#mother's day greeting Wallpaper

[spiderb00]

FAM OUT HEADCANONS

The beginning

Dream Academy brought a lot of good things to Sophia: success, the Kats, the Eyekons and of course, you.��  

you and Sophia met accidentally, your father was one of the camera operators, and Sophia always saw you backstage. She had thought you were beautiful, but she didn't have the courage, or the time, to stop and start a conversation with you. 

Weeks later, you were hired by the team on your father's recommendation (nepotism, Yunjin’s voice), they hired you for all kinds of work. So it was official, you had your first job as a handyman. You were called especially to fix things that the girls had damaged, and when Sophia found out about it, this girl went crazy.   

Sophia was very focused, she had good reviews, so she thought "Why not give me the luxury and have time with the kitten who works behind the scenes?" 

The sink in the room where Sophia was, magically appeared broken the next day, coincidence, right? The girl was scared to death of being caught, but, oh man, how it was worth it. 

When you came to fix it, Sophia made sure to open the door, show you where the faulty sink was, and keep you company throughout the repair. You talked about everything, and quickly grew closer. 

Sophia could tell you were her safe haven, the breath of air she needed every day, talking to you was magical, and Sophia loved every moment of it.   

Your first date was not called a "first date," at least not for others. You and Sophia knew it was a date, but you preferred to keep it a secret, so as not to threaten your jobs 

So imagine the relief you felt, sitting in the audience, hearing the name of Sophia, your girlfriend, being announced as the member of Hybe's new group, Katseye.

The reaction of the Kats

You two were not as discreet as you thought. The Kats always noticed how Sophia went out to mysterious places, with "friends" that none of the girls had the chance to meet.   

And it wasn't so discreet when Lara saw your face covered in lipstick marks stamped on the wallpaper of Sophia's cell phone.   

The girls had nothing against you, on the contrary, they thought you were very cool, and as long as you were treating Sophia well, everything would be in its proper place.   

When Sophia officially introduced you to the Kats, they asked thousands of questions; "How old are you?", "How long has this been happening?", "What are your intentions with our Sophia?"  

You answered all the questions calmly, I mean, those girls were very important to Sophia, and Sophia was very important to those girls, you would answer as many questions as they wanted.   

Despite all the noise and interrogation, you noticed that one of those girls was very quiet. Yoonchae. 

When you first spoke to the girl, you could notice how she was struggling with her pronunciation, and when she said she was Korean, your brain raced.   

You had learned a few words in Korean a few years ago. You couldn't say you were fluent, but you had a good grasp of the language.  

You swear you'll never forget the smile the girl gave you when you spoke in Korean to her.   

meeting her family 

Getting through the Kats' approval was harder than going through Sophia's parents' approval.   

In fact, they didn't even question it, Sophia's family was extremely receptive, and of course the Filipino girl had talked about you before. So when you arrived you were greeted with friendly hugs from everyone. 

Sophia's family was like your second family, you adored them as much as Sophia. So when Sophia went to visit her parents, she always took you along.   

You cooked with her mother, fixed things Sophia's dad asked you to do (he always said it was so you would remember the old days at Dream Academy), and spent time with her brother.   

At the end of the day, Sophia was fighting to get your attention, but she knows she wouldn't trade it for anything.   

my first headcanon ofc, well, I'm very happy that you guys are enjoying "Fam Out". feel free to send things, I love to see your ideas <3

(request)

[creator1mpersonator]

Through the Mirror

01. Fascination Street

Inspired by Coraline, reader is gender-neutral, no use of Y/N, google translate french

Taglist: @agaygothicmushroom

Dinner that night came from a local fast food joint that was wholly unremarkable. Everything in that town was unremarkable, it seemed. Your father, bless his soul, was doing his best to make the most of this abrupt change while your mother remained less than pleased about the whole thing (despite this whole move being for their job.) After dinner was done, you helped clean up and jumped at the opportunity to take out the trash so you could escape the stuffy tension between your parents for just a few seconds. You went outside, holding the Glad bag by the knot as you walked to the trashcan by the side of your home.

You took in your street’s appearance at night. The neighboring houses were dark, and a few light posts emanating a harsh orange light stood tall in the street. It was almost eerie, but perhaps that was just your perception. You tossed the bag inside the trashcan and walked back inside. Your mother had left the kitchen table, leaving your father alone to work on his laptop. You felt a bit bad, offering him a smile of encouragement as you closed the front door and locked it for the night. You went up to your bedroom, looking through your boxes and backpack for an adequate set of pajamas for the night before you began unpacking the next day. You decided on a faded band tee and a pair of pants that had cats printed on them before changing and climbing into bed. The house was quiet, save for the groan of the house settling. After a while, you found yourself falling asleep.

When you woke up– or more adequately were woken up– everything was dark. You heard something tapping on glass, and you sat up to see a raven tapping its beak against the mirror. You were astounded to find a raven in your damn bedroom of all places, until you realized you were surely dreaming. You got out of bed, socked feet pattering gently against the hardwood floors as you approached the bird. It cawed at you, tapping at the mirror a few more times before flying through.

Your eyes widened, not believing what you just saw. Even for a dream, that seemed far-fetched. It became more absurd when the mirror reflected swirls of purple as if trying to lure you in.

Even more absurd was the fact you crawled through. You climbed onto the dresser beneath the mirror and went through. It was just a dream, what's the harm?

You found yourself in an alluring tunnel of wonderful colors, and you crawled through into a lavish living area. The furniture was golden with plush purple velvet, the walls had a vintage-type wallpaper, and many extravagant chandeliers hung above you. You stood up to your full height, looking around and taking in the new space when you heard footsteps approaching. A short but rather pretty boy with fluffy lilacl hair and big blue eyes came into view, walking towards you with great purpose.

“There ya are!” he exclaimed, his southern accent heavy, “Vil’s gonna throw a damn tantrum if he don’t find ya!”

He was expecting you? Who was he? Who was Vil?

“I’m sorry, who are you?” You asked, taking a cautionary step back.

The boy blinked at you.

“Oh, yeah. Vil said ya’d be confused,” he sheepishly rubbed the back of his head, “Sorry ‘bout that. I’m Epel.”

“Ah, hi Epel.” You greeted, “I’m–”

“I know who ya are,” Epel cut you off.”

“...Right.”

“C’mon,” Epel said, turning around, “Vil’s gonna bite his manicure off if he don’t see ya soon.”

Seeing no other choice, you followed Epel. Besides, this place seemed fascinating and you wanted to see what’d happen next.

“If you don’t mind me asking, who’s Vil?” You asked Epel, falling into step next to him.

“A real hardass.” Epel grumbled, “He’s da queen of this place, real pretty. He just don’t got the heart to match.”

You hummed, feeling a bit nervous about meeting this Vil now. Epel led you through the halls of the building, and you felt like you were being led through a maze. You also couldn’t help but notice that there didn’t seem to be anyone else there but you and Epel. But, just as you went to ask Epel, he led you into a grand common room. It was similar to the room you entered through, but a grand throne sat against the back wall. Peacock-like feathers sat behind it, decorating it with an air of grandeur and importance and you swore you heard Epel scoff before straightening up like a soldier being inspected.

On the throne sat a beautiful man, more than Epel described. He was tall with porcelain-like skin, and no imperfection was visible. He had shoulder-length blonde hair that faded into purple towards the ends and purple eyes. Another man was standing next to the throne, tall and an oddly fearsome smile sat on his face. He too had blonde hair, though his was styled like a bob and sharp green eyes. A hat with a large plume sat on his head.

“Is that them?” the man on the throne, Vil, asked. Epel nodded, and Vil approached you. He seemed almost happy to see you until he saw something that displeased him: your attire.

“What in the Seven are you wearing?” He asked you, eyes narrowed as he scrutinized your pajamas. You looked down to look at your attire.

“What’s wrong with it?” You timidly asked, feeling like a specimen beneath Vil's scrutinizing gaze.

“Please, Potato-” potato? “What isn’t wrong with it? This is hardly adequate for such a lovely being as yourself.” Vil huffed, as if his being in the presence of a faded The Cure was a personal offense.

“Rook,” Vil called, and the blonde man who stood next to him approached, “find suitable nightwear for our guest.”

“Of course, roi du poison.” Rook said, bowing in reverence and beaming at you before he walked out of the room. Vil sighed and moved some hair out of your face.

“Come along now, you two.” He said, beckoning you with a graceful wave of his hand. Epel followed like a sleeper agent, and you followed Epel.

“No doubt you are confused, potato.” Vil stated, continuing to use that nickname for you, “This is the dorm of the Fairest Queen, Pomefiore. I am the housewarden, and Rook is the vice-housewarden.”

“A dorm? So, this is like a school?” You asked. “Exactly. Aren’t you bright?” Vil hummed, and you couldn’t tell if he was being condescending or not. You also noticed that Vil was in no particular rush to give any context about the rest of the school, or of the other students that should’ve been there. It was a school, right?

Your surroundings were beautiful. You saw a vast landscape outside, and the halls of Pomefiore were clearly immaculate. If Vil was the leader, he certainly did a good job at it.

“This shall do nicely.” Vil said, stopping abruptly in front of a door and in your distracted state, you nearly bumped into Epel. Vil opened the door, revealing an uninhabited dorm. A large bed was in the middle, lacy white curtains hanging from the ceiling as a canopy. Two large stained glass windows were on the wall to the left, with deep red curtains. There was a dresser and nightstand, both of regal design, soft carpet and an empty desk. Warm lights shone above, giving an almost cozy atmosphere.

And above the desk was a mirror like the one in your true bedroom.

“Do you like it?” Vil asked you, and you nodded.

“It’s beautiful.” You said. “Good. I’d hate for you to stay in an inadequate room.”

“What do you mean?” “Well, this shall be your room for when you stay here,” Vil said, gently placing his gloved hands on your shoulders. That made you pause.

“What is this place?” You asked.

“It’s Pomefiore, darling.” Vil said, “I’ve already told you this.”

“No, I mean all of this. I’ve never heard of a place like Pomefiore.”

“Ah, well of course you haven’t. This is a world completely unlike your own.” Vil clarified, gently squeezing your shoulders.

You didn’t have much of a chance to ask any further questions before Rook found the three of you (with startling accuracy), holding something silken in his arms.

“I believe I’ve found something magnifique for notre petit trickster!” Rook happily exclaimed. Right, Vil sent him to find you proper pajamas.

“Wonderful, Rook.” Vil said as Rook laid the clothing onto your bed. It was light purple and silky, with the crest of Pomefiore on the breast pocket. It looked expensive and comfortable.

“I– Thanks, this is incredibly kind of you.” You said, and Rook’s off-putting smile only got wider.

“You have no reason to thank us, potato.” Vil said, gently lifting your head with the tip of his fingers beneath your chin, “we just wish to see you happy and comfortable.” Epel and Rook nodded in agreement.

“It is certainly late, you should sleep. A healthy sleep schedule is imperative for maintaining your beauty, you know.” Vil said, “do you need anything before we leave you be?”

You shook your head.

“Very well then. Goodnight, potato.” He squeezed your shoulder, before leaving. “Bonsoir, trickster.” Rook cooed, leaving second.

“Goodnight, ___.” Epel said, and you noticed his southern accent wasn’t noticeable in his voice the way it was before. He left last, closing the door behind him.

You changed into the silk pajamas Rook brought you, before crawling into bed. The warm lighting created a calming ambience, and you soon fell asleep.

When you woke up, you were back in your original bedroom. And despite it supposedly being a dream, you still had on the silk pajamas.

[shanastoryteller]

Happy valentine's day! Could we have more female Naruto?

a continuation of 1 2 3

Naruto clocks Gaara the moment she sees him.

She keeps her smile wide and stance easy, putting her hands on her hips and squinting at the Sand kids. Sasuke and Sakura shift uneasily before deliberately relaxing, picking up on her attitude even if they don’t know why. “My dad told me about you guys! We should stick together, being the kids of kages and all.”

Her father had told her to be wary but hadn’t told her why. She has to believe he doesn’t know. The other option is that he somehow thought that she wouldn’t notice.

“You must be Naruto,” Temari says with a false friendliness that Naruto might not have been able to pick up on if she hadn’t spent her whole life with people loving her or hating her and having a disturbing habit of masking one as the other. “These are my brothers, Kankuro and Gaara. Are these your teammates?”

As if her father hadn’t warned her about the hosting kage’s kid. “Yeah, Sasuke Uchiha and Sakura Haruno.”

Neither of those names garner any reaction, but they wouldn’t. Sasuke’s status as Uchiha is obvious at first look and Sakura comes from a civilian family.

“Hi,” Kankuro says shortly.

Gaara says nothing at all, looking at them with those wide, empty eyes.

They’re going to be a problem. He’s going to be a problem.

~

Naruto knows better than to go to her father with anything important and if she tells her mother then she’ll try and pull her from the chunin exams, which is the last thing any of them needs.

She hates how often she ends up crawling back to her ex-fiance for help.

“Naruto-hime,” Kakashi greets, unruffled at her vaulting in through his window and landing on his counter in a perch.

This place is so depressing. She gets why her mom wants to put in some wallpaper or something so badly, but Kushina is still mad at Kakashi for weaseling out of their engagement, so she just grumbles and complains but won’t do anything about it.

“You’re proctoring the second part of the exam,” she says. The format of the exam is supposed to be secret, but it’s not like that’s ever stopped her from breaking into her father’s office. “I need you to rig the fight.”

He raises his eyebrow. Or maybe he’s raising both of them, but she can’t see under the headband. “That’s cheating.”

“Cheating’s allowed,” she counters. “I need you to make sure I face Gaara.”

He blinks slowly. Or winks. “Your father will kill me.”

“It’s supposed to be random,” she says. “How will he know?”

His silence takes on a decidedly guilty air.

“He told you to make sure I didn’t face him,” she guesses, not bothering to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“He’s worried about you,” Kakashi says.

Too little too late as far as she’s concerned. As if his worry has ever done her any good. As if his worry has ever done anything but get in her way, just like it is right now. “Fine. Make sure he faces Sasuke then.”

“There are easier ways to get out of an engagement,” he says. “You don’t need to arrange to have him killed.”

Her eyes narrow and it takes everything in her not to growl. Growling is one of those things she’s not allowed to do because it’s too much of a tell. “I suppose you’re the expert on that.”

Kakashi doesn’t say anything. He’s spent her whole life not saying anything and it never gets less infuriating.

“Just do it,” she says. “What do you care anyway?”

Naruto is halfway out his window when he says, “I care,” and he can’t see her so she doesn’t bother to hold back her eyeroll.

That’s never done her any good either.

[ventique18]

Twisted Wonderland (Malleus) Comics Masterlist

🌸 Links under the cut 🌸

Drawing guessing relay game

Incubation

Never will there be a cold day with you

Love is driving me a bit insane

Couple goals

Envious dad

Finding Yuutsum

The realization of Yuu-kun

Masterpiece

Getting physical

Surprise kisses

Greetings

Fortune Cookie

Pants

Handfeeding (Father Crowley crack)

Jelly bean

Breed and butter

Possessive "husband"

Calisthenics

Cute (?) height difference

Nighttime activities

Holding hands while walking

Queen mothers and three generations of 🧎‍♂️

Sunbathing

Zoom interview

Lilia-shishou

Souvenir

Lemon cheesecake

Headturner

Homeless

Solving for x and y (u and i)

A walk through a father's life (Diasomnia)

Mystery box

If you could see me now

Seeing shrimp

Horniton

Dragon boyfriend

Drama king

Old dragon

Supportive dragon

Worms

Gargoyles and grandma

Too much...

Scribbles

Home

The devil

Hornton is a guy too!

Flirtatious prefect

Hornton meets mama

Priorities

Homescreen wallpaper

Sweet dreams

Soda

Love letter

Gingerbread family

Hotel rooms, retainers, and wigs

Fatal weakness

Terms and conditions

Virgin maiden

After school activities

Bus

My type

Infinite

Wing marks

Find you

Flower garden

Cute lil doggies

Size difference

Love square

Sparkling dress

Rent-a-waiter

Fighting your own demons

The cat isn't home

Meeting the grandparents

Long boy

Voice messages

Apple of my eye

Touch zone

With you

Reading over your shoulder

Better with you

[morganski-19]

Chills Right to the Marrow Part 64

ao3 link| part 1 . . . part 61, part 62, part 63

the first part takes place after part 53, the second takes place after part 55, and the last before/during part 52

“Jesus Christ this wallpaper is terrible,” Eddie comments as he shuts the door behind him. As he, apparently, followed Steve up the stairs. Because he can’t give Steve a moment to deal with this. To not yell at him for not being prepared.

“I said I don’t want to talk about this again,” he repeats. Firm in his tone.

Eddie practically falls onto Steve’s bed, rolling to lay on his back. “I’m not focusing on that right now. I’m focusing on the fact that I just climbed a flight of stairs and am fucking winded. Holy shit, when did stairs become so hard.”

Steve snorts. Grateful for a moment where he can think of something else.

“So this is Steve Harrington’s room, huh,” Eddie continues. “This is what all the girls were so excited to see. From what I can see from laying down, I guess it’s ok. The décor is terrible though, what the hell is this furniture.” He pauses, because Steve took off his shirt, briefly, before slipping on a sweatshirt. “Oh, never mind, I get it.”

“You knew that they weren’t coming here for the furniture,” Steve mocks, laying down next to Eddie.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Well aware. Just a joke. And maybe my round about way of asking to see you without clothes.”

“Could just be direct. Not like it would be unwanted or anything.” He takes a deep breath. “But that’s not what you came up here for.”

“That is not what I came up here for,” Eddie confirms. He turns on his side, looking at Steve. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, and I know Robin keeps bothering you about it, but I think not talking about it is worse.”

“Eddie,” Steve exhales.

“And,” he persists, “there is something that you’re not saying. And I think it’s better if you did.”

Steve lets out a deep breath, sitting up and Eddie does the same. He looks at Steve expectantly, but patiently. Reaching to take one of Steve’s hands and hold it. Waiting for him to open up.

“The more I think back on times in my life,” Steve starts, “my parents weren’t always terrible parents. When I was a kid, my dad would play catch with me in the yard, put in the pool when he learned I loved to swim, would help my study when I needed it. My mom, she would take me to the movies on my days off from school, bring me to the park, read to me. They went to all my games, had interest in my life and my friends, even insisted they met Nancy when they learned we were dating. Even if by then they had already pulled back.”

It was more for approval, he realizes now. But then, it was everything. There were times that Steve could look back on and try to find something wrong, something that made them out to be bad, but he couldn’t. There were other times that proved the exactly opposite of that, plenty of those times, but they all happened later.

Before high school, his parents were there. They seemed to enjoy being parents. Even if it was all a ruse, even if it was for a motive not obvious at the time, it still felt real.

“Sometime in high school, they just stopped caring. My dad cheated on my mom, and she started following him on all his business trips. They were home less and less. Each time they came back, it was clear that they weren’t interested in hearing about me anymore. This house was just a pit stop for them.”

Before, back in middle school, report card day used to terrify him. He was never good at math or science, something he could never wrap his mind around. No matter how hard he tried, he could never get that grade to an “A”. Something to be proud of. Yet, every time that report came through the mail, he was greeted with a smile from his mother, and a good effort from his dad. A motivating message to try and get better. It felt good in the moment.

There were a lot of moments like that. Where it felt good in the moment, but as Steve grew up, he understood the tone a little more. The meaning behind the eyes he was too scared to look in. It finally set in when he almost failed his freshman algebra. Passing wasn’t good enough, it wasn’t rewarded, just accepted. A lot of things were accepted and not revered.

Trophies were never allowed downstairs. It was a shelf in Steve’s room, that was their place. Because he should be proud of them, and be happy to look at them every day. And when people came over, his parents got to boast and have him run up the stairs to go and fetch the trophy for viewing, before being shunned again.

It wasn’t until he went over to Nancy’s for the first time, the proper first time, and saw Mike’s science fair ribbon hanging on the fridge next to Nancy’s straight “A” report. Dozens of pictures that Holly drew decorating their fridge. That was what real pride looked like. Even if they were just there for the day, it wasn’t shunned. It was acknowledged.

Steve’s accomplishments, his personality, his life was kept from the rest of the house. From them. Everything they ever cared about was things that could be bragged, and then hidden back away. When his notoriety ended, so did their love.

“I wasn’t interesting for them anymore.”

Eddie squeezes his hand, leaning on his shoulder. Steve didn’t realize that he started crying, not until a tear dripped off his chin and fell onto his lap. He stares at the small dark stain, and finds a way to finish.

“And as much as I hate them, as much as I can now see how bad they really were. There is still this part of me that is waiting for them to come back. Them selling the house is just proof that they never are.”

The air feels cleaner now that he’s said it out loud. The room less heavy, his mind a little more blank.

“They don’t deserve you,” Eddie says quietly. Using his hand to pull him closer, kissing his temple. “They don’t deserve you at all.”

“No, no they don’t.” Steve shakes his head, looking around at the only bedroom he’s ever known. “Where am I supposed to go after this?”

Eddie’s hand cups Steve’s cheek, his thumb rubbing away the tears. “One step at a time, right. We’ll get through this one step at a time. This is step one right here. Step two can come when it needs to. Step one point five can be us, sitting here, while you feel whatever you need to feel. Then we’ll get up, and we’ll eat something because I don’t know about you but I’m fucking starving. And then maybe we can watch a movie or something.”

Steve laughs, turning to look at Eddie. “I think I can do that.”

. . .

“So you’re moving in with Eddie?” Dustin asks unprompted.

Steve stills, setting the pile of tapes on the counter. “Uh, yeah, I am. How did you know that?”

They didn’t tell the kids about that yet.

“Not that hard to guess, considering you’ve been dating in secret.”

Also didn’t tell them about that.

He looks around, instinctively making sure no one is there. Even though the front door is locked, Steve just finishes up his closing tasks before he can go. Dustin had insisted that he stay so he didn’t have to bike home in the dark, which was a ruse, he knew. He just hoped that this wasn’t why.

It’s not like he never wanted Dustin to know. Just, that he wanted a bit more time. Robin knowing didn’t mean much, Wayne knowing meant it couldn’t go as unacknowledged. Telling Dustin meant it was real, though. This was it. No take backs if they mess up. No reverting back into awkward friends. Their relationship was real. Known.

Which wouldn’t be such of a problem if Steve wasn’t so scared he was going to mess it up. Every past relationship he’s had, even the small ones, have proven to him that things don’t tend to work out for him. It starts out great, better than he could possibly have imagined, and then it goes south. He says things he regrets, they say things they regret. It’s awkward for two years until a murderous psychopath forces them to spend enough time together to find a way to be friends again.

Robin says he’s projecting too much, but he thinks it’s being cautious. He’s been hurt. Sue him if he didn’t want to be hurt again.

“No one’s here, Steve,” Dusitn confirms when he notices him looking around. “It’s just me.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make it any better.

“I know.”

He truly doesn’t know how Dustin is going to respond. Which side he’s going to pick. He was close with both of them, it was going to be hard.

Steve was hoping Dustin would pick him, but he’s not sure about that.

Dustin makes a motion for him to continue, as if he’s supposed to have something to say.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say here. You seem like you already know everything.”

“I don’t know,” he exclaims. “Maybe hearing how long? How it happened? When you figured out you liked dudes? Something.”

Steve sighs, setting in more tapes to be rewound before answering. “When I worked at the mall, that’s when I figured out I liked guys. Or when I started to question it, I guess. I don’t think it was until after that I finally accepted it.”

Dustin nods, taking it all in. “And when you started liking Eddie?”

“I’m not exactly sure on that one. I know it was somewhere between getting stuck in the upside down and the final battle. But it all kind of hit me before we split off.”

“So that Nancy thing, that was all a fluke?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, kind of.”

“You know you are going to make this insanely complicated for me if you guys break up.”

“I am aware.” He switches out the tapes again. “Hoping that doesn’t happen, though.”

Dustin’s silent for a moment. Steve’s waiting for the shovel talk, ensuring that he doesn’t hurt Eddie. A sign that he’s lost Dustin in the potential breakup. Proof that, again, no one was going to stay.

“You seem happier,” Dustin says instead. “I didn’t notice it at first. But after you guys stopped fighting with each other, which is when I’m assuming you started dating, you changed. I haven’t seen you this happy before.”

Before Steve can find anything to respond to that, Dustin comes around the counter and hugs him.

“I know you didn’t exactly tell me the way you wanted, but I’m glad I know. And I’m glad that you’re happy.”

Steve smiles. “Thanks.”

“I’ll egg his house or something if he ever breaks your heart.”

He laughs. Selfish relief washing over him. “I appreciate it.”

. . .

His room never was the most cluttered thing there was, but it was still weird seeing it bare. His drawers empty, the pile in the back of his closet finally cleaned out. It was the end of something.

Life is always described in chapters. One bit of life ends, and the next begins. For Steve, though, it felt like up until this moment was one book. Everything that included this house was all tied together in one binding. The novel that this house created impacting its reader enough for a lifetime. Impacting Steve for a lifetime.

Tomorrow, when he leaves this house for the last time, he hopes that it starts a new book, instead of a chapter. A completely fresh start. A sequel, of sorts, but a whole new plot to further his future. His life. Something else to be the conflict that weighs on him.

He hopes that tomorrow, he can walk through the front door for the last time and leave all the pain this house gave him behind.

“Holy shit,” Robin says while helping him find anything else he wants to keep in the house. “Is this you?”

He turns to find her holding a large photo album. It’s been years since he’s seen that. “Yeah. I think was five in that picture.”

“I haven’t seen a picture of you before you were twelve, I thought you popped out as a preteen.”

Steve laughs. “If you want to keep thinking that don’t turn to the front of the album.”

Her eyes widen as she flips to the first page, many pictures of Steve as a baby laid out on the pages. Robin starts teasing him, saying how she’s going to find a weird one and make it a point to show everyone. Which isn’t going to be hard, considering the outfits his mom used to make him wear.

It’s nice, knowing that someone liked to look at these pictures. Wants to keep them, somehow. He always thought his mom took the book with him, but it was in the one cabinet in the living room the whole time. A sad feeling washes over him that his mom was going to sell the house without coming to get it back. But it’s nice to know he gets to be the one to keep it. It’s better in his hands anyway.

“What’d you find,” Eddie asks, coming into the room.

“Baby pictures,” Robin jumps to explain. “Look at Steve in this stupid outfit.”

Steve makes a face when he sees that one. He doesn’t remember wearing it, but it looks like so many others he was forced to wear. All of them were so itchy.

“Oh my God. You were so little.” Eddie takes the book and looks closer, before bursting out laughing. “What the fuck is that hat?”

“I will never know what went through my mom’s head when she dressed me like this.” Steve lets them look a little longer before taking it and placing it in one of his boxes. Going back to searching for anything else he wants to keep, or steal.

Eddie has started finding his own things as well, and Robin. They both had what they considered fancy blankets and pillows that they wanted to keep. Some of the kitchen stuff is already at the house, but Steve is making sure he has what he’ll need when he eventually moves out as well. And then there are the movies and records he wants to keep. He’s also taking the nice record player, because why not really.

Not much he really wants to keep, though. Except for his room, much of the space was never really his. He didn’t need all the fancy decorations and excessive touches. That all could stay and die in the house.

But the photo album, the things that he allowed himself to add over time, the memories he wanted to keep, that was all his. It was allowed to leave with him.

“I can’t believe that you’re actually leaving this place,” Robin says while helping him load some boxes into his car. “I thought I’d have to drag you out of there.”

Steve scoffs. “I would have left eventually. Just . . . wanted some time to process everything first.”

She stands next to him, staring up at the house. “You know, I’m only going to the community college in the next town, it wouldn’t be a stretch to see if we could get a place together. Be close for both of us.”

“That’d be nice. I don’t think I want to live alone anymore.”

He drives her home, leaving some of the boxes he doesn’t immediately need and her parents graciously offered to hold in their basement. Then he drives back to his house that’s only his for one more night. It will be the last time he ever drives up the driveway. What a weird feeling that is.

Eddie’s waiting for him when he comes home. Watching something on the tv. “You ready for tomorrow?” he asks, softly, as Steve comes and sits next to him.

“I’m not sure.” He wraps an arm around Eddie, pulling him close.

“I guess we’ll figure it out together then.”

“Yeah.”

Much like when Steve feelings for Eddie started, he can’t tell the exact moment that they turned into loving him. There was just a morning when he woke up, and it was the first thought in his mind. He spent so long fearing for the next time he fell in love, he forgot how nice it felt at all. With Eddie, it just felt right. He couldn’t explain it, but it was freeing.

The evening is the normal he’s become accustomed to. A house that doesn’t suck the life out of him, simply because there is someone there. Someone to drag his attention away from the space that is left empty.

When he wakes up the next morning, it’s before anyone else.  He walks through the house one more time, the quiet surrounding him. It’s not as suffocating. It doesn’t drag him in and keep him there. Instead, it pushes him out the door for the last time, as ready for a new start as he is.

The last of the boxes get put in his car, in Wayne’s truck. He locks up, slides his key off the key ring and places it in the envelope with the rest of the copies. Takes his ability to enter this house and puts it in the mailbox. Leaving the house behind.

So many memories in this house, a mix of good and bad. He thought that leaving would feel like a massive weight off his shoulders, something to make him feel different. There is that lose of weight, but nothing that makes him feel that different. Nothing that makes the change hard, it was all easy.

Yet, when he makes the turn off his street, and heads to the other side of the town, he feels a sense of freedom he can’t describe. One that makes him smile for no real reason at all. Sun glaring in his eyes as it moves into the afternoon.

He pulls into the driveway of the Munson’s house, feet no longer stuck to the ground. He is moving forward now. Moving on.

It’s terrifying, but he’s ready for it.

I cannot express in this moment how much I will miss writing this fic. It has been an experience for me that I was not expecting when I started it, but came to me in moments when I needed it the most. Tomorrow I will post the very long reflection post I do for my fics, where I will be able to go into how and why this fic means so much to me, so check back to my blog for that if interested. But for now, I further cannot express the love I have for all of you readers. Writing this was never something I imagined to get the support that I have. I found myself surprised to see you all read this, and react in the way that you did. To know that I wrote a story that other people loved as much as me is something I can never understand, but am grateful for every day. To those who have left likes, reblogs, and comments, know that I read and saw every single one. I awaited your reactions, and they always brought a smile to my face. Thank you for your support, it means more than you can ever know. Thank you for reading this story, it was a pleasure writing it.

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[honey-and-sims]

The Baudelaire family returned to Ireland the next day, only this time, they never had to worry about leaving.

Their new home had been abandoned years prior to them purchasing it and had been left vacant for quite some time after the previous family had fled those lands that had once been filled with such rich history. Overtime, the stories had been forgotten, perhaps almost purposely by those that occupied the neighborhood nowadays, existing only as children's fables or as myth.

One thing they did know though was that the land used to be a vegetable farm, quite a successful one too, and Lawrence intended to make it profitable once more. Already, the farm boys were put to work planting rows of cabbage, carrots and most notably, potatoes.

Hours of labor had gone into restoring the house to what it had once been before the family arrived and at last, it was returned to its original state of elegance. The perfectly laid brick was covered by thick ivy, and the grounds were surrounded by beautifully vibrant flowers, lush green plants, and tall, brilliant marble statues.

It all seemed like something out of a storybook rather than real life.

The travel horses pushed forward through the gates, and all any of them could do was gawk, unable to believe they were truly going to live here. Even the children, fussy and tired from such long travels, sensed the exhilaration from the adults and had begun to perk up with curiosity.

Ozzy, who rode with Beth in her carriage, stared up at the house in wonder, as though his little mind was trying to comprehend such a big change. "This is our new home, my little dove. We're going to live here now!" Beth whispered to the seemingly awestruck toddler next to her.

"Wooooow!" He exclaimed almost breathlessly, and though it was unclear if he actually understood what it all truly meant, Beth laughed in response, happily agreeing that 'wooow' was right.

Most of their belongings arrived before The Baudelaires, already unpacked and put away thanks to a moving crew hired on by Lawrence. In addition, he had also taken it upon himself to hire various help, like maids, gardeners, cooks, and even a personal chef, and as Lawrence stepped out of the carriage and onto the stone pavement, he could see one of their footmen waiting patiently to greet them at the door.

"Well, hello there, Baudelaires!" He called out from the porch enthusiastically.

Lawrence waved a quick hello before holding out his arms to take Atticus. "That's Mr. O'Bannon. He worked for the family that lived here previously." He explained once Winifred had situated herself.

They joined Beth and Ozzy next, and walked hurriedly up the front steps while Mr. O'Bannon welcomed them home.

Winifred audibly gasped as she entered inside, her eyes growing wide in amazement at everything around her, and once everyone had stepped through the front door, they understood her reaction at once.

After they had filed in one by one, Mr. O'Bannon offered a tour of the house and they happily accepted. He informed them of the origins of their new furniture, boasting about the craftsmanship of the Irish workers and the prestigious color schemes of the wallpapering, most notably, the newly popular Scheels green in the parlor and the dining room.

The new decor was so complimentary of the things they had brought from home, they were almost unrecognizable sitting amongst such fine things, almost as if they were new items themselves.

They had only made it through the first two floors before Atticus started falling asleep in his mother's arms, while Ozzy began to grow rather antsy. Winifred excused herself to rock with Atticus for a while and Beth, wanting to avoid a tantrum, decided to take Ozzy outside to get a better look at the water fountain out front. Which left Lawrence to finish off the tour with Mr. O'Bannon.

However, Mr. O'Bannon dismissed himself as well, needing to check how the luncheon was coming along and confirm the table was being set correctly. Lawrence didn't mind all that much, if anything, he was relieved to see how serious his staff seemed to take their jobs.

And so, just like that, everyone was off in different directions, making themselves right at home.

Lawrence, who now found himself alone, fancied himself a celebratory smoke out on the balcony. There, he smoked cigarette after cigarette while he watched over the farm hands below, reflecting how just months prior, he would have been down there in the dirt just like them. But, tilling soil and yanking weeds were a thing of the past, and someday soon, nothing but a distant memory.

Now, all there was left to do was assimilate to this new way of life.

next / previous / first

[sequinsmile-x]

I Knew You'd Linger Like a Tattoo Kiss - Head Kisses

-x-

A series of unrelated one-shots and mini fics about the many types of kisses Aaron and Emily share.

-x-

Hi friends,

Here's another one of these prompts to wrap up the week. This is just soft, with a touch of mommy issues because I can't help myself.

Please see the masterlist for a full list of tags, and the list of prompts for this series.

-x-

Words: 2k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

Emily tried to avoid one-on-one time with her mother as much as possible. It was easier to do since she’d had Samuel, the 18-month-old and Jack both excellent distractions for Elizabeth when she came over to the house, her love for her grandsons obvious whenever they were together. 

On her worst days, Emily envied her mother's relationship with Samuel and Jack. The easy way she showed her love for them, the affection Emily had to earn when she was young given away as if it was free. It was nothing but proof to her that Elizabeth had always been capable of it, but had prioritised different things when she was young. 

She’d tried to get out of lunch with her mother, not entirely in the mood to be her best self after a rough night with Samuel. He was sick, the 18-month-old refusing to sleep and crying if he was anywhere but in her arms, so she and Aaron had barely slept as they took turns to soothe him. She’d almost called her mom to tell her she couldn’t make it, but Aaron had encouraged her out of the door, reminding her if she didn’t do it now she’d just have to rearrange it after a week of building herself up to it. She’d kissed him goodbye, whilst grumbling about his need to always be so damn sensible, and she’d made her way to her mother’s favourite restaurant. 

The first thing she does when she arrives is order the biggest coffee she can, wanting to make sure she is as alert as she possibly could be. She’s barely sat down for 5 minutes when she hears her mother’s voice echoing around her.

“Emily,” she exclaims, stamping a kiss on each of Emily’s cheeks as she stands to greet her, “It’s good to see you,” she says, frowning as she pulls back, “Are you okay? You look exhausted.” 

She suppresses an eye roll and clenches her teeth, wondering if it is too early to order a glass of wine, “Thanks, Mom,” she says as she takes her seat again, “Sammy is sick so we had a rough night.”

“Oh no,” Elizabeth says as she sits down, “Is he okay?” 

Emily nods, “He’ll be fine, it’s just a bug Jack brought home from school. He’ll be okay in a day or two. He’s all about me when he’s sick though,” she says, unable to pretend she didn’t enjoy all the extra snuggles from her toddler who was seemingly always on the go these days, “So Aaron tried to help but I was up most the night.” 

Elizabeth raises her eyebrows, “Well, if you didn’t coddle him so much he’d manage just fine I’m sure.” 

She sucks in a deep breath and smiles tightly, knowing that the only way to stop herself from biting at the bait offered to her was to change the conversation. “How are you, Mom? How’s work?” 

Her technique works, just as it always did, and she sits back and half listens as Elizabeth talks about work and the embassy. She checks her phone to make sure Aaron hasn’t attempted to contact her, and she smiles at the picture of Samuel and Jack that she has set as her wallpaper, the two of them giggling at something Aaron had said. 

“You’ll never guess who I saw - Steve Clemente.” 

Emily frowns, “Who?” 

Elizabeth rolls her eyes, “Really, Emily. You’ve met the man at my Christmas party the last few years. He’s the President over at Primrose Academy.” 

She hums and nods, “Of course, sorry,” she replies, sipping her coffee, “I remember now.” 

“Well, I was able to get Samuel on the list for their Preschool programme,” she says, opening up her menu, missing the confusion that passes across Emily’s face, “We’re a bit late but this is why it pays to know people.” 

“Sammy is 18 months old.” 

Elizabeth sighs, “It’s like you’re being purposely obtuse today,” she says, shaking her head as she looks back up at her, “I know how old my grandson is, Emily. But the waiting list for these programmes is 2 years. It’s a very prestigious school.” 

Emily presses her lips together and swallows thickly, preparing herself for an argument, “I appreciate the effort, Mom. But we’re not going to be sending him to private school.” 

Elizabeth’s head snaps up, her eyebrows furrowed as she looks at her daughter, “Excuse me?” 

“When the time comes we’re going to send him to the same preschool Jack went to,” she says, looking around for the waiter, the idea of a glass of wine with lunch more appealing than it had ever been, “It’s a great school.” 

Elizabeth sighs, “Emily, Samuel has the benefit of the Prentiss name-”

“He’s a Hotchner,” she corrects, her smile tight as she stares at her mother. 

“What?”

“Sammy. His surname is Hotchner, not Prentiss.” 

“You’re being obtuse again, I know that too. But you seem to be ignoring the benefits your son has purely from who we are.” 

The waiter chooses that moment to walk over, his smile kind as he starts to ask what they want to drink, a question Emily answers before he’s finished asking.

“Wine, please. A large glass.” 

The waiter clears his throat, looking back and forth between the two of them, “Any particular one, ma’am?” 

“Whichever one is closest.” ___

She smiles as she steps into her house, the tension automatically seeping from her shoulders the second the warmth of home washes over her. She hears cartoons coming from the living room and she walks in to find Jack sitting on the couch, his focus on the television. 

“Hey sweetie,” she says as she leans over the back of the couch and kisses the top of his head, “Are you okay?” 

He nods, barely looking away from his favourite show, “Yeah. How was grandma?” 

“She was…” she scrunches her nose up and blows out a breath, “Grandma,” she smiles at him, “Where are Daddy and your brother?” 

“Upstairs,” he replies, “Dad is trying to get Sammy to nap,” he shrugs at her, “It wasn’t going very well.” 

She laughs and leans down to kiss his head again, “I’m going to go see if I can help,” she says, pushing his hair from his forehead, “We’re upstairs if you need us, okay?” 

“Okay, Mom.” 

She heads upstairs and smiles as she steps into the nursery, love spreading through her chest as she’s met with the image of her husband pacing back and forth, their grumpy toddler in his arms. 

“Come on, buddy. You’ll feel better if you nap.”

“No,” Samuel grunts, rubbing his face against Aaron’s chest.

“Daddy’s right,” Emily says from the doorway, both of them looking at her at the same time, matching expressions on their faces, “You’ll feel better if you nap.”

“Mama!” Samuel exclaims, his lower lip pushed out in a pout as he reaches out for her, scrambling in Aaron’s arms. 

“I’ve got you, baby,” she says, lifting him into her arms and kissing the top of his head, “Mama’s got you,” she looks up at her husband, “You’ve been giving Daddy a hard time whilst I’ve been gone?” 

“Only you have the magic touch, it seems,” Aaron says, kissing the top of her head and then her lips as she tilts her head up, “How was lunch?”

She groans and runs her hand up and down Samuel’s back, “It was as expected,” she grumbles, turning her attention back to their son who was already a little calmer, “You want to get some sleep, sweet boy?” 

“Not tired,” he complains, and Aaron hides a smile, a look in his eyes that lets her know exactly what he’s thinking. 

He gets that from you.

“Well, I am,” she says, kissing his head again as she walks towards the loveseat in the corner of the room, “Why don’t we all just sit down for a little while.” 

“‘kay,” he says, pressing his face against her neck as she sits down. She rests her cheek against the top of his head and rubs circles on his back, knowing it is a surefire way to get him to fall asleep. 

Aaron joins them, his arm around her shoulders, and he pulls her closer, “Want to talk about it?” 

She hums, “She mentioned getting Sammy onto a list for a private preschool.” 

Aaron frowns, “He’s 18 months old.” 

She chuckles, “That’s what I said too,” she replies before her smile slips away, “I made it clear that isn’t what we want but…” she blows out a shaky breath, “But then she made it clear she didn’t agree.” 

He tightens his grip on her, his lips against her hairline as he blows out a slow breath, an obvious attempt to keep his cool, “What did she say, sweetheart?” 

“She said I’m risking my kid's futures for the sake of being stubborn.” 

He clenches his teeth and sighs, stamping a kiss against her head before he replies, “That’s not true, Em.” 

“I know,” she sighs, shaking her head a little as she looks down at Samuel, the little boy halfway to sleep already, “At least I think I do,” she looks up at Aaron and offers a half-shrug, “I don’t know. I hated going to private school, and I want something different for the boys. But we could afford it,” she licks her lower lip, “Hell, we could afford to send half a dozen kids to private school all the way through to high school if we want to,” she raises an eyebrow at him when she watches something spark in his eyes, “Down boy,” she jokes and they share a smile, “We could afford it but…that doesn’t mean we should do it, does it?” 

“Of course not, sweetheart,” he says, tucking some of her hair behind her ear, “We know what’s best for our children, not your mother, or an old friend of hers, but us,” he smiles softly, “And if we want to send Sammy and Jack to public school, or all half a dozen of them,” he winks when she rolls her eyes, “Then we will. And we can change our minds in the future if we want to. But you aren’t doing them a disservice or depriving them of something because you want them to have a different experience to you.” 

She nods, leaning forward and pressing her forehead against his shoulder, “I know,” she says, believing this time, and she blows out a slow breath, “I just never felt like I could be myself at those places,” she says, “All that mattered was getting good grades and being the best,” she sighs contentedly when he kisses the top of her head, “I never want the boys to think that’s all they are good for.” 

“They won’t,” he assures her, kissing her head one more time before he encourages her to look up at him, “You’re an excellent mom, Em,” he says, his smile growing as hers does, “Our boys are lucky to have you.” 

She stamps a kiss against his lips, “They are lucky to have you too.”

He smiles and looks down, shaking his head slightly when he sees that Samuel is fast asleep, “He’s sleeping.” 

She hums and looks at her son, his nose bright red and sore from where he’d been rubbing his fists against it, “Poor baby, was he okay whilst I was gone?” 

Aaron nods, “He was fine, he missed you - but he always does when you’re not here,” he runs his fingers up and down her arm, drawing a soothing pattern as they silently agree to stay sitting there with their son for a while, “So, about this half a dozen kids-”

“Aaron.” 

[hardyshoe]

Sonnenblumen, chapter ten - Heather, wishes will be fulfilled.

Masterlist.

Also posted on AO3 - here.

⚘⚘⚘

 The scullery maid who takes you into the back of the house, behind the shiny veneer of the main rooms, keeps looking at you with suspicion. She is an unassuming girl, who would be pretty if it were not for the horrible spectacles she has, they make her look like an old marm. 

 You were hardly expecting a riveting conversation from her but she speaks no more than a few words in a papery voice, she has an accent you cannot place and she seems skittish. She closes every door in front of her with a small hand before you can see what lies behind inside the cupboards and storeroom.

 Mills, the man who first greeted you at the front door, pokes his head and the young maid goes stock-still. “What is she doing back here?”

 “Sir I was just-” she starts, voice stuttering and uncertain. 

 “I asked to see the phonebook,” you say with a smile, feeling a little bad for putting her in a spot. 

 His eyes narrow, he moves into the hallway proper. “We can make any call you need, there is also a phone in the hall for your personal use.”

 “Oh no, I am looking someone up,” you say, the lightness in what you thought to be an easy request lands like you asking for the keys to the shiny black Bentley that sits outside the front door. “It won’t take me more than an hour, I’m sure.”

 You can tell he does not want to give you anything, not a look into the darkened room from whence he came nor a smile in reciprocation of your politeness. The maid beside you has a finger wrapped tightly in the apron she loops the hem of around it. 

 “I assure you, we would have no problem finding someone.” You are beginning to get annoyed by him, the ache in your ankles from balancing the razor’s edge for the last day is already nearing unbearable pain. You feel closer at base to irritation and the mask of ease you have scraped onto your face feels like it is breaking your flesh into a rash at the corners. 

 “I will only be an hour,” you say finally, in the same precise manner of speaking as you would tell the young miners that the last drinks have been poured. 

 He gives a short hmph that pinches in his nose in a grim nasally whine, then turns back to his little dungeon and shuts the door. In the wake, you look at the maid and find only the back of her head, she is staring resolutely at the skirting boards with their too-thick yellowing pain that attests to the juxtaposition between the front and the back of the house. You are not all too sure that he is coming back but you will stick around until asked to leave. 

 It is no different really to how you have been made to feel by Mrs Targaryen and Otto. Perhaps if Mr Targaryen was cognizant enough to register your presence he would too but as it stands, he has been firmly reduced to the wheelchair that aches and strains across the floors. Though, in fact, both the mother and grandfather of the family seem to be playing a similar game wherein they ignore you as much as they physically can. You have been addressed directly precisely twice by the former and once by the latter, including when they had arrived home and your stay was announced. 

 They had both left after breakfast with Aemond in tow, some nonsense in town you did not care to pay attention to. Now, with just you and the other children in the house, you wonder if there will be any change when they return. You do doubt it, maybe they intend to pretend you are not there until you have left. 

 You play games counting the pattern in the bizarre floral damask of the wallpaper, it is faded and the seams between the sheets have darkened a little. It is age without damage, just a little bit of wear. What jars you the most is the full deep red carpet that runs down the middle of the corridor, the worn-light strip of decades of footsteps down the very middle. The echo of ghosts rather than a sign of life. 

 The door clicks open and you jump, hand pressing into the softness between your ribs as if you push your heart back into a resting rhythm. Mills has a thick cream book in his hand and a rodenty look in his weird little eyes. 

 “Thank you, I will bring it back as soon as I am finished," you say, reaching out to take the book. He holds onto it like he is playing a joke but his face is fully stern. It is meant to make you feel like you are taking it without permission, like you are doing something wrong. It is a stupid and unfair game and it makes you wish you had not thanked him. 

 He says nothing and you give him nothing more, taking the book with a jerk and a thin smile. The maid still has her eyes on the floor and you hope she does not get it in the teeth for your request. 

 You make your way through the house again, feet padding on cold tile, up the stairs to the room down at the end of the little hallway upstairs. 

 Helaena’s rooms is warm somehow, full with mid morning light beaming off glass artifact cases and fragmenting through rainbow makers that hang from the cross poles of the yellow curtains. It is a comfort stepping into here, a room entire that hums with character and the very essence of a person. 

 You hardly heard her quiet permission to enter and you find her sitting on crossed legs in the middle of a wide blue rug in the centre of a room too big for a girl who hardly seems to take up any space at all. 

 “Hello,” you greet her warmly and she looks up at you from whatever it is in her lap that has her captivated so. “Aegon was dragged out to play knights.”

 She nods, twisting in her gauzy, nightgown-like dress to look behind her at the wall that leads to the garden. Her gaze is absent, like she can see right through the wall. The sun does not reflect off of her, rather seems to take it in like a lifeforce, it shines in her veins like liquid gold and she glows. She looks like a pre-Raphaelite painting, distracted and unaware of the viewer’s gaze. 

 “They will be gone some time,” she says, hands shifting to bridge flat in front of one another again, a little flash leaps between the two. “Daeron likes to win and Aegon does not like to lose.”

  That makes you smile, you tip onto your toes to see their figures swimming in silent joy at the very end of the garden, right in front of the gangly green stems of the unbloomed sunflowers. 

 “I thought as much, do you mind if I join you in the meantime?” You wave the hefty phone book at her. She looks confused but gestures to you to sit with the hand not lying flat in the air in front of her. The soft pile of the blue carpet is a welcome relief from the stone and polished wood of the rest of the house in the way the one of the servant’s quarters had not been. Warmed by the sun as it falls in patches and swathes across it is a contrast to everything else. 

 You have never been much good at sitting with your legs crossed like she is, it gives you pins and needles too quickly, but you do not think she will begrudge you a little eccentricity. So, you stretch a leg out into a particularly bright patch of sun so it glints off your stocking and tuck the other up on a bent knee. The book flops open heavily on the middle L section, you flip on further and tuck the springing back section under your toes to stop it flipping shut again. 

 “What are you looking for?” She asks, you look up and finally see what is roaming across her papery knuckles. A plumed black and yellow caterpillar bounces its front end across the dips between her fingers. It is a lovely little thing. 

 You let the book shut, nails exploring the tiny dipped depression of the townhouses printed below the blocked title, ‘London postal area, alphabetical telephone directory.

 “I am half afraid of saying it aloud, it feels like such a long shot as it is,” you tell her but there is nothing in her that would take the information and do anything malicious at all. You are not sure she exists on the same planet as the word. So, you explain it to her.

  Helaena gets her eyes from her mother, not the colouring of course, but the open wideness and the shine like she is on the brink of tears. You remember thinking of a taxidermied deer when you first saw Mrs Targaryen, looking into her daughter’s, it is like seeing what she could have been in life. The lilac is her lineage but the acute sadness that permeates her waterline is all her mother. 

 She does not respond for so long that you return to the dense walls of text in the book, skirting down alphabetical columns while her gaze shrouds your shoulders. You do not know if she is not responding for a lack of remembrance of a figure long repressed or if she does not know what to say, it doesn’t really matter either way. It just feels nice to have unburdened yourself.

 The letters jumble closer to that holy grail name of abstract familiarity and you feel your muscles getting antsy and tense at the drawing up to final understanding. 

 “Heather will suit her,” she says, voice lilting in that uncommon intonation of hers. You are startled and find her looking almost clean through you, like she is seeing something far beyond the room you sit with her in. “Blooms in the summer, flowers all through the autumn.”

 It is cryptic and strange and you do not know what to make of it yet you feel those intangible memories of hope calling at you again, unbidden. Aegon tucking tiny hands through the sleeves of his own huge jumper, the way he has looked at you holding his brother’s tear streaked face against your shoulder. In the meeting of your eyes those months ago you had felt it, seen a future in the space between. 

 What can you say? How can you put it into words? The yearning you feel from what she has just said despite the mad prognostication. The regret you had felt, despite the madness of such a feeling, at the first blood you had shed two weeks after you learned your carnal knowledge of each other under the dangling, waxy lightbulb of his dorm. You had laid in your bed with your nails digging into the flesh of your cramping womb and cursed the fact that something there was yet no place for had not taken root to grow. 

 It was silly and juvenile but there had been a brief period of hope against sense that had fleeted with the cycle of the moon. 

  You look at her and she is focused on her pretty little caterpillar. Maybe she meant nothing by it, maybe it was nonsensical and she is truly mad. Your thumb digs into the flesh of your stomach all the same and your heart beats thick over dreams and wishes. 

 Then you see it, and you gasp. Helaena looks up at you sharply and you show her the tiny little name in between all the others of insignificance on the page. You are nearly squealing to yourself when her little comment slips between your twitching fingers and giddy smile. 

 “You suit him, like you were made for him. I think he was made for you.”

 ⚘⚘⚘

Supper on that second day in the house is a taciturn affair, more formal than any meal you have ever eaten. Served in courses of meticulous but unappealing intricacy. You successfully picked your way through a thin cress salad with bits of meat you truly could not identify if pressed but you are struggling with an artfully vile salmon mousse. Aegon is across from you, drinking his wine too quickly and giving you grey smiles when you catch his eye. Daeron is to your left with Helaena across from him, she is rearranging a small stack of blue and purple rocks. Mrs Targaryen winces visibly whenever the little stacks clatter down.

 You are wearing a dress which was originally Helaena’s, Aegon told you about their habit of formal dress for evening meals and you had sheepishly shown him your good dress for Easter and christenings. It was nothing grand at all, really, a pink chiffon thing with a scalloped neck and little flowers in the layers of the skirts but, you remember being given it for your sixteenth birthday and how you had pranced around in your lamp-lit room in your mother’s white shoes she had married your father in, feeling so terribly grown up.

 When you wore it last night though, you felt drab and outdated. The men, even Daeron with his little black shorts, were in full suits and waistcoats. Aegon looked like he wanted the fabric to catch fire and burn up with him inside it, he fidgeted with his collar the entire evening and when you had peeled back the cotton later that night, his skin was flushed angrily underneath. Mrs Targaryen was in the finest gown you have ever seen in the flesh, nicer even than Marlene’s wedding dress. She looked like the prettiest of painted ponies and the way she looked down on you. 

 This morning, Helaena had brought you an intricately beaded champagne gown dripping with blue and amber accents. It fit like a glove and you had protested her giving it to you but she just left it on your bed when you tried to return it. Aegon told you she wouldn’t wear it for the way the beadwork itched against the bare skin of her arms anyway. 

 Now, clad in her lovely gift, you look at Helaena and see the differences in her attire more clearly. She is bathed in gauzy fabric in a light blue, it clings nowhere and when she had drifted into the room with Daeron traipsing behind, she had almost been carried by the ghosts in the room. Mrs Targaryen had looked between the two of you, her will ‘o the wisp daughter and you, and given you a look of utter contempt. 

 The table is too long and too wide, an uncomfortable thing too beautiful to be eaten off of which was made for hosting not family dining. There's a triangular band of deep walnut running the length of the middle of the table, serving to divide you from those across from you. Everyone has to raise their voices to be heard, even by the person across, fostering a weirdly public conversation which feels too watched to really accomplish anything. 

 You have managed to stretch your leg out far enough to scuff at Aegon’s socked foot but it isn’t enough. He isn’t talking and you can feel him drawing further into the shadowy corners of the room. He periodically tries to catch the eye of the server with the wine but the young man remains looking resolutely away. 

 Daeron too, is quiet, he is poking at his loose tooth between halfhearted mouthfuls. His mother is shooting him foul looks from down the table but he doesn’t notice. 

 You lean over to whisper in his ear when he gets so fully distracted that he misses the clearing of his grandfather’s throat. Mrs Targaryen’s mouth has ticked down further at the corner and her eyes narrow every time he wiggles at the loose tooth. 

 “Do you think the tooth fairy likes salmon mousse?”

 He startles out of his own little world, looking at his barely touched plate before shaking his head solemnly. 

 It is such a serious gesture that it makes you cackle, Daeron looks taken aback for a moment but he cracks quickly, devolving into a fit of giggles. The sound smacks off the walls with an unfamiliar echo, like they don't know how to reflect the foreign sound. When you tip back in mirth, the rafters seem to jerk dizzily with the atmosphere holding them up.

 The strange coldness of the room and its stilted politeness catches up to you and you find yourself laughing to the point of tears, a borderline hysteria creeping at you. Daeron has his head in his hands and can see his cheeks blooming pink behind them. Something in that warmth punctuating the cold sobers you a little, just enough to wipe your eyes and take a breath. It is the first bit of unmitigated joy you have really seen from any of them and that troubles you deeply. 

 Aegon has that look on his face and he knocks his foot against your under the table, his fingers tracing the pattern just out of your reach. 

 “Would you care to share with the rest of us what it is you find so funny?” Otto’s voice curts sharply through the stale air between the children and the adults. The fact that Aegon sits amongst them and not you does not escape your notice. There is a difference of five or six cavernous inches between his placemat and Otto’s and your own. 

 You and Daeron look at each other and start giggling again. Otto’s ire grows with each second he goes unanswered but youre so happy to see the little boy smiling despite the anger that you don’t care. 

 “It was just a silly joke about the tooth fairy,” you say, smiling despite your discomfort at the way you feel like you have to shout to be heard. Daeron starts up again and you have to cover your mouth with the back of your hand. 

“Yes, well, if you would please refrain from such outbursts again. It is not good for digestion.” Mrs Targaryen’s tone brokers no argument despite the absurdity of her words and Daeron tucks his chin to his chest, silent again. 

 “Mama!” Aegon exclaims, looking riotously pissed off.

 You would try to stop what you know is coming but he has a glint in his eyes which speaks of a final straw starting to splinter. 

 “Aegon you know I cannot bear shouting,” she dismisses, hiding behind movement as she pats at her senile husband’s mouth.

“They weren’t shouting though, were they?” he counters, inciting a tut from Aemond. Aegon glares at him. 

 “There really is no need to be difficult,” she says, eyes narrowing in warning at him. Something about the way she looks at him lights a flame under your pretty velvet cushioned seat. “I’m sure your friend meant no harm but we don't behave that way at the dinner table.”

 She means to chastise you like a child, fortunately you had a mother loving enough to teach you when punishment is deserved and when it is not. The emphasis on friend is deliberate and it ticks you off, you watch Aegon bristle too. 

 Helaena has stopped stacking her stones, hovering over the unfinished tower with the final tiny rock between her pale fingers. She is looking down at them with an air of resigned trepidation. 

 Aegon leans forward in his seat, laying his cutlery across his plate in an angle for a fight. You can feel things nearing a point of no return, you think Aegon has already gone far beyond the line. Funnily enough, you have little desire to pull him back when every step further feels like an achievement. “You’re being rude on purpose.”

“I will not be spoken to like that, by you.” The hurt she feigns is brittle. 

Aegon’s hand smacks against the table, jumping the silverware and tinkling up the stem of his empty glass. Helaena’s tower topples, crystals scattering across the varnish.  “And you will not speak to her like that!”

 A flare of warmth drags through the mire of uncertain worry within you. 

 “I won’t do this here, Aegon,” she warns. You watch Viserys blink at her tone, alertness twitching in him, though he manages nothing more than a pitiful groan which goes ignored. 

 Otto has his fingers curled around the handle of one of his dinner knives, the gesture is almost frighteningly intentional. 

 “Why not? You must know that I will tell her whatever it is you want to say to me in private.” 

 Aemond’s brow raises in the most overt display of surprise you have seen from him. He looks at you, speaking low but somehow carrying his voice across the distance. “Such fidelity.”

 You’re quite sick of him, the way he speaks like he has any idea of what lies between you and Aegon. You don’t think he would understand if you hammered it out in stone. You smile at him and shrug, he purses his lips and quiet rage twitches his jaw. 

 “Those are very strong words for someone you hardly know.” Mrs Targaryen is playing a game, she surveys the table like chess pieces on a board each time she finishes speaking. Unfortunately for her, you don’t know the rules and have very little interest in trying to guess them enough to play the proper way. 

 “Family matters are private, boy, they are not to be discussed with those whom they do not concern.” Otto says, like he is reciting an ancient law. 

 “You are literally talking about her!” Aegon shouts, his neck is warmed with fury and he jumps from his seat to stand. “She is sitting right there and you're talking about her like she can’t hear you.”

 They all seem unaffected by his outburst, like they don’t care enough to react. The unopened pot of vitriol for these people is boiling under the lid in such a way that it is dancing with escaping energy. 

  Mrs Targaryen lays her hands on her lap calmly. “I’m afraid, if you allow strangers to come and stay without warning then you cannot expect us to be overjoyed.”

 “I cannot believe how you’re acting right now,” Aegon says, then huffs a humourless laugh. “Actually, I can. I just thought that there might be the tiniest chance of you at least pretending to be nice. Sunflower has done nothing but lovely and kind and you're acting  like she doesn’t matter, like she is a problem to will away.”

 Mrs Targaryen somehow manages to maintain an infuriating cool. She doesn’t even blink. “There is no need to be so dramatic”

 “You’re being fooled, boy,” Otto spits, flinging a hand in your direction while still not looking at you. “You must be able to see that, or maybe you are just as stupid as I always thought you were.”

 “Are you fucking insinuating what I think you are?” Aegon asks, suddenly cold in a way you have never seen him. He has a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table and his shoulders are shaking. You can define that as the very moment your own control falls apart, a wave of steam and fury boils over, the lid clangs to the floor. 

 Helaena is staring openly at the conflict while Daeron sinks lover and lover in his chair. Something in her expression speaks of fear, something else of morbid curiosity in the way she watches her brother’s hand go bloodless on the table.

  Mrs Targaryen chastises him slowly for his language but it gets swept up in the tension of the room. Viserys is shaking his head limply but no one is looking. 

 “Well, she certainly isn’t here on account of your glowing personality and witty humour, is she?” Otto asks, voice mocking and sarcastic. 

 You find you have had quite enough of all their shit. The screech of your chair’s legs on the parquet floor is like the cry of a wounded animal.

 “Don’t talk about him like that.” For the first time in the evening, they actually look at you. Three pairs, and one incomplete pair, of eyes turn to you in varying degrees of shock and anger. “You are more than welcome to speak about me however you like, I couldn’t care less, but you will not speak about Aegon like that.”

 Mrs Targaryen looks at you with offense radiating from her low brows. “He is my son and this is my house, I will speak however I want to.”

 “Just what is it you are aiming to accomplish here?” Otto asks, eyes narrowed and disturbingly cool. “A little social climbing with the thickest rich boy you could find?”

 Helaena is watching you speak with an almost unnervingly solid gaze. 

 “You don’t know me. Don’t pretend you have any idea about me at all.” You say, voice almost unrecognisable to your own ears but the resolution that drips from your tongue is all yours. Aegon is looking at you with bright eyes, he looks frightened in a way, though not of you. Looking at him you know your decision to be right. 

 “I am here because I love Aegon,” you hear him take a ragged inhale but you need to finish what you are saying so you force your gaze into Otto and Mrs Targaryen, even Aemond and Viserys. “He is my sun and my every star and I would follow him to the centre of the earth and stand by him until the world ends.”

 They gape at you, you think it must be the sincerity that gets them. Even Aemond looks startled, the expression playing out on his features like they haven’t moved that way in a very long time. That gives you a rather sick sense of pride. 

 “But, the world is not ending. Instead he is here, being treated like nothing more than an inconvenience to you. How you can expect him to be this shining model of fallacy you so want him to be when he is staring down the barrel of the misery it would cause him I really do not know. Maybe you would have to be a bit stupid not to see how that is doomed to fail.”

 You look right at Otto with that final line and he ignites, voice raising in the first show of emotion you have seen from him. “You insolent girl-”

 He is cut off though, unexpectedly, by his daughter. “You don’t love him,” she says, meeting your gaze with eyes of fire. “You don’t even know what love is.”

 You look at the way she is sitting, chair turned in towards Viserys’, her hand on his arm and her whole body twisted towards him. Yet the entire thing is a façade, she cannot see him at all. He is looking at her helplessly, head lolling weakly on his shoulders and mouth moving in some approximation of words without sound and she cannot see any of it. It is pathetic.

 “Funny that, Mrs Targaryen,” you say her name like an officer addressing a soldier of lower rank. Pity runs thick in your tone. “You speak like you do.”

 “How dare you?” She goes white with rage and you feel a relief in finally seeing her crack, you don’t know what that makes you but you don’t find you particularly care when Aegon is staring at you like that across the table. 

 “Like I said, I do not care what you think of me but I happen to care very much about what you say about him. I won’t stand here will you abuse the man I love and suggest I am here for the money or what comes with it. Look around you,” you implore, gesturing to the tactless opulence and feeling your movement echoed in the tension hanging in the air, laughing a little at the absurdity, “there is nothing here anyone would want.”

 You can see she is racing in the corner of your eye but you don’t care to see, you are looking at Aegon. He is watching you, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths and his fists clenched tight at his sides. You nod at him and he nods back, stepping away from the table. 

 You bend to kiss the top of Daeron’s head, whispering a promise in his ear, before standing and walking to the door. You don’t want to leave him but he will be okay, the blame is squarely on you and that is precisely where you want it. 

 Voices raise in anger and protest behind you but you aren’t listening. You make your way to the end of the eventual end of the fucking table and meet Aegon in the middle. He looks shell shocked when you find his eyes and he links his fingers between yours like a lifeline. 

 When the door to the dining room swings shut behind you he stops and pulls you in quickly to an embrace that has you twisting your hands into his horrible suit jacket and blinking furiously. He is taking deep, tortured breaths and his lips are on your hairline.

 “Can we get out of here? Please, even if it's just for a bit.” He is desperate and you hold him tighter, keeping the pieces of him together. 

 “I have no intention of staying here right now.” you say, his response coming in a relieved fanning of a sigh across your forehead. 

 He releases you but takes your hand again, pulling you upstairs to get a coat and your purse. He takes off the suit jacket, trading it for his leather one, and you watch just a little of his tension drop with it into a crumpled heap on the floor.

 The house is eerily quiet as you walk out, footsteps loud on the hardwood and breathing echoing off of the chamber walls. The first step outside is like emerging from a frozen lake and when he shuts the door behind the two of you, Aegon stops looking quite so much like he is scared he is going to die. However, he remains silent as you walk down the automobile lined street and he seems to pay little mind to where you are going. You don’t mind, you know he needs some time with this in his head first and you will not force him to speak. Instead, you hold his hand tightly and bring the joined pair to your lips from time to time to kiss the back.

 After some fifteen minutes of walking without purpose, just going anywhere further from the chasing ghosts of the house, you come to a phone box and squeeze Aegon’s hand before ducking inside. He looks confused but you ask him to trust you and he nods in return, sitting on the edge of the pavement. 

 The lights are harsh inside compared to the murky water of the street lamps. It smells vaguely of damp and forget but you ignore that, fumbling through your bag for the little piece of paper you slid between the two mirrors of your enamel backed compact a few days ago, it has a line of dusty powder down the side now but that hardly matters. You slot a few coins in and dial up the number, hoping against hope that someone will answer. 

 Six rings later and, “-Yes hello, hello. Is that you Marge? I was just bathing the little ones.”

 You smile a little at the flustered voice on the other end, clearly a woman who receives few calls she isn’t expecting. “No, sorry. This is a little odd and I do apologise for telephoning out of the blue but, are you Mrs Spinnet?” 

 She pauses for a second and you twist the cord around your finger, directing your hope somewhere. “Yes dear, who is this?”

You give her your name though she will not know it, you don’t want to keep her so you get to the point. “I was hoping to ask about one of your sons.”

⚘⚘⚘

 London shines from the window of the taxi, lights glimmering from windows behind curtains and people milling from bar to clubs. You watch them devolve from polished glamour to more normal looking outfits devoid of furs and dripping jewels as you get closer to your destination.

 Unlike the first ride you took, you do not talk with the driver this time, he is a quiet gentleman anyway who seems content to let you sit in silence and watch the streets go by. Aegon fell asleep on your shoulder some minutes into the journey and you aren’t planning on waking him until you arrive. He was so drawn out, and you know how terribly he slept last night. He needs a bit of time to recalibrate so you trace shapes on his skin with your fingertips and try not to move. 

 With his soft breaths huffing against your collarbone, the world seems smaller, everything more achievable. Leaving the house, however temporary the exile, has left you lighter, no longer toting around the weight of the cold lack of privacy and the uncomfortable tension that lingers in every corner. 

 Here, with the sounds of the city washing over the car, you feel a quietude fall over your very being. Each hour you have spent at the townhouse has had you feeling angrier and more off-kilter. It is a disorienting experience. You cannot fathom living there, existing as Helaena does with the breadth of her world confined to those observant walls. It makes you feel like pulling out your hair. 

 As the streets start to narrow down, resembling the Victorian photographs in the books you have at home , you think back to the phone call and to the relief of Mrs Spinnet’s excitement at her remembrance. She had given you the pub to find and a wish to pass on a love you did not know she would be harbouring. You have not told Aegon that yet, waiting to see if he will be okay first. 

 He rouses with the stopping of the car, lulling into you heavily before blinking awake with a hum. 

 “Hello again,” you say, hedging your bets on him having recovered a little. 

 He smiles softly and you breathe a sigh that takes the weight of worry with it. “Hello sunflower.”

  A throat clearing the front pulls your eyes from his, you and Aegon fumble for money to pay the driver but he beats you to it. You thank the driver and poke Aegon in the arm, he waves his wallet at you and grins in victory, 

Still, he stocks you under his arms when you have both ducked out onto the street. You can see the pub a few doors down and a small spike of anticipation rocks you at the sight of the raided navy sign with its gold letters. 

 First though, you take Aegon to the riverbank and lean with him against the mossy bricks to look over the shining water and the docks. Like this, everything is just you and him. He is the water and you are the light, he is the stars in your sky. The moss wedging between your brickwork. 

 “You love me?” he asks quietly, voice laced with a trepidation like he does not know if he is banking on a dream. 

 It does not break your heart like it would have if you had said it sooner and received the same response. You know it is not you he doesn’t believe, rather his own judgement. 

 You turn under his arm, stare at him for a second and get lost in his eyes and the way his hair looks in the dancing light of the Thames. “I have loved you long enough now to know that I did even when it was too soon not to doubt myself.”

 He looks struck, like it is too much. You shake your head with a smile playing on you. “I love you, Aegon.”

 For nearly a minute, the world is just you, and him looking at you, and a definitive surety for the first time that he knows he is loved by at least one person. 

 A tear drops heavily from his waterline and you are in his arms before it hits his cheek. When he has you plastered to his chest, your arms weaving into his hair and the creased leather of his jacket, he laughs. It is a ragged, wet, glorious sound. He spins you until your feet forget their weight of your own body as they glide through the air. 

 The world keeps spinning when his hands find the sides of your face, the tips of his indexes lining the dips of your temples. “I hope you know, I am going to ask you to marry me one day.” 

 That silly, selfish part of yourself who had mourned the stain of blood in your knickers  those months ago asks ‘why not now?’ The rest of you cannot stop the grin from splitting your face, would not want to try if it could.

 “One day, Aegon Targaryen,” you tell him between the kisses he is planting on your lips, “I am going to say yes.”

 He places his lips definitely over your own, then he turns to the docks and yells in a perfect shout of jubilation, it echoes across London and you hope it bounces like the aftershocks of an explosion against the Targaryen house. 

 “Come on,” you say through smarting laughter, pulling him by the hand down the road as it is populated by milling dockworkers and factory men, “I did not bring you here without reason.” 

 He walks in a bouncing dance, energy spilling out of his smile, “alright, nutcase.”

 You are too giddy to feign annoyance, the doors of the snug terrace building swoosh with the force of your joy when you push them open. 

It is bizarre how stepping into a pub, even one so far from home that rings with cockney accents and lights unfamiliar faces with its fire, calms you. Something in the heady air of hops and ale, a room warmed with drunken adulation, feels like home. It puts you at ease when it smacks in contention with the coldness of the unpopulated Targaryen house. How welcome the feeling is to be somewhere where noise is celebrated. 

 “You know, there are pubs nearer Kensington that this one,” he teases, a smile playing on his lips. 

 He receives a sharp look in return, bluntened by your affection. “Oh ye of little faith.”

 He makes to follow you as you step towards the bar but you still him with a hand pressed against the half-done zip of his jacket and an evasive grin. His eyes follow you the whole way and you can feel the pull of his lips smiling morphing your own. 

 The barkeep is friendly, a middle aged gentleman who pours your drinks happily and asks about your accent. There is something nice, you think, in being the different one for a reason outside of your personality. No one expects anything of you and most people you have encountered so far have worn an edge to their questioning like they agree that your little mining corner of the world is a bit of a dead end. Though, when you look at the worn faces of the older dockworkers, you see nothing but a reflection of the miners back home. Grit worn so deep under fingernails it has become a part of them and chairs that sag impressions of the men who inhabit them for the hours in between their residence. 

 Maybe nowhere is ever that different really or maybe this is the England you cannot run from.

 A few lads give you funny looks when you ask what you need to of the barkeep, looking to Aegon where he stands near the door searching around with wide and inquisitive eyes, foot tapping on the mucky green carpet. He makes for just as funny a sight as usual, hair too blond, eyes too bright and utterly too alive. He is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

 You give the lads a shrug when they ask why you are asking after who you are, smiling back at the man you love who loves you too and feeling a little dizzy with the maelstrom of feelings ripping a tornado through you. 

 Two pints slide across the bar, one too full and dripping down the side onto the glossy wood, and you are pointed towards a booth near the back which is crowded with young men and circled with too many chairs and young men sitting wherever they can find purchase. 

 You jerk your head in their direction and Aegon follows on, head shaking with confusion even as he follows you. In all honesty, you feel unsure too. The plan you muddled together felt hazy and impossible until now, too variable and too reliant on people who may have forgotten things, people even. However, you think back to Aegon asking you in the cold corridor of his dorm whether you would be willing to go a little further for him, and how you had known then that you would go anywhere should he ask; you know he will trust you just a little longer.

 On the way, you put down your drinks on an adjacent empty table, smoothing down your skirt and begging the universe once more for this little kindness. 

  A crowd of intrigue assesses you when you greet the table as a whole, voices quieting and drinks being sipped in the recess. You flit from face to face, looking for recognition where you cannot hope to find any. Warmth lines your back as Aegon comes to stand behind you, a hand skimming through the volume of your evening dress.

 “Sorry to bother you all but, I was wondering if you know where to find-”

 “Hells teeth!” Exclaims a young man from the back of the table, his face bare with an amalgam of shock, and something you think might be damned close to miraculous joy. “Aegon?”

 You spin on a penny, neck tweaking a little with your speed, to find said man in an equal state. His mouth parts and you can see his throat catching on the importance in the air. He sounds like he has been gargling disbelief when he speaks. “Davey?”

 What follows is a struggle of the unassuming brown haired man practically crawling across the table while Aegon nearly knocks it over himself in his own effort to meet him in the middle. When they finally do, Aegon half pulling Davey from the floor as he rolls off the wooden top now covered in spilled beer, it parts the world like a dam breaking. 

 They grip each other desperately, clapping each other on the back while their common laughter bursts in harmony. It is jubilant peace and you are, for a time which feels like an aeon, not worried a shred about the future. 

 Words bounce quickly in unanswered questions between the two, Davey holding Aegon’s face between his hands in a way that squishes his cheeks and makes him look terribly young. A pale hand stays firm on a factory uniform’s shoulder, fingers digging tight into the blue material. 

 “Where have you been all these years I-”

 “Canny believe it, after all this time.”

 “-So sorry, you have no idea how sorry I am for leaving-”

 “Missed you like hell-”

 “-Thought I would never see you again.”

 They laugh, both pulling together again in a way that highlights the funny similarities between them. While Davey is lanky, a string bean of a man who’s cuffs ride high on his ankles, and Aegon wears his hair long and uncropped, they both simmer with energy and they share a mirrored glint in their eyes which promises a mischief that would make any school teacher run for the hills. 

 One of the lads at the table pipes up, sleeve wet with drink spilled in the scuffle and eyes on him like he has been elected spokesman for the bewildered gaggle. “You going to tell us who this is that you’re greetin’ like your best china plate?”

 “And if the fine young lady he brought with him is spoken for…” Chips in a bugger at the back with fewer teeth than buttons done up on his shirt. 

“Impatient bastards, the lot of you. More than ten years since I have seen ‘im and you all want to talk to ‘im. Wait your bloody turn.” Davey says, shooting withering looks at the loudest ones of the group though you can tell it is with good meaning. He shakes Aegon’s shoulder and twists him to face the waiting crowd. “This boys, is Aegon. My brother.”

 Aegon turns his head to look at Davey, a gaggle of confused men racketing questions at the pair, and finds the taller boy grinning at him with relief dripping from his form. Aegon smiles so very wide. 

 “And who is his lovely friend?” Jeers a the dentally challenged one from before. 

 Aegon gives him a look and the boy shrugs unapologetically in return. You are pulled by the hand into the fold of energy. 

 “This beautiful, brilliant woman,” Aegon says to the group, though his eyes are dead set on yours. “Is the love of my life. My sunflower.”

 Your cheeks flame and your brain goes a little fuzzy. He runs his thumb over your naked ring finger in a way that feels like a promise. 

 “Well it is an absolute pleasure to meet you Miss,” Davey offers his hand and a wide smile. He kisses your knuckles instead of shaking and you get a sense of the boy Aegon has told you so much about, he has this cheekiness laced into the fibres that comprise him and it's hard not to watch him. 

 It is clear he is something of an unofficial leader to the rowdy gaggle, they look to him for cues when Aegon grabs your two drinks from the table behind and makes you sit down. A great shuffle takes place, displacing boys onto the high tops of the benches and some onto more crowded chairs around the end. You end up on Aegon's lap at the edge of the bench, his arm belted around your waist and his chin perched on your shoulder when he isn’t speaking. 

 The conversation is quick and loud, excitable as the boys fall into a rapport that feels so natural. While he is still in his crisply ironed suit trousers and his accent is so very different to the rest, he fits in here. He seems rattled when his jokes are found funny or when people listen with interest to the things he says, blinking in confusion the first time the group laughs with him, looking at you for a second with pinched brows. 

 You lean forward to whisper in his ear, ignoring the whistles from the surrounding crowd, “They can see you for what you are, Aegon.” You kiss him on the tender flesh that bridges his cheekbones and the cartilage of his ear, feeling the dip of softness into the hollow, “Let that be a good thing.”

 His intake of breath, catching on his tonsils and the vulnerability of his palette, rises louder than the whoops and whistles of those around you. He turns to look at you in such a way that his brows entangle with yours, twisting and bending back and unifying. Perspective warps in your now tiny field of vision, his eyelashes elongating and darkening your periphery while his lavender eyes meld with your own in colour and light. 

 His eyes close and you watch his waterline fragment with shining moisture, a crystalline juncture between the darkening blond of his fine white eyelashes. Then they open, and the dissipating vacuum brings some of that glitter back into the way he looks at you and he nods in a scraping of hairs and a commingling of the oils of your respective skins. 

 And the conversation continues, Aegon is swept into Davey once more and the two begin to talk in low tones with an almost unbelievable familiarity. You split your time between listening in on them when the conversation is loud enough for the public and chipping in with little comments with the boys around you. 

 Davey talks in meant extremes, definitive promises of jubilation. He grips Aegon’s arm and shakes his joy into him, in time, Aegon shakes back and laughs in a harmonic tune with him. With who ought to have been his flesh and blood all along. 

 Aegon gets up to go to the bathroom after a while, sliding you across the groove between his legs and onto the shiny red leather of the seat. You and Davey both watch him shimmy between patrons to the brass plated door of the loo. 

 “Thank you, really, thank you,” Davey says, eyes still on the door. You look at him and his brown gaze flicks to yours and he nods, “I didn’t think there was any chance of finding ‘im after all this time.”

 You shrug, evening dress squeaking a bit on the leather. “I just looked you up in the phonebook, Aegon wouldn’t have-”

 “Thought of it,” he laughs, nodding knowingly, “You know, I had to tell ‘im what a chamber pot was?”

 He pitches around his blue factory uniform, grimy black at the creases and giggles to himself. “I mean, can you imagine a bastard with indoor bogs in nineteen thirty nine? I thought he was taking the mick but he wasn't of course, just came from that fucked up castle of his. Oh, sorry for my language,”

 “It’s quite alright ,”you tell him, the sinew in your cheeks aching for your smile at his story, the fondness in his story nearly killing you. “My parents run the pub he sneaks out to twice a week, I assure you I have heard worse.”

 “I knew you were good from the minute you came over,” he tells you, a hand massaging into his intercostal muscles between fits of boyish giggles. He wipes his tears and sobers just a little, “You are the best thing that could have happened to him, you know?”

 It does not make you still like it would have if it had come from a mouth that had known him less, instead it makes you smile. “I have thought the same of you for quite some time.”

 Davey just tilts his head like it is nothing, because it is nothing to love someone who means the entire world to you. “He is my brother.” he says simply, his finger drawing a spiral down the condensation of his pint glass. 

 Just then, the bathroom door swings open and Aegon comes out. His eyes meet yours and his face splits clean into a grin. He is framed momentarily, in a picture you will never forget for the rest of your life, against the brown lacquered wallpaper and the waxy yellow lights that shine through his hair like the light of the sun. 

 He is light itself, he is the sun and the stars and he is everything. For the first time, you let yourself truly become something new, see a different painting in your reflection, “Bauerngarten mit Sonnenblumen.’ All those bright flowers entwined with one another, a garden of vibrancy and joy and love. In that painting of Klimt’s, the sunflower is not the subject of the painting, she is not observed as a new thing and a dangerous thing. No, she is beautiful for how she is one with the rest, for how the poppies of his blood and the violets of his hair are just as much singular as they are a unity. In those others, the future glimmers in technicolour like you have only ever seen on Pathé reels. 

 ‘Heather will suit her.’ Helaena had said and you want to weep for the yearning it inspires in your blood to know what she means. 

 In the seconds of you standing to let him slip himself below you, he absorbs all of it. 

 “Dancing!” One of the gobby lads proclaims, “let’s go to the dancehall!”

 A hearty groan of dissent rings around from his position, you realise it is the git without teeth and you shake your head at him in disbelief. Aegon’s hand is playing with the beading on the darts of mesh at your waist, a pale finger defining the pattern as adjacent to itself, and you just look at him.

 Davey shrugs, looking at Aegon to see what he thinks, Aegon proceeds to defer to you. It is comical. 

 “I am up for it,” you say, a little delighted by the idea of some more adventure in this already spontaneous evening. You feel like you are fizzing. “I have to get some wear out of this dress.”

 “You heard the lady, let’s go,” Davey says with a jaunty grin, smacking his hands on his knees. The group rises like a flock of startled birds in a single flurry of movement and jostles into the street. You bring up the rear alone, happily following between a dichotomous pair who leap around in broken tandem. They flick and jump against each other and you think of the atoms Mary had told you about, how they smacked and ricocheted. They are an ever increasing chain of energy.  

⚘⚘⚘

 What follows is hours of spinning and cavorting around a dimly lit hall, your nice shoes clipping with your movements and you dance on the worn down wood. The group peels off with the young women sitting around the edges of the dance floor and the night plays in with you in Aegon’s arms, occasionally in Davey’s with you and him trading stories back and forth about your lovely interlink. 

 Aegon looks around the bustle enraptured, captured by the music and the movement and the boundless way couples jig and laugh with one another. He seems so thoroughly amazed it nearly sparks his hair alight. 

 It makes you think of all he has missed, what he has been robbed of by his particular prison and how little he has experienced of this world which seems to fit him so perfectly. He does not seem to mind his suit trousers so much when he loops one of their legs around the back of yours to dip you comically at the end of the final song for the night. When the lights come on, signalling the end of the evening’s revelry, his face is pink and his grin could light up the entire city. 

 He and Davey share an embrace as he puts you into a taxi home, he and Aegon trade contact details and you give him yours too so he can send letters there instead of the school. He kisses your knuckles again and pats Aegon on the cheek. 

 “Next time, you are coming ‘round mine for Sunday dinner, both of you,” he insists, a demand not an invitation. “Mum is going to be so annoyed to ‘ave missed you.”

 “I look forward to meeting her,” Aegon says, so sincere it hurts a bit. “I will see you soon, I hope.”

 Davey laughs, “sooner than another decade, me old mucker, I promise you that.”

 Aegon is still laughing happily to himself when Davey has shut the door and shot him a last jaunty grin before jumping to click his ankles and waltzing off down the road.

 The car ride that follows is primed by the frenetic energy of the night and you have to stop yourself from going mad by steadying yourself in the weight of his hand high on your knee. 

 The front door clicks shut behind him with a deafening echo and he winces and he pulls you up the stairs, there is no question of splitting for different rooms as sleep has taken everyone in the house. If it has not taken Mrs Targaryen, as you remember Aegon saying she slept so rarely, if ever, she could politely go fuck herself. You have entered into a feeling beyond care of what she thinks.

 You want many things as he pulls you down to lay beside him, things intangible and rawly distinct. He wants them too, you know as much as it is laced through his breaths, warm against your neck. You can feel as much when you shiver and he draws your back against himself with a hand yearning through the thin cotton of the slip you are left in. 

 “I do not think I will live another moment without thinking of you,” he whispers, voice soft like water damp feathers, beaten from your pillow and soaked in the indecency of your dreams. 

 It hardly feels like breathing at all, what you are doing then, more of a great sharing of something in the thin air between you and him. A simultaneous engagement of existence, drawn from one body into the other, to be let out into the other again. And again, and again. 

 “I haven’t stopped thinking about you, not really since you first came into my sight.” Your words fall on his skin like a balm and he stutters the relief of healing in his tightened grip on the soft skin of your abdomen. For a brief moment that leaves you permanently altered, you want to crawl into his skin so as to feel everything just as vibrantly as him. 

 “Not even…” He cannot finish the sentence, but he does not need to, not now when you understand him as you do. 

 “Never,”  you breathe, fingers shifting under his still buttoned shirt to dance across his lowest rib. You play along the slight ridges in the bone and find the very line where his intercostal muscle ends in a furrowing flicker. You feel made from him like Eve, homemade for you like Adam. 

 You measure his reaction in the sinew that comprises him, how sensation chases from his bowed spine down his arms, culminating in the fibrous contraction of the ligaments in the backs of his hands. It is captivating, watching the moon’s shadows pitch themselves in a bending absence of light across the dance under his skin. 

 “Can I-” He chokes off when you turn in his hold to find him through the material of his loose underwear, tracing the pockets of air between him and you and the fabric. “Please, sunflower, let me have you.”

 “You already have me, I am yours in totality,” you tell him in a hum, then you kiss him in an act that feels more like a reinvention of life. 

 In a conjunction of time that warps perception, any vestiges of clothing are dragged from where they do not belong. Pulled in stitches that ache as they are taken away from skins that were only ever meant to be touching. He is nearly feverish against you, you burn up at the touch of his full alignment with your own body. Everything is skinned down to nerves, lingering in the air left behind when everything else is stripped away. 

 An attempt is made by the house, a prickle of air on what is still exposed to its clammy, unkind hands. You smile against Aegon’s lips, tilt your head back and catch laughter in your thorax as he presses his lips to your beating heart and his thrums under the hand you still have tangled in between his ribs. Really, it is a weak and futile retaliation. You blossom from naval to clavicle in a mottling of flushed desire. 

 His hand trembles down you, dipping into the softness between your legs with roughly padded fingers and old cicatrice against your innards. It is a reckoning, a harmonisation. He finds that spot where the memory of his tongue has lingered outside the reach of the trepidation of your own hands on yourself since it left you. Ecstasy strikes through you in a flash of blinding white. It is almost too much because he is everywhere and yet he is not lacing himself into your fibres and it is all you want. 

 So you stretch the desire crystallising in your muscles and take his hand away, relishing in the way he does not look confused, just knows what you mean. You are one, after all. 

 “I love you,” he tells you when the meat of your legs is sticking to the sides of his hips and he has clustered you against his heaving chest, one with you again. He has a hand cupped against the back of your head, holding you safe from dropping clean back in weightless abandon, fingers holding your skull between the dips of tendons. 

 You make a sound you did not know you could, forges in vocal chords tunes by his ministrations and affections, he mirrors it back like birds calling out to one another in the dawn’s early light. “I love you,” you surrender again, feeling close to losing control as you relinquish yourself to the fervor of your hips' instinctive movement against his. 

 You want him to climax first, only so you can watch him as he crests. His eyes grow heavy and his lashes fan out in mercury threads across his warm flushed cheeks. Through your madness you can feel him drawing closer to the edge and you smile with a dazed mania as he starts to falter in his pace, starts to whimper at the height of his breaths. 

 Then he breaks, and it is like watching the sunrise. His mouth falls open and he goes perfectly still, spine taught like the strings of a violin. The only movement is a shimmer behind his eyelids when his eyes roll back. He sounds like a chorus of fallen angels, voices plied to sing songs of a god who rejected them, tempered by flames into a cry of beautiful freedom. 

 Watching him like that is enough, and as his heart stutters under your hand, you follow him into the void, you hear the second he feels it against himself. It is like watching the birth of the universe, the colourful death of a star. History and time and rapture explode in the ends of your nerves and you hear yourself like a stranger in the abstract. 

The come down is all him, his hands still on you, his lips soothing your pulse in your neck on their way to your own and his hair sticking in waves to your collarbones. When your vision fades back into clear view and the image of him is solid once more, you find him grinning.

 “That was the best thing I have ever seen,” he says, stroking up the curve of your spine with his fingertip. It sends a shiver in its wake. 

 You tip your forehead against his and feel the salt of exertion slide in unity. “You should have seen my view.”

 His lips find yours and mould the two of you together. 

 The sunflower could almost be smiling for her relief. She blows warm in the wind, and eternal embracing with that which she holds dear. The little flowers all around her reach for her and she reaches back. When the petals touch, their downy holds brush against each other with aching permanence. 

 “I do not know how to thank you for tonight, for finding him,” he says deliberately, pulling you back to meet his sincerity laced eyes, “I am not worrying.”

 You smile but he shakes his head. 

 “No, sunflower I-” a hand rakes through sated clumping hair, “I have worried for Davey every minute since I waved him goodbye at that shitty little train station eleven years ago and now, suddenly, I know he is okay and I know I will see him again and I did not know just how much it was hurting to carry all of it around.”

 You try to kiss him but he does not quite let you, holding your cheeks in his gentle grasp. “You are brilliant and beautiful and I love you.”

 It is a compliment of such searing truth and intention that it has your instincts itching to hide away in your blushing cheeks. However you do not, he does not let you, he holds your face in his gaze until you feel like you're going to cry the blood from your veins. 

 “Do you believe me?” He asks, jogging you with light emphasis, “because I will tell you every chance I get if you do not just yet.”

 You do not know what to say, not in the face of the absolution from more than you knew was aching at your muscles. You shed fears of never belonging, that nigh unkillable frightening dream of being petrified into the coal mines and being forgotten there. You do not want a big life, that is not what you are asking for.; no lights and glory and praise, all you want is for your own little dreams to come true. Nothing more. 

 “I believe you,” you say, because you do. You would be a hypocrite not to after every time you have asked him to have faith in your judgement over the hundreds of others he has felt. 

 The universe gives you a little more, breaks the crest of the clouds to let the moon filter through the gap in the curtains and you shudder at the touch of her featherlight rays. 

 “Good,” he says simply, kissing you finally. He lets you sob against him, even when your teeth knock against his and the slickness of your cheeks goes cold in the night air. He just holds you tighter and blesses the tracks of your tears with his touch. “Because I am going to tell you all the time anyway.”

 You laugh wetly against him and shiver with the delicious vulnerability of being loved with abandon. Tomorrow you can have another staring match with his mother and pity his rotting father in his moldering chair. You will unpack your weapons and your armour and march down into battle at the breakfast table, fight the good fight for the man you love because that is who you are.

 In the light of this waxing moon, you trace his face as fatigue creeps into his bones and let yourself be nothing more, and nothing less than content.

⚘⚘⚘

Dearest readers! Happy Friday! I dearly hope you are all well and have enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. It is bloody long (eleven thousand words! I am so sorry but I could not help myself) and I have been looking forward to posting it for so long. Please let me know what you think, I would love to know. All my love, SlaginSecret xx

@neithriddle

[whalesandstars]

I FINALLY FINISHED MY FIC/MINI NOVEL AFTER 10000 YEARS ASDFGHJKDJ

You can get it for free here:

Platonic/familial, Nahida and Scaramouche Fan Novel PDF file format, 177 pages, with chapter art, plus free wallpaper

Synopsis:

She once dreamed of becoming a gold medalist figure skater like her mother, who died giving birth to her. But as it turned out, she was just a shadow of her mother’s dazzling radiance, a moon incomparable to the sun. After losing a series of competitions and facing the humiliation of being a failed successor to a legacy, Nahida decided to quit figure skating.

Although her love for the sport still lingered like undying embers, she was considering leaving the field altogether…

Until one day, she met a young man on the ice.

Determined to find a place for them in this world, she offered to become his coach and guided him through the world of being a figure skater.

"Two birds, rising from the ashes of their failures, Rose to greet the snowflakes and basked in the warmth of ice, As a coach and athlete, As souls dancing to the tune of purpose and self-acceptance."

<Trigger warnings included for some chapters>

Cover art by @ventique-genshin

[ohwhataniight]

How a perfume helped me reconstruct my grandmother

A couple of months after my grandma died, my aunt had told me I could pick anything I wanted from her closet. I chose a bottle of the L’Oreal Elnette hairspray she always used to wear, a Playmobil figure she kept that had once belonged to me, and a small bottle of perfume I had never seen her wearing. I hid everything in a drawer next to my bed and only came to intentionally smell the perfume last night, after deciding to write about perfumes. The perfume was Anais Anais by Cacharel.

I rediscovered my grandmother, Stella, only when I finally found Anais Anais. Not that I had ever smelt it on her (Mum thinks it must have been a gift she kept, the bottle was almost full). It just managed very well to capture her essence. (Whoever bought that gift must have been either very insightful and familiar with my grandmother’s psyche, or merely very lucky in blind-buying a perfume that was en vogue in the late 70s).

Before spritzing Anais Anais on my wrist, I half-expected it to smell like roses. My brain was probably paying tribute to the memory of my grandmother cutting pink roses from her balcony and placing them in glasses full of water, on my desk while I was studying for uni. I do not recall the scent of those roses.

Instead, Anais Anais smelt old. Not in a bad way. Just stuck in time. Like someone who had died but whom I craved to meet, peering through dusty chests full of dresses and hand-knitted jumpers wrapped in a cloud of naphthaline. I eagerly greeted my grandmother’s elegance in the room, her poise, the sternness of her mothering, the grace with which she smiled. I heard the voice in which she called me “sweet doll”, the voice in which she admitted, a week before her second stroke, that although I made her proud, she still grieved over the disappointment of my atheism. “You have strayed from God’s path. That is my only woe”.

It was the incense, combined with the elegance and doe-eyed romance of the iris and hyacinth. My grandmother wasn’t just a devout Christian - she was a fanatical one. Jesus Christ was the love to which she gave herself most freely, the shelter she sought when earthly affairs became unbearable. Based on my own spiritual experiences, I can only compare it to literary ecstasy, to the orgasmic feeling that comes when someone does something human-like and I relate to them, to the grappling with the all-crushing fist of falling in love.

In Orthodox Greece, before Holy Friday when the burial of Christ takes place, a wooden construction upon which His body is lain, Επιτάφιος, is decorated with spring flowers and sprinkled with rose water. During the litany, four men carry the fragrant coffin on their shoulders and lead a procession to the streets. In Anais Anais I smell the church on the day of the Επιτάφιος. I’m still seven years old, sitting next to grandma who’s whispering - reading out of a pocket Bible synopsis she’s holding in her wrinkled hands. I suddenly see my grandmother younger, wearing pearls and clean cashmere in the colour of lilacs, sitting in a wallpapered living room, writing Easter cards for friends and family as my grandpa reads his newspaper. Like the one she worshipped, my grandma is ressurrected, if I'm allowed the blasphemy.

I spray Anais Anais on my chest, and spend the evening sitting next to you, watching Leftovers on the computer, with my jumper (Dad’s jumper, actually) stretched over my nose. I inhale deeply. I remember the monarch butterfly that once made its way into the one-room apartment of my mid-twenties. I remember the shame, the guilt, the dew, the devotion. Smelling a perfume that my grandma rarely wore, I become her image, I breathe in her sighs, I choke on her laughter. I reconstruct her.

[shyhugsandkisses]

"You're keeping secrets from me?"

Summary: You went by your boyfriend, and he found out about your tumblr account while checking through your phone.

Your boyfriend texted you around 8 am on a Saturday. "Babe, what time are you coming over?" After receiving that text, you replied, "I'm coming around 12 ml." Those were the last few text messages you had with him. Around 9, you got up and did your morning routine. Take a shower, brush your teeth, wash your face, put lotion on, get dressed, and the longest part of all. Do your hair. While doing your hair, it at least took a good hour. So around 11 a.m., your boyfriend came to pick you up. You scrolled on Tumblr while he drove. Of course, you kept the tickling side of your Tumblr hidden, so the only thing he saw was cats, art, and anything that seemed normal for people to look at. Soon, you arrived at his house; his mother greeted you, and you greeted her back with a loving smile. As the two of you head to his bedroom, you turn your phone off, keeping the Tumblr app open without thinking.

The two of you began cuddling and watching TikToks. He scrolled onto a TikTok of a couple, and it said, "Switch phones. See what's in her phone while she checks yours." Oh, he was ecstatic. The joy in his voice when he spoke to you was too adorable to ignore. "Babe! We should do this but with other apps. We've gone through each other's messages already." You saw no issue with this. Cause, of course, your boyfriend had nothing to hide; he didn't have Instagram, Snapchat, or Twitter because he knew that it would probably ruin the relationship, and also his mother didn't allow it when he was growing up. So he saw no need to have the apps.

You both switched phones. He opened yours. "Babe... What's Tumblr?" Your heart dropped. "Shoot, I forgot to close it out!" You said in your head. You hid your face behind his phone screen. He kept checking what Tumblr was. "...ok cats, art, music, wallpapers, profile pictures, 𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜?" The second you heard that word, you wanted to run away so badly. He looked at you with a confused expression. "Baby? Please explain to me why there is so much content on tickles in your likes and on your For You page." You looked at him then looked away. He kept scrolling, seeing you had no explanation or at least weren't ready yet.

He scrolled and saw tickle fics, tickle teases, audios, stories, and videos, but one in particular caught his eye. "Lee mood," as read on the top of the post he's looking at. He reads more only to find another post that says, "I genuinely want someone to come wreck me with tickles right now. I want them to do it without them even knowing I'm enjoying it." He scrolled more. "I love it when Lees try to deny that they're ticklish. It's so cute 'cause the second you hit them with a 'koochi koochi kooo~♡,' they melt and end up giggling like crazy." He thought about it. He thought about you being a Lee and enjoying being tickled. He continued scrolling through your likes and found so much. Tummy tickles, body tickles, and tickles that would comfort you after a bad day. And last but not least. Ways to get a ler to tickle you.

He stopped scrolling and looked at you. "So... when were you going to tell me that you're into tickling, huh? I'd never think my girlfriend would like being tickled so much, but I do have a question. How long has this even been going on? You felt your body heat up. "For a few years..." you answered him. He smiled at you fondly. "You genuinely like being tickled? All the times I thought you didn't, you enjoyed it?" You hid your face again as he asked those questions. "I always enjoyed it... whenever you stopped, I genuinely didn't want you to. I wanted you to hold me and tickle me crazy. Even pin me down under you and tickle me. The day you did pin me and tickle me... my mind went blank. I couldn't find any words to even tell you to stop, but soon you did, and I was too nervous to even ask you to keep going." As you spoke, he smiled more. Once you stopped speaking, he grabbed you into a hug. "That's so cute~! You like being tickled!" As he spoke and said this, you could feel his hands go under your shirt. You squirmed; he smiled at you. "What's wrong? Why so jumpy?" He asked this as he began to trap you in the hug and tickle your sides. You giggled and begged. "Ahahahah! Bahahbe!! Waahahit! "Noho!" You laughed as he tickled up and down your sides. His hands turned into a claw-like motion against your belly. You cackled, squealed, and did every little thing you could do. He looked at you so lovingly while you laughed under him. He kept tickling your sides. "Tickletickletickle~! You're so cute when you're laughing, baby! I could tickle you all day~" Your heart fluttered at the sound of his sweet, happy voice. He kept going. After a good while he poked your belly button.

Oh, the squeal you let out was enough to break a window.

He laughed at your squealing, "Aww, did I find a bad spot, giggles?" You laughed."Don't call me giggles!! Ahahehheheeh!!" You laughed more and more as he tickled your belly button. Oh, it was torture, but you loved it so much. He kept speaking. "koochi koochi kooooo~ you're so ticklish~! Who would've thought that my girlfriend was so ticklish, and she even enjoyed it? Awwww~! He kept teasing you. You could barely fight, not like you wanted to anyway. After he stopped, he kissed you on your forehead. "I know how to make you stop being so stubborn now!" Ehehe, I might even say I won't tickle you and see what happens." You curled up in his arms, hiding your face. The rest of the night you stayed with him. Soft tickles along your back as he lulled you to sleep. 

[muse-write]

The Starsail

Here's my Inklings Challenge (@inklings-challenge) for 2023! It's not exactly what I hoped it would be, but I don't see myself having much time to work on it over the next couple of days. I expect to be able to give it a more natural ending sometime soon, just not before the 21st, so look out for that.

Lieutenant Pekka met him at the atmospheric lock at the top of the gangway, saluting him sharply with the flat of his shimmering blade. “Welcome aboard, sir.”

“My ship in one piece, Thom?” Captain Vadya clapped him on the shoulder, the clang of his gauntlet star-hard against the links of the lieutenant’s mailshirt. Lieutenant Thom Pekka hurried after him as he moved up the deck toward his office, filtering through the list of data hovering in front of them at a practiced speed.

“Mostly, sir. The sails are fixed and replaced with new synthweave, the hull has been modified with  facet-steel, and the kitchen has been restocked with…” He made a face. “…The best ration-packs the Center has to offer. Quite a treat to look forward to, I’m sure. That nebula-rip tore through some roping, but we’ve got men working on it.” When the Starsail had limped into Sula’s main war-port in front of the Center of Administrative Warfare, they had feared the repairs might take weeks. Captain Vadya blew out a sigh of relief and turned a quick grin onto his first lieutenant.

“If some roping is all we lost, Thom, I’m a happy star-knight.” He continued to his office, the data visualization scattering away from the interference of his passage through it, and Pekka, with fond exasperation, swiped it back together again and pocketed the projector. 

“Where are we off to now, Captain?”

Nem Vadya paused in front of his door. “That’s a good question, Lieutenant. It’s one I won’t answer until we’re well on our way. Just trust me, huh?”

Pekka was quiet for a moment. He’d been friends with Vadya since they were children. His trust was hardly in doubt. “Another disagreement with the Admiral, sir?” This came out tentatively, with just a hint of distaste.

Vadya’s grin this time was a bit more strained, but no one could have noticed except Pekka. “Believe that if you want. Let’s just say…clear the records of our ship’s departure, and mask our trajectory. This mission is…perhaps not advised.”

Pekka’s knuckles whitened. “Heading for danger, sir?”

Vadya laughed now. “Danger finds me, Thom, I promise you!”

“Yes, of course, sir,” Pekka agreed, knowing when to pick his battles with Captain Nem Vadya and already mentally reviewing their medical inventory.

Nem Vadya shut the door to his office and leaned against it with a sigh. He was back on his ship, the familiar blue waves of his wallpaper greeting him, and the vastness of space stretching out past his window beyond the lights of the war-port. Still, he was full of nervous energy that wouldn't be relieved by the wonder of space.

He reached into the pocket of his synthweave cape and took out his mother’s note. 

My dearest Nem, it read,

I and your father are proud of your accomplishments in Sula District 3974, and wish we could have been there to greet your return in Sula proper, but unfortunately we were called away by your grandfather’s most recent crisis of health. I shall send another note concerning his state as soon as I can.

Of more pressing concern is the second letter included in this envelope. It has been four years since Zyn was taken into custody of the King’s Police, and in all that time I have not been able to gain entrance to see or speak to him. In the included letter is what I and your father wish him to know. With your advanced stature in the King’s Armed Forces, I have hopes that you will be able to give this letter to him. I know your opinion of your brother, but have pity on the grief of a parent, and do what you can.

Vadya pursed his lips. Thus had been the purpose of his meeting with Admiral Jent, which had come to naught; visiting with Zyn Vadya, traitor of the Galactic King, was firmly prohibited. “You know the rules, dear boy,” the Admiral had said, softening a bit. “Traitors, especially to the extent of your poor brother, are sentenced to a solitary life. That is their punishment.”

Vadya knew the rules quite well; he had never once wished to break them, much less for the sake of his murderous younger brother. But this letter from his mother, while restrained and pleasant, carried her unique brand of desperation; he could practically see her composure cracking. 

His father had added a short post-script:

Nem, all of the above. I love you. I trust you to do what is right.

Which was about as wordy as his father got. It made Vadya’s heart warm; his father likely had written those words with hands aching from pulling sheets of facet-steel from the compressor for ten hours, and he’d probably had his customary glass of takka immediately afterward. 

Vadya sighed and brushed his hair behind his shoulders, staring out at the void of space they’d soon be setting off into. 400 lightyears away the prison planet of Wintral slowly burned itself up beside the ever-expanded sun of the same name. And on that planet sat his younger brother, one-time failed assassin and revolutionary. And since there was no way to legally get their parents’ letter to him through the right channels, well…

Vadya would be leading his crew in an attempted prison break.

~~~~~~

By 21:00, the small mess hall was full, even with only the 14 crew members he’d chosen to accompany him out of the usual 35. They had gathered for dinner and celebratory drinks, cheering finished repairs and a fine cast-off. The depths of space were too dangerous to have real alcohol on-board, but the War Center had provided the standard limited amount of ferment-packets, which provided an extremely short-lived buzz that felt nowhere near the same. 

Vadya watched as men and women laughed and clanged metal cups together, staring through the atmospheric shields at the stars passing by at a sedate pace. Whether they knew where they were going, or what they were in for, they were pleased to be off-planet after a week of inactivity.

Vadya had spent that week meticulously planning.

The mess hall was small and hot, and his flight uniform was stifling, even with his hair pulled back. He fidgeted. On Wintral, the prison had to be ten times this uncomfortable. 

The thought made him still. His appetite, already small to begin with, was gone completely. He picked at the freshest of the ration-packets, and he had been doing so for half an hour without making much of a dent when there was an outcry on the other side of the mess hall. Vadya sighed, already moving to rise as Pekka hurried over to him, his eyes wide and his face contorted in that expression that meant he was apologetic but too duty-bound not to go through with the action.

“Captain, sir, midshipman Temner has captured a stowaway, sir.” 

Vadya paused. “A stowaway? How did they get past the sensor beacons on the gangway?”

Pekka shrugged helplessly. “You’ll have to ask her, sir.”

Her. That made a bit more sense; Sula was not a planet known for its kindness to women and girls. After a short hesitation, he unbelted his sword and blaster-holster and set them on his chair. Pekka paled. “Sir…”

“Leave it to me, Lieutenant,” Vadya said gently but firmly, and moved past him to join the huddle of bodies that had formed on the far wall. When they noticed their Captain approaching, his crew swiftly made room. It was enough to let him see the ‘her’ they were all so curious about.

She was a young woman, barely more than a teenager, perhaps 20, if that. She crouched by the wall, hands wrapped defensively around a small roll, one that had already been micro-risen. Her clothing was odd, not at all what someone should be wearing when the radiation of an atmospheric shield was all that separated them from the vacuum of space—a white blouse, plaid skirt, and sensible shoes were all well and good, but not on a starship.

This was all somewhat unimportant against the obscenities she was yelling at them. She directed these first at the largest of the men standing nearby, then more fiercely at Vadya as he approached. He stopped, belatedly realizing just how this might look to her, then after some deliberation he knelt a few feet in front of her. She went pale and her mouth snapped shut, teeth grinding together. Her glare remained as fierce as before.

Now that she was quiet, he took the opportunity to speak. “I’m Captain Nem Vadya. You’re on the starship Starsail. I hear you’re a stowaway?”

Her hands clenched around the roll she gripped. “I’m not supposed to be here,” she bit out. “You won’t believe me, but I’m not supposed to be in this world.” She bit her lip. “I swear, I’m only on this stupid ship so I can get home.”

“The Starsail’s not stupid,” Vadya corrected absently, turning her claim over in his mind. He’d heard stories in the far reaches of the system, tales of portals and wormholes, and after everything he’d experienced, someone coming from another world wasn’t the oddest thing out there. But was she telling the truth?

He observed her for a moment—her curly hair slipping out of its bow, her cheeks flushed with anger and panic, the tear-tracks almost hidden on her face—and abruptly decided it didn’t matter. She was here, after all, and he had his own mission, and they wouldn’t be going toward a portal in the far reaches of space any time soon. If she wanted to get home, she’d have to find another way. For now, she was stuck here.

“Why did you choose this ship?” he asked as gently as he could. No doubt Pekka was already tallying up the amount of rations one extra woman would use. 

She gulped. “I don’t know, it was just…the closest one. I would only have one chance.” She glanced at the group behind him. “And there were women, so I thought…” She trailed off, but he saw her point. 

“Well, unfortunately, you chose wrong. We aren’t headed toward a portal, or a wormhole, or anything that will allow you to get back home.” He met her dark eyes, noting the fear and anger and utter, utter bewilderment there, and wished he could comfort her. “I cannot tell you anything else. My crew trusts me. Will you?”

Tense silence.

It was broken in only a few seconds as Litt, the navigator shouldered his slight frame through the crowd. “And what business do we have with her, a stowaway who doesn’t even dress for a spaceflight?” Vadya observed Litt for a second. Belligerent and hotheaded he was, but not merciless, even as he glared at the girl. And Vadya saw his point. Taking stowaways on a dangerous journey into the edge of known space was not ideal, but there was nothing else to be done.

Turning from the girl, he addressed the crew. “Our business, Litt, is to take care of people who come running to us for help. We can’t take her back now, anyway.” The obvious reason his crew would come to was the time wasted, and he didn’t say the unspoken part out loud–that this spaceflight was completely off the record. “Ruka.” He singled out one of the female crewmembers, one he knew would be a stern companion but not an unkind one. “Take the girl and find her a suit and some real food. She’ll bunk with you in the womens’ cabins. She says from another world; please explain anything she needs to know, using your own discretion. And keep her safe; she chose perhaps the worst ship possible to make her escape in.”

The girl lifted her chin and met Vadya’s eyes. “And a weapon? Could I be permitted one of those?”

He surveyed her: slim, almost delicately weak. But only almost. 

He liked to think he had an honorable crew, but he knew what young men were wont to do for long voyages away from their home planets. And this girl was terrified, of him not least. The least he could do to gain her trust was to show some back.

“Ruka, give her one of your knives.”

The knife Ruka offered was a sensible pocketknife, a cheap one of Prithane make but imminently serviceable. One Ruka and her interminable sense of duty wouldn’t feel badly about dying at the blade of. The girl took it, looking relieved.

Ruka started for the door, but before she followed her, the girl turned to Vadya. “My name is Cassia. And…thank you.”

~~~~~~

It would take them time to get to Wintral, as well as many stops to refuel. Though Pekka didn’t know their exact destination, Vadya had given him information enough to allow him to make an accurate list of fueling stations and their general trajectory. Those fueling stations would only get more infrequent as they reached the edges of known space. Pekka was flitting about here and there stamping out the myriad of crises that came with crewing a warship with a skeleton crew of 14.

In general, the first few days passed in a peace so uncharacteristic that it was almost boring, and the crew was getting restless. There had been entirely too much time to think about the state of their mission and the mysterious stowaway from another world quietly keeping to herself in the women’s dormitories. 

Vadya himself was not exempt from this, and sometimes wished that Thom was a little less capable just so that he had something to do other than sit in his office and stew over his mother’s letter. A week into their mission, he summoned Cassia to his office. She appeared at his door dressed in the standard silver armored flight suit—not entirely necessary inside the pressurized cabins, but a useful precaution to take.

He had prepared a carafe of coffee and poured her some. “Cream?”

She hesitated, but she seemed less suspicious than she had the last time they’d met. “Please.”

“I guess Ruka has put in a good word for me,” he chuckled.

Cassia sipped the coffee in lieu of an answer. “Why have you called me here?”

Vadya sipped his own mug of coffee and gathered his thoughts. “How did you get to Sula?” he asked first.

Cassia’s fingers went white at the knuckles. “Please don’t answer my question with a question, Captain.”

Vadya observed her—the meticulously combed hair, the brown eyes set in a round, pretty face. There was nothing at all, beyond her dark hair and relative short stature, to set her apart from the Sulian people. “I and my crew are setting out on a particularly dangerous journey,” he relented finally. “I wonder if perhaps you’ve been sent to help us with it.”

She scoffed. “Help you? I was walking home from work looking forward to seeing my sister when a wind swept up around me and dumped me in the middle of a back alleyway. I thought I was still at home until I saw…one of your kind, whatever you are.” Her voice trembled a bit. “It was autumn at home. My favorite season.”

He didn’t know what that meant, but he put it aside for now. “So it wasn’t a portal or wormhole which brought you here.” Not one he’d ever seen, anyway.

Her eyes flashed. “Well, what else could have? I’ve read Lovecraft! Lewis!” 

He had opened his mouth to respond when a horn sounded through the speakers in his office, followed by the sound of running footsteps and Thom bursting through the door to pant out, “A sonar-dragon, sir, to port!”

Vadya tensed and rose, coffee and Cassia forgotten. “How large?” 

Thom turned grim. “Large enough. Drij shot it in the eye as soon as it turned up but it’s stubborn.”

“Well, thank the stars for Drij’s aim,” Vadya muttered, heading for his armor and assembling it. “The shields?”

“Weak but holding.”

“Recharge them to full power.” Atmospheric shields wouldn’t keep out a physical obstacle larger than a small asteroid, but if they tuned them right it might affect the sonar-dragon’s hearing. “Cassia, stay here.”

“Don’t worry,” he heard her mutter under her breath, “do you think I’d go out there?” He grabbed two pairs of deafeners on his way out and threw one to Thom, who paled but clipped them onto his ears. Vadya kept his in his hand until he’d strode out on deck and faced the chaos that awaited.

A skeleton crew was little match for a sonar-dragon, but they were putting up a fine struggle. Blasters and starswords combined made up a formidable armory, but the sonar-dragon, as stated, was large enough that a crew of 35 would have been hard-pressed to keep it at bay. Starry mist streamed from the hole Drij had gouged in its eye, but the other was bright and golden and stared down Vadya as soon as he exited the cabin. 

Vadya ignored it for now, taking a glance over his ship. The main-mast was in one piece and the synthweave sails were intact, though that hastily-repaired roping was showing signs of strain and fraying. Through the deafeners, he couldn’t hear the chaos, but he could certainly see it—and Litt’s body lying still against the navigation center in the middle, a wound in his head bleeding freely.

Vadya’s anger burned cold. He had chosen these knights for a reason—they would be the least likely to have something to lose in the event they didn’t return. But he hadn’t intended to get any of them killed, and by a sonar-dragon, at that.

The atmospheric shields glimmered above them, visible now that they’d been recharged to full power. The effect on the dragon’s hearing he’d hoped for didn’t seem forthcoming. His heart sank: there was only one tried-and-true method to slaying a sonar-dragon. With another burst of sharp anger Vadya threw the deafeners onto the deck and met the dragon’s gaze.

The sonar call of the dragon, though just on the edge of hearing, resonated through him and the ship’s hull, a pitch scientists had fought to explain for years. Immediately, the dragon’s mind—if it could be called that, for it was a mind as much as a sonar-dragon was really a dragon—touched his, sliding and slithering through his emotions and pulling on them one by one. The anger was the first to go numb, and then the concern for his crew, and the burning curiosity about Cassia, and his concerns for the quest ahead.

Vadya stood there silently struggling not to protest throughout.

Then the dragon found his memories of his brother and pounced eagerly. There went the hatred, gone cold and fizzling in his chest, and then the confused anger, and then the despair, and then the small bit of worry Vadya hadn’t even realized had been there until it went dark. The dragon stumbled over the tiny burning flicker of love still remaining and grasped at it, a bit lethargically, sluggishly, to swallow up.

No, Vadya willed as strongly as he could, no, you will not have that. 

And now that the dragon was thoroughly sated, finally full, had gotten its meal, it relented. It backed away from the ship. Before it could go, Vadya wrenched on that mental line connecting them, bound together with the sonar hum, dragged the dragon’s form close enough to him that he could see the galaxy that swirled in its one remaining eye, and stabbed his starsword through its temple.

The emotions the dragon had just swallowed up were released as it died, filled Vadya until his legs were weak with all of them at once, like someone had wrung out a sopping sponge straight into his nerves, and someone shoved Vadya’s discarded defeaners over his ears just in time, as the dragon let out an angry bellow, its pitch—reputedly—enough to knock an entire crew unconscious. 

The form of the dragon fell still and silent, and after a few minutes Vadya took off his defeaners. The crew followed suit, and the next thing Vadya heard was the cheering. Drij slapped his shoulder, Ruka saluted him sharply, Pekka hovered anxiously. 

Vadya took a couple of steps away, feeling more worn-out than he could remember even after his most hard-won battle. His legs threatened to collapse under him, and seeing it Pekka threw an arm around his shoulders to support him. Just before he let himself be led into his quarters, Vadya threw a look at the dragon’s corpse. “Get that thing off my ship.” His voice was a little monotone, but he couldn’t muster up anything beyond the weariness and jittery nerves that had overtaken him.

Pekka took him to his office, but moved past it into his actual room. Vadya groaned as he lowered himself gingerly down onto his bed. “That was more difficult than the Admiral’s stories made it sound,” he admitted, grateful to be sitting.

Pekka looked him in the eye. “You killed a sonar-dragon. A big one, too.”

Vadya shrugged uneasily. “Don’t mention it.”

“Oh, we will.”

Vadya realized belatedly that he was shuddering and that Pekka’s arm was still wrapped around his shoulders. “Do you need anything, Captain?” he asked quietly.

“Just…time,” Vadya replied, equally as quiet. At least he was able to put a little bit of inflection into that one. “Thom, don’t ever get your emotions dragged out of you and then pushed back in all at once.”

“I’d sleep it off if I were you,” came a voice from the doorway connected to his office. Cassia, true to her word, must have stayed back. She held out a cup of coffee. “Here. I can’t see how drinking something warm won’t help. Wish it was tea, but then, I’m British through and through.”

He pushed past all the extra confusion everything she said seemed to cause him and took the coffee. All told, it probably hadn’t been thirty minutes since he’d made the carafe, and it was still warm and pleasantly bitter. It energized him just a little bit. He turned to Pekka. “Go and make sure they’ve gotten that quantum-warped dragon off this ship. And, Thom…Litt?”

Pekka gave him a sad smile. “Dead on impact, sir. The dragon got him over the head.”

“Tonight, cryofreeze, then. I’m sure he went out fighting. His family deserves a real body to mourn when we get back.”

“Aye, sir.” Then Pekka, with a courteous nod at Cassia, went out into the hall, leaving the two of them alone.

Cassia tapped the hilt of her knife nervously, shifting her weight back and forth. For his part, Vadya sat still, sipping his coffee while he waited for her to speak and feeling his emotions resettle themselves gradually, each slipping back into its spot one by one. “What was that thing?” she asked finally.

Vadya tried to stand, but his legs were still shaky, so he lowered himself back onto the bed with as much dignity as he could. “Sonar-dragon. They’re hungry all the time. They feed on emotions. Hence…” His gesture encompassed the whole of him, sitting there shuddering in his room instead of commanding his ship. “They aren’t actually dragons,” he thought to add. “Just appear that way. They need a form, you see.”

“And…will we come across another one?” she asked.

“We didn’t think we’d come across that one,” he pointed out. “Wintral is just on the edge of explored space, as distant from civilization as you can get without shoving it into the unknown galaxies. After the next refuel, we’ll enter warpspeed and it should take us three years. Warpspeed will protect us a bit. I don’t know what’s going to happen beyond that.”

Cassia shook her head. “Warpspeed? What’s…no, you said we’ll be on this quest for three years? And you told no one?” Her voice sharpened. “I really did choose exactly the wrong ship to board, didn’t I?” 

“Don’t get angry at me,” Vadya snapped back. “This is a Royal Sulian Warship, you should have gone for a merchant vessel if you wanted a nice relaxing ride to the next wormhole to throw yourself into.”

Cassia looked as though she had a response to that, but she bit her cheek. “What’s the real reason you’re doing this? Going to Wintral?”

Vadya closed his eyes. “It’s complicated.”

“And I’m stuck here for the next three years,” Cassia reminded him, “so I’d like to know what the plan is. And I think your crew would probably like to know why they won’t see their families for six years, and why they're down one.”

Vadya gritted his teeth, already regretting his decision to take in this strange girl. “I’ll tell you, because you deserve to know. But you won’t say a thing to my crew.”

He explained his mother’s letter, and went—briefly, because his emotions about it still hadn’t settled—into his brother’s history, and his intentions to bring him the letter, since the proper channels didn’t seem to be an option. Any other intentions he had he kept to himself. 

The coffee was long since gone, and Cassia fiddled with her empty mug. “It’s not much of a plan,” she commented finally.

“I know how I’m going to get in and how I’m going to get out, and what I’m there to do. That’s all I need.”

Cassia brushed her hair behind her ear, her dark eyes serious. “Back at home, I was studying statistics. If I had the numbers I could tell you the odds of this working to a decimal point. Right now I'll at least hazard a guess that they wouldn’t be high.”

Vadya stared at nothing. “I don’t need the exit plan to work. It’s just going to be me in there, anyway. The crew will be able to escape.”

“And when it’s reported that Captain Nem Vadya of the Starsail has been arrested for a security breach?” 

Vadya met her eyes. “I’ll be thrown in jail to be forgotten, my brother will have heard from his parents for the first time in seven years, and all 13 crewmembers on board this ship will be able to plead complete and utter innocence. If you tell anyone, you’re endangering their lives.”

[skylarmoon71]

Leonardo (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles)- Chapter 3

“Good morning (Y/N), would you mind helping me across the street.”

Your eyes lifted and despite yourself, you blushed.

The second they landed on the male you could feel your heart increase against your will.

See, you might have been oblivious to a lot, but this was different. The male that stood in front of you held a cane, sunglasses perched on his nose, and a smile on his face.

“O-Of course Mr. Murdock.”

Matt was somewhat of a family friend after he helped your father with a small legal matter. Although he lived a few blocks down, you’d known him since you were a child.

Hence your stupid crush.

“He’s twice your age!”

Technically. You were probably tripled his age with all the lives you’d outlived.

“How is your family?” Guiding him over the street you reply.

“They’re fine. Mom says you can stop by whenever you’re longing for something other than Chinese. “ He laughed.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Why couldn’t I have been reincarnated into an adult body!!”

Even his laughter was a crime.

Truth is, when you first met him, you hadn’t fully recognized him. Still, that didn’t deter your young mind on how attractive he was. Then you realize just who this man was.

Hell’s Kitchen’s very own Daredevil.

That seemed to spike your interest. Now every time you saw him you would lose all composure.

When you got across he released the hand from your shoulder.

“Thank you.” You nod.

“A-Anytime. See you around Mr. Murdock!”

You were speeding off, because your heart was about to constrict.

“I still have a few months. Calm down, you cursed organ!”

He definitely knows.

After school you make it back to your home. Your mother greets you, asking about your day. For some reason it feels easier. To be honest about what you experienced. Honest about how you feel.

“Peter sounds like a nice young man. Are you two friends then?”

Sitting at the table, you look down at your plate.

“I..I guess so.”

You’ve never really had friends. Never cared for something that you would ultimately lose.

“That’s great, sweetheart.”

Whenever she speaks, you can hear the subtle hint of pain in her words. You want nothing more than to quell those fears, but there is nothing that you can say. Because the time is literally counting down. 

Several months and you’ll be nothing but a memory. A picture hanging on the wall. When you feel her hand covering yours on the table, and the smile she offers, somehow that thought floats away. You enjoy the moment, rather than dwelling on it.

After dinner you help clean up and you move to your room. You find yourself sitting by the window, just staring up at the sky. You hope that the constellations have some secret answer to your life. Your irises glow gold, and you blink at the shadow that casts over your window. The ring on your eyes disappears almost immediately.

“Still fighting crime I see.”

There isn’t a word, but then you see his arm as he pulls himself up. Leo sets himself right on the branch set outside your window.

“How did you know it was me?”

“You’re the only vigilante running around at this time of night who’s crazy enough to come back here.”

He smiles at that, and you open the window for him. He accepts the invitation, lowering his head as he steps inside. He surveys the space. He isn’t even shocked at the lack of posters or small trinkets you would expect from a normal teenage girl. Aside from the colored wallpaper and books, there is nothing personalized. 

It’s a room of someone who doesn’t have attachments.

“How much longer do you have?”

That was not where you thought this conversation was going.

“Seven months.” Leo nods.

“So I have seven months to convince you that the human race isn’t completely irredeemable."

“What makes you think you can change what I’ve known for centuries in a matter of months.”

“Well, you never met me.”

“I thought Raph is supposed to be the self centered one.”

“Hah, you’re hilarious.” You smile at that.

“I’m sure you have better things to do that waste time on me.”

Leo takes a step closer to you.

“I don’t see any of the time I spend with you wasted. Especially given the circumstances.”

His earnest responses always throw you off. You direct your gaze elsewhere.

“What exactly do you have in mind?”

He grins.

“Glad you asked, follow me.”

He holds out his hand, and for a moment you just stare at it. This isn’t just a request to venture out there. By taking his hand, you know you’re taking a chance on feeling the pain of ultimately losing all of this when it’s time to move on. It’s a terrifying thought.

But for once, you don’t feel as terrified by it. You take his hand, and when he pulls you close, it feels like just a piece of you has changed. 

[zimwritez]

summer stars

WC: 2.1 K

Warnings/BYR: nothing!

A/N: hiii! this is my first story on here! i wanted just to test the waters with some pure fluff (plz read it), but there will be a part two with more suggestive/smut parts! let me know how you like it! <3

After coming in from loading up the moving truck, you stand in front of the off-white house, your eyes wandering over its familiar suburban facade. Memories of your younger years come flooding back as you take in the sight before you. It's been years since you last saw this house, before you left for college. As you take in your surroundings, you realize that you had almost forgotten its shape.

Stepping inside, you're greeted by the scent of roses that fills the air. Your mom has always been obsessed with these flowers, ever since you were a little girl. The scent is so familiar that every time you catch a whiff of it outside your house, you're hit with an odd sense of deja vu. But here, inside the house, the fragrance is overwhelming, as if it has been bottled up and released into the air. The living room is cluttered with boxes of all shapes and sizes, piled high in every corner. The cardboard smell of the boxes mingles with the sweet scent of roses, creating a strange, yet comforting aroma. 

You had to come back home, out of the city, because of your dad’s hospitalization. Your mom has to move full time near the hospital because of your dad’s permanent residence there. He’s always had health problems, but they haven’t been this serious until now. You'll be spending the summer here too, in case anything happens. 

As you move through the house, you notice how much has changed since you left for college. The furniture is different, the wallpaper has been replaced, and there are new curtains hanging in the windows. You step into your childhood bedroom, and even though the rest of the house is changed, this room seems to be stuck in time. The posters are still on the wall, the bed is still perfectly made, and the air seems still. You scan the picture frames on your dresser, each one holding a memory of days gone by. They're snapshots of a time when life was simpler, when your high school friends and you would spend hours laughing and making memories. The faces staring back at you are those of friends you barely even see anymore, people you once considered your closest allies. In the years since you graduated and parted ways for college, time has lapsed and made it difficult to stay in touch. It's a bittersweet feeling, realizing how easily life can pull people apart.

You focus on one particular picture, a small frame holding a picture of you and a boy around the age of six. You squint your eyes and furrow your eyebrows, trying to remember who he is. The picture is a bit faded, the edges of the frame worn and chipped with age.

Suddenly, it all comes back to you. It’s the boy that you live next door to. You were friends up until middle school when he randomly transferred to online school. Somehow, you can’t remember his name. It may have started with a K? A C? You're not too sure. 

You hear your mother calling your name from downstairs. Sluggishly walking down the stairs, you see another slightly older woman standing in the kitchen. She’s wearing a pink, knitted sweater, which is odd because it’s so hot outside. She wears a genuine smile on her face, too.

“Oh, Hello Ma’am.” “Woooow~ You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman!”

You stutter for a moment, trying to remember if you’ve seen this lady before. She barely looks familiar. Thankfully, after almost a full minute of silence, your mom chimes in.

“This is Mrs. Ji, from next door. She’s going to be helping you out if you need anything while I’m gone helping your dad.” 

It all clicks in your head. This must be the mom for the boy from before. You speak, 

“Oh, thank you so much! I doubt I will need much, but it’s nice to know I have someone to lean on!”

“Yes..You must remember my son, right? Changmin? He’s home for the summer too!”

Bingo.

“Oh that’s nice, I’ll have to say hi sometime.”

There’s a silent agreement as your mom whisks you away to continue moving boxes into the U-Haul, you take a moment to look around the house that you once called home. Despite the bittersweet feeling of having to help your mom leave, you push aside your emotions and focus on the task at hand. You diligently continue packing boxes and loading them onto the U-Haul, trying to make the move as smooth as possible. 

Hours pass by as you work tirelessly to finish packing up your belongings. You finally reach the end of the moving process, but you're left with only the bare necessities in your temporary home. The house won't be sold until you go back to college for the next fall semester, so you'll be staying in this old place for the next couple of months.

As you say your last goodbye to your mom and watch her drive away, you take a deep breath and feel a mix of emotions wash over you. Relief that the move is over, sadness that you're leaving your childhood home, and excitement for the new chapter of your life that lies ahead.

After, you decide to take some time for yourself and settle into the new house. You turn on a movie and make some popcorn, enjoying the familiar comfort of an old favorite. As you sit on the couch, you realize that even though this house is new and unfamiliar, it's slowly becoming a home.

When looking at the clock that reads 11:58, you start to drift off, getting sleepier and sleepier as the night goes on. Just then, you hear a quiet knock at your door. Scared and confused, you move towards the blinds to look outside, but you can’t see anything since it’s so dark. You were contemplating opening the door when you hear a whispered voice call out your first name, followed by the words, 

“It’s Changmin! Open the door!”

Even more confused, you gently crack open the door, and finally get a look at the boy that you haven’t seen throughout all of these years…and he’s beautiful! A small tipped nose, cute round eyes and an oddly long neck, you stare in awed silence as you admire who’s in front of you, pushing the confusion aside.

“Uhh…Earth to Y/N?”

You snap back to reality, focusing your eyes on his slightly concerned expression.  You finally speak,

“Sorry. What did you need? Was I being too loud?”

He thinks for a moment, and continues, 

“No, It’s not that. Um..” He stalls. “Do you maybe wanna go somewhere?”

Confused, you ask,

“What do you mean?” “Like right now, we can go somewhere and talk. I know a spot and I’m bored and I really need some fresh air.”

As you hear the poor boy stumble over his words, you can sense his nervousness. Without a second thought, you compassionately say yes and quickly put on your shoes. As you step out of the door, you feel the cold nighttime wind hit your skin, bringing back memories of sneaking out as a freshman in high school. You can't help but feel a sense of childhood mystery in the air that used to be filled with overworked tiredness. Tonight feels different.

You take a look at the tall boy who is kicking rocks with his worn-out Converse as he walks. He seems to be focused on nothing but the ground, lost in thought. You notice his slightly sparkling brown eyes and hair that's tinted differently due to the orange-colored street lights. You feel a sudden urge to know more about him and say, 

“So…”

“Ah, sorry…I don’t talk much”

“Yeah, you aren’t really like the kid I remembered you to be. You used to scream bloody murder all the time, scaring every parent around. You smiled all the time too.”

“Hey! I smile now, you just haven’t made me do that yet”. 

“Oh…I see…That’s my job?”

Flustered, he spurts, “No! I didn’t mean it like that, I’m just trying to show how I’m a positive person”.

You both quietly laugh as you hear cicadas in the background, really exemplifying the mood of summer. It gets quiet again though, between the two of you that is, and after a few minutes, he speaks. 

“I’m sorry about your dad”.

A little stunned with such a dark topic, you continue, “Oh…It’s okay. It’s always been like this”

“Yeah, I remember. It’s just gotten worse, and I feel bad”

“What do you have to feel bad for? You’re the one that got him sick or something?”

He almost gets offended, but laughs again. “No-no, I just want to make sure everyone’s okay”.

As the conversation between you and him continues, you can't help but feel a sweet yet slightly awkward vibe. It's strange to see someone who you haven't seen in years, especially since so much has changed within that time. You find yourself staring at him, trying to see if there's any trace of the person you knew all those years ago.

You remember the last time you saw him, and how different things were back then. The way he spoke, his mannerisms, and his interests all seem different now. However, despite the changes, you're grateful that he's turned out to be a decently good guy. For some reason, it gives you a sense of satisfaction.

“Oh here, this is what I wanted you to see”

He reaches for your hand and pulls you through a small section of woods, where you come out to see an amazing view. You’re at “The Cliffs”, the town's high point. You can see everyone and everything from up here, and the sunsets are beautiful. Right now, though, you see hundreds of lights, some of them shutting off as the people of the town go to sleep. It’s always been a place that’s tender to your heart, because you spent it with…

“Do you remember?”

You stall for a moment, frozen in your tracks. This is the place where you spent many nights with Changmin, sneaking out of your parents house to go watch the sunset. You would talk about childish things, and it always made you two feel closer. 

“Of course I do. Thank you so much for bringing me here, again”.

He smiles shyly, looking out towards the horizon and taking a seat on a rocky edge. You can’t tell if it’s just you, but there’s so much energy to get to know him, or eachother. It’s like you want to make up all the time that you lost.

“So why did you disappear when highschool started?”

He looks up at you with those big brown eyes, that are slightly illuminated by the moonlight. He murmurs around for a minute, and speaks,

“Oh, It’s just because I didn’t really like school. The days started to drag in middle school and you were one of the only reasons why I went everyday. The bullying was bad so I just decided to drop it.”

You had known about the bullying before, and how bad it affected Changmin, but you can’t really change much now so there’s nothing to say. What shocked you was what he said before that. The way he said it so matter of factly was so shocking. He said it as if wanting to see you everyday was a normal thing, which you guess it was. You two were friends, and who wouldn’t want to see their best friend everyday, right?

“That’s nice…I mean! It’s not nice that you were getting bullied, it was nice that you felt comfortable enough to drop school.”

He laughs at your embarrassed expression. “It’s okay. Was it lonely without me?”

Sarcastically, you speak, “Oh my god, it was unbearable. The worst torture I’ve been through in my whole life.” You both laugh.

The silence was back, but it wasn't awkward anymore. It was like a giant wave of calmness washed over us, making everything right. The air was filled with unspoken thoughts and emotions, but it was a peaceful silence that we both welcomed.

Changmin's nervousness melted away and was replaced with a feeling of security and comfort. You could feel the trust he had in you, like he knew that he could open up to you about anything without any fear of judgment. You felt a sense of responsibility, but also gratefulness for having him in your life.

Sitting there under the stars, you both knew that this moment would change everything. It felt like the entire summer was full of new possibilities and a chance for a deeper connection between you two. The future felt uncertain, but there was an unspoken promise that hung in the air, luring you to take a leap into the unknown.

[doitwrite]

One word prompt: note

Keys

She stares straight ahead. Her eyes are a cornflower blue, the way the ocean looks on a rich summer’s day. They are beautiful, but they are unseeing. Nevertheless, her hands dance across the shining white keys, quick and sure and striking every note perfectly. The crowd murmurs and admires from the darkness beneath the stage, marveling at her.

“How does she do it?” A man in a suit whispers to his wife. She mumbles back that some people are simply blessed, talented, born with innate ability. They turn back to watch her again, her golden hair glittering beneath the spotlight, her hands moving quick and sure and agile.

They don't know. None of them know.

She feels the smoothness of the keys beneath the pads of her fingers, roughened from striking the unforgiving coldness of the ivory again and again. She sees nothing. But she doesn’t need to. It’s as if her hands are magnetized to the next note—searching and finding in less than a moment, every motion coming quick and easy as the next breath.

***

It had been a cold, cold night. Mother had already gone to bed, exhausted from working two jobs, and the house was dark. She sat shivering on the hard, cold bench of the ragged piano in their shabby living room, wearing three layers of blankets on her lap. Her hands were so numb that she wouldn’t have known she was striking the keys had the sound of dissonant musical notes not floated from the splintering wood of the piano’s innards. Wrong notes, again. Her hands were clumsy, and she was so, so cold. She’d stared at the barren, peeling wallpaper and spoke, quietly. Aloud. Her voice was thin, a whispered wish in the white cloud that puffed from her chapped lips that was barely audible.

But it had been enough.

He’d appeared silently, eyes shining yellow in the dark, cloven hooves clopping softly on the worn floorboards. He offered, and she accepted. It was as simple as that, really. She had opened her eyes, now unseeing, the next morning, and felt no different. And yet everything had changed.

Concerts, competitions, a whirlwind of roses and praise and applause—no one could get enough of her, the little blind girl who could play like a concerto master. No more cold nights hunched in front of the splintering piano, no more mornings where she got up to be greeted by her mother’s ragged face. They lived in a nice house now, freshly painted and with huge windows that she couldn’t look out of as she played. But she could feel the warmth of the sunshine in the summer months, and hear the birds singing to each other in the morning, and that was enough.

***

Her hands came down for the last time, and the shivering echo of the last notes drifted into the concert hall. She could hear her own breath, her heartbeat in her ears.

And then the applause roared up.

[snarkformysanity]

House of Earth and Blood Chapters 7-8

We're back with Bryce for this one, and she's angsting. In fairness, she has quite a bit to angst about, after everything that happened.

Anyway, it seems she's... gone to the realm of the dead?

The living realm remained a world away, the spires and skyscrapers of the city hidden by that swirling mist, its car horns and array of voices rendered mute. She’d left behind any mortal possessions. They would have no value here, among the Reapers and the dead.

So, is Bryce dead? I mean, the out-of-it feel of this chapter is fine, given what Bryce has gone through, but I feel this needs a little more explanation.

It seems this chapter takes place about six days after the last one. Bryce has spent that time in a hotel room with her mother, doing nothing.

She hadn’t left that room for six days, just sat staring vacantly at the floral hotel wallpaper.

At least it's not literal blank pages, I suppose. But that might be a bit unfair - she did lose many people close to her in a very violent way. And to add to that, apparently Ithan (Connor's younger brother) has been leaving her not!voicemail messages.

Ithan’s words had lingered, though, when she’d slipped into the hotel bathroom to listen. Don’t come to the Sailing tomorrow. You’re not welcome there.

I assume the Sailing is this world's equivalent of a funeral? When the book was talking about Danika's grandfather in a previous chapter it said something about sailing and him dying.

Anyway, on the seventh day, Bryce sneaks out of the hotel room while her mother is sleeping. But apparently, it's not to go to Danika's funeral.

Even without the wolves banning her from it, she couldn’t have endured it. To see the black boat pushed from the dock, all that was left of Danika with it, her soul to be judged either worthy or unworthy of entering the sacred isle across the river.

And so, she's come here to say goodbye instead, to the world of the dead. As she's kneeling before the gates, some sort of creature emerges and... that's the end of the chapter. A very short one.

Chapter eight marks the first chapter of Part II, "The Trench." It opens twenty-two months later. Bryce is at the White Raven club, and is emerging from the bathroom after having sex with an unnamed lion shifter. Apparently it was very good, and she contemplates "keeping" him for a while.

The beat of the music pounded against her bones, echoing off the carved pillars, an incessant summons that Bryce ignored, denied. Just as she had every day for the past two years.

Bryce does not elaborate on this yet. Some sort of music-related trauma?

The lion-shifter asks her to dance, and she says no, both because of the above and because apparently she has a business meeting at the VIP bar here. She indicates she doesn't really like coming to the White Raven after everything that happened, but apparently it counts as "neutral ground" for meeting clients, who... are apparently suspicious of the spells Jesiba might have on her gallery? Why? Are you planning to rob her or something?

Also, apparently the lion thought she was a prostitute. Bryce takes it surprisingly well and leaves to go to her meeting.

She didn’t let herself look toward the booth tucked between two age-worn pillars. Didn’t let herself see who might now be occupying it. Not Juniper, who was too busy these days for more than the occasional brunch, and certainly not Fury, who didn’t bother to take her calls, or answer messages, or even visit this city.

More points in favour of my evil Fury theory?

Anyway, Bryce's client is a vampire.

Maximus Tertian: two-hundred-year-old vampyr; unwed and unmated;

Please let the mating shit die in a fire.

Apparently Maximus's father is evil and bathes in the blood of maidens, but Bryce plasters on a smile to greet his son. The vampire is of course very sexy.

The vampyr’s smile was so smooth she knew ten thousand pairs of underwear had likely dropped at the sight of it over the centuries.

He flirts creepily with her, but Bryce isn't interested. She hands him the ownership papers for the priceless relic he's bought off them, and lets us know she'd been trying to sell it for weeks. She then turns to look at the rest of the club.

She sees some people celebrating their Drop, and angsts over how she'd once planned to do the same. And we get a bit more info on the Drop and this firstlight business. Well, a lot more. Several pages of infodump, actually.

So, it seems that firstlight is generated by immortals when they make the Drop. It is indeed used to power electricity-equivalents, but also for magic and unspecified "shady shit" that the Republic might want to do. I was not aware this was a Republic, but there you go. It's always overseen by the government, so they can properly harvest the firstlight.

Okay, first of all... what happens if no one makes the Drop for a while? Does the entire city (country? World?) run out of power? Is it possible to do the Drop without government oversight? Alas, we have no answers for these questions.

As for the Drop itself, it seems... well:

The Drop was the easy part: falling into one’s power. But once the bottom was reached, one’s mortal body expired. And then the clock began counting down.

One then has six minutes to come back to life by "running through their power" or they're dead for good. If you do it alone, you're screwed, because you need an Anchor person to, as the name implies, help anchor you to life. The government will provide someone if you have no one.

Some claimed those six minutes were called the Search

Some... claimed it was called the Search? Well, is it or isn't it called that? It'd be fine to say that some called it the Search. But to say some claim it's called the Search is just... weird.

Anyway, on success, one becomes immortal and emerges bathed in firstlight, which the government promptly harvests and leaves you with a little bit to make glowsticks out of.

I... am not really sure what to make of this. Again, it just seems kinda flawed - as soon as no one makes the Drop (either by trying and failing or running out of immortals to try in the first place), all your power is just gone. Is it finite? Does it run out? Bryce mentioned that her landlord was "siphoning it off the grid," so I assume it's limited in some way.

But enough of that. Maximus hands over the money.

Bryce glanced at the check within—for a mind-boggling sum that he handed over as if passing her an empty gum wrapper—and smiled again. Even as some small part of her cringed at the tiny fact that she wouldn’t receive any part of her commission on the piece. On any art in Jesiba’s gallery. That money went elsewhere.

Where does it go? Any ideas, Bryce? Does Jesiba pocket it?

Bryce has no ideas. She tries to leave, but Maximus stops her, and implies that her sleeping with him should be part of the perks of doing business.

Well, it had to be a record: being mistaken for a whore twice within ten minutes. She had no disdain for the world’s oldest profession, only respect and sometimes pity

I feel like it's kinda contradictory to say you have no disdain, but sometimes pity them. Like, I assume she means that she pities the ones in bad circumstances, but like... do you feel the need to point out that you sometimes pity members of any other profession if their circumstances are bad? No? So why point it out for the sex workers? Is their profession inherently more pitiable? That doesn't sound very respectful.

She refused to allow her scent to shift as her stomach hollowed out.

How does one control their scent?

Maximus continues to be creepy and predatory, until the VIP lounge goes quiet because a "bigger, badder predator" has arrived on the scene. It's a dark-haired fae man. Maximus gets all snarly and possessive, but Bryce tells him to chill because that fae is her cousin. In his surprise, he lets her go.

Walking away, Bryce purred over a shoulder, “Just so you know—I don’t do possessive and aggressive.”

Don't worry, I'm sure you will by the time the book's designated love interest is through with you. We've already been told many times how dominantly badass he is.

Oh, okay, so it turns out Ruhn is her half-brother, the world just thinks they're cousins for some reason.

Not just because of who their sire was and the secrecy that she’d long ago sworn to maintain. Not just because Ruhn was the legitimate child, the fucking Chosen One, and she was … not.

Taking bets on how long it will be before we learn that Bryce is actually the Chosen One.

Bryce goes over to Ruhn. To the surprise of no one, Ruhn is ripped and golden skinned.

Bryce surveyed her brother. No sign of the Starsword tonight—and, glancing at him, beyond the telltale physical heritage of the Starborn line, little declared that he’d been anointed by Luna or genetics to usher their people to greater heights. But it had been years since they’d really spoken. Maybe Ruhn had crawled back into the fold. It’d be a shame, considering the shit that had gone down to pull him out of it in the first place.

Not really sure what to make of this yet. How do you "pull someone out" of being a Chosen One?

Apparently Bryce and Ruhn used to be close, but not anymore, because of something Ruhn did. The book makes an effort to pretend it's difficult for fae to get in here, but then immediately gives Ruhn a way to bypass it by being friends with the club's owner, Riso.

A rare breed of butterfly shifter, what Riso lacked in size he made up for with sheer personality, always laughing, always flitting about the club and dancing above the crowd. Feeding off its merriment as if it were nectar.

I have no idea if or when Riso will be relevant to anything, but I'm pulling this description out because I kinda like it. Like, yeah, yeah, literal social butterfly, but that last line intrigues me. It's nice to see some variation of inhuman fairy behaviour that isn't "being a possessive Primal prick."

Also, we are once again reminded that Fury is not talking to Bryce. Also, apparently Riso told Ruhn what was happening with Maximus.

“Excuse me?” Her voice sharpened. It had nothing to do with the fact that she highly doubted the diplomatic club owner had used those terms [fucking creep]. Riso was more the type to say, She’s with someone who might cause the dancing to cease. Which would have been Riso’s idea of Hel.

Again, I like it. It actually feels kinda fae for a change. He's not concerned with human morals, just his own domain of keeping the party going.

A purely predatory gleam entered her brother’s eyes.

Book, please don't. He looks enough like your love interests without making him act like them too.

Anyway, Ruhn is here to tell Bryce to not get into trouble during the upcoming Summit meeting, since it's apparently a Big Deal politically and their father, the Autumn King, wants all the fae to look like good, obedient subjects.

“I didn’t know Daddy bothered to care about my safety.” He never had before. “He doesn’t,” Ruhn said, lips thinning, the silver hoop through the bottom one shifting with the movement. “But I’ll make him care about it.”

.......book.

Bryce takes this as a sign that Ruhn "hasn't bought into his Chosen One greatness" yet. Ruhn then explains that their father is particularly riled up about this Summit, and has apparently not been so riled since two years ago, when the wolf pack was killed. Bryce freaks out at the mention, and grips the glass in her hand so tight it shatters.

Ruhn gripped Bryce’s face with a hand. “Take a fucking breath.” That horrible, useless Fae side of her obeyed the dominance in his command, her body falling back on instincts that had been bred into her, despite her best attempts to ignore them.

So, the fae are genetically forced into this whole dominance shtick? That... is certainly a thing. I mean, I'm all for inhuman creatures behaving inhumanly (otherwise what's the point of making them inhuman), but... yeah. Something about the way this particular thing is framed is just... off. They all act painfully human, except when it's time to be a dominant beast-man. And the women never show such dominance.

But I could harp on that all day. Moving on.

After she calms down, Ruhn insists on walking her home, against her wishes. Bryce also tells us she hasn't touched a drink in two years, but no one else knows that. She leaves, gives us a random aside on the club's bouncers, and makes it a block before Ruhn catches up with her. Well, not quite: he follows her, but not close enough for people to know he's following her. Apparently.

Bryce makes it home, and it seems she's gotten over her disdain for wealthy apartments in the two years that have passed, as it turns out she lives in a ritzy penthouse with... I think Juniper? Well, I can't say my hopes were high for Bryce as an anti-capitalist protagonist. But if the exchange with Maximus is any indication, the book obviously wants us to still think she is.

Apparently the apartment was paid for by Danika's will.

.....had Danika already written a will? Huh. That's an interesting bit of info. Was she expecting to die? Or does the book not realise that wills don't just exist as a matter of course?

Anyway, Syrinx the chimera lives with her now, apparently. She releases him from his cage and that's the end of the chapter.