#the bluest gray cat ever

[mumbleclan]

baby died of an infected wound this moon after her tail got injured by a fox while out on patrol

[ajthinks]

Witchtember Day 8

This is from a daily drawing prompt list I repurposed for writing back in September 2022: Witchtember (by SimzArt)

Witchtember Day 8: Cat

The small felizard arched its back and stretched its front legs out. Six tiny claws extended, digging into the rug and releasing several times. It yawned widely, exposing the tiniest of teeny-tiny white fangs in a pink mouth. Jaws snapped shut with enough force to take off a finger. Then, blissfully unaware of the three sets of wary eyes on it, it blinked open the largest, bluest pair of eyes Killian had ever seen.

It was a ball of scaly fuzz, floofy gray fur poking straight out from a pearly sheen of hide, like some mystical snow creature from the frozen north. It was just a kitten. And Killian had never had a pet.

He turned his own big, baby blues on Rin.

“Can we keep it?”

[jellybeandrawsthings]

☹️hi i dont usually do this thing where i ask for art/thoughts on things but ive had a super bad day and i was just curious as to what your take on your wounded-on-krypton Kara would be doing with Lena if she hadn't of come out as Supergirl but they still met and fell in love- would Kara just be floating around Lena's apartment during quarantine listening to Lena read books and making her gf tea's and flying out to get her her supplies so Lena would stay safe from getting sick? I really love your art.

aww, I'm sorry u had a bad day, I made a little doodle and tried writing a little story for it as well that should answear your queastion about my scarred!Kara and her relationship with Lena if she didn’t became Supergirl (tho I'm not a writer, so its quality might not be the best)  hopefully it will make u feel even just a little bit better

The first time she met Lena, Kara was going to L-Corp to get a prosthetic replacement from their new Cybernetic Futures program since she kind of destroyed her old one.

Okay, she definitely destroyed her old one, but to be fair, who knew kicking a cement boulder with a prosthetic leg made from human metals but with the force of an angry and very frustrated superpowered being would destroy said metal leg. Really, who could've predicted that?

Walking into the building with warm coffee in hand proved to be more difficult than Kara hoped, her busted prosthetic making her wobble every two steps since she didn't have a spare she could wear - this was the spare - and the slippery tiled floor didn't help. Making her way to the elevator she kept glancing down focusing on her steps, this meant she didn't notice when a woman absorbed in her phone walked straight into her path. On instinct, she relaxed her body as to not harm the human she collided with, unfortunately, that meant she lost her barely-there, to begin with, balance and was sent sprawling onto the floor and her coffee splashing straight at the woman's shirt. Perfect. Just what she needed today.

She had an apology already forming on her lips when she looked up and for the first time noticed the woman, no, the goddess she bumped into. Her hair was black, but when it caught the light it shone deep chestnut brown and cascading down her back, her skin was pale and looked so soft Kara found herself wanting to touch it, her fingers twitching at her sides. The woman's eyes were green, though her right eye seemed to be two shades lighter, more gray than green. She wasn't looking at her currently occupied with taking in the state of her clothes. And Rao, her clothes. The outfit was that of a businesswoman, high heels ready to kill, dark burgundy slacks with a matching suit jacket, loose black tie, and a white shirt. A white shirt that was now covered in Kara's coffee. Oh no. She needed to fix this, like, immediately. The best place to start is with an apology, right?

———————

Lena was having a pretty normal day, all things considered. She should have known her days are never normal. She woke up early, ate a small breakfast, and went to work. There she had meetings with investors from 8 to 11, some paperwork to sign, a small meeting with the head of R&D at 12, and now she finally had enough time to take a break and maybe grab some lunch. With a certain sandwich place in mind, she made her way down to the ground floor and, while answering some last-minute e-mail made her way to the exit of the building.

Before she could even make it halfway to the wide double door, she felt something surprisingly solid and at the same time very wobbly bump into her, and then a sudden warmth and wetness on her chest. Looking down at herself confirmed what she already suspected, someone, spilled coffee on her. Thankfully it was only warm and not scalding hot the last thing she needed right now was dealing with coffee-induced burns. Making sure her shirt was the only thing damaged in the incident, Lena paid no mind to the person who bumped into her, that is until a very apologetic voice started talking to her. From the floor. Looking away from her ruined shirt, she took in the person frantically trying to apologize for spilling coffee on her, at least that's what she thinks the woman was trying to do, seeing as at his point she was rambling a mile a minute.

The woman on the floor looked young, probably around the same age as Lena herself, she had blond wavy hair gathered in a messy ponytail and hidden behind cute square-framed glasses, the bluest eyes she has ever seen. There was a burn scar covering most of the left side of her face and neck and more peeking out from under her shirt. Her left leg ended right below the knee, and the prosthetic she was wearing looked like someone put it under an industrial press and then tried to put it back into shape with a hammer. She was wearing blue sneakers, jean shorts, and a yellow tank top with tiny rainbow dinosaurs on it that gave her an unobscured view of the rippling muscles in her arms as she gesticulated wildly still rambling out something resembling an apology.

Taking it all in Lena came to one conclusion. She's cute. And so with warm coffee drying on her chest and a beautiful woman at her feet, really what else was there for Lena to do other than ask the blonde out on a date.

———————

They moved in together after a year of dating. Alex asked if they were sure, but there wasn't a doubt in their minds that this was what they wanted. It felt right. And they were glad for this decision since a few months later, they and most of the world's population were confined to their homes.

Days in quarantine were spent working from home on their laptops with their legs entwined together and sharing a blanket out of the view of the cameras. When they weren't working they were finding new ways to entertain themselves. Slowly making their way through the classics of fantasy and sci-fi literature, with Kara floating them above the couch and Lena laying on top of her chest reading aloud from her Kindle was how they were spending most of the evenings. During the weekends when there was less work, Lena tried to teach Kara how to bake - with mixed results - and Kara made it her mission to recreate as many childhood experiences Lena missed out on living with the Luthors as possible. Her blanket fort wasn't the most structurally sound, but it sure was cozy. Movie nights were a nightly routine, and cooking dinner together became the most sacred daily ritual neither of them dared or wanted to skip. Weekly game nights through zoom were initiated almost immediately after lockdown and to no one's surprise, Lena and Alex's competitiveness did not lessen with the development of not being in the same room. If anything it became worse. Bets about how long will it take for the two of them to start fighting and accusing each other of cheating were as much a tradition as game nights itself. Most days though were spent working and lounging together with Kara occasionally flying out to pick up supplies they needed. And when one day Kara flew through the balcony with two cats and a dog saying there wasn't enough space in shelters, who was Lena to refuse those cute puppy eyes (it didn't hurt that the dog and cats were adorable as well).

[casxmorgan]

Books Books Books

100 Years of Solitude

11.22.63

120 Days of Sodom

1491

1984

A Brief History of Time

A Canticle for Leibowitz

A Child Called It

A Clockwork Orange

A Confederacy of Dunces

A History of the World in Ten and a Half Chapters

A Land Fit for Heroes Trilogy

A Little Life

A Naked Singularity

A People's History of the United States

A Scanner Darkly

A Series of Unfortunate Events

A Short History of Nearly Everything

A Song of Ice and Fire

A Storm of Swords

A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments

A Thousand Splendid Suns

A Walk in the Woods

A World Lit Only by Fire

Accursed Kings

Alice in Wonderland

All Quiet on the Western Front

All the Light We Cannot See

All the Pretty Horses

America, the Book

American Gods

American Psycho

And then There Were None

Angela’s Ashes

Animal Farm

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle

Anna Karenina

Anything Terry Pratchett, But, Mort is My Favorite

Anything Written by Robin Hobb

Apt Pupil

Artemis Fowl

Asimov's Guide to the Bible

Asoiaf

Atlas Shrugged

Bartimeaus

Batman: the Long Halloween

Battle Royale

Beat the Turtle Drum

Behind the Beautiful Forevers

Belgariad Series

Beloved

Berserk

Bestiario

Black Company

Blankets/habibi

Blind Faith

Blindness

Blood Meridian

Blood and Guts: a History of Surgery

Bluest Eye

Brandon Sanderson

Brave New World

Breakfast of Champions

Bridge to Terabithia

Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: an Indian History of the American West

Calvin and Hobbs

Candide

Carrie

Cat's Cradle

Catch 22

Cats Cradle

Chaos

Child of God

Choke

Chuck Palahniuk

City of Ember

City of Thieves

Cloud

Collapse

Come Closer

Complaint

Confessions of a Mask

Contact

Conversation in the Cathedral

Cosmos

Crime and Punishment

Dan Brown

David

Dead Birds Singing

Dead Mountain: the Untold True Story of the Dyatlov Pass Incident

Delta Venus

Die Räuber (the Robbers)

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep

Don Quixote

Dragonlance

Dune

Dying of the Light

East of Eden

Educated

Empire of Sin: a Story of Sex, Jazz, Murder, and the Battle for Modern New Orleans

Enders Game

Enders Shadow

Escape from Camp 14

Ever Since Darwin

Every Man Dies Alone

Everybody Poops

Everything is Illuminated

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Fahrenheit 451

Far from the Madding Crowd

Faust

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S Thompson

Feet of Clay

Fight Club

First Law

Flowers for Algernon

Flowers in the Attic

Foundation

Foundation Series

Foundation Trilogy

Frankenstein

Freakonomics

Fun Home

Galapagos

Geek Love

Gerald’s Game

Ghost Story

Go Ask Alice

Go Dog Go

Godel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid

Goldfinch

Gone Girl

Gone with the Wind

Good Omens

Grapes of Wrath

Great Expectations

Greg Egan

Guards! Guards!

Guns Germs and Steel

Guts (short Story)

Half a World

Ham on Rye

Hannibal Rising

Hard Boiled Wonderland

Hatchet

Haunted

Hawaii

Heart Shaped Box

Heart of Darkness

Hellbound Heart

Hellraiser

Hell’s Angels

Helter Skelter

His Dark Materials

Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Hogg

Holocaust by Bullets

House of Leaves

How to Cook for Fourty Humans

How to Win Friends and Influence People

Huckleberry Finn

Hyperion

I Am America, and So Can You

I Am the Messenger

I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream

I Was Dr. Mengele’s Assistant

In Cold Blood

In Search of Our Mother's Gardens

Independent People

Infinite Jest

Into Thin Air

Into the Wild

Introduction to Linear Algebra

Invisible Monsters

Ishmael

It

Jacques Le Fataliste

Jane Eyre

Jaunt

Job: a Comedy of Justice

John Dies at the End

John Grisham

Johnathan Livingston Seagull

Johnny Got His Gun

Jon Ronson

Journal of a Novel

Jurassic Park

Justine

L'histoire D'o

Lamb

Last Exit to Brooklyn

Les Miserables

Lies My Teacher Told Me

Life of Pi

Limits and Renewals

Little House in the Big Woods

Lockwood & Co.

Lolita

Looking for Trouble

Lord Foul’s Bane

Lord of the Flies

Lyddie

Malazan Book of the Fallen

Maldoror

Manufacturing Consent: the Political Economy of the Mass Media

Man’s Search for Meaning

Mark Twain’s Autobiography

Maus

Meditations

Megamorphs (series)

Mein Kampf

Memnooch the Devil

Metro 2033

Michael Crichton

Middlesex

Mindhunter

Misery

Mistborn

Moby Dick

Mrs. Dalloway

My Side of the Mountain

My Sweet Audrina

Nacht über Der Prärie (night over the Prairie)

Naked Lunch

Name of the Wind

Neuromancer

Never Let Me Go

Neverwhere

New York

Next

Night

Night Shift

Norwegian Wood

Notes from Underground

Nothing to Envy: Real Lives in North Korea

Of Mice and Men

Of Nightingales That Weep

Ohio

Old Mans War

Old Mother West Wind

On Heroes and Tombs

On Laughter and Forgetting

On the Road

One Flew over the Cuckoos Nest

One Hundred Years of Solitude

One of Us

Painted Bird

Patrick Rothfuss

Perfume: the Story of a Murderer

Persepolis

Pet Sematary

Peter Pan

Pillars of the Earth

Poisonwood Bible

Pride and Predjudice

Ready Player One

Rebecca

Red Mars

Red Night (series)

Red Shirts

Red Storm Rising

Redwall

Replay

Requiem for a Dream

Revenge

Riftwar Saga

Ringworld

Roald Dahl

Rolls of Thunder, Hear My Cry

Round Ireland with a Fridge

Running with Scissors

Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes

Sapiens, a Brief History of Humankind

Scary Stories to Read in the Dark

Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark

Schindler’s List

Sein Und Zeit

Shades of Grey

Sharp Objects

Shattered Dreams

Sherlock Holmes

Sho-gun

Siddhartha

Sisypho

Skin and Other Stories

Slaughterhouse Five

Smoke & Mirrors

Snow Crash

Soldier Son

Sometimes a Great Notion

Sphere

Starship Troopers

Stiff, the Curious Lives of Human Cadavers

Storied Life of A.j. Fikry

Stormlight Archives

Story of the Eye

Stranger in a Strange Land

Surely, You're Joking

Survivor Type (short Story)

Suttree

Swan Song

Tale of Two Cities

Tales of the South Pacific

The Alchemist

The Altered Carbon Trilogy

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay

The Art of Deception

The Art of Fielding

The Art of War

The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation

The Autobiography of Henry Viii

The Autobiography of Malcolm X

The Beach

The Bell Jar

The Bible

The Bloody Chamber

The Book Thief

The Boy in the Striped Pajamas

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

The Brothers Karamazov

The Call of Cthulu and Other Weird Stories

The Cask of Amontillado (short Story)

The Catcher in the Rye

The Chronicles of Narnia

The Clown

The Color out of Space

The Communist Manifesto

The Complete Fiction of H.p. Lovecraft

The Count of Monte Cristo

The Curious Case of the Dog in the Night Time

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime

The Dagger and the Coin

The Damage Done

The Dark Tower

The Declaration of Independence, the Us Constitution, and the Bill of Rights

The Devil in the White City

The Dharma Bums

The Diamond Age

The Dice Man

The Discworld Series

The Dresden Files

The Elegant Universe

The First Law Trilogy

The Forever War

The Foundation Trilogy

The Gentleman Bastard Sequence

The Geography of Nowhere

The Girl Next Door

The Girl on the Milk Carton

The Giver

The Giving Tree

The God of Small Things

The Grapes of Wrath

The Great Gatsby

The Great Gilly Hopkins

The Hagakure

The Half a World Trilogy

The Handmaid’s Tale

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

The Hiding Place

The History of Love

The Hobbit

The Hot Zone

The Hunchback of Notre Dame

The Hyperion Cantos

The Jaunt

The Jungle

The Key to Midnight

The Killing Star

The Kingkiller Chronicles

The Kite Runner

The Last Question (short Story)

The Lies of Lock Lamora

The Little Prince

The Long Walk

The Lord of the Rings

The Lottery (short Story)

The Lovely Bones

The Magicians

The Magus

The Martian

The Master and Margarita

The Metamorphosis of Prime Intellect

The Monster at the End of This Book

The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

The Music of Eric Zahn (short Story)

The Name of the Wind & the Wise Man's Fear

The Necronomicon

The New Age of Adventure: Ten Years of Great Writing

The Night Circus

The Nightmare Box

The Odyssey

The Omnivore's Dilemma

The Orphan Master’s Son

The Outsiders

The Painted Bird

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

The Phantom Tollbooth

The Picture of Dorian Gray

The Pit and the Pendulum

The Plague

The Prince

The Prince of Tides

The Princess Bride

The Prophet

The Queen’s Gambit

The Rape of Nanking

The Red Dwarf

The Republic

The Rifter Saga

The Road

The Satanic Verses

The Screwtape Letters

The Secret History

The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel

The Selfish Gene

The Shining

The Shrine of Jeffrey Dahmer

The Silmarillion

The Sirens of Titan

The Six Wives of Henry the 8th

The Solitude of Prime Numbers

The Speaker of the Dead

The Stars My Destination

The Stormlight Archive

The Story of My Tits

The Stranger

The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck

The Suspicions of Mr. Witcher

The Tao of Pooh

The Things They Carried

The Time Machine

The Time Traveller’s Wife

The Tin Drum

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green

The Wasp Factory

The Wind Up Bird Chronicle

The Wind-up Bird Chronicle

The World According to Garp

The Yellow Wallpaper

Their Eyes Were Watching God

Things Fall Apart

Thirsty

This Blinding Absence of Light

Tiger!

Time Enough for Love

To Kill a Mockingbird

To Say Nothing of the Dog

Toni Morrison

Too Many Magicians

Traumnovelle

Tuesdays with Morrie

Tuf Voyaging

Undeniable

Under Plum Lake

Universe in a Nutshell

Unwind

Uzumaki

Various

Village Life in Late Tsarist Russia

Walden

War & Peace

War and Peace

Warriors: Bluestar’s Prophecy

Watchers

Water for Elephants

Watership Down

We Have Always Lived in the Castle

We Need to Talk About Kevin

Wheel of Time

When Rabbit Howls

Where the Red Fern Grows

Where the Sidewalk Ends

Why I Am Not a Christian

Why People Believe Weird Things

Wizards First Rule

Wool

World War Z

Worm

Wuthering Heights

You Can Choose to Be Happy

Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

[castielscarma]

Thunderstorm

Part 7 of the #SpnStayAtHome Challenge  (6.3k) @bend-me-shape-me @helianthus21 @pray4jensen Dean Winchester wakes up to blinding light piercing his eyes and turns his back on the window and the sunlight engulfing his room. He doesn't need to feel the side next to him being empty to know that Michael is gone. He probably sneaked away straight after Dean had dozed off, sated after the mind-blowing sex. Dean sighs and gets up slowly. Sated but not satisfied. If that wasn't the story of his life. He stumbles to the bathroom to relieve himself and almost slips on Michael's boxer. Great. He picks them up and tosses them in the trash. Sure, sex with Michael is freaking amazing, he is a beast in bed but it leaves a sour taste in Dean's mouth. It's a feeling that has been intangible but suddenly – in the early morning hours – and after a few months it seems crystal clear: the acrid taste of being owned (not the hot, sexy kind of owned either). Dean grabs an old worn Zeppelin shirt, pulling it over himself and scuffles out into the kitchen. Popping the fridge open, he grabs a jar of peanut butter and some jam. He pushes some bread in the toaster and makes coffee while waiting for the toast to get the right shade of burned. The scent of coffee permeating the kitchen air does some to wake him up, as does the blend of salt and sweet of the peanut butter and jam sandwich, but it isn't until he gets the black liquid of gods inside himself that he truly comes alive. “Fuck,�� he mumbles as the coffee jolts his senses, forcing him to be truly aware since waking up this morning. The headache he sports tells him he was a tad heavy on the drinking, the slight ache further down tells him more than he wants to remember about Michael.

“Who needs him anyway?” Dean mumbles into his coffee.

He looks out the kitchen window. The clouds have scattered, already bending to the might of the sun. It looks like it's going to be a bright and sunny day, a notion that doesn't make Dean any happier. Fuck the sun and sun rays and chirpy tweety birds.

Dean gulps down the last of his coffee and heads out the door to grab the mail. He squints against the sun, the headache flaring up like someone tossed a match to gasoline-soaked rags. Donatello is already up, waving at Dean as he pushes his lawnmower in front of him.

Dean waves and shakes his head slightly in bewilderment. If Donatello keeps mowing the lawn, he'll soon hit the core of the Earth. Thankfully, Donatello is an old fashioned, traditional kind of old man – knitted vests, pipes, and dry crackers – and gets up predawn so hopefully, he'll be finished with the mowing before aggravating Dean's headache further. Maybe some more coffee will help he muses.

Mailbox is empty save the thick newspaper. It could have been worse – bills were never welcome.

As Dean picks up the newspapers he notices that the house next to him is finally occupied. The sold-sign had been up for months and but Dean had not seen a living soul near or on the premises until now.

It seems they came with the truck in the middle of the night. He can see new curtains in the windows, a soft light glowing in a room, and other clues that tell someone is inhabiting the house.

A pot with a tiny little tree sits on the porch, there's some kind of wind-chime moving gently in the slight breeze, and Dean is pretty sure he hears the distinct sound of goats coming from the house.

What the hell? No one seems to notice the bleating. Dean casts a glance at Donatello who seems lost in the magical world of landscaping – that or his allergy meds are keeping him sufficiently in the clouds – and hasn't even commented anything on these four-legged grass chompers intruding.

This has to be against HOA- regulations, Dean thinks. Who the fuck has goats as pets?

Dean can't help but indulge in his curiosity. He grabs the newspaper tightly, and walks to the side, the grass tickling his feet where the slippers don't cover them. Sure enough, at the side of the house, a pen has Harry Pottered itself, complete with two living, breathing goats. One is completely black and the other is all white with two little horns poking up. They both turn as Dean approaches and their bleats stop.

“Hi fellas. You do know that you're in breach of HOA-regulations?” The white goat bleats once and then continues to munch on grass. The black goat on the other hand just stares at Dean. Its eyes are a bit off-putting, a shade of blue that would have looked mesmerizing on a human. On a goat, it seems wrong. “What you looking at? It's not my ass the HOA is gonna haul and turn into kebab.” The black goat keeps it's gaze transfixed on Dean, so much so that it starts to freak Dean out.

He decides to get back inside before his new neighbor goes out to check the commotion.

As Dean rounds the corner, the door to the house opens. Dean has a sudden impulse to hide, and luck as it were, the tree is there. He scurries quickly and stands behind the tree, realizing too late that the spindly branches are not near enough to cover him.

He can't really see the man's face as he pokes up as some branches are in the way, but a halo of black hair and one arched eyebrow is enough for Dean to know he's been spotted. Well, that and that the guy says he can see him.

“I can see you, you know. You must be the Winchester.” His voice is gravelly, and it sends shivers down Dean's spine. Dean hasn't felt like this in forever, excited. It's something that's palpable, a force in the air, the guy's freaking aura, who knows what. Dean just knows that it's there and he needs to see it. Touch it. He steps out from behind the tree.

“Hiya, uh, yeah. I'm the Winchester – Uh, Dean. Your neighbor.” And holy hell and all the devils, is his new neighbor not the hottest thing since crispy bacon? He's almost the same height as Dean, he knows this cause he stares directly into the bluest eyes he's ever seen. His mind goes briefly to the goat's eyes – yeah, they were freakishly blue too – but the goat didn't hypnotize him with his gaze. Just stared at him as if he wanted him six feet under. Judging by the frown the guy is giving him, Dean suspects he feels the same as the goat.

“Hello, Dean. I'm Castiel. I'm well aware that we're neighbors. My house is neighboring yours, it's a given. So why are you near my house, and not yours?”

As Castiel speaks, Dean feels a chill coming on. He looks at the sky briefly, and a weird sense of relief washes over him like he's just escaped something huge and monumental. Grey clouds cover the sun, and while Dean is grateful that the sun is hidden, his headache decides to make itself known right then.

It's like someone swung at him with a hammer. Dean staggers and sways, grabbing the porch railing for purchase. He takes a moment to gather himself, and the neighbor reaches out to steady him, grabbing him by the elbow.

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome. Why are you skulking?” His voice is gravely and sends a shiver down Dean's spine.

“I'm not. I was out to grab my newspaper and I heard a sound. Thought I heard goats. Just checking it out. You're new here but I don't think goats are allowed. HOA are sticklers for us following the no goat rule. It's a no-go.” Dean chuckles slightly but gets nothing in return.

Dean hears a weak rumble in the distance and looks up at the sky again. It seems like a storm is building up. The sky is the color of new asphalt now; the shift from gray to black happening very suddenly.

The new guy just stares at him – kind of like the goat did.

After a beat of silence, he speaks. “HOA only specifies the domesticated animals of dog, cat, rabbit, and horse as being explicitly forbidden.”

“Alright, my bad.” He extends his hand. “I'm Dean.”

The man seems unfazed. “I'm aware.”

Dean stops himself from shaking his head and drops his hand. “Right, and you're...”

His pissed off but very hot neighbor hesitates briefly before answering. “I'm Castiel.”

Dean realizes that he's still standing behind the tree like an idiot. He takes a step forward, rocking on his heels. “So goats, eh?”

A small smile tugs at Castiel's lips. Dean takes that tiny gesture of acceptance. “Yes. Gnasher is the white one and Snarl is the black one. They've been with me for quite some time. I'm fond of them but they can bite your hands off. Don't touch them.”

Gnasher and Snarl? Jesus, who is this guy? Were Ramsey and Butt-Head taken? Dean worries for a second that some kind of psycho has moved into the neighborhood.

He looks at Castiel again but he seems normal enough. Jeans, a black sweater that hugs his body just right, full lips, very full lips that Dean's definitely not thinking of kissing, thick thighs, to have those wrapped around – he needs to rise up his mind from the gutter. Castiel's entire appearance, it all screams normal. Maybe even boring.

Yep, Castiel is definitely boring. “Right, Castiel. Don't worry, no touching. So, which one's the black one?”

Castiel hesitates before answering. “Snarl.” He takes a step back, retreating. “Now stay off my property.”

Dean clicks his tongue and nods. He knows this wasn't the smoothest welcome-to-the- neighborhood-visit but hopefully Castiel didn't think he was a total douche. “Sure. Sorry about – “

Castiel has already closed the door.

Dean sighs and heads over the lawn to his side. He's only taken two steps when the skies rumble. A deep crackle echoes as thunder sweeps over the neighborhood. Rain starts pouring out of nowhere, a strong gush that threatens to not only soak the lawn but flood it.

The newspaper in Dean's hand crumbles under the rain. Donatello has already abandoned his lawnmower. As Dean takes the final step inside and closes his door against the unpredictable weather gods, his newspaper is basically a paper smoothie.

Dean lets out a curse and throws the newspaper away. He grabs an Advil for the headache. It's not as severe as it was a few minutes ago but it's still there, an unwelcoming throb at the center of his forehead.

Forgoing the newspaper, Dean plops down on the couch. It's still morning but the weather is fucking terrible, it's probably gonna rain all day and his hot, totally doable next door neighbor thinks he's a stalking moron. He's earned an entire day in solitude. Besides, it's a Thursday, meaning it's his day off.

Dean puts on Netflix and is wiggling down into the favorite part on the couch when he feels something against the small of his back. He pauses the movie and digs out a pair of black lace panties.

Dean groans as he recognizes them. First Michael with his pump-him-and-dump-him attitude and now he gets a very unwelcome blast from the past. The thin intricate lace panties, probably with silk threads or platinum embroidery – who the fuck knows – belong to his ex-fiancee.

They broke it off almost a year ago – rather he broke it off – so the panties must have been wedged into the sofa during all that time. Dean shudders and drops them on the floor.

Amara had been a piece of work. There was never a dull moment when he'd lived with her. Dean was all for excitement, living on the edge but he was not the one to dive off a fucking cliff Thelma and Louise style. Yet you almost did.

Another crash of thunder startles him from his thoughts, and he's grateful for it, despite his throbbing headache. Everything is better than thinking about that hellcat. The rain patters against the rooftops and Dean decides he's done with thinking about exes and assholes. He presses play and loses himself in the rom-com world. There at least, he's not the only idiot that fails romantically.

And for a while, he can forget about his own sad endings and pretend that he has something, someone in his life that hasn't treated him like shit.

*

“You look like shit.” Charlie's voice is chirpy as she plays with the straw in her milkshake but Dean can see the worry behind her eyes. She's as fierce as the halo of fire kissed hair around her face. “You still working with that douche who refuses to change diapers?”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah but parents have been complaining about her chewing-nails attitude. Abaddon will be gone soon. Crowley is a weirdo but he's protective of his charges and his stature even more. He'll sacrifice her rather than parents losing an ounce of respect towardsLittle Darlings or him.”

“Put her in time-out.” Charlie slurps the last of the milkshake and eyes his.

Dean pushes it over to her. “Here. Glad they're feeding you over there.”

“They do. Wouldn't wanna mess with the cybersecurity expert, but do they bribe me with shakes? Nope.”

Dean grabs a napkin and starts tearing it into small pieces. “We don't put the kids in time-out. Doesn't work that way. And trust me, Abaddon deserves a helluva' lot more than time-out even if we did. She's a redheaded wench of a woman.”

Charlie slaps him on the shoulder. “Hello. Redheaded wench sitting right here.”

Dean grins. “Not you, Charlie, you're far from a wench. More a firecracker of a woman. You're honest, you kick a mean punch – “

“ – and I'll do it again to protect the glory of Moondoor.”

Dean grins at the memory. “Yeah, you did, remind me to never mess with the Queen again.” He clears his throat. “A good right-hand hook and you're smarter than I'll ever be. They'll be lucky to have you, Charlie.”

“Dean, if I didn't know better I'd think you're trying to butter me up. The milkshake is a start. Call me when you grow a pair of boobs and we're game.”

Dean barks out a laugh. “I'll do that.” His smile dies down.

“You can talk to me Dean, you know that.”

Nodding, Dean grabs the mangled pieces of the napkin and pushes them together into a small pile. “Got a new neighbor. Castiel.”

“Oh.” Charlie perks up. “Castiel, how exotic. Is he hot?”

Dean lets out a breath. “Exotic, yeah, you can say that. I mean, Charlie, he looks like he stepped out of a fucking model magazine or whatever. It's just that he thinks I'm a total douche.”

“Why you? How he'd get that idea?” Charlie smiles. “Really good shake by the way.”

“You're welcome, mooch.” But there's no real bite behind his words. “I was kinda um, skulking around his house. Dude's got goats, Charlie.”

Charlie perks up at that. “A hot dude with goats. Dean. He sounds like he's the full package. But you're totally doing it wrong. No skulking, just do it heads on. Offer him a cow. That'll moove him.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I'm serious. They were goats and I checked it out and now he thinks I'm a total creep. He told me to get off his property.”

Charlie makes a face. “How would you think if he was sneaking around your house looking for... I don't know, geese. You look like you could own geese.”

“Geese. I ain't going near any geese. Those long-necked flying death machines won't touch me. And imagine the poop, they're birds, they crap all over the place.”

“You wouldn't have them inside, you dummy.”

Dean laughs. “Oh, wow, sorry I'm not the goose expert here. I forget, you're the expert on all things bird.”

Charlie winks. “At least the birds on two legs.”

“Damn straight.”

Charlie laughs and extends a hand towards him. “Or not.” She pauses and squeezes his hand. “You're alright, Dean?”

He is tempted to say yes. He is really, the shake was kickass, Charlie is such a good friend – he doesn't deserve her – and he is fine. For now. But then she blinks and does that thing with her eyes. “Hey, don't go all Bambi on me.”

Charlie flutters exaggeratedly with her lashes. “What do you mean?”

Dean shakes his head and sighs. “So, Michael just left. Again. I mean, why am I even surprised? He's done it before and it's not like I'm amazing boyfriend material.”

“Dean. Stop. Don't let that anyone fool you into thinking that you're not an amazing guy, and you would be, you are a freaking amazing boyfriend. These muggles don't deserve the awesome wizardry that is you.”

“Yeah, I'm awesomely messed up. And then I found a piece of Amara's clothing and just – it really hit home you know...”

Charlie leans in. “Dean, listen. Amara was wrong. Any girl or guy would be lucky to have you. That Michael and Amara acted like a bunch of assholes, that's not on you. They were not right about you.”

“I don't know, I – “

“I do know. You're worth fancy dinners with the good kind of steak and Pad thai with chicken, meat, and shrimps. You're that level people grind for hours, weeks, and months to achieve. You're the green mushroom in Super Mario, people level up when they're around you.

Dean feels heat color his cheek, an odd mix of anger and shame coiling in his gut. “Yeah, you're my friend, you're supposed to say crap like that. I'm just – “ He rubs his eyes. “I dunno' guess my old age is catching up to me.”

“Your work is literally being surrounded by kids all day long. I saw you last week climbing a tree!”

Dean chuckles at the memory. “Yeah, I don't know how many times I've told Theo not to climb so high on that goddamn tree. He's already fallen once, but he was fine. Kids are soft as sponges at that age... they soak up stuff like sponges too.” Dean makes a face. He still remembers the call from Mr. Cauthon about his son Mat suddenly picking up new and unwanted vocabulary.

“Anyway, I'm just tired of... people. I just want something normal you know. Netflix and chill with actual chilling. Someone that wants to – I don't know... do couple stuff I guess. Not someone who feels the need to sneak away in the middle of the fucking night.”

Charlie nods in understanding. “How about your new neighbor, Castiel?”

“I doubt he'll want to date a weirdo goat stalker, remember?”

“Yeah, but if you were living in Farmland – Fresh Farmer Adventures, I can assure you, even as a goat stalker people would line up.”

Dean laughs and pulls at Charlie's hair. “Thanks, Charlie.”

“What for?”

“For talking goat and making me forget about my miserable love life.”

“Any time, Dean. There might be another way but it's... unconventional. “ Charlie hesitates to say more which piques his interest.

“I doubt it can get any more unconventional than Amara being all possessive and meeting two goats this morning, where I'm sure one was out to take me down.”

Charlie bites her lip briefly before her eyes shine with excitement. “It's a love spell... of sorts.”

*

Dean glares at the paper and then looks at his phone. Modern way or totally insane, incenses waving witchy way? With a sigh, he slides his phone back into his pocket. He'd already tried Tinder and Grindr (and Bee-Miner, what he thought was a dating app but quickly realized was an app for fans of bees, of all things). He didn't have anything left to lose.

“At least not my dignity, that's far gone,” Dean mutters for himself before pulling the curtains together in his bedroom.

He's been downstairs and collected all the ingredients for the love spell and ordered the more obscure ones online. He organizes them in the order they are to be put in the bowl. Charlie had explained that it wasn't that important, 'just chug them in there and say the words, pretend you're that druid when we LARPed a while back'.

Well, that had been fantasy and this was real life. The only thing he'll chug is beer. Dean checks that he has enough matches and then proceeds with the love spell.

First, he gathers the seven flowers. The spell had just said flowers and that they had to be seven different kinds, so Dean had gone to the nearest flower store and bought just one when he saw the prices. Seven dollars for one rose? Not even the big, fluffy kind, but the one that looked like the sad, long lost rose cousin of the Beast's flower.

Dean had decided that it had been much more affordable to pic the remaining six flowers from nature itself. Donatello's garden has flowers in the back, there is grass, so technically that counts as nature.

He rips them apart and tosses them into a bowl, grinding them to mush with a marble pestle. He rakes his fingers through his hair and finds a spot near his ear. He pinches some hair and pulls. Success! He drops the strands of hair in the bowl too.

Where in the seven hells did Charlie even find this spell? He's read every single line at least four times and tried really hard to see Charlie's handwriting in the slanted scribbles but if it's a fake, it's the most elaborate (and so far only) love spell hoax he's ever seen.

He's thought long and hard about the red item. That was the only specification and he'd even texted Charlie, asking her for clarification. Her response had been 'something red, Dean.'

Dean mutters a curse under his breath as he grabs the chili powder container. If he's gonna set this unholy stew on fire, he had decided that he should pick something that is flammable. He opens the container and shakes out a good generous helping of the chili powder straight into the bowl.

Now for the second to last ingredient. Dean fiddles with the paper in his hands. He's folded it three times but the words are burned into his retinas anyway, etched into his soul. It's words that he's ever uttered in silence to himself before– and that has only happened when he'd felt the most desperate, most in pain... most alone.

He paces back and forth in his bedroom, avoiding the spot near the middle of the room where the floorboard always creaks.

It's just words on paper, but it's Dean's hope and deepest desires. And sure, he's thought about it when he was lost, angry and hurt – both Amara and Michael had been a part of that whole mess – but this time it is just him and hope. He sets his jaw in grim determination, walks over to the bowl, and flicks the paper inside.

Alright, one more step to go. He pushes away the doubts and fears that rear their ugly heads. Instead, he grabs the bowl, and clears his mind, so that 'love will come to him'. He'll deal with the aftermath later. Beers are chilled, there's a pie in the fridge and he has Netflix.

He lights a match and tosses it inside the bowl. He's supposed to be closing his eyes right after but he peels one eye open just to make sure that something is burning. Satisfied when he sees the small flame, he closes his eyes and tries to breathe calmly.

Panic rushes through him, quickly followed by self-loathing and hopelessness. Dean exhales and starts humming AC/DC's Thunderstruck which calms him down. Clap, believe and save Tinkerbell. Dean stops humming and waits.

What feels like years pass as Dean stands in his bedroom, with a small fire burning in a bowl like a failed pyromaniac. Then, he just lets go and empties his mind.

He doesn't see shit, just a blackness which is no surprise since he's closing his eyes. Then he hears something, a weak rumble that fades into nothing. Great, now he's interpreting his stomach growls as hidden messages about his nonexistent love life.

The rumble grows louder and Dean's brain finally connects the auditory sensation to actual reality. It's thunder he hears. The soft showering of rain soon follow but the thunder is still present, crackling in the background. It grows wilder and the next explosion of sound causes the small hairs on Dean's arms to shot straight up.

He finds it strange that there's no lightning – but he figures that his mind is doing a half-assed work with his hallucinations as it does with everything else in his life. As if being summoned, something bright flashes in front of his eyes.

The sound of thunder is overwhelming – it reverberates inside of him and makes his heart beat faster – as it eclipses the rainfall. Dean's body is not convinced it's in his bedroom anymore but rather in the eye of an epic storm and his mind screams at him to run.

Another sharp flash of lightning and Dean opens his eyes. He scrambles backward in shock.

Castiel looks at him, mild annoyance on his face. “Isn't there an HOA regulation for trespassing inside someone's home, Dean?”

Dean should be the one being annoyed. It's his freaking hallucination and somehow he's being scolded. It sure sounds like the same gravelly voice that causes the good kind of tremors to coarse through his body and as Dean's eyes take in Castiel's thick thighs – he's built like a tree, his firm stomach, very nice face – ten out of ten, to finally land on his face, Dean knows the truth.

Without a shadow of a doubt, Dean stands in Castiel's bedroom as said guy stares at him, only a pair of boxers covering up him up. The shock of it all, that the spell actually works, that Castiel is in front of him, that he stands there almost naked, all of it makes Dean stumble out words that could have been more eloquent. “I-I – you're almost naked?”

Castiel looks down at himself before paying attention to Dean again, a half-smile playing at his lips. “Your observational skills are amazing, Dean.” Castiel takes another step towards him. Thunder crashes outside the house, still ongoing and the windows rattle with the sheer force of it.

As Castiel slowly walks towards Dean, the darkness follows him like a jealous lover, and soon not even the persistent lighting strikes outside make any difference.

“That's quite a storm outside, hm?” He keeps his tone light. He's a big guy but Castiel is jacked. And even discounting the goat incident, Dean is pretty sure Castiel has all the reasons to try and knock him out, if not kick him out.

“Yes. I've always found thunder to be soothing. There's a beauty to it don't you think?” Castiel quiets down. He narrows his eyes, and there's steel in them. “Now, tell me again, Dean Winchester, how you entered my home?”

Dean takes a step back as Castiel uses his body as some kind of hot, sexy shield. He bites back a laugh. What's wrong with him? He's about to get his ass kicked, Charlie's fucking love spell seemed to – well not work as intended, but something had certainly happened.

Dean raises his hands. “Look, Cas, you won't believe me if I told you. How about I just head back home and we forget all about this?” His eyes rake over Castiel's body before he finds himself. That's something he won't forget.

Castiel walks over to a closet, opens the door, and grabs a shirt. “Indulge me.”

Thunder crashes right above them and Dean jumps at the sound.

Castiel turns, an amused smile on his lips. “Skittish?” He slides into his shirt with ease.

As he closes the door, Dean notices a small piece of framed art hanging on the wall. It looks like a gilded toy hammer of all things.

“Dean. I'll only ask you one more time. My patience is wearing thin.”

Dean tears his eyes from the strange art piece. The hair at the back of his neck stands up. Dean is not the kind of guy that backs down from a fight, but there's a quality to Castiel's voice that not only demands, but expects attention. His eyes are hard, the blue now matching the tempestuous weather outside and Dean thinks of Snarl's goat eyes. They have the same shade of blue. Dean almost starts laughing hysterically at the absurdity of it all but swallows when a hard look from Cas sends shivers through him.

“I –“ He shakes his head. He's gonna sound like a fucking lunatic but here goes. “Long story, and trust me, it's too long even for my liking, my luck with love has been crap. Not just the divorced kind of crap but, yeah. I've tried fucking everything, so this was my last option.” Here comes the fool and isn't it always Dean. “It was a... love spell that someone... uh, gave me. It brought me to you.”

An odd mix of dread and relief war within him, none prevailing but now he's come clean at least.

Castiel starts laughing. “A love spell? That's wonderful.”

Dean looks at Castiel in confusion as his shoulders shake. That was not the reaction he was expecting. He takes a step forward, hand raised. Castiel is still doubled over. Dean briefly contemplates sneaking out while his neighbor is busy taking the train to crazy town but it's as if Castiel can read his mind because suddenly he straightens, a serious look coming over him.

“A love spell! And here I was thinking you were a seith. Haven't seen one for a very long time, but my brother is always up to mischief. I was really close to putting on my gloves.”

Dean licks his lips. Castiel has not only taken the train to crazy town, it appears he's also taken up residence there too and for quite some time. You usually take off the gloves for fighting, but Dean is not going to correct the guy's grammar. “Look, Cas. I don't know what's going on but I ain't no sith.”

Castiel shakes his head, and walks over to Dean, slapping him on the back. “You have humor. I like that.” He steps back, nodding to himself. “A love spell, that usually requires potent magic. Did you find the spell to be to your... satisfaction?” There's an amused gleam in his eyes.

The thunderstorm has calmed Dean notices but the pull of Cas' voice and his words has his body at attention. His words are pure honey, but Dean won't delude himself, magic or no magic. “Yeah, it worked like a charm.”

Castiel hums. “Good. So, do you want to take a ride?”

Dean licks his lips, his eyes momentarily flickering down to Castiel's stomach and going lower still. The guy sure looks nice, thighs still thick as fucking tree trunks, and Dean envies that shirt that gets to cling to all that hot skin. Castiel's hair is dark and disheveled, his eyes possess a magnetic lure, and if he's being honest he wants to plant his lips on Castiel's hot mouth.

He almost goes for it but then he remembers why he did the goddamn spell in the first place. “Um, I don't know. It's not that you're not good looking... actually you're way more than good looking, hot even – Dean clears his throat and stops himself before he lays his heart bare to Castiel. He barely knows him.

“I meant a ride in my car, Dean. We can grab a beer and talk, as a start.”

“B-beer sounds good but – Are you not surprised I just showed up like freaking Jack-in-the-box in your house?”

Castiel tilts his head slightly. “No, things rarely surprise me much these days. We have a lot to talk about. I prefer my love interests to be aware.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Uh, aware? Aware of what?” Castiel grins. “How it is to date a god.” Well, isn't this Castiel full of himself, Dean thinks briefly – Dean's a god too, thank you very much – but Castiel turns his back to Dean. He grabs a pair of pants and snakes a belt through the loops. The buckle is an intricate forging hammer and it definitely commands attention to the love area.

Dean is not sure what to make of Castiel's fashion choices. “You gonna wear that hammer?”

Castiel looks at the wall, at the tiny hammer hanging there. “Younger brothers, you know how they can be. Although I must confess, I do find the joke funny, now. Back then I called thunder on him for over a fortnight.”

“I was talking about your belt buckle.”

Castiel grabs it, giving it a shake. “Of course I am.” He puts on a pair of sneakers and is already out the door.

Dean follows Castiel as he leads them behind the house. The sun is heavy on his back and Dean looks up. The sky is clear, the clouds whiter than toothpaste and bluer than he remembers it to be – it's worse than the Teletubbies sky. All he needs is the sun mocking him with its shrill laugh.

“There was – what happened to the storm? Thunder, lightning, the whole shebang?”

“It stopped.” Castiel says it like it's the most natural thing in the world.

“No, listen. It was like freaking Thor had a birthday party. Loud thunder, lightning strikes that made the hair at the back of my neck stand up. The sky was black! Those things don't just stop.”

Castiel waits until Dean catches up with him. “We can't have a storm now, we're on a beer date. Nothing tastes better than a cold beer on a hot day. The gods must truly be with us.” Castiel chuckles at that.

Dean's been following Castiel but stops in his tracks when they round the corner and he sees Castiel's ride. “That's your ride?” It's almost a whisper.

“Yes, it's a 57'– ”

“ – 57' Thunderbird. Oh, fuck, she's perfect.” Dean tries to calm his stuttering heart. The red paint is flawless and shines in the sun. “Can I touch her? Wow, I never figured you'd be driving a car like this.”

“I moved in a day ago. You already had time to figure me out; after only twenty-four hours?”

“Uh-huh. I would've guessed Prius. Boy, was I wrong.” Dean slowly runs his finger over the paint, sighing. “Wow, we're going on a date in this car, Cas? Marry me, why won't you?”

He can hear Cas laugh softly. “I see you like the classics. I've seen your car, so I'm not surprised.”

“Hell yeah, Baby is my pride but this car... It looks brand new. Must be worth a fortune.”

“Get in. I know the perfect place for beer.” Castiel closes the door behind Dean. “I'll be right back.”

Dean barely pays attention to Cas. The car is in mint condition; it looks like it just left the factory line. He sinks down in the seat and inhales the scent of oiled leather. The seat was made for him. Dean is lost in the car and carefully examines everything.

A bleat interrupts his thoughts. Gnasher and Snarl are trotting behind Castiel. He opens up the passenger door. “It'll be a tad cramped but they're good goats. They will share.”

“Wait, what?” Dean closes his mouth but his brain is still reeling from the shock. “Now just hold on a minute. You're gonna – they're gonna ride in the car?”

Castiel looks at the car and then at Dean. He squints, silence reigning for a minute. “Yes. They're not big for being goats. Come here, Snarl. Gnasher, you've never let me down.”

His voice is calm and holds an unexpected warmth for addressing a pair of goats. Castiel picks up Snarl and puts her in Dean's lap. “Hold her and she should be fine.”

Snarl bleats, her blue eyes looking at Dean with unsettling intelligence. This is wrong on so many levels, car-levels, goat-levels, common sense -levels. “You better not fart or poop or whatever it is you goats do?” Snarl starts munching on Dean's hair but stops when he swats at her.

Castiel grabs Gnasher, the white goat, and puts her down next to Snarl. They balance precariously on Dean's knees. He's old, his knees won't be able to handle all this extra goat weight. “Is this even legal?”

“The legality of this will never be an issue.” Cas smiles at Dean and puts the car in reverse. “I'm looking forward to this beer date, Dean. You've piqued my interest.”

Dean clears his throat and moves Snarl so she's looking at the seat. Her gaze is creepy. “Yeah, same here, Cas. My interest is very piqued.”

Castiel puts the Thunderbird in reverse and off they go. It doesn't rain or storm for the entire day.

[fatbeanbun]

May

Karen Volkman

In May’s gaud gown and ruby reckoning

the old saw wind repeats a colder thing.

Says, you are the bluest body I ever seen.

Says, dance that skeletal startle the way I might.

Radius, ulna, a catalogue of flex.

What do you think you’re grabbing

with those gray hands? What do you think

you’re hunting, cat-mouth creeling

in the mouseless dawn? Pink as meat

in the butcher’s tender grip, white as

the opal of a thigh you smut the lie on.

In May’s red ruse and smattered ravishings

you one, you two, you three your cruder schemes,

you blanch black lurk and blood the pallid bone

and hum scald need where the body says I am

and the rose sighs Touch me, I am dying

in the pleatpetal purring of mouthweathered May.

[lsbaird]

The Devil’s Luck - Chapter One Preview!

A day late but hopefully not a dollar short! It was a deliberate delay, I think we could all use the distraction today, and if I’m looking at post notes I won’t be reloading the news. (Allow me a small interjection: Please please please go vote if you’re eligible. It is without a doubt the most important thing you can do today, and possibly this year. Already voted? Thank you!) Now let’s hunker down and hope for the best. I plan to make soup and play Hades, myself. But you get to remember today as the day you met your new favorite murderer: Etienne of the Order of the Crimson Seal. 

Etienne Vynae Na'Gammon had endured considerable discomfort in the course of his long and shadowy career. He had spent long nights navigating steep and icy rooftops, he had waited out the tides while clinging to pilings beneath the city's piers, and on one (far too memorable) occasion he had traveled down the canals in an olive barrel. In his crowning achievement he had even covered himself in plaster and posed—quite successfully and for several hours—as a garden statue in the middle of a widely-attended soiree. Many was the time he had been out and about the Order's business during the bleakest winter gale, when decent people shuttered their windows and were cozy in their beds. And yet, for all his ordeals, he had never encountered anything as devilishly uncomfortable as a single hour in this accursed carriage.

As if to punctuate the thought, the carriage hit a yet another canyon in the road, and Etienne pitched forward with a barely-contained oath. He’d been travelling now for four days, and he estimated he had spent at least a quarter of the journey suspended in mid-air inside the carriage, rattled around like the bead in a baby's rattle. He landed with a jolt and a groan as the wheels surmounted the crater and plunged gamely towards another. Then again, Etienne mused, maybe it’s not the carriage that’s to blame. Easting roads were not meant for lowland carriages, or for lowland assassins.

Massaging his side as he eased back onto the seat, Etienne drew back the curtain and peered out. A muddy, piney smell unfamiliar to the city-dweller seeped around the glass and crawled boldly into his nostrils. The light was fading fast, but even if it had been noon under the bluest sky, there would still be very little to see outside. Easting's countryside was naked under heaven, the bare bones of her hills clad only in the brief modesty of heather.

The sight of that vast nothingness, rolling interminably into the deepening dusk, made Etienne feel as exposed as a sinner's soul on the cold pan of St. Justicia's scale. There were no havens, no hiding-places on those moors, only sparse bursts of trees here and there, and those were already leaf-bare. The isolation of it struck an unfamiliar chord of loneliness within Etienne. He was sworn to do his duty for the sake of humanity in the broadest sense, but he enjoyed his own company best and had no great love for his fellow man. Under close examination he found most of them to be extremely irritating. Still, in Ivanis City, he knew how easy it was to be invisible in the crowd, he knew how to lose himself among the rooftops and canals. The city was no mere backdrop, it was a fundamental part of his art. If he could transform himself into a blade of grass or a gorse bush, he might have felt equally at home in Easting.

Even worse, his disguise was made to attract the eyes of others, to make him a focus of attention rather than to avoid it. Which was well and good for a distraction when distraction was called for, and quickly shed for comfortable anonymity. But there would be no shedding it now, not for some time. Ephaseus had said that the challenge would be a good thing for Etienne, and make him more well-rounded in his craft.

Etienne was as well-rounded as corsetry could make him, and so far, it had done very little for either his craft or his mood. For one thing, there was something off about the fit. Etienne could not understand the difficulty. The corset had been custom made for him, and had fit perfectly three years ago when he’d poisoned the Viscount of Brinesgreene at a dinner party. But then, that was only for one evening, and his victim was dead before the soup course was finished. It was simply a matter of having to wear it longer and while traveling, Etienne concluded, and there was no other reason (certainly not a reason in the form of numerous ginger biscuits), that it did not fit now. True, the stays of the garment were sterner than fashion demanded, as Etienne's slim steel throwing blades were sheathed between the whalebone, and most ladies already possessed at least a semblance of the curves that Etienne's corset was forcing upon him, but he couldn’t quite fathom the cause. Bad luck, that was all.

The carriage shuddered again, knocking Etienne's forehead against the glass and then sending him in a heap of rumpled skirts to the carriage floor, and this time he indulged in some heartfelt profanity. The carriage slowed, and for a moment he thought his outburst had actually reached the ears of the coachman. But a quick glance outside revealed the first man-made structure Etienne had seen for miles: thorny black iron gates looming up out of the darkness. They had reached the edge of Chancelion.

The gate was lodged in the low hummock of some feudal earthworks that had once enclosed the property, which years ago had been the ancestral seat of some forgotten and long-dissolute noble line. It was Chancelion now, named so by Lord Evern Reichwyn decades ago when he won the whole pile in a game of hazard, and took a fancy to the marble cats perched on the gate. That was the first of Lord Reichwyn’s two legendary card games, a tale still told even as far away as Ivanis City. The second game was even more famous… and had not gone quite so well.

“Miss Elsa Lenoir,” the coachman said, as the gatekeeper approached the twin pools of light cast by the carriage lanterns.

The gatekeeper lifted his shaggy eyebrows and cast a fleeting glance to the window of the carriage. He was too interested in getting back to his warm apartment in the gate to stand and stare for long, however, and Etienne, in his guise as a lady of quality, stared gravely forward into the middle distance without taking note of him. The gatekeeper attended to his duty, the carriage wheels rolled onto the blissful smoothness of fresh gravel, and Etienne's mission at last unfolded before him in shades of greenish gray.

Now in the distance he could see the black shadows of trees, the timber hills a dark stain on the edge of the pale moor. The wind carried their soughing along with the low, aching cry of a wolf.  Etienne frowned at the thought of wolves prowling the countryside. An extra factor to consider, without a doubt. When he was obliged at last to make his escape, he decided he would do so on the fastest horse he could steal.

“Almost there, ma'am,” the coachman called back, startling Etienne from his unpleasant reverie on snapping wolf-jaws. “Less than 'alf a mile.”

Etienne steeled himself to his task. There was a difficult task between him and his freedom, and his frequent trips to the carriage floor had knocked his wig askew. A few minutes' maintenance restored the glossy black curls to their proper places on his shoulders, some repeated pinching forced maidenly color back into his cheeks. His kohl would have to do as it was; Etienne was skilled at the art, but did not trust himself with anything so delicate inside the dark, rattling carriage. A brief inspection in the small hand-mirror pinned to his skirts presented him as a passable version of the portrait miniature Ephaseus had painted, with the exception of the peeved expression. Etienne forced his eyebrows up to get rid of the frown line between them.

The lady-to-be of Chancelion would be fatigued from the trip, and perhaps a little anxious, but she would be excited to meet her future husband for the first time. And who could blame her? Lord Freyton Reichwyn Landry was a bastard, and only recently had he been tracked down as the heir to his great-uncle's property. But he was young, handsome, beloved by his tenants, and fabulously rich. Elsa, on the other hand, had a bloodline that was beyond reproach, but she was a pauper and an orphan, dependent on her wealthy city relations for her room and board. She had little for her dowry save her name, and a ruined family castle that stood derelict and bat-infested in a part of Easting even more remote than Chancelion. Elsa needed a rich husband to save her an endless string of aunts, and Lord Reichwyn needed nothing save for a bit of blue blood to improve his standing among the gentry.

As a match it was absolutely ideal, save for the trifling detail that Etienne was not Elsa Lenoir, and he was determined to murder his bridegroom before the week was out.

One can't have everything in an arranged marriage, Etienne thought, with a dark chuckle, and checked his glass again. He couldn’t help feeling that he was a bit of a step-up on the original. He much resembled the real Elsa Lenoir—who had been selected as much for that reason as for her suitability—with the exception, Etienne presumed, of murderous intent. She was presently socked away with a pious spinster Aunt in the city. Etienne had seen her on a few occasions and knew her well enough, but their social circles did not often overlap. She spent her days attending only the most respectable soirees and the most moral theatre, and would probably be teaching embroidery at a convent school long before word of her ill-fated engagement ever reached the city. It would no doubt be the most mysterious puzzle of what Etienne suspected would be a thoroughly dull life.

The Order had, of course, considered completely inventing a bride from whole cloth, but an unknown woman of mysterious origin would attract the curiosity of the whole district. But a real and boring one, with a family name everyone has heard somewhere, would be no more than a passing novelty, at least for long enough to serve the Order’s purposes. Etienne tugged his glove further up his arm, though his tattooed wrist was well-concealed by kid leather. When this was done, no trace would be found. Not of the ersatz Elsa, or of her doomed bridegroom. They would fade into the legend as a footnote of that second card game, and only the Order would know the truth of it.  

An inviting light glowed beyond the curtains, and Etienne felt the first, long-belated tingling of anticipation for his task. He had no love of killing for its own sake, but he was a man of principles, and he took his craft very seriously. The disposal of his betrothed was only the final flourish in a long, precise dance. First, he would win over the butler, with the charm of a noble lady that had been so wanting (so Lord Reichwyn's letters had said) in Chancelion. From there it was a simple step-by-step acquisition of the hearts of the whole household, and Etienne knew full well that once you had the confidence of the domestics, the rest was as easy as filching cakes from an open pantry. And once the business was done, Elsa would vanish like the mirage she was.

The coachman cooed a relieved noise to his horses, the wheels slowed, and Etienne took a deep breath.  Elsa had arrived.  The curtain was rising, and he affected an air of weariness mingled just so with trepidation, and a tiny sprinkle of glowing excitement. It was a combination sure to win the affection of Lord Reichwyn's butler the moment the kind old soul opened the door. But when he stepped out of the carriage and onto his stage, Etienne got his first unpleasant surprise of the evening.

There was no kindly old butler there, ready to have his heart melted by the gentle beauty of his new mistress.  There wasn't even a crotchety retainer whose heart couldn't be melted even if it was dropped into a forge.  No, there in the rain at the folding steps of the coach was none other than Lord Freyton Reichwyn Landry himself, the Scion of Chancelion, as though he was no better than the footman. He was clear-eyed and handsome in a friendly, effortless way as he held out a warm cloak for his bride-to-be, and he wore a look of concerned relief that was unfairly earnest.

This, Etienne thought, with a sudden and grim foreboding, is going to be difficult.

“Here you are at last!”  Lord Reichwyn exclaimed, as though Etienne was a favorite sister who had spent too long at the county fair, and not a young noblewoman he had never met. “I've been worried sick—mind the puddle, there—all afternoon. Beastly weather for travel, and no mistake. The streams are all in full flood, and Alfred's horse-cart lost an axel in the mud today. I was afraid you'd meet worse trouble out on the moors after dark.  I was just getting ready to go out after you myself.”  

“It was a bit trying,” Etienne admitted, keeping his voice in the warm middle tones that he had decided best suited the demure Miss Lenoir. “But I felt it best to press on, since I… didn't wish to wait any longer to get here,” Etienne finished, at last. It was a weak reason, but he hoped girlish excitement could excuse it. Etienne was no expert on girlish excitement; his usual feminine persona was much more the quiet and murdery type. He thought it probably felt sort of like having to sneeze, but being startled halfway and not managing to get it out. He felt that way now, itchy and tingly in his spine, but he blamed the corset.

Etienne blamed lots of things on the corset.

“The bridge at Keeston washed away,” Lord Reichwyn continued, bundling Etienne up into the cloak and drawing the fur collar snugly around his shoulders. “You only must have just made it across before the river took it down.” His bride-to-be secured, Freyton leaned up into the carriage and emerged with Etienne's small personal case in his hand. “Have you no other luggage, my lady?” he asked, looking around the empty compartment in confusion, as though there was a large trunk of dresses hiding somewhere and he'd missed it on the first pass.

Etienne fiddled with a glass-eyed ermine head on the cloak. “It's to come along later, along with my waiting maid.”

“They will both have to wait, I’m afraid,” Lord Reichwyn said, shaking his head as he shut up the carriage. “With Keeston-bridge gone, we won't be able to get a carriage from the Highroad until they can do repairs.”

Good work, Bruin, Etienne thought. Aloud, he made only a soft noise of concern, one that was eclipsed as his betrothed offered the coachman a room above the carriage house until the roads were passable again.

“Here,” Lord Reichwyn said, on turning around and finding his bride-to-be still staring pensively after the retreating coach. “Let's get inside before—”

With a sudden crackle of thunder, the drizzle became a downpour, and a deluge of icy rain poured down on them like a baptismal cataract. The curl in Lord Reichwyn's blond queue vanished in an instant, and the lace on the modest neckline of Etienne's gown lost all its starch as he struggled to get the hood of the cloak up over his wig. Lord Reichwyn took Etienne's elbow and towed him along towards the house. “Quickly now, my lady!”  

They fled, skirting the puddles in the rutted gravel of the drive, and scrambling up the broad steps of the house.  Once inside the ebony-paneled foyer, they shook rainwater off their clothes and last got a good look at one another.  

“Your painter does not do you justice, my lady,” Lord Reichwyn said, with such wondering admiration that it could not be anything but honest.  Etienne was thinking something along the same lines.  The painter of Lord Reichwyn's portrait miniature had prettified him to city standards, obscuring the clean line of his jaw and falsely darkening the pale sweep of his lashes. His dripping hair and flushed face only enhanced his appearance as a prime sample of healthy Easting stock, a soft-spoken, broad-handed hero suitable for a syrupy novel by some love-starved city countess.  Etienne, however, had not been so fortunate. He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the dim hall mirror behind Lord Reichwyn, and found that instead of a quivering maiden in the blush of first love, the rain had turned him into a drowned badger in a soggy dress.

“You must jest, my lord,” he said, aghast. The careful pile of Lady Elsa's black curls had been plastered straight down against his face; all that remained of their former glory were limp twists at the end, dribbling rainwater down his cloak. His carefully applied kohl was smudged around his eyes, and the chill had swiped an unbecoming streak of red across his nose.  The real Lady Elsa would have dropped dead of shame at being seen in such condition.  

“I assure you, I don't,” his paramour replied, with a perfect bow that contrasted sharply with the spreading puddle of rainwater around his boots.  “But please, you must call me Frey.  I insist.”

At that moment the gruff old butler at last made his appearance on the scene, far too late for Etienne's carefully composed introduction.  Considering the old man's pace, Etienne supposed he must have left the servant's quarters sometime early the day before.  “Your rooms are prepared, my Lady,” he wheezed.  “Will you be wanting some late supper?”  

Etienne leaned on the elaborate newel post of the main staircase with an air of great weariness that was not entirely concocted. “I fear the journey has left me far too fatigued,” he breathed, fluttering his lashes a little.  “I'm not at all used to such hard travel.”  Frey, his attentive affianced, was at his side in a second.  

“It must have been a dreadful journey, lady. You needn't make light of it.  Easting is already bitter this time of year.”  Frey placed an arm under Etienne's but kept a concerned, formal distance; common though his blood was, he would not impose himself on a lady's person.  

Bastard, Etienne thought, uncharitably.  If only Frey had been a repulsive cad right off the bat, with a leer in his eyes and groping hands, it would have been easier. Etienne knew this mission would be a challenge, his master had told him so. But Frey, so far, was the nicest fellow Etienne had met in the whole damn week. That took Etienne's task beyond a mere challenge and into farcical territory. Ephaseus, safe and warm back at Marlyon House in Ivanis City, was probably chortling into his tea at the thought of the whole lark.

“Lady?” Frey prompted, perhaps concerned by the audible gritting of Etienne's teeth, “are you quite sure you're well?”

“Ah, forgive me.” Etienne clutched Lord Reichwyn's arm with both hands, and struggled to inject a measure of gratitude into his smile.  “You are too kind, sir.”  

“Nonsense, I should have sent you straight up to bed at once, not made you stand around in wet things. You’ll catch your death.” Frey turned to his butler, who stood waiting attentively in his dusty black velvets, and plucked the candelabra from his hands.  “Tobias, be a good man and have the cook send up some of her excellent potato soup and a pot of tea for Miss Lenoir.  And none of you are to disturb her until she's rested.”  

“At once, my lord,” Tobias bowed, and crept off to the kitchen at a snail's pace.  Etienne would be lucky to get his supper before breakfast-time.

“It's only a short way,” Frey said, helping his lady up the stairs, his boots making damp prints on the thick carpet.  “I've given you the tapestry room. It's a bit smaller than the traditional best guest room, but that's on the other side of the house and cold as a crypt.”  

Etienne, getting a bit more into his role, answered in a plaintive sigh.  “Oh, I would be happy with a hay bale in the barn now, my lord!”  

Frey laughed as they came up onto the first-floor landing, and it was a friendly, open-handed sound.  “I hope my hospitality is not so poor!  And you must call me Frey.  Everyone does.  Except the servants, of course. One simply cannot make them listen to reason.  But I haven't given up hope yet! Here we are.”

He opened a heavy rosewood door, and bowed his lady into her chamber. Etienne entered, and tried not to flinch.  The room was furnished in an Easting show of wealth and luxury, which was, to Etienne’s taste, an eye-stabbing explosion of colors and textures.  The bed, a vast antique fortress of carved oak large enough to sleep a family of bears, was stuffed to the brim with eiderdown, the pillows barely held in check by the red velvet bed-curtains.  Only fragments of the parquet floor were visible under its coating of vivid rugs, and old-fashioned tapestries covered the walls, concealing the simple wood paneling. There were no less than six mirrors, each one encrusted with more gilt flourishes than the last, each reflecting the bright tapestries in a dizzying whirl.  Etienne tried to imagine sleeping in such a cacophony of patterns and hues, and thought he'd rest better in the belly of a bagpipe.  

Frey was undeterred as he surveyed the room.  “Looks like Toby has a fire going, good.  You should dry out thoroughly before retiring. It's so easy to catch a chill here. Will the room suit you?”  

Etienne eyed an ostentatious gold cherub that was looming with ominous pudginess over the red and green enameled washbasin.  “I'm sure I shall feel right at home,” he demurred.

“I do hope so,” Frey said, fervently.  “It's a lovely view of the gardens in daylight, and—and I can't tell you how glad I am you're here at last.”  He paused, and seemed to forget what else he was going to say, his pale blue eyes going soft as he looked at his future bride.  

Etienne's scalp prickled under his wig; he wasn't quite prepared for this scene yet.  Fortunately, he was spared further ardor by Tobias appearing with a tea-cart and her ladyship's minimal luggage, and Frey remembered how to speak.  

“If you need anything at all, don't hesitate to ask,” he said, as his servant carefully removed the lids from the platters and laid out the silver.  “Breakfast is at nine if you want to come down to the dining room, but if you wish to sleep longer, just ring for a servant when you're ready.  I took the liberty of supplying your wardrobe with a few things, so I hope the delay of your trunks will not prove too troublesome. Shall I send one of the house maids to assist you?”  

“I think I will be fine on my own.”  Etienne held out his hand, and it was promptly accepted.  “I'll have a little supper and then retire at once.  Thank you for your kindness, my lord.”  

Tobias discreetly withdrew as the lord of the manor bowed over Etienne's hand.  “Frey,” he whispered in reminder, and brushed his lips over Etienne's gloved knuckles.  His eyes met those of his presumed lady's, and the moment not only dragged, it dragged as though it had been lashed behind a team of mules and taken through the city square to the gallows.  Etienne at last summoned a dismissive smile, Frey wished his lady good night, and the Lord of Chancelion hurried from the room as though pursued.

The latch clicked, and Etienne collapsed into a chair so appalling it would have sent the minister of the royal household screaming into the hills.  Damn, if it wasn't as bad a start as he had ever done, Etienne thought dourly, peeling off his wet gloves. It was worse than the olive incident, and Etienne didn't even think that was possible.  A lucky thing his lover was so smitten. Etienne could probably have turned up in jackboots and a beard without losing any of his betrothed's affections.  

Damp skirts and the smell of hot soup forced him up again, and with a last suspicious glare at the cherub, he hurried to get himself undressed.  All his clothes, including the corset, had been altered so that he could get in and out of them without help, and in doing so a few liberties had been taken with current city fashion. He had been worried that his slightly outdated stomacher and downright pious neckline might attract too much notice.  He had no such concerns now.  Etienne kicked off his petticoats and scowled at his loud bedchamber. This household wouldn't recognize good taste even if it was indecently assaulted by it in an alley.  

The clock on his mantelpiece chimed ten o'clock and Etienne settled in the hideous armchair to eat his dinner, relaxing a little for the first time in the whole interminable journey.  He only required a day or two to of reconnaissance, after which he could tiptoe down the corridor and murder his fiancée.

Mood considerably brighter at the prospect, he attended to his supper with pleasure.  

[violettesiren]

In May’s gaud gown and ruby reckoning the old saw wind repeats a colder thing.

Says, you are the bluest body I ever seen. Says, dance that skeletal startle the way I might.

Radius, ulna, a catalogue of flex. What do you think you’re grabbing

with those gray hands? What do you think you’re hunting, cat-mouth creeling

in the mouseless dawn? Pink as meat in the butcher’s tender grip, white as

the opal of a thigh you smut the lie on. In May’s red ruse and smattered ravishings

you one, you two, you three your cruder schemes, you blanch black lurk and blood the pallid bone

and hum scald need where the body says I am and the rose sighs Touch me, I am dying

in the pleatpetal purring of mouthweathered May.

May by Karen Volkman

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

You’re Welcome Chapter one

Dear Eira Hastings, 

You have been cordially invited to the 73rd meeting of the illusive club, Morning Glories. Be on the roof of the observatory by midnight tonight or this invite will expire and you will fail one of your classes. 

Sincerely,

Morning Glories

You gotta be kidding me. 

The air is so cold up here I can see my exhales in the air. I have seen the Morning Glories in the school paper. They’re not as illusive as they think they are. No one knows who’s in the club though, only that they exist. The articles never have direct quotes in them either, only anonymous. There’s even a theory going around that there’s a Morning Glory in the paper that gives the club publicity. 

“Ms. Hastings. Glad you made it onto the roof,” a young blonde with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen holds an old style candle holder with the wick lit. She wore all white and had a golden leaf crown on top of her head. “My name is Lilliana but you can call me Lana and I’ll be your tour of the group today,” she tilts her head to the side and looks me up and down. “I’m surprised Jocob thought you'd fit in here, you don’t look like one of our normal recruits.” she turned around and opened the door to the stairway that led off the roof.

Lana walks swiftly down the steps like she has done this a thousand times before. The more that I think about it she probably has. We stop about six feet before the next door. Lana turns to face me once more. “Do you swear to keep this meeting secret? Because if you don't, the Morning Glory’s threat still stands.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever it’s not like I have a choice now is it?.” Lana grins like a cheshire cat. 

“Then welcome to the 73rd meeting of the Morning Glory Illusive Society,” She [synonym for turns] and counts the bricks. I’m starting to think this girl is wacko before she pushes the 73rd one in. 

The entire wall pushes back and slides to the side to reveal a large circle, walls covered in morning glories. Six wooden doors line the circle, but the closer I go to them the more I can see that they’re just paint. But then I see a group of people walk out of one and think again. Men and Women sit and joke on purple couches and a giant cube sits in the middle. All six faces are whiteboards and have the number 73 written on them in black marker. On top of the cube stood hundreds of candles, each in the same style as Lana’s.

“What is this place,” I say as I spin around in a cliche manner to try to get a good look at everything. 

“This is the Morning Glories HQ,” Lana says, the candle that she was holding joining the others on top of the cube. 

“Now that I’m here I’m not going to fail my course am I? How can the Morning Glories guarantee that if I didn’t come that I was going to fail my class?” I had more questions fighting to be leader in line like kindergartners but Lana had started laughing and had her hand up. Signaling that it was her turn to talk. 

“We have eyes and ears everywhere. Take the paper for example, how do you think the paper gets the articles about us when there were no witnesses? How do you think they know who to ask for the anonymous tips they keep getting?” 

“Is there a member inside the paper? Even if there was, he wouldn't have to be extremely clever and cunning to be able to get those articles published in the first place and not found out,” Lana continues to chuckle.

“You seem very clever yourself, you should join me on the paper,” She laughs once she sees my job drop. 

“I am the person on the inside. But if you think you’re going to get any more secrets out of us tonight you’re going to be sorry,” Lana pokes my side and walks to a long glass table with pressed morning glories inside the glass. 

“Fellow Morning Glories, may I introduce to you Eira Hastings. She will be joining us today and I think may even join us, which means less memory wiping we have to cover up,” Lana winks in my direction. “Please be as welcoming to her as possible and as always, please refrain from telling her what our initiation ceremony is, we don’t want to scare her away.” 

Lana bunny jumps off the table and back to me. Why don’t you make yourself better acquainted with the other members? It may help your chances of being invited back.” 

“Invited back?” She shrugs. “You have to be invited back three times to get the chance to be initiated.”

“What if I don’t want to be initiated? And what’s behind those doors?”

“If you want to find out the answer to your question, you’ll want to be initiated, but feel free to decline initiation.” Winking again, Lana turns around to a group of girls calling her name. “Feel free to chat with me anytime you want tonight I won’t be going into any of the painted rooms today so you’ll know where to find me.” I glance around the room and don’t know where to start. 

“Eira Hasting! Thought you’d come,” Jocob jogged towards me in a dark gray turtleneck and black suit jacket. He slings his arm around my shoulder and steers me towards Zane and Zathrian. “Sorry ‘bout the embarrassing drama act, that’s kinda the Morning Glories way of saying to others members that we want you to get an invite.” I cross my arms in front of my chest and shrug off his arm. “Really? Or is that just the way you like to do it?” He laughs and puts his hands up in defense. “Look, Eira, you can ask anyone here, it’s simply tradition. You can even ask Lils if you like, though don’t tell I called her that. She hates it.” I quirk an eyebrow up. 

“Lana.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks. I make a soundless ‘ah’ and watch with a poker face as Zane and Zathrian wave and come over to us. The new addition of people and a couple girls that accompanied the two allowed us to be able to make a cult-mimicking circle. I get offered a glass of unknown liquid and put my hand up to pass while I continue to observe the strange group that had invited me with a wax sealed letter. We went around the circle and the girls introduced themselves. The brunette with a pixie cut said she was Stephanie, and the willowy black girl  introduced herself as Astrid. I nodded my head to greet them.

“So, Eira, what do you think of the club so far?” Jocob says at the same time Zathrian says, “why’d you refuse the drink?” 

“It’s been… interesting.” I shrug as I answer Jocob’s question. 

As the night passed on, the clock struck multiple times, sodas were offered, the amount of chatting dimmed down to a small hum, the Morning Glory headquarters started to empty. I was about to join them in their retirement, but Lana came up and handed me a cup full of a strong smelling liquid. 

“Don’t worry, it’s just chamomile.” She laughs as the disgust on my face drains out and relief takes its place. Lana takes her place on top of an empty table, crosses her ankles. Swinging her legs back and forth so that they disappear under the table only to reappear when she swung them forward. “What are your thoughts on joining us?” 

The night had been entertaining and fun (to say the least). But my increasing curiosity about what was behind those painted doors was the final factor in my decision. 

“I’ll join.”

Taglist: @dustylovelyrun

[nerdgirljen]

Of Cheesy Pick-Up Lines and Forever

Cheesy Pick-Up Lines and Forever by @nerdgirljen

Summary: A Speed Dating event leads to more for a couple of people.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus Size! Reader

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: it’s a fluffy mess, so fluff; slight language.

Word count: 1493

Prompt: Written for @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan for Star’s Full-Figured Fantasy. My prompt was: “I have an hourglass figure, too. Mine just has extra minutes.” I just had to change around the wording a bit to make it fit better.

                                 Cheesy Pick-Up Lines and Forever

The night was dragging on an on as one “date” after another sat down in front of me and gave me some bullshit line on how it was nice to meet me when I could read their expression that said meeting me was anything but. Every single one was the same: bell rings, guy sits, dislike at first sight, awkward conversation until the bell rings again. Over and over and over again.

I hate speed dating. I hate blind dates. I just hate dates in general. It just never turns out well for me in the end. I’m a plus-sized gal living in a world where Hollywood and the media shame us for not looking like those actors and actresses on the silver screen. But I’ve spent my whole life learning to be happy with myself and my body, and what these men didn’t realize is that I’m perfect just the way I am.

And yet they don’t get to see that with the very limited time we’re given with the person across from us.

“Okay, folks!” came the chipper voice of Carla, the Speed Date event hostess. “This will be your last date for the evening. I’ve been noticing that several of you have made special connections tonight, and I am giddy to see those connections flourish into lasting relationships. Good luck!”

I rolled my eyes at her exuberance - Carla is way too chipper for a hot Monday evening in the middle of summer. The restaurant hosting the Speed Date was sweltering, the air conditioning having gone out the day before and the repairman not being able to make it out until the next day. I had just picked up a dessert menu to fan myself when my last date took his place.

I raised my head only to meet the gaze of the bluest of blue eyes I had ever seen. I must have stared into those gunmetal blue orbs for several moments before he waved a hand close to my face, snapping me back to reality.

“You alright there, Doll?” came a humored, baritone voice from across from me. I shook my head to clear the cobwebs that briefly took place of my brain, and smiled at the newcomer to my table.

“I am, actually, Hero,” I replied. “You just rescued me from being lost in your eyes for the rest of the night.” A short bark of laughter from my newest “date” caught me off guard as I’d not had many – or any – laugh at my awful attempt of humor or flirting all night. “I’m Y/N, and I have no idea where that line came from.”

“James,” he said taking my right hand in his. “You looking to order something, Doll?” he gestured to the menu I still held in the one he wasn’t holding reverently. I quickly put it down and shook my head negatively. I pulled my right hand back from his at the same time, but felt as if I was missing something as soon as I did.

“Oh, this old thing?” I laughed.  “No, it’s just too blessed hot in this restaurant. I had hoped to use it to cool off some. I’d have dressed differently had I know the AC was out.”

Another short burst of laughter piqued my interest, and I looked closer at my new companion. He was probably a little over six feet tall – hard to gauge when he was sitting down – with neatly styled hair the color of a freshly poured Guinness. You could tell that he’d been running his hands through it as it was leaning more towards tousled than neat, but it worked very well for him.

His face was a handsome one. He was very easily the handsomest man I’d met all night. His angular jaws could cut glass, and his smile was a crooked one that caused his eyes to crinkle and his nose to wrinkle. His perfect pearly white teeth could be seen from a mile away, or at least I thought, and those blue-gray eyes had a mischievous twinkle that made me think he had both a playful nature and the nature to sin.

“Well, Doll,” he declared. “From where I’m sitting if it weren’t for the damned sun, you’d be the hottest thing ever created.” His smile widened as I laughed at the over-the-top line.

“Yeah, well ‘would you grab my arm so I can tell my friends that I’ve been touched by an Angel? Cause that line was heavenly.’” A loud snort emanated from James, and he doubled over chuckling. I hate to sound cliché, but his laugh was the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. All deep and husky and breathy.

He came out of his laugh shaking his head back and forth, large smile still on his face. “And here I thought my night couldn’t get any better, yet here you are.” His toothy grin turned into a shy smile as my neck and cheeks burned red in embarrassment. “Not too used to compliments?” he asked sincerely.

I shook my head in turn, “Not really. Not in a really long time, at least.”

“Why not? A dame as pretty as you should be getting all the compliments thrown her way.”

“No.” I replied sagely. “Like the other women in this establishment, I also have an hourglass figure. Mine just has several extra minutes.” I smiled ruefully at him. “Not too many men tend to like, let alone compliment, the curvier ladies these days.”

“That’s a damned shame because you truly are the most beautiful woman here tonight.” His eyes conveyed no lies. “I’m glad my buddy forced me to do this.” He shrugged his broad shoulders –which looked rather delicious in that black leather jacket – like it was nothing to compliment me again as if stating a simple fact.

“You know, you don’t have to flatter me, James-“

“Bucky,” he interjected. “My friends call me Bucky.”

“Bucky,” I tested it out, and I really liked the way it felt being said. “Bucky, you don’t have to flatter me. I know I’m the last girl you’d want to be here with.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Y/N! I can’t even begin to tell you just how wrong you are,” he ranted. “Ever since I saw you walk into that door, I’ve waited – impatiently I may add – to sit at your table and get to know you better. Just because you don’t really want to be here tonight – yes, it is evident – doesn’t mean that I don’t see something else. Someone else.

“I saw how excited you got when that one guy showed you a photo of his cat. I saw how you argued vehemently when another said that ‘Feminism is a fad that would fade away;’ he’s very wrong by the way. I definitely saw a little bit of hope shine in your beautiful eyes each time a new guy sat in this very chair and then I saw the disappointment when you realized nothing would amount between the two of you. And I definitely noticed the way your entire being lit up when we were exchanging those really bad pick-up lines.

“So, while I may not know you very well just yet, I do want to get to know you more. And, although, you don’t believe me about just how beautiful you are, I am looking forward to showing and telling you every single day for the rest of our lives just how much.”

Tears filled my eyes at his passionate speech, and lowered my head so he couldn’t see. “But the cat was adorable,” I whispered shakily with a chuckle. I raised my head to look him in the eyes. “Okay, so you’re observant, I’ll give you that, but -”

“No buts, Dollface,” Bucky then took my chin in his hand. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this.”

His eyes never wavered as I took in his words, the blue only darkening the longer we gazed at each other, and I just knew he was being sincere. “Thank you,” I whispered.

“You’re welcome,” he replied softly back. Carla the Cheerful rang that darned bell for the last time and made some announcements we ignored. “Y/N, I need you take me to the hospital. I think I just broke my leg falling for you. Afterwards we can go on our second date.”

I rolled my eyes, but wanted to play along with his silliness. “Bucky!” I exclaimed. “I can only go out with you again if you can lend me a pencil so I can erase our pasts and write our future.”

“That was dorky, but okay,” he chortled. “Hey, Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve seemed to have lost my phone number. Can I have yours?”

I laughed at his attempt to get the last word in, “Sure.” As it turns out, it wasn’t the last line he’d ever give me during our courtship or marriage, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

A/N: I’m not entirely happy with this; it took a totally different direction than I planned earlier. As always, any kind of constructive feedback or comments are greatly appreciated and reflected on so I don’t make the same mistakes in the future. 

[hypokoristic]

Tell us about your cat!

Oh! Daisy! My sweet, sweet girl, love of my life!!

She's a sweet little Devon Rex, pink and gray, biggest, prettiest, widest, bluest eyes you ever did see, I swear it.

She loves to curl up in my lap and take naps. (I don't mind that she's probably just using me as a heat source, I still love her.) She's got a bunch of little shirts and sweaters she wears around the house, because she is a cold little baby. She absolutely adores taking little catnaps by the window in the sun. I've got stuff hanging up so she's just covered in tiny little prismatic rainbows. Hands down one of my favorite things to see, it's so pure and precious, melts my cold, black heart every time.

And don't judge me, but I have been known to crawl up on top of my giant bookshelf in my room to nap with her sometimes. It's a good vantage point, I see why she's so fond of it.

But she's very affectionate and playful, very perceptive and smart and clever. She's always there for me when I'm sad, like she can just tell if I need a little extra love, and she's there, trying to cheer me up. Absolute darling. 😍

[p-artsypants]

320 State Street (19)- April 14, 2017 (Final Chapter)

FF.net | AO3

Previous

There is a special guest included in this chapter. 

—

“So who are we looking for?” Astrid asked, her backpack slung over her shoulder, suitcase in one hand and Stormfly’s cage in the other.

“The pastor of the church is picking us up. You can’t miss him.”

Julius Nyerere International Airport was smaller than O’Hare had been. She peered outside to see palm trees, green green grass, and the bluest sky she’d ever seen, which was quite the difference from the gray dismal early spring weather that they left in Michigan. She was ecstatic to be in shorts.

The flight had gone well enough. Astrid, who had only been out of state a handful of times, was nervous to fly. Luckily, Hiccup was beside her the whole time, his fingers intertwined with hers. Next to him on the other side, was Toothless. Astrid was still completely baffled by the logistics of it, but sure enough, the airline allowed a panther to fly coach. When she asked about it, Hiccup explained that Toothless was a certified service animal, and he in turn was a caregiver for Toothless. It was a double service situation. He and Valka had made the accommodations months ago and it was known in advance that yes, there was a big cat on this flight. No one seemed to mind, since he just sat there, doing his thing. Which was really impressive, for a 20 hour flight. Astrid was more impressed that he could go that long. Eventually, he stretched out across the seats and fell asleep on their laps.

Valka had her own seat mate, Stormfly, in the way of a cage. The bird occasionally sang and made noise, but nothing obnoxious. Valka had a fun time talking to her as well.

After the first hour in the air, Astrid felt herself calm down enough and she began to relax. Still, she held Hiccup’s hand, occasionally lifting it to kiss his knuckles.

“There he is!” Called Valka, pointing to an extremely tall man. He held a sign with ‘Haddock’ written on it. The family rushed over to him, only to be caught up in a hug.

“Mwaba!” Hiccup laughed. “How are you?”

“If it isn’t my little Kwikwi! Look at how big you’ve grown! And who is this pretty girl?”

Astrid held her hand out. “Jambo, I’m Astrid, Hiccup’s girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend, huh?” He playfully elbowed his friend in the gut, and then took Astrid’s hand. “My name is Pastor Mwaba Musonda, but Mwaba is fine. Welcome to the family!” And he yanked her into a hug.

Oh, she was going to like it here.

Mwaba gathered everyone into the church van, where Toothless had plenty of room to stretch out and relax. Not so the case with Hiccup and Astrid, however.

Traffic rules were different here. Mostly a free for all. Not to mention most of the roads weren’t paved. Astrid bounced in her seat, fear creeping in every time they took a corner too fast. Stormfly, likewise, squawked when her cage was rattled.

“You okay back there Stormfly?”

“Earthquake!” she cried.

While they were still in the city, Mwaba stopped at a grocer, and they stocked up on food. Astrid was surprised to see that most of the foods she had come to love were no where to be found.  

Hiccup had three, 10 gallon jugs of water in a cart. “Do you remember the rules about tap water?”

“It’s okay to shower with, but don’t drink it.”

“Very good,” he confirmed. “But even so, you may feel sick until you get used to being here. Whether it’s altitude sickness or something in the food…Just let me know if you feel crummy at any point and we’ll come home and take a nap. Okay?”

She smiled at him, “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. But you need to let me know if you feel sick too, okay? You’re not as immune as you think.”

He rolled his eyes. “Okay okay.”  

Back in the van, Hiccup tapped her shoulder, and held out a dramamine. “You’re going to want this,” he assured.

“Kanganya is about an hour from here, Astrid.” Mwaba explained. “I’ll take the scenic route!”

“Yay…” she said, nausea starting to take root in her stomach.

Despite the conditions, she was in awe of the landscape around her. Everything was much different than it had been in the lakeside town in Michigan. Soon, they were in the mountains, climbing up narrow, dizzying roads.

“How far are we from Kilimanjaro?”

“Those are still a few hours north. You and Kwikwi should go sometime!”

“Kwikwi?” she asked her seat mate.

“It’s Swahili for ‘Hiccup’. They used to call me Kuku, which is the word for chicken…because my name is Henry. Hen…get it?”

“That’s…really complicated.”

“Hey, complicated is my second middle name.” Hiccup said proudly.

“…what’s your first middle name?”

“Unnecessarily.”

She snorted.

They continued through the mountains, going crazy speeds and weaving around other cars and buses. The landscape seemed to stretch on forever, over mountains and valleys, just rich green framed with terra-cotta soil and dotted with brightly colored stucco buildings. Finally, they pulled off the road and into a cluster of buildings. Some were big, made of cement, bricks, and clay and others were just thatched grassed huts. There were about 20 to 30 homes scattered about the hub.

“This is it! Welcome to Kanganya!” Mwaba gestured out the window, proud of his village.

“There’s the church, up there.” Hiccup pointed to a building that sat on a cliff, with a sign outside that said, ‘Bird Mountain Church’.

“The hospital that you’ll be at is about a mile down the road,” explained Valka. “But if you don’t want to walk it, we have a jeep.”

“I can walk it, no problem.” Astrid assured. “What about you Hiccup?”

“I’ll be fine…most of the time,” He shrugged.

As they passed through the village, she spotted a number of big buildings, labelled in English and Swahili.

Then, finally, they turned to the road that went to the church, and veered off slightly into the woods. There, the house Astrid would call home waited. It was decently sized, not as big as Hiccup’s house had been back in the US, but still bigger than she was expecting.

“A group of missionaries lived here before us,” Hiccup stated as they pulled into the driveway. “They had nine kids. When they retired back to the US, my mom and dad bought the house from them and picked up where they left off.”

“It’s convenient for our purposes.” Valka stated. “Sometimes tragedy befalls the village and people need a place to stay. They never like to intrude, but just having a place to stay for a few weeks makes a difference.”

Astrid nodded in understanding.

Mwaba helped carry all the bags into the house, down a long entry way. They passed two closed bedrooms before they got to the living room. Inside, the air was hot and muggy.

“Let me just the A/C running, and we’ll open the windows.” Valka said, going over to the window unit. “We had everything shut up while we were gone to avoid any bugs getting in.”

“Oh right, aren’t mosquitos a big deal here?”

Hiccup opened a window on the other side of the room. “In the country, yes. That’s why you had to get those vaccinations. But our village is pretty safe, since we’re in the mountains.” He popped open a second window. “But I wouldn’t remove the screen from your window.”

“Got it.”

There was a loud ‘whump’ from the roof, and only Astrid jumped. “What was that?”

“Toothless, making himself at home.” Hiccup said without hesitation.

“Astrid,” Valka beckoned in the entryway. “This will be your room. It’s next to Hiccup’s, but the floor squeaks, so you two shouldn’t try any funny business.”

Astrid blushed hotly, while Hiccup whined a pained ‘mooooommmmmm!’

Valka laughed and dragged her suitcase to the stairs. “Mwaba and I are going to go meet with the deacons at the church. You two can unpack or rest…whatever you want. I’ll be back in about an hour.”

Mwaba added, “I heard a rumor that some of the ladies are making a meal tonight.”

“Oh! I don’t have to cook!” The woman laughed. “They certainly know how to make a woman feel at home.” She slipped her shoes back on. “See you kids later.”

“Bye mom.” Hiccup called over his shoulder.

The house furnishings were modest. A plush couch sat against the wall, with two soft chairs and a round coffee table. On the wall opposite of the entry, there were a pair of doors that seemed to lead to a balcony. Next to that, a dining table with several seats sat across from the open kitchen. The kitchen had a small oven and a microwave, much akin to Astrid’s dorm room. It was a nice size, perfect for three people and a leopard to live comfortably.

Her room was small, containing a bunk bed, a small table, and a closet. She dropped her suitcase on the floor and started putting away her clothes. “I am exhausted from that flight. Forget dinner, I’m ready to crash!”

Her boyfriend didn’t respond.

“Hiccup?” She poked her head out into the main room. The balcony doors were open, giving view to the wide, mountain side view. The sun would be setting soon, and it cast the pale yellow room into warm pink light. The landscape just seemed to go on for forever.

She found him lounging on a hammock out on the porch, gazing at the view.

“It’s a lot like back home. But…bigger. In a way.” She assessed.

“The lake view shows nothing. When the mist rolls in, it looks like the map just ends, and that’s it. But this…the hills and valleys, the trees and houses…it just seems to go on infinitely.”

“Hmmm, I guess I never thought about how big the world really is.”

“Yeah.”

Silence stretched between them, peacefully carrying the sacred moment.

It was broken when a goat pleaded nearby, in a human-like scream.

The duo devolved into laughter.

Hiccup sat up carefully. “Hey, come and lay with me.”

“Isn’t that super dangerous? Like, on a hammock.”

“I’m a professional hammock balancer. Trust me.”

“Okay…” She carefully edged her way onto the hammock, but it promptly flipped and dumped them out on the floor.

“Ow…”

“Professional, huh?” Astrid asked, from where her knee was jammed into his stomach.

“Well, we just need to get in it at the same time.”

They both rolled over and clambered up to their feet. Hiccup took one edge and pulled, then rested his knee on it. Astrid did the same. “Kay, on the count of three, we both sit down.”

“Got it.”

“1…2…3!”

And like poetry, they both fell into the net, being cradled on each side.

“Nice,” Astrid appraised, snuggling closer to him, and draping a leg over his. “This is nice.”

He wrapped an arm around her, cuddling her to his side. “You said it.”

The moment they had lost was back, as they both rested peacefully in each other’s presence. Birds chirped as the cool mountain breeze whistled through the trees. The air was fresh.

“Astrid?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you love me?”

Should could have just said ‘yes’, as she always did when he asked that question, but instead, she pondered it for a moment. “You know…we haven’t been together very long. Just a few months.”

“Uh…yeah?”

“In fact, it was a year ago today, that we met.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You remember that?”

“Yeah, I saw it in my facebook memories this morning when we were at the airport.”

He chuckled.

“But in that time…I’ve come to see you as something else, not just my boyfriend. I guess I started taking you for granted. It didn’t really occur to me that I could lose you.”

Hiccup pulled away, and looked down at her, the hammock threatening to tip again. “…you aren’t going to lose me…not if I can help it.”

She smiled and tugged him to lay down again. “I didn’t mean to say it like that. It’s just…after a certain point, I stopped seeing you as a person, and started seeing you as an extension of myself that I never knew I was missing.”

Hiccup reached up and cupped her cheek, his thumb rubbing an invisible line over her skin.

She continued, “In only six months, we’ve been through…some really awful stuff.”

Once the situation with Scott had been resolved, both had begged the other to let it be and never speak of it again. Still, it was a part of their tainted pasts and it would forever be with them, if not in word, then in meaning.

“But if I had to do any of that…without you? I…I can’t even imagine it. You made life worth living. Without you…things would have been so much different.”

He swallowed. “I feel the same.” He leaned in a placed a soft kiss on the tip of her nose. “I didn’t have to go through what you did. I didn’t lose my dad, and I wasn’t in an abusive relationship. But I had my own struggles, my own doubts. But every time you smiled and laughed with me…they didn’t matter. I felt like I belonged beside you, laughing everyday. Because that’s all I ever want, is to make you happy.”

“That’s all I could ever ask for, and to make you happy in return.”

“Then…” He leaned closer, snaking his other arm around her. “Will you marry me?”

She starred at him, wide-eyed and confused.

“I…I don’t have a ring, or anything, but…gosh I didn’t really think this proposal through. I just…needed to say it.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

She nodded, briefly kissing his lips. “I know it won’t happen right away, but I can’t imagine being with anyone but you. So yes, I will marry you.”

In his ecstasy, he crushed her to him, the hammock rocking like a ship in a storm. “Oh Astrid!”

She giggled, struggling to return the embrace, since he had pinned her arms to her sides.

He caught her lips in a deep and tender embrace.

Mark 10:9 “Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate."

[lalonderose]

secret santa gift - ladystardusty

so my giftee for this year’s @homestuckss was @ladystardusty and her request was pretty broad, so i am filling it with this little rosemary/ugly sweaters fic!  it’s 12:02 am on 12/24 so here we go!!!!!

Your name was John Egbert and you weren’t sure when, but it had become somewhat of a Christmas tradition on Earth C for Rose to spend the better part of a month knitting these absolutely horrendous sweaters for everyone, which would be presented to them at first sighting on Christmas Eve, to be worn on Christmas day for gift opening.

It was kind of funny, since Rose was Jewish. Not that any of these religions existed in the history of the new world, since you were literally their gods, but. She still practiced, whether it was out of irony or spite of the new universe, or some other reason you couldn’t begin to conjure.

Come Christmas Eve, your group flocked to your vacant home, filling it with love and sound. When the woman of the day sauntered in, looking serene and untouchable in her blue and white sweater with a cartoonish menorah and….. real flames? What the fuck, Rose. Upon closer inspection, the phrase, “LET’S GET LIT” was embroidered above the flames. This magic bullshit was getting out of hand.

Rose seemed to know that her appearance would be a shocker, a small smile dancing on her black-painted lips. In one hand, she held a bag that no doubt contained each of your collective loved ones’ sweaters for the year. Her other arm was locked with Kanaya’s. Even though the troll detested the ugly sweaters, she humored Rose in wearing one each year. You’d never seen a pair as stunning as they.

Rose’s limbs were long, as though she had been stretched out, her hips wide but not extremely so. She was thin, but you knew she packed a decent amount of muscle, almost like a cat. Her platinum blonde hair was a perfect curtain, just thick enough that you couldn’t see through it, not a single hair out of place when she styled it. What a perfectionist. She was, you knew, of mainly French and a little Korean descent, but looked very much the latter. Her wide violet eyes were a stark contrast to her tawny-beige skin, framed effortlessly with long, dark lashes.

Kanaya was taller than Rose, but you’d noticed most of the trolls were taller than the average human. Her hair and makeup were even more meticulously styled than Rose’s, locked into place with hours of work. She took beauty seriously. Her arms and legs were long as well, her features akin to those of an elf. Her hands and arms were strong, you knew, from years of sewing and from wielding a chainsaw, and apparently she had a very strong core.

So of course, they made quite an entrance, arriving together in their awful sweaters and stunning skirts, undoubtedly homemade. On top of the visual match they made, Rose’s tan skin against Kanaya’s green-tinged gray, you had never seen anyone so in love as they were.

The way they communicated wordlessly or within their own language as they navigated to the center of the room was like art to you, fascinating to watch but something you doubted you would ever understand.

Once Rose and Kanaya made it to their destination, the rest of your company settled around them on the floor or on the couch and chairs. The sweaters were passed out slowly, each person laughing at theirs before showing it off and slipping it on, each sweater somehow more terrible and wonderful than the last. As the host and as tradition dictated, your sweater was given last. It was simple, thick white yarn with a Christmas tree on the front, and your initials in small black print on the back near the neckline.

Your name was Rose Lalonde, and you found immense joy in giving your loved ones gifts you knew they would treasure. The sweaters you distributed were but the first of each person’s set of gifts, all tailored specifically to their tastes.

You didn’t really use your powers as a seer for anything anymore, not since the game ended and you had no real need for them. A few times, though, you found yourself taking a glimpse at your possible choices’ outcomes. Some might consider it cheating, but you saw it as using all the tools available to you, such as glancing at different gifts to find the perfect ones.

You knew, then, that your friends might be pleased by what you gave them. You also knew that with Kanaya on your arm, you would make the most stunning entrance of the day. Really, she was absolutely divine to look at.

Thick, dark lashes framed wide-set jade eyes, eyes that when met with your own, filled with more expression than her body could convey. Her eyes smiled at you with the slightest quirk of her plump green-painted lips, or with a raised brow demanded answers to any question you could ever answer. She didn’t even need to speak full sentences for you to understand what she needed.

A rich, melodic voice that complemented her sweet visage would produce a single utterance: “Rose,” and you were enthralled. You would follow her body language to denote what she needed, and would honestly give her anything.

Sharing the center of attention with her at John’s party was nothing new. Your ecto-biological family was happy, as were you to see them and your friends. It was a cheery gathering, not unusual for the few times a year you would meet.

You found yourself laughing without restraint, enjoying the company of those you loved most. You let your boundaries down, allowing yourself to be open and truly enjoy the present company. Most decisions were made with careful precision, but this was made with your heart.

As the evening wore on and everyone started to settle down, treats were brought out, courtesy of the bluest girl you knew who happened to have grown up in an exact copy of one of your best friends’ houses. It was Jane. Jane supplied baked goods, because she cared deeply about all of you.

You were content, you thought, to finish your night this way: surrounded by your loved ones, eating delicious treats, with the love of your life only a breath away.

[mrvaidya]

In May’s gaud gown and ruby reckoning the old saw wind repeats a colder thing. Says, you are the bluest body I ever seen. Says, dance that skeletal startle the way I might. Radius, ulna, a catalogue of flex. What do you think you’re grabbing with those gray hands? What do you think you’re hunting, cat-mouth creeling in the mouseless dawn?

May by Karen Volkman, Spar (2002)

[thewinterstories]

Eyes like a hurricane, Part 1

Winter Soldier/Bucky Barnes x oc

Word Count: 843

Summary: Cat Austin is an investigative reporter with unanswered questions about Hydra. She’s meeting a source at a park, but soon bullets fly and a stranger arrives.

Warnings: Violence, language

Another chilly spring night in Virginia. Cat Austin couldn’t wait for the warmth of summer to roll in. She was wearing the tan trench coat she kept in her car for emergencies. In spite of the unease, she felt at the moment, the coat was at least keeping her warm and made her look like an old-fashioned journalist.

Just need the fedora with the press pass tucked into the band, and I’d be a regular Girl Friday. She took a right at a fork in the path and walked towards an unlit area of the park.

She wasn’t sure why her contact had wanted to meet here. Sure, she was coming to collect leaked Hydra documents, but he could've just as easily passed them off in a coffee shop. The deserted park made their clandestine meeting seem really obvious to anyone who might get the urge for a late night jog.

Cat shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. She felt eyes on her. She looked around as she kept walking. No one that she could see. There were shadows and a rocky hill with plenty of hiding places, but this was also a park known for its homeless population. She hoped that if anyone was actually watching her it was just a paranoid bag lady.

“Just keep moving,” she whispered to herself. “Get in, get out, go home, and take a warm bath.”

Her eyes caught movement just ahead near the baseball diamond. God, I hope that’s him.

“Ms. Austin?” Came a man’s voice.

“Mr. Osminog.”

Osminog stepped out of the shadows. He was a short man with close-cropped gray hair. Though they had spoken on the phone a few times, this was the first time Cat had actually seen him.

“I have the file,” he said lifting a bulky, manila folder. “Do you have the money?”

Cat pulled a thick envelope from her pocket and tossed it to Osminog. He caught it with one hand, hefted it to see if it felt heavy enough, and then handed her the folder.

“These should answer your questions about what happened in DC, Ms. Austin.”

“That’s what I thought the S.H.I.E.L.D. documents leaked by Agent Romanoff would do, but they didn’t.”

“These are different. Many within S.H.I.E.L.D. have died trying to get these papers. Hydra kept them offline.”

“Then why give them to me now?”

“Hydra was supposed to offer lasting peace. All it did was create chaos. I regret my part.”

“So this is your penance?”

He nodded. “I know they won’t let me live when they find out what I’ve done. I hope you can at least make my death worth it.”

“That’s a little bleak.”

“But realistic.” He paused as if he heard something. “You should go.”

As Cat turned to walk away, something whizzed past her head and hit a nearby tree. Instinctively, she ducked. Several more small projectiles hurtled past. Osminog grunted and fell to the ground.

Oh, god! Someone’s shooting! She looked over at Osminog. He didn’t seem to breathe.

Shit. Cat made a mad dash for the rocky hill she passed earlier. Maybe she could find a place to hide and call the police.

She was halfway there when someone tackled her.

“Don’t move,” the man grumbled in her ear. His voice sounded more concerned than threatening, so against her better judgment she listened.

The man stood up and yelled something in another language. German maybe. Or Russian. She didn’t know enough of either language to narrow it down.

Voices called back from the dark. Cat squeezed her eyes shut and attempted to slow her breathing as she heard footsteps approach.

“We thought you died on the helicarrier,” said one of the men in English.

The man who tackled her gave a short laugh. “It would take more than one super soldier to kill me.”

“Were you following Agent Osminog too?” another asked.

“No, I was on my way to a safe house when I saw your team following this woman. Who is she?”

“A reporter,” said the first man. “Osminog went soft. He gave her some of our files. Is she dead?”

“No, but you are.”

Cat heard several thuds that sounded like punches. Someone fell next to her. She cautiously opened one eye to see a man. His eyes stared off unseeing and his head tilted at an odd angle. With a gasp, she scrambled to stand up. The sound of fighting stopped. Turning to look, she saw one man was left standing. Bodies scattered around him like ghastly flower petals. He wore all black. Gloves covered his hands even though it wasn’t quite cold enough for them. His shaggy brown hair hung over his face. As if sensing her watching him, he straightened his shoulders and met her gaze. His eyes immediately struck her. They were the bluest she had ever seen.

“Hurricane,” she whispered involuntarily.

“What?” Her rescuer cocked his head to the side.

“Oh, nothing. Sorry. That just came out.”

The man glanced around anxiously. “We need to go. They’ll send more.”

[emphasisonem]

Come On, Leave Me Breathless

Summary

“Shit, I don’t want to talk to him,” Bucky huffs, running a hand through his hair and blurting out the first idea that comes to mind, “I really- would you make out with me real quick?”

“What?” the blond bleats, blue eyes wide as he stares at Bucky.

In which Bucky really doesn't want to talk to his ex and enlists the help of an attractive stranger to avoid him.

You can read it here on AO3.

“Natasha, please, just let me stay here in my sweatpants and eat cold Chinese food while bingeing Netflix,” Bucky whines as he pulls a blanket tight around his shoulders. “I’m not fit for human interaction. Leave me here, I beg of you.”

Natasha levels a glare at Bucky as her lips twitch, her green eyes sparkling as she throws a pair of a jeans and a t-shirt at him. Bucky starts, and indignant sound that is certainly not a squeak escaping his lips.

“Barnes, it would be irresponsible of me to let you wallow in this post-breakup funk any longer,” Natasha drawls. “Now stop being so fucking dramatic, get the fuck off of the couch, take a fucking shower and get fucking dressed.  You’re coming with me to this party and I don’t want any arguments.”

“But I don’t-” Bucky protests, mouth snapping shut as Natasha nearly growls, “No. Arguments.”

“Fine,” Bucky hisses, pushing himself up off the sofa and grumbling about friends who should mind their own goddamn business as he closes the bathroom door with a sharp snap.

Bucky’s getting himself a beer when he spots Kyle across the room, dancing close to another guy. Nat’s wandered off to find some girl she’s been hanging out with for the past couple of weeks, so Bucky’s standing at the keg alone, watching his ex dancing with someone new.

Bucky grimaces as Kyle throws his head back, laughing at something his partner has said, and his fists clench as Kyle wraps his arms around the other man.

Kyle had been in one of Bucky’s history classes last semester, and had pestered Bucky for the duration of it, claiming he was super into Bucky and couldn’t Bucky just give him a chance? Eventually, Bucky had been worn down enough to say yes to a date. Kyle was hot, and Bucky was only human.

Kyle had then proceeded to surprise Bucky at every turn over the three months that they’d seen each other. He’d been polite and sweet and incredibly good in bed. But as soon as Bucky had gotten comfortable with the idea that maybe the two of them could be something more, he’d caught Kyle with another guy.

Another guy who is currently grinding up against Kyle like a goddamn cat in heat.

Now, if Bucky’s being honest, he’s not all that broken up about Kyle bailing on him for someone else. Sure, it stings, but really, he’s just angry with himself for trusting the guy in the first place when he should have known better. Bucky turns away, sipping his beer as he tries desperately to keep his gaze from straying back to the dance floor.

“All right there?” a deep voice close to Bucky’s ear startles him from his thoughts, and when he looks up, he’s met with the bluest eyes he’s ever seen in his life. The guy smiling at him is maybe an inch or two taller than he is and absolutely stacked. His blond hair is a bit mussed and his face is a bit flushed from the alcohol Bucky assumes he’s consumed.

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky replies as his eyes dart toward the floor for a moment. He inhales deeply in an effort to compose himself, then smiles up at the blond. “Yeah, I’m all right.”

“You sure?” the guy asks, leaning a little closer, and Bucky’s breath catches in his throat at their proximity. “Because a minute ago you were glaring at somebody out there as though they had murdered your entire family or somethin’.”

Bucky barks out a laugh, shaking his head as the man grins at him.

“Well, to tell the truth, my roommate dragged me to this party because I got dumped recently and my ex-” Bucky pauses to glance over at the dance floor and pales as he realizes Kyle has spotted him and is walking toward him.

“Pal?” the blond asks as he places a gentle hand on Bucky’s shoulder and follows his gaze.

“He’s coming this way, fuck,” Bucky hisses, gaze darting around for a possible escape route, but the room is packed, and there’s no way he’s going to squeeze past all the people surrounding him without Kyle catching up.

“Shit, I don’t want to talk to him,” Bucky huffs, running a hand through his hair and blurting out the first idea that comes to mind, “I really- would you make out with me real quick?”

“What?” the blond bleats, blue eyes wide as he stares at Bucky.

“Please, just so he leaves me alone,” Bucky pleads, one hand fisting in the collar of the guy’s shirt and tugging him forward. “I wouldn’t ask a stranger for a favor like this under normal circumstances, but I’m kind of desperate to avoid him and you’re really hot, so if you could just do me this one favor, I’ll owe you forever and-”

Whatever Bucky’s about to say next flies from his head as the stranger’s lips meet his own. One of blond’s hands tangles in Bucky’s long, dark hair, and Bucky groans at the sensation of blunt fingernails scratching at his scalp as a strong arm encircles his waist.

The blond takes advantage of Bucky’s open mouth, his tongue sliding against Bucky’s own and then running along the roof of his mouth. Bucky shudders, one hand twisting helplessly in the guy’s shirt as he’s backed against a nearby wall. It’s a miracle, Bucky muses, that he hasn’t dropped his beer in the face of this onslaught.

Also, for someone who seemed more than a little surprised at being asked to make out, this guy seems really into it. Not that Bucky’s complaining.  

The brunet’s mouth is heaven, Steve thinks as he kisses the man in his arms deeply. He revels in the low noises he’s teasing from the guy’s throat, and the way the other man’s body shivers against him. The stranger’s dark hair is soft and silky, and Steve tugs at it, hips bucking at the low moan that escapes the brunet’s mouth.

Steve won’t lie and say he wasn’t hoping something like this might happen when he’d started to chat with the guy, but Steve had assumed he’d at least get the man’s name before playing a game of tonsil hockey.

After a few moments, Steve pulls back, breathing heavily. He wonders if his lips are as kiss-swollen as the brunet’s, if he looks as absolutely wrecked as the other man.

“So, um,” Steve begins, and he can feel the embarrassed flush creeping down the back of his neck. “I’m Steve, and that was really-”

“Amazing,” the brunet finishes with a breathless chuckle. “I’m Bucky.”

Steve watches Bucky as he peers around Steve, blue-gray eyes scanning the room for a moment before heaving a sigh of relief.

“He’s gone,” Bucky breathes with a smile that has Steve’s heart beating a mile a minute. “Thank you for that, man, you’re a lifesaver.”

Steve chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck and shrugging. “Yeah, well, what can I say? Bit of a hero complex I guess.”

Bucky’s answering laugh is warm, and Steve can’t help grinning as Bucky grabs his hand.

“Steve do you, uh, do you maybe wanna get out of here?” Bucky smiles sheepishly, eyes dancing with hope. “Grab a bite and chat or something? Because you were sweet enough to talk to me when I seemed down and you are a phenomenal kisser, so I think I wanna get to know you. If you’d be interested, that is.”

“Yeah,” Steve nods, tightening his grip on Bucky’s hand and pressing quick kiss to his lips before tugging him along. “Yeah, I think I would be.”