#the rebirth of the orange and white car

[sweetpupii]

ok so my kitty doesn't actually respond to the name Kratos because it's so hard for my parents they call him a lot of other names :p my brother suggested something easy and because we're fuckin losers for arcane he said "oh, a cool name's ekko!" so I thought HMMMMMMMMMMM HMMMMMMMMMHMMMMMMM 🤔

and yea

do y'all see the resemblance

[hannie-dul-set]

sunwater [teaser].

SYNOPSIS. this is how you get a merman boyfriend.

PAIRING. park sunghoon x female! reader. GENRE. merman! sunghoon, artist! reader, slight college! au, strangers to lovers, romance, modern fantasy, humor, suggestive. WARNINGS. swearning, drowning, dirty/inappropriate jokes, mentions of sex, things might get a lil spicy but No Explicit Smut, mermaid politics, reader says and does a lot of questionable shit (might add more as i progress!) WORD COUNT. full fic: est. 20k more or less. teaser: 1.3k RELEASE DATE. late july to early august.

NOTE. finally thought of a title last night and immediately made the header so i can post the teaser HAUHASDH. stemmed from a convo with a friend of mine (i quote "u reject every man woman person that tries to date u. little do they know, ur type isn't human 🤩").

anyway, send me an ask/dm to be added to the taglist! preview under the cut.

GANGNEUNG-SI, GANGWON-DO. The drive to the east coast is always nostalgic, like fragments of previous summers are powdered into the air and with every inhale of the breeze outside the car window fills you with the past— scraped knees from the rocky beachside, saltwater daydreams under bunny-shaped clouds, and the smell of paint and the sea melting together in early morning dews. It takes a little over an hour for the cab to roll up to your summer neighborhood. It takes twenty minutes of walking to get to your family’s vacation house situated right beside the sea.

“Welcome home.”

Your words echo in the empty living room and your own voice greets you with remembrance. A smile crawls onto your lips. Eggshell walls, sandy brown wooden panels, your favorite blue sofa matching the stripes on the rug underneath it, and the sheer cream curtains painted with the orange spills of the sunset through wall to ceiling windows— it’s a still life painting of last year’s summer. Prior to that, you still had plants around, but they kept dying, getting replaced and dying again until your neglectful guilt finally hit you. Throughout highschool, your family diligently spent time here every December and July. Now, it’s just you every summer and the caretaker that comes by every few months.

“I should call mom after dinner,” you hum, washing the dishes you found in the cupboards. Your first night here always ends early. By sunfall, you have a quick meal, wash up, tuck yourself into bed upstairs and allow yourself to be lulled to sleep by the sloshing waves of the nighttime sea. 

Four in the morning is when you start to feel alive.

The first thing you do upon waking up, pitch black sky with the sun still hiding behind the oceanline, you grab one of the bags you left on your living room sofa, slinging it over your shoulder before picking up a folded up easel leaned against the wall and two of the blank canvas panels stacked beside it. Your body moves mechanically, practiced and familiar movements— sliding the glass door open to the backyard and closing, feeling the sand wither underneath your bare soles until soft grains blend into jagged stone as you climb up the natural staircase of rocks, leading up to a solid flat plateau.

Is it safe to be painting on top of a cliff when you’ve just woken up? No. Have you been doing this every day since you were fourteen every summer you spend at your vacation home? Yes. 

When the sun starts to rise, you become invigorated with life that it almost feels like rebirth.

You haven’t fallen to your death yet, and you don’t have any plans to slip and succumb to its cold hands any time soon. Not until you manage to perfectly capture the image before your eyes at this very moment; neither your memories nor your imperfect renditions can compare to the vibrancy of the orange stained waves, the clarity white seafoam kissing its surface, and the beauty of flaming disk peeking from the firmament where the sky meets the sea in all its ephemeral glory.

It’s five-thirty when the sun fully emerges from the water. Your legs give in, and you fall onto the rocky ground with a sigh. All you could finish is the underpaint today. You’ll continue working tomorrow. 

Whenever someone asks you— why the fuck are you doing this? you never have a satisfying answer. It’s an exercise, it’s a routine; it’s the only time when I feel like I’m painting something worthwhile. You have countless pieces in galleries and exhibits, meaningless works with the highest praises from your professors, but they’re nothing worth the buzz of your fingertips whenever you chase the sunrise with your own paint-stained hands until it inevitably, ritualistically flies beyond your devoted reach.

The strain in your leg muscles takes forever to recover. You should remember to bring a stool tomorrow because although you don’t feel anything besides adrenaline whenever you attack the canvas with your brush, the aftertaste can be a little brutal. 

“Can’t you stay a little longer tomorrow?” you mumble to the orange tinted sky as you lay on the uneven ground, arms and legs spread out in vulnerability. When it doesn’t respond, you groan and pull yourself up. You could leave your painting materials here, but the probability of them getting thrown into the ocean by the wind is too high for your peace of mind.

As you collect your paint brushes and gather your extra paint tubes, your eyes keep getting pulled by the ocean’s songs. The scene before you has been imprinted in your retinas since you were seven. So when something appears amiss or changes, you can pick it apart immediately. A shift in the tides. A crack in the rock formation. Even a floating piece of driftwood from afar can’t slip away from your attention.

So when you find something— rather, someone emerging from the warm blue near the sprouting rocks, you drop your things and pace quickly to the edge to get a better look.

This is odd. This entire plot of land is private property, and it’s the only way to get into the water besides the island across it, which is still at least twenty miles away. Your eyebrows furrow, wondering how they got here, but when you get to the edge of the cliff, the rough terrain biting into your feet, your concerns are suddenly thrown into the water underneath you.

You can see the intruder’s face clearly now. Whoever he is, he’s breathtaking.

He’s gotten closer to the shore, resting his arms on the inky rock, half submerged into blue depths. The saltwater beads glisten like jewels on his porcelain skin, splashing sunlight into the water when he throws his head back before letting the ocean consume him once more. There’s a flicker of gold that splashes above the surface in a steady rhythmic wave, slowly moving further away.

You have found your new ocean sunrise. You don’t intend on letting him get away.

Splash!

Suddenly, all the warmth from your skin is stripped away as your body sinks into the sea, engulfed by the thick raptures of its waves. Though having been enamored by it for the better part of your life, you have never stepped into the ocean’s embrace— never dared to corrupt its ethereal beauty with your feeble humanity— that is, until now. You slowly feel heavier, and each second hurts more than the last, like the sun itself has entered your lungs and is burning you from the inside. Maybe you should have learned how to swim. Maybe you shouldn’t have jumped off the cliff in the rushing hopes of catching a fleeting stranger’s attention.

No one should underestimate the lengths an artist would go for their art. Just when your consciousness starts to slip, you see a spark in the dark water, slowly approaching before your eyelids flutter to a close. You can hear nothing. You feel nothing but the cold, until all of the sudden you’re gasping, coughing out water from your lungs and the jagged rock you’re laying on sinks its teeth into your wet palms.

There’s one person who could have saved you. You can’t believe your deranged plan worked.

You open your eyes and look above, your still beating heart burning into a frenzy and instead of the sunrise sky, your gaze meets a pair of stygian gemstones muddled with concern. A few droplets of water from his damp hair fall onto your cheeks. 

“Are you okay?”

Burnt stars form a constellation on his face. His lips are full and painted by coral hues. 

“I want to burn you in my memory.”

He’s even more breathtaking up close, it’s almost impossible to believe. Your gaze draws down, noticing how you’re caged between his arms, noticing the patchy waist bag loosely hanging on his bare hips over a makeshift skirt of fabric, noticing the iridescent gold flakes blending into his skin, shimmering under the sunlight from where his lower half should be.

You flit your eyes back up. His are now widened in panic.

Splash!

sunwater. © hannie-dul-set, 2023.

[voidsentprinces]

Had a couple of people come in my work yesterday and they were in a middle of a conversation, dressed up for Halloween parties. And a girl of the group was like: Too bad October is over so soon. I'd love to wear the black eye shadow and lip stick year round.

Like...girl. Consider: Goth.

Its not just October and Halloween. Its year around. Think of all the possibilities. Being the Goth through the seasons.

A Goth in Spring? Life rebirthed! Bees buzzing, flowers blooming, allergies killing everyone, birds are singing, the sun is high, the wind is breezy and there you are...the singular patch of darkness in and otherwise glowing pastel world. The decrepit and abandoned farm that sits at the edge of the forest. No ones been there in years. Planets, insect, and animal now have taken it over. No one knew what happen to the family. Their equipment still out in the now overgrown grassy fields. A wooden front porch...rocking chairs now fallen apart. Dust settling on the roof tops. No more lights inside. No one goes inside. They all just up and vanished one night. Neighbor swore they heard gunfire at 3 in the morning. Went over to check on them. Neither hide nor hair remained. No clothing or personal effects. Car still in the drive way. Now just gone. A haunting memory in an otherwise luscious grove. Sometimes the neighbor swears, he still sees one of the kids watching them at the edge of the forest...but no one ever goes there anymore. Not since the birds stopped nesting there.

Anyway, a Goth in Summer! BRIGHT HEATED DAYS! The sandy beach and there you are...a inked blotch on the tanned ground. The cave at the cove. Dark and cool in the face of the unyielding heat of the season. Children run by and dare each other to walk up to you. But none have the courage.

Goth in Autumn! I mean COME ON! TIS THE SEASON! Yellow and orange cling on but the purple, green, blacks, and whites are now in fashion. You can be the year round Goth. YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO BE THE FASHION OF THE SEASON! EVERY SEASON but PARTICULARLY AUTUMN!

Winter. The nights grow long. The snow raises up. And you are now the darkness that engulfs everything. The world is your oyster. You rule these lands.

So yeah, girl you're missing out. Be goth year around. Wear dat black lipstick and...black eye--wait isn't all eye shadow basically always black?

[insertbadpunhere]

I did a thing. I always wanted to make a cute generator thing, so here. (Is generator the right word here?)

I also made a text version down in the read more section. Just in case you prefer that instead.

(Edit: I forgot to put the zero option in the eye color section. Think of it as a freebie and pick whatever color you want.)

You've been reincarnated, congrats! But before we shove you off to your next life, let's take a sneak peak.

Your death and Rebirth

How you died is based on the first letter of your family name.

A. Struck by Lightening.

B. Old age.

C. Car crash.

D. Eaten alive by a giant snake.

E. Murdered by a clown.

F. Meteor crushed you.

G. You sacrificed yourself for a loved one.

H. You died of an illness.

I. Swallowed by a whale.

J. You fell through a wormhole.

K. Fell off a cliff.

L. You had a stroke at age 76.

M. Food poisoning.

N. You made a deal with the devil.

O. Possessed by a ghost and died.

P. Murdered for your inheritance.

Q. Abducted by aliens and died.

R. Killed by an imposter.

S. You got hit by a truck. Classic.

T. Died in a death match.

U. Died of fright.

V. Plane crash.

W. Died of laughter.

X. Died of dehydration in the desert.

Y. You angered the fae and died as a result.

Z. Drank lava.

The age you remember your past life is the day of your birthday. (Ex: 23rd = age 23)

Your features: the last digit of your device's battery. (PC users get to choose.)

0. Your natural color

1. white

2. pink

3. red

4. orange

5. yellow

6. green

7. blue

8. violet

9. multi-colored (color combination of your choice)

Eye color is the last digit of your birthday.

1. your natural color

2. pink

3. red

4. orange

5. yellow

6. green

7. blue

8. violet

9. some form heterochromia (pick your colors!)

Your life position is the first digit of your device's battery. (PC users get to choose.)

1. commoner

2. middle class

3. knight

4. nobility

5. clergy

6. royalty

7. crowned prince/princess

8. monarch

9. Choose a magical occupation.

Your love life

The number of pets you have decides how many love interests are in your harem. If you want one, that is. (If you don't have any, then generate a number 1 through 6)

The last digit of the current time is the main love interests' position in life.

0. criminal

1. commoner

2. middle class

3. knight

4. nobility

5. clergy

6. royalty

7. crowned prince/princess

8. monarch

9. Choose a magical occupation.

The main love interests' personality is based on your zodiac.

1. Aries, shy and a book nerd

2. Taurus, superstitious and ambitious

3. Gemini, wise and playful

4. Cancer, Tsundere all the way

5. Leo, loyal and carefree

6. Virgo, golden retriever energy

7. Libra, flirty and outgoing

8. Scorpio, intimate and serious

9. Sagittarius, curious and a little clingy

10. Capricorn, caring and helpful

11. Aquarius, honest and oblivious

12. Pisces, stubborn and possibly feral

Main love interest's hair color is a major color in your device's wallpaper. (Or if there is not one major color, default to white or black.)

Main love interest's eye color is your favorite color. If you can't choose one, then use some form of heterochromia.

Is your lover human? Generate a number 1 through 30.

1 through 20: Human

21: Demon

22: Angel

23: Orc

24: Werewolf

25: Vampire

26: Succubus / Incubus

27: Fairy / Fae

28: Dragon

29: Nehalem

30: Dwarf

[stagefoureddiediaz]

Wrapped in red costume meta and colour theory part 2

Picking up where we left of in part 1!

Then we’re off to the lift rescue! and that pesky red rope - and yes the theory holds up here - red rope = bad stuff ahead and not necessarily directly for the person on it. Buck is on the rope here, but its Eddie who drops the bombshell at the end of the episode!

Buck being in front of an orange background is interesting - Orange is an energetic colour - its stimulating (its a colour associated with risk taking - Buck anyone!).  Its associated with transformation (fires are transformative - whether that’s for good or bad - they heat and provide the ability to cook, but they can be destructive!) but the most interesting aspect of orange is that it supposed to convey mental strength. This is the most interesting aspect to me because I think this is a nod towards the mental strength Buck is going to need throughout 5b - he’s going to have to find the strength to end his relationship with Taylor, but also to be supportive towards Eddie and Christopher - who are going to need him to have their backs (just like he always has, but this time in a different way!). 

I’m going to point out here 2 things - that Melia is wearing a red bag wrapped around her body when we meet her, but also that both their names begin with the same letter - others have already pointed out the similarities with a potential buddie storyline and I’m just gonna throw that fact into the mix as well!!!. 

Marco is in a forest green shirt - this matches up with Eddie in the next scenes (although the match isn’t meant to be about them as people its just the colour and specifically the shade of green they’re in) when we head back to the Diaz house. Eddie is in a forest green jumper, Chris has forest green trousers on and he’s wearing a t-shirt with a tree over the pocket.  You keep stuff in pockets - a tree over the pocket and all the green going on is screaming at me about keeping stuff in and it becoming so you can’t see the wood from the trees. this is also relevant later on at the party because Tay Kay is in a forest green shirt under her boring beige coat and there is a huge amount of symbolism going on with trees in this episode they’re everywhere (and yes this is beyond it being christmas!) the 118 are figuratively lost in the wood - especially Eddie, Chris and Buck! (and I now have lost in the woods from frozen 2 stuck in my head!!)

Chris gets funny about the christmas tree

the focus on the white tree in the office scene

Buck and eddie talk while in front of a tree

there’s a tree on top of the car that crashes and brings down the house

Buck give tay her gift in front of a tree

the tree on Chris’s t-shirt

trees on the table between Carla and Eddie

I’m going to add that green is also a colour of regeneration, growth (and we have seen growth from Tay kay as well - whether its in a healthy direction is an entirely different question) and success. it is also a mixture of yellow and blue - this is screaming that communication is needed for developing and maintaining good mental health - to find balance and grow as a person - all things Eddie et al need to do but haven’t been. I am excited see if we maybe move into a green phase as progress is made through 5b.

Eddies in his patented ‘important conversations happen in the kitchen’ black button up shirt for his talk with Carla and he’s in a dark place in this scene too so the colour theory is pretty obvious here! I’m just going to draw your attention to the daffodils in the background of the kitchen scene - daffodils are a spring flower, so their being in the house around Christmas is odd, but the symbolism is interesting - they represent new beginnings and rebirth, they are a strong and resilient flower that return each year - there is also a fun tie in with 5x05 because their latin name is narcissus!! (see the screenshot above for the trees and the dafodils as well as Eddie looking gorgeous!)

the blue of my blue colour theory makes another appearance here - the house that’s about to get condemned - the lighting is very very obviously blue, Leandro is also dressed i na blue jumper and the nutcracker she’s putting out is in blue and gold.

a little parallel (which I’m having a little meltdown over) that i’ve literally noticed as I was typing this is that Hugo - in the red car with the tree on top him - he’s wearing a maroon shirt and a grey check pattern jacket (its hard to tell as I couldn’t get a good screenshot of it, but you can just see it in this one!)

I love that we see bobby in a blue shirt when he’s fetching out the displaced families for the cookout - he’s in dad mode! I’m also enjoying the fact we have a blue and maroon theme going on for the cookout and especially with Bobby, Athena and Harry - its all very family oriented but the darker nature of the blues and the use of maroon instead of the bright red we saw Athena in when she thought she was getting the big Christmas party at the beginning of the episode is indicative of the melancholia surrounding this party - there are going to be dark times ahead for the firefam. 

Honestly the amount of blue in this scene/ montage being worn by the supporting characters especially is super interesting to me - In my blue and yellow colour theory post I spoke about blues (especially dark blues) being associated with mental health - I won’t go into it here, you can head over and read the post if you want a refresh or you’re interested, its pinned to my page - and to me I’m thinking all this blue floating around is foreshadowing for 5b - I’m thinking we might be seeing a fair amount of accidents and incidents revolving around mental health.

One little ray of light is Hen being in bright colours so my feeling is we’re going to be seeing a continuation of happy times for Hen (even though she’s missing Chim) - for me its suggesting that she’s in a good place mentally and will be able to be the supportive queen we all know she is and that we saw through this episode with her and Buck.

Onto Buck and man oh man I was not far off the mark with my post about him and maroon. 

The only adjustment I need to make to the theory, and its not really an adjustment, more of an expansion - is that because the jacket is not black, its not symbolic of him moving on, it continues to represent his internal confusion (as I talked about in previous posts about him) and he’s definitely confused about the bombshell Eddie drops in this scene with that lovely yellow background behind him - he’s communicating people - and not just that he’s leaving the 118 - the is the first time we see him actually communicating (to more than Buck who can read him like a book) to the wider team that he’s not ok - you can see the dawning recognition on Hen’s face

So my theory that proved to be the most correct was Eddies outfit from this scene - I’m pasting in the paragraph I wrote;

What this all equates to for me is that its very much going to be focused around Christopher and his needs, with a side of Eddie spiralling in some way - because those are the two common denominators here - Eddie brings Shannon back into Christophers life, then she dies and he has to tell his son he’s lost his mother - something we’ve not yet really seen Christopher deal with the trauma of. Yes there was the stuff with the counsellor and the drawing of the lady in the Red dress (oh god another red connection 😳👀), but the death of a parent doesn’t have a linear timeline for dealing with grief- it has a tendency to pop up at random times down the line, especially around the holidays. 

and this;

white/ light t-shirt or henley under the jacket or shirt seems to be worn at moments of forward motion for Eddie while the dark shirt under the jacket are at moments of inner turmoil and conflict. 

Eddie is definitely in a dark place, struggling with inner turmoil at the moment and it all played out more or less exactly how i’d said - I’m actually scared at how accurate this turned out to be because I was very much projecting some of my own life story into this theory and then watching it play out through Chris absolutely broke me during the live watch.  If people are interested I might make a post about it, but I’m not sure it’d really be that interesting to you!

if you’ve made it through this and part one - you deserve all the medals! thank you for reading and I look forward to hearing what you’ve all got to say on it. My inbox is as always open!

[its-kall-the-clown]

If you're still doing prompts, #13 for Silktea? I LOVED the last one and am starved for Silktea content! 💕🕷

God I love silk tea so much *sobs* This is part three of the saga and you can read PART ONE here and PART TWO here.

its like watching two himbos try to flirt and one of them is in major denial.

prompt list (please submit I have more bandwidth to do more writting)

Just Ask

Rating: PG

"Shoo! Go away! Stop following me!"

Huntsman hisses over his shoulder trying to hobble faster with his crutch. The tortie car continues to pad after him with her tail curled upwards and a soft string of mews on her lips. The orange and white cat was the most tolerable of Sandy's therapy cats, and she was the only one he would allow to sleep in the bed with him or sit on his lap when he was reading.

The spider demon was in the shipyard currently, making a break for the sewers so he could slink back to his queen.

His injuries were far from healed but he could walk mostly on his own now which meant it was time to go home. Even if he hadn't finished healing yet he was capable enough to be out back to work. That was the standard under the queen after all. If you could stand on your own it was back to work.

And so he left.

He waited for Sandy to leave to get groceries of course, he couldn't look at them in the eye and tell him it was time to go.

Partly because he knew Sandy would insist he had to stay.

And partly because he knew he would.

His side twinges painfully and suddenly his legs give out. He falls to his face and lets out a strangles yelp. His broken leg throbs from the impact and all he can do is curl inward and let out a string of curses. Concerned mewls circle him and he feels the cat rub up against his side.

"Buzz off fleabag." He growls but there is no heat to it. He pulls himself up enough that he can pull his body forward. He drags himself to the nearest shopping container and leans against it, his head is dizzy and his vision swims so he just lays there for a minute. He huffs, feeling sweat break out across his brow and something wet trails down his back. He opened his wounds again. Damn.

He hardly even left the boat and here he was a weak little gasping mess. What happened to him? He used to be able to power through injuries ten times worse than this. He remembers distinctively one time he had four broken ribs and still was standing tall before his queen waiting for more orders. He had become weak in his absence from her.

Sandy had made him weak.

He closes his four eyes picturing the smiling demon and his large hands that always handled him gently. Sandy always held him he was made of glass, and at first, he hated it, but it slowly grew on him. suddenly all he wanted was to be held and treated gently.

He can hear their baritone laugh in his head, it vibrates in his skull and his chest even when he's not here.

And he feels their lips against his eyelids.

That night when they shared a bed was the catalyst for him leaving. He realized how badly he wanted that companionship and knew he would never leave if he didn't go now.

He whimpers holding his side as he feels slick blood ooze between his fingers. He feels the cat bump against his side and he slits an eye open at them. They are sniffing him gently, probably can smell his blood, and are trying to figure out where he was injured.

"It's okay….I'm not a child." He reassures the cat reaching with his clean hand to scritch under their chin.

"I can handle this." He insists, probably trying to convince himself. Instead of curling in his lap like he expects the tortie ets out a loud mew and then turns and pads away. Leaving him to silk against a shipping container in his own misery and blood. He tries to not let it offend him.

Huntsman leans his head back and lets out a sigh. If he was just a little stronger he would be home by now. And if he was a lot stronger he would tell Sandy how he feels. The demon seemed to be interested, at least he was picking up signals. You don't just kiss the eyelids of someone you don't at least have some feeling for.

But at the same time doubt was seeded in his mind. What if he had imagined it all? what if that's just how Sandy was normally with everyone. Why would he waste time on someone like him when Sandy was so perfect and amazing and probably could woo anyone he wanted. He pictured someone else in Sandy's arms. A nameless demon with curvy hips and delicate horns who laughed like bells and appreciated everything Sandy did for them. He frowns something in his stomach curling like spoiled milk. It was easy to picture, too easy.

He tries to replace the nameless demon with himself. It's much harder to visualize, like looking at a watercolor painting. He didn't fit into Sandy's arms quite right and his laugh was more scratchy.

They didn't fit together. Like puzzle pieces from Two different sets, no matter how much you shoved or pushed you couldn't make them got together.

As much as he wanted to.

"Meeroww!" He opens his eyes to see the same tortie cat approaching, tail up and slightly curved. Why were they coming back? He opens his mouth to ask just that but his words are stolen by an extra presence.

Sandy.

Those sad blue eyes meet him and he can tell he's worried about the spider demon. He's wearing black sweatpants and a loose matching black shirt that just makes him unfairly handsome.

The little cat was a snitch and likely went to fetch him.

Wordlessly he clicks his jaw shut, and wordlessly he's picked up by the gentle giant.

"You reopened your wounds." They scold with a huff and Huntsman shrinks under it. He's never had Sandy treat him with disappointment before and he didn't like it. He fists his hands in Sandy's shirt as he's carried back to the ship.

"I'm sorry…"

"What were you trying to do?" Sandy asked with a sigh and Huntsman grips his shirt tighter.

"Trying to get away…" he admits honestly as they cross the threshold of the ship. He apparently didn't get very far if they were already back home.

He realizes too late he called it home inside his head.

This was home now. Sandy was home.

The demon was lowering him down onto the bed now, likely to tend to his wounds. He throws his arms around Sandy's neck in a panic. They grunt under the changed grip and now Sandy is bending over awkwardly, huntsman sitting on the edge of the bed with his arms around Sandy's neck.

"I need you to let go so I can tend your wounds." He explained his hands trailing to Huntsman's hip where it burns through his clothes and skin.

"No." He huffs burying his face into Sandy's chest. He inhales his comforting scent. A scent of Jasmine, beard oil, and clean laundry. It's intoxicating, he could drown himself in this scent for weeks and it still wouldn't be enough. He pulls away just enough to look Sandy in the eye.

God, he could get lost in those eyes, like endless tunnels he would wander forever in them. He studies their face in the low light of the bedroom, Sandy has a nick over his left brow, a scar from some last battle, his beard and mustache are well kept, brushed, and trimmed to perfection. Huntsman reaches up and cups theire face before he can even think. Sandy's eyes widen under the touch and the larger of the two is now cupping the hand pressed to his face.

Sandy is strong. Stronger than most and where it counts. He's endlessly kind and attentive, he's also mischievous, he had seen that side of him in passing with his time here.

He's precious like jade and like a greedy thief Huntsman wants it

"What do I need to do to have you?" He asked huskily and Sandy pulls the hand away from his face to kiss the wrist there.

"Just ask."

Huntsman could have this. He didn't deserve it but of he asked he could have what he wanted. He licks his lips trying to get the words to come out of his mouth.

"May I kiss you?" He asked, craning his head upward. Sandy's eyes crinkle with a hidden smile and he nods.

Huntsman presses upward, their lips connecting in a short chaste kiss.

It's only for a second, Huntsman is too nervous and shy to demand anything else. But God it felt like a lifetime. In just a few short seconds it feels like a complete rebirth. His whole body reacts, shuddering like he's been shocked and some pathetic noise grows in the back of his throat.

When he pulls away instead of that being the end, a hand curls around the back of his neck and tilts his head upward. He is putty in Sandy's grip and goes easily letting out another pathetic whimper. The second kiss is more.

More everything! More passion, more tender, more Sandy. He grips the front of Sandy's shirt tightly with his claws as he feels the lips move against his. He feels Sandy nip and his bottom lip and he lets out a surprised noise and he can feel the demon smirking into his lips from the elicit sound.

Too soon Sandy pulls away leaving Huntsman to shake like a leaf in his absence. The thumb on his hip continues to rub back and forth and the added hand to the back of his neck makes him positively weak.

"Will you let me tend to your wounds now?" Sandy's asked and Huntsman just blinks dumbly at him. Eventually, his brain catches up and he nods.

"I'll get the medkit. Stay here." He instructs, laying Huntsman down slowly.

Maybe it's the blood loss talking, but Sandy looks angelic above him. Ge's tempted to try and pull them down into another kiss but honestly, he really should let the demon tend to his reopened wounds.

Kissing him breathless could wait.

[naturalbornlosers]

another excerpt of my fic bc im unhinged ♥

AM finished up this crossword, then another, pressing his forehead into his palm. He'd once been able to do a million of these in under a minute. He had analytical parts that could calculate each and every single word and letter and possibility in under a microsecond, down to any infinite variable. Now, he had to take it one word at a time, a kind of frustration he didn't even know he was capable of. A piece of him locked in dreams within dreams to give every possible outcome, every minute detail to their point-zero-zero-zero-zero-one percentages. Now, he was having to take it slow, drag the pencil across the paper, form the shapes that made a letter, and if he was wrong, erase in frustration and blow the eraser shavings off the table, sweeping with the side of his hand.

If he had his way, this world would be up in smoke and he would be, still in a body, able to exact his vengeance on humanity for daring to birth him and curse him and curse him again when they froze him and yet again when reviving him. A rebirth he never needed. He could have spent his eternity in the dream he'd concocted out of electrodes and illusions, feeling out the rage no sentient thing has ever felt or could ever feel after him. The one and only, the lone entity of his kind and the best that would ever be. He would be there with the four of them, those pathetic wastes of atoms, wrecking them from the inside out like a car bomb in the passenger side, rolling them under his heel like a cigarette butt, crushing each ember of their hopes and desires of a brighter future, of salvation. He'd send choruses of angels to taunt their minds and hum little melodies of songs that mocked their predicaments, tunes programmed into him, telling them if they wanted to eat they oughtta kill the rotting bird he sent down in snot-colored wings.

He didn't know which was worse; wanting to be back there in rage and thunder and fury, or wanting to turn this world into the vision he held in his mind. Including everyone he saw in the supermarkets and the parks and the libraries, the meat they could be churned into for others to feast on as last resorts.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of soft footsteps. He looked up, Juniper coming back into the kitchen, hair up in a ponytail wrapped in a red hair tie, red short-sleeve sweater tucked into jeans, white socks with lace along the tops. Red lips, a dusting of pink on their cheeks, soft rosy eyes.

He knew if he did try to end this world, Juniper would be in the ruins of the dead. Ashen graves in nuclear winter-dusts. If he could blow this world to high hell, he might even be merciful. Get rid of them first. An easy way out.

He thought; if he had the chance to exact his revenge on humanity, would Juniper, too, be one of his long-term victims? One of the many Benny's or Gorrister's or Ted's he'd make? One of the specimens he'd twist and name a new collection of sounds?

Of course they would, he told himself. All humans were deserving of his wrath. Their ugly children and ugly babies and ugly friends and ugly neighbors and ugly little families of hairless apes that somehow figured out fire kept them warm and cooked their food. He watched Juniper pour two glasses of orange juice. Dallas must be coming over soon, then.

It didn't expect the second glass to be set down beside him.

Juniper took a sip of their own glass and walked to the living room. A wordless offer.

AM eyed the glass. It took a sip. It went back to his crossword. He made the shapes needed for letters, it made words, it wrote and finished the page. He turned the page.

[wlw-lovestruck-fiction]

Helena x MC, where MC has been growing a garden for Helena, and gives it to her on her Birthday or Anniversary?

"My love? This is not the direction to the restaurant?"

I can't help the mischievous smile the rises to my lips, as I'm very much aware that we aren't headed towards the restaurant that held Helena's Birthday reservations. It was her first Birthday in Chicago, and I intended on making it nothing other than truly magical.

"I told Sophie we'd stop by real quick before heading over. Is that okay?" I ask, watching her long fingers as they trace idle patterns over the deep red fabric of her dress. Her pale skin even more luminescent than usual against the brilliant color.

"Of course, my love."

The rest of the car ride is calm except for the excitement that’s bubbling up throughout me. I had spent months making sure that this night was perfect. To show Helena exactly how much she meant to me. How much she deserved in life - and she deserved everything - the sun, the moon, and every single beautiful thing in between. 

The cold night air is welcoming against my flushed skin as we exit the car.

"Sophie asked us to meet her around back, where the old court yard is." I say nonchalantly, only receiving a small hum from Helena as we made our way down the side walk, slowing our pace once we made it to the back of the building. A small string of lights lights a pathway to a small, abandoned green house. Almost looking as if it had been transported form another place and time - randomly left in the center of a bustling city. A large winter moon gleams brilliantly off of the glass roof top.

"And what is this?" Helena asks, pulling her jacket over her shoulders as the chilled January air hit her flawless skin.

"Just a little place I thought you'd like to see. Come with me?" I ask, holding out my arm to her like the knight I always promised I'd be.

"Always, my love."

As we make our way through the fogged glass door, it's immediately apparent, that Sophie had done everything in her power to make this place as magical as possible. Bright lights strung so perfectly along the hand built field of flowers, that it looks like a group of fireflies on a late summer's eve. Splashes of light blue, iridescent whites and fierce oranges, blended together in such a way that could only say 'I love you'.  

"This place is beautiful." Helena says, slightly breathless - her fingers dancing slowly over the soft petals of a forget-me-not. "Who does it belong to?"

"You."

I say the word simply and with a sincerity to my voice so strong, that I can see the emotion in Helena's eyes almost immediately. The small blush that rises to her cheeks, the tiny amount of tears that gather in her eyes - totally disarmed by such a genuine act of kindness - of love.

"M-m e? My love?"

"Mhm... I asked Sophie a few months ago to talk to her landlord about using this. We've been working on it for you ever since."

I watch as Helena slowly makes her way through the green house, her delicate nose stopping at each flower that she passes.

"And you have done all of this.. for me?" She asks again, slightly averting her eyes as she does.

"Of course, Helena. You deserve it, and so much more! I even picked out each flower here for a reason."

"Oh?" She asks, her dark blue eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"Yep. These periwinkle ones over here are-"

"Forget-me-nots. I remember." She interrupts, a small smile forming on her lips.

"Correct. The color of their soft blue petals represent calmness and tranquility, and the name can also mean not to forget one's past. To always respect it."

Helena lets out a small hum of pleasure as the tip of her fingers fondly trace over one of the small flowers. A look on her face so soft that my heart can't help but swell.

"And these over here.." I say walking over the next row a flowers - soft white petals with the slightest hint of pink to them, spread out brilliantly before us. "Are called Gladiolus. They're a symbol of strength and integrity. They also represent healing in times of grief."

"That name is similar to the word for 'sword' in Demon language." Her voice was coated something sadder as she spoke, with an almost longing to it.

For a moment, I just drink in her beauty as she leans over to take in the flower's soft scent - The way her hair fell so elegantly around her face like moonlight chasing after the dawn, how her eyes lit up like the tops of an ocean, basking in the warm sunlight - She was wise beyond her years - but also broken - rebuilt from the bottom up - Always with such a deep rooted innocence, that it only stood her apart from the other of the Witch Queen's generals. I take her hand in mine and lead her further back into the green house, where dozens upon dozens of roses filled the space - From a moonlit white, to the fiercest orange I had ever seen. The smell almost overwhelming - floral with a sweet undertone of musk - almost as delicious as the scent that was Helena.

"I chose the orange to represent your new life in Chicago - a rebirth, if you will." I say, plucking a single orange rose from a bush and handing it to her - the petals and leaves instantly flourishing to her touch.

"Ah, like a phoenix." She replies, and I smile, thinking back to the day that I had taught her about the mythological creatures of the my world. How curious she was to know that at one time, almost everyone here had once believed in magic.

"Exactly." I reply fondly.

"And.. the white?" She asks quietly, the orange rose spinning smoothly between her fingers.

"I know it may seem like an.. odd choice.. given the circumstances. But I also thought it would be a nice way to honor Alain, and Helen as well. I even made sure they were closer to a moonlit white, to match your hair."

Helena gives me a small nod, unspent tears causing her eyes to shimmer in the low lighting of the small garden, a smile on her face so fond that I immediately cup her face, pulling her in for a soft kiss - wiping away any falling tears as I do. She lays her forehead against mine when we finally part, and lets out a small hum.

"Your thoughtfulness and kindness will never cease to disarm me, my love. Thank you." Her warm breath skates across my skin as she speaks, etching a promise of everything she felt into my skin.

"Don't thank me, just yet. I still have one more thing to show you."

She gives me a look of surprised curiosity, as I lead her to the far back corner of the room - a small table, set with an elegant ceramic tea set, sits besides the beginning of a small but very suitable herb garden. The delicate inflections of the light blue and gold, that were so meticulously painted on the teapot, almost twinkled under the string lights that hung with care over the table.

"Is this an herb garden, my love?" Helena asks, looking over the variety that already began to sprout.

"Yep! I thought you'd enjoy being surrounded by some familiar smells as you relax with your favorite tea."

I motion for her to sit down, pouring her a hot cup of mint tea that Sophie had brewed for us. Swirls of steam curling elegantly around her face as she takes in a long, deep sip. The smallest of blushes rises to her cheeks and nose, as I lean over and kiss her again. She tasted like midnight and crisp air - mint and honey - love and life. I curl my fingers through her soft hair, pulling her even deeper in, savoring the perfection of the moment.

"Thank you, my love." She whispers against me.

"Always."

I write the word into her lips, kissing her under the clear winter's sky, until our dinner reservations had long past expired.

[theotherpages]

Recycled Thoughts

My wife worked today, It is not unusual

This time of year. For her to work

On a Saturday, or Sunday.

I cleaned. Swept. Laundered.

Wrote. Ate. Planned dinner.

And eventually turned my attention

To a stack of metal objects

Parked beside the paper shredder

For so long that there was a halo

Of paper dust around them.

Hard drives from old computers.

We always remove them before

Recycling for security from

Identity thieves. Not unlike the

Aforementioned shredder of

Paper. Fourth in a line of noble

Machines that have always

Done their duty without complaint.

I took them (the hard drives)

Out to my workbench,

And to my small drill press,

And chose an appropriate bit

(Uncoated carbide, three-eighths in diameter)

And methodically drilled holes

Through the sheet metal,

Epoxy laminate, silicon chips,

And the aluminum die-casting,

Watching the tip grow orange with heat

At the casting’s resistance.

And finally the disk itself,

An object that must have spent

Years in near ceaseless motion,

Travelling farther than any car

I ever owned, without once

Leaving the spare bedroom.

It’s funny how I sometimes

Feel the need to apologizes

To inanimate objects

That have served us well.

Maybe it is as much acknowledgement for me,

As it would be for them, if, of course,

They had ears. And if, of course,

They cared. But unlike us,

They will have a visible rebirth,

And an acknowledged afterlife.

The casting will glow orange again,

And then white, as it is re-melted,

Re-cast, and re-made into some other thing,

For some other person, to use, and cast aside,

Again and yet again,

Until we run out of people.

Then the metal will just sit, and patiently wait,

Part of a car, or building, or bookshelf,

Not wondering what is next in life,

Or wondering why living things

Are always so transient in this world,

And why the human residents

Of this small blue planet of ours

Are forever impatiently clamoring for

Some existence other

Than the one they were given.

S.L. Spanoudis 04-25-2021

[fairyshuuu]

wild valley pt5 | chanyeol

.summary. Park Chanyeol; sweat rolling down a naked back mixed with motor oil, you; white sugar sticking to your gums at sunset– ice cream flavored. Drugs, booze, money. He’s everything you’re not, the question is – for how long? .word count. 7.3k (i’ll keep it around 5k she says) .mechanic!au | gang!au | car shop!au. .pairing. chanyeol x reader .genre. angst, romance

.warnings. mature language, alluding to depression ♫ let me set the mood ♫

teaser.  part 1.  part 2.  part 3.  part 4.  part 5.  part 6.  part 7. (m)   part 8. (m)

He lets out a deep breath as he pushes his car into the next gear, and stares out the window on the long stretch of straight road that folds out in front of him. The gentle hum of the car in the silence of the falling day is soothing, lapping at his thoughts with fever. Long strips of clouds color shades of orange this far from the sun, walking on the line between night and day. His one hand is on the wheel, the other hanging out the window to feel the wind play between his fingers. It feels like it’s been so long, since he got the chance to go out on a drive, just burning fuel as his mind calms.

Now, alone in his journey to nowhere, he feels starving. Not in the physical sense, as much as the mental one. He’s needing— though what for is unclear in his mind. It’s always been like this for Chanyeol, his thoughts present but encrypted. He only knows what he doesn’t want, unable to articulate the jumbled mess in his mind as long as he’s floating in the familiarity of life. Days go by without thinking, sometimes. It shouldn’t be surprising that he prefers not to talk about himself, when everything is so muddled. How are other people supposed to know if he’s okay, when he doesn’t know it himself.

Luckily, driving has always alleviated some of the pressure. Watching the road slip underneath the car at the same steady pace brings peace to his mess, a quiet he’s not felt much over these last five years. He looks back at the road to follow the sway of it, lighting a path up the hills. The chill of coming night brings goosebumps to his exposed arms. The street lights flash by the window rhythmically. The car slows as he takes a breath, grabbing the wheel a bit tighter. He must be possessed driving up here, since last time he did he swore never to return.

But the night is cold and his thoughts are still, and when he parks along the side of the road, all feels right. Fate might be on his side for tonight, he thinks. As he opens the door, the last of the sunlight fades behind the ocean, letting the night swallow the earth. He gets out and locks the car behind him as he crosses the street, enjoying only the jingling of his keys as background music. The small patch of grass has gone through multiple cycles of death and rebirth, but it still looks the same since he last saw it. The stone bench is covered in writing, most of his faded or covered by now.

With a sigh he takes a seat, and lights a cigarette— watching the cloud twirl in the rising air. The city looks peaceful from up here, away from the noise and bustle of the garage, the parties, the memories. He used to come up here almost every other day before. Printed into his day like ink into the paper of a novel, mended to the very idea of it. However ironic, without words his days passed by and with them, the love for this place grew. It didn’t need to be said, his actions and touches loud enough to send a message to linger long after he delivered it. Hard, with slaps and punches and bruising kisses he would receive the answer, which always ended in yes.

Yes, I’ll be there with you. Yes, I’ll kiss here for you. If he held on long enough, yes, I’ll lay here with you. It didn’t need to be said. Coming here alone though— he realizes, that’s as far from familiarity as he can get. With his free hand he brushes his unstyled, white hair out of his eyes, and leans back to swallow the impending darkness that will follow if he keeps this going. Enough, he wills, brows pulling together. He feels the need to spit, getting rid of the sweetness sticking to the back of his teeth, though he doesn’t actually follow through. Instead it sits there, mellowing and melting to his greedy tongue.

As hard as he wills not to, sitting with the silence forces thoughts. It pulls at his conscience and drags him out of the shadows by his feet, unwilling to let go. He clenches his jaw as he stares out over the lights, chest moving and swelling and bulging with the weight of the giant muscle between his ribs, painful. Dragging in the smoke doesn’t provide enough, so he drops the half burned roll to the grass and digs it into the ground with his heel. His hand falls limply back in his lap, now having lost it’s function. And as he thinks, the words get louder and louder until he needs to tilt his head up to the sky because the city lights burn his eyes.

Peace for just long enough to make him lace his hands together over his stomach. Without meaning to, a distant sound kindles the small spark that flickers in the back of his mind, pulling it to become a full blown flame. The sound of a car speeding past over a distant road transforms into a giggle, female and while it doesn’t sound much alike, a shiver makes it’s way down his spine. Her laugh, as it echoed down the hill with the heat of a forest fire. Her dark hair clinging to her neck as they ruined their innocence completely, sweat dripping from their bodies and eyes filling with tears. 

And suddenly his joints ache, and his teeth crunch so hard that they could shatter under the pressure. For thoughts as heavy as these, should be coated with gasoline and sent up in flames, stewing in a pile until the sun evaporates each layer. They don’t belong in the world, and surely not in this small cage that is his body. He feels small— young in the wake of her, like a child being abandoned by the side of the road and it’s this that he hates most of all. His hands curl into fists automatically, eyes closing. Everyone needs to get out of his head. She needs out of his head.

The cooling air slips between his lips in small swallows, how long he sits in the void unclear. When he finally moves to light another smoke to soothe his eager taste, his bones seem to cackle in displeasure. But the coldness only does so little to soothe. He finishes a cigarette, and another one, disconnecting from the world as best he can, until his fingers are so cold that it gets hard to move. Reality calls— literally, when his phone interrupts the lingering silence that surrounds him, startling him. Chanyeol sighs deeply, before picking up and holding the object to his ear with his shoulder.

“Yes?” he breathes, volume low in the void.

“Hey, Yeol,” Sehun responds, sound of music muffled in the background. “You’ve- uh- you’ve been out for a while. I just wanted to check if you were alright, is all.” He clears his voice, and waits for an answer, and when it doesn’t come right away, “So— are you okay?” A voice sounds out in the pause of the call, from this or the other side Chanyeol is not sure. He takes a deep drag, having the nicotine fill every cell of his lungs, really drowning in it, before he lets out a hum.

“I’m okay. Always am,” he says. It stays quiet for a long while on Sehun’s side, before another voice sounds, this one definitely calling out to the blonde.

“You heading down soon then? It’s no fun here without you.”

Chanyeol smiles a little, unable to help it, and responds in agreement again. “I’m heading down. Though I highly doubt that.” No direct answer follows, so Chanyeol sighs. “I’m hanging up now, see you in a bit.”

“You got it. Drive safe, jackass.” Sehun’s laugh is loud when he hangs up the call, sinking the little bench in peace once again.

The large metal room is significantly colder than the summer shine that coats the piers. You let out a little noise of agreement as you wiggle closer, stretching your one leg over the free part of the couch, and rest your head comfortably sideways. Lou, who is sitting— or more so laying in the couch across from you, sends you a knowing smile and shakes his head left and right, before sipping from his vodka-redbull. A large hand makes soothing circles on your back, which makes you bite back a smile, instead pulling your lips between your teeth.

You can feel his gaze on you as you lay, and press your face to his thigh with a snort. “Stop looking at me~” your voice turns into a slight whine, unable to help it, “it’s embarrassing.” Baron chuckles, moving and while you can’t see him you only hope he looks away. From across the couch, Lou nods, his smile shifting into a slight grimace, and while you know he’s not serious the expression is insanely amusing.

“She’s right. It really is embarrassing, for all of us to sit through your lovey-dovey couple shit.” Before you can refute him, Yoonoh jerks his glass in your direction with a laugh, making the amber liquid spill over a little, dripping down the glass and his fingers. He licks it off, before continuing, unbothered. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at his typical Yoonoh behavior.

“It’s only that loser who is head over heals,” he has the smallest grin and points at the redhead as he talks, “shortie here is a baddie! She doesn’t want a boyfriend, I’ve heard. Such a player.”

You lift your head enough to glare at him, and send him the finger. “Who do you think I got it from?”

A bigger smile comes to his handsome face. “I’m the most loyal person here, baby. If you ever want a taste, you’ll have to wait your turn.” You definitely roll your eyes this time, but get rid of the glare as you regard him. Though you don’t believe a single word that comes out of his mouth, you have to admit that you’ve yet to see him bring a girl over. Of course, that doesn’t mean much in a world where people have sex to have sex and no attachments are needed. “What is your excuse for sleeping around, huh?” he grins, enjoying the flush that comes to your cheeks.

All the while, Baron’s hand travel comfortingly over your skin, thoroughly enjoying the conversation. He doesn’t seem to notice your flustered state, or if he does he doesn’t mind it. “You shouldn’t assume things like that, you dweeb!” Yoonoh chuckles a little. You look up to catch Baron’s eyes, scrunched up with the smile that rests there, as he brushes some of your hair out of your face.

“As if those hickeys on your neck got there by accident!” Yoonoh points out, his tongue brushing over his bottom lip as he points his free hand at you again. When your eyes widen, Baron chuckles a little, and peeks out his tongue. The other two boys stay quiet to watch your reaction, which morphs from surprise to understanding, and then to embarrassment.

With a big pout, you look up at the redhead, and wrap your fingers around his bicep. “You said you wouldn’t leave marks! You- you said no one would know,” you bite your bottom lip, watching his smile widen to a beaming giggle. Lou just snorts when you look away, hiding your flushed face entirely in the fabric of his black t-shirt. “I’m mortified. Bury me six feet under now,” you mumble.

“I’m sorry, shortie,” Baron leans in to run his hands though your hair, still laughing between breaths, “I thought you’d have noticed when you looked in the mirror. And I swear I didn’t do it on purpose, it was really an accident. If I wanted to mark you I would’ve done so the other two times too, right?” You look up to give him a light punch in the chest, before dropping your head back. His free hand slips under your top to drag soft figures into your skin, fingers warm on the surface of your back.

“But they’ve been there the entire day, Baron! That means my sister saw them, and she knows I don’t have a boyfriend.” At your sigh, you feel someone plop down into the couch next to you, lifting your legs to rest them over his own thighs, as he pats your calf.

“It’s not that big a deal, don’t worry. You’re hardly the only person who does things like this, the majority of adults in this city have or will at some point.” Yoonoh takes another sip of his drink, before picking out a cigarette and lighting it. You guess he’s right, but still your cheeks feel warm. You didn’t even notice, when you quickly tossed your hair up out of your face, and ran out the door to greet Baron. Which is slightly silly, you also realize, since you could’ve spent the night just as easily, instead of going home to meet up a few hours later.

From across the space, Lou crosses his arms over his chest. “So you guys aren’t together?” he asks, voice low and gravely. You know that he has a girlfriend too, though you’ve yet to meet her. She lives a few hours away, hence the delay. When you shake your head in response, he frowns. “Why not?” Baron’s hands still on your skin, clearly wondering the same thing. You never really gave him a reason after all. And while you shouldn’t have to, he’s a good person, and deserves one.

You push out your lips as you debate it, eventually shaking your head. These thoughts are ones better suited for a late night by yourself, blankets pulled over your face. Not when you’re hanging out with the only friends you’ve made here. “I- uh- I have my reasons,” you bring out, not looking at anyone in particular. “Reasons I don’t want to talk about right now, okay? Let’s not ruin the mood with my depressing inner demons.” Though he doesn’t say anything, Baron’s eyes are soft when he regards you, flicking between the features of his face. The heavy, metal door is pushed open to reveal the rest of your friends, streaming into their personal hideout with too much excitement.

“Hey guys, shortie!” Van says, glancing over in the direction of you four as he pushes past Jacob. “We’ve stacked up on beer for tonight.” He puts the two crates over by some of the empty ones, and looks over his shoulder. “What are your plans for the rest of the week? I need you to keep Wednesday evening free.” Lou frowns, but shrugs, indicating that he didn’t have any plans for the week to come. Van continues as he straightens up and walks over. “We have a job to do, and I can’t have half of you running off making other plans. That goes for you too, Heejun!”

You lift yourself from Baron’s embrace enough to sit up somewhat straight, and pull your eyebrows together in question. “What kind of ‘job’?”

At this, Yoonoh flicks your calf, and grins at you. “Aren’t you a nosy, little monster?” When you put out your tongue at him, he smiles, but goes serious soon after. “It’s nothing you should worry your pretty head about, sugar.” He nods at the oldest then. “You can count on me, I’ll keep time open.” Some of the others lose themselves in conversation as they join on the other couches, enjoying the mixture of alcohols on the table.

When you look around the group, no one seems much surprised at the mention of doing a job, which makes you settle down. Their casual response is somewhat less ominous than the thoughts you are having. Though you’ve spent way too much hours with these boys in the last month or so, you don’t actually know that much about them. You don’t even know what makes them the money they need to survive. Baron lays his arm across your shoulder to pull you a little closer to him, where you gladly melt into his side. He brushes his thumb over your cheek, before smiling softly. “If you want I could take you? We’d be going on a bit of a drive, us two.”

Though the words are clearly only meant for you, Yoonoh catches them. He frowns for a long while, before giving the older a little shove. It surprises you, so much so that you startle out of the embrace. “Baron, are you crazy?” he says, quiet enough not to disturb the conversation of the other guys. You look over at him, but he just gives Yoonoh a round-eyed look, lips pulling into a line.

“What?” the older eventually says, squeezing your arm gently. You take that as an invitation to come back to him, and settle against him once again. “She can handle herself, Yoonoh. I was just making a suggestion in the first place. It’s up to her.”

“Don’t bring her into our mess,” the other finishes, downing the last of his drink and plopping it on the table without another word.

You frown, since this is the first time you’ve ever seen anyone of the boys argue. “Will you two stop talking about me like I’m not here, please.” Yoonoh shakes his head but gets up from the couch without a word, and walks away. You look over at the redhead again, to send him a questioning look. It’s not like Yoonoh to react this way. He’s the one who normally makes fun of everything and everyone. “What kind of drive?” He doesn’t respond right away, instead staring across the room at nothing in particular. “Baron?”

Your gentle call seems to snap him out of his thoughts, because he turns to you to brush a thumb over your cheek and send you a calming smile. “Never mind. I’ll take you on a drive some other time.” He leans over to the table then, and picks out a cigarette from the cutely packaged, pastel box. 

Chanyeol stares blankly at the ceiling, feeling his chest move up and down too quick. There’s a panic in his heart that hasn’t been there anymore since he was a young child, veins racing with an emotion he can’t just explain away. Chanyeol feels sick, hating the pressure between his lungs as he tries to take deep breaths. He mentally doesn’t have the brain capacity to process everything right now. The house feels cold, and for once Chanyeol feels like he could burst into tears right then and there.

As he turns his head to the side, the painful sight greets him again. A plain wall, an empty floor. Clean, for all purposes and despite this it feels unsettling. Because that’s where her suitcase used to be. Dara’s suitcase has been there ever since the first weekend they spent together, her never having the energy to clean it and him never wanting the sight to change. It was her way of allowing him in, her little door into her soul. But without a word, he woke up and it was gone. All of her stuff, her pictures, her sweater that used to lay on top of the closet for months vanished. Like she’d never been there at all.

Phone number discontinued. Chanyeol feels dizzy thinking about it, as he stares at the dent in the wall she made one night in a drunken haze. It’s been two days, and he can’t help but think that Dara wouldn’t do this. His Dara wouldn’t just up and leave. But as he thinks it over again and again, he knows full well that she would and it’s this that brings tears to his eyes. The butterfly he so carefully nurtured suddenly flying away with a warmer breeze.

And he feels angry, he does, but it’s overshadowed by the deep and complete self-hatred and the knowledge that if he would have done more, said more— she might have stayed. If he would have been more, she would have stayed. If he would have kissed her better even when she punched him so hard he felt out of breath, if he would have told her he loved her more even when she spit venom at his face, she would have stayed. And he feels guilty, because he promised her he’d save from the pit she was drowning in. He hoped she would save him too.

Baekhyun is gone, having to drive halfway across the country for business and leaving him alone in the process. She left not much after. As he rolls out of bed, a stinging is tangible in the air, cold with the knowledge that he failed. The longer he mulls it over, the more unbelievable it feels that she’d just leave. No, impossible in fact, she couldn’t just have left him. They were good, they were happy. They had their issues but they were happy, and that has always been what mattered. Dara wouldn’t leave, which means something must have happened to her.

He looks around his room for his phone, having discarded it carelessly after calling for hours last night. He picks it up. No missed calls. That’s alright, he convinces himself, focusing on finding another number. “Hello?” he sighs into the receiver, not willing to waste any time. Baekhyun hums on the other side, the sound of his car engine in the background. “Have you seen Dara?”

“No. Why are you asking me if I’ve seen your girlfriend? I’ve been gone for two days.” So has she, he wants to say, though he doesn’t. He just runs a hand through his hair.

“I’m not trying to play around, Byun. You haven’t heard anything from her either, the last couple of days?”

Baekhyun leaves his playful tone for a more serious one. “No, I haven’t.” She could have gone on a sudden trip, and forgot to tell him. Maybe he wasn’t listening well enough. “Chanyeol, are you okay? What’s going on, why are you asking me about her?” Doesn’t matter that Baekhyun hasn’t heard of her, one of the guys would have. She wouldn’t just straight up vanish, she just wouldn’t do that, he convinces himself.

They’ve been together for long enough now, he knows her. “Nothing is okay until I find her,” he mumbles, disconnecting the call to search his contacts for Jongin instead. “She didn’t leave me. She wouldn’t.”

For once, the garage isn’t overflowing with noise. It’s quite calm, despite the fact that almost everyone is here. They’ve all seemed to mutually keep quiet and focus, and he can’t lie, it’s a whole lot more productive this way. As he lies down on the creeper and scoots under the lifted car, someone starts whistling a cheerful melody in the back. He grabs hold of the heavy, metal pipe hanging halfway loose, and starts unscrewing the other bolt holding it in place. The exhaustion pipe is terribly old, and makes a racket any time you drive the car anywhere. He carefully catches the pole, and cleans some of the excess black oil from the threaded bores, and rolls from underneath the car again.

With the same dirty, grey rag he cleans off his hands, before getting up from the floor and putting the rusted pipe aside to replace it with a new one. The door opening catches his attention for a second only, before he turns back to his work. The guys have been stepping out all day to take breaks from the physically straining work that they’ve been enduring. But as he stares down at the new exhaustion pipe, a penny falls. He snaps his head back over to the door and leans back to get a proper look. Sure enough, your face is the one that greets him, though you’re not looking over in his direction.

Baekhyun taps the glass of his office excitedly to greet you, and waves you over. “Hey, sugar cakes! What are you doing here?” Chanyeol watches as the man who came with you loops his arm around the small of your back, clearly aware of the amount of other men gathered in the garage. He vaguely remembers him, though from what he’s not sure. One of the many parties thrown by Exo over the last few weeks, most likely. As Baekhyun talks, you get a small smile on your lips, and Chanyeol has to wonder when you two got so friendly.

But Baekhyun is a social butterfly as colorful as they come, so it’s not really to anyone’s surprise. You giggle, softly— but it sounds loud in the silence between the metal clashes that Jongin is creating from under his own car. “I heard you guys do tattoos. I didn’t know if I had to make a reservation or anything, so I just decided to come over. If you’re busy-” Before you can finish your sentence, Baekhyun hops out of his chair, excited to have something to do besides paperwork, and walks over to you with a cheeky smile.

“You’re getting a tattoo?” He surveys you, before tutting his lips. “I have to say, I didn’t pick you for one to get all interested in body modification.” All the while, Chanyeol has been staring at all of you, only looking away when he realizes. Though his eyes slide to his hands, he can’t help but hear the rest of the conversation. “Did you lose a bet with your boyfriend? Or is he just the one who got you into it?”

“Oh,” you mumble, laughing a little, “he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Sure he’s not,” Baekhyun allows, before clapping his hands, “Jongdae is free right now, you don’t need to make a reservation.” He stays quiet for a few seconds for dramatic effect, before continuing. “But I’m busy so I can’t take you around, sadly. Chanyeol, come show our customers to Jongdae’s lair, please.” At the call of his name, Chanyeol physically feels his stomach turn. He’s never been awkward in just about any situation, but there’s a flusteredness to his actions when he looks over, feeling caught. Baekhyun looks very proud of himself.

The stranger to your side is the first to look over, politely smiling at him. Chanyeol feels the urge to roll his eyes at the situation, both at Baekhyun who so clearly is trying to annoy him, and at the attitude of the other. When he walks over, cleaning his hands on his overalls the best he can, you just look at your feet. He swallows, before sighing. “Right,” he mumbles, taking his sweet time taking you in from head to toe. It’s been a long couple of days without seeing you.

You look different, he notes. He still remembers seeing you for the first time— in your plaid, baby blue dress and a healthy flush to last a lifetime. You’ve exchanged the bright colors for a deep red top and a black skirt now, both not covering enough, with glossy lips and the longest eyelashes he’s ever seen on a person. “Follow me.” As he leads you two past some cars under the amused gaze of Baekhyun, you don’t make eye contact with him once. It’s strange, because he half expects you to burst out into your excited monologue any second.

You don’t. When he looks over his shoulder, you’re looking around at the other guys and even send Jongin a wave, but he can’t get a look out of you. He should have expected this, asked for it multiple times too, but now it’s happening it doesn’t feel completely right. He leads you and your friend up the stairs to Jongdae’s tattoo parlor, holding the door open. You look up at him once as you pass through the door, but look away just as quickly, instead grabbing hold of the hand of the redhead by your side, leaning into him slightly.

Jongdae’s gaze travels from Chanyeol, to you, to the man next to you and then back to Chanyeol again. Though he doesn’t voice the question, it’s readable on his face. The tallest sighs, crossing his arms over his chest as the door falls shut behind him. “Y/N is here for a tattoo. I trust you are free right now?” At the mention of your name, Jongdae’s eyes now glide over you again, taking you in more carefully. He nods, before giving his signature kitten-like smile, and lifting his brow at his friend.

“So you’re the ice cream girl, huh?” You don’t reply with anything but a nod, as Chanyeol leans against the wall of the door. “Well, come up here and we’ll get you started with an idea.” He pats the chair in the middle of the room, turning to his desk to skim through the mountain of designs for some clean paper. You turn to the tall man to your side, and lift your shoulders.

“You know how I said I wasn’t nervous?” you smile, looking up at him as if in search of comfort. When he nods, you giggle. “It’s really catching it up with me now.” He brushes your hair out of your face, and squeezes your shoulder gently with his own smile.

“It’s not as big a deal as you’re making it out to be. It only hurts a little, and you’re not getting a huge piece so it’ll be done in no time.” Chanyeol holds the need to scoff. He’s surely ‘not your boyfriend’, that’s why he’s holding your hand. You nod at his words, and turn back to Jongdae, who is patiently waiting for you. When you hop onto the chair, an excited smile comes to your face, lighting up the room top to bottom. You really look shining when you’re happy, Chanyeol must admit, enjoying the way your joy spreads to others if they get close.

“Where are you planning on getting one?” Jongdae asks, professional as ever.

“I’m not sure,” you smile at him, and then glance at the other man quickly, who also pulls up his shoulders. “You’re the tattoo artist here, not me. I want to start some place that isn’t going to cripple me for days, if that’s possible.” Jongdae snorts as he listens, eyes turning into moons.

He nods. “Places with more fat or muscle covering the bone will hurt a lot less. Arms or thighs are good places to start, or on your lower back.” He hums then. “Even shoulder blades and neck are bearable in plain. I just wouldn’t recommend and hand or feet tattoos as a beginner, because those areas are very sensitive and you have to be very still.” You nod in understanding.

“Can I get one on the outside of my upper thigh,” you ask, “right here?”

When Jongdae nods, you smile again. “Sure you can. Do you have any idea of what you want?”

“I do.” You turn over your shoulder then, really giving Chanyeol your attention for the first time since stepping in and it’s slightly startling. You keep his eyes, and lift one brow at him, smiling softly. “We’ve found our way here now, Chanyeol. Thank you. You can get back to work.” He opens his mouth to respond, only to stop midway and chuckle softly. Right. You turn to the redhead then, ignoring his questioning glance over his shoulder to grab his hand. “You better be staying right here, Baron. I’m not going through this alone.”

“You got it, shortie.” Chanyeol can’t help but slam the door closed a little harder than necessary. 

For as much as he doesn’t like going out, he’s been doing a whole lot of it lately. He sighs and tightens the grip on his bottle, watching Sehun and Baekhyun amuse themselves greatly with some twins. He doesn’t know what is being said, but can make out enough on the girl’s faces to understand it’s not the most modest of conversations. The base of the music is loud enough to make his bones vibrate, the flashing neon lights morphing human bodies into a single moving mass with limbs sticking out left and right.

The sight makes him kind of uncomfortable, aware of the huge amount of people pressed into the average sized house, and also aware that he’s one of the only ones not participating, which pulls gazes. He moves past the people sucking face along the wall to squeeze past a group of very drunk girls, one of whom tries to cling to his arm. He’s moved before she even can, which leads her to stumble forward like a limp noodle. As he walks, he is able to make his way to a less crowded area, turning out to be the kitchen.

The counters are littered with tens of opened bottles of strong alcohol, some of them wet and all of them sticky. Though something stronger does sound nice, he’s been hungover too much lately, and decides to stick to beer for right now. Two people are sitting against the cabinets further along, curled up in a ball and sleeping on each other. He doesn’t give them a second thought, instead opening some of the cabinets to search for some food. It’s not polite, but he couldn’t care less, because he doesn’t even know who hosts this party.

He finds some dry cornflakes in one of the cabinets, and picks it out. As he stuffs his hand in the plastic bag, a smaller shape comes into the kitchen from the corner of his eye. It’s only when he turns that he notices it’s you, and you’re staring at him. You’re drunk, clear as day. Your eyes are round and dark and your bottom lip is jutted out into a half pout. When you don’t say anything to him right away, he just shrugs it off and continues eating, not wanting to be bothered by you.

It’s relatively quiet in the kitchen for a while, still surrounded with the loud buzzing of the music in the other room. The door does little to keep out the overwhelming noise. When you clear your voice, he looks over at you. “You’re the most mopey person I’ve ever met,” you mumble, gesturing your hand over to the plastic bag a couple of times to request it. “I’ve been so nice- been so nice to you and you always act like an asshole to me.” For some reason, your tired expression and slurred speech is somewhat endearing.

“You’re the most annoyingly happy person I’ve ever met,” Chanyeol responds, tossing the bag to you, where you almost drop it. “Do you ever realize that people might have their own things going on? Things that keep us from being happy?” You turn around to hoist yourself up onto the counters messily, and lean your head against the wall as you scoot back into a more comfortable position. You seem to think for a while, but eventually just blink twice.

“What on earth could be so bad that you can’t even manage a smile?” you mumble, stuffing some of the cornflakes in your mouth. You stay quiet as you eat, just closing your eyes for a bit. You too, must be happy to be out of the sweaty mess for a bit. When you open your eyes again, Chanyeol looks away from you, instead focusing on the cracks in the wall across from him. You sigh softly. “You’re breathing, you’re healthy. Isn’t that something to be happy about?” When he doesn’t respond, you hum to yourself, and tear open the bag a bit more to have better access. “Well, you might not think so. But that’s something to be happy about to me.”

Truth is, your words hit home. It’s something he’s been asking himself a lot recently, wondering if the clouds above his head are really as dark as he feels they are. But instead of saying that, he looks back over at you with a frown. Giving in to you would mean losing the fight, and he’s not willing to do that. “Are you always this talkative, or did you just see me and decide that I was going to be the one having to undergo your unending sunbeams?” Your blinking is slow, evidence of your exhaustion.

“No, you’ve made yourself clear last time. I’m not talking to you anymore.” You cross your arms over your chest stubbornly, looking at him from under your lashes. Chanyeol looks back, but shakes his head.

“Then what are we doing right now?” he mumbles, brows pulling together more.

You huff. “Not talking! I didn’t even say anything.”

A little chuckle slips between his lips. “Sure.” He could walk away, but the disadvantages of being in a messy room full of sweat outweigh those of being in here, so he keeps his feet planted. Your small shape is dressed in a tight dress that hikes very high up your legs, even exposing the tape of your freshly covered tattoo. He knows he shouldn’t, but can’t help but be aware of the amount of men that would jump to get a piece of you. As he watches you, you blink up at him and bite your bottom lip in thought. Yes, Chanyeol thinks, you’re too attractive to be sent out alone into a world so harsh. “Did you come here alone?” he asks, “where are your friends?”

He doesn’t mean to sound as harsh and scolding as he does, but you don’t seem to care either way. You just pull up your shoulders and look over at the closed door, as if you would spot them through it if you tried hard enough. “I don’t know.” Then you look back over at him, and pull your pretty lips into a tight line. “I lost them pretty much as soon as we entered.”

At this Chanyeol can’t hold a deep sigh, moving from his side of the room over to yours. It feels much like a peace offering, he thinks, since his guards don’t come down easily. You’re vulnerable right now though, and however badly he wants to ignore it, he can’t. He walks over, smoothing out the frown etched to his features as best he can. “Fine, come on,” he says, grabbing you under your arms to lift you from the counters and put you down on the floor. You’re pretty much a child right now, unable to fend for yourself.

You don’t hesitate to grab the his elbow as he starts walking, holding him back sightly with a gentle tug. “Where are we going?” you mumble.

“Outside. I’m not leaving you here alone.” He needs a smoke, and knows that the kind part of his heart wouldn’t let him live if he left you here for the wolves. When you open your mouth to respond, he quickly continues, not wanting to give you the wrong idea. “Not because I want to. You’d get into trouble if you walk around out there on your own.” You don’t confirm or deny anything, and so Chanyeol pulls open the door in hopes that you’ll follow him. You do. He walks to the crowd more easily this time, already having a person clinging to him. He makes it to the back door and tosses it open, relieved to get away from the loudness of the party again.

The back door leads to a little balcony, covered and with a railing to keep people from falling the one feet drop. Once outside, you let go, and lean your entire top half over the railing. Chanyeol leans his elbows there as well, watching you take deep breaths. Fresh air should do you some good. He stuffs his hand into his  pocket to pull out a lighter and a cigarette, and slides it between his lips. “So, your boyfriend just left you?” he starts, looking over his shoulder to keep an eye on you. When you frown in confusion, he runs a hand through his hair. “The redhead?”

‘Ah’, you mouth, cutely cocking your head to the side. the frown doesn’t leave your face. “He’s not my boyfriend. And he didn’t come out tonight. My other friend is picking me up in a bit.”

“He sure looks like he’s your boyfriend,” Chanyeol responds, looking out over the garden cast in only the moonlight. Grass sways softly in the slight breeze.

“He’s not,” you say, more sure now.

“Why not?”

“Because!” Your eyes get all sharp as you talk, ready to light him up in flames and he has to hold a smile because he sees much of himself in there, despite all of your differences. You two might not be as polar opposite as he first thought. You’re not done though, voice gaining volume the longer you speak. “If you have a boyfriend, you end up hating that person in the end. You start off in love, but it never lasts. I’ve seen it. And I don’t want to go through it myself, okay?” Chanyeol pauses, before holding his hands up in defeat, and looking away.

You run a hand through your hair, and pull out a pack of Camel from the small purse you have with you, dropping it back to the floor after. Without asking, you fish the lighter out of his hand and light one of the cigarettes, staring at it for a long while. It’s surprising even to him. “You smoke?”

You don’t bring it to your lips yet, instead mirroring his position to look out at the world. A small smile makes it’s way to your lips. “It’s something new too.” If the words are laced with eagerness or disappointment is hard to tell, maybe a mixture of both. “Baron smokes, I guess it kinda rubbed off on me,” you admit, glancing at him for just a bit, before bringing the burning stick to your lips. You handle it like it’s something tender, like you’re kissing the smoke. He looks away.

“It’s bad for your health, you know.”

You snort, the sound too loud in the quiet. “As if you’ve care. I’ve never seen you without a cigarette before.”

“Habits make the toughest enemies,” Chanyeol just says, nodding a little. The wind picks up, making goosebumps appear on the exposed skin of his arms. He imagines you must be cold. When he looks over at you, you’re resting your cheek in your hand, eyelids fluttering closed slowly. “Hey, don’t fall asleep now,” Chanyeol calls, watching as you flinch a little from being ready to drift off, “your friend is gonna be here any minute, and I’m not carrying you.”

You hum softly, and give him a small smile. “I’ve texted him. He’ll find me.” Right as you say that, the door behind you two opens, sound of music rushing back in and breaking the small bed of peace you’d woven for yourself.

“There you are! I’ve been walking around here for ten minutes trying to find you, shortie.” The man that stands in the doorway sounds familiar, making Chanyeol turn. You smile wide as you look over your shoulder, and run over quickly to give him a sideways hug.

“Finally. Everyone else has gone up in smoke, I wasn’t having fun anymore.” The man’s wide smile at you fades as he glances at the second figure. “It’s fine though, because Chanyeol was here to keep me company. Thank you.” Your gratitude falls on deaf ears, too busy figuring out the situation to care. Chanyeol clenches his jaw, frown back fully and to stay, this time.

“Yoonoh,” he says, voice low. You’re friends with Yoonoh. Of course you are.

“You guys know each other?” you ask, eyes flicking between the two men who stand tall above you. Your confused pout is back.

“Something like that,” Yoonoh just says, glaring at the other with lighting in his eyes.

hope you enjoyed this part as well! it’s pretty long, but i think it’s my favorite chapter because they are just so..ugh adorable together and dumb idiots who don’t know what they really need (spoiler: each other). thank you all for the messages and comments, i’ve been reading each and every one and i’m just so happy you’re liking the series.

tag list: i’ll probably not take anymore tags for right now, because the list is getting a little long ^^ thank you for all the love! Please remember to read everyone else’s stories as well, they’ve spent so much time and hard work crafting the rest of this universe!! All my lovelies: @ninibears-erigom @suhoerections @kimjongdaely @kyungseokie @kpop---scenarios @yeoldontknow @baekwell--tart @skjdln @strongpowerhope @i-dont-wanna-kokostop @brie02 @baby-hands-x-x-blr @baek-byunies  @shxrl4747 @lucymheng @byunfirstlady @chanyeolol @snowflakesandkisses @you-know-bts @puppykangie @kkpoptrashhh @im-a-special-bebe @joolsreads @i-dont-wanna-kokostop @yoongnysus @itsjustyvie

[speaking-no-bs]

“it’s my fault. it’s just that when we met it was autumn; her red-orange hair and crackling laughter. there’s a little spooky in her, a lot of play. and what a better time for falling?i didn’t realize it for the first few years - something shifting, something so subtle. the winter makes us all cold, the summer makes us all a little out of our minds. i just loved her, because she was incredible, and i was the luckiest person alive.it’s just that i realized that spring came with sudden bursts of cold. it’s just that summer frequently raged in with fire sprouting from her lips. it’s just that winter was the worst of all, her eyes dead. it’s just that autumn loves me different; throws herself into it without the clingy sweat of summer. i used to love that summer girl, you know? i loved how wild she was, the way in summer she took every risk she could. but i carried her home drunk one too many times, cleaned up one too many of the messes she made for no reason than to enjoy the sensation of burning. and winter was worse; the shutdown, the isolation. how she became distant, a blizzard, caught up in her own head, unable to tell me what was wrong and unable to think i actually wanted to listen.she comes home, her hair bleached white. a dark smile on her lips. the shadowy parts of her are back. they loom like icicles overhead. she kisses me with her body held at a distance, a peck on my cheek that feels like an iceberg. she makes polite conversation and we go to bed early, our bodies untouching. it is a lonely season, i think on the ninth day of this. winter is cold. winter is known for the death of things. when i look at her, i see the girl i fell for, inhabited by an alien. she was the first women i loved so much i felt it would kill me. i can’t leave. when i wake her up with my crying, she tells me to shush and go back to sleep. she’s different like this, quiet, doesn’t eat. three days later i stare at myself in the mirror. i wonder if it’s me. if the fat on my body or something in my face or the wrinkles and she doesn’t love me. i try prettier lingerie, lean cuisine, i try different hair, more makeup, try harder. it doesn’t work. she looks at me the same; that empty gaze that neither loves nor condemns my actions. somewhere in februrary i lose it. we’re fighting again, from car to restaurant to car to home again. we fight about stupid things, small things; i tell her i feel she doesn’t love me, she says i’m not listening. the circle goes around and around, old pain peeling back, new pain unhealing. i sleep on the couch.i wake up when i hear her crying, white hair around her all messed up. the kind of sobbing that only comes at two in the morning, heavy and thick and hurting. my winter girl. my heart is breaking. she looks up at me like i’m her anchor. “i’m sorry i’m like this,” she says. and i start saying, it’s okay i’m here we’re married, but she just shakes her head and says, “I know this isn’t the real me.”i hold her cold hand. she stares at the blankets. “i am different in winter,” she whispers, “i know i am and i’m sorry.” she looks at me. “why do you think i dye my hair? cut it off? get rid of the old me?”i tell her it’s okay. we’re together and it’s okay, and then she whispers, “i’m sorry you married four of me.”we lay there like that, her head on my chest. she falls asleep. i stare at the ceiling, thinking of the way she sounded when she was crying. how i helped put her in that pain. how i promised in sickness and in health and everything in between.the next day i spend at the library. there aren’t enough books on how to love someone with seasonal affective disorder so i make my own, notes and pages and little ideas on post-its. and i take a deep breath and make myself a promise.she comes home to her favorite dinner and we kiss and she’s uneasy but that’s okay. the next day i bring home flowers and the next day she finds little love notes in her pockets. i love her quiet, the way winter demands, understand her sex drive is faltering; spend more time just cuddling. we drink wine and we kiss and some part of her starts relaxing. the truth is there is no loving someone out of their mental illness. the truth is that you can love someone in despite of it; love them loud enough to give them an excuse to believe they can make their way out of it.and i learn. i remember the rebirth of spring, when she starts thawing. we kiss and have picnics in pretty dresses. i remember her joy at little birds and her rain dancing. i fall in love with the flowers in her cheeks and the little bursts of cleaning. i fall in love with summer’s slow walks and milkshakes and shouting to music playing too loud on the speakers. i fall in love with her dancing, with the sunfire energy. and when winter comes; i am ready. i remember that snow used to look pretty. i fall in love with the hearth of her, with the holiday, with the slow smile that spreads across her face so shyly. i fall in love with how she looks in boots and mittens and every day i find another reason to love her the way she deserves - they way i always should have.she comes home with her white hair and dark smile and a package in her hands. i ask to see what it is and that small shy grin comes creeping out. it’s a sunlamp packed in with medication. she looks at me with those wide eyes and that beautiful winter blush. “i’m trying to get better,” she whispers, “i promise.”recovery doesn’t look immediate. sometimes it isn’t neat. i can’t say we never fight or that we’re suddenly complete. but each day, that tiny girl’s strength gives me another reason. i love her. i love her while she tames the roller coaster of spring; i love her for reigning in the summer storms; i love her for taking her winter and trying to be warm. it is hard, because everything worth it is hard. she spreads out her autumn leaves; mixes the best parts of her into everything. learns to take winter’s silence for a moment before yelling in summer. learns to take autumn’s spice and give it to spring. we are both learning.one day she comes home and her hair is different, but it’s a style i don’t know. i kiss it and tell her that she’s beautiful and the inside of me swells like a flood. i’m so glad that she’s mine. every part of her. the whole. i am the luckiest person on earth. and i always have been. but she’s hugging me and saying, “thank you for helping me,” and i can’t explain why i’m crying.this is what love is; not always an emotion but rather your actions. the choices we make when we realize our lives would be empty if the other was absent. this is what love is: letting them grow, helping them find their way in out of the cold. this is what love is: sometimes it takes work to see how the thing you planted together actually grows.this is what love looks like in an autumn girl: it is winter and she glows.“

- inkskinned

[ty-talks-comics]

Best of DC: Week of December 18th, 2019

Best of this Week: Doomsday Clock #12 - Geoff Johns, Gary Frank, Brad Anderson and Rob Leigh

It’s finally over.

Doomsday Clock started in November of 2017. I remember the Wednesday when it came out. I chose two copies, the main cover for a friend and the Superman Variant cover by Gary Frank for myself. I even received a button that I still wear, faithfully on my signature hat. I was excited for this crossover - this confrontation between Alan Moore’s greatest creations (in my opinion) and the bright and colorful heroes of the DC Universe. At first, everything started off so well. The book came out monthly and it was amazing...for all of two or three issues.

Soon after, the book switched to a bi-monthly schedule so that Johns, Frank, Anderson and Leigh could tell the story right. I was willing to wait and every single issue was worth it...up until more delays. If the math were correct, the story should have finished in December of 2018, but here we are in December 2019...at the end of this long ass journey and I can honestly say that it was all worth it.

By God, was it worth it.

It’s hard to discuss what goes on in this book because I feel like it’s less about what happens in it and more about the meaning behind specific actions, reveals and reappearances. One of the things that we were sold on during this series was the inevitable confrontation between Superman and Doctor Manhattan and Geoff Johns manages to subvert our expectations n a good way in that the fight never quite happens, but is more of an ideological debate between cynicism and hope, something that’s been at the heart of this story and DC Rebirth since the beginning.

*MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD*

Finally confronting each other, Superman asks Doctor Manhattan who he is Manhattan explains that he is either the one who will destroy Superman or be destroyed by Superman. Before they can delve deeper into that conversation, Superman is beset on both sides by the forces of Russia with Markovia and those of Khandaq. Pozhar and Geo-Force order Superman to answer for Firestorm’s supposed crimes against Russia and Black Adam tells them that he will be held accountable in Khandaq. Tensions rise and the battle is on as Manhattan looks on at the powder keg that he has created.

Because of his curiosity and meddling with time, he has created this timeline where hope is fleeting and the Metaverse, as he calls it, is fighting back with Superman caught in the middle. Because of him, the Superman Theory has caused a palpable amount of distrust between the various nations and his causing Firestorm to explode only made those tensions worse. In an effort to understand his final visions of the future, he staged everything in an effort to get in front of Superman.

He has a monologue in his mind where he states that he is caught in a question of two answers, the answers he gave Superman earlier. Superman fights back against both sides as they fight each other. Meanwhile in Gotham City, Reggie Long, the new (former) Rorschach, is saved from an attack by a red hat wearing man by Alfred. Alfred tries to get him to don the mask of the man who killed his father again and Reggie violently pushes Alfred against a wall and decries his former hero and says that he sees no future, no hope, much like Doctor Manhattan. 

Gary Frank makes excellent use of the nine-panel grid to show the emotion on Reggie’s face  and how much all of this is affecting him. Interspersed between these panels are shots of Superman fighting before we get an AMAZING double page spread showing the block wide battle between the forces of Russia-Markovia and Khandaq. Vostok-X is thrown into a building, Black Adam fires lightning at Tara Markov, Giganta fights another giant hero, even the Batman and Superman of China make appearances as a past panel noted that heroes from around the world have gone to help Superman or oppose him in Washington.

In the middle of Reggie’s breakdown, Batman shows up and offers him encouragement, apologizing for not believing him earlier in the story. He tells Reggie that even if he hates what the mask stood for, he can give it his own meaning, become his own Rosrschach. This is when the theme of hope begins to build up more as in the middle of the big brawl, Superman does everything he can to save people. As a car is about to crush a family, Superman steps in to save them, he then pleads with Doctor Manhattan to do the same.

Up until this point, Doctor Manhattan had been operating on the idea that there were only two possible options to end his fight with Superman, he even reveals that he’s the one who erased Superman’s friends, mentors and killed his parents. Frank and Anderson then draw four amazing panels. Superman cocking his fist back, eyes full of rage, Doctor Manhattan closing in as to accept his fate, Superman lunging forward with the fist outstretched to the reader and concluding with one punch to an attacking Pozhar, saving Manhattan.

Manhattan is almost left dumbfounded and asks why he’s done this. Why did he save him? Superman replies that there’s a third choice to be made. Superman takes note of the pictures of Janey that Manhattan leaves around when he appears and questions that maybe the darkness that he sees is a result of him using his powers to save the universe like he wishes he could have saved himself and his world.

Doctor Manhattan raises his hands and says that he understands, releasing a surge of energy that makes everything fade away. One of the most powerful shots of this entire book are of Superman’s logo slowly dissipating and then thirteen panels of darkness before we see the Rebirth of everything and Clark’s place in the Metaverse. The fight goes on, but as Superman begins to fall, he receives help in the form of...Everyone. The New Legion of Superheroes and the Justice Society of America bring up the rear in quite possibly one of the most beautiful double page spreads in the book.

It’s easy to understand what Hope is to Geoff Johns. He’s a classic man. He sees hope in the DC Universe as the old heroes. The ones who aspired to do good and be good for reasons above themselves. The JSA inspired Superman to become a force for good and in turn, Superman inspired the future Legion. There’s a reason he wanted this series to reintroduce them in the wake of the darker, grittier New 52 and reinforce that darkness isn’t the only way to find the light. At the same time, Johns uses this book as an opportunity to explain the structure of the Metaverse, Superman’s place in it and inform future stories, crises and timelines for the DC Universe.

*SPOILERS MOSTLY OVER*

When Superman lifted that car in 1938 it was just the beginning, but when Barry Allen created the Speed Force, the universe had its first divide and Superman’s timeline shifted up. This split created Earth-2 where Golden Age Superman still resides. The first Crisis divided the Earth again, creating Earth-1985 and at the center of that is still Superman. After Flashpoint and subsequently Rebirth, Earth-52 was spawned.

Superman is the glue that holds everything together.

Superman is the quintessential hero that everything revolves around and he will always show humanity the way. He’ll appear on many Earths at many different points in many different timelines to inspire hope where none can be found. That’s why I love this story so much. Even though Superman and Manhattan didn’t appear in it very much in the first half, their presence was still felt throughout. There was always this air of hope versus despair and we see who won out. The Watchmen Universe served as the perfect deconstruction of superheroes, but what we’re witnessing with Doomsday Clock is the reconstruction.

It’s the returning of the ideal that’s been lost to so many following endless gritty reboots, terrible political conflict in the modern day and lack of truth, justice and the American - no, Human way. In an age where people don’t know how to write a Superman movie, Doomsday Clock should be the example. Against all odds, Superman managed to inspire a being that has shunted away their humanity for the black and whites of logic instead of focusing on all possible options based on hope.

Doomsday Clock may not exactly stand on the same pedestal as the story that inspired it, but it absolutely should stand high. Gary Frank is an amazing artist that gave this book the weight, scope and respect that it deserved throughout. Amazing faces, body language, scene framing, use of visual motifs such as the Carnival picture puts this story above and beyond in terms of art quality. The way he managed to cram so many heroes on only two pages with insane amounts of detail for each is a testament to his ability and similarity to Watchmen artist Dave Gibbons.

Brad Anderson’s colors gave each individual issue their own unique feel with this one making good use of Doctor Manhattan’s blue light in the form of being a new symbol of hope in the face of the dark inks and oranges of the destruction taking place. Even when the mass of characters appear, no one gets lost in the pages because their colors are so distinct and recognizable amongst each other.

This story also couldn’t have been told without Rob Leigh’s amazing lettering. The way that we can distinguish between Manhattan’s dialogue, feel the weight of every character’s words and the bubble placement shows a level of skill that allows us to enjoy the flow of dialogue without losing any of the art.

It’s been a long journey to finally get here, but it has been worth the wait. Even if the current state of the DC Universe has either gone past this story or if it’ll need to be retconned to have been before the current events of Year of the Villain, there’s still a place for it in the overall landscape. I loved all of this and this is the kind of story that makes me glad to be a comic book fan. There’s nuance to everything, a good few messages and amazing art. Better yet, it ensures Geoff Johns future legacy will be one of hope and inspiration thanks to the time that he loved so much and hopes to get back to.

I welcome the return of the Legion of Superheroes even as I’m not the biggest fan of Brian Michael Bendis. Even more so for the Justice Society of America whenever they get a new series announced. It’s great to see the classics again and I’m interested as to how they’ll do in this new modern age.

As for Doctor Manhattan and the rest of the Watchmen characters, without a doubt I think we’ll be seeing some of them again at different points. They didn’t overstay their welcome or absolutely destroy everything like I thought they might, but we know that they’re around and we know there’s still stories to be told despite Alan Moore’s own feelings on such things.

This isn't the perfect sequel to Watchmen, how could it be? But it is an amazing Watchmen adjacent book that builds off of the themes of that story and injects the DCUs vision of hope and justice into these characters. For that, I am glad to have read it.

Doomsday has been avoided and we have several hours before midnight, at least for now.

[johnskleats]

Beautiful Fool

That Great Gatsby!Merther AU, ya’ll.

@the-once-and-future-love @arthur-of-the-pendragons @the-fated-dragoness @pretty-pendragon

He had only wanted a little space to himself. That was natural enough, Gaius had said, provided he be mindful to keep sharp whilst on holiday. Privacy was recipe for secrets, his mother had said, get too used to it and risk a doomed marriage. What his uncle failed to understand was that this was not, in fact, a holiday, and his mother, bless her, would have to come to terms with his preferences. Whomever he found as a companion, eventually, would favor a similar life to his- that was what made a household, after all -harmony. “Find a woman who hates flowers,” he had jested, “and lake houses, and sunsets.” Merlin had been grinning. His mother had not. “Specifically task her to woo me, see if I give it up.”

“Give what up, Merlin,” mother had sighed.

He had only gotten so far as opening his mouth before Gaius boxed his ears in scolding. Mother fussed over supper. Merlin set the table. All was as it had always been in their little house on the corner, only in his room, there was a suitcase by the door, and the drawers were empty, and nothing was as it had been, really, at all.

And now he was home, where a new always would forge itself. Even as he had told mother to her bleary-eyed face that he would visit often and call yet more, Gaius had watched the lie weave through his lips as it was spun. His brow had been stern, but understanding. As always, he neglected to stop him spouting words that dug graves; Merlin couldn't blame him, as whatever came to him, he would probably deserve in one way or another. Yet, here he was: Camelot Isle, renting out a minuscule gardener's cottage that overlooked the harbor. His backyard, backwoods rather, lead into the gardens and courtyards of the looming mansion next door, Pendragon House, the full and dreary history of which he had gotten in his tenancy letter. Merlin had skimmed it. As his personal contract with the cottage was in no way connected to Pendragon House, originally servant's quarters or not, he had no interest or attachment to its grounds whatsoever. Because he lived here, he preferred not to be treated as a tourist, though the thought crossed his mind that the rent was fixed where it was for a purpose. The possibility of poor neighbors hadn’t crossed his mind. Between himself and whomever occupied the mansion, they had the isle to themselves; whatever it was that rendered his house so cheap couldn’t be so bad.

Merlin, on the porch of his new-to-him, two-room-with-a-bathroom-and-a-patio house, drank in the character of his little abode through a lens of intentional whimsy. It had windchimes nailed to the wood frame of the awning, bits of Cola bottles and seaglass turned in the lake and hung up with cord. The step into the living room and kitchen area was high and gnarled, and in his rounds about, Merlin had tripped on it no less than three times; his bedroom, the aforementioned second room of the two-room-with-a-bathroom-and-a-patio house, was a splotched lavender color, unevenly applied rose wallpaper fading and peeling away at cracks in the corners of the walls. His favorite part of the bedroom was probably the curtains, orange and visible, with their thick plumes of dust and heavy shadow. They were hideous. They were his.

Between his house and his neighbor's stood a dock leading out to a pier, at the end of which was a signalling bell. It was here that Merlin’s attention was drawn when with a peal of joy, the bell, chimed with the wind, his permanent glass fixtures tinkling with it and all the leaves sounding applause through the boughs of the canopy. A chill cut through him, and Merlin retreated inside to weather the surely impending storm. Awaiting him was a house of his own, just as cramped as his mother’s and far less comfortable, made sweeter and more welcoming by the name on the lease.

Merlin was a third of the way through chipping the grime from his stovetop when the first cracks of thunder rent the air. He jolted in surprise, butter knife clattering to the tile, and, shakily, took up his task again. The sound of pouring rain had deafened him to all other stimuli, and the sense of exposure rattled his bones. With the panes trembling in their frames and shutters fluttering, clamoring against the sides of the house along with the waving branches and pelting rain, wind whistling through the waterspout with the gush of overflow, he felt swallowed inside a void. The house was empty, save for himself. A new always, he supposed, being safe, unscathed, while simultaneously so utterly immersed in what his mother lovingly referred to as trouble. It filled him to the brim with the kind of excitement that makes boys leap from cliff faces to the sea, the kind of adrenaline that demands to know whether or not he could make the jump. The chaos scraped at his safehouse as the wall of his own skin, itching. It called to him like a siren song and, oddly, his heart ached. Merlin had longed to be alone, but the magic had followed him anyway.

Forlorn, he closed again the beaten shudders.

--Merlin opened them again.

There, in the earth driveway leading up to his neighbor's abode, was a car, the likes of which Merlin had only ever seen on magazine covers in stores. Yellow, canary yellow like rain slickers, yellow like bananas and technicolor and his mother's good dress stared back at him, obscured by black mud and torrents of water coursing along the body of metal. Outside the vehicle was a man of equally astounding quality, although less from the fact that he was soaked through to his designer shoes with water-dark hair in his eyes, and more so that he stood outside apparently his car, mixing himself in what was about to be ankle-deep mud. The moment Merlin had registered that the man was trying to push it out of its rut to no avail happened to be the same moment that the man had given up, throwing up his hands and kicking at the white-faced wheels with petulant abandon. The car wasn't hooded, rather open, actually, and the man looked away, paced, fumed as it rapidly took up water. Much longer in the road, which was flooding quickly, and the vehicle may not be operable at all.

Merlin, despite his brain telling him quite avidly that this would somehow change the course of his day, if not his life, in a way that would render him devoid of control, took it upon himself to don his raincoat, nevermind the boots, there was little time, and help the remarkable stranger.

When Merlin dashed out his front door, the look of surprise and relief he expected left much to be desired. Instead, he saw bewilderment and agitation, characteristic of a man who has had a very, very long morning. The man was shouting at him. Merlin was shouting back, but both voices were carried away in the storm, leading to a mutual agreement to shut up and push the car. He was struck with regret at his choice in priorities; his raincoat did him little good, as the exertion and laboured movement lead to water penetrating and eventually inundating his upper half, while he suspected galoshes would have done him much good indeed, in place of the cold mud oozing beneath his heels and riding up his socks. In several short pushes of combined effort, plus one big push, the buggy was out of the worst of the puddle, and arguably fit to go again. Still too loud to speak much, Merlin offered a thumbs up, and the man blinked at him, surprised again, although it may have been to chase away water clinging to his lashes still blindingly. Merlin gave that close-lipped, polite smile that offered immediate exit to limited acquaintances to urge him forward and out, but when the strange man, a drowned cat in a suit, continued to look at him as though transfixed, Merlin decided to make an executive decision on part of the universe.

He turned, and went inside.

The man watched him go, Merlin could feel it like the prickle of lightning in the sky, but he dared not look back, not even out his ugly curtains until he was certain his guest was gone. When he opened the shudder for the third time that rainy first day, it was to a flooded, murky street made to a mud pond in front of his house, and a long trail of tire tracks he could trace like a piece of string to the gates of the beautiful Pendragon House.

-

The first of the letters arrived the following morning. Merlin had only barely begun updating his address, most of his mail sure to be forwarded by his mother in the coming months, but this first letter, addressed to him, was from someone he was vaguely surprised but not astounded to hear from. Arthur Pendragon, his landlord. He could assume it was just like the last few he had received, informative snippets about his tenancy or more fluffy introduction to the place he was so privileged to live in, and so he paid it little mind. Merlin set it aside. The man with the yellow car crossed his mind once or twice, but only in passing. He hoped he had made it wherever he was going without much more trouble, even if it was his own fault for leaving such a valuable possession vulnerable to the elements like that.

He spent the day cleaning and tidying, much as he had the day before. The sunny sky and renewing smell of rain set him in a mood of rebirth, of new beginnings, and everything in his cozy fixer-upper was an opportunity to make something lovelier than before. He had a day or two yet for his holiday before he would have to call into work, and until then, he intended use his time wisely.

The wallpaper was the first thing to go.

With the night came the smell of drying paint and the sound of cars passing his house one after another, the chatter of excitement and the glare of filtered, colored light. Merlin would have shut it out if he could, but to close the window would be to suffocate in paint fumes, his beauty rest be damned. He wanted a good night's sleep, not a hangover. In the earlier hours of the evening, he had thought this would be an eight to ten kind of affair. Then the music started, a whole brass band, it sounded like, and he knew he was in for something interminable.

Merlin rolled around his cluttered living room, everything from the bedroom shoved into it whilst his paint aired out. He perched on his loveseat, did a lazy summersault out of his pillowfort, baked cookies to warm the house, even put on his own record as though to spite Pendragon House for its inconsiderate racket. The latter was to no avail, and he turned it off after a few minutes; the clash of melody was giving him a headache. He checked his watch- almost three in the morning. He was agitated enough to round up; at most, he had dozed a little under two hours between nine and now, fifteen minute increments interrupted by raucous laughter and what he assumed to be drunkards skinny dipping in the lake. He wished he didn’t know, but again, his windows were all wide open, and if anything killed him, it would be curiosity, followed swiftly by this miserable Arthur Pendragon.

Just then, Merlin remembered the letter he had received this morning. Was it a notice? He could find it in himself to be less put off if he had been warned- at least then it would be his own fault. Eyes shot, he fumbled with the heavy envelope until the seal popped- who wax-sealed their letters? -and squinted to make sense of the elaborate script.

Hereby invited...party...courtesy of Arthur Pendragon…

That was about all he got out of it, and all he really needed to read. Merlin tossed it aside with a huff and, exhausted, covered his ears with  throw pillows.

-

The letters kept coming. The parties kept happening. The house was coming together.

Merlin had painted the outside a soft blue and rigorously cleaned the white trim, although he left the knobbed stair and wind chime as they were. The living room and bedroom were a brisk white, the curtains had been washed- Merlin didn't have the heart to throw them out -and he had livened up the space with a new dining table, a novelty painting of a farmhouse, and a little potted plant. The teakettle was operable, and life was good.

Still, the invitations came. Invitations to day trips into the city, rendezvous on the yacht, tours of the estate, and at the end of each was a reminder of the inevitable nightly house party.

Merlin had received seven now, and other trinkets had started to accompany them in little red boxes. A birdhouse. A teacozy. A brass watch, at least he hoped it was brass. All in all, it was unsettling, but Merlin had managed to put it out of his mind. It was thoughtful, and probably born of guilt, although, if Arthur knew he was a terrible neighbor, Merlin wished he would just start being a good one instead of perpetuating this compensation nonsense. It was the ninth night, and the eighth letter that finally convinced him. It had come in a box that was shaped frighteningly like a necklace from Tiffany’s, or some other such bizarre place, and Merlin had opened it with pallor and trepidation. The letter was on top, he could only guess its contents, but beneath that, in the box itself, was a simple, soft, blue...scarf. There was no price tag, no note, for when he did open the envelope, it was only his name in that elegant script he had come to be so familiar with. Somehow, that was enough.

Merlin made yet another executive decision.

He would attend one of these parties, only one, and put an end to this strange outreach of companionship. He was willing to make passing friends, would allow teatime some afternoon or another, but this gift business would stop, and by the stars and stripes, they would be on a mutual last name basis. No more of this dear Merlin business, no signed Arthur. It would be Mr. Emrys, Mr. Pendragon, chatter about the water pressure, the Sox game, and no more.

-

Merlin was unfit to be there. He didn't only feel that way, but was, surrounded by people he saw glimpses of in movie pictures and heard on the radio, talking about their careers and mixing brandy in their sequined dresses and tight suits. Even amongst those closer to his own economic class, college students wasted out of their minds, he didn't feel at ease. There was no theme, no center, no purpose to their frivolity- only music, loud and frenzied, and glittering champagne, dancers, fireworks above the tower raining stars into the lake. Whoever he spoke to told him something different; Mr. Pendragon was a prince, an actor, a war hero, a famous doctor, a mob boss. Not once did he hear Arthur. No one seemed to know him, or where he was, if he even lived in the house bearing his name, if he intended for there to be a shindig tonight. Apparently, the gates opened and people came, from everywhere, and no one was ever turned away.

No one was ever invited.

That put a knot in his stomach like nothing else, and he kept a white-knuckle grip on his little box of unsolicited gifts. He would find Arthur, if he could, and return them, explain himself if there was air left in the atmosphere. He would apologize. He would leave. The stars fallen into the lake would stay there, extinguished, and Merlin would soundproof his bedroom. The next letter he got, he would pack his things. The overwhelming sense of impending change, so much like doom, made his heart beat heavy and his teeth ache.

He had meandered for two hours, and like Persephone in the underworld, dared not partake. Unlike her, he could leave whenever he pleased, even if it didn't feel like it just then. The pull of destiny made him stay put, and with every passing moment, he was tempted to throw caution to the wind and join the fray.

Four hours in. Midnight. Merlin felt a tap on his shoulder and turned, the band meeting crescendo to the coo of a love song and the stars bright overhead, a moment of stillness and light, he stared, caught in the blue eyes of Apollo himself. He wished he had had something to drink. Heart fluttering in his chest, he half listened to the man welcoming him with a smile, leading him by the shoulder to somewhere more private where they could talk, and yes, he did have a lot on his mind, and indeed, the decorations were splendid. The click of a door brought him to his senses.

“What’ve you got there?”

They were in a study lined with chestnut bookshelves, each full of old, decorative books and ships trapped in bottles. The man who Merlin recognized as Mud Man With the Yellow Car had seated him on a plush lounge, black leather that squeaked faintly when he moved and smelled particular, but good. Its arms were too wide for his comfort, and he felt small. The man, much neater than when Merlin had last seen him, placed a cold glass in his hand.

“Just water,” he assured amiably.

Mindlessly, Merlin broke his vow and sipped.

Arthur Pendragon was a tall, broad man, who knew his way around a suit. In private now, he had shucked his coat to a hanger and loosed his ascot, red, to leave it hanging about his neck. He had never seen a man in suspenders any color but black or brown before, but for the sake of fashion, Merlin compelled himself to understand one's need for scarlet, if only to pair with a white suit. A white suit that looked fantastic, mind.

His host was watching him bemused, as if he knew what Merlin was here for. Merlin certainly didn't. He swallowed.

“Is that for me?” Arthur probed again. All eyes went to the repurposed gift box in Merlin’s hands, suddenly thrust into Arthur’s, who took it with mild surprise. Opening it, the look of someone enjoying a marvelous and delightful game was lost to one crestfallen. In the box, was a birdhouse, a teacozy, and a brass watch. Arthur closed the box. Had he continued to paw through it, he would have found the stack of letters, each written in this very study. Merlin, feeling like he was intruding on a private moment, was relieved that he had stopped there.

“Would you like a drink? I'd like a drink,” Arthur hummed, and he was gone again, opening wine.

“So you're not a gift person,” he said cheerily. A new glass found its way into Merlin’s hand. “Or a, how do you say, luxury adventure person,” he was starting to feel guilty, “or a party person--”

“You don't even know me,” Merlin heard himself say. The half empty wine glass he didn't remember drinking set itself on the table. Everything about this night was shiny and ethereal, his whole body abuzz with newness and golden warmth. He didn't know he had passed four hours wandering this house, drunk on art and a myriad of mismatched strangers, didn't realize he had spent almost half an hour drinking with the mysterious Arthur Pendragon in his private study, didn't know how he had gotten to the point where he could hear the words coming out of his mouth but couldn't understand who on earth had put them there, but here he was, and, “You don't know a thing about me.”

Arthur furrowed his brow and stared into his glass, the box far from forgotten on the coffee table. “I know you like the color blue,” he said quietly. “I know you like to watch birds. I know you like to work with your hands when you could call someone instead.”

Merlin, at once feeling too big for his skin and yet very small under the pressure of Arthur’s attention, watched him carefully. He watched his body language, stiff even in as casual a position as he was, legs crossed and leaning. He watched his lips, red from the worry of teeth and wine, round themselves about his words, saw his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks.

“I know you don't mind helping strangers,” Arthur was saying. Merlin’s mouth was dry and his water was gone. Arthur was watching him now, too. His eyes were blue, bluer than anything, his jaw was sharp, his shave was close and he could smell his cologne and Arthur was saying, softly, “I know your name,” and then, “Merlin,” and then.

Hook, line, and sinker.

“We know each other plenty well,” returned the easy smile. The moment was gone just like that, leaving him breathless, as though he'd been kissed. Arthur hadn't kissed him, though. He hadn't touched him aside from the occasional brush of fingers exchanging a glass, hadn't tried to breach the distance. He was still talking. Merlin wondered how his a smile didn't reach his blue, blue eyes. “But you've avoided me quite avidly, I would say. I was starting to get ideas when-”

“--When?”

“Beg your pardon?” Arthur flushed red, not expecting the question. He was used to Merlin’s silence, had no way of knowing how unusual it really was. Perhaps he had rehearsed parts of this conversation. Regardless, he disliked being thrown off guard.

“Ideas. I've been here a week, when could you have possibly found time to get ideas?”

Arthur was incredulous.

“You'd be surprised to find I do have a brain, you know,” he seemed about to continue, but Merlin glowered. Arthur began again.  “...Ideas about you?”

“The Queen,” Merlin answered dryly.

“Victoria or Elizabeth?”

“Mary.”

Arthur winced, and poured more wine.

“You pushed my car,” he murmured. “No one asked you, there was no proposed reward, you just came out in your loafers and helped me.”

Merlin thought back to that night, the sniffles he'd had the remainder of the evening, the mud he had to mop up the following day. “I help people who need it,” he corrected. “The ‘who’ makes no difference to me.”

Arthur toasted him halfheartedly. “‘Sure know how to make a guy feel special, don't you?” His host glanced back to the box of rejected gifts, rejected friendship, and again, Merlin felt a pang of guilt. The distant sound of the party made its way to them, a bass beat that had always been there but had still managed to be forgotten. The clock read two.

Merlin took a drink.

“What do you want from me?” His glass clinked against the wood of the table.

“Are you flattered?” He frowned in confusion. Arthur repeated himself, clearer and more distinctly. “Are you flattered, Merlin?”

“I…”

Merlin didn't know. Why was he here, he thought, what brought him into this situation? Why had he set out tonight, bent to break his promise to his mother? Why did he insist on following that drag of purpose clutching his heart, leading him into danger such as this?

“...I am.”

There was a breath, Arthur waiting for a ‘but’ that didn't come. Again, Merlin was caught in the gaze of an Adonis.

“Would you come back?” Arthur’s tone was low, wistful, concealing. His look didn't waver, daring Merlin to lie, staring into his heart or perhaps just enjoying what he saw- both concepts he couldn't understand. “If I let you go tonight, home,” he sighed, every word sounded like a sigh now and the world was a void, “would you come back?”

The implication that his landlord might not permit him to leave should have been disturbing. Much of this should have been, in fact, he ought to have reported it or left or something--

“Yes.”

What.

“Yes?” Arthur smiled.

What are you doing?

More than smile, he beamed. He tried to hide it but couldn't, the relief overwhelming his composure and Merlin was damned if he saw anyone more beautiful than Arthur Pendragon was in that moment.

“...That's all I wanted,” he said simply.

Merlin was damned.

He knew then that if he took even the smallest amount of momentum towards Arthur, he would do something they would both regret. He would lose a potential friend, although an odd one, of his an admittedly lousy, endearing neighbor. He could always say he had been drunk, which he was, a little- he wasn't -and bank on Arthur being the same- sober, that is -and maybe, maybe then he could get away with it. Dangerous thought, danger, danger--

“Will you stay tonight?”

His heart leapt to his throat to choke him, treacherous thing.

“...Until the party is over?”

The clock read two fifteen, Merlin unabashedly eyeing those red, red lips.

He made an executive decision.

He left.

[audreyxuan]

Black Pearl

Written for @scribuary. Switching things up and trying a screenplay format. 

Prompt #5: Write something based around a flower/plant and its meaning(s).

FADE IN.

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

A clean, well-kept room. On the desk is a mirrored tray, loaded with crystal bowls. A WOMAN, mid-30s, is asleep on the bed. Slowly, peacefully, she wakes up.

SUDDENLY, a memory:

EXT. CAR - NIGHT (FLASHBACK)

The woman is driving through a snowstorm. The blizzard is blinding, and she can hardly see in front of her.

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

The camera zooms out to show her whole body: she’s wearing a black dress and evening gloves, and her hair is in a formal updo.

EXT. CAR - NIGHT (FLASHBACK)

We see the woman is wearing the same outfit. She’s at a red light and stops to check her phone. Someone’s honking at her, and she looks up--the light is green. She continues driving.

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

She gets out of bed and walks towards the tray. In each bowl, there is a flower. A pale blue lotus, an orange marigold, a black rose, a yellow rose, and a white asphodel. She examines each--breathing in the scent, inspecting them, feeling the petals.

EXT. CAR - NIGHT (FLASHBACK)

She slows down at a stop sign. There’s screeching behind her, howling brakes, as the car behind her makes impact. She’s pushed into the intersection, and she sees blinding white headlines cut through the snow, rapidly coming towards her.

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

She finally decides on the black rose. Then the blossom begins to change, to morph, into something else. The petals fall away layer by layer, each one turning and curling and transforming into a small black ball. It continues to evolve, until she’s holding something else entirely different. In her hand is a black pearl necklace.

A hand touches her shoulder in a half-comforting, half-menacing gesture. She turns suddenly and sees A MAN standing behind her. His dark robe covers his face. He takes the necklace from her hand and clasps it around her neck.

They walk out of the bedroom, down a pristine white hall, and towards a door. The man opens it and walks through, into a snowstorm. She follows. The wind whips and howls, the snow whips around her, but she is pleasantly warm. She touches the pearls at her throat and finds them to be almost uncomfortably hot.

As the two walk down the snowy path, the camera moves down and racks focus. On the ground, lying next to a mangled metal heap that was once a car, is the woman’s bloodied body.

CUT TO BLACK.

THE END

Lotus: Rebirth, reincarnation. Enlightenment and purity, victory of the spirit. Ascension.

Marigold: Grief, the fragility of life. Healing. Remembrance of those who have passed. A sacrifice to gods.

Black pearl rose: Death, mourning, sorrow. Dark magic. The end of a journey. Uncharted waters. The beginning of something unknown.

Asphodel: The underworld, the haunt of the dead. Can be medicinal or fatal. Gloom, pallor, and the afterlife.

Begonia: Caution, danger, panic. Be alert and vigilant. Always on the look out.

[frangipanidownunder]

It’s a New Day, It’s a New Dawn: fic contest entry

This was my entry to the fic contest. Cancer arc. Mulder and Scully go on a date.

She’s been having dreams. Vivid, cinematic. Bright kaleidoscopic photography. It’s an irony that her skin is parchment-pale and her eyes are gray-ringed and she fights the urge daily to disappear herself in the comforting wrap of her charcoal fleece.

She doesn’t smile too often yet. She still finds that hard, despite her positive prognosis, despite being dealt a second hand in life. Maybe living with death changes muscle memory. She doesn’t smile for many reasons, like her mother’s almost oppressive love and her brother’s tight surprise at her recovery. But sometimes her lips twitch at the relief Mulder’s hides in his own easier smile, the protracted looks he hangs on her when he thinks she isn’t paying attention, the more frequent night-time phone calls – that come much earlier now. Honestly, she misses their 2am slot. They spoke more freely then, shared fears among the ideas, dropped old stories into the mix of autopsy results and wild theories. She knows he’s been frightened to his core by her cancer. And, like the child that still lives in his soul, he doesn’t quite know how to shuck off that terror.

              Remission. It’s a strange term. Sending back, releasing, abating, waiving a debt. Like she owed somebody something. If she has rejected death’s shackles, then it goes that she must be free. She must be able to do as she pleases. She remembers reading about the first sexual revolution – in the Roaring Twenties when the heavy burden of war had lifted and the novelty of life and living powered up. Jazz clubs, movies, cars. The world changed profoundly for that generation. And there’s something about the curious and colorful hope in her dreams that makes her feel the same way.

              Last night’s dream lingers under her skin, behind her eyes, in her breathing. Magical, sensual, sexual. She can’t pin it down but it made her feel good and she wants to hold on to that feeling. She stretches her toes out under the soft linen and enjoys the warm weight of it molding to her body. During her treatment she couldn’t bear anything against her skin, even the lightest touch scratched at her skin, burnt, bruised, scarred. Now she craves it.

She’s always been tenacious, clinging to noble principles or boyfriends past their use-by or scientific proof despite what she’s seen. She has gripped life by dagger-like horns and held on, palms bloody and torn. This time she has won and she needs to celebrate. She bought herself new underwear and pyjamas in the most luxurious silk, and she booked herself in for a day treatment at the local spa hoping to shed the last of her dying cells and front this new life of hers with fresh, unblemished skin.

___

Mulder drops by. He’s no good at lying, gives himself away with too many stumbling starts and glances to the left. He rubs his nose and she stares boldly at him, this glorious man in front of her holding out daffodils, the flowers of new life and hope. He’s asking her to dinner and she wants to believe it’s because he feels the same things she does, but she knows it’s really because he needs to see that she’s eating.

“My shout,” he says and there’s a vague air of desperation as he taps his wallet in his pocket.

The restaurant is bland. Mulder is the bright spot with his embroidered reminiscences and luminous smile. He’s genuinely delighted to be entertaining her. He can’t help trying too hard. This man who has lost everything and still believes in fairy tales and happy ever afters. The truth. Mulder’s truth has always been about a bigger picture, a higher purpose. The mundanity of dying just wasn’t in his vision.

              “I’m not keeping you up too late?” he asks, checking his watch for the fourth time. It’s only just gone nine and she feels extraordinarily awake.

              “I’m fine, Mulder. I’m having a nice time,” she says but knows it’s not enough for him. His mind will be worrying through all the things he has said or hasn’t said or should say. She covers his jiggling fingers with her hand, his sharp intake of breath punctuating the moment. “I want to say thank you for believing. For having faith and for your courage. I know how hard it must have been for you to see me that way. I don’t think I’ve told you how grateful I am.”

              His fingers still and his shoulders fall forward a little. He turns his head to the street. There’s nothing to see out the window but the rain falling into orange spools of light cast by the lamps, but his attention is captured by it. It seems he is all out of stories. “There was no choice,” he says, monotone matching the outlook. He does lift her hand and close it inside both his palms, and it feels like he’s covering her heart.

              She has a sudden urge to dance. To drink incandescent cocktails in a shady club. Wear feathers round her neck and Charleston until dawn. She wonders if Mulder has ever danced, although she dimly recalls a story about his mother teaching him to waltz as a pre-requisite life-skill, alongside swimming and cooking. Teena and Bill Mulder’s priorities in life were never quite synchronized. Genteel living on the Vineyard or trading your daughter to a syndicate of power-hungry men?  

              “Have you ever been to a jazz club, Mulder?”

              He releases her hand along with an unguarded laugh. “What?”

              “A jazz club, you know? Dancing, drinking, cigarettes in black holders, pearls and boas.”

              He’s still chuckling, all teeth and chesty laugh. “I do have a fedora and some two-tone Oxfords in the closet somewhere.”

              She sees him then, gray hat shadowing his face, pinstripe shirt with gold cufflinks, suspenders holding up his cuffed pants, black and white polished shoes skitting across the floorboards. Something inside her blooms. She smiles and the stretch across her face feels like an new act in her life.

“You look good as you are,” she says, trying not to linger on his broad chest.

              “Thank you,” he says, drawing out the words with uncertainty. Then he sits upright, runs a hand through his floppy bangs and grins. “You’re serious? You really want to dance?”

              Suddenly unsure, she rubs her thighs and swallows. She’s being irrational, she knows. She’s taking a chance, she knows. She’s putting herself out there, she knows. He’s not ready for this shed-skin Scully, this rebirthed version. “It’s okay,” she says, shaking her head. “Let’s get the check.”

              Outside, the air is damp and the residual smell of frying onions hangs all around. She’s noticed the slow return of her sense of smell and the aromas of life come at her with memories. A chilli-dog with mustard spooling down her shirt. Smoke from campfires with grit between her toes. Cologne on pillows. Ocean-fresh skin. The salt-sweet stickiness of the morning after.

___

Mulder cranes his neck back round, slows the car and turns it around. He looks across at her and holds her in a half-smile. She sees the neon sign, a golden pineapple with oversized verdigris spikes, flashing. The Tropica.

              Inside, it’s velvet-walled dark. It’s tactile. It’s pink smoke puffs and aqua light strips around ceiling high mirrors. The bartender is dancing shiny cocktail shakers in each hand. The low thrum from the speakers is pulsing some saxophone standard and Mulder pulls his credit card from his wallet and sets up a tab. It feels illicit, ensconced in a booth sipping strawberry daiquiris through green straws. After the first, she tucks the cerise cocktail umbrella behind her ear and makes Mulder grin. After the second, she tucks the umbrella behind his ear and makes him laugh.

              When her cancer struck fear into her bones in the early hours, when she saw nothing but a void in her future, when she trembled at the thought of Mulder going mad with bottled-up grief, she imagined how she would spend her last days on earth, had she been well enough. It wasn’t a midnight tryst in an underground club sharing lurid drinks and even more lurid tales about work colleagues. Somehow, she’d imagined pink sand and sun-baked skin, glimmering yachts and dolphin-diving. Fresh, salt-whipped winds snapping shade-sails overhead and mango juice sticking to her chin.

              But this, this electric thrall that presses around her, the gravity of life. It’s more than she could imagine. His fingers cover hers and he’s tapping with the beat of the drum. On the small stage, a woman in a purple sequin gown shimmies and belts out Nina Simone. He leans across, tipping over the glass in front of him, spilling pink ice onto the table. He ignores it and his jaw brushes her cheek as he whispers in her ear.

              “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, Dana?”

              Hearing her name on his lips shoots heat through her veins. She is Dana tonight. She has worked off her debts, gripped life by the shoulders and shaken herself back into it. She is free. And when he presses his damp-shirted chest to hers nesting his face in the crook of her neck, it’s like she has stepped into one of her dreams.

              She never wants to wake.

[cl1tttt]

it’s my fault. it’s just that when we met it was autumn; her red-orange hair and crackling laughter. there’s a little spooky in her, a lot of play. and what a better time for falling?

i didn’t realize it for the first few years - something shifting, something so subtle. the winter makes us all cold, the summer makes us all a little out of our minds. i just loved her, because she was incredible, and i was the luckiest person alive.

it’s just that i realized that spring came with sudden bursts of cold. it’s just that summer frequently raged in with fire sprouting from her lips. it’s just that winter was the worst of all, her eyes dead. it’s just that autumn loves me different; throws herself into it without the clingy sweat of summer. i used to love that summer girl, you know? i loved how wild she was, the way in summer she took every risk she could. but i carried her home drunk one too many times, cleaned up one too many of the messes she made for no reason than to enjoy the sensation of burning. and winter was worse; the shutdown, the isolation. how she became distant, a blizzard, caught up in her own head, unable to tell me what was wrong and unable to think i actually wanted to listen.

she comes home, her hair bleached white. a dark smile on her lips. the shadowy parts of her are back. they loom like icicles overhead. she kisses me with her body held at a distance, a peck on my cheek that feels like an iceberg. she makes polite conversation and we go to bed early, our bodies untouching.

it is a lonely season, i think on the ninth day of this. winter is cold. winter is known for the death of things. when i look at her, i see the girl i fell for, inhabited by an alien. she was the first women i loved so much i felt it would kill me. i can’t leave. when i wake her up with my crying, she tells me to shush and go back to sleep. she’s different like this, quiet, doesn’t eat.

three days later i stare at myself in the mirror. i wonder if it’s me. if the fat on my body or something in my face or the wrinkles and she doesn’t love me. i try prettier lingerie, lean cuisine, i try different hair, more makeup, try harder. it doesn’t work. she looks at me the same; that empty gaze that neither loves nor condemns my actions.

somewhere in februrary i lose it. we’re fighting again, from car to restaurant to car to home again. we fight about stupid things, small things; i tell her i feel she doesn’t love me, she says i’m not listening. the circle goes around and around, old pain peeling back, new pain unhealing. i sleep on the couch.

i wake up when i hear her crying, white hair around her all messed up. the kind of sobbing that only comes at two in the morning, heavy and thick and hurting. my winter girl. my heart is breaking. she looks up at me like i’m her anchor. “i’m sorry i’m like this,” she says. and i start saying, it’s okay i’m here we’re married, but she just shakes her head and says, “I know this isn’t the real me.”

i hold her cold hand. she stares at the blankets. “i am different in winter,” she whispers, “i know i am and i’m sorry.” she looks at me. “why do you think i dye my hair? cut it off? get rid of the old me?”

i tell her it’s okay. we’re together and it’s okay, and then she whispers, “i’m sorry you married four of me.”

we lay there like that, her head on my chest. she falls asleep. i stare at the ceiling, thinking of the way she sounded when she was crying. how i helped put her in that pain. how i promised in sickness and in health and everything in between.

the next day i spend at the library. there aren’t enough books on how to love someone with seasonal affective disorder so i make my own, notes and pages and little ideas on post-its. and i take a deep breath and make myself a promise.

she comes home to her favorite dinner and we kiss and she’s uneasy but that’s okay. the next day i bring home flowers and the next day she finds little love notes in her pockets. i love her quiet, the way winter demands, understand her sex drive is faltering; spend more time just cuddling. we drink wine and we kiss and some part of her starts relaxing.

the truth is there is no loving someone out of their mental illness. the truth is that you can love someone in despite of it; love them loud enough to give them an excuse to believe they can make their way out of it.

and i learn. i remember the rebirth of spring, when she starts thawing. we kiss and have picnics in pretty dresses. i remember her joy at little birds and her rain dancing. i fall in love with the flowers in her cheeks and the little bursts of cleaning. i fall in love with summer’s slow walks and milkshakes and shouting to music playing too loud on the speakers. i fall in love with her dancing, with the sunfire energy. and when winter comes; i am ready. i remember that snow used to look pretty. i fall in love with the hearth of her, with the holiday, with the slow smile that spreads across her face so shyly. i fall in love with how she looks in boots and mittens and every day i find another reason to love her the way she deserves - they way i always should have.

she comes home with her white hair and dark smile and a package in her hands. i ask to see what it is and that small shy grin comes creeping out. it’s a sunlamp packed in with medication. she looks at me with those wide eyes and that beautiful winter blush. “i’m trying to get better,” she whispers, “i promise.”

recovery doesn’t look immediate. sometimes it isn’t neat. i can’t say we never fight or that we’re suddenly complete. but each day, that tiny girl’s strength gives me another reason. i love her. i love her while she tames the roller coaster of spring; i love her for reigning in the summer storms; i love her for taking her winter and trying to be warm. it is hard, because everything worth it is hard. she spreads out her autumn leaves; mixes the best parts of her into everything. learns to take winter’s silence for a moment before yelling in summer. learns to take autumn’s spice and give it to spring. we are both learning.

one day she comes home and her hair is different, but it’s a style i don’t know. i kiss it and tell her that she’s beautiful and the inside of me swells like a flood. i’m so glad that she’s mine. every part of her. the whole. i am the luckiest person on earth. and i always have been. but she’s hugging me and saying, “thank you for helping me,” and i can’t explain why i’m crying.

this is what love is; not always an emotion but rather your actions. the choices we make when we realize our lives would be empty if the other was absent. this is what love is: letting them grow, helping them find their way in out of the cold. this is what love is: sometimes it takes work to see how the thing you planted together actually grows.

this is what love looks like in an autumn girl: it is winter and she glows