#the waxy apple bites back

[thatsbelievable]

[starres-stuff]

Day 2- Horizon FFXIV Write 2024

Horizon: The limit of a person's mental perception, experience, or interest.

“A gil for your thoughts” 

The voice had come out of nowhere shaking Dimitri from his trancelike state and turning his head where he found the emerald green eyes of his mentor, Xixa, staring back at him. 

“I didn't even notice your approach” The Duskwight offered a warm smile. Xixa was very skilled at this, even when the days were dark and dismal as they had been lately. 

“He thinks of you too, you know, Sonny.” Xixa patted his forearm and then let her hand rest on it while she kept talking. “I know why he is mad at you, a little bit torn on it since I don't think it is a reason to stay mad for a Moon, but at the same time if I had a life like he has I'd have been mad too.” 

Dimitri sighed softly, eyes lingering on the Viera's face, he always wondered how old she was, she certainly didn't look any older than her mid-twenties but the way she spoke made it sound like she had lived for centuries. “I don't think this place is for us anymore and I don't just mean the Shroud. I mean Eorzea in general.” 

Xixa fought to show no emotion regarding this. She enjoyed having both men around, they had been through a lot together, and the lump in her throat reminded her she cared a bit too much about both of them these days. “There is still tomorrow, Sonny. When all hope for today has run out, and we think there is nothing left. We just have to remind ourselves that tomorrow is a new day and we can try again. Just got to believe in what you want and who you love. They wouldn't be there if they didn't still feel the same for you.” 

Dimitri raked a nervous hand through his hair then gazed out towards the meadow full of flowers she had found him sitting near. His first intention was to come here to paint the beauty of a now encroaching Shroud fall but as soon as he had his easel set up and his paints mixed he found himself wishing Laurent was there to share it with him. 

“I keep having dreams of leaving this place Xixa. There is nothing left here, everyone I knew is gone. Vi has her life to live and I find myself lonely for company and friends. It is just not the same anymore, I hardly know anyone besides Qih’a but his head is in his own set of clouds.” biting his lower lip he looked towards the ground, he felt awful thinking the way he was now.

“There's always hope on the horizon. Sometimes we can't see it, sometimes we think it's over and it's not. The thing is we have to learn to love without expectations. We can put it out into the world, let it be there but people aren't content with that. They want someone to pick it up and then send it back. When all that matters is that we put ourselves out there, to begin with, we tried to connect and it's a start.” from the basket she had been carrying with her she pulled out a Pixie Apple, its bright red and waxy skin catching the light as she held it out to him; her features filled with understanding and compassion. It was his favorite fruit and she knew it too. 

“I tell him I love him but he doesn't say it back.” The forlorn notes in his voice were as strong as they were heartbreaking, but he reached for the offered apple, picking it gently from Xixa’s hand and holding it in his own. “I don't know if we will make it through this time, I fucked up.” 

A tsk noise came from the Viera then and her free hand flicked a finger or two at his long ear. “Oh hush with that. It is a matter of perception. He comes home to you every day, words are words, Dimitri. I can spin you a pile of Chocobo shit in a single breath and mean none of it. He still loves you but you need to listen with your damn heart and soul instead of your ears. He speaks to you all the time, even if it is just handing you an apple like I just did. It's your favorite, those are the things you want to hear, which means someone paid attention to the little things.”

It was these words Xixa would leave him with this day for soon after she spoke them, she squeezed his arm and kissed his cheek then departed the meadow to continue with her day, and as the Sharlayan found himself focusing on her unsolicited advice and suddenly finding an urge to fill the canvas in front of him with his art. 

[chim-aera]

pomegranate

I am like a pomegranate. I always have been.

not an apple, not easily accessed, not bright, and lovely. sweet nectar dribbling down your chin, skin broken with one bite.

no, I'm guarded. dark red armor, hiding the intimate depths of my soul, of my body. there is no tender flesh available for you to touch, I am all shining sheaths, all crimson coats.

pull me apart, try to rip through my barriers, I'll crumble, fall apart.

all the while I stain you, dripping red, staining your fingers, your tongue, your hands. saying, pointing, showing, what you did to me.

you did this. you did this. you did this.

no I am not easily accessed.

I've always found a sort of solace with the disregarded things. items, objects, creatures, myths. the monsters and morrows.

the misunderstood.

I am like a pomegranate.

I can be destroyed, yes.

with some force, sink your fangs into me, rip me apart. or, leave me alone.

grow bored when I do not yield immediately, I never do. not all the way. I am far too distrusting for that. toss me to the ground let me roll back to Mother, soil staining the waxy surface, as I am simply lost, and forgotten as another rotten harvest. another fallen fruit.

but I can be opened, I can be seen. it only takes gentleness to get there. patience, and a tender hand.

I use no knives when I peel them, pomegranates, just my bare, calloused, cool hands, pulling gently at the top, at the crown, like the one Hades placed reverently on his goddess's forehead.

it will split in two, glistening like rubies, like blood stains, like poems. glittering like scarlet stars, and one by one will I carefully pull out the little jewels, letting the sugary syrup coat my tongue, relishing in a gift from the gods.

patience.

that's all it takes.

and a want for it.

oranges.

it's always oranges.

perhaps I find some sympathy for them, but I have only found kindred in those bleeding garnet garnishes.

they're known so well for their beauty, yes.

but how many act only with violence, ripping her soft flesh, spilling her blood.

why am I identifying with a fruit?

but I am nevertheless.

oh Kore, Queen, Goddess, why do I find myself echoing your name, your epithets falling from these still lips.

over.

and over.

and over.

how did you do it?

left your cage, found your love? when I have done neither.

but I am far, far from goddess.

I'm not even some moon-eyed maiden, all I am, is some shivering, sordid thing.

or perhaps I am simply tired.

tired of all this.

I'm not angry, no injustice has been done.

but gods, gods I am tired.

Orpheus, if it were me he had turned around for, no wrath would mar my features, I would feel no remorse, if I were to be doomed to return back to king and queen, drawn back to Styx, to Hades, with the sorrows and shades, at least the last thing I see is your face. is knowing I was loved.

memento mei in fabulis.

make a story, perhaps, write me weird, write me well.

I know you will.

perhaps one day the song will flit down here to me among the meadows of morose melancholy.

not even my crown of asphodel could make me forget you.

find me in elysium, perhaps, maybe tarturus, but then again, I have passed judgement already, strangely enough, I judged myself well. the bronze sword fell in my favor.

but that does not matter now.

riddles.

metaphors.

inchor drips from my jaws, through the gaps of my teeth, from behind my eyelids, I try to rub it away but it seeps into my skin staining me murky and ink-ridden.

will I always be this way?

I am nothing if not a romantic.

internally.

philosophically

hopelessly.

run your sword through my heart to check if it is still beating, is it? I couldn't tell?

but still, I'd only smile as I fell to the earth, flick my blood of the blade, let it color the anemone blossoms.

I do not want to be wanted, I want to be sought.

for all of me, whole, whole.

scars, and screaming, softness and songs.

all my madness and melodies and melcholy.

if someone will take all of that, I don't know what I'd do.

I do not seek pleasure, I just want to be loved.

and here I am again, some feral, frazzled cat scratching down walls, clawing and climbing in its own indignation.

I am nothing if not some songbird plucking out its own windpipe.

a walking cacophony of conundrums.

dauntless dualaties at its very finest.

but yes.

pomegranates.

patience and care, perhaps I'll just sit here, waiting, within Lord Hades' chambers.

waiting for someone to bind themself to me, willingly, like his Goddess did with him.

waiting till someone wraps rough or tender hands around my aching vessel, to hold me, to want me.

pull me apart, lower my defenses, peel them back one by one.

you scream and stab me I'll cower or combust, but a gentle stroke or soft soothing and I may fall forward crumbling like petals withering in your fists, but for once will someone catch me?

tear me open to the dawn, I may shrivel in sunlight.

it's been so long.

it's been eternity.

but will you?

I'm waiting.

waiting for that chance, that day. when I'm plucked from the branch I so desperately despise, yet cling to. my prison and asylum all at once.

waiting, until I'm pulled down, seen, and perhaps, then you'll taste me, when I'm out in the open, undoing each piece of armor bit by bit, I'll hand you my dagger, as you lay it on the ground, oh how I wish not to need it.

for someone to try, for someone to fight for me, for someone to give me a reason not to need all this fear.

but for now that is fiction.

and I am nothing if not a dreamer, so let me dream.

let me fall back into my fantasies and frivolities that I adore so dearly.

let me sleep.

let me dream.

a tree in winter, will spring come again?

I've never even blossomed.

that's alright.

I haven't rotted entirely yet either, I have time.

but for now here I am, waiting.

a pomegranate.

all ruby rosiness, all tentative textures.

spit me out, or suck me dry. either. neither. but nevertheless I am here.

and I will not lose hope.

besides.

perhaps, just maybe.

there is someone, up there, who is searching for me, who wants me, and maybe for now that is enough.

[buckywritessometimes]

peeled.

I’ve never liked apple peels.

Ever since I was a kid, I couldn’t stand the texture- thick, slimy, uncomfortable to chew. They take away from the apple itself, ruin the crisp, sweet flavor with waxy indifference.

But I hated peeling them, too.

The peeler was clunky, awkward in my small hands even still. Without fail, I’d always manage to nick my fingertips, unyielding focus clouding my vision. The thick gouges in the flesh of the apple showed off my lack of skill- it always looked like a madman took a rake to the little fruit.

Worst of all, even after all the effort I’d put in to be delicate and precise, there’d be little bits of peel left, that no matter how hard I tried never seemed to go away- and so it’s like there’s no point, because all I could taste upon the first bite is unsatisfactory skin.

But my mother was always good at it.

She’d forgo the peeler all together, expertly taking a small paring knife to carve away each little bit of the detested peel until all that remained was smooth flesh, geometric angles shaping the apple into something new from the precision of each cut.

Whenever I would toss aside the peeler in frustration and resign myself to a peel or no apple whatsoever, she would glance over at me, eyes darting between my shaky hands and the abandoned peeler in the kitchen sink. She didn’t say anything, but I knew she was thinking something- even if she didn’t say what.

I stopped eating apples for a long time.

Burnt out from frustration, irritated with myself for spending too long on a shoddy job, my fingertips burning from small scrapes and cuts.

Instead, I would sit in my room, half-heartedly eating too many processed foods that made my stomach ache and my brain scream “UNHEALTHY!”- if my lack of appetite allowed me to eat at all.

But sometimes, she’d come upstairs, a small bowl in hand and cut up apples inside, my little dog trailing behind her. The apples were perfectly peeled, as always, and there were extra scraps inside for me to feed to my dog. They’d sit with me on my bed as we silently ate apples together, my legs sweating underneath the thick comforter as attempted conversation fell short and left unspoken words lingering uncomfortably in the air.

I never liked the conversation, but I was glad for the company.

Even as the bowls stacked up in the corner of my room, she’d bring more, each filled with sweet fruit, lovingly washed, peeled, and cut. She’d take the surplus of bowls back downstairs with her, never commenting on them like she’d used to, and I’d lay back down and hide in my bed and relish the remaining taste of the apple on my tongue.

I still can’t peel an apple. But I suppose I don’t have to.

[mutatedangels-a]

"Yes, I saw," Ezra reassured her, opposite hand reaching over to graze against her own as she grabbed his arm. As dire as the situation was for his best friend, he liked the fact that she could rely on him to be there for her.

The pair of them stood outside of the meeting hall now. Beyond the frosted glass panels on the two wooden doors that led into the meeting hall, he saw splotches of dark moving about. Likely the Council in their robes prepping for Lou and her case, taking their seats.

He let out a sigh, facing Lou and begrudgingly pulling her hand from his arm. This way, he could touch her shoulders and ground her. "But you know the Council only deals in absolutes. Maybe they'll lessen your punishment, but they're still strict. The temple," like all the other structures in their coven, "was sacred." Emphasis on was.

In the distance, Ezra caught sight of another figure peering at them. Almost eavesdropping. She was tall and thin, clothes raggedy. Something was bright red in her hand. Her face was unfamiliar to him. His brows furrowed out at the woman before glancing back at Lou, his hand on her shoulder guiding her in the hall. "It sounds like they're ready. Let's head inside."

That woman was Ivy. An excommunicated witch whose unknown powers proved too strong, too calamitous for the safety of the coven. She held an apple up to her mouth, hovering its waxy, bright red skin near her lips before she promptly took a bite out of it. Her gaze, dark blue like the depths of the ocean, was fixed on Lou. Though they were at opposite ends of the hallway, Ivy could see Lou's face clear-cut, from her spotless skin to the dimples on her cheeks. Ivy's stare was unwavering, isolating. And yet, warm. As if they were coaxing Lou to jump into a wide body of water for a new wave baptism.

Ivy would linger behind and eventually follow the pair inside.

closed starter for @mutatedangels

It became very clear very quickly that she was not going to receive a thank you. It wasn't like this had been her goal; when little redheaded withling tumbled from her broom, Llewellyn didn't think much of anything. Let alone what she could do to stop it. Let alone why. It was a tidal force, a rushing in her ears, a train car rushing through her core and then out of her, slicing through the atmosphere to lift the witchling on a violent tide back up into the air.

And nobody even seemed to pay attention to the fact that the little redhead managed to grab back onto her broom and alight safely. It was all about the decimated temple. Hell, the wind had to go somewhere.

Llewellyn was ready to plead her case (if they even gave her the chance) as she sat relegated to the hallway outside the meeting hall, like a teenager at waiting outside the principal's office.

"Ezra!" Lou jumped to her feet, racing to meet her friend halfway down the hallway, latching onto his arm and leaning in close as they walked the rest of the way together. "Thank Hecate you're here," she sighed. "You saw everything, right? You saw how I helped that girl? You can talk to them for me? They'll believe you."

[mintmatcha]

addressing issues - kyotani kentarou

well! here's part two to this drabble ! special thanks to Amy (@saetyrn9) for helping me out!

tw: hurt comfort, discussion of relationship issue

The pancakes are raw in the middle. You try to pick around the batter, stabbing only the burnt bits with your fork, but it's a bit of a hopeless task. The gluey texture sticks to your tongue and the tingle of baking soda fills your mouth with each bite.

 "Don't eat that." Kyotani tosses the spatula into the sink with a sigh. The smell of burnt sugar clings to the air, even though all of the windows in the apartment are propped open. He's still in his pajama pants, loose things now splattered with batter, but he's pulled on a sweatshirt- one that he stole from your closet months ago. "I ordered food. It'll be here in 20."

You place the fork down. "Thank you for cooking." 

He slinks over, shoulders slack with defeat, and plops himself at the table. Tiredness weighs on his features; neither of you slept very well last night, but he was out of bed long before you even woke. "Don't thank me- I fucked it up." 

He expects anger. Maybe discipline. Sometimes you wonder if that’s all he’s ever known. 

Stretching across the table, your hand finds his cheek and cups it. Morning stubble prickles along your palm as you give him a little squeeze. He's frozen in your touch, neither pulling away nor leaning in, but his eyes close. 

"Thank you." you repeat, firm.

He turns to kisses your palm and his lips linger. They’re soft and waxy- he’s been using that chapstick you gave him. "Anything for you." 

You two stay like this, connected by only your touch, for a long time, much longer than justifiable. Just as the moment feels infinite, Kyotani breaks away. 

"We're avoiding it." he says. He takes your hand into his, placing two more quick kisses before setting you down. As he pulls away, you tighten your grasp and interlace your fingers with his. There's a flicker of surprise, the slight raise of his brows, but he settles into the contact, drumming his fingers along your knuckles. 

"I know." you sigh. "We…. don't have to talk about this if you don't want to. We could just… move on."

He takes a deep, stabilizing breath. "That's not healthy." 

The clock chimes. It rings through the kitchen, filling the space where your response should be. He raps in your knuckles with his finger tips, tapping patterns you can’t quite follow.

"Okay." 

"Okay." he repeats. Kentarou digs into the hoodie's pocket and reveals a crumpled ball of paper. As he unfurls it, you can catch a couple words scribbled in the margins. 

"Did you… take notes?" you ask. He flushes immediately, aggressively trying to smooth wrinkles down. He's scowling at the mess of graphite smeared across the page. The tips of his ears are scarlet, bright against his blonde. 

"I … I'm not good with all this. This makes it easier." He shoots you a quick glance. "Is...that okay?"

"I just didn't expect it." 

The sink's dripping again. It's a random droplet that collects at the faucets' rim before falling into the collection of dirty dishes below with a tiny plink. It catches your eye, the way it gathers slowly; maybe you could ask the landlord-

Ken's right. You are avoiding it.

"I don't like it when you yell." It feels good to state the obvious. The bounce of your calf shakes the table, jostling your joined hands, but it barely registers.  "It makes me feel shitty. Really shitty." 

There's still a weight of something upsetting you; it itches in the back of your throat. "And… and it scared me."

He clutches your hand tighter. There’s a slight tremble in his throat, the miniscule shake of his adam’s apple, as he swallows, but he doesn’t let anything reach his face. The firm hold of his brow is stoic, controlled, even as his body betrays him. 

"I’m sorry.” his voice is firm. He opens his mouth to say something else, but only draws in a breath. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, running over the chapped edges slowly as he contemplates in silence. “I... I’m sorry.”

“I know. I know you are.” 

“I.. I just…”  Kyotani’s unusually frazzled as his eyes flick down to the page in front of him. If you strain, you can make out some of the scribblings, but he adjusts away from you, covering the writing. “It's dumb, but…” he traces over his writing with his finger as he reads.  “Sometimes, I feel some type-a way and… it, it comes out wrong. It’s easier for me to get angry than admit that I’m hurt. It’s not fair to you. It’s not an excuse.” he looks up at you. “I’ll work on expressing myself better.”

There’s a sincerity in his voice, a gentle truth that you want to cling on to, but that itch under your skin hasn’t gone away. The situation’s still bothering you, still begging to be addressed. As you turn over it all, the squeeze of his hand no longer feels comforting- it feels overbearing.

“Kentarou, I don’t even know what I /did/.” you try and pull away, but he’s holding too tightly. Exacerbation boils in your chest, bubbling over quicker than you can control. “One minute, we’re having a good time with your friends. The next minute you’re yelling at me and storming off! I don't understand what I even did!" 

"But-"

The waver in your voice rings through the room as you give a final tug. “I can’t live like this,  constantly hoping that I don’t push your buttons. It makes me feel like I’m living in a minefield.” Reluctantly, he releases you, hand still dangling over the ruined breakfast. His steady look has finally broken into one more recognizable, with downturned mouth and a glassy sheen to his eyes. It’s blinked away quickly with a sniff, replaced with his usual sternness, but it was there. “It can’t happen again, Kenta.”

“I understand. “ he says immediately. 

The sink drips again. It’s all you can look at, that little shine in the corner of your eye. The uncomfortable squirm building in your stomach begs you to keep watching it, to focus on it until nothing matters. You’re only brought back to the conversation when his chair squeaks across the tile as he pushes away from the table. In a few strides, he’s at the faucet, wiggling the handle with just the delicate touch of his ring finger. “I’ll fix that tomorrow.” 

Of course he will. He’s always clanking around your apartment, burying himself into a new task wordlessly. Wordlessly, without request, he strives to make your life better. 

“I don’t even know what I did.” you repeat. The blonde leans over the sink, hunching over his elbows with a sigh.

"It's a dumb reason."

"If it matters to you, it's not dumb." 

He says it without looking at you. "I don't like it when you call me maddog." he states firmly. "It hurts. Really fucking bad."

Your anger deflates, suffocated by the sudden weight of guilt. "I didn't know that." 

He shrugs. It says all he needs to. 

“I- your friends call you mad dog though." 

“I don’t like it when they do it either.”

“But you don’t yell at them.” 

"They call me mad dog because they think I'm mean. Feral." he shoves his hands into the sweatshirt's pocket and kicks at the tile. His sock, a pink polka-dotted thing he must have fished out of your drawer, skids across the tile. It doesn't match his other sock- a Kentarou staple."I don't care if that's what they think of me." 

 Kyotani gives you a half smile. "But I care how you see me."

You stand and slink over, reaching for the drawstrings on his hood. He straightens at your presence, but doesn't reach, instead just letting you fiddle with the frayed cloth. Neither of you can meet each other's gaze, instead just staring at the floor between you. It's not until now you realize that you are wearing the other pink sock. Sliding your foot in between his completes the set. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too."  The weight of him suddenly leaning against you, relaxing into you, almost knocks off your balance, but there's a comforting warmth to him.

"Still love me?" he rests his forehead against yours as he talks, his fingers are trailing over your sides and gathering up the hem of your shirt.

"Of course." you tug the strings, tightening the hood around his neck, "Still love me?"

He grips your hips and pulls you flush against him as a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. "Always will." 

His lips trail lower until they are almost aligned with yours, breath warm and sweet. You rise up ever so slightly to close the gap. The first kiss is fleeting, just a test of the waters, but the next one takes its time.The drag of his lips, the taste of mint on his breath, the hum building in his throat: it suddenly hits you how much you've missed him. As your hands slide into his hoodie, your hoodie, pocket, dragging him closer, Kentarou changes the pace and showers your face with a barrage of pecks. It's quick and needy, leaving you no time to even breathe. 

"You know-" you manage to as you dodge his mouth, arching your back away from him to catch your breath. He grunts out something adjacent to a whine and dips with you to press against your forehead."I don't think you're mean."

 "You don't? Even after all this?" As he continues tracing kisses down your face and neck, tickling you with his stubble, you laugh and squirm, but he's holding you steady. 

"I think you're a big softy."  you giggle.

"Hey now. Don't go around saying I'm soft." he nips at your neck with a warning growl, but  you can feel the curve of his smile. "It's only for you." 

[mhysa-leesi]

му вℓσσ∂у ναℓєηтιηє

{Gif Source} {Gif Source 2}

Pairing: Dark!Steve Rogers 𝒳 (femme) Reader 🩸.

Summary: "Steve Rogers is madly in love with you and he'll do anything for you to see that--no matter who gets in his way."

Word Count: 4,765 (Sorry, this is a long one!)

TW‼: Non-Con, Smut, Stalking, Yandere Themes, Murder (Description of Side-Character Death), Blood, Description of Gore, and Strong Language. 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI‼

AN: This story contains adult and dark themes, please do not proceed if you are under the age of 18 or if ANY of these warnings upset you! I am not responsible for your media consumption–you and only you are. Also, I used one of the prompts from (@the-modern-typewriter) to describe a character's death, ALL CREDIT GOES TO THEM. 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

AN Cont.: If you or anyone you know has been a victim of sexual violence, please reach out for help. I do not condone ANY of the actions described in this story, this is merely a work of FICTION.

The first love letter was delivered on a gloomy Friday afternoon. The clouds above the city were dark and full of frigid torrents of rainfall. Gold and scarlet autumn leaves whispered against the chilly winds as acorns scattered about; rolling and cracking underfoot as you made your everyday walk to work. You had chosen to stray from your usual route that day, deciding on a new corner coffee shop instead of your normal stop.

You remembered that day clearly, as if it had happened just yesterday. The new coffee shop was a small, hole in the wall with plastic vines of ivy and fairylights rimming the framework of the inside. You ordered rich and dark coffees, with creamy oat milk for you and your coworkers, and an apple pecan oatmeal cookie for yourself.

Your workday was seemingly the same as any other. Pam was gossiping with Susan, and Scott was hiding from Mark, your manager, in the breakroom. You remember you were seated at your cubicle when things turned, staring at the rain against the window, and tapping your pen against your notepad, when you were startled by the mail carrier. He handed you a single, pink envelope with a heart stamp on its flap and left with a mumbled “you’re welcome”. You frowned as there was no return address or other name besides yours. You had opened it anyway.

You remembered how your frown had deepened as your stomach dropped. The paper trembled in your hands as you stared at the small heart sketched at the bottom. You frantically looked around the office for any sign of a joke, hoping to see one of your coworkers giggling at your shocked reaction. But everyone had their noses deep into their screens, typing away at their work. You turned the letter over, looking for a name or a clue as to who had sent it. But it was blank.

And you remembered how you had crumpled up the letter and tossed it as you refocused and finished the rest of that workday.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Weeks passed before you got another mysterious love letter delivered to your desk, a small bouquet of roses and baby’s-breath with it. And again, you crumpled it up and threw it away; leaving the flowers in the breakroom. You had made a mental note that day to talk to the mailman about the delivery of these letters.

For a time they stopped and you thought you were out of the woods or thought your secret admirer had lost interest at the very least. But you were wrong. Your third envelope had been waiting for you in your mailbox when you had gotten home from work one Monday evening. You didn’t bother opening it as you sent it straight to the garbage.

You were growing paranoid and antsy as you constantly looked over your shoulder. You’d freeze every time you came across an envelope, even if it was just your monthly rent notice or bank statement. You had refused to live like this, in a constant state of anxiety and fear, so, that’s how you found yourself moving into a new apartment across town.

You were met with months of peace, you were finally readjusting to life before the letters. You had even moved in with someone you had been seeing from your new job, Chris. He was perfect, someone straight from a romance novel; tall, dark, and handsome, with a taste for adventure and romance. You were happy with him--you were in love and had long since decided that if Chris were to ask you to marry him, you’d say yes in a heartbeat.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today was your anniversary with Chris, and the two of you had an entire evening planned. Dinner at your favorite restaurant, a surprise showing of your favorite movie at the corner cinema, and then home, where you’d give him his gift. A red lacy lingerie set with fuzzy handcuffs, and a silk blindfold to match.

Your heart skipped and your stomach alighted with butterflies as you touched up your makeup in the bathroom mirror. The evening had been absolutely perfect and it was about to get even better. You stepped out into the bedroom, dressed in nothing but red lace and a bathrobe. A spritz of perfume here and a mint there, and you were ready to go surprise your man.

You walked out into the living room and seductively leaned against the wall, watching as he poured two glasses of red wine. He turned and froze, swallowing hard as he abandoned the drinks on the kitchen counter. You smirked as he pulled you to him by your hips, instantly locking his lips to yours. He looked down at you through his eyelashes, his deep brown eyes darkened with lust, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down to your lips once more.

Your eyes closed and moaned as he peppered kisses along the curve of your neck, tilting your head back to give him better access. His hands roamed your body hotly, squeezing and caressing your dips and curves. Chris entangled his hands in your hair as he moved you to the counter, lifting you up as if you weighed nothing. He pushed your robe down your shoulders to reveal the red lace hidden underneath, and with a groan, he bent to trace the rosette lacework that covered your breasts with his tongue. You hummed and wrapped your legs around his waist, your hands running down his back to toy with the bottom hem.

Chris gently pushed you down to an angle as he kissed down your body, stopping just below your navel to wink up at you. You bit back a laugh as you wiggled your hips impatiently as you leaned back on your hands. With your fingers splayed against the wooden countertop, your touch met something smooth and waxy--like the waxy seal of an envelope. You reached behind you and grabbed a pink envelope, with a wax stamp of a heart on its flap. Your heart seemed to stop as you stared at the envelope in your hands.

You vaguely felt Chris’s lips on your inner thighs, kissing and nipping at your skin. When he heard no reaction from you, he looked up, his brows furrowed and eyes full of questions.

“What’s that?” he asked, “You wrote me a love letter, too?” he winked as he reached for it.

You jerked it away from his grasp, your heart hammering in your chest as you ripped open the flap; ripping the waxy heart in half.

P.S. You should really lock your windows, doll. You jumped off the counter and ran to the windows, each one was locked--except for one. You locked it and double-checked its strength, fighting against the lock as you tried to open it.

“Babe? (Y/N),” Chris said sternly, snapping you out of your trance.

You looked at him now. You didn’t know what to say, you couldn’t think of how to form the words. You wanted to say everything was fine and okay, but it wasn’t--it was far from it. Whoever had been writing and sending you these knew where you lived now, and that scared you. After months of trying so hard to move on from this, you felt as if you were right back at square one again.

The rest of the night was unclear to you. You moved like a zombie, your brain on autopilot as you crawled into bed to hide under the covers until the morning sun rose. Chris asked questions, of course. But you had no answers for him. You had no idea who had been writing them and had absolutely no clue how they had found you again.

Chris had suggested going to the police, but what could they do? No one had physically harassed you, and although creepy, the letters weren’t threatening. And not to mention, you had thrown away most of your evidence. You were at a loss. Chris was supportive, always there to comfort you during the night when you were restless, but that never kept you from feeling alone.

Your paranoia increased tenfold by the end of that week. You changed your daily routine every few days, hoping that’d throw your stalker off your trail, but it never did. They always seemed ten steps ahead of you, whereas you struggled to even think to keep up with them. Your breaking point was reached on Sunday evening as you met with one of your old friends from high school for breakfast-dinner--an old tradition you two had decided to revive for the night.

Things were going good, and you even dared to forget about your own issues as you cut into your syrup-soaked pancakes. Madison was telling you about her newest fling and how good he was in the sack, and you genuinely found yourself happy to listen to the vulgar details. After painting you a vivid picture of her sex life, Madison excused herself to the restroom; leaving you alone with your pancakes and empty cup of iced coffee.

You saw a head of electric blue hair and you perked up. Your waitress came with a smile and handed you a paper cup of steaming coffee and a single napkin.

“Oh, I didn’t order this,” you said with a polite smile.

“A gentleman ordered this for you,” she winked before walking away.

You frowned as you looked at the writing on the napkin. Refusing to even acknowledge the cup of coffee in front of you.

Your mouth went dry as you stared at the familiar handwriting. Brown dress, he knew what you were wearing--he was here. You shot to your feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, as you looked around frantically, ignoring all of the judgemental looks and hushed whispers you were getting.

“You okay, (Y/N)?” asked Madison, her brows knitted in concern.

“Yeah,” you lied, “I just… I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ll call you later, Mads.”

You dug through your wallet and gave a twenty to your waitress on your way out, only stopping to yell over your shoulder for her to keep the change. You practically ran home from the restaurant as your anxiety started to settle in your bones, making you heavy with unease. You called Chris, but were only met with his voicemail. The elevator ride up to your floor was tortuous as you watched the floor numbers slowly light up one by one until finally, they stopped at your floor. You panted as you slammed the door shut behind you, sliding the lock and chain in place as you dropped your head to rest against the wooden frame.

You sniffled as the words from his letter were seared into your eyelids. You just wanted him to leave you alone, you didn’t know what you did to catch his eye, and worst of all, you didn’t know how to make it stop. You choked on your hiccupped breaths as tears streaked down your cheeks. When you finally calmed down you switched on the lights and finally turned around…

You stared at Chris in horror. Blood drenched the entire living room, his corpse sat limp in a chair like a broken, bloody doll. His throat and wrists had been slashed. You tried to hold your hand over the open wounds as you screamed for help, but no matter the pressure you applied, the blood still gushed and seeped through your fingers, oozing down your arm, and dripping from your elbow. The gore of it all brought waves of nausea that went beyond physical retching, the sickness you felt was indescribable. But the smell, the smell was something much worse. Metallic, iron, copper… Your ears started to ring. You couldn’t hear, couldn’t breathe. You could only stare at the bloodstain on your hands and scream.

You left that following weekend, abandoning the big city to move back in with your parents and younger sister. You spent most of your days locked in your room, hiding from the world under the comfort of your blanket and drawn curtains. Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. You’d look at yourself in the mirror and cry as you no longer recognized yourself as the woman you once were. You knew it was time to move on, but you couldn’t, not when you’d see Chris’s bloodied body every time you’d close your eyes.

You started small by taking baby steps toward your recovery. It started with family meals, then a cashier job at your local supermarket, shopping trips with your mother and sister. Then you eventually graduated to therapy, where you’d stare at a forest green ceiling as you reclined on the chaise longue. Therapy helped and it was admittedly one of the better moments of your monotonous days, you felt heard, seen, as you walked through your own thoughts and nightmares. Your appointments even inspired you to reach out to Chris’s parents for closure, to go with them to visit their son’s grave. It was bittersweet, leaving behind a bouquet of roses for the man you had loved so deeply instead of a kiss goodbye; but it was something you knew you’d have to come to terms with. It wasn’t your fault, that was the mantra you’d tell yourself when you’d catch glimpses of his blood on your hands.

Before you knew it a year had passed since the incident, and in that year, you had not received one letter. You had made a resolution for the first time that New Year’s Eve as you waited for the midnight ball to drop. You told yourself you’d forget, to start fresh, and become an even better version of yourself. You were a flower that was fighting against all odds to blossom.

You cut your hair, got bangs and highlights. Saved up for a brand new, off-the-lot car. And moved into a cozy apartment with your sister. Things were looking up for you and you truly believed that you had finally found your way out of the woods. But life had a habit of playing cruel tricks on those who were naive enough to believe such a thing.

It was mid-February, just a few days before Valentine’s Day, when things started to go to shit. You had just come back from the gym with your sister when you saw it. A pink envelope with no return address or any other name besides yours, with a wax seal in the shape of a heart on the back flap, sat on your pillow. It felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as you held it in your hands. You debated on throwing it away, on pretending you never received it. But you wanted to know what more this twisted bastard could have to say. You ripped it open and read.

You didn’t hesitate as you ripped the letter to shreds, throwing the pieces into the garbage with an angry grunt. Delusional piece of deranged shit, you thought. You raked through your brain for the millionth time since your first letter, trying to figure out who the fuck could possibly be the sender, but you came to the same conclusion you had been coming to for years--nothing. It was agonizing, not knowing who your torturer was. It was your shadow, how could you not know who was living in it? But, no matter how hard you thought, you kept drawing blank after blank.

Your sister comforted you with a glass of wine and dumplings from the takeout place up the street. She was going out tonight, but offered to stay home with you instead.

“No,” you shooed, “I’ll be fine, I’m a big girl.”

“You sure?” she frowned, “It’s no big deal, Girls Night is every Friday night, I can always go next week.”

“I’m fine. Go and have fun for the both of us,” you said as you waved her away.

She left a few minutes later, dressed in heels and a short skirt. You ate the rest of the dumplings and finished the bottle of wine before calling it a night. You undressed down to your underwear and threw on an oversized t-shirt and plopped down onto the bed with an unceremonious bounce. The wine coursing through your system made it easier than usual to fall asleep, and the next thing you knew, you were in a deep sleep, dreaming of a life with Chris--of a life without the letters. It was one of those good dreams you wished you’d never wake from.

Which was why you were so annoyed when a loud noise startled you awake. You looked at your phone and the time read “1:00 AM”, you frowned, it was too early for your sister to be back already. You padded along the hallway, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you called out for her, worried she might’ve passed out drunk on the floor or something. You stopped as you reached the front room--the very empty front room. Your heart started to pound as you stood frozen, staring at the empty room before you. A shuffling from behind caught your attention, then. And against your better instincts, you turned around slowly to see a shadowed silhouette of a man standing at the end of the hallway.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity, just staring dumbstruck at the man. With every step he took toward you, you took one back. Inching closer and closer to the front door with every backward step.

“Doll, don’t,” he warned, his voice striking you with fear like a bolt of lightning.

Without a second thought, you ran toward the door, fumbling stupidly with the locks in your panicked state of mind. The man was on you in a flash, easily dragging you away from your pathetic attempt at escape. His arms slithered around you like snakes, their hold constricting as he locked an arm firmly around your neck, silencing your screams as you struggled to breathe. You slapped and clawed at his forearm as he pulled you back to your bedroom.

“Please be a good girl for me, (Y/N). I don’t want to hurt you, baby,” he said against your hair.

With his arm still wrapped around your neck, he threw you down onto the bed, quickly straddling you before you could scramble to your feet. He pinned your arms above your head with one hand and forced you to look at him with the other. His face was illuminated by the moonlight. The silver shine highlighting his familiar eyes through the holes of his helmet. You froze as he pulled off his blue cowl.

You were beyond confused, to say the least. You stared up at Captain America, your brain working overtime to try and put the puzzle pieces together. What was Captain America doing in your apartment? And why had he called you “baby”? What the fuck was going on? Were you lucid dreaming? You must’ve looked as confused as you felt because he smiled down at you, gently promising you answers to the questions that you hadn’t yet asked.

“You’re even more beautiful up-close, doll,” he said as he brushed away hairs that fell in your face from your struggle.

Your eyes widened. Doll. The nickname sent chills down your spine as the word flashed against the pink color of the envelopes, against the red of spilled blood.

“You…”

He ran a finger down your cheek and nodded, “Me.”

You paled under him, your bottom lip trembling as you shook your head in disbelief. He frowned and hushed you, caressing your cheek and wiping away the tears that fell.

“Shh… Don’t cry, baby,” he cooed, “I’ll take good care of you, you don’t need to cry.”

“W–Why?” you hiccupped through your sobs, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I love you, (Y/N),” your stomach dropped as he answered you as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You shook your head, “No. No! You’re Captain America. You’re supposed to be a hero!”

You fought against his grip, flailing and kicking wildly as you tried in vain to get away from him. You trashed against him, kicking against his thighs with all of your strength, but it was nothing to him--nothing but an annoying inconvenience.

“Stop,” he said, his jaw ticking with simmering anger.

But you refused to stop. You whined and fought against him.

“Stop,” he repeated, his anger coming to a rolling boil.

You shot up and headbutted him. He reeled back and glowered down at you, his jaw clenched and nostrils flared.

“I said stop,” he shouted as he finally stilled you with a sharp slap.

The sound was as sharp as the feel of it. You sobbed as the pain stung your skin, the right side of your face becoming numb from the harsh impact of it.

“Why are you doing this, Steve?” you asked again.

“Because I love you,” he answered again, “I know you love me, too, (Y/N).”

“No,” you exclaimed, “I don’t love you! I don’t love you! I don’t love you!” you sobbed.

“You will,” Something seemed to change within his eyes. No longer were there hints of green in his blue eyes, but something much darker… Something more sinister. You swallowed as you shrunk under his intense glare.

You exclaimed as he forced his lips against yours. Squeezing your jaw until he could slip his tongue into your mouth. You pushed against him, beating on his shoulders as he shoved his tongue further down your throat. He pulled away, breathless and flushed, a ghost of a content smile on his face. You gasped and tried to wiggle away once more, rolling onto your stomach as you did so. A yelp escapes you as you feel him grab your hips, pulling you back under him.

Steve puts his weight on you, trapping you underneath him as he begins to undress you. You try to roll onto your back, but his knee keeps you in place. You fight to keep your shirt on, knowing you wore nothing but your panties underneath it. But you were fighting blind. You kicked up, the heels of your feet hitting the backs of Steve’s strong thighs. He manhandles you easily as he rolls you onto your back, finally ridding you of your cotton shield.

Your hands went to your chest before he could. He pried your arms away, baring your breasts to him with a jerked jiggle. He licked his lips as he cupped and squeezed your breast. You flinched as if his touch had burned you, and in some sense, it had. Your eyes widened in shame as Steve blew on your nipples, the skin hardening into pointed peaks. He brings his lips to them, circling them with his tongue. Sucking, licking, pinching. You press your lips together to keep you from whimpering, and you close your eyes in hopes you can will him away. But your feeble defense attempts don’t last long.

Your eyes snap open as you feel his lips leave your breasts to trail kisses down to your navel, stopping at the band of your underwear.

“Please…” you beg. You bite your lip to keep it from trembling as fresh tears begin to form at the corners of your eyes.

Steve smiles against your skin, “I’m going to make you mine, (Y/N). ‘M gonna make you feel so good, doll.”

You stifle a sob as you feel him slide your panties off past your ankles, his fingers scorching your skin as they explore back up between your thighs. Instinctively, you try to close your legs around his hands. But he doesn’t stop. Steve digs his fingers into the soft skin of your inner thighs as he forcefully spreads you wide. Your pussy on full display to him. You stiffen under his gaze, your face burning with shame as he stares in awe at your spread folds. He runs a finger from your clit to your entrance, dipping knuckle-deep into your channel. Your thighs flex as your body tenses at the intrusion. He adds another and languidly pumps them in and out, curling and scissoring them. You fight against the blossoming heat within your belly. Your shame grows as you hear the squelch of your wetness around his pumping fingers.

Steve presses a firm thumb to your clit and you cry out before you can stop yourself. He pumps his fingers into you harder, faster, as he pulls more moans and cries from your lips. You sob as you feel that coil deep within your belly begin to unravel with every stroke and pump. You fight against your own body as you keep yourself from teetering over the edge of pleasure, refusing to let yourself submit to him. But Steve had other plans for you. Suddenly, before you could register his movements, you felt his tongue against your most intimate area. You mewled and curled your toes as he fucked you with his tongue, his thumb never stopping their firm and fast circles against your clit. You sobbed as your body convulsed with white-hot pleasure, and before you could stop yourself, you came on his tongue with a loud, dragged out moan.

You sniffled as you cried, but whether it was from the intensity of your orgasm or your shame and fear, you didn’t know. The lines were starting to blur for you.

Steve gently kissed around your folds before crawling up over you. He held your face and forced your lips to his once more before he began to undress, leaving the taste of yourself on your tongue as he pulled away with a wet smack. He unclothed himself, then. Stripping himself of his spangled-stars and red and white stripes. He looked down at you with dark, lust-filled eyes, and a breathless quirk of his lips.

You were limp as he folded you to his needs. Bringing your bent and spread knees to your chest as he took himself in his hands. His length stood tall and proud, the tip swollen and leaking down this thick shaft with anticipation. Your legs flinched as they tried to close on their own. You choked on a sob as he wrenched them apart. Your heart hammered in your chest as you watched him tap your pussy with his cock, running the tip up and down your folds as he wet himself with your soaking arousal until finally, he pressed himself into your entrance. You let out a strained whine as he slammed into you.

Steve’s eyes were shut and mouth slightly agape as he hisses at your tightness. His hips thrust in excitement as you clench around him. You whimper again as he slides out, just to slam himself back in. Your body jolts with every lust-driven thrust. He slides his hands under you and brings them to hold onto your shoulders, bringing you down to meet his every forceful thrust. The sound of skin slapping and lewd moans fill your bedroom, your sweat sheen bodies glowing under the moonlight. Steve speeds up, mercilessly hammering that hidden sweet spot that makes you scream and clench around his cock. You spasm and shake as Steve forces another orgasm from you.

“Tell me you love me,” he pants.

You shake your head, pushing on his shoulders as the realization of your situation comes crashing back into you.

His hand wraps around your throat as he pounds into you harder than before, “Say it, (Y/N).”

You scratch at his hand as your vision begins to dot and blacken, “I–I love you…”

“Louder,” he demands, “‘I love you, Steve’, say it, doll, I wanna hear you say it.” he moans.

“I love you, Steve,” you choke out.

He releases his grip on you then, and you cough and gasp for air. His rhythm becomes erratic as his hips drive into you with renewed vigor, “Again.”

“I love you, Steve,” you moan.

His body jerks as his hips stutter to a stop. Steve comes with your name on his lips, and you whined as you felt his warmth flood inside of you. He panted above you, his hips languidly thrusting as his abdomen clenched with his drawn out release. He pulled out of you and collected the spunk that leaked from your weeping cunt on his fingers. He brought them to your lips and forced you to suck them clean.

“I love you, too, doll. Forever and ever,”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*тαgℓιѕт*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧: @hoosier-daddi

[amelaningirlmomwoman]

Insomnia Apple Review

There are of course rotten or mealy apples of all kinds. This review is for the best of each kind.

The top of the top are gala apples. They have just the right amount of firmness and sweetness. And they have perfectly sized small ones. Because while I do love apples, you can definitely have too much apple. They also received a ringing endorsement from my cousin's wife. She thought American apples were all terrible until she had a gala apple at my house.

Honeycrisp are okay. They're firm enough, but there's more water and less flavor than gala. I think pink ladies are on the same level. Nice and firm, but too sweet. Also their skin is too waxy.

Granny smith are good for cooking, but a little too tart to eat as a snack. And the ones I've seen are always too big. I'd eat them in a pinch.

Golden delicious are too mushy, but their flavor is almost as good as gala apples.

Red delicious can hardly be called apples. They're not even fit for worms. I don't know who goes grocery shopping and buys these mealy rotten thick skinned pieces of shit. What person who has ever had the misfortune of biting into one would ever go back for more? Who would bring these home to their family? Why are farmers still growing this shit? Maybe food service companies who supply shit for schools and nursing homes etc. are forced to buy this crap or maybe it's so cheap they can't not buy it.

There's a book about apples on my reading list that may explain the continued existence and cultivation of those red demons. If I can ever fix my sleep habits, maybe I'll read it one day.

[occasional-drabbles]

Bratty Breeze - Venti + S/I Drabble

Sooo I got into Genshin, and I adore Venti, and wanted to write out him meeting my s/i Calla for the first time! The start of a wonderful, if sometimes chaotic, friendship!

“At least the weather’s been nice…” Calla mused out loud to herself, adjusting her satchel.

She’d gone out to get some more ingredients, for both Lisa and herself. She didn’t wander too far since it’s just her on this little excursion, and she really doesn’t want to deal with fighting any hillichurls. Having fortunately managed to avoid any battles, the clear skies and gentle breezes were an added blessing. Though, she’d forgotten to pack snacks for this little adventure, having spent longer out than she’d anticipated, so now she’s getting hungry….

Thankfully, she remembers there’s plenty of apple trees on the way back towards Monstadt! So when she was approaching one such tree, she detoured over to it. There were a few hanging low enough she wouldn’t need to climb or jump too much for it, tip toe should be just enough.

Though, as she reached up for the nearest one, a hand suddenly came out of nowhere and plucked it just before her fingers could touch the waxy skin.

“You’re too slow~!” A childish voice teased from beside her as she whipped around.

She just barely caught a glimpse of the figure, black hair with blue braids, lots of green, and teal eyes glimmering with mischief. But in the blink of an eye, as quickly as he’d appeared, he disappeared, only the faintest trace of a breeze left in his wake.

“What in the world just happened…?” She mumbled, glancing around in confusion as she processed.

Huffing in frustration, she reached up for another apple, taking a grumpy bite as she continued to Monstadt. “Brat…” She mumbled to herself with a pout.

Thankfully, it didn’t take terribly long to get back to Monstadt, and not long after she was back at the library, sorting the supplies she’d gotten into her stash and Lisa’s. Though she must have been more grumpy about it than she usually was, considering how often her friend kept glancing over at her desk.

“Did...something happen, my dear?” Lisa asked curiously as she approached, her tone gentle and openly concerned.

Calla looked up, finally realizing that she’d been practically tossing things into their respective piles. Her face flushed in embarrassment, sighing as she pushed her bangs out of her face. “Nothing bad, I promise. It’s stupid, honestly…”

“And yet it has you so worked up…” Lisa prompted, shifting to lean against the outside of Calla’s desk, half sitting on it, looking down at her.

Calla pouted for a bit while trying to figure out how to explain what happened without sounding too childish. “So I was grabbing an apple to snack on on the way back because I hadn’t packed any snacks.” She started, shifting her weight. “But right before I managed to grab it, some random guy? Kid? Showed up out of nowhere and took it. But before I could even say anything, he was gone!”

By the time she was done with her ranting, she finally heard Lisa trying to muffle her giggles, which only prompted Calla to pout more. “I knew you’d laugh….”

“It’s just funny how something so simple got under your skin, and yet you’re typically so patient…” Lisa mused, shaking her head. “Perhaps a walk is in order, to help you clear your head.” She suggested, tilting her head slightly.

“Perhaps…” Calla agreed with a small sigh. “I’m just about done anyways.”

Lisa nodded and chuckled, reaching over to gently fix Calla’s flower crown, straightening it out before pushing off the desk to continue what she was doing.

Not too long after, Calla had put away her ingredients, and got up to leave. “I’m going for a walk. I should be back before sunset.”

“Don’t worry about it, dear.” Lisa reassured with a laugh, waving her off. “Just be safe!”

Calla laughed a little bit, raising her hand as a wave as she finally left. Perhaps some time by the fountain was in order? She always enjoyed the sound of it…Hopefully she won’t go falling asleep there again.

Though as she neared the fountain, she heard… music? It was beautiful, so happy and playful, she had to investigate. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, some generic traveling bard perhaps, or one of the other Monstadters had taken up a new hobby? She certainly hadn’t been expecting the same vibrant green clothing, black and blue hair, and piercing teal eyes that she’d seen just earlier that day, moving about happily with a lyre in hand and a small crowd around him.

Inching closer, she did her best to avoid nudging anyone or drawing too much attention to herself. Thankfully, everyone easily moved to accommodate the new listener. It didn’t take long for the bard to notice her, and for just a moment, surprise flashed across his face, only to end up being replaced with mischief and glee.

Calla quirked a brow and crossed her arms, but still found herself swaying ever so slightly to the song he was playing. He may be something of a brat, but he’s a wonderful bard, it seems.

He finished the song shortly after she joined, bowing playfully to the crowd as they applauded him, Calla included.

“Thank you so much for listening! You’ve been a wonderful audience!” He called, letting the crowd disperse before approaching her.

“So you’re the brat who beat me to the apple earlier.” She teased, smirking down at him.

The bard gave an exaggerated gasp, even putting a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Brat? After I gave you such a lovely performance?”

“Well, what else should I be calling you?” She countered, quirking a brow and tilting her head slightly.

“My name is Venti! Venti the bard! And what is your name, dear lady~?” He countered, going from pouty to flirty in a heartbeat.

Calla just laughed a little and rolled her eyes. “My name is Calla, and sorry, but I’m not interested. You look far too young anyways.”

Venti just laughed in return, flashing her a playful grin “It’s my youthful charm~! But I’m not as young as I look.” He reassured, glancing down to the Vision hanging around her neck for just a moment. Anemo, he noted, as his grin widened ever so slightly. “So, what were you doing out there all by your lonesome anyways?”

Moving to sit on the edge of the fountain, she crossed her legs casually, now looking up to him. “I was getting ingredients for myself and Lisa. Potions, medicines, the likes.”

“Medicines?” He echoed “So you’re a doctor?”

She shook her head. “Not exactly. I’m a healer, though I still have a lot to learn. I just help travelers and adventurers when I have the time and they’re willing to have me along.”

“How fitting, Calla.” He chuckled after a moment of consideration, then paused again before asking “Do you fight? You have that Vision there, after all.”

Humming, she absently ran her fingers over the vision’s glassy surface. “No, I don’t fight. Not really. I’m trying to learn, but I’m afraid to make a fool of myself.” She admitted with a small laugh “I’m content with my little corner of the world, and doing what I can to give others peace of mind.”

“I could teach you to use it better, if you’d like!” He offered with a grin, using his powers to float off the ground for a moment, just a little, but enough to prove his point. Seeing how excited she seemed to get at the tiny display, he felt pride bloom in his chest. He might be a teensy bit of a show off.

“I’d love to, though what would you get in return?” She asked, “Surely you aren’t planning to teach me when you could be doing… whatever it is else bards do, without some sort of recompense?”

Venti made a show of humming thoughtfully, cupping his chin as he considered before giving her a mischievous look. “How about a few drinks at the tavern? And there we can get to know each other a bit better! You are quite interesting, after all.”

Calla hummed a bit as she considered. Well, Lisa likely isn’t expecting her back any time today… “Alright, I suppose that there’s no harm in it. Plus it would be nice to check in on Master Diluc.”

“Then come on!” Venti laughed, already heading off towards the Angel’s Share, a playful breeze urging Calla to follow. She let out a light laugh and followed his lead, keeping a far more casual pace but seeming quite eager all the same.

[crimson-cring-art]

A Flower in the Emperor’s Palace

Chapter 7

Your Job is…

Credit to @dannydarzuski for commissioning my story.

    There was a light tapping on the door. Hangi looked up, Ming Yue’s fingers were slightly blackened by the ink she had been using to write her poetry. The handmaids walked in and once again Ming Yue was placed on a small box, and clothed, sitting down in a chair and her fingers, and toenails were polished to perfection. Even her hair was placed up in Lillies. The white bow was tied tightly around her middle. The silk felt good against her fingers. 

Yet there was one thing she wasn’t able to get used to all this pampering. She was so used to doing all this stuff for herself. Even when she was back in her own village there was just the cook and the maid. No one ever helped her put on her clothing, do her hair, or apply her makeup. Although her mother did help her learn how to place her makeup. Once she learned how to do it she just kept doing it on her own. 

The handmaids stepped back and looked at their work. Ming Yue was sure she was blushing at them. They did this every time to make sure they didn’t forget anything. One of the females walked over and fitted something into her hair and they turned and motioned for her to follow. 

“Hangi if you please escort the young miss to the banquet hall.” Ami told the butler who nodded his head and walked toward the door once again opening it. The handmaids waited for them to leave before going back into the room to clean up their mess. 

Ming Yue’s arm encircled the butlers and his other hand rested on hers. 

“Now remember, you’ll be at the head of the table with his majesty tonight. Keep silent if you don’t know what to say, let him answer things you don’t understand, if you wish to speak, sit up straight and annunciate. His majesty won’t mind if you speak to him, or to anyone else as long as your conversation includes him. If you don’t understand a language, lean to the right and I’ll translate for you.” He told her as he turned her and fixed her outfit and smiled at her. “And don’t forget to smile...it's a party...have fun.” Okay all of that made sense but…

“Hangi? How many languages do you know?” Ming Yue asked, the butler just smiled and put his fingers to his lips and opened the door announcing her to the whole party. 

“Lady Ming Yue of the northern province! Guest of his majesty High Emperor Sun Wukong!” Hangi was almost always soft spoken until he wanted to be heard. Then his words made the whole room shake. Just what kind of monkey was he?

Ming Yue’s thoughts went from Hangi and his lineage to that of the crowd that began to clap. She was pretty sure that she was staring at everyone for a good long while before she felt a small hand on her back. She turned to see the high emperor standing there. His hand held out motioning for her to walk. 

Wukong knew that Ming Yue had crowd anxiety. She walked toward the table. It was full of many different fruits, and drinks. Looking over everything she realized she recognized quite a lot of it. She picked up one of the grossly green looking ones and looked at Wukong. 

“These are bitter, or sour. Their texture is very waxy, but eat too many of them and you’ll get an upset stomach.” She told him. Wukong chuckled as he looked along the table, seeing a few monkeys trying the selection. Some liked them, others didn't much like the crab apples. Ming Yue however took a bite of them

“So you like sour foods?” He asked her. Ming Yue ran her fingers over her chin and nodded. 

“Yes, very much so, I’d rather have sour over sweet.” She told him as she put the rest into her mouth. Wukong chuckled as he made his way to his seat. Ming Yue noticed all the seats within the room were the ones the carpenter was working on that morning. Chi did some quick work. 

Sitting down at the table Wukong motioned for the waiters to get their orders. The menus were placed in front of them and there were several different types of food on them, but mostly they were foods from her home. This once again confused Ming Yue. Was this a party...for her? She looked at Wukong as he sipped what looked like something honey. At least it was the same color. She smelled her drink and smelled like a mix of Grapefruit and honey. She took a sip, it wasn’t sweet, it was kind of sour. Probably to go along with the fruits. 

Ming Yue picked up another crab apple and sniffed it. It smelled bitter and unusual. She wondered if it had to do with the way they washed them? She set it down as she noticed Wukong standing up. 

“Once everyone is fed, I’ll make an announcement.” Wukong said as he sat back down. 

“Oh come now Wukong. You’re going to make us wait?” Macaque chuckled as he sipped his drink. Wukong just chuckled as he waved his hand dismissively to his friend. 

“Yes, yes...just have some patience.” Wukong chuckled, holding up his glass. It was filled instantly. Wukong chuckled as he motioned for Ming Yue to sit down at his side rather then with the other ladies of the court. Ming Yue stood up and walked over and sat down next to him. The cup there was filled by Hangi who bowed as he stepped back again. 

A few moments later Hangi set a plate down in front of Ming Yue. Upon the place was a bowl with rice, cucumber, pork, and a strange yellow apple. It was so odd for a moment there she couldn’t remember where she saw that apple. That's when it struck her, and she reached over to pluck the apple from Wukongs hand as he was ready to take a bite out of his. 

He jumped up, his hackles raised, and the growl that escaped his lips. His fists balled up he slammed it down on the table effectively breaking the plate under it.

“Why do you dare take from me!” He yelled. Everyone within the room went silent staring at the female that had the audacity to take from the high Emperor. The being within this plain that had the ability to snap his fingers and she would drop down dead at his feet. 

“Allow me to explain, your majesty.” Ming Yue said aloud so everyone could hear her. Doing as Hangi instructed and annunciated her words. 

She picked up a knife and walked over to one of the table plants. Lightly she cut into the apple, a black smoke began to rise from the apple and caused the plant to instantly begin to wither and die. Wukong gasped as he watched the plant. 

“This is the Manchineel fruit or the little apple of death. It can cause burns, inflammation, and you can go blind if the smoke gets in your eyes.” Ming Yue dropped the apple to the floor and put the knife into a water jug. 

Hangi walked over with a wet cloth and began to wash her hand free of the juices. He was sure she’d end up with burns when this was all over with as she said. 

Wukong stood up and walked over to the guards. Both of which listened well to their emperor. 

“Quickly, go into the kitchen and tell the staff to throw out all of these apples and anything that touches it. There might be some with burns, or inflammation. I don’t doubt one or two might have gone blind.” He told them. The two apes jumped up and ran toward the kitchen. 

Wukong turned to look at the female grey monkey as Hangi ran his fingers over her knuckles. It would seem they might have had burns as well. She seemed to be taking the pain well or just used to it as they did come from her area. He walked toward her hearing Hangi speaking to her. 

“It's a miracle that you aren’t affected. Your body must have gotten used to it.” He looked up at her and smiled only for the smile to fade instantly and he went back to standing behind her once again. 

Ming Yue gasped when he saw Wukong walking toward her. At first she thought he was angry with her. The scowl on his face caused her to recoil from his touch, at least until he smiled at her. Pulling her to his side and announcing loudly to the rest of the people within the room. 

“Looks like I have made my decision.” 

Ming Yue jumped at him as he put his arm around Ming Yue’s shoulder. She turned and looked around at Hangi who just smiled at her reassuringly. 

“Ming Yue will become your new Empress!” Ming Yue’s cheeks grew red as she heard this. She couldn’t speak, actually she wasn’t sure if she was standing, yet there was the whooping and the howlering out. The people looked happy for their emperor and soon to be empress. 

(0)

    Deep within the forest not too far from the palace there was a cave shadowed by clouds. No one could see it from the outside. 

Yet if one walked past it they would surely be able to hear the screaming and yelling among the rebellion. 

“That little witch!” A tiger god sat back crossing his arms over his thick chest. “If she would have just kept her mouth shut she wouldn't be in this mess.” 

“Poor thing forced to marry the emperor like that.” A snake woman sat back rubbing her arms. “How horrible.” Her cackle could be heard some ways down the cave hallway. 

“What do you think about this Macaque?” Another female asked from near the back. Her eyes glowing green. 

“Don’t you worry...I have a plan.” He smiled leaning back in his chair. Sipping his wine he had another plan he would put into motion. His eyes flashed purple. 

[delldarling]

bait & glamour | merrick

chasing truth | chapter seven male faerie x gender/body neutral reader 2586 words sfw | a few teasingly suggestive comments about faerie ointment chapter index? or chapter six?

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When Merrick arrives, there shouldn’t be any time for idle chit-chat or emotions. 

There shouldn’t be time for anything more than gather your things, let’s go. He doesn’t kiss you, though his eyes dart to your lips, and he doesn’t embrace you, but he does invade your space, the toes of his shoes bumping up against yours, like he’s had difficulty stopping himself. Those dark eyes of his search your face as he slips his hand into yours, his lips trembling the longer you’re silent. His hand is colder than normal, calluses catching against your palm as his fingers lace with yours. For just a second, mouth curling into a barely-there smile on his over bitten lips, he forgets his own strength, and he squeezes a little too hard. You don’t yelp, but as soon as you twitch his hold is softer. The embarrassment on his face is all the apology you need, but he still strokes his thumb carefully over the pinch, all that built up emotion leaking out in a single whoosh of a breath.

"You're alright," you get out, throat tight.

“Stole the words right out of my mouth,” Merrick teases.

“Lovely to see you too,” Gar interrupts in a sarcastic tone, eyebrows arched. He rolls his shoulder, nervously shuffling his feet, drawing attention to the fact that you and Merrick are… most definitely blocking the doorway. Awkwardly, a little ashamed of how caught up you both were with one another, you move out of the way. Gar closes the front door as soon as Merrick follows you further inside, locking it for good measure. He turns on his heel, sparing both of you a strange look before he’s darting around you to head back into the kitchen. Merrick only acknowledges him with a wrinkle of his nose, eyes locked on Gar’s gloveless green hands before his attention is back on you again.

“I’m glad you’re in one piece,” you tell him, forcing a grin as he holds out a small bag of your things. It bumps against your chest, he’s so close, but he doesn’t step back. You don’t really want to let go of him either, but you figure you should let him have a second with Gar before you all have to rush out the door. Time is terribly short. You squeeze his hand one last time and take the bag from him.

He steps away reluctantly, and only when you tilt your head towards the kitchen, urging him in to catch up with his friend, does he move any farther. He needs to address Gar’s secrets, and his own stand off with his fellow assassin, and you doubt that he’ll be able to do it with you hovering, bag clutched to your chest, all but forgotten.

You dig quickly through your things as soon as he walks away, kind of wanting to laugh as you do. He’s gotten enough clothes for a three day trip, and they look nice enough, but it’s your phone and the snarl of charging cords that makes you laugh. The phone is off, and he’s gotten the correct phone charger, but there are two that go to other, completely unrelated, devices. You hold yourself back from asking about it, asking where he even found them. Now isn’t the time, and you’d rather save the joke for a more appropriate environment.

“I’m glad the two of you are unharmed,” Merrick says, and you can’t help angling your head so you can see the both of them out of the corner of your eye. They’re facing off in the kitchen, and though Merrick is taller than you, Gar is taller than him. Not by much, but between the seriousness on their faces and the tense lines of their shoulders, it’s enough to make them look like they're squaring up for a fight. 

A beat, and then Gar brandishes Merrick’s cap at him, like some kind of peace offering. He smiles wryly when Merrick takes it, a quick little grin on his lips as he pulls it on. Merrick doesn’t thank him though, just waits, and with a start, you notice the fancy blade hanging oddly through one of his belt loops. It’s only staying in place because he’s resting his hand on the pommel, weighing it down.

“I think we should move on, before we start having our talk,” Gar says after a moment, hesitating before he turns back to the plastic bags on the counter. He’s throwing foods of all kinds in the bags, though the amount of fruit in them is overkill in your opinion. Both of them seem to be obsessed with the stuff, which shouldn’t amuse you as much as it does. “You aren’t injured?” He continues, unable to help himself, hands pausing on the door of an open cupboard, shoulders tense.

“Roran doesn’t want to hurt me,” Merrick murmurs, peering into one of the plastic bags. He sounds almost.. Ashamed. “Not yet, anyway. But you’re right. We need to get out of here. I lost Roran in a crowd, and I doubled back a few times, so it should take him a few minutes. He’s going to head back to the skies soon though,” Merrick sighs, slumping back against the counter.

Gar halts his packing and turns to look Merrick in the eye, skin growing almost waxy-looking with worry. “What is it?”

“Em and the others,” Merrick starts, turning to include you in the conversation. Your eyes are drawn to his mouth, the spot of bright red in the corner. It’s a bruise, or maybe even a spot of blood. Maybe Roran hadn’t wanted to leave lasting damage, but he had hurt him. “They weren’t far from your apartment,” he says, eyes darting to your face and then back to Gar. “When the police arrived, and Roran and I fought, they all... They counted the windows,” he says, like either of you might think it was his fault that they’d realized. “And as soon as they heard the police mention the floor number they were worried. And loud.”

You glance down at the phone in your bag, understanding now why the phone is off. They’d probably been calling you nonstop. If Merrick wanted any chance of getting out of there without the phone going haywire, he would have had to turn it off.  

“Roran heard them talking?” Gar asks, and for just a second you think you see his bottom lip quiver. He’s worried, ridiculously so. You’ve never seen Gar so drawn in on himself, but you’re fairly sure you understand. You’ve known that Gar has cared for one of your friends for.. Too damn long now, but he’d never made any kind of move. His reasoning seems much more feasible now that you know what he is. 

“Yes,” Merrick sighs and then turns to you, eyes dropping down to his bag sitting near your feet. “I think we have plenty, Gar. We need to get going now, and I have a plan,” he tosses over his shoulder, walking towards you when Gar doesn’t move. “We can draw Roran away from our friends, but we need to hurry.” 

Gar unfreezes, grabbing the bags of food, his keyring, and a knapsack with a large triangle emblem on the side off of the counter. “Lead the way,” he mutters, and hoists the knapsack onto his shoulder, mustering up a half hearted smile when he notices you watching him. “We’ve got people to look after, don’t we?”

All three of you trudge down to the stolen car, though you notice that Merrick says nothing about the state of that, and Merrick tells Gar in hushed tones that they need to head towards the middle of town. 

“Was everyone there?” Gar can’t help but ask, shoulders hunched as he drives. Merrick is acting just as uncomfortable as Gar, though all you can see of him is the tense line of his shoulders from where you’re sitting in the back seat.

“Yeah,” Merrick mutters, after a moment too long. “Everyone was there. I’m fairly sure they’ve been trying to get in contact with all of us. You didn’t notice?” Merrick pats at his stomach, pulling out his phone—which is cracked straight down the middle now—from his hoodie pocket and swipes it open. There’s a full list of notifications across the screen, a plethora of text messages and missed calls. 

Gar, if possible, hunches further into the driving seat, elbows raised awkwardly to keep the wheel steady. “I had everyone but you set to silent,” he says, so softly you worry that he’s near tears. When he turns his head though, his face is set in a stoic expression. Merrick grimaces, shifting awkwardly in his seat. 

“Seeing as Merrick was kind of in mortal peril, I think everyone would understand,” you interject, before Merrick can say something scathing. “All of our friends should-”

“It’s not that they wouldn’t,” Gar starts and then bites down on the words. “Never mind. Now are you going to let us in on this plan, or am I just a get-away driver?” He demands, turning the car left and just barely avoiding someone trying to speed by. He doesn’t even blink at the near hit, though you’re fairly sure you would have been cursing up a storm.

“We’re going to cause a ruckus, glamour and all, in the town square,” Merrick states, deadpan as he digs through the food bag in his lap. He shoves an apple in his mouth and then offers the bag to you.

“You’re making yourselves bait?” You ask, taking the bag and setting it to the side. Your stomach is kind of tied up in knots. You can grab food later, when you’re not trying to draw a dangerous Faerie away from town. 

Gar doesn’t disagree, doesn’t even fight that statement, but you can see his jaw working as he clenches his teeth. 

“That’s it?” You add, leaning forward in your seat. “Hey, the human would like more details, if that’s okay with you,” you prompt, reaching over the back to curl your fingers around Merrick’s shoulder. 

Gar snorts. “You can drive the car,” he says, in all apparent seriousness. 

“The stolen car?” You ask, surprised, and mildly offended. If Gar gets caught driving something stolen, he can just wham the police with no small amount of glamour, but you?

“We aren’t using a rented one,” Gar teases, a small genuine smile pulling at his lips. “If we’re going to play some kind of tag, you wouldn’t be fast enough to keep up.”

Merrick licks a bit of apple off of his lower lip. “Roran loses his head fairly quickly. He’s, well, he’s always been prone to emotion,” he confesses, and that look of guilt is back in his eyes. “If Gar walks out there, he’ll get Roran’s attention straight off, and I won’t have any trouble shifting that focus back to me.”

“And that sounds safe,” you mutter, barely mollified by Merrick’s hand curling around yours, his thumb dipping into the spaces between your knuckles. 

“You and Gar can start heading out of town, I’ll get Roran to follow us out, and then I’ll drop him-”

“You’re not even going to argue?” You ask Gar, leaning forward even further to get a better look at his face. His brown eyes are on the road though and he doesn’t have the time to spare you a glance. Traffic is getting a little worse the closer you get to the square. “What’s to stop Roran from doubling back when you drop him and going after our friends again? He doesn’t know how to use a phone, but all of our friends do and they won’t stop calling until they get some sort of answer.”

“It’s hardly foolproof,” Merrick grumbles, taking another crunching bite, eyes focused on a far distant point. He’s squinting though, like his eyes or his head are paining him, thinking about all of this. ”But I’m going to bet that Roran would rather follow me straight off. Chasing after people that may or may not work as hostages is a big waste of time. He’s never been over fond of humans and he doesn’t like playing the long game. He’d rather keep up with us, too close to give us a chance to plan.”

Gar sighs, shrugging his shoulder. “I’m willing to bet on that too, Hora-”

“Shut it,” you say, punching gently at his bicep. “I told you not to call me that.”

“You did,” he agrees. “This Roran had a one track mind earlier, and it was all for Merrick. He’s definitely more interested in getting answers out of him than in killing me, for the moment, but that’s not going to last for very long. We can use this trick to get us out of the city, but...”

Merrick points at the square through the windshield and shoves the entire apple core in his mouth. You’re fairly sure it’s simply to forestall any more potential disagreements, rather than any desire to finish it, but he eats it without complaint. As soon as Gar pulls into a parking space, Merrick pulls off his hat.

It’s startling, seeing his ears out here in broad daylight, but your eyes grow even wider when he sheds his sweatshirt. He’s in nothing but his trousers and shoes now, wings still part and parcel of his skin, masquerading as well done tattoos.

“I’m going to glamour myself as soon as I close the door,” Merrick tells you both. He glances at Gar and makes a you too motion. “Then I want you to jump in the front seat and wait for Gar to give you a signal, ma-”

“I’m sorry,” you interrupt, licking your lips. “But you said you’re going to be using glamour to hide yourselves from the humans, am I right? How am I supposed to see you if you’re glamoured?”

Merrick looks startled, like he’d never considered that but Gar only laughs. 

“You have the Sight, now,” he tells you, turning in his seat to direct a megawatt grin your way. “You’ll be able to see the free for all.”

“Since when?” You demand. “All the stories say it’s something you have to be like.. Born with! I know that I’ve never seen faeries like either of you before today.”

Gar waggles his eyebrows, and then, just to be sure, makes an obnoxious kissing noise. The pieces very slowly come together.

“Are you telling me I have the ability to see Faeries now because Merrick and I… ?” You shut your mouth with a snap when Merrick covers his face. He’s red. Embarrassed. And Gar’s earlier comments are now seared into your brain. 

Gar’s laughter volume doubles.

“I’ll tell you about the nitty-gritty of it all later, but the main thing is this: You’ve touched some kind of Faerie ointment. A kiss does it just fine,” he mutters, pulling his own hat from his head. You don’t jump when you see the pointed ears on Gar, you don’t, but you know you’re staring. He pulls off his gloves after that and stretches strong green fingers. “But blood can work too, or-”

“Quiet,” Merrick demands, yanking open his car door. “Hurry up and help me with this, or I’m going to push you out of the car and be done with it.”

“Don’t be like that,” Gar whines, though he shoots you a small wink as he gets out. “I was just getting to the good part!”

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...turn the page?

[heli0s-writes]

“let me walk you home.”

for @that-damn-girl​, with Bucky. It got longer than expected-- and a little bit steamier than expected. 1.7k words. Smitten, pining, shy Bucky.

[28 WAYS Masterlist // Prompts]

When Bucky finally returns to Wakanda, it seems like nothing has changed. 

Five years of oblivion, one year of grieving, and he finally pulls himself together enough to visit the country that made him whole.

The fields are lush. The city, animated. The people, kind. The royal family is expecting him, still full of easy care for this broken boy. T’Challa sends his best to accommodate The White Wolf even though Bucky had refused to be treated with so much attention.

In response, and with some cheek, the king assures him his new accommodations are even more luxurious than before and Bucky thinks it must be Shuri’s doing.

No, Bucky smiles to himself, nothing has changed. It makes him feel steady and safe again, like both his feet are on solid ground and not slipping off another train.

Until he disembarks and steps down from the ramp where the sun catches in his eye a little, makes him blink out the afterimage of its bright glare. When he’s finally able to see the figure at the edge of the landing pad, the Earth rocks with a tremendous lurch.

You stand comfortably at the end of the ramp, fingers linked in a loose weave, eyebrow quirked at him.

Six years but you’re just as he remembers. Lopsided mouth a little lifted at one corner, forever affixed in a state of watchful amusement. Your deep amethyst gown is free-flowing and beautifully patterned, arabesque lines curving against the arch of your thighs when you turn from the jet. It dips low in the back, and he can see the glisten of shea rubbed over the grooves of your skin.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you greet over your shoulder, “Welcome back to Wakanda. Let me walk you home.”

Undoubtedly Shuri’s doing.

-

The Golden City is resplendent. Against the backdrop of sky-spiraling towers and illuminated technology, you are a singular beauty to behold. Bucky feels cracked open in all the ways he used to be: unstitched, untethered, barely holding on in a light breeze.

“Remember this, Sergeant?” You ask, leading him forward, pointing down a pathway, “Didn’t the children corner you once?”  

“Yes,” he remembers.

“And the mandazi cart? Didn’t you prefer the cinnamon sugar topping best?”

“Yes,” Bucky replies quietly, “Just a little. Not too sweet.”

“I remember you didn’t like anything too sweet.”

And the shudder that follows sends his blood straight to his head.

Bucky’s knees feel like they could give out as he coughs with a stammer, shoving his hands in his pockets, staring at his shoes scuffed up with dirt. Anything to distract himself from the memory of a mid-morning bruise growing on his collar and the subsequent teasing from Shuri.

A bite. A scratch. The way your face looked with the hot white streak of sun falling in your open mouth. Bodies still encased in free-flowing cotton, but it was enough to sear his entire being. That pretty, perfect, picture of you on his thigh.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He coughs again.

  You keep on coolly, stepping side to side and avoiding the crowd with ease as if your comment didn’t mean a thing. As if it didn’t trip him up almost physically through the street.

“Have any plans while you’re here?” You ask innocently, stopping at a booth of flowers and browsing through orchids. Daisies and irises peer back at you, beckoning your touch. Bucky reaches into his pocket, buys a violet that matches your dress with the intention of – he doesn’t know, tucking it behind your ear? Six years later and he still doesn’t know what to do with you.

But, of course, it’s been six years for you, and only one for him.

His stomach drops at the thought of a separation only oblivion can create between two people so damn close to a beginning. An irreconcilable distance of time that will never align and how could he be so naïve to think nothing has changed?

“No,” he replies a little dumbly as your hand jingles with change. “No plans. Just…” A melancholy look at the way you turn from him.

“Missed it?”

“Yeah.”

 The stroll continues. One violet in his hand, two Calla Lillies in yours. You turn them round and round, pressing your nose to the spathes, letting their soft points flick over your lips. He feels forgotten altogether until he hears your tepid voice, shaded with the slightest of sorrows.

“They’re a symbol of rebirth and resurrection. I thought it was fitting; you do look reborn, after all.”

Bucky runs his hand instinctively through his hair—cut short now, and he’s still trying to get used to it. His throat constricts. He suddenly aches all over.

“Thank you,” he says finally, after a long while. “For, uh, walking me.”

“We’re not there yet.”

“I just meant—”

“I’m teasing, Sergeant.”

Up the iron stairs you ascend, looking back at him every few steps with a grin. At the door, you pause, both hands coming together to grasp onto the waxy stalks of the flowers, turning them again. “Hope my teasing didn’t offend you?”

“No,” Bucky replies, watching the way you unlock the door deftly, reaching inside to turn the light on for him. “… I remember you liked to tease.”

The smack of the blooms against his chest is abrupt and it takes him by surprise when you laugh sharply.

“Oh! Is that right? What else do you remember?”

He stutters, a little eager, a little hesitant. “I remember—” a thick swallow and you trace the motion of his throat with gentle eyes, walking backwards, hanging your hopes on the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. Bucky presses his lips together.

“I remember us.”

“Yeah?” You take the violet and cross into the kitchen, grabbing a tall glass from the counter and placing the flowers inside, going quiet. “Remember us doing what?”

He’s no good at this— this game. This cat and mouse tension of your provocation. The heady atmosphere of growing closer together but somehow drifting further apart. Every question is a challenge, a play for something from him—an admission? An apology? A funeral?

You call him Sergeant. You hardly look at him. But then you stand, hip jutting, palms flat on the counter, chin on your shoulder and just the sweet shock of your profile is enough to cut him clean through.

“Lots of things.” Bucky steps on the eggshells because he might as well crush them now. 

Reaches the small of your back with his hand, palming the straight column of your exposed spine and counts all the goosebumps that break across your skin. Flesh on flesh, his lips on your shoulder and then neck. He remembers this. Remembers the way you sigh and lean into him. Remembers the heat. Remembers his heart, stitched back together by your loving fingers.

His right hand slips through the open space of your dress. All five warm fingers splay out, gripping your side and curling over your lower ribs. And god, he’s trembling head to toe, feet so unbalanced now he might fall completely.

Your head leans back onto his shoulder, weight of it holding him down, “You’re shaking.”

With a slow turn, you face him, fingertip trailing up his neck and along the curve of his throat to his chin. Tilting him up to the ceiling, you press a blazing kiss onto his neck, “Am I making it better or worse?”

He doesn’t mean to do it—or maybe he does, but the speed of it surprises even Bucky when he lifts you by the thighs and places you on the sink counter. He cuts off your sharp gasp and turns it into an exhilarated moan, presses your chest to his with frantic hands, nudges your legs open to nestle himself in between.

And hell, the way you feel in his arms—delicate but full of fight, softly pulsing with the strength he’s always admired about you—it feels safe. Steady. The kind of stable that’s always been taken from him too soon.

It’s been six years—or one—or whatever, and his entire being is vibrating with the magnitude of a catastrophic earthquake, but Bucky can’t be bothered to care about any of that now. Your mouth is open, tongue sweeping over his, teeth playfully nipping at his bottom lip, and it dashes away all his good sense.

When he breaks away, he’s overly aware of his erratic heartbeat and swollen mouth. Kissed tender, and it takes what’s left of his breath to see that you match him just as well. You lean forward again, and he meets you for another two, three, five kisses. He loses count after a few more, eager and fumbling and dizzy as he peppers them over your cheek, down to your collar.

“Don’t even think about it,” you warn, hand tugging him away by his hair, “Bite me and I’ll kick you out.”

Bucky pauses and snaps upright, confused at the statement and the way your eyes sparkle with amusement. Knowingly, you nod to the space behind him, “I live here, Bucky.”

“What?” He mutters. It takes him a minute, but he finally looks around and notices the simple decorations. The well-cared for plants, the soft blanket over the couch, the mug of coffee with a stirring spoon stuck inside. The small plate of—his heart skips a beat—half-eaten mandazi with cinnamon sugar on top.

“Oh, god.”

Bucky presses the heel of his palm to his eyes, doesn’t know if he might laugh or sob. Maybe both.

Still in the hold of his one hand, you twist halfway, moving the glass further in case either one of you might knock it over. The spathes of the lilies turn idly to look at him, draped over the tufts of violet petals. Two stalks in perfect symmetry. Symbols of resurrection for both him and you.

Smoothing the shorn chestnut strands gone a little awry from your grip, your eyes search his face, memorizing his lines. All things of his old and new.

“Welcome back to Wakanda, Sergeant.” Your mischievous mouth finds his again, holding him steady with familiar sweetness, “I missed you.”

-

perm tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes @crist1216 @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @infinity-saga @jamesbarnesthighs @pinknerdpanda @xoxabs88xox​ @imsoft-barnes​ @momc95​ @typicalangel​ @wretchedgoddess​ @readeity​ @iwannasail​ @ya-lyublu-tebya​ @geeksareunique​ @wildefire​ @satanxklaus​ @jhangelface0523​ @wkemeup​ @ixcantxdecidexwhosxmyxfave​

[theshopislocal]

corinth rains

New and improved Heaven may well be the Happiest Place (not) on Earth. But Dean, it turns out, is still Dean.

(also on AO3)

chapter two

Heaven is warm, bucolic, and perfect. And it gives Dean the damned heebie-jeebies.

He recalls a memorable night spent with Pamela - well, as memorable as it could be after a fifth of Macallan. Sam had said ‘So get this...’ and then fucked off to the local library, leaving Pam and Dean at the hotel bar. They’d drunk til the lights got fuzzy, and Pam had leaned back against the barstool, arching one dark eyebrow.

She’d had Dean supine across the foot of the squeaky queen, sitting astride him and working some kind of magic. She’d settled his hands on her slim waist, tugged at his hair, bitten his lips; he’d had nary a moment to want something before she gave it - the craving coming on the heels of the having.

Heaven is much the same - perceptive and generous - and it leaves Dean feeling just as he had that night with Pam. Vulnerable, flayed open. Seen.

He assumes it’s heaven’s off-brand kind of ESP that’s landed him here, seated at a teakwood dining table in a house over yonder.

There are soft sounds from the kitchen - cabinets opening, a gurgling coffee maker, a substratum of tuneless humming. Dean hunches over his plate and shovels another forkful of pie into his mouth. It’s sweet and rich, tart and crumbly, and he barely tastes it at all.

“You alright?”

Dean looks up to find Mary seated across from him. She’s a little younger than when he last saw her, but otherwise she’s just as he remembers - her yellow hair falling in waves over her shoulders, her eyes a soft Carolina blue.

She stares at him, calm and unconcerned, the bow of her lips turned up in a tiny smile.

Dean shakes his head and gives a little shrug. “Yeah, ‘course,” he says, gruffer than intended.

She notices, he’s sure, but she only tips her head in a nod. “Okay.”

A quietude stretches between them, peaceful but gravid. Mary tilts her head, face serene and mildly expectant, and she inches a pale hand forward on the table. His fingers clench around the little dessert fork, and he takes another bite.

She’s waiting, he realizes, for him to speak, to get there. Though where ‘there’ is, Dean’s got no damn idea.

“You know,” he says, to fill the silence, “Sammy asked me if I remembered anything,” he swallows, throat dry, and looks down at his plate, “‘bout bein’ a kid.”

Mary’s eyebrows pop up, and she smiles a little wider. “You remembered me,” she offers.

Dean’s eyes alight on hers, and his lips purse. There’s something something fragile in her face, a budding hope that he doesn’t want to crush. You made me sandwiches, he wants to say. You told me bedtime stories.

His stomach clenches. You burned alive, gutted on the ceiling.

Dean looks away, brow furrowed. “‘Course I did,” he grunts out, throat tight.

She gives him a look that goes right through him - compassionate, or maybe pitying. Her mouth turns down like she can hear his thoughts, and he bites his cheek, shamefaced.

“What else do you remember?” she asks, and her voice is mild and curious, lacking the censure Dean expected.

Dean reins in his surprise and dips his head, summoning a wry smile. “Well,” he says and points his fork at the plate of pie crumbs.

She rolls her eyes and nods, smiling once again. “Yes, obviously pie. What else.”

He stares at her for a moment, feeling wrong-footed and a little short-changed, then peers through the open French doors toward the mountainside. He scans his memories, steering clear of the ugly ones that present themselves first, looking for something - anything - to keep her smiling.

...Weedy grass and buzzing bees.

“Our backyard,” he murmurs, and feels his lips quirk up.

Mary’s smile grows soft, warm like the spring air. “Mm,” she hums. “Always overgrown. Your dad never wanted to mow it.”

Dean withholds a wince at the mention of John, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. “I liked it how it was.”

Mary’s eyes dart up to his, and her soft laugh lines deepen. “Yeah, you did.”

Dean’s eyes trace over her face, searching for something, though he’s not sure what. She’s still the girl who made a deal with a yellow-eyed demon. Still the woman who left, and left, and left again. She’s no more perfect now than she ever was, but...

She has laugh lines, and yellow hair, and Carolina blue eyes. And she’s looking at Dean like she’s missed him forever. Damn, if he hasn’t missed her, too.

Something loosens in his chest, and his fists unclench. He smiles, wan but sincere, and leans back in his seat, crossing his ankles under the table. “Coulda done without the bees though.”

She huffs a little laugh and shakes her head. “You loved the bees,” she counters.

Dean raises a doubtful eyebrow. “Did I?”

“Mhm,” she hums, nodding sagely. “You’d chase ‘em around, flapping your arms like little wings.”

Dean squints, searching his scattered memory. He remembers the yard, the foliage, the window into the kitchen. He remembers thunder and lightning and torrential downpour. He doesn’t remember himself.

“Huh,” he says, and folds his arms over his chest.

He stares across the table at Mary. She’s silent but smiling, her eyes far away. It’s a familiar look, one he’s seen on nearly everyone he knows in Heaven. Like they’re lost in a beautiful memory - a moment in their past lives that they didn’t regret.

Dean doesn’t think about his human life. He’d lived it, after all. That was enough.

“You drew me a map once.”

Dean eyes flick up from where they’d settled on his dirty plate, and his brow furrows. “A map?”

She nods, still staring glassy-eyed into the middle distance. “You followed one little bee all day long,” she murmurs. “Counted all the flowers she landed on. Then you,” she swallows, and her eyes go shiny, “you raced inside and scribbled it all out on the back of a—” a startled huff of laughter, “—a takeout menu.”

Dean watches her, the way her eyes flick back and forth, like she’s watching the scene unfold before her. There’s an ache near the center of his chest like a bruise. “I don’t remember that,” he says, voiced pitched low.

Her head tilts up, absent eyes meeting his as she pulls herself from reverie. “You were... three? Maybe four?” She looks down and brings a hand to settle over her heart. “It was beautiful,” she whispers, and tilts her head. “Wish I still had it.”

Dean nods at her, though she’s still looking away, and he feels a hot coil of guilt in his stomach. Mary had adored him, he knows that much, and she’d lost him as surely as he’d lost her. He remembers the expectant way he’d looked at her in the bunker, wanting something she couldn’t remember how to give. Something he barely even remembers himself.

There’s movement behind Mary’s head, and Dean’s eyes snap to it.

Something is... growing on the wall.

Dean’s fists clench up, and he watches with hawk eyes as the thing manifests, forming itself into a vaguely rectangular shape. He feels his lips purse tight and his spine straighten like a rod.

Mary senses his sudden tension and looks up, following his eyes over her shoulder.

“Oh my god,” she whispers in awe.

She unfolds herself from her chair and stands up slowly, as if in a dream. She walks the four paces to the wood-paneled wall, reaching out a cautious hand. Her fingers close around the frame of the thing, and she gives a soft sigh.

Dean stares at her back where the knobs of her spine meet her neck, her shoulder blades distorting the periwinkle plaid of her blouse. She turns around, her eyes fixed on her prize, thumbs smoothing over the simple wood frame.

She comes around the table, sliding into the chair at Dean’s side, and when she finally looks up at him, her eyes are bright and red-rimmed. She takes Dean’s hand in hers, her skin smooth and cool, and slips the little framed drawing into his palm.

He peers down at it and gives a startled bark of laughter.

The drawing is entirely ridiculous - an indecipherable riot of squiggly pen lines and waxy crayon color. There’s a messy bed of green near the bottom, which Dean assumes is grass, and it’s speckled with tiny blobs of vibrant pink and deep red - flowers, Dean thinks. Near the center of the page is a single white daisy with a bright yellow bumblebee hovering over it. A swirling purple line trails behind its black-striped body, making loop-de-loops around every flower. The sky is a strip of electric blue at the top, just above an empty field of white - the landscape drawn as children often do, with the heavens separated from the earth.

His fingers hover over a grease-stained corner, illegible text bleeding through. “Jeez,” he breathes out. “Clearly I missed my calling.”

He hears the broad smile in Mary’s voice. “Coulda been the next Da Vinci,” she says, nudging his shoulder.

Dean huffs and raises an eyebrow. “More like Picasso.”

She laughs at that, as he knew she would, and it sounds like Corinthian bells, chiming in harmony on the breeze.

Dean smiles to himself, eyes roving over his apparent masterpiece before alighting on a strange scribble in the corner.

“What’s this?” he murmurs, pointing a finger at the tiny black and blue squiggle.

“Hm?” Mary leans closer to him, and Dean’s nose twitches with the scent of tart apples clinging to her hair. She looks at the little scribble, frowning for a moment, before her eyebrows pop up. “Oh, wow,” she sighs out, leaning closer. “I forgot about that.”

She reaches out a hand to grasp the side of the frame opposite Dean’s, the small weight of the silly little drawing shared between them. She’s got that look again, like there’s an old Super 8 projection playing in her head. Dean wonders what’s on the reel.

She chews her lip for a moment, then tips her head toward Dean. “You remember what I used to tell you before bed?” she asks, peering up at his face.

Dean frowns. “Brush your teeth or they’ll turn green?”

She gives him a look. “That was Dad.”

Dean tips his head back in a nod. “Right. Uh...” Dean trails off for a moment, unsure. Nearly all of his childhood memories are of Mary, but they’re weathered and vague, filtered through the consciousness of a toddler. He barely remembers the words she said, only the lilting strains of her voice as she calmed him, soothed him, protected him—

An image flits across his mind, and he sucks in a breath: a tiny figurine that sat on the mantel, with fluffy little wings and a crown of white roses.

Dean blinks and shakes his head. “Angels are watching over me,” he intones.

He sees Mary nod in his peripheral vision, and her finger taps on the little scribble near his thumb.

“It’s—” Dean starts and frowns, askance, “...an angel?” he guesses.

“Mhm,” she hums, giving another slow nod. Her finger slides across the two tiny black scrawls, vaguely triangular and joined at the middle. “Wings,” she says, then taps the blue oval just above, “halo.” He sees her smile out of the corner of his eye. “You drew it all the time.”

Dean stares at the squiggle, a frown etching across his forehead. The figurine he remembers was nearly solid white, the only deviations its pink skin and dark eyes. There’s not a speck of white in the little scribble, no cherubic cloud-seeder to be found. Just messy black shapes and a faded blue circle. Black wings, blue halo.

Black wings. Blue halo.

Black wings.

... Blue—

The painting slips from his fingers as Mary takes it back in her hands. She holds it gently, reverently, as she stands and walks around the table. Dean shakes his head to clear it, and watches as she replaces the little picture on the center of the wall. It looks, at once, as if it has always hung there, and like he’d drawn it but a moment ago.

A shiver climbs up the back of Dean's neck. He shrugs it off.

“How’s Dad?” he asks lowly, and regrets it immediately.

Mary turns around, her eyes a little wide, eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. Dean isn’t sure why he asked. He backtraces his train of thought, only to find he hadn’t had one at all; seems he’s done his usual shtick of putting his foot in his mouth the very moment he opens it.

Mary seems to sense his imminent retraction, and she settles her face into a genial smile. “He’s good,” she says mildly and comes back to her seat across from Dean. “Wasn’t sure he’d like it here, at first. But,” she settles into the worn wooden chair, “I think he does.”

Dean represses a scoff at that. “Why wouldn’t he?” he says and picks up his fork, eyes downcast. “He’s got you.” He slides the crumbs around on his plate, shoulders hunching forward. “All he ever wanted.”

Mary is silent for a long moment, and Dean doesn’t look up - he can picture her face well enough. His fork scrapes against white porcelain, the sun a bright glare on the stainless steel tines.

Mary sighs, barely audible. “You ever gonna talk to him?”

Her voice is soft and ambivalent, as if she’s already accepted his answer. It gets Dean’s back up, and he peers up at her through flinty eyes.

She’s staring at him, face guileless and open. There’s a spark of curiosity in her eyes, flavored with a sort of tempered sadness. But there’s no reproof, no expectation, and Dean gets the strange feeling that there isn’t a right answer. Or a wrong one.

Dean’s jaw goes a little slack, and for a moment, he thinks he might simply say, No.

Mary tips her head to the side, eyes going soft as her lips turn up, and the moment passes.

“‘Course, I will,” Dean grumbles, casting his eyes back to his empty plate. He shrugs. “Not avoiding him, just...” he trails off and shakes his head. Best leave it there.

Mary takes a slow breath, and Dean sees the vague shape of her leaning forward in her seat.

“Well,” she starts, lacing her fingers on the tabletop. “I won’t speak for him—”

Dean snorts. “But.”

Mary sighs, amused and resigned. “But... I know he’s got a lot to say. He just...” she pauses for a moment, then shrugs her shoulders. “He doesn’t really know how to say it. He knows he—” she cuts herself off with a quick shake of her head. “Well,” her hands raise in a brief shrug. “It’s his truth to tell.”

Dean nods absently, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He’s known since ‘they live over yonder’ that a reckoning would come for him and his dad. Dean just isn’t quite sure if he’s ready for whatever truth John might tell - or if he’s even inclined to listen to it.

Dean clenches his jaw and drops his fork onto the plate. It clatters loud in the calm of the spring afternoon, and Dean barely restrains a flinch.

Mary leans further forward, hand sliding halfway across the table.

“Dean—”

“Think Sammy’s gonna join the Arch,” Dean says overloud, settling his elbows on the tabletop.

Mary pauses at the abrupt change of subject, but deftly lets it slide. Her eyes flutter a bit, and she pulls her hand back. “Yeah?” she asks, giving a slightly awkward smile.

Dean feels a twinge of guilt in his throat and swallows it down. “Mm,” he nods. “Eileen’s gonna join. And lord knows wherever she goes—”

“Sam goes,” Mary finishes, her smile seeming to widen and soften at once. “He loves her,” she murmurs.

Dean’s stomach clenches taut, even as a smile comes unbidden. He remembers Sam peering over his shoulder as they’d stood on the bridge, his mouth slack and eyes liquid. Dean had known without looking who stood behind him. Sam had gone to her on shaky legs that crumbled beneath him as he reached her. Dean’s vision had gone blurry, and he’d turned away from them, eyes squinting out at the sunlit mountain.

“Yeah,” Dean says, voice a little thick. He clears his throat and nods. “And I get it, ya know. He—” he interrupts himself on a wincing inhale. “He lost her before.” A dry swallow. “Twice.”

Mary makes a little noise in her throat. “Three times,” she whispers.

Dean frowns, confused, and glances up at Mary. Her eyes are shiny, mouth screwed up in a tiny sad smile.

Oh. “She... she went before him?”

Mary’s eyebrows scrunch together, and she sniffs. “She stayed with us. Til he came.”

Dean’s brows rise at that. Offering comfort in a time of need isn’t really his parents’ bag - at least, not that Dean can remember.

Then again, he can’t think of anyone who knows grief better.

“Huh,” he grunts in lieu of a response, and glances up.

Mary is still staring at him, but the melancholy has given way to a sharp sort of consideration. Her eyes dart over his face, slightly squinted, and she looks so much like Sam that Dean turns to stare out at the sun.

Here in Heaven, Sam and Mary are quite alike: happy, whole, and ready for a new life - a new fight.

Dean is just... tired.

“You know,” Mary begins, and Dean’s eyes flick to her hands, still resting on the table. “He’s not going anywhere,” she says, and Dean’s eye twitches in a wince. “You know that, right?”

Dean nods and swallows, looking down at his own hands. “Yeah, I know.” And he does know.

“Even if he joins the Arch,” she continues as if he hadn’t spoken. Her voice is ardent but still gentle, and she leans forward. “He’s not going anywhere. He—” she huffs and tips her head side to side. “He might get a little banged up, maybe, but—”

He knows. “I know.”

“—he...” Mary trails off on a sigh, stretching her arm across the table. Her fingers brush his, and he holds himself still. “No one’s gonna take him away, Dean.” She runs her thumb over the knuckles of his fist. “It’s work,” she acknowledges. “Dirty work, even, but... it’s not life or death,” she murmurs with a tiny smile. “Not here.”

Dean knows this. He knows all of this, but... But that doesn’t stop him from... It’s not the same as... 

It doesn’t make him—

“I know,” he intones, giving her a tight smile.

Her eyebrows make a sympathetic shape, and she pulls her hand back. Dean’s shoulders relax, just slightly.

“You know, your dad thought you would join,” she says with a little smile.

Dean huffs out a chuckle, bitter and resigned. “‘Course he did,” he grunts, pressing his thumbs together.

“Dean,” Mary sighs, tone somewhere between chiding and apologetic.

Dean’s lips turn down, and he shakes his head. “Sorry,” he mutters, mostly sincerely.

“It wasn’t an expectation,” Mary says, then gives a little shrug. “He just... I think he figured all the—” she shakes her head, as if searching for the words, “-the soul-searching would...” she sighs. “I dunno... Make your teeth itch,” she finishes with a wry smile.

Dean gives her one back, though he feels a headache coming on. His teeth do itch. Everything itches. Everything chafes.

“Well,” he starts and swallows again. His throat’s gone bone dry. “Still searching, I guess,” he says, and he supposes it might be true, but- “Not sure what for, though.”

Mary reaches her hand out again, and Dean goes tense for a moment. His eyes flit to hers, and he finds them crinkled at the corners. She’s smiling at him as she’d smiled at his little drawing, as she’d smiled when she sat him down, as she’d smiled while he ate his pie. She’s smiling at him now, as she had when he was a boy, as she always has.

Her skin looks like clouds, her eyes like the sky. She laces her fingers with Dean’s, and the tension across his back fades away.

“I think,” Mom murmurs, “you’ll know it when you find it.”

chapter one | chapter three

table of contents

[aroworlds]

When Quiver Meets Quill, Part One

Alida Quill is just fine spending hir holidays alone with a book if it means freedom from hir family's continued expectation to court and wed. When hir co-worker Ede sets hir up with a friend and won't take no for an answer, Alida plots an extravagant, public refusal scene to show everyone once and for all that ze will not date. Ever.

Ze doesn't expect to meet Antonius Quiver, a man with his own abrupt, startling declarations on the subject of romance.

It isn't courting if he schemes with hir to pay back Ede ... is it?

Contains: One autistic, aromantic organiser extraordinaire armed with coloured ink; one autistic, aromantic officer a little too prone to interrupting; and an allistic friend in want of better ways to go about introductions.

Content Advisory: Aromantic characters pressed into dating along with casual references to general amatonormativity and ableism.

Length: 2, 261 words (part one of two).

Note: Posted for @aggressivelyarospec​‘s AggressivelyArospectacular 2019.

I don’t date, court, woo or pay suit to anyone.

“Do you ever do anything but work, write and read?” Ede Thimble leans across the counter and stares at Alida with intent brown eyes, ignoring the crate of straw-packed ink bottles at her feet. Ten minutes ago, she offered to shelve them. “You come here, you spend the day looking things up and writing things down, and then you go home and do the same!” She sighs before waving her arms and the trailing sleeves of her dress with extravagant enthusiasm. “Yesterday was a holiday! You could have spent it dancing, drinking or gaming! Anything involving another person!”

Alida Quill sets down hir pencil, working to hold back a frown. Hir family owns the business—the name Quill is a byword in Elsten for fine stationery—but as the youngest of the three Quill siblings, hir thoughts on matters of hiring go ignored.

Did Jan select Ede because her inquisitiveness gets under Alida’s skin?

“I didn’t just read. I went to morning service, I baked...”

Spiced apple cakes, the sultanas conveniently “forgotten”. After which ze curled up by the fire, book in hand, and spent a glorious, undisturbed afternoon flipping through a collection of fairy tales for hir catalogue of stories that don’t end in marriage. Hir siblings and their wives patronised dance halls and gaming houses, granting Alida a rare half day with nobody to annoy hir about avoiding friends and family.

“Temple!” Ede rolls her eyes and leans against the glass counter, putting fingerprints over a surface Alida just finished polishing. “You’re not even pious! Do you go anywhere not home, here or services—”

The door opens, admitting a blast of chill air and a pair of damp student mages in brown robes, and Alida grits hir teeth at the thud as the taller lets it slam closed. Both carry empty string bags and a folded piece of cream paper—good cotton rag watermarked with the Academy’s crossed-wand seal. Why the Academy wastes expensive paper on yearly materials lists, ze’ll never know.

Ede straightens and gifts the students her warmest smile. “Good morning, sirs! I see you’re looking to get ahead of the winter’s commencement class. Smart! Can I first tempt you with our newest brushes, or would you prefer me to work through your lists?”

Alida permits hirself a sigh of relief and returns to inventorying the shelf of journals and ledgers.

Ze considers Ede no small trial, between her questions and a lackadaisical attitude to cleanliness. Yet Ede’s ability to charm and flatter, a gift Alida doesn’t wish to possess, frees hir to manage stock orders, shelving and the accounts book. Ze answers questions and handles sales when needed, but Alida prefers to leave the art of convincing customers to Ede and Jette. As if either will think to dust the shelf or turn the bottles labels-outwards when displaying!

By the time Ede sends the students back out into the weather, bulging parcels wrapped in spelled wood-pulp paper, Alida stands on a stool behind the counter, positioning the last of the new inks. Ze doesn’t know how to answer people asking, for the umpteenth time, about hir prospects; ze always knows how many nibs, pens and brushes are contained within the store’s array of redwood drawers and shelves. Hir hands give the glass counters their sparkle, the wood its gleaming richness, the leather chairs by the window their waxy softness and scent. Ze laid the fire warming the shop against the cold outside. What’s wrong with finding contentment in hir work? Why isn’t this a worthy life, hir days spent in labour enough for bed, food, clothing and a reasonable number of books?

Alida wonders, not for the first time, if ze should have tried to pretend belief and gender enough to join the Sisterhood.

“Rain!” Ede declares in the smug tones of a woman who charged an extra ten cents for the protective paper. That fewer people dare the streets in a worsening squall doesn’t diminish her joy; she claps her hands, swathes of blue wool and white lace shrouding her fingers. “I love when I can make rich mages pay for something extra!”

Alida takes up hir duster, steps down off the stool, doesn’t fall when hir toes catch the hem of hir skirt and moves to hir nook by the counter. Hir small desk, hidden from customers by a display case of envelopes, holds a ledger, a brass cup of pencils, a wad of cat fur and a tin of wax polish above a drawer that doesn’t quite close. Spell more wrapping paper sheets, ze writes at the bottom of the day’s list, nodding at Ede so she doesn’t think herself ignored. “Not all the students are rich. The Academy is expensive, but that doesn’t mean some people don’t save up. Or that those people can afford to replace a soaked journal.”

Hir parents sent hir, back when the family thought Alida to make something grander of hir life through magic.

“They’re richer than me.” Ede sighs again; Alida represses the urge to mention that Jette pays Ede wage enough to support her mother and fund a penchant for lace. “I tell you what—I’ve got a friend who makes those annoying corrections, and I can’t get his nose out of the newspaper, either. I bet you two’d get on like anything. Instead of temple and reading, how about I introduce you next Endday lunch?”

Alida twists the folds of hir skirt through hir white fingers, watching the wind hurl rain against the front windowpane. Didn’t Ede understand Alida the first time ze explained this? “I don’t date, court, woo or pay suit to anyone.”

“You’re just like Antonius, Alida. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before now!” Ede opens her mouth as the door admits a regular gentlewoman in a long coat, a sopping newspaper held above her head in a vain attempt to protect her dyed suede. “Good morning, good sir! Such dreadful weather out, and so early in the season! Should I help you now, or would you like to first stand before the fireplace a minute?”

Wet newspaper, coat and boots, along with the door the customer struggles to close, create puddles enough that Alida darts into the stockroom for a mop and bucket.

Please, ze prays as ze works the mop over the floorboards, let Ede forget this plan as easily as she forgot about the crate of ink bottles.

***

“You need to meet Antonius,” Ede says the next morning, entering the shop without a greeting or by-your-leave while Alida places two small logs above the flaming kindling in the fireplace. “My cousin brought him around last night, and I swear he said five words—and most of those were contradictions! Things he read about!”

Alida takes the poker and shifts one of the logs to get more air underneath, biting hir lip. If this Antonius discussed books or articles, he likely said more than five words.

“See? You’d get on like ducks on a pond!” Ede bustles towards the fire, peeling her gloves off her hands and tucking them into her belt before unbuttoning her cloak and hanging it on the hook beside Alida’s. “Like priestesses in the vestiary!”

“Like priestesses in a room for storing clothes?” Alida asks, returning the poker to the rack beside the grate. Is this an absurd double-entendre? If so, why the vestiary? Surely there’s better places for those goings-on than the religious equivalent of a cloakroom? “And what did I say to make you think that?”

“You had that look where you’re bursting to correct me.” Ede sighs and turns to warm her back, hiking up her skirts and inching as close to the fire as is safe. “You think I don’t know that look? Alida, you must meet Antonius. He’s perfect for you.”

Ze glances around the shop in search of distraction. The counter gleams, the table with scrap for testing pens sits cleared of yesterday’s samples and the shop cat, Miep, lies asleep on the armchair closest to the fire. The floor doesn’t look dirty, but Alida will sweep while Ede double-checks the paper inventory. That should redirect her from this horrible conversation.

“I don’t date, court, woo—”

“I know! Please, Alida, please. Just once.” Ede crooks her head, fluttering her long eyelashes. She’s pretty in an artistic, skilful way, never in want of admirers: this morning she pinned her myriad black braids into labyrinthine coils and knots adorned with white lace and ribbon. “You need to talk to people! Do something on a holiday that isn’t a book!”

Alida shaves hir brown hair to avoid prolonged morning ablutions. Ze’s always wondered, but never dared ask, how early Ede rises to groom, dress, eat and walk the ten blocks along the Wine Canal.

“You’re people!” Alida jerks hir hands in frustration. “This is talking!”

“Talking talking. Talking because you want to, because it’s fun, not because we’re stuck in a shop together six days a week. Please.” Ede drops her skirts, setting thick layers of wool and cotton to rustling, and turns to face Alida, her narrow hands outstretched. The fire gifts the underside of her dark fingers, protruding from their wreaths of lace, a rich, reddish shine. “Antonius needs someone, and you need someone. You’d get on so perfectly if you wet blankets dried out enough to try!”

“I don’t—”

“Think about it. Please!” Ede whirls away from the fire and heads to the counter, perhaps surmising that she’s pushed Alida past general annoyance into I-can’t-bear-to-look-at-you anger. “Do you want me to wipe the counters?”

Alida, fighting to calm hir voice, darts into the stockroom for the broom. “No. I need you to double-check my counts on the paper inventory. All of them.”

Even Ede’s strangled curse isn’t enough to make Alida feel pleasure in revenge—not after the stabbing betrayal of one more person failing to understand hir.

***

Over the next three days, Ede finds a wealth of excuses to mention her cousin’s cousin. He was top in penmanship at school, is an amateur historian, and once rescued a drowning kitten. Alida has to admit, past Ede’s tendency to deliver criticism as an enticement, that Antonius sounds more interesting than most. Similarity holds no meaning, however, when one partner wants what the other can’t offer. If Ede can’t accept Alida, how will anyone else?

“Please, Alida!” Ede leans over the desk, buttoning her green cloak. “Just talk with him! Just once!”

Alida, counting out the cashbox and checking the total against the day’s purchases while Miep rubs his grey cheek against hir boot, looks up, tired. If ze agrees, Ede will have learnt that she can badger Alida into anything with enough time and repetition. Just the thought makes hir shudder, given Alida’s struggle to correct that error with hir siblings.

“If you don’t like him or never want to see him again, I won’t say a word. Not one. Just once. Endday lunch. By the time we walk there and back, it won’t even be an hour!”

“Ede—”

Ede looks right at Alida, her brow furrowed, her hands fisted and raised to her chin in a gesture resembling praying or begging. “Meet him once and I’ll never ask anything of you again. And I’ll come early and shovel the ash from the fireplace for the next week.”

Miep yowls, looking up at Alida. Every evening, ze checks the books, counts out the money and feeds the cat, in that order. Never has their routine stopped Miep from demanding that Alida disregard human tasks in favour of his fish or mince.

“You’re supposed to also catch mice,” ze mutters. A cat’s badgering bears no unexpected consequences. Alida need not struggle to realise what will happen if ze feeds Miep when he requests. Acquiescing to Ede, though? Meeting someone Alida doesn’t know and can’t predict?

In the shop, strangers rarely deviate from standard forms of communication and intent. They ask questions about stock, prices, quality, delivery. At temple, services provide memorisable, rote shapes of interaction. Outside those worlds, where people new to hir can and do say anything? Ede, Jan and Jette desire the unexpected; Alida doesn’t understand why.

“Alida!” Ede waves her hand in front of Alida’s face. “Don’t just ignore me!”

Can ze agree in a way that means Ede won’t again harass hir? A public refusal, perhaps? A bold, dramatic declaration of Alida’s unwillingness to engage in romance, in front of Ede and this Antonius? One announced in such a way that embarrassment will keep Ede from thinking Alida suitable for anyone? Word will come back to hir siblings, but they already think Alida prone to shameful outbursts. Why not?

Alida writes down hir last total, releases a sigh of relief at the matching numbers and carefully returns the stacks of coins to the box. “Never ask anything of me again and shovel the ash for a fortnight.”

Miep meows as the lid clicks shut, butting his head against Alida’s skirts.

Ede bounces upright in a cascade of fabric, her sleeves flapping underneath her cloak. “Done! By blood and name and craft! Oh—please wear your blue, white and red skirt tomorrow! And your red coat with the long tails and brass buttons! And your good cloak with the satin lining, because the hood looks so pretty with your eyes, and...”

Alida will feed the cat and lock the shop behind Ede, but before ze goes go home, ze has some planning to do.

And a few signs to make in coloured inks.

[insane-control-room]

Do You Know?

Scout doesn't have much respect for people who drink too much, but a little comment hits off a conversation.

(ao3 link here)

Scout liked to think he was, and looked, and acted, unique. He liked to feel special, to feel important and helpful. Out of his siblings, he was the runt, and out of his mercenary pals, he was the youngest and also, again, the runt. Despite it all, he still felt happy where he was, hurting people before they could know what hit them, whether it be a shotgun bullet to the chest or a bat to the face. He took pride in his work, flanking and blasting away, snatching and shoving, jumping so fast it seemed he glided on air. He did his job, and did it hella well.

And he did not like the time that he was not doing it.

Like mess hall.

For one thing, the eating area was loud, almost painfully so. It reminded him of his crowded Boston lunch table, trying to get a bite of food to eat, his brothers devouring it before he could, and his mother trying to make up for it by giving him half of a sandwich or an apple, but it never filled him much, he feeling hungry all the time. It also reminded him of school, where he struggled to do anything, his teachers always bypassing him in favor of smarter students. It made him angry, but more upset? Frustrated. It made him frustrated to always be overlooked. 

And left behind, by everyone and everything; his brothers, his team, his troop, his father. So he learned to run ahead of the pack. He was the one to slam in and leave with a bang. He was the rough one of the group, the one that caused problems for the other side, and even sometimes for his own team. The only person that tolerated him was Miss Pauling, and that was only when she was around. He felt rather lonely, but he ran ahead of it, not letting his loneliness catch up to him. He ran fast, and he ran often. He ran to and away, and into the fray. The adrenaline kept him good, rough, and tough company. That was the way it was and always would be. He did not need anyone or anything.

He was the best of the best, top of the line, Scout master extraordinaire, Jeremy [REDACTED], and his good for nothing father did not matter, never did, never would.

Or, so he thought.

He wished he was not around that night, he wished he had gone jogging with Sniper or chatted with Medic, or just relaxed and listened to Engi’s music. He wished he was not there the night Demo and Spy had gone out for drinks, and he especially wished he was not around for the aftermath. Seeing Spy come in and leaning heavily on Demo, both smelling of expensive sherry, vodka, and Pinot Noir, Scout lifted his chin and turned away from them both in disgust. Though he was a rough and tough lad from messy streets, those same streets gave him standards, and those that drank on the battlefield for fun lost some of his respect, which, despite what people believed, he had a lot of. He could respect people, just as he respected Sniper and… um… Medic, and Heavy. The reason why he hated drinking was the cost and toll it had on a person, and how badly it lowered their chances of survival. Also, Miss Pauling had told him that she was of the same opinion, and it made him feel good to be verified. Scout personally disliked the idea of inebriation, why would anyone remove their clarity willingly when they could die at a moment’s notice? Why would someone waste their life for a little bit of buzz or good feeling? It just was not worth it to him. He trusted Demo to hold his alcohol, and yes, Spy knew what he was doing, but it still felt very wrong to him, a primal gut feeling. In his life, rather short so far, he learned to trust that instinct, and seeing Spy in a drunken good mood set off that fire screaming something was terribly wrong. He sucked in a breath, and let it out, just like Medic taught him, to calm down. 

The mess hall was quiet, for once, and for once, Scout wished it was not. Demo crashed into his room to sleep (quite literally), and Spy chuckled, waving him off before his gray blue eyes swept over to Scout. Scout pretended not to notice, burying his nose in the picture based novel Miss Pauling had gotten for him, Cugo Habret. He loved the storyline and mystery, and the big print in the written parts made it much easier for him to read it. Miss Pauling was the best.

He felt Spy’s eyes on him, and he shuddered. Couldn’t the guy just go to bed or go to his room or just leave him alone?

No. Instead, Spy sauntered over to him, sitting beside him in an armchair. Scout went through the motions of curling up a little more and putting his face in his book, but his eyes were trained on Spy. Spy, who was looking at him with a… strange expression, and was that a smile, not a smirk? Scout could not tell from the corner of his eye, and frankly, either would just make his skin crawl with the anxiety of it.

“You look like her,” Spy softly spoke, his cheek in hand, studying Scout with semishut eyes. “You got her attitude, too. Spunky, street smart, the works.”

“Uh, hey, Spy, pal,” Scout made it seem like he just noticed him as he processed the words. “Didn’t notice ya sneak up on me. Hey, the hell are you talking about?”

“I know very well that you saw me,” Spy curtly corrected him. “You should know better than play dumb with me, Jeremy.”

“I ain’t playin’ dumb,” Scout defended himself. “I really don’t know what you’re yammerin’ on about. Look like who? Got whose attitude?”

“Your mother’s.”

At first, Scout was going to brush it off as a snappy joke, one that fit Spy’s personality very well. But something clicked, and it hit him in the chest harder than a flyby baseball.

“Well, bonne nuit, Scout.”

He got up and left to his room, Scout staring after him with a slack jaw.

Then he jumped up and ran to Spy, his hands flying to the other man’s chest to stop him. 

“Wait, wait, what do you know about my Ma?”

Spy, even in his drunkenness, could hear the desperate plea in Scout’s voice.

“Do… do you know where she is?”

Scout’s voice broke.

“C’mon Spy, you gotta help me, I’ve been spending so much to look for her, I need to know that she’s safe, please… Spy. I’m not good at lookin’ for people, I’m good at runnin’ from people looking for me. Do you know where my Ma is?”

“She is safe,” Spy coldly told the young man, watching relief flood his face, then worry. Spy spoke again before Scout could, his mouth already open. “I can assure you, she is fine.”

“Oh thank god,” Scout muttered under his breath, trusting the intelligence. “Thank you, man. It means a lot to me. To know she’s safe and ok. That’s why I got this job, bein’ a merc, you know.”

Spy did know, so he just nodded. 

“Thanks again, Spy. You have a good night,” Scout smiled at him. Spy rose an eyebrow, and asked, “Aren’t you going to sleep yourself?”

“Nah, I didn’t run today. Too much energy.”

“Hmph. And what about tomorrow? What will you do when we are under attack?”

Scout shrugged. 

“Ain’t the first time I went without sleep, Spy.” He folded his arms and grinned. “That surprised you, didn’t it? Guess I’m more elusive than I thought.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Spy ordered him, but it was a bark without bite. “Just because I don’t keep my eye on your schedules doesn’t mean that I don’t know more about you than you do.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Scout smiled. “You have a lovely night, Mr. Spy. I’m gonna see if Medic is up, or maybe look at the stars with Engi. I’ll see when I get to it.”

Spy rolled his eyes and turned back to enter his room, when Scout suddenly spoke again.

“If you know my Ma…” he shifted uncomfortably, both men’s backs to one another. “Do you know my Pop? Like, who he was? Where he is, if he’s still alive?”

“Your father?”

“Yeah. My brothers all tell me that I had a different dad than them. That their dad died a year before I was born.”

“I do not know him.”

“Oh. Well, that’s ok.” Scout tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. “Makes sense. Still, thanks for the info on my Ma, Spy. G'night.”

Scout saluted, and left. Spy sat alone in his smoking room, foot tapping, then took out his booklet, flipping through it, stopping on a page.

An old photograph with a baby in a grinning man’s arms peered at him. He smiled softly, touching the baby’s face through the waxy paper.

[pinkevilbobdoesthings]

IT HALLOWEEN MONTH!!! Have monster!! Here’s “Hard Work and Science”.

Jester woke up with a groan. Her everything hurt. Every muscle, every joint, every nerve, and every inch of skin was sore. Not in a “oh please let the sweet kiss of death release me from this agony” way, but more in an “all I want in life is a hot bath” way. She tried to open her eyes, but the room was too bright. “Nnngh,” she moaned. Trying to get up, she found that her arms were strapped down to her bed. No, it was too firm to be her bed.

“Oh,” someone said. It was more of a sudden intake of breath than a word. Whoever it was mumbled something to themself.

“Mmmnngh, what’s going on?” Jester asked squinting to try to see where she was, but it was still too bright.

“You’re sentient,” the voice said like he could scarcely believe it.

Jester tugged at the straps again. “I’m what?”

“You’re sentient. You’re an intelligent being capable of independent thought.”

“Well, yeah, why wouldn’t I be? Um, can you do something about the lights?” Jester asked.

“Oh, ja, here. I shouldn’t be surprised that you have some light sensitivity.”

Cracking an eye open, Jester found that the room was a lot more bearable. She looked around to see a sterile room. It looked almost looked like a hospital room, but there were all sorts of cages along the wall. “Where are we? Why am I strapped down?”

“Oh, this is my, well, I guess you’d call it my operating room.” The owner of the voice stepped closer. He looked like he was in his mid thirties and had long messy ginger hair. Dark circles hung under his blue eyes and almost looked like bruises against his pale skin. He wore a ratty old lab coat and a blue scarf that had seen much better days. With more sleep and a better coat, he could be handsome though. “As for the straps, they’re to keep you from accidentally pulling out your IV.”

“Oh, that makes sense, I guess. Wait, IV? What happened?” Jester asked. She tried to remember the day before, but it was a blur. The last thing she could remember was that she was spending the day with her mom.

The man turned away and rubbed his arm. His fingers and part of his right hand were all tinged black like a piece of wood that was partially burnt, and his arms were pocked with old puncture marks. “There was a car accident, Miss Lavorre. You were thrown from 50 feet out the window. They nearly didn’t find you.”

Jester leaned forward straining at the straps. “My mom! What happened to my mom?!”

“Marion Lavorre is alive and well. She sustained some bruising and lacerations, but they’ve already healed,” he said.

“Where is she? Can I go see her?” Jester asked.

The man shook his head. “She’s at home most likely, and unfortunately, you can’t see her.”

“Why not?” Jester demanded. “She must be worried sick. My mom needs me.”

“Miss Lavorre, you must believe me when I tell you that that’s an impossible request,” he said.

Tears began to well up in Jester’s eyes. She pulled at the straps holding her wrists down. “You don’t get it! She needs me!”

He let out a sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Miss Lavorre, your mother has known about your death for the last three months. I don’t think showing up at her door would do either of you any good.”

Jester froze. “Death?” That made no sense. She was alive. She was breathing. There was no way she was dead.

“Yes, death. You died in the car crash. The reanimation of dead tissue is a complicated process, but one that I’ve managed to accomplish,” the man said. He said it blandly like it wasn’t a big deal.

It made no sense. There was no way he was telling the truth. Jester yanked at the strap on her right arm one more time and tore it off the bed along with a chunk of the bed. She stared at it.

“Could you do that before?”

Jester shook her head.

“A marked increase of strength of then. I didn’t even consider the possibility.” The man rubbed his stubbly chin. “How do you feel?”

Jester stared at him for a long moment and then began to cry. It was all too much and none of it made any sense. Sloppy tears poured down her cheeks.

Gentle hands removed the strap from her left hand. “Ah, I see your eyes are still capable of lubricat-” He stopped. “I’m sorry, I should start over. My name’s Caleb Widogast.”

“I’m Jester,” she said rubbing her eyes. She stopped and stared at her hands. They were completely blue. Jester looked at Caleb hoping for an explanation.

“I see you noticed.” Caleb looked away. “It was an unforeseen side effect. I was hoping to bring you back without any noticeable changes.”

Jester gripped the thin blanket that covered her. “Why did you do this to me?”

“Why? Because -” Caleb paused and looked down at his strangely tinted hands. “Because you were what I needed to prove my hypothesis. I’m sorry, but I had no noble reason in bringing you back.”

“What’s going to happen to me now?”

Caleb sat down at the edge of the bed. “I’m not cruel. You can stay here. I need to keep track of your vitals anyways.”

Jester looked around the stark and clinical room. It was enough to make her cry again.

“Or you could have my room. It’s not like I sleep much anyways. Though, I don’t know how much you’ll need to sleep now. Frumpkins 1, 3, 4, and 7 sleep much less than they did when they were alive, but Frumpkins 2, 5, and 8 sleep the same amount and Frumpkin 6 sleeps much more.” Caleb rambled talking with his hands animatedly. If Jester met him in a different situation, she would’ve been more curious about him, but all she wanted was to go home. He seemed to notice her and stopped. “Wait, here.” Going over to the cages, Caleb opened one and pulled out a small bengal cat. “This is the first Frumpkin. He died two years ago, came back a year and a half ago, and is my best boy.” Gently, he put Frumpkin onto Jester’s lap.

The cat purred loudly and kneaded Jester’s lap. She stroked the cat’s fur. “Is this a test or something? Do I still like animals?”

“I don’t know if you like cats in the first place, Miss Lavorre. I’m just not very good at people. Frumpkin’s better at helping them than I am,” Caleb said staring down at the foot at the bed. “I was hoping that he could help you.” And all at once he wasn’t a strange, distant mad scientist, but someone small and lost.

“He’s a very good boy,” Jester said.

Caleb nodded. “Ja, and he prefers having his chin scritched to his ears.”

Jester scratched under Frumpkin’s chin earning an even louder purr. “You didn’t think through this whole bringing me back to life thing did you?”

“Nein, I’m starting to notice that I haven’t. Are you going to be okay?” he asked.

Jester gave him her best smile under the circumstances. “I’ll have to be.”

Caleb frowned looking at her. “I won’t be upset if you’re mad at me.”

“I don’t like being mad at people.” Jester continued to scratch Frumpkin. “Besides, being mad at you doesn’t change anything.”

“Still, if there’s I can do for you,” Caleb said.

Jester looked up from Frumpkin. “I am kind of hungry.”

“Oh, ja. I’ve got something for that. Just wait a moment,” Caleb said over his shoulder as he left the room.

Jester watched as he left and then lifted Frumpkin off of her lap. “I’m sorry, but I have to check something.” With a deep breath steeling her nerves, Jester lifted the blanket off to look at the rest of her. A plain cotton hospital gown covered her. Caleb probably put it on her and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Her legs were the same blue as her arms. More concerning the large cuts held together by stitches. There were two on her left leg and one on her right. She checked her arms and found more stitches right below her left shoulder. “I guess I’m like Frankenstien now, right Frumpkin?”

“Actually, Frankenstein’s monster was made up of parts from multiple sources. All of you is Miss Jester Lavorre,” Caleb said as he came back in. “If we were to compare you to a work of fiction, the test subjects from Re-Animator would be more accurate.”

“Oh,” Jester said softly. “How long will these take to heal?”

Caleb set down two plates on the little rolling table next to Jester’s bed. “I don’t know if they will heal. Some of the Frumpkins have maintained their ability to heal, but not all of them.” Jester stared at him in horror, but he didn’t seem to notice it. “Now, I don’t know what your stomach can handle yet and I don’t expect you to eat all of this, but it’s all easy to digest.”

On the larger plate was a clumpy pile of rice, some partially squished pieces of banana, and a baggy of apple slices. The other plate just had two pieces of dry toast. It wasn’t the most appetizing looking meal, but Jester wasn’t going to complain. She took a bite of apple and grimaced. It tasted waxy and flavorless, but she put on a smile anyways. “Thank you, but um dry toast?”

“It’s easy on the stomach, but I guess you’re right about it not being the most appealing. Here.” He ducked behind a counter and came back up with a jar of peanut butter and a water bottle. “We’ll just add enough to make it easier to eat.” Caleb then added what must’ve been the thinnest layer of peanut butter known to mankind.

“Thanks.” Jester added two bits of banana and an apple slice to make a smiley face. It was happier than she felt and failed to improve her mood. She took a bite trying not to cry. Instead she changed the subject. “Why do your hands look like that?”

Caleb’s face turned red and he shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets. “Just an experiment that went poorly.”

“Sorry,” Jester said picking at her rice.

“It’s nothing to apologize for. Curiosity is important.” He put on a pair of gloves and pulled out a notebook. “How is it? Does it taste like what it did when you were alive?”

“I don’t know,” Jester said shrugging. She didn’t want to think about the possibility of the problem being in her tongue and not the bland food Caleb gave her. “I mean I guess it’s rice and toast.”

“Hmmm,” Caleb said jotting something down.

Jester tried to eat a few more bites, but her heart just wasn’t in it. Pushing the table aside, she looked over at Caleb. “Can I ask for something?”

“Ja, of course.”

“Can I have a mirror? To see what I look like?” Part of her was scared to see, but she had to know.

Caleb paled but nodded. He must’ve realized that she was going to want one as he grabbed a mirror off the counter. “You sustained some lacerations on your face, but they’re not as severe as the ones on your body and I was able to close them with surgical glue.“ Not looking at her, he handed her the mirror.

Jester held mirror for a long minute before raising it up to look in it. Looking would just make this nightmare all the more real, but she couldn’t avoid it forever. With a count to three, she brought up the mirror and gasped. “My freckles are blue!”

“Ja, they are,” Caleb agreed.

“That’s actually really cute.” Her hair was also blue too. Jester had always wanted to dye her hair that color.

Caleb nodded with a slight blush. “Ja.”

On further inspection, Jester still looked like her. The dimples on her cheeks still crinkled when she smiled and her eyes were still violet. Little bandages now graced her face though and must’ve covered the cuts Caleb mentioned. “Are these Captain Tusktooth bandages?”

“Ja, they were what I could find,” Caleb said looking away. “I wanted to make sure your facial lacerations were protected.” It was actually kinda sweet in a weird awkward way.

“Thanks. And I like the bandages. Captain Tusktooth is a lot better than a lot of people give it credit for.”

Caleb nodded. “Ja, it’s a great story and the animation is amazing.” His flat voice lost some of its monotone.

Jester grinned and leaned forward. “I know! Like that fight between Captain Tusktooth and Avantika was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“The new season’s going to start soon,” Caleb said. “I can’t wait for new episodes. I had the first three seasons on repeat while working on you.” He frowned. “I probably shouldn’t phrase it like that.”

Jester sat back. “Yeah. But, um, could we watch the new episodes together?”

“You’d want to?” Caleb asked. “With me?”

“I mean sure. It’s more fun to watch with somebody and it’s not like I have anywhere else to watch it,” Jester said.

“Oh right.” He looked almost disappointed. “If you don’t want to stay here, I’d understand.”

Jester bit her lip. “Do I have anywhere else to go?”

“You have a point there, but I’d help you find one. After I confirm that you are stable, of course.”

Jester gave it some thought. “I might take you up on that offer.”

Caleb looked almost disappointed but nodded. “Ja. Please understand that I don’t want you to feel trapped here.”

She already felt trapped in her own skin, but she didn’t say anything. Instead she just smiled at Caleb. If the gloves meant anything, maybe Caleb felt trapped too. Jester knew that she shouldn’t but she liked the idea of not being the only one who felt that way.

“If you need anything or have any questions, you can ask me,” Caleb said.

Jester gave it some thought. “Caleb, you said that you brought me back to prove a hypothesis. What was that hypothesis?”

He gave her the saddest smile in the world rubbing his arms. “Just that nothing can truly be lost forever. There’s something I need to take care of, but Frumpkin can keep you company.” Caleb gave her one last glance and left.

Frumpkin jumped up on Jester’s lap. She scratched his head. “Your owner is very strange.” And kind in his odd way. Jester wasn’t sure what to make of him yet, but she knew that she’d have all the time she needed to. “And who knows, Frumpkin? Maybe this will be fun.”

__________________________

Notes:

So yeah, I tried to make this a multi-chapter fic, but it just wasn't working. So one shot.

The title comes from "Live"by Paul and Storm.