to his knees beside me. I could feel the heat shaking off his body as tremors rolled down his arms to his shaking hands.

“Are you okay?” he demanded, putting a hand on my arm. “Don’t mess with me, Beau, please!”

“It’s… It’s…” the words caught in my throat, my voice breaking strangely.

“Beau, babe, what’s going on?”

“It’s over, Jacob,” I whispered. And it was there in my voice, too—the sound of the inside of a grave. “We’ve all been sentenced to die.”