#some scraps of doodles before i black the fuck out

[bucket-puns]

[clotpole-art]

Retrospective: Illustrated Merlin Alphabet Challenge

Finally finished the Merlin Alphabet Challenge, so here's the artist notes no one asked for! See below the cut for comments on each piece by order of creation. Be warned folks, it's a long post.

Before we begin: credit to @merlin-gifs for the challenge, which can be found here. It's awesome, go do it.

First thing you should know is I did probably 80-90% of these while on phone calls or in Zoom meetings and that's reflected in the simplicity of most pieces -- the compositions aren't complicated, the lines aren't refined, the coloring is slapdash. If you noticed variation in quality of the pieces, that's why!

Second: I tried to focus on trying something new for each drawing. Didn't always happen, but this challenge did succeed in helping me push me out of my own comfort zone.

Without further ado...

A is for Arthur Pendragon

Textures, baby! Brushed metal of his armor, scratchy linen texture of his shirt, wispy softness of hair and skin. I'd recently gotten my tablet out of storage after a year of figuring out where the hell I was going to live and this was one of the first pieces of digital art I spent time on. Glad it was Arthur kicking us off!

B is for the Beginning of the End (1x08)

Fun fact, I did not draw this with my tablet. I drew it with my work computer's touchscreen. It was awful, would not recommend.

C is for Camelot

I wanted to get used to different brushes, so landscape of the castle it was! There are brushes that help with drawing grass; I did not use said brushes and my wrist hurt afterward. That being said, I really enjoyed working on this and it was one of the few pieces I didn't do while multitasking.

D is for Daegal

Also drawn on my work computer's touchscreen, not my tablet. I didn't learn my lesson from B and the experience was even worse. This is my least favorite piece which sucks because it's Daegal so I'm slated to redo this sometime in the near future. Gotta do our boy justice.

E is for Elyan

Oh, I adored drawing this. Elyan often gets shafted in terms of fandom appreciation so I made sure to choose Elyan for this prompt and to participate in the Elyan fest. Plus, I love a good ghost story and figuring out a way to include the druid spectre was fun. Didn't multitask on this piece because Elyan deserved my full attention.

F is for Freya

Ho boy. This piece. I have such mixed feelings on this drawing. Really really didn't like it after I'd decided it was done and very nearly scrapped the whole thing. I had a vision in my head that I just couldn't render into reality and it frustrated me SO MUCH. Looking back, I like it much better than I did when I first created it.

G is for Gwaine

What can I say, he's pretty when he's cold. I didn't stretch too much with this one -- it's my normal drawing style, I was just trying to find a brush that mimicked the softness of pencil.

H is for Hunith

Another one that didn't stray too far from my comfort zone. I was stupid sick and slammed at work, so a motherly Hunith manifested herself. I blame the bad brush choice on the cold medicine.

I is for Isolde

I woke up and chose violence! Tried to vary my figure drawing style a little in this piece but my brain resisted, resulting in... this. Not mad at it, but not happy with it either. Poor Isolde.

J is for Juggling

Ah, this lovely piece was drawn during a particularly vexing meeting at work. Fun fact, there's another version of this line art that's less about Merlin's stress and more about mine.

K is for Knights of Camelot

Continuing the theme of doodling through bad news and shit meetings. Like I said above, normally meeting doodles aren't complex because I'm concentrating on something else. This one was more involved because I didn't want to concentrate on the meeting. I have a few issues with this from a technical standpoint (perspective, my nemesis) but it's still one of my favorites. Tried some funky coloring technique, didn't hate it.

V is for Vibrant Colors

And here is where we said fuck the rules and started going out of alphabetical order! This one was really fun to do and I loved kicking off Albion Party with this as my first submission. The colors were a challenge (as I hoped they would be) and this is the first time I had to do some color tweaking midway though and after finishing the coloring process. Vibrant Arthur, my beloved. This started as a multitask doodle but took dedicated time to finish.

O is for Old Religion

The concept for this one was buzzing in my head for a bit before a quote-prompt solidified it. I adore the thought of more visible, tangible representations of Merlin as the son of the elements, of "magic itself" -- not just sun-gold eyes, but sea-water hair and sandstone-skin. A complement to the vibrant Arthur portrait.

S is for Sorcerers

When I said I wanted to challenge myself, I wasn't kidding. Ho boy, this was fun but frustrating. I wanted to completely illustrate a gif. So I did. Will I do something like this again? Maybe. A while from now.

M is for Morgause

See above -- same illustrated gif style so at least I was able to reuse some drawings. Poor Morgause ended up looking a little wretched here because I was mentally done with this when I was drawing her. Love the concept of tarot cards + Merlin but others are doing it so I won't continue this series.

Z is for Zzzz

This one was specifically done to test out some custom brushes I made in Krita to make abstract background drawing easier for me. I think they turned out well! Plus who doesn't love bb iridescent Aithusa.

L is for Leon, P is for Percival

Quick, minimal doodles of the boys! Mentally, I was going for a Brady's-style retro ensemble cast TV show credits feel. Not mad at it! Some boys look closer to their actors than others (I think my brain broke drawing Percy, my apologies to Tom Hopper).

T is for Tristan

It wasn't until after I posted this that I realized there was more than one Tristan in Merlin. Could have drawn Isolde's bf but I drew Ygraine's dumb jock undead brother instead. Had some fun with dark greys and blacks here regardless.

Q is for Queen Annis

Best royal in Albion, bar none. I tried a different coloring technique here and I kinda like it! may make it my go-to but we'll see. Old habits are hard to break. Also: our queen deserved more badass clothes.

X is for Arthur X Merlin

Oh, be still my shipper heart. Doodled and colored during a meeting. I had hoped to spend more time on it outside of multitasking but alas, work is a bitch. This one is slated for a rework sometime in the future; I adore the concept too much to let it go without creating another version of this that isn't an utter mess.

U is for Uther's Ward

And here's my attempt at forgoing line art. Not fun, do not like.

Y is for Young Warlock

Channeled some pain into this one. Those are the dead eyes of someone who had been told that he'd succeeded when his friend died. That the destiny he'd been expecting to carry on his shoulders into old age was done and dusted before he turned 30. Grief plus the existential dread of the aimless immortal. Oof. One of my favs.

N is for Nimueh, R is for Rising Sun, W is for Will

And we end on this sorry offering. I was away from home for a while without my tablet and I just got tired of waiting. So, pen doodles at the airport. This was a challenge in its own right because 1. pen only and 2. I wasn't able to pull Netflix up for a reference on the fly. Which is why Will's face is obscured and Nimueh looks.... not like Nimueh lol.

In summary: this was a goddamn joy to do. I finished 26 letter prompts in approximately 21 weeks, which exceeded my own unspoken goal of filling one letter per week. I found a good, happy corner of the Merlin fandom after a years-long hiatus away from being a fandom creator. If you did make it this far with me, thanks for reading my inane comments and giving this little project even a moment of your time -- I'm so grateful.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Do You Tree What I Tree?

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: T Word Count: 8730

For @justmattycakes​! Happy holidays!!! Massive thanks to @spiderman-homecomeme for organizing this Spideychelle Secret Santa!

Summary: Home from their various colleges for winter break, MJ and her friends make a day out of going to cut down their own Christmas trees. Being alone in the woods—just her, Peter, and an axe—seems like the perfect opportunity to admit that her feelings for her friend have changed.

“Wine and cider!” Peter announces, jabbing a finger at the car window as they pass a rustic-looking roadside sign.

MJ smirks to herself. His touch will probably leave a smudge on the glass, which Flash will painstakingly wipe clean later. She likes Flash much more now than she did in high school—they all do—but she likes to build up a little vindictiveness towards him in advance, for when he inevitably says or does something douchey.

“Whine inside her, is that what you’d do if you could actually get a girlfriend?” Flash asks immediately. Sweet justification for MJ, though she rolls her eyes.

Flash is driving, but Betty trusts his skill enough to smack his arm from the passenger seat, then turn to smile back at Peter.

“That sounds nice. We should definitely stop on the way back.”

“Yeah,” Ned pipes up. “Maybe they’ll have a fireplace too, where we can thaw our fingers.”

“Babe, I won’t let your fingers get cold.”

“Aw, babe,” he croons, reaching over his girlfriend’s shoulder where she sits in front of him to tangle their fingers together.

“Back to your intense lack of dateability,” Flash persists. MJ swears his original asshole persona comes out so much more whenever he slides behind the wheel of his dad’s Cadillac Escalade. “Are you having a lonely winter, Parker? With only your cold lab bench to keep you warm?”

Next to MJ, Peter sighs and mutters, “Same old Flash.” She thinks he says it only to himself, but he darts a look at her and they share a smile.

“Well, I don’t have your L.A. weather,” he allows, artfully changing topic.

Flash will talk for an hour straight about the numerous perks of attending UCLA, including the constant sunshine, the short-shorts, and the absence of his current listeners. The last they all recognize to be a blatant lie, but they like him enough to let him get away with it. MJ has a special sympathy for Flash in those moments; she’s still growing from the girl she was when they were all at Midtown together, when she found it so much easier to edge away from other people or, when she did interact, to speak defensively, insultingly, and with liberal use of the middle finger. Her communication skills have flourished with not being able to see these people in person every day. She’s actually amazed with how she’s clung to them, certain she’d failed to develop the kind of solid relationships people were supposed to form in high school and that she’d just stagger forward through her fine art degree (PoliSci minor) with a wild hope of connecting to other humans through the doodles that she’s developed into graceful sketches, from sketches to oil paintings with sweep and verve.

The five of them are in their second year at their respective centres of learning now and it feels really nice to gather after living by too-brief text exchanges, missed calls, and videocalls that somebody’s roommate inevitably arrives home in the middle of, loud and invasive. When MJ’s speaking to Ned or Flash, they can push through. They have the boisterousness and, in Ned’s case, natural good nature, to conduct two separate conversations at the same time. Betty prefers to hang up and try at a better time, when they can speak uninterrupted. Peter’s different from all of the above. MJ always sees how he blushes, as though he’s being caught talking to her. It makes her flush in return. There’s no reason for them not to be as close as either of them are with any of the others, but conversations with him make her feel different. Without meaning to, their voices lower and they wander away from whatever topic they start with; on some nights, into the most intimate tracks of their inner lives. She gets why he feels caught to be interrupted because it’s disorienting for her too, being dragged back to the larger world, hearing a voice other than his in her ear. She likes traditional phone calls with him the best because she can lie in bed with her phone pressed to her ear and he doesn’t have to know.

“Are we almost there?” Ned says when Flash pauses in his rhapsodizing of Venice Beach.

MJ, sitting in the middle of the backseat, watches her friend unlock her phone and check the map.

“Yes. Under two miles to go.”

“And we’re super sure about this place?” Ned checks.

“Mhmm. A friend of a friend in my French workshop went last year and got the most spectacular Fraser fir,” Betty assures him. “I saw it at her Christmas party. That’s the one you couldn’t go to because you got the flu, remember?”

“Ugh,” he agrees.

“We passed a tree farm awhile ago,” Peter ventures. “That wasn’t it?”

“Betty told me the owners of that farm own this lot too. It’s cheaper to get your tree here because they don’t tend the lot in the same way,” MJ informs him. She likes the look on his face when he listens. She likes the feel of his leg bumping against hers as they traverse the uneven gravel sideroad.

“Yeah, I think I’ll be making up the cost difference paying for a paint job. I can hear the stone chips!” Flash complains. As if he’s ever paid for so much as a tank of gas.

“It’s an adventure, moron,” she says.

“I wasn’t prepared for stone chips.”

“I told you everything in an email last week, when we were planning this,” Betty calmly reminds him. “We should all be prepared.”

It isn’t visible to her right now, but MJ knows her friend has a shiny, compact saw at her feet, tucked into a neat black case, looking bizarrely like a tennis racket. Her own axe is trapped beneath Peter’s shoe so it doesn’t slide forward under Flash’s seat and slice the soles off his shoes. It’s quite sharp. She made sure.

“Listen,” Flash demands, “I’m the transport. Someone else can take care of the less significant details.”

“That is so fucking dumb,” Peter mumbles.

“What?”

“I said, I hope your feet don’t go numb,” he says more loudly. MJ turns her head, like she’s trying to follow the gentle backwards sweep of falling snow with her eyes when she’s really trying to hide her smile from Flash’s suspicious gaze in the rear-view mirror. “Did you wear waterproof boots and warm socks?”

“Of course. About to make winter my bitch.”

Betty twists to catch MJ’s eye.

“You wanna take this one?”

“Go for it.”

While Betty educates Flash on why that is not an acceptable thing for him to say—not with two of his female friends in the car, or ever—MJ drums her fingers on her knees. Her mittens are piled in her lap for now; despite her natural inclination to insult Flash’s ride, it heats up nicely. Plus, she’s tucked between Peter and Ned. She glances to her right to check on the latter and finds him huffing a warm breath on the window. He traces his finger through the resulting condensation, drawing a heart and writing ‘B+N’ in the middle. MJ glances at Peter and he’s already looking at her.

“So, tree?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ve been told to keep it under six feet. A measuring tape and a ladder might’ve been helpful, but there wouldn’t have been anyplace to put the ladder once we got the trees on the roof of this thing.” She smacks the SUV’s ceiling and Flash goes, “HEY!”

“You can just choose a taller one,” Peter suggests, “and then cut it shorter.”

“I feel bad about the waste though. It’s a living thing.”

“I can help you with that.”

“Oh yeah?” MJ’s genuinely curious. She knows May prioritizes Hanukkah customs to keep Peter’s connection to both his ethnoreligious traditions and his lost love ones strong, so she doesn’t know how a Christmas tree fits into that.

“Right before you guys picked me up, May had an idea. She thought it might be nice just to get some pine branches for, like, generic winter decorating and to make the apartment smell good.”

“That’s a really good idea.”

“Yeah. I was gonna grab scraps from where other trees had been cut down, but I can get them off whatever tree you pick instead. Or you can. You have the axe.”

“I’ll give you a turn with it if you help me drag my tree back to the car,” MJ bargains with a smile.

“I can definitely help.”

Of course he can. He could probably carry a dozen trees if he felt like it. Over his head. With all the roots and clumps of frozen earth still attached. But the thought of him hauling the tree back with her rather than for her is something she appreciates. As she nods, she gets the fluttery feeling she’s been experiencing more and more whenever he’s called her this term. Their calls have gotten longer. A younger version of herself would be amazed at the way she can now talk for hours without noticing the time slipping past. And it never feels wasted. Actually, when they aren’t talking, MJ misses Peter. She can’t completely put it into words and so she hasn’t. What she’s done, besides continue to answer every time he calls, is offer him a chance to swing the axe she brought. Romantically, there’s room for improvement.

Their overlapping winter breaks are going to end in another week and she’s scared the calls, as treasured as they’ve become to her, won’t be enough.

“There!” Betty cries. She flings her arm across the dash to point.

“That’s the woods,” Flash says, brushing her off.

“No, that’s the driveway! You’re going to pass it!”

The jarring, inelegant jerk of the wheel as he takes Betty’s directions at the last moment tips Ned into MJ and MJ into Peter. They all groan in discomfort, but Flash seems supremely pleased with himself as he straightens the tires. Off the gravel, their passage between the trees is muffled by the packed snow on the laneway other cars have driven over. There’s a dusting on top as today’s thin flurry continues to fall. As she sits up straight following Flash’s terrible Baby Driver impression, MJ feels Peter’s hand on her back, through her coat, and her face gets hot. Unable to meet his eyes in thanks, she leans towards Ned instead and the two of them stare out at the picturesque scene where low drifts spill over the ground and every pine, spruce, and fir—all dusted in white—looks like the perfect Christmas tree.

“Hats on,” Betty instructs as Flash pulls to a stop next to a pickup truck with a tarp already laid out in its bed, awaiting a tree. “Shoelace check. Gloves and mitts secure.”

“You sound like you’re prepping us to jump out of an airplane,” Flash laughs.

He swings his door open while Betty’s trying to get back into her winterwear checklist with the rest of them, letting in a gust of cold air that disturbs the warmth MJ’s hoarded as well as Betty’s good temper. She reaches across the center console and shoves Flash with both hands, pushing him straight out of the vehicle with a “WHOA!”

Betty’s nonchalant as she flips her mirror down and adjusts the positioning of her pompom hat before stepping out of the SUV herself. Peter and Ned pile out, laughing, and MJ climbs out Peter’s side. Flash is next to the car, brushing himself off.

“I’m going to get sick,” he pouts.

“Say cheese!” Ned encourages, snapping a picture as Betty runs into shot to pose next to her victim, cupping his face between her gloved hands.

“Maybe this’ll make him change his mind about the cider place,” MJ notes to Peter hopefully.

“I feel like we’d be stopping there no matter what,” he muses. “It was either making Flash fear hypothermia or Betty sneaking back to the car first and tampering with his brake line or something.”

“So, which way looks good, babe?” Ned asks his girlfriend.

As she told them, this lot isn’t the manicured family attraction the last place was. There aren’t any employees standing around—easily spotted even as they drove past the tree farm down the road in their orange crossing-guard-style vests—or a map marking which areas are which type of tree. There’s just sort of a main track that’s been tramped down by passing feet leading between trees. It’s easy to see for a ways, but beyond that, the forest grows denser. MJ knows Betty did her homework and can identify tree varieties, and she doesn’t actually care which type she gets. She’s here for the experience, and for the idiot next to her who gives her a thrill every time the nylon sleeves of their winter coats rush against each other.

“Hmm,” Betty says, and strides forward through the narrow entrance. From there, things fan out. She taps her bow saw, now loose, against the side of her leg. “Well, what would everyone like to do?”

“I’m going wherever you are,” Ned vows. She shoots him a soft smile.

“Me too,” Flash decides. “You’ll get us in and out of here fast so we can get warm. Not like Parker, who’ll probably get lost in the first five minutes.”

“What?” Peter asks, insulted. “Will not.”

“Oh yeah? How’s your sense of direction without that robot lady in your head?”

“Karen is not a robot lady, she’s an AI.”

“Same diff.”

“It is not. A robot lady is like what they have on The Jetsons.”

“Whatever. Point is, without your GPS, I don’t trust you.”

“Well,” Peter counters, “we can just look at our phones.”

“Already tried that,” Flash informs him. “I don’t get a signal out here.”

Regardless, the rest of them check.

“That’s alright,” Betty persists, trying to be chipper to maintain group morale, MJ’s sure. “It’s daylight, the snow’s not coming down hard, and nobody’s going off alone. Now, Flash, Ned, and I are going that way.” She points, then glances from MJ to Peter. “Do you guys want to stick with us, or…?”

MJ opens her mouth and looks to Peter, shuffling beside her and doing some sort of best-friend telepathy with Ned, based on the stupid, scrunched up looks on their faces. Is he going to say something? He’ll probably want to stay with Ned. It’ll be weird if she speaks up for both of them. But if she doesn’t, when are they going to talk, just the two of them? Since they’ve all been back in the city, everything’s been done in a group—buying presents for friends and relatives, going skating, getting hot chocolate, attending Flash’s ugly holiday t-shirt party (L.A.-themed, so no sweaters allowed). The woods though. The woods are quiet and friendly and private. Snow muffles sound, fresh air and cold wake her up and fill her lungs until they burn with everything she’d say to Peter if she just had this opportunity. No Ned and Betty hanging back to offer encouraging looks, no Flash to ruin everything with a terribly timed innuendo. MJ just needs Peter. Just her and Peter. Please, dork, she thinks, don’t say Ned.

The words come from her.

“I think Peter and I’ll go that way,” she declares, nodding sharply in a direction that isn’t Betty’s.

“Yeah,” Peter adds.

Oh, thank god, MJ thinks.

“He’s gonna get you lost,” Flash warns. He’s already stamping his feet like he’s freezing to death on the spot, though the cold isn’t that bad with the tree cover. “Then he’ll go nuts in the woods.”

“I have an axe,” MJ reminds him flatly. She glances at Peter. “Bring it.”

Peter snorts a laugh.

“No one will be re-enacting anything that remotely resembles The Shining,” Betty instructs. “Meet back here in, how long, do you think?”

“Depends,” Flash says. “How long should we wait before declaring those two missing and sending out a search party, of which I will not be a member, but will be happy to direct from the comfort of the Escalade with a hot drink in my hand and my feet against the heating vent.”

“Dude, don’t do that,” Ned pleads. “You’ll make the whole car smell like your feet.”

“My ride, my rules.”

“Should we just…?” Peter asks MJ. She nods.

“Let’s go.”

“Ok, um, an hour!” Betty decides.

Peter gives her a thumbs up and the two of them follow the path as it diverges, then cut away again, wading through ankle-deep snow where no other tree-hunter has walked today. The sound of Flash goading the other two fades. MJ stops for a minute and turns to watch them march into the trees. She takes a deep breath in and out.

“You good?” Peter asks.

“Yeah.” She hefts the axe onto her shoulder to look more lumberjack-esque (and so she doesn’t slice it into her calf as she walks). “Come on.”

Despite promises to share, she refuses to surrender the tool any sooner than she must. Soon enough, she’s huffing, face passing through damp clouds of her own breath and chilling her flushed cheeks and frozen nose. Balancing her temperature out here is a tricky thing; as long as they keep moving, as they are, she stays warm, but with Peter crunching along in the snow beside her, she’s too warm. MJ bites her mitt between her teeth and unzips her coat a little to let the brisk air circulate around the back of her sweaty neck.

“You’re not gonna catch cold?” Peter asks solicitously.

She shakes her head.

“Ok,” he says, “but it’d be just like you to get sick and say nothing about it while Flash complains all the way home that he is sick when nothing’s wrong with him.”

“The only thing he’s suffering through is his body’s natural rejection of us. He spent too many years thinking he was better than we are just to end up right here, hacking down Christmas trees together.”

“Probably caroling,” Peter guesses.

“Probably. He claims his favourite holiday song is the instrumental version of ‘Carol of the Bells,’ but that has to be a lie.”

“My money’s on something super cheesy.”

“Mine too,” MJ agrees with a grin.

Gradually, she slows, taking in the pine trees around them. Her guesstimation is that some of these go up to ten or twelve feet, but there are shorter options tucked in between. Younger, or those that maybe didn’t get as much light as they grew. She wipes the back of her mittened hand across her forehead, pushing her slipping fleece headband back where it’s been sliding forward.

“So,” she asks, “any of this look good to you?”

She lowers her gaze to find Peter hastily averting his from her face.

“That one?” he says, pointing to a tree at random.

“Peter, that one’s longer than Flash’s SUV.”

“Oh. Right. Um, ok…”

Focusing now, she watches his upturned face and the serious expression that sinks into it, the way snow’s been sinking into her hair. Maybe Betty was right about wearing a hat, though Betty’s hair is also significantly flatter than hers and thus more conducive to hat-wearing. Well, it’ll be fine. They aren’t stranded or anything and the snow’s not getting to them as much as it was when they had to walk across the clearing to reach this stand of trees. They’re sheltered here. As MJ hoped, it’s quiet.

Instead of asking Peter how much of his remaining holiday he’d like to spend with her, or how he feels when she forces him to hang up the phone first (he must notice), or why, exactly, he was so quick to agree to go off into the woods with her when he could just as easily have insisted they all stay together, she criticizes the first tree he takes genuine interest in.

“Crooked.”

“Too dense.”

“Too sparse.”

“Weird empty area.”

“I swear to god, something moved in there, Peter. I do not want a fucking National Lampoon Christmas, ok? My mom will freak out if I bring a live squirrel into our home.”

He’s laughing at her when they finally spot one that looks pretty good: shorter but not squat, full but with soft, long needles rather than nasty ones bent on treating them both to non-consensual acupuncture if they stand too close. It doesn’t look sickly or as though it’s currently inhabited by birds or rodents.

“So young,” MJ does note, assessing its size in comparison to a taller tree a yard away. “Oh well.” She raises the axe and adjusts her grip.

Peter goes scrambling backwards, almost slipping, then tries to pretend he was only calmly moving out of the way, that he is not afraid of the radius of her swing. When he starts babbling about how quickly his body could probably heal from an axe wound (though, with all the crazy shit he gets up to, that’s actually not something he’s experienced yet), she finally laughs at him.

“Relax,” she says. “You can just hold the branches up at the bottom while I chop through the trunk.”

Fearless—and even more determined to prove it now that she’s given Peter a scare—MJ drops to the snow and wriggles under the tree, as close as she thinks she should be while still being able to swing the axe. Peter’s hand makes her jump. She whips her head around, nearly getting a clump of needles in the eye, but he’s only skimming her coat by accident as he gathers the lowest branches away from her. As she asked. Right, he’s not touching her on purpose and he’s not even doing the not-touching activity on purpose but because she told him to. He’s trying to help. Frustrating.

She props herself up on her elbow and takes an awkward whack at the tree. The blade sinks into the bark like it’s supposed to, but it’s still somehow surprising to feel the give. MJ takes a few more tentative swings and the axe sinks deeper, requiring some force to yank it out again. She grunts and hears Peter crouch down behind her.

“Is it going ok? Can I do anything?”

“Umm, maybe be prepared to pull the top of the tree in the other direction so it doesn’t fall on my head. I think I’m almost halfway.”

“Yes, please don’t make it fall on your head,” he requests.

“It won’t as long as you do your job,” she promises gruffly, hewing in once more.

“Do you think this would be easier with a saw?” Peter’s voice is higher now, coming from the other side of the tree. Though the branches fell when he changed position, she can feel them only resting lightly on her as he holds the top of the tree away. Probably standing on his toes.

“Don’t say anything against my axe.”

“I’m not! I was just thinking out loud!”

“A saw,” MJ informs him with another swing, “is not as badass.”

“Good point.”

But is he just agreeing because the tree’s starting to topple and the final swings to break through it take her blade closer to his shins as he dances out of the way? Maybe.

She clambers out and, with the tree now on an angle, is able to chop from an upright position, down on a diagonal until she buries her axe in the snow, then yanks it free.

“Oh, you can lay it down,” MJ tells Peter when she realizes he’s standing there with his arms full of tree, face hidden as he keeps his head pulled back from the branches.

He does so gently and then they stand there in triumph. MJ hurls her axe into the ground.

“Would you quit that?” Peter requests, jumpy.

She grins.

“Sorry. Just really feeling this.”

“I can tell.”

They took their time making their selection and can do one of two things next: either trim the branches for Peter to take home to May right here or drag the tree back to Flash’s SUV and perform the necessary amputations there. They do neither. MJ shrugs her shoulders and flexes her fingers inside her mittens, exorcising the tension of gripping the axe’s handle. She turns, glancing casually around, but really looking for something invisible—a reason to stay. A rational delay before rejoining the others.

“Hold still,” Peter says, as she’s looking back the way they came. The way she thinks they came. They stomped around this area, circling every tree, for a while, so the footprints are a little confused.

“What? If you try to tell me there’s a squirrel in my hair, I’m not going to believe you.”

He smiles softly.

“No squirrel, just snow.”

She stares at her friend warily as he approaches, then sweeps snow from her headband. That’s when she realizes one side of her coat is soaked from lying on the ground. It can’t get through though, it’s just the outer layer. Still, Peter walks a complete circle around her, wiping snow away.

“There,” he says.

MJ sighs.

“Peter…”

“Yeah?”

His face is so open as he looks at her, flakes flying around and between them. Her heart squeezes almost painfully because there have been so many days of not seeing his face without the assistance of a screen. Now that he’s here, it’s too much.

“Umm… how many branches do you think May wants?”

MJ crouches and puts her back to him, feigning being deep in concentration over the fresh Christmas corpse splayed out in the snow. She feels like a detective at a crime scene. Peter exhales heavily behind her, then drops to her level.

“More is probably better, right? She’ll probably take some in to work or try to give them to the neighbours anyway.”

“True.” They both reach for the axe. “Go ahead,” MJ says, quickly withdrawing her hand.

Peter shaves off what he thinks May might like—plus at least an armload more—in quick slices and snips.

“Jeeze, this thing is sharp.”

“I know,” she says proudly.

“I want one. For the suit, I mean. You think that could work?”

“Well, you already have a bunch of less probable-sounding features, so why not a spider with an axe made of webs?”

“Ned’s gonna be so excited when I tell him.”

“I’m excited,” she says, maybe a little too forcefully. It’s not a competition. She doesn’t think he’s already forgotten about her. There’s just some kind of glitch in her brain-to-mouth connection that no Spidey tech could possibly fix.

“I think we’re ahead of schedule,” Peter tells her.

He pulls out his phone to check the time while MJ cleaves into the fallen tree’s trunk, cutting it down to a size more suited to transport and her family’s apartment.

“We could do this in two trips,” he presses. “Take the tree and come back for the branches? Or vice versa?”

“I think we can manage it in one.”

She glances at him and he looks mildly frantic.

“Or two,” MJ amends. “Two would be better.”

Are they finally going to talk? That has to be the reason for Peter stretching this out, doesn’t it? But he moves quickly to grip the lowest branches of the tree, down where MJ severed it, and she grabs those on the opposite side of the trunk. After a jerk to get it going, they slide the tree smoothly over the snow, leaving a fine trail of needles. It occurs to her, as they walk, that she was worried about this part on the way in here, that the tree might pick up dirt from where others have walked, but the ground looks fresh and sparkling in the sun. That’s not familiar.

“Peter? Are we going the right way?”

“What? Yeah. Aren’t we? We have to be. Because the sun was…”

He gestures very unconvincingly overhead and her heart plummets in her chest. For once, not because she’s scared of saying something about her feelings for him and hearing they aren’t reciprocated, but because what Peter’s not saying directly is that they might be lost. And the worst part of that scenario is Flash being right. No, no, no, Peter will not make Flash right, not today.

“It’s been snowing,” she reviews. Stupid and obvious, but facts are soothing to her. “How much do you think it’s snowed? Not that much, right? It can’t have. We must’ve just started walking the wrong way.”

“Definitely. Ok, let’s turn around.”

So, they swing the tree with them and strike out in the opposite direction, not going very quickly as they navigate the trees. They pass the stump they lately created and MJ plucks her axe from the snow on the way past. It just makes her feel better, having it.

Unfortunately, this way isn’t correct either.

“Alright,” she says slowly. “What the fuck.”

“Let’s leave the tree for a minute.”

They set it down. She realizes she’s sweating.

“How could we be lost? How could you be lost?”

“There aren’t exactly landmarks,” Peter says. “It’s just… trees.”

“Maybe we should’ve gone to a place with signposts and neat little rows.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

He wanders over to her, watching her with careful eyes.

“I wasn’t this cold when I called today an adventure.”

“Maybe you should zip your coat back up.”

But she’s too warm and uncomfortable to do that just to challenge how he’s calling her bluff.

“Are you scared?” he asks. “You don’t need to be scared. I think we did a lot of circling. We didn’t walk too far in any one direction. I could climb a tree and look around?”

“Climb a tree? One of these trees? The ones covered in snow with the thin branches and the spiky needles?”

“Hey,” Peter jokes, hitting her arm with his elbow, “you’re supposed to be cheering me on.”

“I…” She closes her mouth. He frowns.

“Is something wrong?”

“We’re lost and Flash is going to gloat.”

“Besides that.”

“You’re trying really hard to get us out of here.” That should be a compliment, a commendation, but it sounds accusing as it leaves her mouth. MJ feels on-edge, heart beating all wrong.

“…Should I not be?”

God, she’s being strange. She can feel herself being strange. Everything’s aligning to buy her more time and she’s panicking trying to work out what to do with it. The snow is falling softly all around and she’s auditioning to play the most awkward protagonist in the history of Hallmark holiday movies.

“Are you looking forward to going back?” MJ asks abruptly.

“To the car?”

“To school. In January.”

“Umm, kinda? I mean, it’s going well. But you know that, we talked about this stuff the other day when you and Ned were over at May’s.”

“Yeah.” She’s thinking, staring down at her cut tree, debating how to mention that there’s one thing they didn’t talk about, that she couldn’t bring up, because she felt strange about doing it with Ned there. She goes to continue, unsure of her phrasing, but ready to push onward, when Peter answers, looking thoughtfully up at the pale-grey snow clouds.

“It’s really nice to be home, but I also don’t like living in the past.”

He glances at her to see what she thinks. She’s noticed that he does that a lot, when they’re on a video call. Sometimes, she teases him about it—the way he makes certain assertions sound like questions because he wants her input, values her opinion, thinks of her as wiser than him (she is) though he’s the genius playing around at the upper end of the grading curve in all of his classes.

“Sorry, what were you gonna say?” he asks, spotting the unfinished thought in her expression, how she holds her eyebrows a little too tightly together.

MJ shakes her head.

“It’s nice to have you home.” As Peter’s beginning to smile, swaying slightly towards her, she rambles on, “It’s nice to have everyone home. I mean, I could go longer between having to see Flash in person, but what can you do, right? It’s worth it to have Ned home. And Betty. And you.”

She swallows.

“There!” he shouts, pointing past her. She squints.

“What is it?”

“Our tracks.”

Trusting his superior eyesight, MJ troops after him. Sure enough, their deep treads from earlier are still faintly present—now gentle indents as the snowfall works to even everything out again.

“But we don’t have to hurry back,” Peter says. She avoids his eyes.

“Except we probably do, now that we’ve wasted time being lost.”

“We were never actually lost.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself so you can sleep at night, Spider-Man. Help me with the tree.”

He does, then hightails it back to collect May’s branches once MJ’s in the clearing with only the little trail left between her and the makeshift parking lot. She pulls her bounty along and through the gap, suddenly back with the rest of her friends.

“Did you manage to lose Parker out there?” Flash asks immediately. “Nice. Up top.”

She rolls her eyes instead of meeting his hand in a high five.

“He just had to go back for something,” MJ explains, expressly for the benefit of Ned and Betty.

“What’d he do, drop some of you guys’ sexual tension in the woods?”

Flushing with the sting in the air and self-consciousness, she walks past Flash. Just close enough to drag the tree over his feet and make him start whining about getting dirt on his blindingly-white designer snow boots. When his complaints cut off, she knows she’s in trouble. It’s like the sudden silence in a horror movie that you just know means nothing good.

“Never mind,” Flash says loudly. “Sexual tension present and accounted for.”

MJ whirls around to see Peter’s arrived and is staring at her with a pleading look on his face. Or he was, until Flash’s words sunk in. Surely, Peter’s fast enough to snatch his keys, toss them to Betty, and have them all climb into the SUV and wheel outta here, leaving Flash behind? But during the holidays? She’d feel bad. He’s lucky.

“Can we just get the trees loaded?” Peter asks, moving to help MJ pull hers closer to demonstrate that it’s not so much a question for Flash as a demand for him to shut the hell up. Flash probably doesn’t understand. He’d need tact for that.

“Fine. And not a scratch on the Escalade,” Flash commands.

He opens the trunk to reveal a set of carefully folded tarps; they’re too ratty to actually belong to him, so MJ’s betting that they’re Betty’s or Ned’s. Those two went on a big, romantic camping trip together right after high school graduation, so these could be remnants. The first tarp crinkles in Peter’s hands as he pulls it out and unfolds it. Beneath the second—removed by Ned—there’s a Burberry blanket protecting the SUV from the tarps. Honestly. Momentarily forgetting about their awkward moment in the forest, MJ catches Peter’s eye and nods at the blanket. The two of them start laughing and soon, Betty and Ned have spotted them and are laughing too. Flash is perplexed, which, as always, is when he gets grouchy and defensive.

“Can we pick up the pace, people?” he requests. “I need a hot drink and an even hotter fire. I can barely feel my fingers.”

“Wait.” MJ frowns and pauses in assisting Peter with dragging the longest tarp onto the roof of the SUV. “I have a tree, Ned and Betty each have trees… Flash, where’s your tree?”

She turns her head and notices Ned just cutting off a gesture of slicing a hand across his throat to insist on her not finishing that question. Betty sighs and explains.

“Flash’s service came back while we were out there.”

“Dude,” Peter huffs, stretching to reach and finish tugging the tarp into place, “you had service? You could’ve texted us to see if we were, I don’t know, lost.”

“This should come as no surprise to you, Parker,” Flash says snootily, “but I had other priorities.”

“Oh yeah?” MJ questions suspiciously.

“He went online and bought an artificial tree,” Betty says with a roll of her eyes.

“Sacrilege.”

“More like brilliance,” Flash corrects. “It has snow-encrusted branches, pre-strung lights, and the thing isn’t gonna die in a week, so it’s better for the environment.”

“Isn’t it plastic?” MJ checks in a slow voice, waiting for him to catch on.

“Yeah.”

“Then the process used to produce it created harmful emissions and when you find it next year and decide to throw it out because you’re no longer ‘feelin’ it’ or whatever excuse you have, it’ll go straight in the trash and from there to one of the many, many local and international landfills that house our city’s waste.”

“You’re pretty judgy for a girl who just fucking murdered a tree.”

“I did my research,” MJ counters easily. “This is a sustainably managed forest. They maintain the trees, protect new growth and transplant saplings every spring to ensure the health of not only the cash crop, but the forest as a whole. Pre-light that, dickhead.”

Feeling flustered, she goes to give Betty and Ned a hand with positioning their tree on the roof. MJ stands on the ledge offered by the open trunk and stabilizes the tree while the others guide it into position.

“Tension,” she hears Flash diagnose under his breath. He’s smart enough to not meet her eye when she glares down at him.

They encounter a small problem while loading the second tree: both Betty and Ned have selected especially full specimens. Side by side, they take up the entire roof, and MJ’s tree is still on the ground with Peter’s mountain of branches, waiting to be slung onboard.

“I don’t think it’ll fit,” Ned says after jumping into the air twice to take a look at the available space (none).

“Neither do I,” she agrees. “Guess it’s going in the trunk.”

“In the trunk?” Flash is there in a, well, flash. He slipped into the driver’s seat, ostensibly to doublecheck their route home, but really to start his seat-warmer and turn the Christmas radio station back on. His distress is juxtaposed against a jazzy rendition of ‘Winter Wonderland.’

“Yeah. There’s nowhere else.”

“Guys, please. Are you trying to get back at me for the sexual tension comment? It’s forgotten. I lied. No tension here. Cut the act and tell me that thing’s going on the roof with the others.”

“While ‘that thing’ is a capitalist nexus, it’s also a precious symbol of everything I love about Christmas,” MJ says firmly, “and it’s going in the trunk of this SUV.”

“Guys?” Flash glances at the other three, but nobody sides with him.

“Don’t worry, Flash,” Betty says kindly. “We won’t use the second tarp to go on top of the roof trees, we’ll line the trunk with it instead. There won’t be any needles, I promise.”

That is definitely not a promise she can make, and MJ’s sure her friend is aware, but she’s taking a shortcut to winning this standoff and MJ admires that. The placating seems to wash over Flash like the spirit of Christmas over Scrooge McDuck. Suddenly, he’s smiling.

“Yeah. We can do that. Of course. But.” Oh no. The smile’s warping. Flash is about to be an asshole again, MJ can see it coming fast on the horizon. “The tree’s going to take up more space than just the trunk.”

MJ peers into the SUV. Shit. He’s probably right.

“Oh,” says Betty, not getting the issue, “well, we can fold the seats down, right? The tree isn’t that tall. Come on, guys, we’ve had real problems. This is nothing!”

She beams at them and Ned wraps an arm around her, hugging her to his side.

“We’ll lose a seat in the back,” MJ says.

She’s profoundly annoyed by the satisfaction on Flash’s face as she’s the one to say the words, point out the obvious. Isn’t she always? It feels like her role in this friend group and she never minds that, never has until this very situation and its inevitable conclusion.

“Somebody’s gotta sit on somebody else’s lap,” Flash singsongs. “And it’s not me because I’m the driver!”

The other four look at each other.

“Betty,” Ned begins, “you and I could…”

“But she needs to be in the front to navigate,” Flash irritatingly points out, “and before you say it, you shouldn’t double up in the front. It’s not safe.”

Maybe they can back over him when they steal his ride and drive out of here, MJ theorizes. She sighs. Loudly. Vexedly.

“I’ll sit on Peter.”

She proceeds to make eye contact with none of them, just fishes a sloppy coil of rope out of the back and works with Betty to feed it over the trees and through the windows. Some cold air will blow into the SUV, but that won’t matter so much to her, she guesses, since she’ll have the benefit of Peter’s body heat. Who needs a seat-warmer when you can have an actual human lap? Ugh, no, not funny, but she tried to consider it in a way that doesn’t make her want to volunteer to sit in the trunk with her tree.

Finally, they lift her tree and Peter’s branches inside, position them, and shut the trunk. Flash is whistling ‘Carol of the Bells’ as he practically skips to the driver’s seat. Betty, far more compassionate, gives MJ a reassuring look before she gets in. Then Peter climbs into the back, taking the middle seat, and glances at her, lingering in the snow. She groans to herself and folds into the car as Ned gives her an encouraging pat on the back.

Maneuvering is awkward. Peter cranes his neck back like his whole body is leaning to make room for her, but it’s not possible—he’s already pressed back against the seat. She sits. He rustles beneath and behind her. Before she can panic and insist on walking home, Ned gets in and slams the door closed (Flash complains).

“Uh,” Peter starts, “do you wanna shift forward so I can buckle my—”

“Absolutely not. If we’re sharing a seat, we’re sharing a seatbelt. I don’t want to end this excursion by flying through the windshield when Flash swerves the car off the road because he sees a snowdrift that looks like a butt or something.”

“Hey! I’m an excellent driver,” he complains, starting the car.

“I could just, like, hold onto you?” Peter offers.

MJ’s heartbeat rockets. She presses the top of her head to the ceiling to ground herself.

“No. We’re using the seatbelt.”

Peter stretches it away from the seat and holds it for her to grab; she passes it back for him to fasten. The second it clicks into place, Flash throws the SUV into reverse and hits the gas. Peter must move his head away from behind hers because MJ’s genuinely surprised not to feel his nose break against the back of her skull.

“Excellent driver, huh?” she questions flatly.

“There was ice.”

“Sure there was.”

Flash winks at her in the rear-view mirror and instead of siding with her, MJ catches Ned chuckling.

“I’m sorry, but it’s funny. You guys look ridiculous seatbelted together,” he says.

But she doesn’t feel so much ridiculous as confused and on alert, swaying with Flash’s accelerations and decelerations (thankfully minor compared to how he started off). Every time, Peter’s hands jump to grab her: shoulders, waist, legs. Once, he grabs her hands and even though she still has her mittens on, dripping melting snow onto the seat on one side and the tree branch she’s clutching on the other, it’s startling.

“Sit still,” Peter tells her when she jerks out of his hold.

“You sit still.”

He laughs.

“I can’t go anywhere—you’re sitting on me.”

“Then try having less bony legs,” she suggests, though they both know the nerd has more muscle mass in one of his legs than the rest of the SUV’s occupants have in their entire bodies combined.

“Right up here!” Betty directs. “We have to pay.”

MJ sags gratefully into Peter, relaxed for the first moment of the short drive from the lot to the tree farm. She tenses up again when they pull in and Betty offers to be the one to hop out and pay for their trees. There is no reprieve from Peter’s lap. She hands over her cash to her friend with a sigh and listens while the trees are removed from the roof, shaken by a machine to rid them of loose needles, and replaced for transport home. When the trunk opens and the tree farm guy slides MJ’s little tree free, she shivers at the cold air blowing in.

“Take off your mitts and put your hands by the vent,” Peter suggests.

MJ looks around and sees that the only vent she can reach is the one their feet are bracketing, down by the floor. She fights the grip of the seatbelt to bend forward. Ah. Hot air on her freezing fingers, plus, she’s out of the draft coming through the open trunk.

“This is better. Thanks, dork.”

She glances back and spots the stricken look on her friend’s face as he watches her, still seated on his lap, but now bent over. MJ sits swiftly upright.

“I’m actually not that cold,” she says, spine rigid beneath her coat and her sweaters.

Peter sighs and, while Ned’s looking out the window to watch her tree get vibrated and wrapped, tentatively offers MJ his hands. If Ned notices that they’re holding hands when the SUV is completely repacked and they’re on their way to the place with the wine and cider, he doesn’t say a word about it. It’s shared body heat. It’s a survival tactic. That’s what MJ tells herself as she finds her and Peter’s fingers moving gently from a perfunctory clasp to intertwining.

They stay that way until Flash pulls off the road at the cider spot, which turns out to be an apple orchard. Well, more than just the orchard; there’s a whole barn here, but fancy, with a designated lot and possibly a restaurant inside.

“This is so cute!” Betty says.

MJ concentrates on shaking her hands out of Peter’s before Flash puts the SUV in park and turns around to see them.

The two of them are the last out of the car and she’s stiff with the silence, listening to their friends laugh and gripe about the cold (Flash) as they wait with Ned’s door open. Before MJ can push through her thoughts and fears to say anything, Peter’s arm comes around her. Her eyes widen. …And he unbuckles the seatbelt. Probably just because she was taking too long. She slips over into Ned’s vacant seat and is about to scramble out when Peter catches her hand. MJ turns.

“Will you tell them we’ll meet them inside?” he requests.

Heart hammering, she relays the message, then looks on as Ned and Betty hustle Flash through the doors before can make another of his unwelcome comments or otherwise interfere.

“I think we really need to talk,” Peter says, after MJ pulls the door closed to preserve what little heat is left in the vehicle.

“We talk all the time,” she argues. She thinks, Yes, please talk to me.

“About a lot of stuff. You know, most stuff.” He wedges his fingers under the edge of his hat to run them nervously through his hair.

“That’s a generalization, but a fair one.”

“But, you know, lately, I’ve been, uh, wishing that we could talk about…”

“…even more stuff?” MJ guesses, hopes.

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

“You know, our schools aren’t that far apart,” he says, like it’s the first time he’s realizing this.

She smiles wryly.

“I’m aware. That’s why I came out for Thanksgiving first year when you couldn’t make it back to Queens. Even if we did eat take-out shrimp Pad Thai instead of homecooked turkey.”

“And,” Peter adds, “it’s why I showed up at your dorm to help you study for that midterm you were stressing about in October.”

“And why I picked up when you called me every night,” MJ says, quieter. He smiles softly.

“I was talking about the distance.”

Summoning her courage, she looks him right in the eye and lets her still-uncovered hand sneak back over his.

“What distance?”

“You’re my best friend,” Peter starts. “You and Ned.” MJ frowns. Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit, she’s misjudged this, seriously misjudged this.

“Oh. Well. Great. Cool.”

“No, MJ!” he says quickly, noticing the look on her face. He flips his hand under hers so their palms meet. “I’m definitely in love with you, I just mean… Well, oops, I guess I said it.”

She’s pretty impressed with her own control over her facial features—maintaining a slightly-happier-than-neutral expression—when half of her brain is setting off fireworks that seem to be landing and fizzing around on the other half. He’s in love with her. Definitely.

“For as fast as your mind works, your mouth always manages to get ahead of it,” she observes.

Peter’s expression goes from tortured and fumbling to sharp and decisive.

“That’s good advice.”

“What? That wasn’t advi—”

He darts forward and kisses her, hand emphatically clutching hers. There’s a humorous smack when their mouths separate.

“Oh my god,” Peter says, “I forgot to ask if it was ok to do that.”

MJ smirks.

“My only complaint is that you beat me to it when I’ve been trying to figure out how to do that all day.”

“I did wonder,” he admits with a small smile.

“And you couldn’t have helped me out?” she asks, exasperated.

“A big part of being friends with you is knowing you rarely need help. You’re good, like, ninety percent of the time.”

“What do you do the other ten percent?”

Peter shrugs.

“Kiss you and ask if you have plans for New Year’s? By the way, do you have plans for New Year’s?”

He tries to adopt a casual expression but now that MJ thinks about it, she can’t recall the last time her friend looked at her with anything like mild interest. He can’t pull it off anymore, if he ever could. Apparently, she wasn’t always watching that well, because she clearly didn’t know everything.

Peter loves her. He loves her.

“I have a feeling I’ll probably be available,” she tells him. “I have a bad habit of trying to be where you are.”

“I love that about you.”

MJ kisses him quickly, then shoves him away, nearly into the pine tree resting on his other side. Whoops. It’s just that she can feel how easy it would be to get caught up in this moment, and they’re still in the back of Flash’s SUV. People are waiting for them. She takes a deep breath and gives Peter a searching look.

“If we walk in there like this—” She shakes their clasped hands. “—what do I say?”

“Tell them your hands were cold.”

“I… I don’t want to hide it, I just…”

“I know. It’s ok. It’s new.”

“Yeah.”

Peter nods sympathetically. He’s her friend first; he’s not going to push her to speak before she’s ready. (He probably knows he couldn’t if he wanted to.)

She hauls the door open and they stride through the snowy parking lot together. The sun’s already struggling to come out and flakes whip high into the air, catching in the light. They step inside the building to see brightness streaming through the windows, their trio of friends crowded around a table. Flash seems to be making Ned sprinkle cinnamon into his hot apple cider while he films it—presumably to post for the enjoyment of the Flash Mob. (That’s still going. He has a shocking number of followers.) Betty turns and her gaze slips down to their joined hands. She smiles.

MJ has the excuse ready. When Flash and Ned glance over, she’s prepared to tell them her hands were cold.

She opens her mouth.

“Peter’s my boyfriend now.”

[cyberneticlagomorph]

"Take stock of your surroundings."

Right.

OK.

You can do that.

...Probably.

...you have no idea where you actually are, and it's hard to see beyond the smoke and bones.

The tea party is gone now, just a smoldering puddle of plasticky goo, dead bugs, and melted candy.

A spectral, catlike paw thrusts itself from your torso seam, clutching a map that it shakes at you impatiently until you take it.

The paw gestures in a "how fucking hard was that?" kind of way before going back wherever it came from.

You take a moment to dig around in your fluff again but find absolutely nothing out of the ordinary, except for a piece of chocolate you somehow missed and immediately eat.

The map unfurls on its own and floats at your eye level.

Everything except where you are currently is covered in a thick layer of pulsating static, like the fog of war in video games.

The anomalous arrow shows up on your map, and continues to point in the direction of home.

"That's a quest marker dude, like in an rpg," says the voice from before, "...did you get us fuckin isekai'd?"

You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out is a squeaky noise, like a dog toy.

"What do you mean 'who am i?', it's me Kay, duh."

Another squeak, followed by a honk and a jingle.

"Kay, your symbiote? Your literal skin? I take a nap for two weeks and not only do you come down with amnesia, but you get us isekai'd... fan-fucking-tastic my good bitch."

You honk again.

"You take that BACK you little asshole!"

You squeak very matter of factly.

You will not be taking that back any time soon.

Neither of you speak for quite awhile as you wander along the path indicated quest marker.

You periodically check the map, and watch the static clear as you go along.

Clouds made of cardboard and cotton balls scud across the sky on tethers of brightly colored scrap yarn. Weird little bird shaped doodles worm their way along, making horribly wet sounds as they go.

This would be almost pleasant if the sun didn't give you a headache.

Jingle.

"What."

Jingle jingle.

A sigh from Kay.

You stop and jingle some more.

"No I don't know where Alice is, and there aren't any quests in the directory about her either..." Kay trails off, sounding befuddled, "oh for fucks sake am I a fucking HEADS UP DISPLAY?!"

They sound incredulous.

It's great.

"Fuckin anime lookin ass gets sideswiped by truck-kun, and im stuck in peewie's playhouse on lsd AS A FUCKING GAME CONSTRUCT!"

You lose it then, doubling over with laughter that shakes your entire tiny body. You sound horrible, like somebody's strangling a rubber chicken with a handful of jingle bells.

There are tears in your eyes, well... "tears". Little flecks of blue glitter fall from your eyes like snow. It's kind of cute actually.

Kay makes a sound, "Alright alright, cut it out before you pop a stitch or something."

You flinch, laughter stopping.

You don't know why but that phrase hurts to hear? Somehow you taste sedatives, and feel long purple nails running along fresh sutures.

Mismatched eyes dissecting you better than her scalples ever could.

The sky shudders and blackens like a bruise.

Plastic glow in the dark stars bloom in the wounded sky and some even fall to the ground around you with a clatter.

The blood seeps from the rising moon and hits the ground in sticky black globs that grow eyes and squirm towards you rapidly.

You can't breathe, legs trembling, ears back.

Teeth bared.

Your claws unsheathe, becoming daggers.

As the bleeding moon begins to wail, you ready yourself for a fight.

[queenofallimagines]

Bro, okay so I was watching wild n out and DC young fly is a damn fool😂. So can u do hcs on with icy hot, boom boom boy and scarface (dabi) with a female black s/o that roasts like dc? Thanks and stay safe😊❤

LMFAO BRO WILD N OUT IS MY SHIT

Dc young is a c l o w n

Shoto:

- He is just as shady

- Like I feel like everyone forgets that he is a shady ass bitch too

- When you start so will he

- “Listen here you bamboo built bitch.”

- “Bet your boyfriend fucks you with a blindfold on.”

- Don’t matter when or where it is

- He has your follow up

- Will do it with a smile on his face and an arm around you

- Like he’s just the captive audience

- “Pick your clown mask up off the floor sweetie.”

- “ get they ass babe.”

- Trying not to laugh so hard

- He’s so proud

- Will get you to roast his dad

- “Why?”

- “I’ll be funny I promise.”

- Sends the video to his mom

- “Bring that ass here!”

- 💀💀

- “Why you smell like car grease? If you don’t get your top heavy built ass outta here”

- “Built like a bag of blankets.”

- “Ol patchy beard headass, ol green neck BC I wear fake jewelry headass.”

- “Tell your dad to get a bra man”

- Bro pls take him to the hospital BC he’s dying

Bakugou:

- biggest hype man

- “GET THAT ASS”

- He will be screaming worldstar the whole time

- Records your roast battles to watch later like looking through a scrapbook 😂😂

- “Remember this one? You let that Karen looking bitch know what’s good.”

- He can’t roast as good as you so he hyped you up

- “You built like fridge all fax no printer”

- He’s smirking

- “And that’s on what??? Period!!”

- He will take you out for ice cream later

- If it turns into a scrap even better for him he watches you Tiara someone and gets to fight?

- He lives for the drama

- Will take you home to his mom on some

- “LOOK WHAT MY BABY DID!”

- Lmao absolutely clownery

Dabi:

- okay so

- He’s pleasantly surprised

- “Dam. And I thought I burned people.”

- Like if anyone tries to come for him incorrectly it’s over

- “Talk to me nice”

- Like he will just sling an arm around you and let you run like a lawnmower

- Won’t do anything to stop you in the lightest

- The league has learned to tolerate you at this point

- Even better if it’s shigaraki

- “Hey hands McGhee what’s up?”

- “Yoooo fuckhands mcmike? Jack off lately?”

- “Hey shiggy! Does it hurt when you sit? On account of you having no ass at all?”

- He’s laughing his ass off

- Will whisk you away before chapped lips can retaliate

- “That was amazing babe.”

- Will have you roast hawks when he comes around

- “I knooooooow your cock a doodle doo ass aint talking.”

- “Ard chicken McNugget.”

- He loves it lmao

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 26

Read on AO3.  Part 25 here. Part 27 here.

Summary: You're not sure what Ren is thinking. You're not sure what you're thinking, either.

Words: 2900

Warnings: Handmaid’s Tale AU

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: I feel like every time I try to write this fic, I'm just... like... "Oh, let's try an action scene. Oh, let's try to write a party. Oh, let's fuckin', uh, inject some attempt at connection and emotion"? I don't know, haha. Reply down below if you think Anna be doin' too much.

That being said, the support and engagement I receive from y'all truly makes my day and week and life better. Every single comment is so special to me, I don't take any of it for granted. I feel so lucky and love y'all so much. Thank you! <3

The Knight stepped forward as you crossed the gate, a black wall of carbon and fabric, the pointed red cross on the breast of his cape the only break in the shadow. “Commander Ren requests your presence.”

You stopped, tossing a glance over the masked man before nodding. An escort wasn’t typical--not for you, anyway. “Well. Lead the way.”

The Knights Templar had been patrolling Kylo Ren’s property since before he’d returned from the hospital. After he’d called them to Snoke’s to alter the scene, his home had been monitored by at least three of them at any given time. One had gone with you when you were questioned by the Eyes--thanks to Christine’s report that a guard had killed Commander Snoke, you’d been given the benefit of the doubt and released in silence. A good thing, too, since otherwise they might have discovered the suspiciously bloody handprints on your tits.

Today, you spotted two of the Knights at the front gate and two posted at the side-yards--meaning the last two were in the back. You’d only ever seen all six the first day they’d arrived.

He turned, the flutter of his cape revealing the rifle strapped across his torso, and marched up the driveway, past Ren’s Audi, guiding you into the home. The bag in your hand seemed just ounces heavier as you trailed him, heart fluttering at the thought of seeing your Commander. It’d been over a week since you’d spoken. Your last conversation hadn’t gone well.

In a way, it’d been almost a relief on your poor body as it recovered from the concussion, the welts, the hickeys, the scabs on your knees and back. Even your cunt was grateful for a breather--you hadn’t realized what several days of being constantly, aggressively fucked by Kylo Ren’s massive dick had done for your pain tolerance.

That being the case, you would’ve been lying if you said that you hadn’t spent the days since your last tryst remembering the taste of copper on his tongue, the slickened slip of blood on your clit, how he’d looked coated in crimson under the summer sun as the heat of victory, of unity had pumped through you both. That connection had cracked open your ribs, lead your foolish heart to slaughter with the promise of security in your Commander’s arms. You weren’t delusional to believe that he wanted you as more than his Handmaid--no, the delusion had been the belief that he’d ever see you as his equal.

The Knight led you through the home, and you dropped off your bag in the kitchen--Emma and Rose were clattering away, and you heard Johana’s voice, a needle in your ears.

“No, no, don’t be stupid. Those don’t go there. Emma, will you start the tomato salad for the bruschetta, already? We need at least three different hors d'oeuvres--do you want to be shipped off to the Colonies?”

“Ms. Johana, please, I’m just now--”

“Get to work.”

You frowned. It sounded as if they were preparing for something, but what it could be, you didn’t know. The thought of another dinner party made your stomach roil.

The doors to Kylo Ren’s den were closed when you arrived--the Knight pushed one open, standing solid as he waited for you to enter. Glancing between him and the floor, head bowed, you passed through, and the door shut behind you.

In the light of the day, Ren seemed significantly less suffocating--but no less heady, no less beguiling. He leaned back in his chair, dressed in an open white linen shirt that revealed a ridiculously tempting patch of clavicle. Documents sprawled out in front of him, a fountain pen in his hand. His eyes were dark, full lips pursed as he watched you enter, following your footsteps and swaying skirts as you sat across from him. The bandages were gone, now, and you saw his scar, a pretty pink thread that stretched from his brow to his neck. He swallowed, and the line of it shifted with the motion of his throat. Your fingers itched, wanting to trace it.

“It’s been over a week.”

“So it has.”

You felt more awkward than indignant--you and Ren had plenty of ideological spats, but you’d typically resolved those arguments using your tongues for a completely different purpose. Now, he was solidifying his hold on Gilead as the Lead Commander, and his extended absence from your life had frustrated the tear you’d made in your relationship. Speaking with him now felt like taking a nail file to your teeth.

Gesturing over your shoulder, you said, “Is the Knight Templar really necessary?”

Ren glanced at the closed door, then to you. “You fail to understand how precarious a transition of power can be.”

“But for me?”

He blinked, gaze drifting to the papers, a slow breath gathering and leaving his chest through his nose. “I will ensure that nothing will ever happen to or harm you while you are in this home.” His eyes drilled you to your seat. “Or in my presence.”

“Oh.” Heat tingled your cheeks. “I see.”

The awkwardness refused to cease. It was like cotton, clogging the channels of communication. In the silence, Ren continued to review and add notations to the forms on his desk--they looked to be bylaws or something similar--so you decided to occupy your hands, too. You sat forward, snagged a pen, a piece of scrap paper he’d discarded to the side, and began to doodle. Even before Gilead, you’d never been particularly skilled with art, but your hands had rusted from years of being denied the ability to hold a pen. It felt unwieldy, the lines you made wriggled like worms across the page.

“Anyway.” You started to sketch what you hoped appeared like vines--they were shaky, trembling strands with misshapen blobs for leaves. “Why did you ask me here?”

He considered you for a moment, watched you draw. “Last time we spoke,” he said, “you said there was nothing I could do to make your existence as a Handmaid bearable.” He paused as you tried to create another stem of vines. “I disagree.”

You sighed, not bothering to meet his gaze. “Unless you can destroy Gilead, it never will be.”

“You could be my advisor.” His voice was soft, but certain. “Help me create a new order.”

A pause--you were frustrated with the way these leaves were turning out, anyway--and you glanced up at him, brow cocked. “How could I possibly advise you?”

Ren took his own pen and placed it to your paper. “I want to know your thoughts.” The ink spilled in a gorgeous, swooping arc as he drew a single stem and leaf. “Lead with your wrist.” A tiny, teasing smirk quirked the corner of his lip. “You offer critique so freely otherwise. Wouldn’t it behoove me to make use of it?”

You made another attempt, starting a new stem, guiding your pen across the paper as Ren had suggested. “I don’t want to be around the Council as your Handmaid advisor.” Half of you was playing along. The other half was traitorously curious.

“Then you’d be the advisor in my home.”

“No thank you.” The pen slipped as you added sloppy detail. You sighed. “That isn’t an equal.”

“Then you’d come with me.” He flicked tiny veins into the leaf he drew. “Use simple lines.”

“Well, I don’t want to do that.” You tried to imitate his movement, but your motor skills were clunky, unfinessed. “Any other awful offer you’re willing to make me?”

“You could sleep in my bed.”

Everything paused--your hands, your breath, your thoughts. You couldn’t think to move.

“And still wear this uniform.”

“No.”

You exhaled, your gaze traveled from his strong hands, up the thick muscles of his arms, past the sheen of skin at his chest and neck, landing on his own eyes. Streams of sunlight cast amber irises in gilded vulnerability, the constant void in his pupils filled now with something present and deep, a trench of new, tender need. He was seeking you, inviting you to a forbidden place you’d never dreamed you’d go--the technicalities seemed distant and secondary to the urgent ache you’d felt for his company. He swallowed again. The scar bulged.

But Johana, clinging to meaning. But the Resistance, whom you’d avoided since the coup. But the other Handmaids, languishing in the beds of their Commanders against their will. The thought of waking up in Kylo Ren’s arms filled you with a warmth that nearly choked you, scorched your heart with its heat. That warmth was drowned, almost immediately, in a blizzard of dreadful reality. You could never be his equal. He didn’t even know your name.

Wetting your lips, you started a new bundle of vines in the corner of the page. “Do you ever feel empty?” you asked. “Lost?”

For a moment, Ren didn’t respond, only followed your fingers as they worked to pull the image in your mind to life. Then he moved, pushing his fountain pen on the paper, working in the corner opposite of yours, whirling tapered black lines into an abstract plant design. You glimpsed his work with a bizarre pang of jealousy, but you continued, scrawling your best imitation into your own space. It felt easy to talk, like this, focused on your busy hands.

“You know,” you said, “the only thing that’s made me feel alive in the past three years is being with you.” You looped one of the stems to the middle of the page, adding a couple of ugly, thick-veined leaves. “But maybe before that, too. I don’t know. When you do stuff like this, it makes me feel worse. “

He swiftly swirled a long, naked vine. It came close to touching one of yours. “Worse.”

“Have you ever known something was wrong…” You weren’t sure how to finish the sentence. More and more stems piled up in your corner, encroaching on his work. “Have you known something was wrong, but felt like… the only way you can even think about taking your next breath is if you do it?”

Ren stopped. The pen bled a fat daub into the paper. When you looked up, his mouth was parted. He was gazing into you.

“Yes.”

Your eyes were chained to his, your breath hollow in your chest, fingers withering with weakness, your pen tumbling from your grip.

“And have you--have you felt like doing the right thing… but knew that it would be impossible?”

He wasn’t breathing, either--he was only staring, memorizing something.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Always.”

You blinked and wet your lips, wondering how he could survive with the same constant, crushing pain on his chest and in his mind. Ren regarded you in stillness, an awakened honesty pulsing between you.

“How do you live?” you asked. “I… It feels like I’m…”

“Dying.”

“Yes.” You sat forward, nodding. “Yes. Dying. Like… my actions don’t even matter. Like I don’t even…”

He broke from your gaze, scanning the piece you’d both created, your vines reaching desperately for each other from the corners, separated by empty white space. “Have a choice.”

“Yes.” The heat of understanding burned through you. “How do you do it?”

Ren glanced up, the severity in his stare shrouding him in shadow. “I destroy it.”

Air stuck in your throat. “What?”

“Until it is nothing.” His face betrayed no emotion. “I destroy it.”

Perhaps that’s where you differed. You hadn’t tried to destroy that feeling. You’d tipped headfirst into it, choked on it, allowed it to consume you. Underneath its weight, you’d suffocated, starving for respite that didn’t exist.

“That’s how being with you makes me feel.”

His chest fell, air escaping his nose. “Yet you were there.”

“What?”

Ren took your hand in his, led you to pick up your pen, curling his long fingers around yours. His grip brought you refuge, its firm warmth guiding you through slow, sweeping motions until you’d grown a beautiful shoot of vines on the page. Throat tight, you watched his face under a new lens, his features now in soft focus, skin kissed by light, hair shifting over his cheeks.

“You could’ve run. Let me die.” His hold tightened, sparks shooting between your skin as he led you through darting veins in a leaf. “You didn’t.”

Words wouldn’t leave. You could only sit as he released you, allowed you to admire your collaboration. His side of the page had branched into a bloom of abstruse lines, black rivers running through the paper, not entirely vines, but precise and pretty all the same. Your side was less complex, crafted with a child’s hand, but a clear attempt at plantlife--thin, shaky stems snaking from the corner, ovals tacked on as leaves. Then there was the patch you’d drawn together. That part filled the center, entirely different from your creation and his own, a gorgeous weave of coiled fronds that crawled to three-dimensional life.

A shiver rippled up your spine. You met his eyes for the hundredth time, but drowned in them as if it was the first.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, not sure what you were referring to, anymore.

Ren’s lashes fluttered at his cheeks. His lips seemed pinker. “Practice, little bird.” After a moment, he drew a deep breath. “Johana’s hosting a party this evening. For my installation.” He pushed the pens to the side. “I left a dress in your room. I want you to wear it.”

Your heart seized, and you shook your head. “What?” you asked. “A dress?”

“Yes.” His face fell in a mask of disinterest. “You’d said last time we spoke you wanted more than what you have.”

“But…” Johana. The Council. The other Commanders. “Everyone else…”

“Gilead will bend to my design.” He sniffed, folding the drawing and placing it in his desk. “You’re part of that design.”

Heat flooded your face. “Oh.”

There was that feeling again--the same one that burgeoned between you, twisted you in its temptation, that robbed you of rationality. The one Ren sought to destroy, the one that you wanted to surrender to. You despised him. And you couldn’t wait to wear whatever stupid fucking dress he’d picked for you.

“Vic,” Ren called out. The door opened, the Knight stepped through. “Escort her to her room.”

Nodding, you stood, heading toward the door. Before you crossed the threshold, you glanced at him a final time. He was watching you.

“I’ll see you this evening.”

You swallowed. “Yes, Commander.”

It was strange, walking the halls with a silent usher--and having him wait until you closed yourself in your room was even stranger. You stood, waiting for the Knight’s footsteps to descend the staircase before you ran to your tiny dresser, tearing open the drawers to reveal the dress Ren had hidden there. Hands shaking, face hot, you grabbed it and shook it out, flipping it under your scrutiny.

It was still conservative--a high neck, long sleeves. But the fabric was a soft, pink chiffon, draped to the waist, a design that would skim your figure, but not reveal it. Round fabric buttons concealed the collar, cutting through a window of gauzy lace. You twirled it, admiring the flutter of the hem, imagining how it would feel on your skin. The longer you stared, the shorter your breath became, mind swarmed with thought. How would it feel, to walk through the home wearing this, to feel the brush of something over than starchy cotton at your ankles? How would your Commander react, seeing you in it? Fire stormed your skin, made your thighs squeeze together at the mere thought of him gazing at you, mesmerized, captivated--

Why did this excite you, when you were still his property? Perhaps it was that promise of respite, this dress your brief gasp of air before you would be plunged back into a sea of misery. Or perhaps it was the way he’d looked at you, the sincerity in his eyes, the throb in your pulse that lingered from his hand around yours.

His reaction was one thing, though. What about everyone else?

Knowing you’d be a Handmaid out of uniform sent your heart into your throat, had you considering tossing the damn dress out of your window and burying yourself in your sheets. It wouldn’t just be Ren seeing you--it’d be his Wife, his colleagues, his would-be supporters. The fact that you’d be wearing this flowy, hispy thing in front of all of them inspired a rush of unearned horror through your head, so thick you could swim in it. Yet your status in society could hardly sink any lower. Other than scandal, what response did you truly have to fear?

After all, there was another feeling, too, a burbling bubble at the base of your brain.

Vindication.

Yes, you were special, you were more than a Handmaid, and while you were still stuck on this awful hell-rock, you’d prove it to them. You’d prove it to them all.

Tossing the dress on the bed, you wrung out your arms, ears aflame. Outside, birds twittered in chorus, their song an echo of the melody in your chest:

Hopeful. Jubilant. Naive.

[death-himself]

Hidden in Shadows—Remus’s Story (pt. 1)

Summary: What has Remus been doing all this time? And who let him take care of eldritch abomination children?

Word Count: 1,511

Warnings: Body Horror, Homelessness, Angst

Part 2 (AO3 Link)

Failure. What an absolute failure. The darkness wasn’t sure what to do with its creation anymore. Its creation, who had decided to go by the name “Virgil”—and what a human thing it was to want to go by such a name—was going against everything it had taught him to do. He was too weak to kill, too weak to take souls, too weak to do anything.

He acted too human.

It watched as the young monster hid in the corner of a human child’s room, bobbing his head back and forth as if listening to his own music, using a small scrap of paper and a pencil to doodle. It had been a year since the darkness had let him out of the shadows. A whole year had passed, and no souls had been taken.

No matter how much the darkness tried to guide its creation into doing what he was made for, nothing happened. He was a disgusting failure of a monster. So, something else would have to do. And so the darkness began the process all over again, feeding its hatred for humanity and desire for their destruction into a new being.

Another five year wait was ahead of it.

Remus huffed as he pulled his coat tighter around himself. Well, he had expected this to happen eventually. Granted, he had expected his mom to beat the shit out of him, but not actually kick him out. Didn’t know she would do both.

He didn’t really have any friends to turn to; he had met them all online and the closest, his boyfriend, lived a state away. He huddled down into an alleyway in a relatively safe part of town.

Where could he go? He remembered back when his dad was alive and still with his mom there was this uncle that mom had absolutely refused to let come over. Maybe Remus could try to find him?

He shook that thought out of his head immediately. If his uncle was anything like the rest of his family, he wouldn’t want Remus around, either.

He shrugged off his backpack, hid behind a dumpster, and pushed the bag under his head. Maybe he could start making his way to Emile tomorrow. Or at least call him and see if there was anything he could do.

With that thought in mind, he took a deep, steady breath, shut his eyes, and went to sleep.

Remus awoke to a sharp pain in his chest. He opened his mouth to yell, but nothing came out. He forced his eyes open, his vision blurry. What looked to be a ball of light was slowly emerging from his chest.

Remus turned his gaze up slightly to see a hand with needle-like fingers hovering above the ball. The hand was attached to a long, gangly limb, which was attached to a horrifically bony figure, which was attached to a face. The first thing Remus thought when he saw that face was Oh wow, that’s disgusting.

The left side of the creature’s face appeared to be rotting, skin torn up and seeming to bleed a black substance that dripped onto Remus’s shirt. Its eye sockets seemed to be completely hollow, with sadistic glowing toxic yellow irises coming from somewhere inside them. Its lips were split into an unnaturally wide grin that only seemed to grow wider as the glowing ball was pulled more and more out of his chest.

It was horrifying. Remus loved it. With whatever strength he had left in his body, he punched the creature in the rotting side of its face. It reeled back, howling in pain as black liquid fell from its eyes. The ball of light immediately went back into Remus’s chest, and his strength returned.

He leapt to his feet, watching as the creature continued to howl and cry. It was in pain. He noticed the shadows seem to pull closer to the creature and he quickly pulled out his flashlight, turning it on with even louder protests from the zombie-like thing.

“Go away!” It yelled. “Leave me alone!” The voice caused Remus to pause. Holy fuck it has the voice of a child. Remus looked over its body again. It looked like a five year old boy’s dead body had been pulled and stretched into a roughly five-foot tall thing.

He watched the shadows swirl unnaturally at the edge of his light. It wanted to get to the kid, maybe to heal him. But Remus had a bad feeling in his gut as he watched it; he could almost feel its ill-intent.

He kept the light on the kid as he pulled bandages from his bag, then cautiously walked over. The kid was still clearly in pain, maybe the rotting side of his face was a lot more sensitive than normal skin.

Realizing he’d need both hands, Remus put the end of the flashlight in his mouth and gently laid a hand on the kid’s shoulder.

The kid shrieked, smacking his hand away and curling in tighter around himself. “I’m not gonna punch you again, calm down!” With the flashlight in his mouth he was barely understandable, but he got the message across.

“Liar. Humans are liars.” The kid muttered.

“Well, can’t argue with that. Humans are pieces of shit, and I don’t wanna be one of those Not All Humans types of guys. We’re all pretty terrible.” He noticed none of what he said seemed to elicit a reaction from the kid. But, at least he wasn’t screaming anymore.

Remus sat behind the kid, taking the flashlight out of his mouth and tossing it between his hands. “I don’t think I’m the worst human. I mean, I can definitely list at least a hundred people worse than me. There’s Jared from my math class—it’s always a Jared—there’s Bryce, Lucas, those are just three examples and those are just people I know personally. Then there’s also some celebrities like—”

“Is there a point to what you’re saying?”

“No, not really. How’s your face feeling?” The kid looked over his shoulder at Remus, eying him for a moment before looking away.

“It still hurts.” Remus hummed, grabbing a bandaid. “Alrighty, then come here. I got just the thing.”

The kid hesitantly sat up and turned to Remus, looking him up and down cautiously, before creeping closer. Once the creature was close enough for Remus to treat, he took the bandaid and stuck it onto a healthy patch of skin, as close to the area he had punched as he could get. The kid blinked and skittered back in alarm.

“Presto changeo, and you’re healed!” The kid ran his fingers across the bandaid, eyebrows furrowed.

“Really?”

“Nah, it’s this thing called the placebo effect, works great on little kids. I didn’t punch you hard enough to cause any real damage so,” Remus shrugged, “a bandaid works just fine.” He wasn’t sure if the kid had any idea what the placebo effect was, but it seemed to be a decent enough explanation to him.

“...Thank you.” Remus hummed.

“You got any parents to take care of you?”

“Parents?”

“Oh, that’s a no.” Remus went to lie down next to the dumpster, then pat the concrete next to him. “Go ahead and stay here. I’m sure whatever the hell those weird shadows you came out of are are bad news.”

“The darkness takes care of me! It’d never hurt me!”

“Well, then do whatever you want. I won’t stop you.” Remus turned to face away from the kid, closing his eyes and listening closely.

The kid looked into the darkest part of the alley, ready to allow the shadows to bring him home.

But that’s when he felt something angry and frustrated within the darkness. He gulped, slowly backing away towards the human he had just met. He gave himself only a moment to think, before lying down next to Remus and holding tightly onto the back of his shirt.

Remus smiled triumphantly to himself and turned around to look at the kid. “Guess you’re staying with me, then?” The kid clung onto Remus’s shirt, not meeting his eyes as he nodded.

Remus ruffled the kid’s hair. “Well, then it’s good to meet ya. I’m Remus. What’s your name?” The kid glanced up, confused. “Do you have a name?”

“I don’t think so.” Remus hummed in thought. “Mind if I give you a name?”

“Okay.”

“I shall now call you...Ballsack.”

“No.”

“Lil Shit?”

“No.”

“Asshole!”

“I don’t like your names.”

“Alright, alright, fair enough. You can name yourself.” The kid went silent for a moment. Remus checked his phone, seeing just how late it was.

“Actually...let’s save that for tomorrow. Sleep on it, and all that.” He ruffled the kid’s hair again, closing his eyes. A few moments later he heard a quiet huff from the kid, and he closed his eyes as well.

Remus was now the father of a five year old demon thing at the age of fifteen. It was just like in his fanfiction.

[basaltbutch]

SPAW Day 2 - 3/6/2020

(Also yes I did write these in the same day because I accidentally fell asleep last night before I could write yesterday’s so I did it today instead)

Today was early day at my school, which meant that I had an extra hour all to myself! Had to go shopping first, but that meant that I got to grab some apples to try and make sparkling apple cider with, and heavy whipping cream so I can make potato soup & custard-filled sweet buns. (It was Costco, and everyone was going absolutely apeshit in the store. There were so many people. Toilet paper, paper towels, and bottled water were all sold out. I saw three different people with six bags of fucking dog food in their carts. People really acting like it’s the End of Days when this is just. Flu^2)

I got an extra forty minutes to do whatever I wanted, so I started setting up the fences. Didn’t have as much chicken wire as I thought I did, so I only got one segment done, but hopefully it means that my potatoes and onions will be somewhat protected from my dogs’ careless paws.

(A little fun fact for y’all; the rabbit statue was given to me by a very dear friend for my 18th birthday, and his name is Señor Gordo)

I also repainted an old drawer to use as a planting box for the interior of my greenhouse. Another fun fact for y’all; if you’re using a wood container to plant your stuff in, or if it’ll be outside at all, you have to paint it using exterior paint. Otherwise it’ll start to rot really easily. I could probably get away with not painting it, since I live in the chaparral, but we still get rain and I’ll be watering the plants so. Best not to risk it.

I hung out with my old man dog while I waited for the paint to dry :) He’s a really good boy, he’ll be turning fifteen this year! He’s doing pretty good for being so old.

Added two more booklets (or whatever it’s called, I’m forgetting the actual term) to the WIP grimoire today, bringing the total number of pages to 120, or 60 sheets. I’ve also started playing around with a possible writing idea that’s solarpunk themed. I don’t know exactly where it’ll take me, but I’ve started doodling scenes and we’ll see if it takes us anywhere! (My writing/outline style is sort of unique? I let the characters explain to me who they are, and what the setting is, and what they’re doing, usually through small scenes and snippets where I just write whatever comes to mind. Then, when it starts to take shape, I start outlining, then I start actually writing.)

To finish the day off, I made three new patches to add to my jean jacket. The fabric for them came out of my scrap fabric bag, and I used paints that someone had just left in our house when we moved in. The circular one has the solarpunk flag painted on it, and says in black lettering, “Hope is Punk.” The other one has “Your fear of looking stupid is holding you back,” and the last one has the trans flag painted on it, and says, “Trans rights are human rights.” I’ll post pictures sometime this week. (Don’t feel like doing it now lol)

[collecting-stories]

Treacherous - Connor Murphy

A/N: More Connor Murphy. That’s it, that’s the author’s note. 

I can’t decide if it’s a choice, getting swept away. I hear the sound of my own voice, asking you to stay. - Treacherous, Taylor Swift

\\\

Connor sat at the computer in lab, leaning back against the chair and staring at the application page for the local community college. He was trying to turn things around but it was a slower process than he would’ve liked it to be. The hardest part was bringing up his grades. Evan had offered to tutor him but there was no way Connor could endure hours listening to Evan stutter through explanations of things he already didn’t care about. Besides, wherever Evan went Jared seemed to appear as well and he was definitely not spending any more time than humanly necessary with Jared.  

“Hey Wednesday Addams,” speak of the devil, Jared Kleinman leaned over the divider that separated Connor’s computer station. He was quick to click out of his browser, “trying to catch some porn on school time?”  

“Jared,” Evan piped up, his mouth twitching nervously as he stood behind his friend.  

“What do you want Kleinman?” Connor asked, fisting the hand in his lap, nails digging into his palm. Keep your cool, he silently reminded himself.  

Though none of them saw it, you turned away from your computer, just in front of Connor’s cubicle to see what the commotion was. You had heard the scrapping chair, the dropped bag and the soft curse when Connor couldn’t get into the computer right away. You had silently cursed yourself, suddenly nervous that the guy you’d been crushing on for forever was sitting behind you. Not that he even realized it, but still, the nerves were there.

“Nothing, nothing, just wanted to know if you were gonna be sacrificing any babies in the woods tonight, ya know, it’s your holiday.” Jared joked, though no one laughed aside from himself.  

“Shut the fuck up Jared,” Connor bit out.  

You hear the chair legs scrape against the linoleum floor and you see him stand up. His jaw is tense and he looks ready to punch something. You’d seen him punch plenty before, a locker, numerous people, a computer, hell you’d been there in elementary school when he threw that printer at the teacher. But you were still somehow attracted to this guy. Maybe because he’d always been nice to you.  

“Jared,” Evan tried again, tugging at his own shirt as he took a step back.  

Kleinman continued to ignore Evan’s warning. A few other students were looking on now. “Chill out man, I’m just joking.” Those three words must have been highlighted in Jared’s dictionary because every time he said something rude he followed it with ‘just joking’ or ‘just kidding’ as if that made it all better.  

“Yeah, you’re real fucking funny man. I’m howling.” Connor snapped.  

“Hey, guys come on, lets just...uh, lets just, go Jared, okay. Let’s just go.” Evan attempted again, the higher pitch in his voice hinting at his obvious nerves.  

“Why, what’s gonna happen?” Jared goded, “Murphy’s not gonna loose his cool is he?”  

You jumped when Connor’s fist slammed against the keyboard of the computer. He grabbed his messenger bag off the floor and shoved passed Jared, his long legs taking him out of the computer lab. You scraped your own chair back, shouldering your backpack and deciding in that moment that you were going to do the thing you’d always wanted to do before, see if Connor was alright.  

Evan shot you an apologetic look when you passed them and you just offered him a sympathetic smile. You knew that whatever dumbass thing Jared had said was in no way a reflection of Evan, he was a nice kid and you got along well enough. Evan wasn’t who you were thinking about right now though, the only person on your mind was Connor. By the time you got out of the computer lab you could the flap of Connor’s black denim shirt around the corner, in the direction of the art room. There was a set of double doors that led out to the bleachers and you figured that was probably where he would go.  

You cut through the girl’s locker room, hoping your theory on Connor’s whereabouts was right as you slipped out the back door and headed across the parking lot to the bleachers. Once you were down the hill you found him easily, the only person on the field this late in the school day, he was on the steps that led to the first level of the bleachers, smoking what you assumed was a joint. You’d heard all about Connor’s exploits as the school stoner, as if no one else in the whole school every smoked.  

“Hey,” you approached cautiously, like someone might a wild animal they were afraid would attack them. And you weren’t, of course, you were just nervous that he was still upset and that he wouldn’t want anything to do with you.  

Connor looked up at you briefly and then went right back to smoking, eyes downcast.  

“I’m sorry, about Jared, he’s a real dick sometimes.” You said, unsure what else to say.  

“You friends with him?”  

You shake your head, you definitely weren’t friends with Jared.  

“Then it doesn’t matter.” He replied.  

“I heard you were uh,” you scuffed your shoe further into the dirt, “I heard you were looking for a tutor. Evan, um, mentioned it.”  

“So?”  

“Well I just, figured, I could help.” You were doing pretty good in your classes. Good enough that you could offer your help reliably.  

“Why?” He looked back up at you again and you were struck with the same thought you always got. How undeniably lovely he was to look at. There was something about Connor that was just calming which might’ve been ironic considering how tormented he always seemed to be.

“Something to do in my free time?” You shrugged. You obviously couldn’t say it was because you wanted to spend more time with him and you definitely couldn’t tell him that you had been harboring a massive crush on him since third grade when he used to walk behind you in line and talk to you.  

“I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity, I want to help.”  

“Why?”

You shrugged again, “I just want to help.” Because he always seemed like a nice person, beneath everything else. “I was having trouble freshman year, I know how hard it is to catch up.”  

“Yeah,” Connor nodded, “fine.”  

-

The first time you tutored Connor was at a Starbucks that was an equal distance between your houses. He showed up in the same black hoodie he always wore with fitted gray sweatpants and a white shirt, a brighter outfit than you’d ever seen him in before. His hair was pulled back and you couldn’t help thinking it was your lucky day because as good as Connor Murphy looked with his hair down he looked even better with his hair out of his face, if only because you could see it.  

“Hey,” he nodded and slid into the booth across from you. He eyed the coffee you had sitting amongst your books and he frowned, “none for me?”

“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t sure what you would want so-”

“Yeah, yeah I see how it is,” he replied, grin on his face, “guess I’ll get my own.”  

You laughed as you watched him get up and mutter a ‘people these days’ just loud enough for you to hear. When you looked over at the counter, he was watching you, a smile on his face that made him seem a lot less scary than people made him out to be. He winked at you as the barista made his drink and you turned back to your books to hide your smile.  

Connor was impossible to study with. He was easily distracted and he got antsy sitting for any length of time. His comprehension was alright and he was smart, that you could tell immediately. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand what he was learning it was just that he couldn’t stay still long enough to learn it.  

“We’ll be here all day if you don’t pay attention.” You pointed out, leaning forward and tapping the textbook that lay ignored in front of Connor. He was busy doodling pictures in the margins of his notebook, notes half written.  

“Sorry, it’s just,” he looked over the government textbook sitting there waiting for him, “a lot.”  

“Well-”

“Let’s go for a walk or something?” He asked.  

Tempting, you thought. You wouldn’t mind clearing up all these books and walking somewhere with Connor. Getting to talk to him about something other than English analysis or political theory would be nice. You wondered what you would talk about. Just more school or something more? Home life? Hobbies? Likes and dislikes? “Connor, we have to get through this. We’re almost done.” Ten more problems and he was free to go home.

He chewed on his bottom lip, thinking. He was distracted but not as much as you thought he was. It wasn’t impossible for him to sit there and read he just didn’t want to. Besides, he knew the faster he finished the quicker you would leave and then this perfect afternoon at the Starbucks would be ruined. He couldn’t watch the way you pulled the neckline of your sweatshirt over your nose when it got too cold or how you sniffed your coffee each time before you took a sip, as if the smell was just as important as the taste. He couldn’t hear the sound you made when your americano was just a little too warm and burned your tongue or listen to the explanation you had on the perfect temperature for coffee. He’d sat there distracted by you all afternoon and now that there were only ten problems left all he could think about was this being over and him having to go home.  

“Just a short break, a change of scenery?” He offered.  

“What did you want to change the scenery to?” You asked.  

He smiled as you closed your notebook. He was winning. “The park? Or we could just take a drive? I drove my mom’s car here.”

“Okay. I’ll quiz you while we drive?” You offered, packing the rest of your books. You were 99% sure you would do whatever he asked you to.  

Connor was a much better driver than you thought he would be. He didn’t speed, he wasn’t careless, he liked to drive with the windows down and take backroads and he kept his eyes forward, trained on the road the whole time. In truth he was more nervous than he thought he would be. He figured driving was a good idea but then he was terrified he’d get distracted. He could see the headline play out ‘local boy drives girl off road after being distracted staring at her’. A little long maybe but appropriate.

“Okay, explain with rationale what political theory makes the most sense for global affairs today?” You asked, notebook open in your lap.  

“I thought this was a quiz?”

“It is!”  

“That’s like a full blown essay question.” Connor reached for your notebook and you grabbed it back, holding it away from him.  

“Eyes on the road mister.” You laughed, “and answer the question.”

Connor pouted, deep in thought as he rolled to a stop at the light. “I don’t know, realism?”

“I need an explanation not just...I don’t know, realism.”  

“Haven’t I done enough?” He asked, glancing over at you before the light changed. He wondered how aware you were of how attractive you were.  

“Go,” you nodded toward the road and he began driving once more.  

“Why’d you offer to help me?”

“I told you, cause I wanted to.” You shrugged.  

“How’d you know I needed a tutor?”

“We’re in the same classes and I get very nosey about everyone else’s grades. Besides you sit in front of me so I always see your tests and stuff over your shoulder. That and Evan mentioned it.” You shrugged.  

“And you just wanted to bring up the learning curve in our senior class?”

“Oh god no, you know how many people I’d have to tutor?” You laughed.  

“So why me?” He asked, frowning, “you just feel bad for the weird freak kid? Figured you could get in some community service?”

“Connor,” you said, your voice sounding...not sympathetic but soft, fond even, “I wanted to tutor you cause I wanted to spend time with you.”

“Don’t fuck with me.”

“I’m not. I like you a lot Connor.” You admitted.  

The car pulled off onto the side of the road and Connor put it in park, turning to you. He looked at you seriously, staring at you as he tried to decide if what you were saying was true. Were you actually not lying to him, did you like him? You were smiling like you meant it.  

“Yeah?” he chanced, “you aren’t fucking with me?”

“No.” You shook your head.  

Connor leaned forward toward you, his hand holding the shoulder of your seat. He crowded into your space and you watched as the sweetest of smiles spread across his face.  

-

More Connor. 

[ne0n-thunde1]

Happy holidays y’all!

This is my gift for @ghosttransmissions ! I hope you like it!!

The girls first Christmas

The girl was the first to wake up, as the winter sun flittered through the filthy windows. She usually had to be woken up by the others, with varying degrees of care, but today was different. There was a little note at the bottom of the beaten up mattress she slept on. ‘Merry Christmas kiddo!’-Party’s handwriting messily done in black marker- ‘If the suns up come wake us up’ It looked like party had written something about kobra and not waking him, but it had been crossed out. ‘No going outside without us!’ Jet had messily added, with a little doodle of the ‘sandy Claus’ they had told her about the night before.

She leapt up and ran down the hall faster than a tumbleweed in a storm, giggling happily. The worn door- it’s from before the war’s Dr.D said!- Came open as she leant against it, before throwing herself onto the nest of mismatched blankets and pillows That’s Party’s and Jet’s bed. With a soft thud she lands, laughing, followed by a grunt from both of them. Jet’s long limbs were tangled around party, who looked at her with a smile.

“Merry Christmas kid!” Their hair was stuck to one side of their face, and despite only just waking up, they were wearing the familiar wide smile that only appeared just before a big concert or celebration. Jet slowly untangled himself from party, still half asleep, eyes only partly open. “Morning sunshine..” he mumbled and ruffled her hair. Party chuckled and nudged his arm

“Wake up, c’mon it’s Christmas! And I’ve got to go help wake up kobra! Not every day I can do that and not get in a fight after.” They laughed and rolled off the makeshift bed, then stands up and picks up the girl.

“We could sneak up and jump on him, or throw pillows, maybe put the radio on loud next to the bed, If we’ve got enough water to spare we could throw some on him..” she thought for a moment, weighing up how wrong they could go, but how funny they would be. Jet rolled out the bed in a similar way to party, standing up then pulling on their jacket and stretching. They snuck up behind party, holding a ‘sandy claws’ hat and pulled it over his head, red fabric matching their hair. “Hey!” They scrunched up their face “I could have dropped her!” The girl laughed and pulled the hat down over their eyes. They let out a mock scream and put her down.

“NOoooooo.. I hath been slain..”

After a few minutes of preparation, the girl and party are armed with pillows from around the diner, jet stood behind with the Polaroid camera, all three silently holding back giggles. Party cautiously opened the door, the girl sneaking in under their arm, party following with jet behind him, lightly treading. The girl threw the first pillow, hitting kobra square in the face.

Kobra is a heavy sleeper, ghoul however, is not. He moved out the way as the first pillow was thrown, and added their own pillow into the hail. A chorus of laughed filled the small storageroom turned bedroom, joined with grunts and yelps from kobra. Jet laughed and watched the chaos.

By the end, kobra was curled up and clutching a pillow as a shield. “W-What the hell? Go the fuck back to sleep!” He yelled from behind the pillow.

“It’s Christmas morning Koko.” Ghoul grinned excitedly and pulled the pillow out from his grip “You gotta get up.”

“Yeah Kid!” Party pulled their brother to his feet. “Last one to the Christmas cactus is a drac kisser!” They laughed and set off running, kobra swearing as he pulled on his glasses and ran after him, stumbling a little, the girl giggling and following behind.

This left jet and ghoul to slowly followed behind, laughing happily. No matter how old their boyfriends got, they always acted like kids sometimes.

The night before, as the sun had set, the four had gathered together as many brightly coloured things as they could, as the girl listened to the radio. They ended up with a few bandanas, bright plastic cables and a can of blue spray paint. “Hey kid!” Ghoul smiled as the rest crowded behind him. “Remember that Christmas thing? Well, it’s time to decorate the cactus!” The girl picked up the radio and ran over to them, a skip in her step. “Yay! So sandy claws can find us right?”

“That’s right kid” jet grinned “We gathered all the brightest decorations we could, and some paint.”

“You get first decoration kiddo” party looked at Kobra’s slightly disappointed face. “Youngest Always gets first.” She looked through the rainbow pile, the four crowding around her, old Christmas songs that show pony had found for DR.D playing on the radio. After a few moments she pulled out an old bandana, neon green and pink.

“Where do you wanna put it?” Party crouched down, ruffling her hair

“Up there!” She smiled and pointed at the second highest point of the cactus, the top of an arm like branch. “Lift?” She made puppy eyes at Jet.

“Why’d you never ask me bean?” Ghoul pouted dramatically

“You’re shorter than Jet like me!” She giggled as Jet picked her up, chuckling as kobra bent down to hug ghoul and party laughed lightly.

“True.. but you didn’t need to point it out.” Ghoul grumbled.

After a few moments of lining the bandana up just right, the girl tied it around the prickly arm, Jet cheering as the other three clapped, a proud grin filling her face, sticking her tongue through the gap from her missing front tooth.

“Let the decorating begin!” Party pulls out a rainbow feather boa and wraps it around the centre as ghoul paints a smiley face in neon blue on the arm and kobra hangs an old crimson bauble he found in the sand on a spine. Jet carefully puts the girl down and they join the careful mess, all adding their own decorations and paint to the cactus, careless singing and improvised lyrics filling the air with laughter and joy.

It looked like a bomb hand blown up, throwing paint and random bright objects over the cactus.

“Still needs something at the top..” kobra stepped away from it and tilted his head.

“Didn’t dr D say he used to put a star on top of a tree?” She bit her lip and thought.

Ghoul looked at party, wide smile creeping over his face. Party shook their head, defensively stepping back and crossing their arms.“No. Not happening.”

Jet grinned “I’m with ghoul.”

The girl looked between them, trying to figure out what unspoken thing they were discussing. They always did that when they got excited or didn’t want her to know about something. Of all the great and wonderful things they did, this was the one she hated.

“Your mask would be perfect.” Kobra beamed and ran back into the diner, party letting out a yell as they struggled to catch up with him, a small cloud of sand lingering for seconds after they got inside.

It clicked for the girl as she joined Jet and ghouls laugher

Kobra emerged seconds later, holding the mask like a trophy, party smiling and shaking their head behind him.

“You want to have the honour poison?” Kobra held out the mask, the sun now set and moon the only light.

“Thanks Kobes.” Party took it, then carefully placed it on top of the cactus. The 5 admired their work, before cold winds came, biting at their faces and they headed inside to sleep.

Kobra got outside first, skidding to a stop in the sand, followed by party and the girl. She stopped dead in her tracks, five brightly wrapped parcels now sat under the cactus, each with a label on it.

“Sandy claws came! Sandy claws came!” She smiled and jumped up and down as ghoul and Jet came into the sun, blinking as their eyes adjusted.

“Hell Yeah He did!” Party laughed

The girl looked closer at the parcels, trying to read the labels like Jet had taught her to, the four smiling with childlike happiness l as they gathered around, ghoul leaning against kobra as Jet put his arms around party.

“This ones for kobra!” She smiled and struggled to lift the foot stall sized box, tied with cheap shiny yellow ribbon with various coloured paints splashed across it. Kobra moved to help her, ghoul almost falling over as his weight went from on kobra to air, a surprised curse followed by laughed escaping him.

“Sandy claws brought me something?” He grins and lifts the heavy box, making it seem as if the girl was taking most of the weight as it rattled. “This is heavy!” He chuckled.

“Open it!” She giggled and bounced as kobra set the box on the sand, struggling with the ribbon. Ghoul smirked and undid it in seconds, kneeling beside him in the sand and stuck his tongue out.

“Show off.” Kobra smiled and kissed his boyfriend quickly, then pulled the lid off the box. His eyes glittered like the computer parts and robot scraps inside. He gently dug through the box, amazed at the stuff. “How did y- sandy claws get hold of this stu-“ he pulled out a broken Nintendo power glove, party smiling widely.

“Thank you.” He got up and hugged the four, then the girl. “How about you go check the other parcels?”

She giggled and grabbed another parcel, a small oblong box with neon green ribbon

“This one says..” she struggled to read it for a moment. Jet looked at kobra. Usually his handwriting was pretty good. “Party!” She jumped up and giggled, lifting the package with ease and handing it to them.

“For me?” They grinned and undid the bow then opened the lid. Inside was a bright pot of poison red hair die and a mix of random paints.

“Holy sh-sugar.” They lifted a few of the tubes up. “Still sealed?.. damn this is is the good stuff. Sandy claws really is magic huh kid?” They ruffled the girls hair before hugging the rest of the floor, whispering a quiet thank you to each of them. No one wanted to ruin the magic for her.

She already had the next gift in her hands. “Jet! This ones yours!” This time the present was wrapped in paper, makeshift glue holding it shut.

Jet knelt down and accepted the gift as she held it out to him, shaking it a little. With a wide smile, they ripped the paper open, and a small bag of guitar strings a a pick fell out. He held them like they were pure gold.

“You said you needed new strings!” She looked at them. His old strings snapped a few weeks ago.

“Yeah.. sandy claws really is magic like that. He knows what you need.” He shared a smile with the others, mouthing Thank you’s and how did you get these’s?, only to get mischievous grins and shrugs back.

“There’s two left..” she picked one up and read the label. “Ghoul! This one says it’s for you!” She bounced the painted shoebox as she dashed over to him, party and kobra both looking slightly alarmed. She handed it to him with a wide smile “You really are being sandys little helper” he smiled and ruffled her hair as he took it and opened the lid. Inside was a Polaroid camera, clearly old but with a new coat of paint, a portrait of the desert. He carefully looked it over and put his eye to the viewfinder.

“This is amazing.. thank you!” He bounced up and hugged them all.

“How about you check the last present kid?”

She knelt down beside the large box “this one says.. me!” She grinned and took the lid off, the four crowding around. A soft meow cane from the box as a small, black kitten stick its head out, looking at the girl. Ghoul grinned and snapped a picture of the moment.

“A cat!” She picked it up, smiling as the cat looked at her, then gently put their head against her.

“Looks like they like you.” Party smiled and softly petted the cats head.

“They’re the best gift ever!” She laughs as they lick her cheek.

A sparkle lit up in party’s eyes.

“Hey Kobe’s. I’m gonna build a sand man.”

Party was sat in the sand, hair newly dyed.

“I’m gonna build a better one.” He grinned and jumped up, finding a spot then piling sand into a mound.

Party party started beside him, in a similar way, two trenches being made as sand was piled high. The girl played the radio, jet playing and singing along. Show pony refused to let Dr.D play anything other than the same 15 songs all week.

“I think we” he gestured to the girl, Jet and the cat, “Shall judge who wins”

“Sounds fair.” Kobra nodded, starting to smooth the edges and form a head.

“May the best win?” Party held out a hand, the other working on smoothing out the body a little.

“May the best win.” Kobra shook it, quickly returning to making the head.

“Hey, Jet!” Party stopped for a moment “go grab my helmet for me? And the bottle cap box. We need to decorate these piles of sand!” They grinned, having finished shaping it, though not giving it a head.

“Why’d you need your helmet?” Kobra looked confused as Jet got up to grab them.

“You’ll see soon. Your head looks good.”

“Yours seems to be missing.” Kobra laughed, the cat climbing the body shaped mound.

“Here.” Jet handed party his mousekat helmet and put the jar of bottle caps in the sand. “It’s looking great love” he smiled and picked up the cat, sitting down then handing the cat back to the girl.

Party placed their helmet on top of the sandman, then added a few bright bottle caps as kobra formed a smiling face by pressing the caps into the sand.

Party had finished a few minutes before kobra, and sat beside Jet, wrapping and arm around his shoulders as the girl and ghoul played with the kitten, petting them and rolling around a ball of paper they made. When kobra finally fished, half smile matching the sandman’s wonky grin, ghoul, Jet and the girl stood up and inspected the sandmen.

After a moment's discussion between the three, they turned to party and kobra, who sat in the sand beside their creations.

“We have come to a conclusion” Jet announced, the other two snickering behind him.

“We will let the cat decide!” She held up the meowing black kitten before putting them down between the two sandmen then stepping away.

The cat looked at each of them, tension rising as the five watched. It’s paws were near silent as it walked and climbed up a sandy pile, then sat on the blue fur of the mousekat helmet.

“FOR FUCKS SAKE. YOU CHEAT.” Kobra overdramarically fell to the floor, then burst into laughter.

“Victory!” Party grinned and picked up the cat, spinning around then hugging them close.

“They only chose yours because it had the mouseKAT helmet you didn’t even make.” He pouted.

“Creativity little bro.” They teasingly grinned, prompting kobra to stand up and step closer.

“Says the cheater.” He smirked

“Am not.”

“Am too.”

“I’m going to play some guitar, who’s coming?” Jet sighed and walked back to the cactus, the girl and ghoul following.

“Want to help me figure the camera out?” Ghoul smiled at the girl as the cat sat on her shoulders.

“Sounds fun!” She smiled as Jet sat down to play and ghoul picked up the camera.

After a few minutes they had it figured, ghoul held it out, facing towards him with everyone doing their own thing behind him, and snapped a photo.

When they were all around the best table in the diner, the least worn and torn one, eating the canned peaches Dr.D and show pony had given them as a gift, all singing to the radio, ghoul handed kobra the Polaroid.

“I took this earlier. Could you write something on it? Maybe we should start a scrapbook or collection or collection of important memories..”

“Sounds like a great idea” kobra smiled as he carefully wrote ‘girls 1st Christmas’ across the bottom.

[seljepw]

Sleeping With the Enemy: Part 3

A/N: My beloveds.  Thank you for your unending patience with my slow-ass story crafting.  This one has been in the works for a long time, and I’m so freaking happy to share it with you.  Sláinte.

When last we left our heroine: A year ago, Crowley and the reader came to an agreement.  Since then, they’ve fucked seen each other twice, and it’s no longer as cut-and-dry as it once was.  What is going on, here?  Just great sex?  Just business?  Or something more? (Catch up on previous chapters HERE)

Menu Warnings: HERE THERE BE SMUT.  Demon power kink, unprotected sex (you know this is pretend, right??), public sex, orgy, Crowley’s dirty mouth, etc.

Weighing in at: 7,780 words.  I’m not even sorry.

The King of Hell had been fucking with you for months.

Note: fucking with you, not fucking you.  Therein lay the problem.

It started the morning after his last visit.  You had dragged yourself, sore and sleepless, to the shower.  You spent much longer under the hot water than usual, hoping it would wash away some of your confusion.  By the time you got out, the huge bathroom was full of steam.  In the condensation on one of the mirrors was a large heart, around your first initial and a capital C.  Crowley’s voice echoed in your mind.  

“I didn’t expect you to pine away, doodling our names in little hearts on you chemistry notebook…”  

You hastily wiped your hand over the drooling lines, and hoped that neither of the Winchesters had wandered in in the last hour.  

A month later, you had opened the shitty motel room door in po-dunk nowhere, Arkansas, to find the entire room covered in flowers.  Every kind, every color possible.  On the pillow, tied to a black rose with silk ribbon, was a note.  “Your favorite must be here, somewhere.”  When you climbed in the car the next morning in your FBI duds, Dean asked if you were wearing a new perfume.  

You managed to keep the boys out of your room for the remainder of the case, and every night when you “went to get ice”, you discarded another bin full of flowers.  

You did keep your favorite bloom, though.  Pressed in your hunter’s journal with no other context.

The fancy underwear had shown up next.  Scraps of red lace that looked like they had been made to be taken off almost immediately, but would disintegrate with normal use.  When you left them in the box, the next day they were replaced with soft, clearly expensive pajamas.  Those you wore.  But not out of your room.  Sam and Dean were observant enough to notice when you got new clothes, and you didn’t want to have to come up with a groggy, pre-coffee lie, one morning.

It went on for months. Pizza you didn’t order arrived at the library where you and the guys were pulling an all-nighter.  On laundry day, your clothes were magically folded and arranged in a C on your bed.  A box of bandaids in Baby’s backseat, the day after you put down a rugaru, with a note inside that said “Just protecting my interests…”.  It was getting infuriatingly difficult to explain away or hide the evidence of demonic visitation from the Winchesters, despite the fact that you hadn’t actually seen your demonic visitor, at all.  

And then there were the dreams.  

Every few nights, you would dream of Crowley’s hands on you.  Burning fingers on your thighs, breasts, wrists, pussy… one night, you woke up coming.  Most nights, you just woke up frustrated, flipped the pillow to the non-sweaty side, and tried to get back to sleep.

You (ahem) filled the void with a few guys here and there, but mostly, they just took the edge off enough that you didn’t literally claw your way up a wall.  Nothing quite matched the intensity that you had experienced with Crowley.  Eventually, you gave up on outside help, and invested in a large pack of batteries.

It had been almost six months since your last… what to call it?

“Encounter”? Too spaceshipy.  

“Assignation”?  Too romance-novely.

“Date” was flat-out wrong.

Whatever it was that you and Crowley had indulged in, it had been too long since it happened.  

October came again.  You hadn’t heard from Crowley for two months.  No semi-intrusive gifts, no cryptic notes, not even a bathroom mirror doodle.  You tried not to think anything of it.  So, he had gotten tired of toying with you, and moved on.  Fine.  Good riddance.  You would just have to compartmentalize and move on with your own life.  It wasn’t like he owed you anything.  This all started as basically a business deal for an ancient, witch-fighting talisman.  Nothing personal, right?  In fact, it was a relief not to have to hide the evidence from Sam and Dean.  You definitely did not miss him.  Or, so you told yourself at least twice a day, when you caught sight of the Luisgeàrd as you changed clothes, or felt it pressed between your breasts under your shirt.  Despite yourself, though, you never took it off.

~~~

Another vampire, another hunt, another po-dunk nowhere.  Two lane blacktop and spanish moss-layden oak trees whipping by the open window.   Unseasonable heat that was sticking to your skin, making you itch from the inside out.  Dean singing and drumming on the wheel.  Between the sexual drought and the muggy air, you had to concentrate hard on not throttling him.  

When you and the boys finally tracked down the vamp, you spent a little longer than normal beating the shit out of it before the killing blow.  Sam had given you A Look, but said nothing.  Dean offered to buy you a drink.

The town bar was a standard Southern-American dive.  The kind of place where a night had never passed without at least one drunken sing-along to “Friends in Low Places”.  Women and men in ass-hugging jeans and tank tops bumped around like bubbles in a kettle.  Dean was in heaven.  Soon, he was hustling pool in the corner, a blonde woman giggle-whispering in his ear, a huge grin on his face.  You saluted each other with your respective drinks through the neon light and loud voices.  

“You good?” his raised eyebrow asked.

Your smirk and sip responded, “Not as good as you, but I’ll keep.”

His head tilted a bit to your left.  “Heads up, lame pickup line at 9 o’clock.”

You turned to face the guy just as he slid into the stool next to yours.  In the time it took for him to smile at you, you gave him a once-over.  Not bad.  Cute, in a Friday Night Lights kind of way.  No outward display of “southern gentleman” that really covered up misogyny.  And the lack of a rebel flag on his shirt was a welcome change from the other customers.  He’d do.

Before he could say anything and ruin the moment, you spoke first.  

“Buy me a drink.”  It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, ma’am!”  

A beer and a half later, things were right on track.  His hand on your thigh and his mouth on your neck and your thoughts most definitely not on the King of Hell, thankyouverymuch.

“Let’s get out of here,” you murmured in his ear.

“Aw, fuck, yeah!” was his charming response.  This guy was lucky you were so hard-up.  

“Just gimmie a minute to freshen up.”  You extricated yourself from his grip, slid off the stool, and headed for the bathroom.  As you passed the pool table, you and Dean had another silent conversation, where you assured him you had things well in hand, and would call him if needed.  

You actively didn’t think about Crowley.  You didn’t think about Crowley while you checked to make sure you had a condom in your bag.  You didn’t think about Crowley while you sat on the toilet.  You didn’t think about Crowley while you washed your hands.  Then you glanced in the mirror and saw the note.

“Enjoy the junk food, Love.  He’s cute.  You deserve a treat. -C”

In your shock, the only thing you could think was, So, the King of Hell uses Post Its.  Good to know.  Then the rage hit.  How dare he pull something like this?  Months of radio silence, and then suddenly popping up and implying that he was giving you permission to sleep with what's-his-name, out there.  Fuck.  That.  You were not going to give him the satisfaction of feeling like he could control you.  

“Fuck you, asshat!” you snapped to the empty bathroom.  Then you were through the door, pushing past drunk rednecks, not hearing Dean calling your name, not seeing the confused look on “junk food’s” face, until you were out in the humid parking lot, the Post It crumpled in your fist.

Dean had the good sense not to press you.  The drive back to the hotel, breakfast at a diner in the morning, and then the whole way back to Kansas, he didn’t ask what had happened in the bar.  He didn’t ask about as loudly as a person could, in fact.  Sam kept giving you the patented Winchester Look Of Concern™ when he thought you couldn’t see.  But they knew you.  They knew that when you had shit to deal with, you did it alone.  The only one who’d ever meddled in your all-alone shit-dealing was Crowley.  Damn him.  You twitched angrily and turned up the volume to your headphones, closed your eyes, and ignored the Winchesters all the way to the Bunker.  It wasn’t until Dean killed the engine that you opened your eyes and realized your fingers were tangled in the Luisgeàrd’s leather cord.  

~~~

You almost didn’t open it.  The box on your bed.  Large, white, and tied with blood red ribbon.  You were considering how to get it to the garbage chute without Sam or Dean seeing it when you read the note attached.  

“Please wear this when you yell at me. -C”

“At least he said please this time…” you grumbled.  Curiosity got the better of you, and you opened the box.  

It was a dress. A white silk gown that poured over your hands as you rustled it out of the tissue paper.  You held it up for inspection, and stared.  Simple.  No frills, no lace.  Just artfully draped white silk that fell to the floor.  Despite your anger- which hadn’t abated, by the way- you were enchanted.  You thought back to last Halloween as you kicked out of your jeans and flannel, and then slithered the silk over your head.  

The gown you’d worn to Crowley’s masquerade ball, when this whole thing started, had been uncomfortable and heavy.  Swathes of red velvet that left you restricted and off-balance.  Undoubtedly gorgeous, but so not you.  The leather mask that hid your features and cut off your peripheral vision hadn’t helped, either.  The foreignness of your costume that night had lent an overall feeling of Other to that whole experience.   And that feeling had colored everything that came after.  Added to the confusion.  Was still adding to the confusion.

This dress was exactly the opposite of last year’s getup.  You regarded your reflection, spinning slowly.  It fit you well.  More than that, it suited you.  You could move easily in the lightweight fabric.  It didn’t get caught under your feet as you walked, and the sleeveless bodice gave you full use of your arms.  The glowing white of the silk played with the tone of your skin, making you glow, too.  The Luisgeàrd, in it’s constant position around your throat, nestled comfortably in the neckline, which looked like it had been cut specifically to show off the talisman.  

“Sneaky fucker,” you murmured, fingering the wooden disk.

“I prefer to think of it as, ‘Romantically Mysterious’,” rasped a familiar voice in the corner.

You’d been expecting this, but you still flinched.  Whirling to face him, months worth of angry thoughts stampeded to get out of your mouth and bottlenecked, leaving you working a jaw around silent fury.

“You look radiant,” was all he said.

All the trapped words coiled in your throat like an about-to-cry lump.  You managed to gasp in a breath, then blurted out, “Where have you been?”

Seriously?  You berated yourself.  ‘Where have you been?’  Like you’re some neglected housefrau confronting an errant husband at 2:00am.  Fuck, get your fists off your hips.  You don’t care, remember?

You crossed your arms, suddenly feeling foolish in the gorgeous dress. Still, you had promised yourself you wouldn’t back down.  Crowley unsettled you, and that was unacceptable.  You weren’t unsettled.  Ever.  You couldn’t be, in your line of work.  You put on your fight face and looked him squarely in the eye.

He just stared at you for a moment, something like sadness around the corners of his eyes.  “I was watching,” he finally said, quietly.

“You were watching?  Well, thank you.  That’s not creepy at all.”

“It occurred to me that we both might need some space, after…” he stopped and looked away.  His glance fell to your bed.

The memory surfaced.  You and Crowley, face to face, sweaty and sated...

“What the fuck are we doing, Crowley?”  You’d asked.  “What is this?  I mean, I barely know you.  Half the time, I don’t trust you...  What are we doing?”

You remembered the feeling of his palm on your cheek and his forehead pressed to yours.  The way he had whispered, “Y/N, I-”

...And that was when the boys had come home, and everything had gone to shit.  

You took a small step forward.  His eyes darted to the silk rustling around your feet, clinging to your thigh as you moved.  If you didn’t know better, you’d say he looked… scared.  It was unheard of to see Crowley, King of Hell and consummate cocksure ass, off his game.  Maybe this dress was exactly what you needed.  Leveling the playing field, so to speak.

“After what, Crowley? After last time, in this room, in that bed, when you almost said something you’d regret?”  You’d closed the distance, now.  If either of you reached out, you could grab the other.

“I need your help,” he said, finally meeting your eyes, again.  There was no guile.  No half-smile in the words.  Just fear and perhaps a little shame.  “All right?  There it is.  I need your help.”

You were stunned.  “You… what?!”

“There are some rumblings in my kingdom.  Pissants who think I’ve lost my edge; that Hell’s not what it could be under my rule.  ‘Make Hell great again’, and all that twaddle.  I’ve made a shaky alliance with a coven-”

“A coven?  Of witches?!  Crowley, do we need to have another talk about what I do for a living?”

He continued speaking as though you hadn’t.  “-A coven that’s powerful enough to sway the dissidents.  If I can show that I’m strong enough to forge a treaty like this, it would go a long way to restabilizing my reign.”  Somewhere in that statement, he had rested his hands on your hips.  He gave you a gentle shake and looked at you through his lashes.  “A delegation from this coven is coming to the Halloween ball, tonight, but they’re old-school.  They respond favorably to symbols and archetypes.  Pomp and circumstance.  They may not like dealing with me alone.  I need backup, Love.”  He hooked a knuckle under your chin and lifted your face to his.  “I need a Queen... for the night.”

“A…. a queen.  You mean… me?  Me, queen?” Great, now you had devolved into Tarzan sentence structure.  Get a grip, woman!  

He smiled at you.  A real smile.  You weren’t sure you’d ever actually seen Crowley smile, before.  It was gorgeous.  His hands were still on you- hip and chin- and he used the leverage to pull you forward into a kiss.  

Warm and soft and gentle, this was one of those kisses that seemed to wrap around you, raising goosebumps and relaxing every tense muscle.  You wanted to swim in it.  Drown in it.  

Crowley’s sulfur/incense smell was everywhere.  His hands whispered around your waist and into your hair.  You signed into the warm solidness of his chest pressed to yours.  The feel of his suit coat under your fingers.  It went on forever.  It was, ironically, pure heaven.

When he reluctantly eased his lips off of yours, your face felt cold.  It took you a moment to resurface and open your eyes. Crowley’s earnest face stared back.

“Please, Y/N.  Will you help me?  Just for tonight?”

You stayed silent for a moment, slowly working your fingers through his hair, not looking at his eyes.  Letting yourself enjoy the feeling of making him squirm, for a change.  You carefully wound his tie around your hand; got a good grip.  That’s when you met his gaze.  With a deliberate tug, you command his full attention.

“I’ll make you a deal, Crowley,” you said, low and only a little breathless.  “I’ll be your Queen for the night.  And afterwards, you will owe me a conversation.  About feelings.”

A hint of terror darkened the corners of his face, but his overall expression was one of hunger.

“It’s a deal.”

There was a lurch somewhere in your guts, and suddenly you found yourself standing in a dim alcove, like a theatre box, overlooking a familiar black marble ballroom.  

Hell’s Halloween Ball was in full swing, already.  The assortment of attendees echoed last year’s.  Fae, vamps, and even a djinn or two wound their way around and through the crowd of demons, all decked out in elaborate costumes.  

You looked down from the shadows of your hiding place, and once again, the feeling of being so terribly human overwhelmed you.  Like a goldfish in a school of sharks.  That was when you realized that Crowley had zapped you here before you’d had a chance to grab a single weapon.  Or shoes.  ...Or underwear.  That off-balance, othery feeling took hold of you.  You shivered.

“Something wrong, darling?” Crowley rumbled from behind you.  

“Just feeling a little underdressed, all of a sudden.”  You kept your voice down, even though you were so high above the dance floor, no one could possibly hear you.  

Crowley hummed low in his throat and pressed himself to your back, snaking his hands over your silk covered hips and nipping slightly at your earlobe.  

“Underdressed is exactly how I like you,” he growled.

Your whimper was purely instinctual.  So was the way you arched back, rubbing against him and offering your neck for kisses.

Crowley groaned and bit down on the junction of your throat and shoulder.  A slight keening sound happened somewhere in the vicinity of your vocal chords without your permission, and you ground against him again.  You had just a heartbeat to enjoy the feeling of Hell’s most impressive cock rolling against you before that feeling was replaced by a sharp slap on your ass.  You pulled a breath through clenched teeth and gripped the railing in front of you.

“Careful with that.  It’s loaded,” you said, and shook your ass at him.

“And who’s fault is that?” He retorted.  

“Who’s fault?” You huffed a laugh. “Yours!  It’s been a while, you know.”  

“You didn’t listen to me- I tried to steer you towards that little snack back in Alabama.  You chose not to take the offer.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you said without any real anger.  “Like I’m gonna do what you tell me.”

“Cheeky.”  Another sharp spank, softened by a kiss behind your ear.  “We can-and will- play later.  Now, it’s time to work.”  

He stepped back and let you turn to face him.  At some point, he had donned his costume.  It was the same from last year, you saw; a red cape draped over his impeccable black suit, a multi-horned devil mask covering the top half of his face.  Standing in the shadows of the alcove, the flickering lights from the ballroom below picking out the lines of that mask, Crowley was back to the mythical dark figure you’d encountered a year ago.  A wolf-in-the-woods kind of shadow that made all the animal parts of you quiver.  The devil that had fucked you senseless in the dark above his library.  God, you wanted him to do it again.

He must have known how his appearance affected you, because he licked his lips, smirked, and crooked a finger in your direction.  His eyes flared red as you took an involuntary step forward.  

“That’s it, my Queen,” he murmured low, “Come to daddy.”

You snorted in quiet amusement as you crossed the carpeted floor to him.  “Ass.”

From behind his back, Crowley produced a mask for you.  It was white filigree, not solid, so it wouldn’t cut off your vision like the last one, the metal swirls were wrought to dip low over your nose and high on your brow, almost horse like.  The antlers that sprouted from the top gave the appearance of a crown, much like the demonic horns on his own mask.  You reached a tentative hand out to touch one of the points.

“A deer?”

“A hart.  A White Hart.”  When you looked askance at him, he continued,  “The White Hart, in stories, is a traveler from another world.  An emissary of sorts.  And the bestower of blessings upon Kings.  I told you- symbols and archetypes.”

“So this is a political move, not an aesthetic one?”

He rolled his eyes.  “Sweet missionary on a spit, woman.  Have you seen yourself?  It’s both.”  

He helped you settle the mask in place- it was much lighter than you thought it would be- and offered his arm in a courtly gesture.  “I think we’ve reached ‘fashionably late’, by now.  Come on, Pet.  Let’s give them a show.”

~~~

The ballroom fell silent when you walked in.  The music died away, dancers stopped swirling, conversations ceased, and everyone turned toward the King of Hell as though it were choreographed.  You looked out over the sea of supernatural faces and tried to slow your heart rate.  If Crowley needed you to be a Queen, and it got you an honest conversation from him, by fucking Hell, you would be a Queen.  A deal’s a deal, after all.  

“Friends, demons, countrymen,” Crowley addressed them, a little sardonically, “Welcome to my annual ball.  As always, until sunrise, the legendary hospitality of Hell is open to you.  Enjoy yourselves!”

The music rose again, and the party resumed.  A path opened in the crowd, and Crowley led you to the dance floor.  Although the fizzle static of a few hundred conversations filled the huge room, it seemed that every eye was still on you.  Your bare feet, blessedly hidden by the liquid swirling of the dress as you moved, made no sound on the cool marble floor.  A lack of shoes allowed more maneuverability than last year’s heels, but it made you feel even more venerable.  And you still didn’t know how to waltz.

But Crowley wasn’t King of Hell by chance, and he played his role flawlessly.  As he swung you into into his arms, you felt the familiar hot pressure of invisible hands lifting you just an inch off the floor.  You fought a gasp and smirked at him.  The hands in question had lifted from just under your ass.  

“Bastard,” you murmured.

“Oh, darling, you say such lovely things,” he retorted, and began swirling you around the floor.

With the whirling motion blurring the world around you, it was easier to forget that you had entered the room as the center of attention.  

“So, this is a yearly thing, huh?  I didn’t know it was such a big deal.”

“Well,” he tilted his head conspiratorially, “It’s not like we’re the types to have a company Christmas party.  This lets everyone mingle, drink, blow off steam…” At that, one of the manifested hands under your skirt reached a little deeper, running a finger of heat through your folds.  You hissed through clenched teeth, to keep from crying out.  Crowley continued in a conversational tone, but low enough that only you could hear, “Have I mentioned how gorgeous you look, tonight, Y/N?  I can’t bloody wait to have the business bit over and done with.  I’m going to eat you alive.”  His eyes flared red as you moved through a small shadow on the edge of the floor, and an ethereal tongue joined the fingers under your skirt, lapping at the juices there.

“Fuck, Crowley, you fucking asshole… shit…” You whispered and writhed, trying to ease the pressure.  But his power just moved with you, and you couldn’t get away.  Your vision went white around the edges and your breath came in shallow pants.  The King pulled you closer, to keep you from swooning back, and never broke stride.  

“Oh, there she is.  Hello, darling,” he crooned, “Did you miss me?”  The spectral tongue never relented, and a sucking pressure was added to your clit.  You bit your lip in a desperate fight to keep quiet.  Crowley kept going.  “This is the version of you I like best, Love.  All flustered and pliable and dripping.”  The disembodied tongue pushed deeper, writhing inside.  You couldn’t bite back all of your pleasure and a small Aaaaah! Slipped out, buried in Crowley’s neck.  He continued, “That’s it, Love.  Let your King take care of you.  You like when I play with you, don’t you?  My squirming, soaking wet little toy.  I wonder how long I can keep playing with you until-”

The music died again and Crowley broke off mid-sentence with a whispered curse.  He stepped away from you, to greet the intrusion.  The invisible mouth abruptly stopped its torture, as well.  But the hands remained, more to keep you upright than anything else.  Which was a good thing, as you probably wouldn’t be able to stand on your own.  Again, the occupants of the room turned toward the main doorway, in which stood three women in glittering black gowns.  

The witches had arrived.

~~~

To help get your heart rate down and your brain back in working order, you took mental notes of the new guests.  Queen-for-a-night or not, you were still a hunter.  The blonde one was young.  In her early 20’s, if you had to guess.  She wore a white mask over her eyes.  On the other side of the doorway, there stood a statuesque brunette that seemed to be nearing 40.  Her mask was red.  The one in the middle was a head shorter than the other two, but was unquestioningly In Charge.  She was old.  Middle 80’s maybe?  You hardly ever saw a witch owning her age, like that.  Her black mask and black dress made her white hair stand out against the dark marble room.  

“Ladies,” Crowley’s tone was friendly, if a little cautious, “I’m so glad you could join us.  Please come in.”

A new path cleared, and you saw a small dais set at the end of the hall, on which sat two empty thrones facing the crowded room.  That was where Crowley led you.  He didn’t even look behind to see if the witches followed- just took your hand and proceeded to the thrones.  

You had regained most of your composure from his mid-dance teasing, and though you were still a little short of oxygen, you were able to tread silently on your own bare feet, once more.  You tried not to think about how many eyes were on you- you just focused on Crowley’s warm, steady hand in yours, and followed his lead.  You moved on autopilot until you were both seated, Crowley on your right side.  You must have made an imposing sight.  Crowley all in black and red, you in glowing white, and both masked faces staring down at the assembly.  

The witches stood at the foot of the dais, looking up at the King and Queen of Hell, and remained silent.  

You swallowed quietly and rested your hands on the throne’s armrests.  Queen.  You are a fucking Queen.  Get yourself under control.  Head up, shoulders back.  It’s showtime.  Think Queen, damnit.  You tried not to dig your fingernails into the carved, dark wood.

“We have some illustrious guests,” Crowley addressed the assembled creatures, “The Exalted Coven has sent a delegation to Hell, in hopes of forming an alliance.  Isn't that right, ladies?”  

The white haired woman inclined her head a fraction.

“Then you are welcome.  Let’s talk business, shall we?”  From some hidden pocket, Crowley produced an ornate scroll.  The parchment scratched and fluttered in the silent air as it unfurled, stretching from his lazy hand to the old woman’s feet.  She would have to stoop to pick it up and read it.

“Just a boilerplate agreement, of course,” Crowley continued, “You are granted the protection of Hell, blah blah, and we gain your fealty, with tithes due every seven years, etc etc.”

Your hunter brain went into overdrive.  Protection of Hell?  Tithes?  What would this mean for you and the boys and your work?  What parts of that contract was Crowley glossing over to make a quick sale?  You were so busy speculating that you almost missed when the old witch spoke.

“Your Queen seems very quiet, Crowley.  She doesn’t speak?”  Her voice was strong and resonant, not at all the voice of a little old lady.  You also clocked the use of Crowley’s name, not “your majesty” or whatever.  

Everyone turned to you.  Fuck.  Shit, fuck, damnit, pissing hell.  They expect you to talk, now?  For a heartbeat, you thought terror would overwhelm you.  But suddenly, you felt a warm hand on the back of your neck.  Crowley’s demonic power applying reassuring pressure to the spot in your spine that he had repaired so many months ago.  That feeling of Otherness washed over you, and the world took on the fuzzy edges of a dream.  

“She speaks,” you said, mildly amazed that you sounded so calm, “She just doesn’t speak merely to fill silence.”  Where did that come from?  Astounding yourself even more, you continued, “The King has made an offer.  Do you accept?”

She regarded you for one long, agonizing moment that was probably only a heartbeat.  Her eyes dropped to the rowan wood disk on your chest.  You couldn’t be sure, with masks obscuring all faces, but it looked like the old woman cocked an appreciative eyebrow at you.  In the corner of your eye, you saw Crowley’s mouth twitch as if trying not to smile.  

The witch then nudged the air with her chin, which was apparently some kind of signal, because the two women at her sides stepped forward quickly.  The youngest picked up the trailing end of the contract and held it steady, the other ran her hand slowly down the parchment, muttering under her breath.  The Luisgeàrd grew slightly warm against your chest, as it always did in the presence of witches’ magic.  When she reached the end of the contract, the red masked witch murmured a few words in her leader’s ear.  Wrinkled lips pursed at Crowley in a decidedly “we are not amused” sort of way, the old woman flicked her fingers towards the contract.  A few words and phrases blazed red, changed, or disappeared altogether.

So this is how the supernatural elite negotiate?  You thought.  It was a far cry from beers and pizza and yelling in the Bunker’s war room.

Crowley shrugged and grinned like a precocious child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  

“Can’t blame a bloke for trying, now can you?  The changes are acceptable.  We have an agreement.”

The witch smiled, stepped forward, and dragged a finger along the bottom of the contract, leaving a thin line of crimson behind.  Signed in blood.  

Crowley’s grin widened, and the contract vanished with a flick of his wrist.  

“Now, then,” he announced, “You ladies are welcome to share our hospitality, but I understand if you have more pressing matters to attend to, tonight.”

“The Maiden will stay,” said the witch, and the young blonde stepped forward, “The Mother and I will go to our own festivities.”  Crowley gave a half bow of acquiescence from his throne.  

And with that, they swept out, the music rose, and the party resumed.  The blonde witch- The Maiden, apparently- was swept up into a dance by a demon in a wolf mask.  At least, you hoped that was a mask.  

As you contemplated that, Crowley pressed his mouth to your ear and whispered, “You were bloody magnificent, Y/N.”

You turned to face him. “Really?  I thought I was gonna pass out when she put me on the spot like that.  I just said the first thing that came to mind that sounded… I don’t know… Queenly.”

“You were perfect!  Fuck, that was perfect!”  And there, in full view of the movers and shakers of the monster world, he grabbed your arm, swung you into his lap, and caught you up in a devouring kiss.  

As if the guests had been waiting for this signal, the tone of the room changed.  A throbbing beat threaded through the music, the lights dimmed a bit, and the air seemed to take on a crackle of energy.  When Crowley moved from your lips to your throat, nipping and sucking and kissing, you stole a glance around the room.

In an alcove, two vampires were busily feasting on a faerie.  One on her neck and the other… Oh.  Definitely not on her neck.  The faerie looked like she was having the time of her life.

On the dance floor, waltzes had given way to spinning, grinding couples and thrupples, costumes shoved aside so hands and mouths could access the flesh underneath.  

“Crowley...” You gripped his shoulder to get his attention on your words and not your uncovered skin. “What the fuck is going on?”

He looked out over the ballroom and it’s writhing occupants with a proprietary smile.

“I told you, Love.  We like to blow off some steam at this party.”

“But… I mean… This is looking like an orgy!”

Crowley smoothed a hand over your hair and gave you another genuine smile.  Damn, you could get used to that smile.  It made you all wobbly in all the right places.

“Bugger me, you’re adorable,” he said, “You left before the good stuff, last year.  Or, should I say, we jumped the gun on the good stuff, last year…” The grin turned predatory, and his eyes flared in the candlelight.  “What do you say, Pet?  Want to give them a display of what they missed, last time?”  He guided your hand to the considerable bulge in his lap.

In another involuntary response, your fingers wrapped around the suit-covered shaft, pulling a groan from Crowley that he didn’t bother to stifle.  You glanced over your shoulder again, at the assembled hosts of Hell.  

At the end of the buffet table, the Maiden was laid back among the champagne glasses, the wolf-faced demon hovering over her.  She reached down to undo his pants.  

Tearing your eyes away, you focused on the King, once more.  He was palming your breast- the silk sliding delightfully against your nipple.  He licked his lips once again.  His eyes were unwavering bonfires of red light, fixed on your face.  You hadn’t stopped stroking him, you realized.  You kept stroking, almost absentmindedly, hypnotized by the look Crowley was giving you.   An equal mix of quiet disbelief and ravenous hunger.

Over the roar of blood in your ears, you began to hear unmistakable sounds from the crowd behind you.  It was like being immersed in porn.  Fuck, it was hot.  You stared into those red eyes and tried to think coherently.  Crowley’s hand that wasn’t on your chest began to inch under the hem of your dress.  Slow and deliberate and easy to stop if you wanted to.  

Just then, a crash of glass behind you drew your attention away.  The champagne glasses had been jostled off the table by the force of the wolfman’s thrusts.  The Maiden wallowed back, emitting small gasps and squeals.  You stared.  

The heat between your legs was throbbing.  Your face was flushed.  This was unlike anything you’d ever seen.  The dreamlike feeling hung over you as you slowly worked Crowley’s dick in your hand and gazed into the crowd.  You noticed not only the writhing masses of flesh and cries of pleasure, but several grinning faces turned in your direction.  Hell was watching.  

“People are staring at us.”

“Of fucking course they are.” Crowley bucked into your hand and growled appreciatively when you tightened your grip.  You turned back to face him.

“I… I don’t know how I feel about that, Crowley.”

He released his hold on your breast and took a moment to straighten his tie.  The gesture was so refined, the turn of his neck so fluid, that it became obscene against the backdrop of intimate noise that filled the air.  You squirmed against the wet heat at your core, trying to figure out if you were actually about to fuck the King of Hell- on his throne- in full view of hundreds of witnesses.

He leaned forward to kiss you, moving from your mouth to your jaw and up to your ear.

“This night is ours, Love,” he murmured, “And as much as I would love to make you scream for me right here, I think you like to watch more than be watched.  Besides, I’m in the mood to have you all to myself...”

You felt the tug in your gut once more, and again found yourself in the alcove high above the ballroom.  From here, you had a bird’s eye view of the orgy- and that’s exactly what it was, at this point.  Piles of limbs tangled on the dance floor, humped backs and arched breasts undulating in the candlelight, bare flesh and flashing teeth and holy shit- the sounds.  It was enough to make your head spin, even without the supernatural teleport.

Crowley pressed against your back, hands braced against the railing on either side of your body, trapping you.  You melted back against him and watched the display on the dance floor.  The band hadn’t stopped playing, but there was now a driving, drumming beat hanging over the melody, and people fucked in time with the music.  You felt drunk.  Drunk and dizzy and more turned on than you’d been in a long time.

“Crowley?” you said, twisting around to ring your arms around his neck and look squarely in his burning eyes.

“Mmm?”

“I need you to fuck me.  Right now.”

“My Queen!” he exclaimed through grinning teeth, and yanked you back into the shadows.

In a tangle of kisses and hot grasping hands, you managed to rip away each other’s clothes.  

Soon you were flat on your back, nothing between you and the deep red carpet below you, the Luisgeàrd resting on your bare chest, the King of Hell between your legs.  

When he reached up to dislodge your mask, you gripped his wrist to stop him.

“No,” you gasped, “masks stay on.”  

He chuckled.  “We’ll make it a Halloween tradition, then.”

As the music and screams and groans drifted up from below, Crowley reached between you, grasped his cock, and slowly began dragging himself through your folds.  Teasing your clit with the blunt head, dropping back down to press against your clenching core, then back up again.  Over and over, with agonizing gentleness, never stopping his methodical torture, never looking away from your face.

“Crowleeeeeyy…” you whimpered, trying to buck up and catch him.

The burning, invisible hands clamped onto your hips, holding you still and helpless against the floor.  

“Tsk tsk tsk, Y/N,” he whispered, “Look at you.  Soaking wet and desperate to be fucked.  Mewling and panting like you’re in heat.  My little toy.  You think you’re ready for me?”  He nudged at your opening, again, applying just enough pressure to slide in a fraction of an inch.

“Aaa! Fuck, yes, Crowley please... please…” Your vision wouldn’t focus.  You couldn’t lift your hips to meet him, so you arched you back and rolled your head from side to side in desperation.  He didn’t move at all.  

“Can you hear them, down there?  All those screams and wet slaps?”  You nodded emphatically. “That is nothing to the noises I want you to make for me.”  Then he slid backwards, away from your throbbing center.  It undid you.

A scream of frustrated agony ripped out of you- bouncing off the marble walls of the hall and momentarily drowning out the din below your alcove. But before that scream died away, Crowley slammed into you full force, and a new scream took its place.  The distinctive stretching burn that always accompanied the arrival of that cock inside you was shocking after so long an absence.  You roared with pleasure at the sensation.

“That’s my girl! That’s my Queen!” Crowley exclaimed into the cacophony, grinding his hips against you, buried to the hilt.

When you ran out of air, the King took advantage of the relative quiet and backed out of you a bit, then shoved back in with a groan.  You were only dimly aware of your own noises, at this point- too focused on the hymn of obscenity that the masked, looming devil with glowing eyes was pouring into you as he slowly dragged out, then snapped back into your quaking pussy, again and again.

“Fuuck, you’re so wet, Love!  That’s my Queen!  So wet and hot and tight- oh, yes!  I’ve waited months for this… Dreamed of getting back into this cunt!”

“It’s yours,” you gasped, reaching up to grab the horns on his mask, all reservations gone, just lost in the feeling of fucking the King of Hell, again, “It’s all yours!  Oh my god, you feel so good!”

With a roar of his own, Crowley yanked himself out of and away from you, leaving you empty and sprawled on the floor.  Before you could do more than squawk in protest, he jerked you up and spun you towards the railing.

“I told you before. God’s not here,” he snarled.

You landed against the barrier, chest and shoulders hanging over the rail.  The festivities hadn’t died down.  In fact, it looked like they were gaining steam.  A swirling, pulsing mosaic of skin and colorful costumes spread out across the ballroom.  Anything that could be done for carnal pleasure was being done, somewhere in the room.  Still in the throws of your own passion, you took in the display, gasping for breath.

Crowley was behind you again.  His fingers stroking in and out of the dripping, aching spot between your legs.  He pressed you forward, leaning out over the ballroom.  The Luisgeàrd swung back and forth, as if to draw your attention to the spectacle below.

It was the kind of thing that would have made you blush and look away, any other time.  Hanging half over the railing, looking down at a kaleidoscope of sex, breasts dangling in the air- so exposed.  But not tonight.  Tonight, you weren’t you.  Tonight, you were the White Hart.  The Queen of Hell.  And God wasn’t here.

Crowley fisted one hand in your hair and gave a sharp tug, the other hand guiding his cock back where it belonged.  Wet as you were, he slid home smoothly, to a chorus of groaning from both of you.

Slowly, methodically, almost reverently, he fucked you against the railing as you watched the show.

“Look at that, Pet.  Look at all the fun they’re having down there.  But they all wish they were here with you, you know.  They all wish they were right here, deep in this gorgeous cunt… Aren’t I lucky?  Fuck, I love this pussy!  You glorious thing…”

The stream of his words, the slow, exquisite drag and thrust of him against your swollen inner walls, the delicious sting of being suspended from his fist by your hair; it was all too good.  The moans fell out of you in one long note, and you felt the tightening in your belly that meant release wasn’t far off.  Still, it stayed maddeningly just out of reach.

“Crowleeeeyyy… Crowley, pleeease… I need to come… please!”

Once more, the King maneuvered you effortlessly.  In a swirl of motion too quick to follow, he had you facing him, perched on the railing. Somehow, he was still buried inside you.  Ruling another dimension clearly came with some physics-bending perks.

“Look at me, darling.”

You stated into those cigarette red eyes, set in the demonic mask, glowing in the dark alcove. The intensity in those eyes made you even more light-headed. Almost to the point of fear.  But if you’d learned anything in the past year, it was that when Crowley was fucking you, you could trust him.  

Gripping your waist to hold you steady, he aimed a powerful thrust right to your center.  You swooned back a bit, eyes fluttering closed with pleasure, grabbing Crowley’s arms and wrapping your legs around him for stability.

“Ooooh, yes!” You cried.  So close… you were so close…

“No, Pet.  You keep your eyes on me, now.” You brought your focus back to him. “That’s right,” He crooned and ground against you, “You watch me fuck you.  Watch me fuck you until you come.”

And you did.  You kept your eyes locked with Crowley’s as he pounded into you over and over.  All his words were gone, now.  His bottom lip clutched between his teeth as he concentrated on you.  The demonic power manifested again; this time a merciless vibrating heat against your clit.  

You forgot where you were.  Forgot who you were.  The entire world narrowed to the sensations shooting out from between your legs and the burning points of light hanging in the gloom before you.  Somewhere, far outside your senses, someone was repeating, “Fuck!  Yes!  Fuck!  Yes!” over and over.  Was it you?  Finally, that internal cord snapped and you came, screaming, shaking apart from the inside out, still staring in Crowley’s eyes.

He didn’t slow down.  Just kept fucking you through it until you were spent and limp.  Then he gathered you to him, buried his masked face in your neck, and with a few more shuddering thrusts, spilled himself deep inside you.

You stayed like that for a long while; locked together, lazily running fingers over each other’s skin, dropping gentle kisses on ears and necks and shoulders.  Not speaking.  Not needing to.  The King and Queen of Hell.

You both managed to get safely to the floor before Crowley slid free.  You were exhausted.  You just puddled in his arms and drifted in and out, kissing deeply and trying to catch your breath.  Swimming in that dreamlike Otherness.

After what may have been days, for all you knew, you felt that lurch in your guts, and realized that Crowley had zapped you back home. He lowered you into your bed, smoothed back your hair, and with another kiss, rose to leave.

“You.. you owe me…” you slurred through sleepy lips, “conver...sation.  You said.”

“Next time, Love.  I’m a demon of my word, don’t you worry.  You sleep, now.  My Queen.”

As Crowley pressed one last, gentle kiss against your brow, you finally fell into unconsciousness.

~~~

Tags: @mamaredd123, @motleymoose, @emilyymichelle, @singingphoenix, @cassiopeia-barrow, @roxy-davenport, @fuschiarulerinthebluebox, @generalgoldfishldrm, @sunnysaysbookreviews, @kittennovak

[hello-imasalesman]

Can we please be blessed with headcannons of a pining Arthur? He’s such a soft boah 💕

Arthur puts pencil to paper and every time, the results don’t come out the way they’re supposed to. It’s not that he’s never seen something in his head and have it come out different on the page— that’s nearly every time, that’s what drawing was, trying to sketch his best approximation. But everything that’s coming out is wrong, a disconnect between his hands and his brain. The horses’ legs are crooked, the flowers look flat, the landscapes are lopsided. 

“You’ve had your nose in that thing for ages,” Marston calls, too close, behind his head. Arthur startles, perched on a covered crate in front of the fire, though he doesn’t close the journal in time, not before John’s gotten a good look. “Who’s that supposed to be, anyway?”

Arthur huffs in annoyance. “Trying to draw you, actually.”

He’s drawn John, Hosea, Dutch and even Grimshaw more times than he can count. They’ve been together so long, their faces are familiar, even when he’s not staring at them like he usually does when he sketches. But on this page, Marston looks lopsided and uneven, his brows furrowed and his scars lost to the smear of lead. 

“What the fuck, Arthur.” John responds first with anger, and then almost barks out a laugh as he leans over him to look closer at the page. “You made me look like Bill.”

Arthur shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to swallow a peal of laughter that threatens to escape down. “What?”

Sketch-John has a stern countenance, though with Arthur’s current inability to draw, its less stern than sour, like a child trying to act tough. His eyes are uneven, too. Arthur idly tries to correct it as John looks on, but it just makes sketch-John look like he has one black eye, his pencil scratching uselessly against the page.

“Yeah, yeah.” He tries to lean over, press a finger to the page, but Arthur’s sitting up and leaning away from Marston before he can smudge a greasy finger on it. “I ain’t that ugly and my beard don’t look like that.”

“What beard?” Arthur snaps his journal closed, looking over his shoulder at Marston’s frown. “You can grow one of those? I thought that shit on your face was from the dog.”

“I could say the same of you!” John shouts, unsuccessfully, because Arthur is staring at him with raised eyebrows and an amused smirk that’s just-visible beneath the mustache that’s in a sore need of a trim, before the hairs curl over and into his mouth. He doesn’t have to say anything, barely gets out a giggle before John’s hands are thrown up into the air, “Look, I don’t have to deal with this.” And he stomps off with Arthur’s laughter at his back. He keeps that sketch, at least. Will probably tear it out and leave it on John’s pillow, when he finds the time, just to antagonize him a bit; all in good fun, until Dutch tells him to play nice because his favorite son is cussing and stomping around instead of choring.

But still— as amusing as the doodle is, Arthur can’t draw. Or, at least, nothing is coming out well in his eyes. It’s been weeks now. Flat and lifeless, crooked lines. Between hauling bags of grain, he crouches next to the chicken coop, watches the birds scratch at the ground. He sketches one of the chickens, and then aggressively scribbles over it when the texture of the feathers looks, too on-the-nose, like chicken scratch.

“What’re you drawing?”

Kieran asks like he’s been rehearsing the simple sentence in his head for too long, and still, his voice cracks at the end as Arthur fixes him with a look over his shoulder. He always forgets how tall Kieran is until he’s sitting somewhere in Kieran’s vicinity, and he has to look up to meet his eye. He doesn’t carry his height well, perpetually slouching, unless he’s dealing with the horses. Then he has to draw himself up, if only to get them to behave.

“Nothing.” Arthur admits with a grumble, because it feels like he’s been drawing nothing over the past few days, just series of lines and shapes that don’t connect together into anything tangible. Kieran’s smile goes uneasy, baring his teeth with uncertainty as he takes a step back and away from Arthur. 

“Sorry to bother—“

“No, no, it’s fine.” Arthur rushes to clarify; he hadn’t realized his tone had been rough enough to have sent the other man almost scurrying off. Kieran flinches, stands and stares at his hands. “Frustrated with myself, is all. Nothing’s coming out right.” He hesitates, for a moment, before he turns and moves in closer, so that Kieran can see. His eyes go a little wide, glancing up towards Arthur’s face before he looks at the proffered journal.

“It all looks real fine to me.” Kieran says, almost sweetly, hesitantly flipping back to a previous page. Makes something in Arthur’s gut twist. “I- I think you’re being hard on yourself, is all. I could never get anything to look like that.” He taps below one of the sketches of the horses, careful not to actually touch it, “That’s a real nice one. Nell?”

“Yeah,” Arthur confirms, huffing out a chuckle. “Stands still long enough to sketch. Just like Uncle, actually.”

Kieran laughs, genuine, the corners of his eyes creasing, tucking strands of hair behind his ears. Arthur laughs, too, even if it’s not the funniest thing he’s ever said, but its infectious when he hears it from him. “It’s true,” Kieran says, “Oh, he can be real awful, even if he’s a sweet horse. Always rolls around in the dirt after I brush him through...”

Arthur flips through his journal, showing Kieran a past page of Uncle in various states of sleep around camp, his face an exaggerated, comical caricature, drool from his lips. Kieran laughs again, hides his mouth behind his knuckles pressed against his lips, setting the edge of his teeth against the cracked, rough skin there.

Kieran’s always busy working. Arthur is, too, even if Dutch don’t see it, browbeating him whenever he lingers too long in camp, the moments in-between where Arthur catches his breath. He stays for a day or two, at the cusp of outstaying his welcome, then heads off; hunting, carriage theft, house robberies, whichever the road takes him towards. Keeps his hands occupied with violence instead, hoping once he’s sufficiently wrought enough destruction he can create something again.

Camp pulls him back, like it always does; he cleans before he returns, for Grimshaw’s sake, but ice cold river water can’t rinse off the dark shiner he’s sporting before he rides into camp and leaves his horse in the pasture. He has to walk through camp to reach the stewpot, loading up the cleanest bowl he can find with Pearson’s pottage. By the time he’s finished eating standing  next to the fire, spitting the most inedible bits of gristle to the ground, someone’s left a salve by his cot. A metal tin promising pain relief, among a long list of other cures, the label blurred under the oils of nervous fingers ceaselessly worrying the paper. Arthur rolls it over in his hands. Mulls over who gave it to him as he smears the thick lotion around his eye, under his shirt and the deep bruises across his ribs. The greasiness sticks to his fingers, and is an easy excuse to blame when he settles back into his cot that night and his pencil slides uselessly over the pages, and it snaps in half between his fingers.

The next morning, Kieran leaves him another gift when he tacks up Arthur’s warhorse, tucked into his saddlebags. Arthur doesn’t notice the two pencils wrapped carefully in a scrap of fabric, pre-sharpened, until he’s nearly in New Hanover.

Arthur returns a week later with he sun at his back, his shiner healed. He doesn’t draw attention to himself when he makes his way to the tithing box, pulling a stack of cash and two watches from his satchel. He has a necklace, too, delicate and brilliant glass beads, but he puts that back into his satchel when it comes out tangled with the watches; that’s for Tilly.

With the sun setting, there’s precious few hours of light left in the day, though they’re longer and longer with each sunrise. Arthur hates the heat that clings to his brow, but loves the hours of daylight summer brings. Sweating oneself dry was a small price to pay for more hours in the day. But they’re running thin, the sun disappearing in a fireball beyond the water’s horizon; Arthur has only a few minutes to find Kieran. He wasn’t in the pasture when he dismounted his horse; he’s not at the scout campfire, either, and Arthur’s hands feel sweaty in his gloves. He almost misses him, on his second walk through the camp; near the chicken coop once more, sitting beneath the large tree there, quietly smoking in its roots.

“Kieran.”

Kieran looks flushed, the ember of the cigarette throwing his face into stark shadows. His eyes shift upward as he stubs it out against the bark. “Arthur?”

“‘Fore the sun sets,” Arthur starts, trying to calmly stress his limits, the strange feeling that their time was quickly waning. It doesn’t make much sense; Arthur could always show him tomorrow. But there’s an urgency that’s gripping his lungs, as he reaches for his satchel, “Look.”

Kieran stands, using the tree as support for his wobbly legs. Arthur opens his journal, paging to the ribbon holding his place.

He has to rotate his journal, and Kieran pulls in close, looking over his shoulder. It’s hard lines in some spots and soft smudges in others, thumbs and knuckles used, the side of his pencil washing shades of grey. The soft shadows mottled underneath Kieran’s eyes, purple and blue, somehow rendered perfectly in the soft smudge of lead across the page. The greasy knots of his hair. Kieran’s smile, crooked and easy. It’s all there.

“Oh.” Kieran clutches at Arthur’s sleeve, where he’s rolled it up to the elbows, in the folds of fabric there. Buries his fingers in and scrunches his grasp in tight. “Oh. Arthur, I—“

He sounds almost on the edge of tears, maybe. Or some other emotion swirling thick in the back of his throat. The sun slips slowly beyond the trees, the clouds drifting fat overhead speeding up the pace of darkness falling over Clemen’s Point. The campfire has been allowed to dwindle down further than it should, and it barely casts any light towards where they stand behind the coop and the shadows of the trees. Kieran steps forward and Arthur steps back, lets him box him up against the rough bark of the big oak before he grasps Arthur by the front of his dress shirt and kisses him. Kieran tastes like tobacco, mostly, when he parts his lips to let Arthur lick into his mouth, suck on his bottom lip until Kieran whines and his knees buckle against Arthur’s legs. When they part, Arthur’s eyes opening, it’s almost too dark to see Kieran’s smile, the redness splotching across his cheeks. Another picture to sketch, another page in his journal.

[crystalninjaphoenix]

House Call

A JSE Fanfic

Switch AU

Writing for the same AU two weeks in a row isn’t something I normally do, but I feel like this AU needs it because, well, I haven’t formally introduced all the characters yet. So, as a follow-up to the last thing I wrote, here’s this thing! Wherein some of the boys meet each other, and some more characters are introduced!

Jackie didn’t consider himself smart. Sure, he was able to get through medical school easily enough, but he wasn’t a surgeon or a specialist or anything complicated, just a general practitioner. That didn’t require too much book smarts to become, did it? And besides, there were plenty of areas where he had no idea what he was doing. That became evident when he tried to use Rama’s computer to play a video and ended up somehow entirely breaking the thing. He tried for half an hour to figure out what happened before giving in and calling a friend.

“So, uh...” Jackie bounced nervously, standing next to the desk in the study. “Is it, like, completely useless now, or...?”

The guy sitting at the desktop computer didn’t look up at him. He didn’t look like what most people imagined programmers to be like. He wore a black jacket and ripped black jeans, and his brown hair had a streak of green and a streak of black running through it. His eyes were two different colors: green on his right and blue on his left. “Yeah, completely useless,” he said casually. “You broke it all.”

“What?! You can’t be serious!”

“Dead serious. Gonna have to scrap the whole CPU.”

“But Rama has so much saved on here! We can’t just throw it all out! So much of their work is gonna go to waste—wait a second.” Jackie’s eyes narrowed. It seemed the programmer was biting back a smile. Jackie scowled, giving him a hearty shove. “Oh, very funny, Anti. Congratulations, you gave me a heart attack.”

“How many times are you gonna fall for that?” Anti asked through laughter.

“Well, it looks like every time at this point. Now give me the actual news.”

Anti calmed down, reentering his serious mode. “I dunno how it happened, but you somehow caught a virus on here. Not seriously harmful, but still nasty. Gimme a few more minutes, I should be able to root it out. Hopefully it hasn’t corrupted anything beside your browser, gonna have to reinstall that.”

“Oh. That’s good, I guess?” At least it was salvageable. “Do you...need anything?”

“Uh...” Anti looked over to where Jackie was hovering over his shoulder. “I need you to stop being a fucking helicopter.”

Jackie leaned back, taking a few steps away. “Alright, calm your boots. I’ll just go stand in the corner, Blair Witch style. Don’t mind m—”

His snarky remark was cut off once he felt a vibration in his hoodie pocket. He dug around inside and pulled out his phone, a number he didn’t recognize onscreen. He frowned, then tentatively accepted the call. “Hello?”

For a moment, there was nothing. Until: “Hello! You wouldn’t happen to be Dr. Parker, would you?”

“This is him.” Jackie absolutely did not recognize the faintly posh British voice, yet it somehow sounded familiar. Maybe it reminded him of one of his friends’ voices.

Anti leaned back in the study’s swivel chair. “Hey, you mind taking that outside? Concentration, and all.”

Jackie made an okay sign, then left the study, leaning against the wall in the hallway outside. While he was moving, the person on the other side continued to talk. “Right. Um, my name is Jameson Jackson. I don’t know if he told you about me, but, uh, I got this number from a friend of yours. He told me to call you if we were ever in need of a doctor.”

“Wait, you’re the guy who Volt saw do real magic, right?” The incident had happened about a week and a half ago, and ever since then, Schneep would not stop bringing it up. As to be expected, when you discovered that something you thought was impossible was, in fact, possible. “I saw the whole thing on the news, too. Isn’t your stage name, like, Jazzy, or something like that?”

That prompted a sudden burst of laughter on the other end. “Jazzy!” Jameson repeated lightly. “Maybe I should have used that. No, it’s actually the Jaunty Jackson. Adjectives starting with J are scarce.”

“I see,” Jackie nodded. “So, what’s the problem? I mean, you wouldn’t be calling a number that a superhero gave you and told you it was for a doctor if you didn’t need...well, a doctor.”

“Oh, right, the problem. Well you see—” Jameson suddenly stopped. Jackie could faintly hear another voice on the other end, sounding a bit snappish. Then Jameson’s voice said something, sounding like he’d covered the phone with his hand. Jackie thought it was along the lines of “Shut your mouth and let me help you.” Then, Jameson returned. “Sorry about that. Anyway, the problem is that a friend of mine has had a bit of an...issue, a health issue, for a long time. It hasn’t really been looked at, but I thought that, since today is one of the bad ones, that it was about time we got around to that. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“No, of course not.” Jackie was already mentally reviewing the possibilities. “I’m not in my office right now, but can you come over here if I give you my address?”

“Oh. You can’t...come over here?”

“I mean, technically I could. But my spouse is out for once and they’d kill me if I left our daughter without supervision.” Anti didn’t count. He could leave at any minute.

On the other end of the line, there was what sounded like a discussion. A few moments passed. “Alright, where’s your address?” Jameson finally asked. Upon Jackie giving it to him, he said, “Oh good, that’s pretty close. We’ll be there in...hmm, fifteen minutes.”

“Alright. Just ring the doorbell, I’ll answer.”

“Understood. Thank you very much, Dr. Parker.”

“Eh, just call me Jackie. Everyone does. And no problem.”

“Thank you very much, Jackie. We’ll be there soon.” And with that, he hung up.

At that moment, two small children raced past Jackie, screaming. One of them, a taller boy with curly red hair and freckles, attached himself to Jackie’s leg. “Uncle Jackie, help!” he said. “She’s prosecuting me!”

The other child, a younger girl with black hair and eyes, skidded to a halt and whirled around, making the blanket tied around her neck fly in a nice whoosh. “I’m no-ot!” she yelled. “Dad, he stole the treasure of the Bed Plateau! He needs to pay for his crimes! In the Bedroom jail!”

Jackie raised an eyebrow. “Really? Well, I can’t help a thief. But I don’t see any treasure. Are you sure you’re not persecuting him, Michelle?”

Michelle stomped her foot. “It’s in his pocket!”

“No, it’s not! You don’t know that!” The boy said, still holding on to Jackie’s leg.

“Well, Will,” Jackie said patiently. “I guess I have to ask you to...turn out your pockets! Show me you don’t have anything to hide!”

Will froze for a moment, then shoved himself away from Jackie and resumed his sprinting, shouting “You’ll never take me aliiiiiiive!”

“Face justice!” Michelle shouted, running after him.

Jackie shook his head, smiling, then peeked back into the study. Anti was still glued to the computer screen, now frowning. “Hey, how’s it goin’ in here?”

“Worse than I thought it would be,” Anti replied, clicking through files on the desktop. “This is gonna take...a lot longer than I thought. Might be here for a while.”

“Okay. But just to let you know, some people are coming over in a bit under fifteen minutes.”

“Really?” The word was half surprise, half groan. “Who? Some of Rama’s friends? Repair people?”

“Well, remember those two guys who Volt gave my phone number to for if they ever needed help? One of them just called me.”

“The magician and his assistant. Got it. Tell me when they leave.”

Jackie sighed. “You need more than two people to talk to, Anti.”

“Does Will count?” Anti glanced away from the screen for the first time. “How’s he doin’, by the way? Playing nice with Michelle?”

“He just stole her Beanie Baby,” Jackie said. “But I think that’s so Michelle can play defender of the bedroom. Nice of him.”

“Good.” Anti turned back to the computer. “Can you, uh, make sure neither of them get hurt while I work on this?”

“Of course, dude. I’ll shout for you if anything bad happens.”

Fifteen minutes later, the two kids had stopped playing defender of the bedroom and were now spread out on the living room carpet, surrounded by markers and crayons and doodling on pads of paper. Jackie was lying on the sofa, watching. And then the doorbell rang and he went on high alert. “I think that’s the visitors I told you about,” he said to the kids, standing up. “You two want to go somewhere else or stay?”

“We’ll go in the dining room,” Will said, already gathering the drawing materials. “Finish in there. Michelle, are you okay with that or do you want to stay?”

“Uh-huh! It’s hard to draw on carpet anyway. Let’s go.” And the two of them left.

“Don’t forget to listen and ask for me if anything’s wrong! And don’t jump off the table again!” That would very much lead to one of them getting hurt. Jackie sighed. Maybe he should’ve kept them in here, but too late now. He sighed, and made his way over to the front door, swinging it open. “Hello! You must be Mr. Jackson and his friend, right? Come in, come in.”

“Oh! Yes, that’s us, thank you.” The pair of them walked right inside. Even though Schneep had given Jackie descriptions of them after the incident at the theatre, he still took a moment to examine them. The one who’d spoken was dressed in a purple button-down shirt, and had a thick black mustache. The other one was wearing a brown jacket and vest, like he’d stepped out of another era, and was carrying a wooden cane. The latter was leaning heavily on the former (and trying his best to look like he wasn’t), and the moment the two of them were inside they made a beeline for the couch. The one in the jacket immediately sat down with a faint expression of relief.

“Right, well, I’m Jameson, as you probably recognize from my voice,” said the one still standing. “And this is Marvin.”

“Pleasure t’meet ya,” Marvin said, nodding. He held out a hand.

“Nice to meet you too.” Jackie shook the offered hand. “Can I get you anything?”

Both of them shook their heads in unison.

“Alright. So. What’s the problem?”

Marvin scowled. “It’s not a problem, per se.”

“Yes it is,” Jameson muttered.

“Jems, lemme speak f’r myself, thank you.” Marvin turned his attention back to Jackie. “Y’see, when I was a little lad, I got very sick. I recovered, obviously, but not without some...after effects.”

“Ah.” Jackie sat down in the nearest armchair. Meanwhile, Jameson took a seat next to Marvin on the sofa. “Like what?”

Marvin folded his arms. “Bas’clly, me legs weren’t ever the same again. Walking can be...difficult.”

“How so? Does it hurt, or does it just take a lot of effort?”

“The second one. The more I stand and walk, the harder it gets. And It changes ev’ry so often, some days bein’ worse than others. But it’s nothin’ I can’ handle. Jems is just overreactin’.”

“Yes, exactly, I was overreacting when I found you sprawled in the middle of the upstairs hallway, claiming you were just ‘taking a break,’” Jameson drawled.

“Yes, you were.”

“And I was overreacting when you had to call me to help you down the stairs, then stumbled into the front room and immediately sat down without eating breakfast or anything, which is an important part of your daily routine.”

“Yep.”

“And I was overreacting when I had to support you getting into the car, then practically pull you up the path to this front door.”

“Exactly,” Marvin nodded resolutely.

Jameson threw his hands up into the air. “Dr. Parker. Jackie. In your professional opinion, is this a problem?”

Jackie pursed his lips. “Most people would consider it one.”

“Look, I’ve had worse days,” Marvin waved it off. “If I can still walk, it’s fine. And last time we tried to go to one of these doctors, they tried to put me in a wheeled chair, which I def’nitely don’ need.”

“I wasn’t about to say that you do,” Jackie said calmly. “Look, you sound like you’re doing okay for the most part. But if, maybe, I could help you make things a little easier, would you listen?”

Marvin looked over at Jameson, who was giving him a pointed look. “...prob’ly,” he mumbled.

“Alright. Well then, first things first, do you remember what got you sick as a kid? I need to know so I can get a general idea of what’s up.”

“Oh. Yeah, I remember it.”

The moment Marvin told him, Jackie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re sure about that?”

“Yes.” Marvin gave him a confused look. “Why?”

“There hasn’t been a case of that in thirty years.”

“Oh.” Marvin and Jameson exchanged looks again. “Really?”

“Yeah, it’s been basically wiped out. You’re sure that’s what it was?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Marvin sighed, already sounding exhausted.

“Alright.” Jackie decided to store this information away for a later date. It wasn’t the point right now. But later, he was one hundred percent going to call these two again and talk about how, exactly, that could have happened. “Well, I guess we’re moving on. Now, I guess the number one question is to ask you what you want to be able to do. And if there’s anything that you definitely don’t want to happen. Obviously, you already talked about the wheelchair scenario, but is there anything else?”

Marvin narrowed his eyes, obviously suspicious. “Really? T'at’s it?”

Jackie shrugged. “I mean, I could technically tell you what you should be doing, but a lot of times doctors that just tell don’t really take into account the patient’s wishes. And especially in cases like this, dealing with chronic pain and fatigue, they try their best to fix everything through any means, and they don’t really think about maybe some things can’t be fixed. So, tell me what you want to happen and I’ll give you advice on how to accomplish it.”

Marvin whistled, and put his chin in his hands. “Well...Jems has his shows. I wouldn’ mind bein’ able to...the last show I was backstage for the first time, and they don’ have anyplace to sit there. I was lucky it was a better day, but...you get what I’m gettin’ at, yes?”

The whole visit didn’t take any longer than ten minutes. Ten minutes of just talking, with Marvin listing things that had bothered him and Jackie offering ways to make doing those things just a little bit easier. Jameson watched the whole thing, sort of in awe at what was happening. He hadn’t seen Marvin this open with someone else in...well, in all the time he’d known him. Sure, he was still doing his stubborn thing and insisting he could handle some things that JJ wasn’t sure he actually could, but the fact that he was listening was already an improvement. There must’ve been something about Jackie’s casual attitude and clear willingness to help that was helping him put his guard down.

“Is there anything else?” Jackie finally asked.

“No, I t’ink t’at’s all,” Marvin replied. JJ wasn’t sure he was being honest about that, but there’d already been a lot of sharing, and maybe he was starting to reach his limit. Now the question was just how much of the advice he was actually going to listen to and how much he was going to discard in favor of “I can do it, see?”

“Hey, Jackie, I finally fixed the—oh.” Another man had walked into the front room from deeper into the house, then instantly stopped in his tracks the moment he saw there were still other people in the front room.

“...oh, that’s good to hear,” Jackie said, breaking the long, awkward pause. “Um, Anti, this is Jameson and Marvin. I told you they were coming, remember?”

“Yyyeah,” Anti said slowly. “Hey, where are the kids?”

“In the dining room.”

“I’ll go check on them. Will and I need to leave soon anyway.” He turned and quickly walked right back out.

Jameson stared at the spot he’d been standing, then looked right back at Jackie. “What...who was that?”

“Oh, that was Anti,” Jackie explained. “He’s a friend of mine. Good with computers, so when ours broke, I called him over to see if he could fix it. Apparently he just did.”

“He’s a...bit strange, isn’t he?” Marvin asked. “With t’at unusual name, and the hair and eye color.”

“Well, he dyes his hair, and he has heterochromia, meaning he was born with two differently colored eyes. But Anti isn’t his name.”

“Really?” JJ asked. “Do you mind if I ask what the story is behind that, then? Or what his name is?”

“I mean, your guess is as good as mine,” Jackie shrugged. “I literally don’t think anyone knows what his name actually is. He’s insanely secretive about it, which only leads to more speculation, of course. He calls himself Anti ‘cause the name of his channel is antisepticeye.”

“His what?” Marvin repeated.

“Y’know, his YouTube channel. He does let’s plays and walkthroughs, usually a lot of horror games. Sometimes he’ll throw a comedy bit in there. You should check it out, it’s pretty cool.”

“Maybe we will,” JJ said. Marvin didn’t look so sure.

Anti reentered the front room, the two kids trailing behind him, holding their drawings and the supplies. “Well, we were about to leave,” he said, “but Will and Michelle wanted to show off their artwork.”

“Dad!” Michelle bounced forward, hoisting herself up onto Jackie’s lap. “Look! I chron’cled our adventures today!” She started showing off the pieces of paper, decorated in crayon.

“Wow, sweetie,” Jackie said, impressed. “They look really good! I guess we have more for the archives, don’t we?” That was what it was called when Michelle’s drawings ended up on the fridge.

Michelle beamed, then caught sight of Marvin and Jackie sitting on the sofa. “Oh! These are your new friends, right, Dad?” she asked. “Hi! I’m Michelle. Do you want to see my adventures?”

“Adventures? Why, yes, I would!” JJ said excitedly. “What sort of adventures are they?”

“I’ll show you!” Michelle bounded over to the sofa, managing to squeeze in right in between the two of them. She looked up at Will. “C’mon, don’t just stand there! Show Dad and Uncle Anti what you did too!”

“Oh.” Will shuffled his papers. “Well, I didn’t draw anything we did today. Just a lot of stuff that I thought was cool.”

Anti smiled for the first time that day. “More dinosaurs?”

“Yeah. A couple of them are.” He handed the drawings to Anti. “Like, there’s the one with the brontosaurus family that I really liked. But there’s a lot that are just stuff I saw.”

Anti flipped through the drawings. “Did you draw the shop we saw on the way here? That’s very good! Really looks like it.” His smile faded a bit when he reached the last drawing. “Wait, what’s this one?”

“What one?” Will poked up on tiptoes to see which picture Anti had come to. “Oh, that one. I had a weird dream last night. I woke up and saw someone in my room. We talked for a long time, and then I went back to sleep, and when I woke up he was gone.”

“...huh. Jackie, look at this.”

He passed the last picture over to Jackie, whose brows flew up into the air upon seeing it. “Will,” he said softly. “It wasn’t a nightmare, was it?”

“No, I wasn’t scared.”

“Are you sure? This looks kind of scary.”

“But he wasn’t scary. He was pretty nice, and he looked really happy. Or, I remember him looking happy a lot, I think.”

“Hey, can I see t’at?” Marvin didn’t know why the words had popped out of his mouth. He wasn’t even sure he said them until everyone looked his way.

Will shrugged. “Sure.” He took the drawing back from Jackie, then padded over and handed it to Marvin.

The drawing was of a stick figure drawn in gray marker, with squares standing in for clothes and shoes. Darker gray scribbles were done in marker over the stick figure’s head. On top of the scribbles, two black circle eyes and a curved smile mouth were drawn in crayon. The figure also appeared to be crying, but red crayon had been used for the tears. The background was various strokes and sketches done in black and gray crayon.

JJ leaned over to see the drawing. “That’s...a little unusual,” he said slowly. “But I suppose dreams are a little bit weird.”

“...t’s familiar,” Marvin muttered.

“What?”

“I said...never mind.” Marvin rubbed the back of his neck, where all the hairs had suddenly stood up. “I t’ink...maybe I had a dream like t’is once.” He was sure that wasn’t the answer. This felt almost like a memory he’d forgotten. But when would he have seen something like this? Sure, he’d grown used to seeing strange things ever since he’d moved in with a magician, but nothing even close to this. It was probably just his imagination.

Jameson narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t buying this one bit. But this wasn’t the time to get into it. “We can talk about it later,” he muttered.

Jackie and Anti, who’d been quietly talking among themselves, suddenly broke off. “Well, if you don’t need anything else to be fixed or hacked, I think it’s time for us to go,” Anti said. “Will still has homework.”

“It’s just math.” Will made a face. “I’m ahead in that.”

“But do you want to stop being ahead in that? No. But at least it’s only one worksheet, and maybe we can...I dunno, get something special afterwards? It’s close to the end of the school year, after all.”

Will’s eyes lit up. “Alright, then!” He gathered up his drawings. “Bye Michelle.”

Michelle hopped down and gave Will a quick hug. “Bye, Will! I’m gonna put these in the archives now.” And with a skip, she rushed off to the kitchen.

“Oh hey, we’re still meeting at Schneep’s this Saturday, right?” Anti asked.

“Uh, unless he suddenly gets...‘injured on the job,’ yeah,” Jackie nodded. “In fact I was thinking...we could have even more people meet us there.”

“Really?” Anti folded his arms. “Who?”

Jackie’s eyes flicked over to where JJ and Marvin were still sitting on the couch. “Oh no,” JJ said. “No, we couldn’t possibly—this sounds like it’s your thing, we shouldn’t interfere with that.”

“No, it’s fine,” Jackie shrugged, adjusting his glasses. “It’s always good to meet more people. And besides, Anti needs more friends.”

“Wh—no, I don’t, I’m fine,” Anti insisted.

Jackie sighed. He looked over at JJ. “You know, sometimes I think he likes to be called Anti because he’s antisocial.”

“That wasn’t funny the first fifty times.”

“I mean...it woul’ be nice t’get outta the house,” Marvin said slowly. “Haven’ done t’at in a while.”

“So then, you should come!” Jackie said eagerly. “Get to know Schneep better, he’ll be happy to see you. He’s got a bit of a...shocking personality, though.”

Anti rolled his eyes.

JJ bit his lip, thinking, then shrugged. “Alright. If you insist it wouldn’t be...intrusive in any way, we’ll come.”

“Yes!” Jackie smiled. “I promise you won’t regret it.” He turned to Anti. “And you won’t either. You’ll see.”

“Alright, fine, I’ll consider it,” Anti scowled. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Will has been tugging on my jacket for the last minute, trying to get me to leave.”

Will self-consciously dropped his hand. “You talk a lot,” he said defensively.

“You’ll talk a lot when you’re a grown-up too. But don’t worry, we’re going now.” Anti opened the front door, turning around for one last goodbye. “See you later, Jackie.”

“See you, Anti. Remember: Saturday!”

“Yeah, I got it.” The door swung closed again.”

Jackie turned to JJ and Marvin. “Are you two ready to leave now too? Or would you like to stay some more?”

Marvin pushed to his feet, leaning on his cane. “I t’ink I’m ready to go now. Ah...thank you...for your help, doctor.”

“Jackie, remember. And it was no problem, I was glad to help. Need anything else?”

“No, I’m fine,” Marvin said.

JJ stood up. “Thank you for having us, Jackie.”

“You know, I’m still going to say no problem.” A smile quirked at the edge of Jackie’s mouth. “I’ll text you to remind you about the plan for Saturday. Give you the address. Oh, and lemme get the door for you right now.” Jackie reopened the door that Anti had previously closed.

“Thanks,” JJ said. “C’mon, Marvin. Goodbye, Jackie!”

“Goodbye you two! See you later!”

The moment the door had closed behind them and they were once again outside, JJ turned to Marvin. “What do you think? Good visit?”

Marvin considered this. “It was...certainly more helpful than I t’ought it woul’ be.” He paused. “Jems, would you...mind if I leaned on you for a bit?”

JJ smiled. “Not at all, Marvin.”

[hypnoidvoid]

UhHhHHH platonic or romantic stozier finding a hurt bird on a bike ride

A/N: Okay so this deadass turned into a oneshot. Stozier is my fuckin’ brotp so here I come with the FEELS. Also, for those of you that read my Reddie fic Key to the Jungle, I wrote this to be an additional out of storyline excerpt/blippet of the highschool versions of Stan and Richie in their junior year. Ecologist!Richie and Ornithologist!Stan are best friends and have been forever and now I’m crying, thank you and have a kickass day. I love adding on to this universe.

[Title: Neapolitan Bird Bath]

[Friday, April 16, 2010]

The sun, as much life as it nourished with its light and warmth, disappeared behind thick clouds as only a disfigured apparition. Rays reflected, yearned to bust through, but could only try its best to light the naturally shadowed town of Derry, Maine.

Rain collided with the glass from outside of the classroom. It pounded hard, making music of its own along with the monotone voice of their AP biology teacher lecturing about the differences in photosystems. Richie half listened, and half paid attention to different couplets of raindrops, making bets in his head as to which one would run faster down the glass. The one he always bet on seemed to be the losing raindrop unfortunately; good thing he didn’t wager any money. It was also a good thing he sat pretty far back in the classroom, otherwise the teacher may have heard his quietted hums of the Speed Racer theme song.

Richie knew every detail the teacher was talking about. Transcription blah blah, NADPH+ blah fucking blah, cytochrome this electron flow that, more blah blah. Not even with cockiness, he just already knew the information from reading as much as he did. He’d probably be able to teach the material better than the teacher, even at seventeen years of age.

“Why the fuck would they keep it photosystem I, if photosystem II comes first. Just rename that shit,” Richie whispered with annoyance after leaning into Stan’s ear, who sat in front of him.

Instead of verbally responding, Stan tore a piece of paper out of his spiralled notebook and wrote in masterful cursive ‘to make us miserable’, and indiscreetly passed it to Richie behind his back.

Richie took the pencil resting atop his ear, twirled it twice in his fingers and scribbled back, ‘must have been the same dude that took Pluto away from us. i fucking miss Pluto’.

Stan snorted, and wrote ‘don’t we all’.

Doodling a frightening sad face next to Stan’s response, he continued on the next line, ‘id rather die than have to spend more time listening to this george bush lookin motherfucker. me tHinKs we know more than he does’.

Stan admitted in his delicate text, ‘even you probably have more brain cells than he does’.

Richie muffled a snigger, writing back ‘you wrote that on paper staniel, im going to get it published. you dun fucked up’.

In big, bubble letters where he used a yellow highlighter to perfectly color in the lines, Stan admired his work that depicted ‘FUCK YOU’.

As he passed the piece of paper back to Richie, their teacher became aware of their note passing. He scowled, clipped his lazer pointer pen back into the stained pocket of his button up shirt, and slowly stomped towards the two.

“Boys, would you like to share with the rest of the class? These notes must be much more important than paying attention to my lecture.”

Nervously speaking up, Stan panicked, “It was about homework, sir.”

Looking between Stan’s jittery composure and Richie’s smug smile, he was unconvinced by the lie.

“Is that so gentlemen. Well let me see then, hand it over-”

Richie quickly crumpled and shoved the scrap piece of paper into his mouth. The class burst into laughter, as well as Stan. He chewed the awful tasting inked paper quickly and swallowed, bearing a guiltless smile at the teacher without another word. That infamous, toothy, Tozier smile flashed that his father also sported on occasion.

The teacher pinched the bridge of his nose and wagged a reprimanding finger in Richie’s face, “You’re lucky you have the highest grade in the class, Tozier. Another stunt like that and it’s detention,” then craned his neck to meet Stan’s anxious gaze, “You too, Mr. Uris.”

“You got it, teach’a man,” and Richie used two fingers to salute him. Exhaustedly rolling his eyes, the teacher returned to the front of the class and lectured for the remainder of the period, which was only about fifteen minutes. Before the bell signalled dismissal into the weekend, all of the students were promptly packed and itching to flee the classroom. They sat on the edges of their seats buzzing with excitement.

*BIIIIIING*DING*BIIIIIIIIING*

“Don’t forget to read chapters seven through-” But the teacher’s demands were drowned out by shuffling feet and giddied shrieks as the class stormed out into the swollen mist of rain.  

Swinging his patched backpack over one shoulder, Richie threw the hood of his rain jacket over his head and turned to Stan on their way out with a devilish grin, “You’re welcome.”

Stan blankly positioned his folded bag over the front of his body, “Yeah, okay. Deal’s a deal, what flavor you want this time?”

Richie looked into the sky letting droplets hit his freckled face, and pondered for a moment, “Neapolitan.”

“Neapolitan it is then.”

“With sprinkles. And fudge. And Oreo bits.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Stan chided, briskly shoving Richie’s shoulder. They unlatched their bikes that had been chained next to each other from the bike rack and peddled south of town.

They had this agreement that if one of them ever got the other, or both, out of trouble (detention, arrested, whatever) then they owed a serving of ice cream. It’s a simple enough compromise. Stan religiously ordered butter pecan, but Richie’s choice was always a gamble. Detention was a waste of fucking time, even for Richie who had spent more than enough hours there, and if they could avoid sitting in silence without doing anything for god knows how long, they rewarded each other. It’s what best friends did.

Pumping hard with his feet, Richie swiveled up on his bike alongside Stan and exclaimed, “Did you know kangaroos have two uteruses?”

Stan chuckled and shook the rain off of the top of his curls with a jolt, “You reading animal porn now?”

“The males even have two dicks to match, can ya believe that? Nature is fuckin’ craz-”

Stan abruptly yanked the brakes of his bike with enough force to slide and create a minor tire mark in the middle of the street, where Richie shut his trap and followed Stan’s lead. He was wildly confused, but mirrored him nonetheless, for Stan always had reason behind his actions. Always. Richie would never admit, but he believed Stan to be wise beyond his years, and when Stan did something unusual it was best to pay attention. Richie was smart, brilliant even, but Stan possessed a superpower of intuitive awareness.  

Face stern and focused with calculation, Stan tipped his hooded head in different directions to pick up on a sound Richie failed to initially acknowledge. All Richie heard was rain.

He pushed midnight curls aside to frame his thick glasses, “Stan?”

Pressing a strict finger to his lips, Stan shot him sharp eyes, “Shhhhh.” They listened.

Then he heard it. Little chirps echoed off of the asphalt; a peculiar place for bird noises to be coming from, especially during a storm of this severity. How Stan was able to pick up on the muted cries flashing by on a bicycle astonished Richie. It was indeed a superpower.

Zeroing in on the location of the bird, Stan hopped off his bike and propped it gently against a tree to stay upright. Richie carelessly threw his bike down on the soaked grass lining the sidewalk.

“That’s a black-capped chickadee. A distress call,” Stan informed with concern, Richie trailing close behind.

“Gotcha.”

Stan strutted to a close American elm tree, scaled his eyes up the trunk, and saw a nest. It didn’t titter, make noise, it only rustled with the passing winds of the storm under its protective canopy of leaves. He circles the tree’s trunk and on the other side, in the unmowed grass, a petit bird hobbled, desperately alerting for help.

Richie’s expression was one of bewilderment, “Holy shit, how’d you-”

Bringing his knees to the ground without care of getting grass stains on his khakis, Stan expertly picked the chick up and evaluated it. He stretched out its wings, made sure there was a healthy pulse, and strategically bent certain limbs to check for breaks. Richie just watched with magnified eyes.

Grunting, Stan seemed to have found his answer, “Rich, got anything hard and flat?”

As much as Richie wanted to make a disastrous joke, he refrained.

With Stan gingerly holding the young chickadee’s foot cradled in his palm, Richie innately understood his inquiry. Chucking off his backpack, Richie found a popsicle stick that he had neglected to throw away days ago and snapped it in thirds. He offered a piece of it to Stan’s free hand.

Stan continued, “Get the bandaids out of the front button in my bag too.”

The chickadee had a broken foot. It was nearly shattered from presumably falling out of the tree, needing adjustment and splinting to heal properly. Correcting the bird’s mangled digits, Stan flattened out its foot (even though it nipped his hands and drew blood in places), and used the bandaids to wrap the appendage atop the piece of popsicle stick to keep it straight. While the bird seemed angry with him in the process, it eventually relaxed, and cooed chirps of comfort rather than distress as it was being wrapped. It realized it was being helped and not under siege by a predator. This was a friend.

Richie admiringly observed, sitting cross-legged next to his best friend with a warm smile, “That was amazing, buddy. You’re going to make a great ornithologist some day. I know it.”

Stan only responded with a creviced, dimpled smile. He shed the sweater under his raincoat and made a ‘nest’ in his bag to transfer the chickadee safely. Instead of heading for the ice cream parlor, they rode their bikes back to Richie’s house to care for the young bird and make it a temporary home until it was healthy enough to release back into the wild.

Ice cream could always wait.

Tags (for Key to the Jungle): 

@noahschnapp @speakslowtellmelove @richiefuckfacetozier@notsugarandspice @ellomello16 @neonohe @chairsocks @was-i-even-reddie@addimagination @guacfinn @skeletonscribbles @reddies-spaghetti@iamworried7 @reddietogiveup @yes-dillman-yes @jazzydork @liliemm @notfergusmom @beepbeepdickie @kaspwitch @im-alover @youtubequeens@spotted-plant @loser-hobbs @eds-kas @tozier-boy @thatgazebobullshit@honeybeehanlon @richietoaster @edstozler @bitchbrak

Permatags: 

@edstozler @kaspbrak-eddie @noahschnapp @richiefuckfacetozier @reddies-spaghetti @tozier-boy @eds-kas @thatgazebobullshit @honeybeehanlon @constantreaderfool @reddie-for-anything @s-tanleyuris

[frenchy-and-the-sea]

POI - Trying

HEY @phoenix-failing yOU THOUGHT I FORGOT, DIDN’T YOU? Nah man, I just have horrible writer’s block and can’t finish things without running it to the wire. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! For starting this story of idiot adventures on its journey, and for sticking with us along the way. I hope you had a good birthday. <3

1740 words, hopefully without ruining your characters. ;)

The missive arrived without any sort of warning.

It just appeared a few feet away, with a pop of magical energy and a dull thud that echoed through the chamber like a gunshot. Cavvery picked her heavy head up from where it had been learned against the bedpost and blinked away the hazy images of the paper she was practically swimming in.

“Why?” she groaned, speaking to the empty room like she intended for it to answer. When no answer came, she just sighed and pushed herself painfully to her feet.

The scroll sat amid a cluttered spray of documents that Kate had been helping her decipher, already beginning to crumble to dust as she approached. A faint breeze from the window lifted most of it away, and underneath the scattering ashes she could see a fat, lumpy cloth bag slumped against a veritable tower of paperwork. She scattered the last bits of scroll with a flick of her hand and carefully bent down to inspect it.

A single fabric pin held a note onto the outside, and it's simple, three line message took up nearly half of the paper it was written on:

This is real fucking late. Sorry. Blame Ianry.

Underneath were six names scrawled in various states of legibility, tucked among little notes and doodles that depicted a few sketchy silhouettes assaulting an enormous turtle-beast with a dragon’s head. Cavvery snorted. Those idiots couldn’t go two weeks without finding something big to kill, apparently. She tried to pretend like the shake of her head was exasperation and not fondness, even as she unpinned the note and tucked it carefully into her pocket.

The sack itself fell open the minute she undid its considerable tie - Val’s work, no doubt - and out spilled an array of small trinket bags, each with a single letter stitched crudely into them. Letters for each of them, she realized as she stared, some in multiples and some in slightly larger bags, like they hadn’t been able to find enough in one size to make their point. Cavvery grabbed the nearest one, a little drawstring number with an ‘S’ stitched into it, and tugged it open.

The smell of coffee flooded her senses instantly, coating her nose and throat with the thick, dark scent as she peered inside. A fair two fistfulls of coffee beans had been ladled into the bag, partially obscuring the note tucked among them that read, “For the long nights,” in tight, delicate script. Beside it, a heart had also been scribbled in, and Cavvery didn’t quite make it to fighting off her smile this time.

The next bag was one of Amon’s, full of big pieces of polished black glass that looked like they had been carefully rendered into stiletto knives, and a significantly longer note detailing all of the ways he thought they might be useful. One of Ianry’s held a piece of fire opal bound in golden wire, and a small shark built entirely of cogs and jagged looking scrap; Tara’s was wrapped carefully around two small vials of a very dark brown liquid labeled “Dragon’s Fire” that made her eyes water when uncorked; a very large one about the size of her stacked fists was labeled with a V and an R, so close together that they might as well have been one letter, and contained a still-warm cloth sachet that smell suspiciously of fried dough. There, she stopped, gathering up the whole affair and hauling it carefully back towards Bren’s room.

He glanced up as she shouldered the door open, and the widening of his eyes reminded her suddenly how little she had seen the outside of Ainsley’s office walls.

“Mail,” she said to the question lingering there, shrugging in the approximation of a gesture to the bag in her arms. “From the disaster club.”

Bren snorted. “I didn’t think they’d bother.”

“They probably wouldn’t,” said Cavvery as she flopped down onto the bed beside him, “except I think Ianry told them about our birthdays. And I think they felt bad.”

“Why? They wrecked Kay’s mansion. They let us help.”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t a good gift,” she said. “I’m just saying that I’m not exactly going to try and send this stuff back to them either.”

She tossed him the bag with the ‘VR’ stitched into it, watching out of the corner of her eye as he slowly pawed it open, and then quickly tugged out the sachet inside.

“Should I ask how they’ve managed to keep these warm while sending them?” he asked after a moment, holding up the now undone cloth. Nestled in his hand were a small pile of small donuts, fried golden and coated with a thin layer of cinnamon and sugar.

“Telescription,” Cavvery replied, snatching one of them before Bren could pull back and popping it into her mouth. “They must’ve gotten them right before they sent it to us.”

“To me,” Bren corrected, and yanked the cloth back to guard the donuts jealously behind a turned shoulder. “You’ve already got all of that…. what did you get, anyway?”

They spent a solid ten minutes pouring over the little bundles, settling up gifts directed towards one or the other, teasing each other when they stumbled across the few that were clearly meant as jokes. Eventually, though, the bag lay empty, and they lay surrounded by a small treasure hoard of near-useless trinkets of varying shapes and sizes. Bren licked the last of the sugar and cinnamon from his fingers and set the sachet aside, looking unusually content.

“Well,” he said, “that’s the least boring thing that’s happened to us the last few weeks, at least.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Cavvery, stretching out her back with a wince. “This week Kate took me over a library of obscure Sendran property law and if that wasn’t the most engaging, stimulating, delightful - “

Bren reached over and shoved at her, and she let herself go sprawling onto the bed, snickering.

“I’m serious,” he said when she had smothered the last of her laughter, “I feel like we’ve done nothing but hole up in our rooms for days. I mean, we used to sit around doing fuck all before, but that’s because we were always just….just waiting.”

His tone made Cavvery sit up, just slightly, but whatever memories he was conjuring seemed notably absent of Ambrose’s shadow; he simply looked thoughtful, chewing on his lower lip as he fiddled with the slapdash shark statuette in his hands. She sank back down, pillowing her head on her folded arms.

“That’s not so terrible.”

“It’s not,” Bren agreed. “I definitely wouldn’t go back. I just...this was nice.”

Another moment of quiet rolled over them as they surveyed the array of knick knacks scattered around them on the bed. Eventually, Bren cleared his throat.

“I think we ought to send something back,” he said slowly. Cavvery snorted.

“Don’t bother. They certainly don’t need any more useless garbage weighing them down -”

“It doesn’t have to be this,” Bren said, gesturing with an arm towards the bed, “but I think we should. A note or something, just to say thanks. I think….I think they’re our friends, Cav.”

The silence this time was longer, and decidedly less kind. Some quiet, vile part of her wanted to scoff; what manner of idiot would accept being friends with a group of wannabe world-savers, who ran off into danger on a moment’s notice? Where was the gain in that? The sense?

And more importantly, what wannabe world-saver would want to be involved with them?

“I don’t think us trying to kill them twice really puts us on the road to being friends,” she said after a moment, keeping her eyes on the ceiling. She could let this much of her cynicism out, at least -  the sensible part, the part still far enough removed from Kay that she didn’t hear her voice creeping through her brain.

“And I don’t think they’d have sent any of this if they weren’t at least trying,” Bren replied, his voice inching up into that particular quality it got when he desperately wanted to win a fight. “They killed Kay with us, Cav. They came back for me just because you asked. What else would that make them?”

Cavvery shrugged. “A group of idiots?”

Bren opened his mouth to argue. Paused. Closed it.

“Okay,” he said at last, sounding strangely put out, “fine. Fair enough. I’m still right, though. They wouldn’t have done this if they didn’t give at least a little bit of a shit.”

With a sudden surge of movement, Bren pushed himself haphazardly through the sea of gifts and off of the bed, towards the little wooden writing desk in the corner of the room. He pulled back the chair with a huff and flopped into it, grabbing a piece of parchment from the drawer. Then he turned in his seat, one arm dangled over the back of the chair.

“Just sign it?”

Cavvery pushed herself upright again, eyeing her brother for a long, silent moment. She hadn’t noticed it before, she realized, but he had changed over the last few weeks of boredom they had been wrestling with. There was a looseness to the lines in his shoulders, a slant to his smile that nearly looked easy now. They were neither of them done with the hellish backdrop of seventeen years under Kay and Ambrose, but it seemed rather like Bren had started tearing it down.

It seemed rather like he was the one trying.

Sighing, Cavvery pushed up off of the bed and threaded her way over, just as Bren was starting to scrawl a greeting. She shoved at his shoulder, nearly pushing him clear out of the chair as she slid in to take his place.

“Let me,” she said stiffly. “Your handwriting is terrible.”

Two days later, a scroll appears at the feet of a party of road-worn travelers as they trudge their way through a thin dusting of snow. It crumbles to ash in a matter of seconds, revealing a squat brown sack, decidedly less full than it had been when it had left their possession. On it is a small note, attached with a single fabric pin. It reads:

Thanks for the gifts. We thought we would return your bag, and a few pieces of home.

Stay safe if you know how.

Your friends,

C & B

[blufics]

Eremika Week | Day 2 | New Family/Wedding

Title: Happiness and Its Missing Letters

Pairing: Eren/Mikasa

Syn: A series of notes, texts, and words passed between an awful speller and a lonely girl.

Once upon a time, in Crayola markers on brown construction paper:

Deer Mikasa

i luv you and you are pretty and nice 2 me and i like holdign youre hand, pleeze mary me.

luv Eren

Dear Eren,

You need to fix your spelling. I love you too. Love, Mikasa.

Duz this meen you wont mary me

luv Eren

I will think about it. Love, Mikasa.

Once upon a time, in very sharp pencil on a doodled page:

Hey Mikasa,

what is the ansor to number 4?

Eren, this is an english assignment.

but I do not know the ansor.

You’re supposed to make it up yourself, dummy.

what?! than how does the teacher know what is rite?

I wouldn’t be concerned about content so much as spelling and grammar, if I were you.

your so mean.

Learn to spell.

Once upon a time, in dull pencil on a scrap of notebook paper:

Mikasa, have you been ok?

-Eren

I’m fine. Thanks, though.

No, something’s wrong. What is it?

Nothing’s wrong. What makes you think so?

I mean, you just look...sad. A lot. Anything I can help with?

I’m fine, Eren. Thank you.

Okay. Sorry for intarrupting you.

….It’s fine. You should focus on your work.

Once upon a time, on the blinding screen of a laptop:

Eren: Hey.

Eren: Whats up?

seen by Mikasa.

Once upon a time, in the small space of a cell phone screen:

Eren: You doing alright? I feel like we never talk anymore.

seen by Mikasa.

Once upon a time, somewhere on his own screen:

Eren: where are you right now? your cousin just called me and he’s worried sick.

Eren: Mikasa?

Eren: look I get that we’re not really friends anymore, but this is serious. if your reading this, please answer me. your cousin is freaking out, and honestly I am too.

Eren: Mikasa, I am so serious. your cousins about to call the cops.

Eren: oh my god.

Once upon a time, on her own screen:

seen by Mikasa.

Once upon a time, through the open window:

“Mikasa?”

“.....what are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t get yourself killed, you dumbass.”

“Stop prying into my life.”

“I’ll stop when I know you’re happy.”

“Funny thing: no one’s ever happy. So give it up.”

“I was happy. Once.”

“What, when we were little? We didn’t know anything, Eren.”

“I knew I was happy.”

“Go home.”

“I was happy because I had you.”

“.......that’s bullshit.”

“No, it’s not. It’s true.”

“I’m too tired for this. Take your grade school fantasies somewhere else, Eren.”

“You can’t keep pretending like we weren’t friends.”

“I’m not. We were, and it was great. But now, we’re not. So good-bye.”

“....Fine. Good-bye.”

Later, on her screen:

Eren: Just don’t do anything else stupid.

Mikasa: I didn’t plan to.

seen by Eren.

Later, on his screen:

Mikasa: ...can we talk?

seen by Eren.

Call started.

And through the phone:

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I’ve been….awful. To you, especially.”

“I don’t care about that. I just want to know what happened, Mikasa. I want to help you.”

“And I’ve been stupid, to push you away.”

“You weren’t being stupid-”

“Because you’re the only person who’s cared enough to ask me anything.”

“....is it about your parents?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got all the time in the world. Lay it on me.”

“Alright….”

And on the screen of a laptop:

Mikasa: Hey.

Eren: whats up?

Mikasa: Thank you for listening, last night.

Eren: of course. I’m always here, Miks.

Mikasa: Do you want to maybe do something later today?

Eren: yeah, I’m free. Id love to cach up.

Mikasa:......cach?

Eren: …...thats not right, is it?

Mikasa: ….some things never change, I guess.

And in blue ink, on a cheap napkin:

Sorry, had to pee. Same time next week? Check yes or no.

-Eren

And in black ink, on another napkin:

I paid the check this time. You can’t do everything for me, dummy. Same time next week, as always.

-Mikasa

And in red ink, on a sticky note on her car window:

Flip me over for a fun fact.

And on the other side:

I love you.

-Eren

And, written in black marker on a crisp, white index card, it read,

Mary me?

Luv, Mikasa.

And, through tears, he said,

“Yes. Oh my god, yes.”

Once upon a time, before the tree they raced around as children:

“Dear, Mikasa,

I love you. You’re beautiful, all around, glowing like a goddamn angel 24/7, even when the world tries to throw you under. You’re everything good, everything worth living for in this world, and I have never known what I was supposed to do without you. You are-- pretty. And nice, and I like holding your hand. I promise to make you as happy as you’ve always made me. God as my witness. Love, Eren.”

“Dear Eren,

Thank you for showing me so much. Thank you for always being there, even when I pushed you away. Thank you for giving me a home, a heart, and something- someone- to live for. I promise to be for you what you’ve been for me, to help you find the happiness you’ve brought me, and most importantly, I promise to fucking teach you to spell. God as my witness. Love, Mikasa.”

And, more or less, the two lived ‘hapily’ ever after. As best as they could.

AN: I JUST WANTED LIL BABY EREN TO PROPOSE TO MIKASA THIS WEN TON MUCH FARTHER THAN I THOUGHT IT WOULD IM SORRY