#when reading the excerpt for the whispering swarm

[alteredphoenix]

Michael Moorcock's The Whispering Swam and The Woods of Arcady definitely look like reads I'd enjoy. Now if only the first book (Swarm) was on sale with Arcady >:V

[sillyromantic4ever]

Chapter III: "Jedi-Killers" from Beneath the Armor, Vol. II

Excerpt: "[Talia's] ears are filled with the sound of something that she had not expected at all. During the Clone War...this particular noise has haunted her... It is a buzzing sound, like a mechanical bee flapping its aluminum wings. It hums in a sharper pitch than her lightsaber, and dread settles in her stomach. As she stares at the stacked container’s open entrance, she sees a blueish-purple glow illuminating from its metal depths. Her green, Force-sensitive crystal...in her necklace’s pendant, begins to radiate warmth. It is almost as if it remembers battling these particular droids when it was housed in her first lightsaber.

...

"'Not these,' she whispers as the buzzing echoes louder and the purplish glow brightens. Then, to her alarm, the noise increases in number, no longer reminding her of one bee but a full swarm."

Read here: Beneath the Armor, Vol. II - Chapter 3 - SillyRomantic4Ever - The Mandalorian (TV) [Archive of Our Own]

[the-writing-mobster]

| The Most Dangerous Game | Chapter 6 Excerpt | 💙 🔪 💔 |

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Tack, tack, tack, tack… 

Frisk sucked in a weary breath and reached for her mug. The porcelain was cold against her chapped lips, the murky coffee inside disgustingly lukewarm on her tongue, but she swallowed it anyway. Her eyes burned. The words on her screen blurred beneath her and it took everything in her to stifle the yawn threatening to come over her. 

Crickets chirping. The soft sigh of the HVAC breathing cool air through the grates in the floor. The hum of her computer screen. Lines of dotted color swimming in and out. 

Tack, tack, tack, tack, tack… 

Unfortunately, one could believe that her loneliness and her noble effort to see the best in people, is what led her to her brutal end. ｜

She rubbed her eyes, the sounds of the night buzzing in her aching head. A dark kaleidoscope of color swarmed the back of her eyelids and sent her briefly to another world connected only by scarlet string and madness. 

Frisk sucked in a long breath she refused to admit was a yawn, the incessant noise going silent as her breathing roared in her ears. 

A low moan escaped her as she came too and was greeted with true silence. She mused that the AC must have switched off for a moment. That was fine, she told herself. It’d been getting pretty cold. Even now, she could feel the prickles of goosebumps creeping on her arms and down the back of her neck. 

The words on her computer screen swam across from her. I need to step away. Look over my notes, the thought sent her careening to her feet. 

Each step she took sent pins and needles through her and she seethed through her teeth. How long had she been sitting there? She counted the hours to herself. She’d been writing ever since she’d gotten home from her meeting with the editor in chief so that meant… six hours straight? Was that right? That couldn’t be right. Ibrahim would’ve stopped her… unless he’d also been writing and in that case… 

Frisk smirked at the realization that they must have both been in a flow state. Who were either of them to wreck each other’s process?

“I’m almost done,” she said aloud as if trying to ward off the uncanny silence of the witching hour and give herself some company. 

 

The only other company she had were the pictures of Sarah’s carcass staring at her from her cork board. The acknowledgment of those dead, brown eyes sent Frisk searching the floor for lent out of some desperate attempt at avoiding them, if only briefly.

When the floor truly had nothing of substance to offer her, she was dragged by the chin back to that board. How dare she look away. Look upon me and see how I’ve suffered, whispered her own, morbid guilt. 

“Look at me!�� 

She blinked hard at the invasive memory of her own small voice. The photos were blurry in the dark, unfocused in the ghoulish blue glare of her distant computer. She blinked again as if that would fix them. 

It seemed to work, though, and Sarah gazed back at her when she opened her eyes. Only… her eyes were larger. Lashes thicker… skin shades darker if not a tad ashy from the cool embrace of death. Lips plumper. Bruised.   

Familiar. 

Frisk furrowed her brow and sucked in a breath of stale air. Her feet swayed towards the board, pins and needles biting up her leg. She plucked the photo off the wall, a distant clack of the thumb tack falling to the floor. 

Pale, dead skin. Small, glazed eyes, angular, hollow cheeks. Nothing about the photo or about Sarah had changed. I need to call it a night. 

The crickets certainly had.

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Chapter Theme:

Read the full chapter here!

Also, next chapter drops tomorrow!

[my-mt-heart]

Angst prompt-Daryl is there instead of Lydia when Carol walks towards the edge during s10 finale.

For this one, I'm going to pull an excerpt from my fic "How it Works" because it's basically along the same lines. Full story available here.

"Hey, kid," Negan calls out to her, slightly winded. "It'd probably be a good idea to take a few steps back, don't you think?" Lydia doesn't respond, so after a few more seconds of catching her breath, Carol decides to breach the remaining space to stand by her side. Only then does she realize the girl isn't staring at the opaque, grey water stretching across the gorge, but at the mask in her trembling hands. Sensing her pain, feeling it shoot straight through her own chest, Carol takes Lydia's hands in hers, prompting her to look at her through watery eyes.

"Together," She offers and Lydia nods appreciatively, trying to recompose herself with a sniffle. They both extend their arms as far as they can before simultaneously releasing their grip on the conduit holding the last of a cruel demon's power. As it gets stolen by gravity, Lydia takes a gasping breath that's laced with sadness, but Carol knows there's relief in it too. She knows because she feels it so deeply herself. It's like a heavy shackle unhinging its jaw from around her ankle, but of course there's still one more weighing her down.

Brushing away the stray tears that somehow made it down her cheeks, Carol turns around to meet Daryl's compassionate gaze, holding it carefully while she takes a few steps toward him.

"I have to tell you," she says barely above a whisper, but the meaning registers right away.

"Soon as we get back."

"No. No more waiting," Carol insists, anticipating a laundry list of responsibilities that will surely take precedence once they return to their people -- taking care of Judith and RJ, catching Maggie up on everything, determining Negan's place within the community, continuing to make amends to her people who still think she let him out. Though she's a little more hopeful they'll show her mercy on that count, this moment here and now could still be her only chance for a long time to say what's long overdue. "Please," she begs. With her heart rate starting to pick up, she watches Daryl worry his lower lip between his teeth. He looks back at the distant red and yellow trees, the first wave of walkers beginning to break through.

"You and Lydia get back to the jeep," He finally instructs Negan, who furrows his brows in concern while taking stock of the horde that's swarming the clearing.

"Look, we can give you a minute, but they sure as hell won't."

"Go," Daryl's tone is firm, but calm. He raises his hood that's still slathered in walker guts, Carol mirroring his action while Negan ushers Lydia away from the rocky ledge. She's reluctant at first, so Carol gives her an encouraging nod and thankfully she complies.

Once the two of them are out of her periphery, the entire world seems to ebb away. All that remains is Daryl and the bright aura around him exuding patience and trust. She feels perfectly safe with him, and yet still racked with nerves.

"You said always," she starts. Her voice is already shaking. "If that means through the good and the bad, then you deserve to know all of it. The very worst of it."

"Carol--"

"I shot her." She spits it out at him like she's trying to get rid of a bad taste in her mouth and he doesn't flinch the slightest amount. "I shot her in the back of the head, and Judith is alive because of it. I know that. But killing one little girl to protect another? A lot of times it feels just as awful as if I'd killed her for no reason at all. I want to get past it. I just don't know if I can or if I deserve to. Daryl..."

She's desperately trying to read the micro expressions on his face. The sadness is obvious in the drooping corners of his mouth and the glassy layer of tears in his eyes, but could there be pity as well? Disappointment maybe? A series of low growls signals that they're out of time, or rather back in it.

Walkers crash into them like a tidal wave, swelling around Carol and pushing her closer to the edge. Her focus drops to her stumbling feet, and by the time she regains control of them again and manages to look back up, Daryl is nowhere to be seen. In the clutches of silent panic, she tries to weave through the walkers without giving herself away or changing their course, but can't seem to find the right opening. The little progress she makes is easily reversed, the walkers mindlessly shoving her closer and closer to the brink of death where she can see body after body already cascading down like a waterfall.

In the single frozen second when the sole of her boot is hovering in the air, Carol thinks about how closely peace resembles sheer terror. Maybe if she doesn't think about her body shattering against the unforgiving water, about leaving him behind on such miserable parting words, maybe if she just envisions his beautiful blue eyes as the wind rushes past her throughout her descent, her emotions will set themselves right.

But the heavy downward force doesn't take her after all. He does.

His hands clasp her forearm, determining to pull her back like a fishing net. She goes to him without any effort, her feet somehow taking all the right steps. Before her brain has time to catch up, she's wrapped in his strong arms and by chance alone, they're able to nestle into a shallow trench behind a boulder, tucked away from the never-ending pairs of legs about to drop off forever.

Still clinging to each other, Carol feels Daryl's chest rise and fall heavily, and she's trying to remind herself to do the same. She thinks he might be trembling too, but they're so squished together, practically in each other's laps, that it could just as well be her own muscle spasms or perhaps both of theirs at once. She looks straight into his face that's mere centimeters from her own.

"I thought I was dead," she squeaks.

"Nah," he whispers breathlessly. "You're right here with me." Carol is fighting to suppress the loud sobs punching her lungs, mindful of the walkers in their company. She squeezes her eyes shut, though her tears break free anyway. Daryl kneads his hands into her back soothingly, tempting her to bury her face in the crook of his neck until it's all over. "Hey." Her eyes snap open again. There's a tremor in his voice now, like he's struggling to hold himself together. "I know the bad stuff hurts, but you can get past it. 'Cause you ain't a bad person. Not even close, you hear me? Everythin' you've done, even Lizzie, was outta love. There's so much love in you, Carol. You gotta let yourself feel that."

A tiny broken sound escapes her throat, and the only way she can think to silence it is by covering her mouth with his. She feels his shoulders tense under her touch, only to relax again with a breathy sigh that mingles with her own. They pull each other in tighter, adjusting their somewhat clumsy rhythm to something even more desperate.

Carol's not even paying attention to the physical sensation of his lips, too overwhelmed by a distinctly familiar emotion rising within her. She's not even sure how she recognizes it, just that old memories keep popping into her head and with them, buried reflections.

When she recalls the Cherokee rose in the beer bottle, she also recalls thinking no man had ever gifted her something so meaningful before in her life. When she remembers his relentless search for her daughter, she also remembers wishing Sophia was his daughter too. When she replays all of her dreams of having a family again, she realizes he is always there, not her ex-husbands or past lovers. And when she thinks of every comforting hug or simple touch they've ever shared, she remembers the jolt of electricity she always received at first contact.

It's as if a seed was planted deep inside her belly a long time ago in that RV, and from there it took root, growing throughout the years she's gotten to know Daryl, sprouting that night in his basement and now, right here, finally blooming.

"Well, be still my god damn heart!" Apparently having lost all concept of time again, they startle out of the kiss, whipping their heads to face their new audience. "I was just hoping to find you both alive, but this is way more exciting!"

Negan towers over them, grinning ear to ear. Lydia is right behind him, her eyebrows raised in surprise. Everything else around them is quiet and unmoving. Not a single walker in sight.

Daryl must have stolen all the air from her lungs because once more, Carol can't breathe. She picks a spot on the ground and stares at it, opening and closing her mouth like a fish. She tries to stand up, but her legs won't stop shaking. Daryl scrambles to help her, taking hold of her arms to balance her.

"Hey," he angles himself to make eye contact. "You good?" When she doesn't respond -- her mouth is bone dry all of a sudden -- he shakes her lightly as if to re-stimulate the basic functions of her brain. "Carol?"

"Tell me." He looks confused. Of course he does. She's not making any sense. "About the future. Tell me."

For several moments, he just stares at her in deep concentration, but then something unusual happens. He puts on a genuine smile, one that reaches his eyes. It's mesmerizing. Dizzying even.

"I don't gotta. 'Cause you and me, we get to live it together."

A nod. That's all she can offer is a casual nod while every liter of blood seems to run down to her boots. Needing space to recuperate, she backs out of his hold, colorful spots obscuring her vision. The next thing she knows, she's on the ground, pain bursting through her skull. Even as the world fades to black and all sound becomes muffled, she can still distinguish Daryl's voice frantically calling her name.

[lemonietrinket]

Cosiest Place on Earth ||| Kun x Reader

Summary: Where Kun is relaxing in peace, and a certain someone decides its a prime time to ‘annoy’ him  Genres: Sickly sweet fluff, plus some humour Warnings: Tiny bit of scary but it’s not actually anything scary (if that make sense) Word count: 1259 Song: Heart Flutter - W24 AN: an edit of an old piece revamped to—hopefully—a much higher standard. reading the original wasnt.... painful but it wasnt exactly fun either :/ im so sorry guys for subjecting you to my writing back then

gender neutral reader

~~~

The night was oddly still, a starless sky beckoning darkness across the thin face of the moon, an icy wind trickling through the smallest gap in the window behind a set of closed curtains, encouraging them to breathe in the shadows. Despite this, Kun was soaking up the peace.

He loved his groupmates, he really did. They were extremely talented, funny and, on the whole, easy to get along with people. They were annoying sometimes yes, but they mostly did as they were told, and after hearing from other leaders at the award shows, he realised he could have had it a whole lot worse. However, the thing they were best at was reminding him of how precious some true quiet really was.

And so, as soon as they all became preoccupied with some new racing game he hadn’t been paying enough attention to remember the name of, he leapt at the chance. Cut to now, and Kun was curled up in his bed, buried neatly under three blankets to combat the cold that had defeated the radiator. He had shuffled himself into the corner of his bed, as close to the hushed lamp as he could get without the bulb blinding him from the gap in the very top of the shade, and bundled the covers beneath his feet to keep in as much warmth as possible. Book in hand, his eyes trickled across the page, occasionally having to jump back as soon as he caught his thoughts scattering. 

He wasn’t used to the silence and it showed. As much as he relished in a small period of it, he couldn’t ignore the gnaw of unprovoked concern. His life and the ones of those around him were so hectic that as soon as that chaos stopped it felt like something had gone wrong.

He had been about to sigh when a creak from the door stopped him mid breath. Leaning to get a clearer look, hands slipping the bookmark between the pages as he went, he felt his eyes widen as an abnormal fear etched itself inside his stomach. 

Between the gap approached a figure from the dark. It had pointed head and disproportionately long arms, with strangely hackled shoulders and no face to speak of. It approached so uneasily, and Kun was already glancing at the window so as to be ready if he needed to make an escape, until the creature’s foot reached the light’s boundary. 

He recognised that leg. 

“Y/N…!�� he groaned, flopping back into the cushions behind his back and shoving his book to the side.

You came to a halt proudly in the light, staring at him confusedly from where you’d tightened the hood of your stolen jumper around your face. “What?”

“You scared me, love…!” 

“Huh?” You looked down at the layers you had put on to try and fight the cold before turning back to take in just how dark the rest of the room. You couldn’t help but giggle as you continued to make your way to your boyfriend, “Oh, I’m sorry…!”

He scoffed, watching as you came to the side of the bed. “Pssh, no you’re not.” 

“I am!” you whined, beginning to clamber across the mattress. Your destination? The cosiest place on earth.

Kun shook his head as he carefully began to lift the blankets up for you to join, chuckling as you finally reached him and immediately burrowed into his side while he tucked the blankets around you. “Cold?”

“Nope, wearing hoodies like this is just part of my new fashion statement,” you sassed, waiting for him to wrap his arm around you before you linked your cold legs with his, much to his dismay.

He yelped at the contact, kicking the blankets around your feet even more. “You are so lucky that I’m such a good boyfriend.”

You just laughed, nestling your nose further into his neck and releasing your hands from your sweater paws. Unfortunately for him they weren’t much warmer, and he practically shrieked as you clutched at his jumped beneath the covers.

“Jesus, Y/N—!”

“Are you though?” you slyly enquired. “A good boyfriend?”

“You think I’m not?”

You hummed. “Well, last time I checked good boyfriends can tell the difference between a cryptid and the best thing that has ever happened to them.”

His laughter was soft and rich, and it thrummed by your ear—immediately coaxing your smile into a full blown grin. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, huh?” he murmured, gentle hand easing your hood open and off to free your hair from its confines, just so he could ease it between his fingertips. “You’d better keep it down when you say that, I don’t think it would end well if the other’s found out.” 

You snickered, pressing a chaste kiss to his neck before settling back down again. Kun knew you could hear how his heart skipped a beat at you and how precious you were, and he didn’t care a single bit. Pulling the covers further up so you would be warm enough, he traced his thumb across your temple, smiling as your eyes closed happily. The two of you dipped into a momentary quiet—not an uncommon occurrence between the two of you, as comfortable silence really was its own blessing—but it wasn’t long before you spoke up coyly. 

“Kun?”

“Yes, love?”

“Would you still love me if I was a cryptid?”

His love-swarmed gaze didn’t change. “Of course I would,” he said, “but please don’t go out there and get yourself turned into one. And if you are one, well… you better tell me if you are, yeah?”

You chuckled, though he noticed the ease of tiredness in your voice. “I would tell you, baby, and I’m not, I promise.”

“Sounds like something a cryptid would say,” he whispered, smile simpering upon his lips at your sleepy one. You were too adorable for him to fully comprehend in words. “Would you like some music?”

You hummed a no, and so he reached for his book from where he had discarded it by his thigh, careful to not disturb you. “I’ll read again, if that’s ok?”

He had expected a little backlash perhaps, since it would mean you wouldn’t be able to have a hand stroking your arm—the shock, the horror! Kun had to admit, then, that he was surprised when you managed to work up the rest of your energy to ask, “Read to me?”

Opening the book as best he could with one hand and placing the bookmark on the bedside table, his heart swelled at your words.

“Of course,” he replied, planting a kiss to your crown, before he turned back to the paper, words much clearer to him now. 

“Hundreds of fireflies drifted over the pool of water held back by the sluice gate, their hot glow reflected in the water like a shower of sparks. I closed my eyes and steeped myself in that long-ago darkness. I heard the wind with unusual clarity. A light breeze swept past me, leaving strangely brilliant trails in the dark. I opened my eyes to find the darkness of the summer night a few degrees deeper than it had been. I twisted open the lid of the jar and took out the firefly...”

With the warmth long seeped throughout your body, cradled in the arms of the man you knew would love you through thick and thin, it wasn’t long before the words dissipated into the air, as his tender voice lulled you into sleep.

~~~

an: book excerpt is in italics and is not mine! its from a book called Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami that i really recommend you read, if you are ok with very strong themes. i studied it for my english literature coursework and i didnt hate it once! even through all that rereading and stuff so.. yeah :))

if you enjoy please leave a comment or reblog with hashtags or drop something in my asks i dont mind sksksk they really help me keep want to write! 

Masterlist

[anotherfacelessauthor]

Sirius’ new style - excerpt from By The Moon

Year 5

September, 1975

Remus Lupin was already sitting down in the compartment, legs tucked into his chest, eyes glued to the most recent escapist novel he’d found over the summer, when he heard the door open. As Sirius Black walked in, sporting a leather jacket, ripped skinny jeans, and a black eye, Remus thought he’d forgotten how to breathe.

He looked more confident than ever (not that confidence was anything Sirius had ever lacked) and casually leaned against the doorframe, a few cheap silver necklaces swaying around his neck. He could hear the faint click as they rattled against each other. Remus got the strange urge to take his picture—capture the moment before it was over and could leave his mind forever. He also wanted to submit to new, surprisingly strong impulses, screaming at him to reach out and grab the jewelry in his hand, pull the other boy into a fierce kiss—“‘Sup Moony?” Sirius asked innocently, as if nothing had changed since they’d gotten off the Hogwarts Express a few months prior.

“Sirius! You’ve—uh… changed,” was all Remus could spit out, mentally banging his head against the wall. You’ve changed? That’s all you’ve got? Your best mate got really fuckin’ hot over the summer and all you can say is you’ve changed?

But Sirius laughed it off, brushing a hand through his long hair. His nails had chipped black paint and a few shiny rings were scattered—one on his thumb, two on his ring finger, one in the middle—“Yeah, I switched up my style a bit haven’t I? Had a new friend help me out with that. D’you like it?” His demeanor shifted just slightly, from completely carefree, to a bit more interested. Remus barely noticed.

Like it? Bloody hell—wear that everyday and I’ll never focus in lessons again—

“Looks good, yeah." Remus swallowed. "More you.” He paused, wondering if he should address… “What happened to your eye?”

Sirius looked confused for a second, as if he’d completely forgotten about the giant bruise covering half his face, “Oh, this old thing? Nothing special, just—”

But Remus had stood up to get a closer look, revealing just how much taller he’d gotten over the summer and the rest of Sirius’ sentence stuck in his throat.

“Bloody hell Moony, you’ve grown!” Sirius exclaimed, stumbling back and looking Remus up and down, trying to swallow back all the thoughts that had been swimming in his head all summer. Sirius tried, and failed, to hide the shock as he bumped up against the sliding glass doors of the compartment. He couldn't look away. Remus looked effortlessly cool, sweater and jean jacket and another book hanging loosely, forgotten in his hands. The soft curls, the familiar freckles, the healing scars—Sirius felt warmth rising in his cheeks. Who’s that one person that feels like home… who holds your world in the palm of their hand without either of you noticing? He shook off the memory like a dog shaking off water and sat down.

Not a problem for today.

Before the moment could turn awkward, the last two Marauders showed up, babbling about their summers and how James was back and better than ever, ready to win over Lily Evans.

“Merlin, James, are you ever going to give it a rest?” Remus joked, turning away from Sirius to avoid staring. He felt himself falling back into the mess of yearning and want that had consumed him in third year, and Remus was desperately trying to claw himself out. With the OWLs coming up, he had no time for hopeless pining. Plus, he was still curious about the black eye but figured if Sirius didn’t tell him alone, he certainly wouldn’t be more willing to do so in front of the others.

***

Something that took both Sirius and Remus by surprise on the train ride was the astonishing number of girls who stopped by the Marauder's compartment to wave at Sirius, and giggle when he waved back, running a casual hand through his hair.

It was only after the fifth group passed by, a couple of Ravenclaw fourth years, that James asked, “Oi, Pads. How’re you doing that?” He paused, “And d’ya think it’d work on Evans?”

Sirius just shrugged, “I’m not doing anything. Just my natural charm—plus I got better looking over the summer. It’s a shame it didn’t happen to you—” he was cut off by James’ fist knocking into his shoulders, right on one of the healing bruises, causing Sirius to take in a sharp breath. He tried to play it off, knocking James right back, avoiding Remus’ eyes, but he could tell he’d noticed.

Lily stopped by as they were still touselling—to the excitement of James, who immediately straightened up and ruffled his hair, and the second hand excitement of Peter—but she barely acknowledged them, turning instead towards Remus.

She crossed her arms, leaning against the compartment door. “What are you doing?”

He furrowed his brow in confusion.

“Prefects are meeting in our carriage in five minutes, c’mon get changed!”

“Oh shit—” Remus began rummaging through his things frantically.

The other boys sat back in astonishment. Peter was the first to speak, “No.”

“You’re saying—”

“Our Moony—”

“A prefect?!”

Remus dug out a shiny badge, and the compartment exploded once more.

“How dare you—”

“Why didn’t you tell us!”

“Does this mean you can take points away from Severus when he’s being a blood-purist prat—” James turned around to face Lily awkwardly, “Sorry.” He looked back at Remus and whispered, “But does it?”

Remus sighed, still digging around for his robes. “Yes, I’m a prefect, I got the letter over the summer. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d act like this, and no, James, I will not be taking away points from Slytherin unless someone actually breaks a rule.”

“Damn. Guess that’s why Dumbledore made you prefect over me.”

“Yeah,” Lily scoffed, rolling her eyes, “that was the only reason why.”

Remus stumbled out of the compartment, pulling on his robes and pinning his prefect badge to his chest. He and Lily were halfway down the corridor when Sirius came running out. Remus tried not to think about how perfect he looked, hair flowing as he jogged.

“Rem!” He held up a red and gold tie, and Remus looked down, realizing he didn’t have his. His cheeks flushed red.

“Oh, thanks,” he said as Sirius caught up with them, panting slightly. “I, uh—”

“Yeah, you can’t tie a tie quickly Moony, I know. We’ve lived in the same dormitory for four years now.” Sirius stepped forward and began wrapping the fabric around Remus’ neck and popped up the collar on his white shirt, having to reach up slightly now that Remus stood almost a head taller than him. Remus was hyper aware of how very close to him Sirius was standing, feeling every brush of his soft hands, cold rings against the nape of his neck sending a new swarm of butterflies.

Lily stifled a giggle while Sirius’ hands flew, “You’re a prefect and you can’t tie a tie?”

“I can! It just… takes a few tries to get it right.”

Sirius tightened the knot, laying the tie flat and tucking it into Remus’ sweater. Remus hoped he couldn’t feel his heartbeat racing. It was so loud in his own ears he could hardly hear anything else. “There you go!” He adjusted it once more, laying the collar flat. “Good luck in there. Don’t let them turn you into a goody-two shoes prat—no offense Lily—”

“None taken.”

“And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Got it?”

Remus held his hands up in surrender, feeling like he was going to burn up if Sirius stayed that close to him, just a breath away, for even a moment longer. “Got it, Pads.”

They stood there for half a second before Lily tugged Remus away, saying, “C’mon Remus, we’re gonna be late,” but it felt like ages. Remus, looking into Sirius’ stormy grey eyes, which were so intently fixed on him, as if he were everything that mattered in that moment. Remus shook his head, trying to erase the shock. He was making things up again, feeding into a third year fantasy of a Sirius Black who liked him back, and now Lily was dragging him toward the prefect’s compartment.

“Did you see the way he looked at you?” Lily whispered, pulling on his sleeve.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lily.” Remus tried to keep his emotions concealed, his face stony.

“You don’t still like him, do you?” When he didn’t respond, she squealed with delight, “Oh you do! This is so exciting! Who’s gonna—”

“Lil, please don’t do this. I don’t wanna get my hopes up all over again. He’s not even gay! And he doesn’t know I’m—”

“You haven’t told them?”

Remus scratched his neck awkwardly, “Well, I was gonna get to it… and then I just—” but before he had to make up some lame excuse as to why he hadn’t come out to his three closest friends, the pair reached the door to the prefect’s carriage and hurried in.

Remus barely listened the whole train ride. The Head Boy droned on and on about ‘personal responsibility’ and ‘being model students’ and some other shit about the prefects’ duties which had already been listed in the letter sent over the summer.

He tried not to think about Sirius Black and his new clothes and long hair and black eye, but it was useless. He couldn’t stop replaying the moment Sirius had come into the compartment over and over again in his mind, and the way Sirius had stayed so close to him, even after finishing tying his tie. What he really tried not to do, and somehow managed to do (for the most part) was think about holding Sirius’ hand, or kissing Sirius’ lips and neck and-

Hello! The sensible voice in Remus’ voice screamed in protest. He’s still your best mate and this little crush reviving doesn’t change that.  

So Remus tried to listen to the Head Girl who was now discussing the amenities that were only accessible to prefects. He figured this could at least be a bit useful at some point this year.

***

Continue reading on Ao3

[kindrednerdspirit]

Sometimes A Thing Feels so Right: Part 3

Excerpt: In her fantasy, her lips brush against Newton’s earlobe before she whispers in front of the entire track team, “Now, let me help you dry off.” The thought alone makes Iz wet. She imagines herself gently pressing her thumb underneath Newton’s lips and pulling down just enough for them to part.

Sunday. Izzie returns home after going for a run.

Izzie jogs up the stairs to her front door and stops at the sound of a man’s voice.

“Where does she go?” He asks.

Is that Steve? She hesitates.

Izzie’s mum replies, “Mum and dad say that she spends a lot of time with another girl on the track team.”

“So she spends a lot of time with her friend. Sounds like normal teenager stuff to me.”

“No, no… like too much time together and she’s only briefly dated one guy.”

“So what? You think she’s a dyke?”

Izzie sucks in a quick breath at the word “dyke,” but continues hovering at the door.

“Maybe? She doesn’t look or dress like one, though.”

Nope, she doesn’t want to hear anymore of this conversation. Iz shoves open the door and glares into the living room, where Steve and mer mum are sitting on the couch. “Enlighten me. How exactly does a dyke look and dress?”

“Oh my God!” Her mum cries, clearly startled. “You scared me! Don’t sneak around listening to private conversations!”

“If I could actually count on you to be here, then I wouldn’t assume you were out and I wouldn’t accidentally hear your so-called private conversations!”

“Get out!” Her mum bellows.

“You don’t have to tell me twice!”

Izzie storms into her room. Her mind is racing, bouncing from her mum’s addiction, to coming to terms with her queer identity, to feeling lonely, to Newton. The only thing that’s clear is her need for space--space between her and this house. She starts grabbing clothes out of her dresser and cramming them in an overnight bag. Maybe she can go to her grandparents’ place. Despite knowing she needs distance, the familiar twinge of guilt for leaving Jason, Alysha, and Arya creeps up. 

Jase will be fine, right? He has a phone to call her in case of emergencies. It’s just one night. You’re not mum. Iz repeats the last two sentences in her head as she continues packing.

Tears stream down her face as she puts her homework and textbooks into her backpack. Iz is many emotions right now, but she’s mostly frustrated with herself. After all, why does she care what her mum thinks about gay people? Logically, she shouldn’t, but she’s livid as she thinks about her mum’s ignorant words. What did a lesbian look like, exactly? Butch, apparently. As if all queer girls looked the same.

She wants to kiss Alysha and Arya goodbye but she looks like a mess with her red, puffy eyes. No need to make them worry about her. She won’t be gone long, anyway. With a deep breath, Iz prepares herself to walk past her mum on her way out the front door. As she passes the doorframe to the living room, however, she cannot help but yell at the two sorry excuses for adults. Her mum is now standing, arguing with Steve, whose butt is still parked on the couch.

“You know what’s the most annoying part of you being back? You don’t make things easier! I worry and stress just as much as when you’re gone.” Izzie slams the door behind her and rushes down the concrete stairs to the front lawn. It’s awkward running with a backpack, but she needs the physical distance immediately, so she jogs until the end of the block. As she slows to a walk, she pulls out her phone and texts Jason.

Going to grandma and grandpa’s for the night. Say goodnight to the girls for me xx.

All Iz wants is to vent to Casey about her mum’s tone and judgment toward even the idea that she could be queer. Not to mention her presence in general. New topic. Think happy thoughts. The memory of bonding with Newton in Coach’s office comes to mind. She remembers feeling so happy that Newton wasn’t a spoiled rich kid like everyone else. That she also felt a need to be perfect all the time. It was the first time since her mum started using that Izzie didn’t feel alone. These days, however, thinking of Newton quickly gets depressing, so Iz takes out her headphones and listens to “The Look” by Metronomy. In an attempt to further distract herself, she concentrates on the lyrics.

Get up and we get down

We’re always running around this town

And to think they said

We’d never make anything better than this

Cause we’re always in small circles

And everyone thinks we’re trouble

We didn’t read it in the big book

And now we’re giving you the look look...

This town’s the oldest friend of mine

Sometimes when she listens to a song, she likes to imagine a story that goes along with it. Izzie pictures a woman driving around town with her girlfriend. The “small circles” are small town people gossiping about them, like townsfolk do, speculating about their relationship as the two live their lives. And like any stereotypical small community, the townies are narrow minded in their beliefs, believing that queer relationships are “trouble,” because the “big book” says so. Iz rolls her eyes at the thought, counting herself lucky to not be the woman in the song, until she hears “this town’s the oldest friend of mine.” The woman wants the town’s approval! She, by all means, is aware that they’re backwards, yet she still wants their acceptance.

Iz groans. Her attempt at distracting herself from Newton is failing miserably. Now, all she can think of is her own life in relation to the character in the song. How is she any different? She’s essentially surrounded herself with friends that don’t know who she really is, like Harmony and Scarlet. What’s the point in hiding her true self? Who cares what her friends think? Who cares what her mum thinks? Who cares what strangers think? Because at the end of the day, the only people that matter in her life are her siblings, grandparents, and Newton. And she pushed Newton away. She tried convincing herself that less connections at Clayton Prep meant flying under the radar, and flying under the radar meant more focus on track. It was her big chance to get into UCLA! Ironically, though, she felt even less focussed, because she was unhappy.

Evan was right. Newton chose her. The worst that could happen was happening right now--Newton wasn’t in her life. Period. End of story. It didn’t get worse than this, so Iz might as well try to make amends and go public. She had nothing to lose. That is, if Newton would take her back.

Monday, first block. Izzie’s perspective

The next morning, Izzie leaves her grandparents’ place with extra food in her lunch (an apple and sandwich that her grandma insisted she take) and a fire in her eyes, because today is the day she gets Newton back.

Izzie has decided to talk to Casey during track practice, since they share their first block. No sign of her, yet, as she puts on her sneakers, Adidas shorts, and a clean t-shirt in the locker room. She hustles toward the field, quickly spotting Casey stretching with the other girls on the team. Iz stretches on her own, her lips pressed together. Things are not going according to plan, because she was hoping for a private talk.

Sixty minutes go by of Izzie watching Newton. Her heart pounds from the anticipation of their conversation. Oh, and the small fact that she’s insanely hot. Casey slows down to a trot after sprinting the 200 metre. She’s overheating, so she splashes water on her face to cool down. Iz enjoys watching the droplets trickle down her face and over her lips. Calm yourself. Stop thinking about how you want to help her dry off. The braver version of herself would march over and loudly declare, “I love you.” Newton would then give a reciprocal answer, pathing the way for Brave Izzie to lean in. In her fantasy, her lips brush against Newton’s earlobe before she whispers in front of the entire track team, “Now, let me help you dry off.” 

The thought alone makes Iz wet. She imagines herself gently pressing her thumb underneath Newton’s lips and pulling down just enough for them to part. Newton’s breathing quickens. Izzie wants to tease, so she hovers centimetres from her mouth, making her wait. It’s hot watching Newton untangle, simply because she wants her. Newton swallows, quing Iz to finally nibble her lip. It’s a drawn-out nibble, as she gently pulls her lip back with her teeth and releases it. To Izzie’s delight, Newton quietly moans. Meanwhile, anyone on the track team who was previously unaware of their own sexuality has a much better idea of what team(s) they play for.

Iz is a hot mess by the time Coach blows the whistle, signalling the end of class. The girls begin walking back to the locker room in a large swarm.

Fuck it. Izzie thinks. I cannot wait any longer.

“Yo, Newton! Wait up!” She calls while jogging behind her.

Casey ignores her, continuing her conversation with another team mate. “Newton. Stop, please.” Iz is now beside her, making it very difficult to avoid a conversation. It all happens so fast. Before Iz realizes what is happening, Casey turns on her heel and looks at her with cold eyes. “I don’t know how to make this more clear. I don’t want to talk to you.” Her voice trembles and Iz swears she sees her shaking.

“I--” Iz is taken off guard. This is not going according to plan.

“Please, don’t follow me.” The way Casey pleads in a quiet but firm tone hits Izzie hard. She hesitates, wanting to respect the boundary, but desperately needing to share her feelings. Her hesitation ends up being too long, because the moment escapes her, along with Newton. She watches her moment walk the rest of the field and open the locker room door, then disappear.

Izzie stands, rejected, near the end of the bleachers. A familiar voice startles her out of her thoughts.

“Ouch. That was rough.”

Mel?

Izzie peers up at her new, potential friend who’s currently sitting on the bleachers with a notebook and a pen. She’s dressed in a long-sleeved black shirt that’s tucked into dark red corduroy pants with Doc Martens. Her long, wavy brown hair is tousled around her black glasses that frame her face.

Izzie feels annoyed from the rejection, the failed plan, Mel’s nosiness--all of it. “What are you doing here?” She asks, rather pointedly with an arched eyebrow.

“Working on my English essay.”

Iz grunts and folds her arms. “How much did you see, exactly?”

“Everything.” Mel sticks her hand into the bag of Doritos next to her and munches on the chips. “What’s your end goal?”

“With what?”

“Casey. You like her, right?”

Izzie’s heart quickens. “Yeah… how do you know?”

Mel shrugs. “Gaydar.”

Iz studies Mel before speaking. “How do you get good gaydar?”

“After you like girls for long enough, you just know when a girl likes another girl.”

Izzie feels herself relax as her defensiveness fades away. “Maybe you can give me some pointers some time.”

“What am I? Your lesbian guru?” A smirk spreads across Mel’s face.

Izzie laughs loudly. It feels good! She cannot remember the last time she laughed so hard. “Sure, why not?”

“I hate to break it to you, but I haven’t dated a girl before, so I’m going to be a really shitty gay guru.”

Mel’s honesty somewhat surprises Izzie, but because this quality is currently lacking in her life, it’s refreshing. “I’d rather have a shitty gay guru than none at all.”

The girls laugh. Iz doesn’t want to leave, but UCLA keeps her from playing hookie. “I should go to class, but I’ll see you at student council later.” She hasn’t given up on Newton--not even close. Izzie respects Newton enough to leave her alone if that’s what she truly wants, but not before letting her know she's done hiding herself from the world.

“See you.” Mel goes back to her writing with a grin on her face. And how could she not be smiling? After all, Clayton Prep just got a little more gay.

[aseikh]

9. "I needed you" - character: Gilan

(this might be cheating but I changed the wording in the sentence to fit with an idea i had so I hope you’re not upset)

this ended up longer than i expected, so below the cut is an excerpt and links to the rest on AO3 & Fanfic.net.

9. “I needed you” “You needed me.” w/ Gilan.

It was Will's first Gathering now that he was back from Skandia, and he had to admit—he hadn't realized how much he missed the family that he'd found within the Ranger Corps.

When he and Halt had walked into the clearing, the Rangers that had already been there swarmed them, laughing and hugging and surrounding Will in some of the most caring, affectionate smothering of love that he'd ever experienced. Apparently, nearly every single Ranger had gone to Crowley after Halt had been banished, putting up a fuss with both the commandant (who hadn't been able to control the proceedings of Halt's sentencing at all) and the King, who just looked at Crowley like this was all his fault.

Now that the two of them were back though, all the Rangers had stopped 'hating' on Crowley, allowing him to finally say his piece. They promptly shut him up, though, not caring anymore about Halt being banished—they were just happy that the grizzled Ranger was back, and that he'd been successful in bringing his apprentice back with him. They had quite liked the kid, and could tell that he meant a lot to Halt.

It was only after the crowd had dispersed, the Rangers all heading back to their campsites to allow Will and Halt some time alone, that Will realized that Gilan had been at the Gathering the entire time and hadn't come up to them.

Will hadn't seen Gilan since the tall Ranger had left him, Horace, and Cassandra by themselves in Celtica, and had missed the lanky Ranger that he'd started to see as a brother. But for whatever reason, Gilan hadn't come forward when they arrived at the Gathering, instead disappearing further into the shadows of the forest around them, avoiding the two of them like the plague.

"Halt?" Will turned to his mentor, his voice soft and light where it was still getting used to being used. Sure he'd used it fairly often during the battle for Skandia, but the fact remained that it had been instilled in Will to be silent unless spoken to as a slave. He was still getting back into his habit of asking his mentor questions when he had them.

"Yeah?" Halt responded, turning from where he'd been patching a rip in his cloak. "Everything alright?"

Will hesitated to answer that question for a moment, not sure if this constituted as 'being alright.' But either way, he wanted to know the answer, and he knew Halt wouldn't punish him for asking, even if the thought that he needed to be quiet kept whispering in the back of his head. "Do you know if Gilan's okay? I've seen him around, but he hasn't ... he hasn't joined us like he did before."

Halt paused, studying his apprentice. He had an idea as to why Gilan seemed to be avoiding them, but he wasn't entirely sure. Glancing over his shoulder, he could just make out his former apprentice sitting at a small campfire by himself on the other side of the Gathering grounds. The other Rangers, surprisingly, hadn't tried to approach him either, leaving him to his own devices the entire time. It was as if they already knew what was going on and were waiting to see what would come of it, knowing that any interference probably wouldn't end well.

"I'm not sure," Halt answered honestly, "but I have a feeling it might help if someone asked him," he said carefully.

Read the rest on AO3 or Fanfic.net!

[luzial]

WIP Whenever

Today, an excerpt from the beginning of the piece I’ve been working on at breakneck pace this week. I’m so excited to finish it! This piece is basically This Is How You Lose The Time War, except Solavellan. You don’t need to have read the novel to understand it (though you should read it, because it’s incredible). Essentially, the idea is: two enemy agents strike up a correspondence. They are working for opposing sides in a Time War, tasked with making small changes to the events of thousands of timelines that will hopefully make a better future for their side.

Song has had many names. The latest suits him no better nor worse than the others. If he has one complaint, it is that this name is a touch too imprecise. Fen’Harel was a name that was a lie, and a lie that has long since become irrelevant, but he cannot argue that it painted a specific and awful portrait. His other name, the one that came both before and after, he is only too glad to be rid of. He rarely thinks of it now.

Song is in his element in Strands like these, when he can submit to the demands of his teeth and claws and blessedly forget the version of himself that is not like this. It is simple here in the verdant expanse of his home, his first love. When a mountain stands in his way he moves it with a thought. When a beating heart must be silenced, he rips into it and tastes warm blood on his tongue.

His assignment today is a wonderfully simple one: a death. The target is ancient and powerful, though only in comparison to the other things of its world. Beside an agent of Music, it is nothing. Even so, he will try to give it a fair fight because it amuses him. He longs for a crush of strength against his own and for the moment when uncertainty asks him whether he can snap his target’s neck before it breaks him in two. The answer, of course, is that he will hear the crack of bone and hold its dying form within his jaws too quickly to satisfy the bloodlust that burns within him.

Still, he will try to give it a fair fight.

But when he finds the edges of its lair, Song realizes something is wrong. Demons should swarm around him, challenging his right to intrude on their master’s territory even as he cuts them down. There should be whispers here, a choir of disembodied voices singing the secrets of a melody long forgotten. Yet the only things that greet him are emptiness and silence.

The raw Fade has begun to reclaim this place, the green waters of its currents rising up to erode the poisoned ground that has been here for three thousand years. Song wanders farther in, his paws sinking deep into the muck, until finally he finds the corpse.

The fear demon that claimed this part of the Fade is gone, reduced to a husk of tangled limbs and fangs that still drip with venom. Song has arrived too late. The death has already been administered but this means that the timing is all wrong, and for Music timing is everything. 

Whatever killed the demon has done so before it had a chance to strike a bargain with a young mage girl in Kirkwall. Now she will not murder her family and dozens of others; she will not leave alive one angry, orphaned sister. Thanks to this one fault in the rhythm, the entire Strand is lost.

Song is so annoyed by all the things that are missing that at first he does not notice the addition. It is so impossibly out of place that for a moment he simply stares at it. Stuck to the venom on the dead demon’s fangs is a piece of finely-made paper that smells of sugar and flowers, its perfume somehow drowning the smell of the rotting carcass. He reaches out for it with a hand and fingers; it is a thing too delicate to be held by claws. The venom stings but he pays it no mind, for he has seen the single line written on the page in a delicate script: Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.

[insidethemindofk]

Heartbreak is a Motherfucker

To whoever is reading this, welcome to my blog!

For this blog post, I share with you an excerpt I simply like to call Heartbreak is a Motherfucker, because that's exactly what it is.

As a note, listen to Drew Barrymore by SZA as you read. Lyrics are mentioned in italics.

Enjoy!

Won’t you shut up, know you’re my favorite, 

Am I?

Warm enough for ya, outside baby, yeah..

Is it, warm enough for ya, inside, me, me, me, me..

Warm enough for ya, outside baby, yeah..

Warm enough outside, inside, me, me, me, me..

As the lyrics of Drew Barrymore by SZA played, making its way through my headphones into my ears, I cried so many tears of sadness, it seemed never ending.

Never in a million years did I think I would be able to experience a pain such as this, yet, here I am.

Heartbreak.

For lack of better words, it's a motherfucker.

I guess this is the cost of vulnerability, and taking the risk of putting your heart in someone else's hands. Because when you take such a brave step, you do so in the strong hopes that the person you gave it too, won't fuck up and break it.

Sorry, I just need to see you, I’m,

Sorry I’m so clingy, I don’t mean to be a lot..

You wish that such a horrible thing could be unavoidable, but with every risk there is a consequence. Is this mine?

Now, at this point of dwelling in my agony, I start to blame and question not only myself, but everything. Every moment, every memory, every. single. intimate detail that has transpired between us. Wondering if it was all just a lie. A big waste of time.

I'm sorry I'm not more attractive,

I'm sorry I'm not more ladylike,

I'm sorry I don't shave my legs at night..

Was I at fault? Did I do or, say the wrong thing? Why wasn't I enough? What about me wasn't good enough for you? Did you mean all those things you said to me? Or was this another episode within the figment of my imagination where I pretended this was my reality.

Do you, really wanna love me down like you say you do?

Give it to me like you say you do?

I sit in my room for hours on end, not bothering to check the time that feels as though it does not exist. I feel a sharp pain in my chest, is that my heart breaking perhaps? 

I mourn what once was, saddened that it was in fact, too good to be true. I wish the happiness you once gave to me could have lasted a lifetime, oh my god, I was truly mistaken to hope for such a thing! 

Now what has replaced those smiles and joy is a blank face, staring into the darkness of my room feeling empty, shocked & numb. 

I was caught in your grasp, totally unable to free myself from you. I knew the day would come where I would be able to fly away, as free as a bird. But who knew that escaping the strong hold you once had over me would put me in such a place of despair and misery?

Do you really love me?

Or just wanna love me down?

As I struggle to go through this gut-wrenching experience, I am once again reminded of all those in the past who have hurt me, such as you. So many feelings are swarming in, rattling around in my brain. Fighting for the top spot of controlling my range of emotions.

I get so lonely I forget what I’m worth,

We get so lonely we pretend that it’s worse,

I’m so ashamed of myself, think I need therapy..

Inadequate. Worthless. Unlovable. Unattractive. Sadness, Hurt and Pain.

The whispers start to come in, and my head aches as I try to fight them out.

"They never would have loved you, and can you blame them? Most people don’t care about black women anyway."

"They only got close to you so they could use you, and dispose of you once they were finished."

"Nothing that happened between you both was ever real anyway. It was all in your head!"

(God, I wish I had a pint of ice cream to chow down on, but this writing will have to suffice.)

When hurtful things happen to me, my brain can be quite harsh to me. Considering this, on top of the fact that I am already suffering, this heartbreaking experience beings to become unbearable.

'Cause it's hard enough you got to treat me like this,

Lonely enough to let you treat me like this..

Going through a heartbreak is different for everyone. For me, the pain is right up there with losing a loved one. I say this because it hurts so much to the point where I can physically feel it manifesting inside of me. The pains in my stomach, and in my chest feel like daggers being thrown, and I am the target.

I’m sorry you’ve got karma comin’ to you,

Collect your soul, get it right..

Slowly falling into a pit of despair, I begin to wonder if it is even possible to survive a blow such as this.

But, it is in this moment that I must, I must remind myself of the strength that exudes itself from within me.

I have been through a great deal in my short life. I have lived, LIVED, through my fair share of grief and pain. In the end, I always come out on top, stronger, smarter and better than before.

This time will not be any different.

A wise person once told me "it's gotta hurt before it can heal!" They're right.

As the hours turn into days, and the days turn into weeks; which in part turn into months and then years.. I will look back on this moment, and at that, with a smile. Because sunshine always comes after the storm. While the time passes, the pain will subside as I return to the new improved version of myself. One who has dealt with all sorts of pain, sorrow and hardships and despite it all; overcame.

Heartbreak is not forever, only a temporary (yet painful) feeling. Since it is temporary, that simply means that it will pass. 

It. Will. Pass.

Warm enough outside, inside, me, me, me, me..

[plaggtastic]

lost without the shape of your heart (ladynoir)

Summary: Four times Marinette stumbles onto the boy behind the mask and the one time she meets him ( for @seleneslyre-writes​ ) Read on AO3 Please consider supporting me on KO-FI! Excerpt:  “I heard you today at the coffee shop.” Ladybug whispered, and noticed the way he stiffened immediately. “Don’t worry, I didn’t figure out who you were but I saw the back of your head as you left.” “Oh.” He pulled away then and offered her a wobbling charming smile. “You didn’t happen to hear anything I said, did you?”

one:

The first time she saw him was on a billboard.

People were beautiful, Marinette had thought, and had impulsively stopped in the middle of the street, regardless of the fact that her tardiness would reflect badly to her customer, and could lead to a failed commission.

It wasn’t an unusual photo, just a beautiful boy with sparkling eyes focused on the stars like he was merely greeting them.

Marinette wondered what went through his head when the camera flashed, whether he was startled from his daydreams, shaken from a mist of a memory or a wish, or if he’d simply smiled that model smile and walked away, hardly a glitch in routine. 

Models were like actors. They could pretend they saw fields dotted with peonies and roses, shimmering under the teasing brush of wind when they looked out through a window, even if the actual scene was merely concrete buildings and worn trenchcoats. 

There was a sea of people swarming around her, like drops echoing together towards a union to form a tide but Marinette remained stuck, like a halted laugh in photographs, a grain of salt hidden in the chipper.

It read this: The Agreste Fragrance. Out now 

Instinctively, she snapped a photograph of the billboard. She doesn’t know who the model is, has never seen him before, but there was something about his smile — the kind of smile that makes you nostalgic for something you’ve never been apart of, but could hope to feel the essence of —  as cliche as that sounded, that resonated with her.

two: The second time she saw him was on Alya’s phone. They were playing Truth or Dare, as silly as it was the first time they played it a decade ago, and Marinette’s wormed herself a way to send a message to any contact. Honest, she meant to send a stupid, rubbish message to Nino - Alya’s boyfriend, the one that surprised her friend with a dozen daisies, the very day the pair had met, but her thoughts abruptly pause at the background. 

It was a picture of a group of friends, all cosy and shadowed near a fireplace. There was  Alya, arms wrapped around Nino, Rose with her lips pressed against Juleka’s rose tainted cheeks and there was him. Scrawny, beautiful him, and unfortunately standing far away from the single dim light bulb in the room. If she were to focus, zoom in, she could have seen him, but Marinette, almost adamantly, tore her gaze away, her scrutinizing, treacherous brain already in the means of attempting to decipher the man’s face. The thought was infinitely terrifying as if she’s just been instructed to jump off a plane with neither safety nor wits intact. She knew, without a doubt, that the man in the picture was her partner. [ How? ( 8 Marks. ) Perhaps, to any other citizen, that might have been just about any boy, with a ridiculous pose, but to Marinette, part-time superhero, who spent her nights redefining the meaning of parkour as Ladybug, knew that it couldn’t have been anyone else than Chat Noir. She had made fun of that pose their very last patrol, and he’d laughed, posed that stupid, distinguishable position. Only he would drop his identity because of a pose. If Marinette didn’t know better, she would chance a guess that her best friend was a model. And, if that wasn’t enough of a reason, she had spent nights dancing with him, only shadow and touch guiding her. She didn’t need to see a clear view of his face to tell that the man standing, arm resting on a block of picture frames and nostalgia, was her best friend. Chat Noir had seen her, surely, if he had looked at the photographs lining Alya’s wall. Could he have recognized her, like she him? ] Chat Noir was someone who ran along the same circles as her, who wore flannel and ladybug patterned socks. Not that she was surprised. He had confessed, multiple times, to owning merchandise with her theme printed on it. And, she’d bloomed as red as roses but merely nudged him away with an exasperated yet fond huff. If she wanted to, she could have asked for his name then, could have asked if his eyes were really that beautiful of an emerald shade, and could have wondered if his laugh had the ability to send any listener — and, not just her — to an emotional, and poetic state. A passing comment, This is such a cute picture. Wish I could have been here. (And, introduced myself to some people.) and Alya would have spilled secrets, beautiful names of introductions and stories of names that Marinette had ached to know, for the past couple of years. (“That’s Felix! He’s the landlord and hey, we passed by him and thought why not invite him along?” Mon Dieu. What if her partner was actually the landlord? Would that mean she would never be able to go over to Alya’s place again?  Or, what if he was actually a very close friend named Mark Junior and, oh, what if Alya threw her a surprise birthday party and invited Chat Noir, and she’d have to ask him his name, whether he was enjoying the party, and shake his hand, the one she traced on, under leather. ) “Mari? Girl, are you still there?” Alya leaned forward and glanced at the phone, the screen still at home screen. “You okay?” “Yeah.” Marinette coughed and clicked the off button. Chat Noir faded from view, yet lingered in her thoughts. “I’ve actually rethought my whole stand on this matter. Don’t want to go snooping through your contacts and find something.” Alya’s hair shook with the force of her laugh. “I don’t send Nino any M rated stuff. You know neither of us are comfortable with that kind of stuff.” “Yeah.” She attempted a smile. “Doesn’t mean I won’t find anything gross. And, besides. I’ve gotten a much better dare for you.“ “Yeah?” “I want you to call up your boss and tell her that no, there are not, in fact, twenty vowels.” The pillow that she faced the next second wasn’t surprising in the least. Neither, was the joint laughter that rang out, lost somewhere between Chinese food and keychains. It was almost enough to distract her from Chat Noir, with his messy hair and adorable spotted sweater. Almost. Read the rest here!

[sharinluna]

MLQC Chapter 16 Translation Part 2

DO NOT COPY, QUOTE, REPOST OR REBLOG THIS ANYWHERE. Links are okay but I don’t want this post to spread too much in other communities or websites.

Translation of excerpts from chapter 16.

This is not a full translation, only some parts. It’s more like a abbreviation/summary/paraphrasing of some parts of the story. Do not ask me to translate more or reveal more plots in the story.

The translation is based on KR version text. I’m not a professional translator and get things wrong. So do not regard this as the actual canon story.

I used Yōurán as the name of MC because that is the unofficial default MC’s name in CN version.

READ PART 1 BEFORE YOU READ THIS!! (and maybe chapter 15)

https://sharinluna.tumblr.com/post/186925543283/mlqc-chapter-15-translation

https://sharinluna.tumblr.com/post/187751162973/mlqc-chapter-16-translation-part-1

News of the press conference spread faster than my anticipation. Pictures of me and Lucien confronting each other were on every headlines.

I had to take a detour walking home to a deserted street because a giant truck was blocking my way.

I heard silent footsteps behind. I could feel that I was being followed. Should I call the police? No, because of the traffic jam, they would never get here on time. Should I make a run for it?

The footsteps behind me quickened. I suddenly thought of someone, but why would I think of him? Then I remembered how his eyes looked when I was in danger.

I decided to make a bet that he would come to save me. That I wasn’t mistaken when I saw fear in his eyes.

I made a phone call and there was a click of an answer.

Yōurán: Yes, it’s me. I was wondering if what you said earlier are still in effect.

I could only hear a quiet laugh on the other side. Then the call was ended.

Next moment, a white barrier surrounded me and gold beams were everywhere. It seemed like the universe was spinning. I thought of him. Will he come to save me?

Yōurán: Lucien…

I whispered as everything became dark.

How much time had passed? I opened my eyes and I was still in the same alleyway. It was raining and I could hear city noises not far away, but somehow, everything was different.

I looked back, and the way that I came in was blocked by a solid wall. In front of me was a huge silver building. That… wasn’t here just a few moments ago. Where was this place?

I heard footsteps again, more urgent than before. As they approached me, I closed my eyes and hurled my fist in the general direction, but he was too strong and soon my wrists were caught by him. I kicked at him wildly.

Yōurán: Let me go!

He only grabbed on to my wrists tighter, then I heard a quiet sigh. I stopped resisting.

???: Don’t move.

It was Lucien!

Yōurán: Did you… did you really come for me?

Lucien: I remember what I said.

He let go of my wrists. His hair was disheveled and his clothes were wet with the rain, as if he came here in a hurry.

I didn’t really believe that he would come. I didn’t know whether I wanted to thank him or not.

Yōurán: Did you come to save me because you need me alive in your plan?

Lucien: Yes.

I suspected as much, but it still hurt to hear him say so.

Since there was no other way, we decided to walk into the strange building. Inside was a dark laboratory. Experiment equipment were scattered about and there were med tables with white cloths.

_______________________________

Lucien shielded me with his body and stabbed the attacker in the heart. Blood spurted from his chest. He fell to the floor and vanished.

I stared blankly feeling nauseated. Lucien looked at me and raised his hand slowly.

Yōurán: Lucien, are you okay?

I wanted to take a look at his injured hands but thought better of it.

Lucien: Why are you not asking anything about what I just did?

Yōurán: But you’re bleeding…

Lucien: That was just an illusion. Don’t worry.

Yōurán: Illusion? As in… he was not real?

Lucien: We’re in a dream.

Yōurán: So we’re both asleep? Like that day underneath the camphor tree?

Lucien: No, this is a dream designed artificially. Everything here is not real. That person who attacked us is an illusion reflecting the dream owner’s will. But unlike normal dreams, we are very real.

I thought of something. Lucien wouldn’t attack me, and I certainly wouldn’t attack myself. That would mean…

Yōurán: This dream is someone else’s then?

I felt chills. How could this even be impossible? But all the evidence showed that it was true.

Lucien: If we were to die in this dream, we would die in real life too. Or fall into eternal unconsciousness.

Yōurán: Then how do we get out of here?

Just then the door slammed and three men with an S tattooed on their faces walked in.

???: Long time no see, Ares. We meet again. We have an order from Hades to escort the lady and gentleman. Shall we go then?

Lucien: Do you really think that we would go see him?

Lucien retorted haughtily. Swearing under his breath, the men waved their hands and a swirl of snowstorm came at us.

Lucien only smiled cruelly and he raised his hand. From his fingertips a giant swirl of snow erupted and changed into a sharp ice pillar which stabbed the men in an instant.

I couldn’t believe it. Lucien used the same evol as the other!

Lucien: Follow me!

He led me through the maze of dark corridors. Lucien suddenly stopped running and clutched at his chest, breathing heavily.

Yōurán: What’s wrong? Lucien, Are you okay?

Lucien: Let’s… let’s just get out of here.

He got his breath back then grabbed my hand and took off running again. But I knew that there was something very wrong with him that he didn’t want to tell me.

_____________________________

We went out of the building and a vast barren land greeted us. But this was a deserted alleyway just a moment ago! Lucien pointed far beyond and said to me.

Lucien: That is the exit.

An army of men were approaching us. They had the same face as the three men who attacked us. Their faces were expressionless like they were manufactured androids.

Lucien whispered into my ear.

Lucien: Do you think you can still run?

I didn’t know what he was up to, but I nodded yes.

???: Very impressive, Ares.

A man with ghastly spots on his face approached us.

Hades: Do you know what I saw before I came here? I saw armies that could be defeated only by using three different kinds of evols. Then four, then five. Your copying capacity already went beyond what you could endure. What will you do now?

Lucien glared at him and a blade made out of ice shot toward Hades. He faltered for a while but still continued to sneer at us.

More soldiers swarmed around us like endless army of ants.

Yōurán: What do you want?!

Hades: Don’t worry, Queen. Personally, I don’t give two shits about you. All I want is for Ares to cooperate with me, or to get rid of him entirely. Maybe you didn’t realize yet, but Ares is-

Before he was done talking, Lucien grabbed my waist and pulled me closer, then he waved his other hand and spread a white barrier surrounding us.

He whispered so that only I could hear him.

Lucien: Remember the exit that I told you. Go on. Don’t turn back. Leave me. Now.

Yōurán: No way! What about you?!

Lucien: Do as I say. I’ll catch up with you later.

He pushed me away with such force. Everything around me dimmed for a second, and I found myself teleported away from the hordes.

Yōurán: Lucien!

From a distance, I could see him looking at me with profound emotions. He was the same Lucien that I used to know. Then he smiled at me, a smile so pure and honest than ever.

I could see that there was a fierce battle going on. I wanted to go closer but Lucien’s words to leave right now echoed in my ears. I felt my heart sinking to the ground. Crying silently I ran for the exit.

It never occurred to me that Lucien and I would fall into a situation like this. In my eyes, he was someone who was always proud and sure of himself. He wasn’t supposed to be like this, even if he was my enemy.

He’ll be fine. He’s always been in control. Nothing will happen to him. I kept repeating to myself as I ran with tears flowing uncontrollably.

I knew he was my enemy. I knew he only saved me for his scheme. I vowed that I would not be concerned for him ever again. But… but my heart hurt so much.

It was only a meter before the exit. I could just walk a few steps and be safe. But my feet wouldn’t move toward the exit.

Let’s just check one last time if Lucien is all right…

____________________________

Yōurán: Lucien!!

As he saw me running toward him I saw in his eyes surprise, doubt and then, intense ecstasy.

Hades: Grab onto the Queen!

They charged toward me but Lucien was quicker. He snatched me away from them and we toppled to the ground. His hands were shielding my head from the fall.

I could see Lucien looking at me furiously.

Lucien: Why didn’t you listen to me?! YOU COULD HAVE DIED!!

My head was ringing with his shouting but I felt something hot surge up in my throat. In a loud voice that I never thought could be possible for me, I shouted back.

Yōurán: YOU LIED TO ME!! You said you’d catch up with me but you never intended to!!! You lied to me every time and I WON’T BE DECEIVED BY YOU AGAIN!!!

I’m sorry… but if I ignore you in danger I would never be able to forgive myself. I wanted to show you how I keep going for light despite the darkness.

The ground shook and cracked, forming a precipice behind us. Hades’s men closed in, forcing us to the edge.

Hades: Ares. I’m destroying this dream world in ten minutes. This is your last chance. You’d better make a decision.

Lucien didn’t even look at him.

Lucien: Yōurán, do you want to know my answer from the press conference?

He held my hands and smiled gently.

Suddenly I saw a vision where a sharp moonlight became a blade and flew towards my eye and exploded. Black liquid flowed from my iris.

As I recovered my sight I saw a pair of bloodied eyes. Then I saw a black-and-white TV tower, black-and-white park, black-and-white laboratory… and black-and-white me.

The vision ended in seconds. I was still in Lucien’s arms, and we were just inches away from falling from the cliff.

Lucien: No, I will not sacrifice someone precious to me. That is my answer.

He hugged me tight and we jumped into the void below. I wondered if this was the end of our lives. But I had so many questions I wanted to ask him. So many unanswered questions.

This is so unfair. He is always like this, having everything his own way and me being left to deal with it.

Before I lost consciousness I heard him whispering:

Lucien: Silly girl. I didn’t lie to you…

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

And that’s the end of part 2 because I’m exhausted and I wanted to end things on a cliffhanger.

Chapter 16 is quite interesting. Part 1 is a wild debate between Lucien and MC about evolution and moral philosophy and Part 2 is an Inception-style dream fantasy battle.

I’m quite amused at how Yōurán(MC) deals with danger. She calls Lucien(who is her enemy and whom she just had a quarrel) and basically says “hey, you said you need me alive for your evil plan. Well, I’m about to be attacked so get your ass here.” Not exactly sensical but it worked so good on her.

Lucien’s evol powers have always been a mystery, and now some of the mysteries are finally revealed. He can copy other people’s evols. It is still unknown whether he can copy right on the spot or needs some preparation from the lab, or whether he can copy every evol or only certain kinds of evol.

But there is a limit to how many he can copy. If he copies too many evols he needs to.... empty his skill slots?(LOL this sounds too much like an RPG game) before he copies more. At least that’s my guess.

But one thing’s for certain. If he copies beyond his limit it takes a physical toll on him. Feeling pain and damaging his health. Maybe that’s why he gets sick a lot in his dates.

How MC treated Lucien in the press conference and how she treated him here differs greatly and it shows the conflicting way she thinks about Ares and Lucien. Ares is her enemy, but Lucien is someone very precious to her. She is feeling two opposite emotions towards the same person. And by coming back for him she decided that she can never hate him enough to leave him to his death even though he broke her heart in chapter 13. She wants to prove him wrong, but she needs him alive for that.

And I love, love LOVE how Lucien was like when she went back for him. Sure he was outraged that her overly selfless nature kicked in and she jumped into danger again but at the same time he is delighted, GLEEFUL that she would jump into danger for him. FOR HIM. Oh, Lucien, what am I going to do with you?

I’m also promoting Lucien’s KR voice actor, Hosan Lee. He voiced V in Mystic Messenger so some of you probably know him. He is wonderful as Lucien.(I only subtitled Lucien’s words but you can see the translations above.)

In the press conference, when Yōurán asked Lucien whether he would sacrifice someone precious to him for evolution. He refused to answer and she was dismayed because she thought that his unsaid answer would be yes. But that wasn’t the case. 

Like I said, he is like how Snape used to be. He believes in killing “mudbloods” for the wizarding society, but he would never kill Lily.

[evelynmlewis]

Friendly reminder that Earth’s Champion, my 50K fic about Shiro’s year in Galran captivity, is still up on fanfiction.net and ao3. :)

Here’s an excerpt from the fic:

___________________________________

The Galra – he had listened to their speech and heard this one called a Lieutenant – opened the cell with a palm. The blue screen dissolved.

One of the Galra kicked the purple shirt. “Put it on.”

Shiro stood up and carefully donned the ragged garment, eyeing the two aliens.

“Time to go.” The Lieutenant leveled a blaster at him. As Shiro stepped outside the cell, for the first time since Kerberos, he could see Matt Holt. The boy was crouching in the back of cell four, and he’d put on the purple shirt already. His eyes fixed on Shiro. He looked terrified.

The other Galra moved on to Matt’s cell, opened it, and pointed his blaster at Matt. “Come.” He had none of the careful intensity with which the Lieutenant managed Shiro, however, and Shiro had the feeling they both knew who was more dangerous.

They exited the cellblock. Shiro risked a glance behind him (to the prod of a blaster) and saw that the other aliens from their cellblock were being led along behind them. They were a motley bunch.

But he wasn’t able to get a good look at them until they reached their destination. It was only a few halls away, and it was a sort of holding room. The floor was sand, and the ceiling sloped upwards from where they’d come and downwards toward a closed, pentagonal door. He glanced at the ceiling. The underside of bleachers. He could practically feel the weight above, and the vibrations of movement.

Even as they’d approached through the halls, he’d heard the noise—a dull, building roar, a heavy sound that he recognized. Crowds. Shouting.

The raw anticipation of a sporting event was like a pheromone that permeated the air, bleeding through the walls and infecting the entire company. Shiro’s nerves reached a crescendo.

The Galra had vacated the waiting room. The rest of the aliens trembled. They weren’t gladiators, he realized, any more than he or Matt were. He could hardly take stock of them all.

          There was a lime-green fleshy alien with leaf like protrusions sticking from the sides of its head. Next to it was a green frog-like alien, then an alien with fish lips and four arms, and an antennae-like protrusion from its forehead. There was a blue and white spotted alien with floppy ears like a dog. There was a bulky, lizardlike magenta alien.

           There were three humanoids as well, of indeterminate gender. One had pale yellow with webbed fingers, another two were of the same kind, with rock-studded skin. They had already been here when he and Matt arrived. He had the feeling that they were from cells 1 through 3.

And lastly, there was a pink, six-armed creature with a little beak that reminded him of an octopus. Each arm was sticking through the sleeve of a gray suit and a purple shirt not unlike the ones he and Matt were wearing.

He had only to hear it whispering to the fish-lipped alien before he realized who it was.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“From cell five?” the fish-lipped alien whispered back with some apprehension, but not quietly enough. Shiro ignored them.

“Yep.”

“The guy who was shouting in the cell last night?” the magenta lizard grunted. “I bet he’ll be an absolute beast in the ring.”

Now, hang on. That wasn’t fair. He’d been tired, hungry, kidnapped, and Musha had mocked him. But they were afraid. Of him. And suddenly his idea morphed into something solid.

          The pentagonal door slid open, and the dull roar turned into a sharp one. The sand stretched out flat over an area about the length of a football field. And it really was like a football stadium. There were four spiked pillars in the center. The walls of the arena sloped outward, and above them were bleachers so vast they looked like great planes. The stadium must have seated… Shiro’s mind wasn’t in a state to estimate. Ten thousand? The audience was a technicolor blur. He could smell their sweat.

The aliens huddled back. Figures appeared in the doorway. Sentries.

One of the sentries leveled a bladed weapon at the yellow-skinned humanoid that Shiro could only take for a sword. It had a semicircular blade affixed to its end that looked deadly as any scythe.

“You first,” rasped a synthetic voice.

“Wh—I—no!” Relative to the others in the room, the creature’s face was expressive and easy to read. He saw the panic in her? His? eyes. But the sentries came into the waiting chamber, and forcibly separated the denizen of cell one from the rest of the group. They dumped him in the sand outside the door, and a grated portcullis fell across the pentagon.

They could still see the ring, but they could not interfere.

The alien staggered to its bare feet. There were fins on its ankles. “I’m unarmed,” it was pleading with the sentries. “I don’t even have claws or teeth. Please!”

But the sentries had already powered down for the fight. He could see the purple light leaving their eyes.

The crowd roared, and Shiro’s eyes fell to the far side of the ring. There another pentagonal door had opened.

“PLEASE WELCOME…” It was the booming voice of an announcer.

“THE VICTOR OF THE YEAR 1023 EMPIRE CHAMPTIONSHIPS… MYZAX!”

There was an even greater roar, and Myzax emerged. They went on and, on, hardly dying down until Myzax reached the center of the ring. The yellow-skinned alien still had not moved from its position near the door.

“FIGHT!”

Myzax began to lumber towards them. Shiro watched him. He was not the quickest or most agile opponent. He had gray, leathery skin, and an ugly orcish face that gave Shiro the impression of low intelligence, though the assumption was likely prejudicial. His biggest strength appeared to be that he was armed.

He was at least 12 feet tall, wearing spike-studded gauntlets and a breastplate. But most importantly, he was carrying a torch-like wand. This weapon held a ball of sizzling purple energy.

The function of the weapon soon became apparent.

The amphibious alien was forced to dodge as Myzax swung the torch. The energy ball came flying across the arena, and smashed into the wall, where it disappeared.

From there it was more throwing and dodging. The alien didn’t even try to fight back. It was painful to watch, and Shiro knew it could only go on for so long. All the while Myzax kept lumbering closer and closer, until he had the alien cornered against the wall.

Shiro tried to stop watching. He really did. “Matt,” he said. “Don’t look.” Matt looked away, but then looked again through squinted eyes.

In the end, it was the gauntlet, not the orb. Myzax brought it down with a crushing blow. They heard the crack of the amphibian’s spine, and a horrific squeal.

The aliens in the waiting room recoiled. Matt let out a choked breath.

Myzax lumbered back to the center of the ring.

“AND… MYZAX REMAINS THE CHAMPION!”

Sentries were already swarming out to remove the alien’s body.

“NEXT UP! BALMERANS FROM THE PLANET BALMERA!”

Shiro’s stomach turned. This was sick blood sport. How could they enjoy this? The two rocky aliens were already standing up.

“I see we go together,” said one of them in a distinctly female voice.

“Indeed, sister,” said the male one grimly. “We shall approach him from either side. Perhaps we can win.”

Shiro perked up a little. Whatever they saw wouldn’t be pleasant, but these rocky aliens clearly had some fight in them.

The grate slid up again, and the sentries appeared, but the Balmerans didn’t wait to be prodded. They barreled out into the ring. Then, true to their word, they went separate ways, the sister to the right, the brother to the left. Myzax turned back and forth, trying to track both of them. Maybe this was going to work.

The sister stopped, and made some sort of taunt, with a yell that he couldn’t hear over the shouts of the crowd. Myzax took the bait. Focusing on her, he raised his torch.

Meanwhile, the brother lowered his head, capped with a dark helmet-like bone protrusion. He charged for Myzax’s back with a powerful head-butt, like some kind of hornless bull. The blow connected with the gladiator’s thigh, and he staggered. The energy ball flew, but it was misaimed.

The sister took the opening to come running in. She tackled his left while the brother grabbed for the torch. The aliens in the holding room held their breaths.

Myzax shook himself like a dog, throwing the Balmeran sister away from him. He swung his weapon downward and, not even bothering to throw the energy ball, plunged it into the Balmeran brother’s face.

There was a sizzle and the loud SNAP of energy. The brother fell away. His face was… not even a face anymore, just a blackened lump.

Even despite the general noise, they could hear the sister scream. She staggered back to the arena wall. She seemed frozen, unable to move as the gladiator raised that torch again. And then, with the practiced ease of a professional batter, he threw the ball. This time his aim was true.

The crowd roared again. A general aura of doom settled more heavily over the rest of the prisoners.

“WELL WELL FOLKS, YOU’RE IN FOR A TREAT! NEXT UP WE HAVE A NOVELTY SPECIES FROM… PLANET OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN! … AFTER THE COMMERCIAL BREAK!”

Cell four. Matt.

The commercial break was an opportunity for the sentries to more thoroughly clean up the arena, and concessions to be sold. Myzax retreated briefly.

“I’m not gonna make it,” Matt said tremulously. “I’ll never see my family again.”

Shiro was biding his time, watching the sentries. There could only be a few more seconds until the end of the commercial break. “You can do this,” he said, putting his hand on Matt’s shoulder. Anything to encourage him in the moment, but he couldn’t explain his plan out loud. He could only hope Matt would understand.

Shiro braced himself for what he was about to do.

          The gate withdrew to the ceiling. One of the sentries stepped in again and pointed that sword straight at Matt, who gasped.

            That was his cue. He bellowed, and leaped forward, grabbing Matt by the shoulder. He shoved the younger boy backwards into the sand, then went from under the sentry’s arm to wrest the sword from its grasp. The creatures were surprisingly unstable.

           Still inside the gate, he wheeled round, brandishing the sword. The aliens recoiled from him. Musha showed confusion, the rest only terror. “This is MY fight!”

           These Galra seemed to respect bloodlust. Well, maybe they’d let him get away with this.

           Sorry, Matt.

          He turned on Matt, and swung the sword at him below the knee. He winced internally at the ripping of fabric, the thin line of blood, and the absolutely shocked look on Matt’s face.

           “I want BLOOD!!”

          Shiro pounced on Matt, who was already on the ground. With his face only inches from Matt’s, he dropped the mask for the only second he had. “Take care of your father.”

           As comprehension dawned on Matt’s face, he felt sentry hands on his shoulders. And, still holding the sword, Shiro was dragged backwards into the ring.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20507648/chapters/48669032#workskin

[cultureisdarkbeer]

Thanks you @ms31x129 for the beautiful fanart

NEW CHAPTER 128 POSTED TODAY! 

Click Here for Rooted in Friendship Homepage

Excerpt: Chapter 24 - Whiter Shade of Pale - Episode - Rush

Summary: Smut/Angst/Fluff - First time on a case after deciding to move forward with their romantic relationship

[Jan 4, 2000]

The number one illuminated.  Scully tapped her foot impatiently, butterflies swarming in her stomach.  Their first case since their intense encounter on New Year’s Day.  She wasn’t sure how they would react to each other now in a work setting.  She was concerned about her ability to keep her professional composure and she was late for work. After almost 48 hours of hardly leaving his bedroom, she had collapsed when she finally arrived back at her apartment and slept through the alarm.  Not to mention it seemed to take forever this morning to pick out something to wear.  Then the taxi ride was almost a crawl as she read through the police report Mulder had faxed her from St. Jude Hospital in Pittsfield.  She wasn’t exactly sure why she was on edge, but she wanted to get the initial meeting over with.  Hopefully, he was alone. The elevator doors opened.  She smiled to herself. Here we go.

He couldn’t wait to see her and couldn’t wait to dive into this case.  Impatiently he began to dial his phone when he felt a tap on his left shoulder and turned around.  His smile grew wide.  She looked stunning, radiant. Her lips appeared darker, eyes brighter, hair shining as it bounced against the top of her jawline.  His eyes followed her neckline and he noticed it.  She was wearing a white button down shirt that was hugging her body and displayed enough cleavage to get his attention.  Down boy, he thought to himself as he blinked twice and flipped the track in his head to side B where a dead body was lying with his eyeglasses falling out of the back of his head.

“Uh…(chuckles).  There you are.  Heavy traffic?”

“Slow going.  Let’s just say I had ample time to read the police report that you faxed me.”

“Thoughtfully provided by the local authorities, even though it doesn’t begin to tell the whole story.”

When she bent over to examine the back of the deceased Deputy Foster’s head, Mulder couldn’t help but wonder where he registered on the perversion scale for checking out her ass.  Yeah, this would be a long day.

They walked down the corridor of the Pittsfield Sheriff’s station where Jesse, the suspect’s friend flirtatiously bumped Mulder to get his attention.  Scully was accustomed to women using Mulder as eye candy, but she’d be damned if he was going to look back.  She pinched his elbow hard to remind him that the tag on his collar said property of Dana Katherine Scully. He laughed nervously, “What?” as he felt the sting of her whip. They walked into the interrogation room and Mulder regretted sitting down as he was now at perfect eye level to notice Scully’s button screaming at him to free its restraints with his teeth.  He dug his nails into his leg to keep himself from moving his head.

A serious Scully was carrying the investigation, “..you say that Deputy Foster stopped you, but you don’t say why”

Mulder refocused. “Come ‘on, you were out cruisin’….

As they stepped back out into the hallway and began discussing the case, Scully felt her body leaning into his.  That warm inviting tension that obliterated their personal space.  His lips were pursed as he clamored on about spiritual entities and poltergeists.   It reminded her of last week as she whispered those same sweet nothings into his ear.  She decided to test the waters. Today she wanted to be in the power position.

“Mulder…rather than spirits…” She tugged at the bottom of his tie, stroking it phallically, staring at it almost seductively.  “Can we at least start with Tony’s friends?” And here came a little Marilyn Monroe, “Please? Just…for me?” Her eyes followed it up towards the knot envisioning him naked with just the tie on. . . . “I think there’s one person in particular I’d like to talk to”

Mulder’s pants became tighter as his legs turned to jelly.  I am totally fucked he thought to himself.  I will never be able to say no to this woman again.  She can have anything she wants, do whatever she wants.  Did she really just manipulate me with her feminine wiles?  Why yes she did and yes I wish she would do it again.  With the only movement he was capable of he whipped his head to the side and smirked following behind her.  She'd had her way with him and it felt so good.

As they left the Sheriff’s station, Scully remarked, “I guess we’re done for the day”

“Yeah, there’s not much we can do until we get the results from the lab and I want to see what Chuck’s opinion is before I reach any conclusions.  My car's parked across the street.  I could drive you back to headquarters or I could just drop you off at your apartment and pick you back up in the morning?” He tried to sound casual, but felt like he was failing miserably.

“That’s fine.  I can leave my car there overnight.” She said matter-of-factly.  This made him so happy he wanted to do a dance.  The thought of spending a night without her wrapped in his arms now seemed unfathomable.  How was he going to make it the first time they had to be away on a case?

They began their trek back to D.C. and Mulder was the first to speak, “That’s a very nice shirt you’re wearing Scully.”

“Oh, you like it?”

“Yeah, but it may be missing a few buttons.”

“I see. Mulder?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe we can drive a little faster?” A full day of not being able to be physically connected to him was taking its toll on her.  She knew she wasn’t going to make it back to her apartment.

“Scully, your hand on my thigh is making it very hard for me to drive at all.”  His knuckles were turning a whiter shade of pale on the steering wheel.

The traffic had them at almost a standstill and her hand was slowly reaching the top of his thigh.

“Scu….Scully, please, I’m going to drive off the road.” He felt as though he may burst through his pants.  His will to drive had dissipated.  He was not sure she understood the full extent of the impact she had on him.

“Maybe, maybe not.” She was still being coy.

“Did you just unbutton my pants?” Mulder glanced down for effect. “Yes, yes you did. You unbuttoned my pants.  Ok…. Well… and there goes the zipper.”

Mulder closed his eyes as her lips made contact, then jolted them open recalling that he was the one driving.

“Scully, I’m serious. We can’t do this. What about being on a case? What about reckless driving? What about … ?”

Holy shit you’re stroking my balls.  What kind of calisthenics are you doing with your tongue?  Driving had now become an afterthought and he was swerving all over the road. A truck in the oncoming lane blared his horn and veered to avoid them.  He got off the highway and pulled down a dead end road.  He shifted the car in park, reclined the seat back and freed himself in one clean motion.

“Scully, is this because I strayed from the paranormal?  Is it because you want your name on the door? Because if it is, I could get you your name on the door. If this is about my desk again, the desk is yours…they never asked me when I got the office back…I mean our office back.”

“Mulder?”

“Yes”

“Shut up.”

He closed his eyes and heard a familiar snap like, like…latex…latex gloves.  Why would she be putting on gloves?

She took him again and sucked with increasing pressure while her tongue continued the rumba.  He felt the vibration of her moans coursing through him and thought this may not be a completely selfless act after all.  Her left hand began creating figure eights while her right thumb was making light circles over his perineum.  That’s when he felt it.  The finger of her right hand was massaging his prostate….From. The. Inside.

If he was so inclined to protest, the results would have been in vain for his vocal cords had ceased the ability to vibrate.  The heavens had opened their gates, gave him a high five and were now returning him back down to earth.

He wasn’t sure if his lungs were taking in air and it no longer seemed of concern, but he did wonder when his hearing and sight might return.  He reached out for her hand and she held it tight.  His first words were all that his brain could compute.

“You’re a medical doctor.”

That produced a giggle.  “Yes Mulder, yes I am. Are you okay?”

“I will be eventually. For now, though, I think you’re going to have to drive us home. And Scully… I’m a very very lucky man.”

Mulder awoke to the sounds of Scully singing off key to an incomprehensible song.  It took him a couple minutes to realize they were still in the car.   “How long was I out?”

“Oh about 3 and a half hours.  We’ll be home soon.”

Mulder stared out the window at the darkening sky, “I’m thinking that blur on the VCR tape might be the spirit of a former student. Maybe a ghost coming back for some sort of revenge.”

“Or maybe… it was just a glitch on the tape.” Added Scully pulling the car into a spot before heading inside her apartment.

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Excerpt: All Out: The No-Longer-Secret Stories of Queer Teens throughout the Ages

Start reading All Out: The No-Longer-Secret Stories of Queer Teens Throughout the Ages with the story “Burnt Umber” by Mackenzi Lee, author of The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue. You can find Mackenzi online at her website mackenzilee.com or on Twitter @themackenzilee.

BURNT UMBER

By Mackenzi Lee

Amsterdam, 1638

Two weeks into the new year—the third of our appren¬ticeship—the master painter Cornelius van der Loos declares me the best of his students. Though not for my skill behind the easel—I have yet to master shadows in the still lifes, so my light often seems to be coming from a cosmically improbable sun that has been spread across the sky like a pat of melted butter. But I am the boy most accomplished at not becoming dis¬tracted by the first naked woman we draw. Which is something, I suppose.

It has been all vanitases and still lifes for us for years, though just before Nieuwjaarsdag we graduated to plaster casts of the human frame, so the appearance of the living versions in our studio seemed inevitable. But the first day that van der Loos plucks a round-hipped girl from De Wallen and perches her in the center of our circle atop a stool for us to sketch, the study for the other apprentices seems to be more about keeping themselves in control as van der Loos calls for her to change positions and she presents us with an arched back that make her breasts reach for the ceiling. 

But for me, it’s as easy as not going hard over the Delft candlesticks and Jakartan pomegranates we have been sketch¬ing since we were twelve. Though if it were Joost Hendrickszoon reclining naked on a ragged sofa in front of me, a barely there whisper of silk draped over his most vulnerable bits—or, God help me, per-haps no silk at all—it would be me gasping down lungfuls of the frigid January air with my breeches tented, trying not to think about how desperately I would like to put my hands on some tackle that wasn’t my own. It’s been a time since I spoke to Joost—though spoke seems too generous a term for the blushing conversations I occa¬sionally stammered my way through with him after Sunday services. That hasn’t stopped me from fantasizing about him without his clothes on when I am supposed to be staring at van der Loos’s girls and sketching them in repose. His family put their money in Viceroy bulbs and when the tulip market shattered, he had to abandon his own apprenticeship with the faience maker and take up work with the dockhands who load the cargo onto the East India clipper ships. 

I catch sight of him sometimes from afar, down at the docks, when van der Loos sends Augustus and me to fetch his imports for his vanitases and sacks of pigment powders, the sort than can be bought only on the other side of the world. As we load our handcarts with the smalt blue of Delft china or the yellow ochre stripes on the inside of an Iris petal, the thought of Joost somewhere nearby always has me by the throat. Even when he’s not in my sights, I can picture him— the muscles in his arms tense beneath the weight of porce¬lain, the concave hollow of his back bowing beneath their weight. All the anatomy lessons of my apprenticeship put to questionable use. Once, when he passed us by with a crew of the burly dock men, he winked at me, and I was so flustered I dropped a crate full of dried puffer fish from the West Indies I was holding. When we cracked the lid back at the studio, we found half of them had crumbled into dust, and I took a lashing over the knuckles for it from van der Loos. 

But Joost winked at me. All things have a balance. 

So my apprenticeship gives me charcoal stains in the creases of my palms, knuckles scratched from catching loose nails when we spread canvas over frames, my fingers dyed the color of Admiral Liefken tulips from priming red ochre pig¬ment, while Joost broadens out his shoulders, sculpting him a silhouette like one of those Renaissance Christ paintings in church I used to stare at so long my mother thought I might become a clergyman. But so long as it is a woman draped across the sofa in the center of our sketching circle, I’ll be, as van der Loos proclaims, the best apprentice in the Guild of St. Luke. 

Though, it is mortifying to be declared thusly in front of a room full of the other boys, half of them rising to attention when our model stands at the end of the session and reaches down to touch her toes, presenting us with a near-telescopic view of her nethers. Johannes’s charcoal falls out of his hand and breaks in two against the f loor, and Augustus already has that glazed look in his eyes of being halfway through a fan¬tasy about taking this girl out behind the Wolf ’s Head and getting his head under her skirt. Though knowing Augustus he’d be so sweaty with nerves if he ever got this girl alone he’d probably slide right off her. When we boil the linseed oil for binding, he can hardly look me in the eyes—I can’t imagine a girl would be any easier on him. From the back of the room, van der Loos knocks a hand against the wall, so hard and sudden that all the boys startle, eyes ripped from the model. “Good lord, it’s like you’ve none seen a woman before.” 

None of us want to be the one to admit that we haven’t— Braam, the oldest of us, is fifteen, so up until now it’s been mostly mothers and sisters and the occasional tavern whore for all of us. 

Van der Loos shoos the model into the back room, then stalks forward to the center of our circle. A curtain sheltering the high windows catches on his lace collar as he passes and he swats it free. 

“What’s this?” He flicks at Braam’s parchment, which is mostly devoted to breasts. “Is this what a woman looks like, or what you want her to look like in your fantasies, Englen? And this, Hermanszoon?” he snaps at Johannes, who reaches up like he’s going to cover his work and keep the rest of us from seeing it. Van der Loos passes Augustus’s easel without comment, but pauses on mine. I brace for a criticism, but in¬stead he says, “This is well done, Constantijn,” and I start—I hadn’t realized he was so near to me. 

He takes up my sketch and holds it for the other boys to see. “And you know why this is well done? Because it does not reek of childish fantasies. Constantijn here has sketches that are anatomical. No breasts that defy gravity or exaggerated curves. You would all do well to adopt his attitude—this is not the last naked figure we’ll be drawing, and I expect a certain level of work from you.” He drops my board back on the easel, then claps me hard on the shoulder. “Well done. You did very well today.” 

I try to look pleased, but the compliment sends my heart hiccuping. A singling out is enough reason to be taunted on our walk home, perhaps get a handful of snow stuffed down the back of my breeches. I’ve done the stuffing before—we all have. But to be called out for being the only boy entirely disinterested in the female body could have a different end. They drowned a guild master in Delft last year, and shaded taunts don’t take long to darken into rumors. Though the danger of a jest holds little water with these rich boys whose parents pay fifty guilders a year for them to become painters, who will never have to grit their teeth when they lie with a woman or worry their minister will confront them about their unclean desires that could end tied to a millstone and tossed into the sea. Whose desires their masters condemn, but at least they’re boyish. I leave the studio that night sweating in spite of the winter cold. Most evenings, the five of us apprentices walk from van der Loos’s studio along the Uilenburgergracht to Dam Square, where we break apart, following the veins of the canals to our homes, but I try to clean up as quick as I can and escape alone. I’m the first one to leave the studio—I realize halfway down the stairs I’ve left one of my gloves behind, but I can’t muster the courage to go back to fetch it. 

I’m half a flight from the gate when I hear the lumbering thud above me of the other boys’ klompen on the stairs. They swarm around me on the street, like I’m a boulder in their stream. I speed up, trying to stay a few steps ahead with my scarf pulled tight around my face, but I can still hear them behind me. 

“Eyes ahead, Constantijn,” Braam calls. “Don’t want you getting distracted.” He strikes the last syllable like a cymbal, just as a clump of slushy snow slaps the back of my head. I don’t turn around. 

“Look at Constantijn, so focused.”

“Doesn’t even notice the girls all around him.” 

“Have you ever seen a girl before, Constantijn? Come out tonight and we’ll give you some tutoring.” 

Another lump of slush hits near my feet. No wonder Braam’s vanishing points are always a few inches off. 

I pull up the collar of my cassock and walk faster, but my klompen slide on the stones, still slick with last night’s new snowfall. I have to grip the bridge rail as I cross the canal like it’s a lifeline just to stay upright. 

“What do you like more, Constantijn—girls or dogs?” Braam calls, and Johannes laughs. 

“Girls or chickens?” Johannes adds. 

“Girls or sailors?” 

“Go to hell, Braam,” I say, quiet enough I think they won’t hear me but I’ll still get the satisfaction of having told them off under my breath. 

But Johannes hears—he’s deaf to instructions about canvas priming but he’s dog ears for everything that isn’t meant for him. “What’s that, Constantijn? You’re going to hell?” 

Dam Square looms at last—the milky green dome of the weigh house wears a hat of new snow, militias of sharp icicles lined along the gutters. The low clouds swallow the spire of the Westerkerk over the tops of the canal houses. A breeze spools off the water, bitter and ripe—I can smell the stench of the harbor, oysters spitting seawater and herring left to fester in shining piles upon the rotting slats of the docks. My stomach heaves. 

I would be smart to joke back jovially, pretend like the taunts didn’t sting like rust on a razor, then say yes to a drink when Johannes suggests it. Probably would have been good to muscle down a kiss with a carmine-cheeked whore just to prove that I don’t find the female form almost entirely repellent. Maybe if I look long enough it won’t be; all these weeks of nude studies adding up have built up my tolerance. Maybe sinful desires can be cleansed through prolonged exposure, like colors faded from a canvas by hanging too long in a sunny corner of the house. 

But instead I keep walking as the boys peel off toward the Wolf ’s Head, letting their taunts roll off me like the snow¬balls melting down my back. I duck down Raadhuisstraat and across the Singel Canal, toward my parents’ house. They’ll have the stove lit, peat smoking in its belly, and my sister will take my cassock and my klompen and they’ll want to know about what I’m painting and my mother will have herring and none of this will matter. In a few moments, I can be home and pretend everything is fine. 

“Constantijn, wait!” 

Against my better judgment, in the middle of the bridge, I turn. Augustus jogs up beside me, his feet sliding on the icy planks. I grab his arm before he falls. “Thank you.” He ruffles his hair, a powdered snow like the sugar dusting on oliebollen scattering over the front of my cassock. “Sorry, I…” He starts to brush it off for me, then stops, his face going red. 

“What is it, Augustus?” I ask, and my voice sounds like van der Loos’s, pinched and tired. 

“What? Right. Yes.” He fumbles around in his satchel, then comes up with my missing gloves. “You left this. Back at the studio.” 

“Oh. Thank you.” I try to take it, but he doesn’t let go as fast as I think he will, and it clenches up between us like a taut sailing rope. Neither of us let go for a moment, but Augustus shies first, and the glove slumps into my knuckles. He scuffs a toe along the ground, his klompen making a horrible scraping noise against the ice. “They’re just jealous, you know. Because you draw so well.” “Is that what it is?” 

“Truly. You’re the best of us.” He kicks a lump of muddy snow and it bursts against the rail like a Catherine wheel. “Have you thought of your specialization yet?” 

“Landscapes. Maybe. I don’t know. Not nude women.” 

“Why not?” 

“They’re…” I scratch the back of my neck. “Not really my subject.” 

“Nor mine. I liked when we were painting the fruit.” 

“The fruit?” 

“Fewer breasts on the fruit. I mean…” He presses his hands to his cheeks. “I’m not good at breasts.” 

“Most fruit is rather breast shaped, though.” 

“But they’re not so squishable. They’re more solid. So the shadows are easier on the fruits. And I like the colors.” He’s got his hands up in front of him, flexing them, gripping these imaginary not-breast squishable fruit, but then he shakes them out, like he’s only just realized what he’s doing. “God, what a conversation. If someone were to overhear us.” 

I laugh. “The scandal of naked fruit.” 

“The church would have a whole business around making dresses for apples and pears by the week’s end.” 

“That’ll be the new commodity now that the tulips have failed.”

“And it would be a very specialized profession, since only those with the tiniest hands could sew these tiny dresses for the fruit.” 

I laugh again, almost more from surprise than at what he’s said. Augustus is so quiet and nervous in class, I’ve never heard him speak so freely. Or realized how funny he was. When he looks up at me, the reflection of the dying light off the canal catches his eyes, the warm umber of cane sugar. 

Augustus smiles, the tips of his ears poking out from under his knit cap pink where the cold nips at them. 

“Well,” he says, after a moment of staring at each other, our breath fogging the air between us. “I’m back that way.” He points back over his shoulder, toward the square. “Don’t worry about what Braam said.” 

“I’m not.” 

“I know. But if you were. Or if you need to hear it. You’re all right.”

He reaches out and touches my shoulder, so quick it’s almost imaginary, then walks away, leaving the cold clawing at me, each breath burning as I swallow it and coming up misty and white, warmed by my lungs.

By the end of February, the girls have become more ordinary—we can all draw hips and breasts in a creative array of positions now, most of us without exciting ourselves. We still draw the plasters, now interspersed with models once or twice during the week. When we’re not sketching, van der Loos has Augustus and me glazing his undercoats for a new series of domestic scenes while the rest of the boys mix his pigments and prepare the pallets, so we spend most mornings shoulder to shoulder, our hands sticky with glaze. Augustus sometimes hums under his breath while we work, his usual twitchy hands still and steady on the brushes. 

A snowstorm buries Amsterdam and we’re out of the studio for three days, all of us trapped in our homes, and when we return, we’re all buzzy and talkative, so the shout of someone entering doesn’t register with me straight away as out of the ordinary. I’m stretching parchment on my board, trying not to smudge my charcoaled fingers over the edges, but then I hear Braam say, “What are you doing here?” And I look up just as Joost Hendrickszoon steps out from the studio doorway, his wool cap crushed between his hands. 

I drop into a nonsensical crouch beside my easel, an action born purely from the panic of seeing him out of context and so unexpectedly, then fumble around for something to do so my sudden drop to the ground looks even remotely motivated. I thrust my hand into my satchel, just to look like I’m doing something, and I nick my thumb on the knife I use to sharpen pencils. 

“Constantijn!” 

I stand up, thumb in my mouth, so fast I knock my head on the edge of my easel. The whole thing teeters, parchment board tilting at a dangerous angle, but Joost catches it before it falls in earnest and tips it back into place for me. The charcoal falls off the edge and breaks against the floor. When Joost casts his gaze down to it, I can see the red-gold freckles sprinkled over his eyelids and, when he bends, the spot behind his ear where his hair doesn’t lie f lat. He’s sheared it off since he started his dock work, and the short curls feather against the back of his neck. 

He tries to scoop up a few salvageable pieces, and when he hands them to me, it takes a full minute to remember how to make my fingers work to take it from him. Another to recall language and form the shape of it with my tongue. 

“Joost. Good evening. Morning. It’s morning.” 

He wipes the charcoal off his palms, leaving black smears on his cassock. 

“How are you faring? I saw you at the docks last week.”  

“Did you?” 

“You looked occupied or I would have come over.”

“Oh. I was fetching the plasters.” 

“The what?”

“We were doing a study…” Halfway through this sentence I realize I had been at the docks retrieving the plaster casts van der Loos had made of naked male torsos and I go so light-headed with embarrassment I think I might faint. 

Joost raises an eyebrow. “A study?” 

“For painting.” 

“Ah.” 

His eyes drift over my shoulder, like he’s tiring of this conversation and looking for someone else to speak to, and my mind becomes so overwhelmed by desperation to keep him here that it latches on to the word I have been so careful to skirt for this entire conversation and spits it out. “Penises.” 

Which gets his attention back on me, but at what cost!? “What?” 

“We were painting… We’ve been talking about the musculature of…” I do a mime of something oblong shaped with the unfortunate placement of right in front of my crotch. “It was just for the painting. We didn’t do anything with them. Not the penises. The casts. The plasters.” 

“Oh. Well. I suppose you have to start somewhere.” 

A wild little giggle escapes me. Joost raises his eyebrows, and I look around for some sort of pallet knife on which I could fall on and impale myself. “Are you making a delivery?” 

“No, not many ships of late—the snow’s kept them from docking. Hard to make a living.” 

“Yes, hard.” 

“What?” 

Don’t say it again, I think, but of course I do. “Hard,” I re¬peat, louder, and, Jesus, take me now. Scoop me from this earth; I shall never recover. I tug at the front of my smock, which I have somehow sweat through, and force myself to keep my eyes on Joost’s face and not the pale dip of skin visible between his kerchief and collar, sprinkled in freckles the same color as his hair. “So are you, um… What are you doing here?” 

“Take your seats, please,” van der Loos calls. “Hendrickszoon, if you’ll come with me.” Joost ducks out from between the easels to follow van der Loos, and I collapse into a swoon upon my stool, so light-headed I almost tip backward. I plant my feet on the floor and try to breathe and not look around for Joost, though just knowing he’s near makes me feel set aflame. I hear the scrape as van der Loos drags the sofa into the center of our circle. All I catch of his words is “return to life drawing today.” I peer out from behind my easel just as he slaps the sofa cushion once, raising a mushroom of dust. “Hendrickszoon,” he calls. 

“If you’re ready.” 

And then Joost steps out from behind the partition, wearing the thin dressing gown, same as every woman we’ve drawn. My heart starts to pound its fists against my rib cage like it’s trying to burst out and lay itself dramatically at Joost’s feet. 

Van der Loos presents the couch with an extended hand. “If you please.” It seems to take a thousand years for the robe to come off. It slides like slick oil off his shoulders, and if I thought they were a thing of beauty beneath a shirt, they’re miraculous un¬sheathed, whorls of thick muscle coiled beneath his skin. His whole body is taut as he unfastens the sash, the studied concentration of a beautiful man who knows he’s being watched but chooses to pretend he’s unaware because it makes for better planes of his face. As the robe falls open, I wonder if it will be possible for me to complete this entire study without once looking any lower than the dip of his hip bones, so sharp and precise they look as though someone chiseled them. 

This, I think, as I keep my eyes determinedly focused on his face while the robes thumps softly to the floor, is entirely not my fault, and entirely his, for being so pretty. 

Joost nudges the robe beneath the sofa, then gives van der Loos a smile. His hands twitch at his sides, like he’s trying not to cover himself. “Shall I…?” “Prone, please, to begin. And your boots.” 

“Oh.” Joost laughs as he looks down at his feet. “I forgot.” He kicks off his boots, and they bounce across the floor, land¬ing in a rumpled heap before Augustus. 

I duck behind my easel, close my eyes, try to take a breath, fail, try to take another, nearly pass out, give my cheeks a stern talking to about being a little less red or they’re going to give us both away. Another breath, another failure. Peer out from behind the easel. 

Joost stretches out on the sofa slowly, like a thing unthaw¬ing. Braam whistles, and there are a few laughs, though of an entirely different variety of those that accompanied the bare-breasted women who have previously draped themselves over this sofa. 

“Quiet please,” van der Loos says, then, to Joost, “You might begin with your arms above your head please.” Joost obliges, stretching himself out to his full length. He’s so tall that his feet hang off the edge of the sofa, and the muscles in his chest coil, his skin gilded by the sunlight curling in through the windows, brighter than usual as it ref lects off the new snow piled along the sills. Van der Loos adjusts the drapes, letting in more light, then turns to us. 

“Gentlemen, observe particularly the musculature here, in the torso, how it connects differently than on the female form.” 

Look somewhere else, I think, as van der Loos strokes a hand through the air over the ladder of Joost’s abdominal muscles. Look at his boots. I stare at the material in a muddy heap on the f loor, the way the folds drape, the leather sole, the hole along the heel where the stitching has come loose and he hasn’t yet taken it to the cobbler. 

“Constantijn, are you paying attention?” 

I raise my eyes from their determined study of the boots. Van der Loos is staring at me with a frown. So is Joost, less frowny. So are all the other apprentices. Braam’s mouth is quivering with trying not to laugh. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What are we discussing?” 

“His…torso, sir.” 

“We’ve moved lower.” He points straight between Joost’s legs. “Follow along, please.” 

And, because everyone is watching me, I look. 

As Joost lounges upon the sofa like some god ripped from mythology, the entirety of his front side on display, I have a stern talking to with my own bits about calming down and they staunchly refuse to listen. 

I try threats. If you don’t go soft, you’ll have no supper, though my body seems far more interested in sex than food. 

BUT LOOK AT HIS CHEST, it seems to scream in response. 

I try bargaining. If you go soft, I’ll give you a good workout tonight. 

BUT LOOK AT HIS BARE THIGHS. 

I try pleading. If you do not settle, all of these boys are going to see me go stiff over Joost and I will get more than a handful of snow to the back of the head. 

BUT LOOK AT HIS— 

Think of the least arousing things possible. Gutted herring in the market. Spilled sewage in the greasy snow outside the Wolf ’s Head. The old woman who begs outside the church with a mouth full of rotted teeth she sometimes spits at my sister and me like melon seeds. 

“If you would change, please, Hendrickszoon,” van der Loos calls, and I start, nearly crushing my charcoal between my fingers—I hadn’t realized we had started to sketch. Joost sits up, letting one leg dangle off the sofa and giving me an¬other eyeful of his crotch that sends all the blood fleeing my head. 

Maybe if I faint, van der Loos will let me go home. Maybe if I throw up, he’ll let me leave early. Maybe if I keel over dead they’ll bury me in the churchyard with “Here lies Constantijn, slain by the first penis he saw that wasn’t his own.”

I look at my parchment. I completed nothing from his first pose. I start to scribble frantically, tracing out the arch of his back just to get something on the page. My heartbeat is sitting in my hands—the few strokes I manage are palsied. I look around at the other apprentices, hoping at least one of them will look as uncomfortable as I am and my own fumbling can be passed off as something other than unholy lust. They all seem focused, and the room is quiet but for the soft shush of charcoal on parchment. Beside me, Augustus bends so close to his sketch that his nose seems likely to smudge the charcoal. 

“Constantijn, what are you doing?” 

I start so spectacularly my charcoal skates across the page, leaving a long black smudge. Van der Loos is standing over me, frowning at my board. 

“Sketching, sir.” 

“You have yet to finish a figure.” 

“It’s difficult.” 

“How so?” 

“Different. Than the women. The anatomy,” I tack on hastily. 

Van der Loos’s frown deepens. “Constantijn, are you well?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You look feverish.” 

“It’s very hot in here, sir.” 

“Perhaps you’d prefer to sit by the window.” 

“Oh, God, no,” I say, too quickly, and van der Loos frowns at me. “It would disrupt my angles,” I say, instead of explaining that sitting by the window would give me a view that is far more full frontal than my current. 

Van der Loos scowls at me again, then at my parchment. “Your progress has been exceptional lately,” he says. “Be certain you don’t stagnate.”  

I bow my head and van der Loos moves on. I have to do something. And that something is not trying to swallow down staring at Joost naked and not nursing the sinful desires that I have heard over and over from my ministers are a sign of being damned. I look down at my board. A few half-hearted shapes. The tip of a chin, the curled hunch of a shoulder. Maybe I am damned. 

Instead of his frame, I draw his face. The shape of his cheekbones beneath his skin, the freckles on his eyelids, the shadow his lashes cast against his cheeks. The thin bow of his lips, the wide spot on the bridge of his nose from when it was once broken when Merik Engel accidentally knocked him with an oar when they were punting. Thick brows, the way his hair curls behind his ears. I draw him more from memory, even though he’s in front of me, until van der Loos calls time and the class ends. 

I pack up my charcoal and stow the easel, careful to look away as Joost redresses himself. I hear him laughing over something with Braam and Johannes, so it’s a shock when I turn back from washing my hands in the basin and he’s stand¬ing at my easel, waiting for me. The collar of his shirt has gotten tucked under the seam, and I almost reach up to fix it. I curl my hands into fists around the edges of my smock to stop myself. 

“How did I do?” he asks. 

“Well.” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “You did very well. Very still.” “Was I good to draw?” 

Oh, God, if ever there was a question more weighted than that—it’s like I can hear grapeshot clicking within the words. “Yes.” 

“May I see it?”

“See what?” 

“Your sketches.” 

“Of you?” The word mortifying was certainly invented to describe showing the boy whose broad shoulders you have been admiring from afar since you were young the nude sketches you have just attempted to do of him while trying desperately, desperately not to think about the nights you have kept yourself company with fantasizing about him. My first instinct is to rip the paper to shreds just for an excuse to say no. 

But Joost is standing, expectant, one hand extended, so I pass over the parchment. He studies it, a small crease appear¬ing between his eyes when he looks from the few half-hearted studies of his frame to the rendering of his face. “I thought you were only meant to be drawing my body.”

“I, ah, thought I’d try something else.” 

“Look, you got my hair there, where it flips up.” He laughed, running a finger along his bottom lip. “And my eyes are exactly right.” 

“They’re not. The shape is off.” 

“The lashes, then—you’ve drawn the shadow of them.” He scrubs one hand under his eye. “They’re longer than most.” 

“They’re not. I mean, they are. But they’re so nice.” I nearly jam a paintbrush through my own eye in hopes that a quick death might end this now. 

Joost smiles, one cheek dimpled deep and the other smooth as porcelain. I expect thanks for the accidental compliment but it must make him too uncomfortable to acknowledge for all he says is “You’ll be a great artist someday.” 

“So will you.” 

“What?” 

“Sorry, I thought… I thought you were going to say… Nothing.” 

When I look up, he’s still examining my sketch. “May I keep this?” 

“No, I need it.” 

“Oh.” 

“For my portfolio.” 

“Of course.” He stares at it for a moment longer, rubbing his hand along his chin, admiring his own beauty, which is what I was doing a few moments ago, but somehow it’s less endearing when it’s him staring at himself with an approving eye. He hands it back, and I shove it into my satchel. 

Joost gives me his easy smile again, pushing a strand of hair off his forehead and back under his knit cap. There’s a clatter behind us, and we both turn. Augustus has leaned too close to the washbasin mirror in an attempt to wash the charcoal off his nose and rattled it. Joost snorts. “I didn’t know Augustus Rikszoon was apprenticed here.” 

“Oh. Yes. Is that…surprising?” 

“I’m surprised he found anyone to take him on as an apprentice—he’s such an odd creature, I thought he’d be slopping hogs somewhere.” He laughs. “Do you remember, when we were young, he was so frightened of having to walk up to the altar at church he pissed himself ?” He laughs again.

“Augustus is a good artist,” I say before I can stop myself. In truth, I’ve never really noticed Augustus’s drawings more than anyone else’s, and similarly have no idea where this compulsion to defend him is coming from. I’d certainly be more endearing to Joost if I simply nodded and agreed, and what does Augustus mean to me? He is an odd thing—I’ve thought it myself before. Maybe because we’ve walked together almost every night since Braam and Johannes mocked me on the way home, and because I like the way he blushes when he laughs, no matter the joke, and the cant of his head when he listens, sometimes so far it seems he’s resting his cheek upon his own shoulder. The way he remembers the things I tell him. 

And who didn’t piss themselves at least once when they were young? Joost pulls his cap lower over his ears with a shrug. “He should at least be a clergyman or something that gives him an excuse to be awkward and stay away from women.” 

“I have to go,” I blurt. 

“Oh. Of course.” Joost takes a step back from me, his coat sleeve drifting over an open jar of saffron pigment and leaving a smudge the color of fresh pollen along the patched elbow. “Would you like to walk with me? I’m going to Westerpark for a drink with some of the East India men. You could come, if you like.” 

“I need to be home. My mother holds dinner for me.” 

“Oh. All right, then.” His face creases, like being turned down is a new experience for him. “I’ll see you soon, I think. For more sessions. You can draw my face again.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, and I have to work hard to muster a smile that reaches my eyes. “Have a good night, Constantijn.”

I watch him go, then take the sketch out of my satchel and examine it again, his long eyelashes, the careful strokes—I’ve never drawn anything so lovingly, like a constellation map of the points of his face I admired. But now the cheekbones look too prominent. The eyes too warm, the bones too shapely. I drew him finer than he is. 

“Constantijn.” I look up. Augustus is standing in front of me, his cassock already pulled on over his tunic, satchel looped around his neck. Beneath his cap, his hair is twisted back and stuck through with a paintbrush. A few feathery pieces have slipped free and flutter around his face. When I meet his eyes, he looks down, twisting the hem of his coat like he’s ringing out wet washing. “Are you walking home?”

I crush the paper in my fist. 

He looks up at the noise. “Is that your sketch from today?” 

“They’re terrible.” 

“Mine too. It was…not my best day.” 

“Mine neither.” 

“We deserve a drink.” 

“Yes. Many drinks. Every drink.” 

He laughs, then stops suddenly and it turns into more of an awkward throat-clearing cough. “I mean… Do you want to? Really?” 

My eyes stray over his shoulder to his board, the parchment still stretched in place. There are a few half-hearted attempts at shoulders, a jawline, the silhouette of Joost’s back curled on the couch. But the most complete drawing is not of Joost at all—it’s his boots, bunched in a pile on the ground. 

“Yes,” I say. “I do.” 

Augustus and I walk side by side, mostly in silence. Slate clouds, their undersides pearled like the inside of a seashell, have fallen into place since the morning, and the last dregs of another snowstorm are tipping down from the sky, so soft I hardly feel it until a single f lake lands upon the back of my neck, melts and drips between my shoulder blades. I shiver. Augustus looks over at me, and when his eyes catch the gray light, I think of burnt umber pigments made from rust-stained clay mined, ground and washed before the fire is lit beneath to stain it, a heat that could melt snow turning mud brown to the syrupy, warm gold. The color of lantern light through the darkness, bubbles of sap risen from tree bark, the veins of gold in the papery bulbs that tulips burst from. I wonder what his eyes would look like with our noses pressed together. Augustus glances away from me as fast as our eyes met, a faint smile toying with his lips. 

Just as the snow stops falling, I take his hand.

Want more? All Out is bursting with amazing stories packed full of queer rep from authors like: Anna-Marie McLemore, Natalie C. Parker, Nilah Magruder, Robin Talley, Malinda Lo, Dahlia Adler, Kate Scelsa, Elliot Wake, Scott Tracey, Tess Sharpe, Alex Sanchez, Kody Keplinger, Sara Farizan, Shaun David Hutchinson and Tehlor Kay Mejia. Get it here!

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Faultlines Excerpt 1

Context: Laura comes home from school and logs onto Faultlines. As she messes around the map, she starts to notice something... unusual.

The excerpt:

          Chowing down, I went back to my room and booted up my seven-year-old laptop. While it grinded and purred, I leaned back in my chair and looked over all the travel brochures I’d tacked up over my desk. Australia and Paris and Nice and the Amazon. Egypt. Rome. London. They were all out there waiting for me. One day, I’d… I’d… I sighed. One day, I’d be sitting right where I was, looking at pictures and dreaming of going.

           I popped the last of the sandwich in my mouth as the computer finally booted. I started up Faultlines, which prompted another waiting game. I fished my Cal homework out my bag and got to work. I was done before the game loaded. Good thing, too, cause no sooner had I logged on before:

           Dotz4Dayz whispered: Don’t you have homework?

           You whispered: Finished already. Simple stuff.

           Dotz4Dayz whispered: Number 17 was simple? What’d you get?

           I checked my sheet.

           You whispered: 2x+3

           I mounted my dragon and flew off heading to the World Pillar. (BTW, I don’t have to specify that this was in game, yeah? That’s obvious, right?) The World Pillar was an endgame raid from the original game, back when the level cap was still 60. Due to the level cap being raised to 70, and then 80, it was easily soloable. It dropped cool mounts, and a legendary weapon, which made it worth doing all these years later.

           Dotz4Days whispered: Fair enough

           Oh, right, I almost forgot. But… you might have figured it out already… Dotz4Dayz was none other than: (drumroll please) MR. GREGORY REYNOLDS!!!! Shocking, yeah?

           We’d been in the guild since I started playing. I was precocious at the time, and had… accidentally given too much information online. Mr. Reynolds pulled me into his office one day and chewed me out over it. Neither of us had known we was playing, much less that we was in the same guild. Guess my big mouth really ain’t good for nothing.

           You whispered: What u doin on so early? Raid ain’t for 3 hours.

           Dotz4Days whispered: Gonna run some old raids. Maybe start an alt.

           You whispered: You getting tired of Dotz?

           Dotz4Days whispered: Not tired so much as there isn’t much to do outside of raiding nights.

           Dotz4Days whispered: Might go with a cleric.

           I started descending as the raid appeared on the horizon. As the zone loaded in front of me, I saw the marble spire materialize. The once pristine, white as a dove tower was covered in navy blue, gooey, pulsing tendrils – wrapping and slithering round the tower, covering the white bit by bit. Shooting off around the base in every direction was streaks of tainted landscapes, corrupted trees, and trenches as wide and deep as the Pillar itself – as if it’d been slammed down into the ground multiple times.

           As I neared the raid, my brow creasing more and more with each passing second, a faint, long laugh creeped from my speakers.

           You whispered: You see the World Pillar today?

           Dotz4Days whispered: No, why?

           The laughter grew louder the nearer I moved to the tower. The swarms of NPC (non player character) soldiers that’d laid siege to the pillar since at least as long as I was playing had been run through, leaving a field of dismembered and vivisected corpses lying in pools of blood. The strangest thing, though, was with all this detail and particle effects, my computer should have been sending lag spikes from hell.

           I landed at the base of the Pillar, and shot a message back to Dotz.

           You whispered: You needto come see this

           The laughter had grown to fill my room, loud and unending. I lowered my speaker volume, but the laugh remained unchanged.

           You whispered: Was this in the patch notes?

           But, I never got an answer. Cause I went exploring. Cause I’m intelligent. I walked into the raid.

           The cold, high laughter blasted from my speakers so loud I had to cover my ears or risk going deaf. I half feared I’d go deaf regardless. My screen was covered by the image of a giant eyeball – bloodshot and yet devoid of life entirely. The iris was emerald green. No… sky blue? And now red and purple and...

           As the eye flickered from one color to the next, it started moving, resting on different places, almost like it was examining my room. The eyeball rested on… it seemed to rest on, at least, the form I’d picked up the week before for the school’s Europe trip. I never expected to go, but I wanted to. I wanted to so much it hurt.

           “Excellent.” A suave voice that could have been either guy or girl spoke in a voice that was barely audible over the piercing laughter.

           “W-w-w-w-what the h-hell?” I managed.

           The eye snapped to my face. The laugh started creeping higher and higher in pitch until it was practically a dog whistle.

           I guess it kept getting higher, cause, after a moment, it went away entirely. The eye on my screen morphed into a blue and purple vortex as my vision started fading.

           “You’ll make a fun toy.” The voice said, just before I blacked out.

Tagging a few people who might wanna read it: @editedandwrittenbyhannah, @thepotatowearsprada, @endlesshourglass, @wallpatterns