#yes the hair clips are supposed to look like sugar glass

[stellarg1ow]

run.

original:

[billysgirllol]

she would have just left the water in there... but alcohol spilled into it and then the idea of how he did have extra dirt sticking to him made her decide changing it was better anyway. she took the bucket that was used for removing the water by the window, dipped it in and began carrying it to the already opened window. splashing outside of it. making a few trips before the tub was cleared and she then made the trips to the door outside of the bathroom to gather the clean rain water, still warm from the evening sun and then gratefully brought five or so buckets in. lucy gray didn't fill it all the way like she usually did, but there was enough to do the job. she shut the door, wiggled out of her clothing and stepped into the warm water before sitting on her knees with a washcloth.

sugar scrub and soap that came next lathered over all parts of her tanned skin, it took her longer to fill this tub than it did to bath. since she rinsed and was out of it in no time. her bath water was barely dirty, so decided to just leave it while she dried off and removed the clip from her hair she had held it in place with. her hands dipped out lotion onto her skin to sooth it after scrubbing it with the rough sugar crystals. once she finished moisturizing, she pulled her white bra over her head and secured it in place by jerking it down a little more then her panties before her ruffled socks and then her white night gown. ruffly skirt on the bottom, ruffled straps and light blue bows that hung down her upper arms. left her hair down, but clipped it back with the silver butterfly clip.

the door gently opened and her feet were light, mind became curious at what billy might be doing so she snuck up on her room. the mess was all gone, but that wasn't what had her smiling as her short frame appeared in the threshold. "what're you doin'? havin' fun now, after cleanin' up in time out?" she wondered, was she supposed to still be mad at him? yes, probably. but that might to go on hold when he was holding her teddy bear and looking through her pink glass box full of hoop earrings and rings. she moved herself over to sit on her bed, curiously watching and amusingly smiling.

it must be some sort of witchcraft, billy thinks to himself once he’s all alone, and still the memory of lucy gray’s voice echoes in his ears. he’s never been someone who’s easily influenced by others’ opinions, naturally rather stubborn and strong-willed, but she’s put a spell on him and can pull on the strings of his heart with such ease that he’s suddenly the first one to compromise and reshape even the most fundamental of his viewpoints. he made up his mind on marriage a few months ago, when his mother died and he got into some serious trouble for the first time — he’d never marry, not while he’s an outlaw, not when he has no real way of fulfilling the promise of a lifetime together. after all, his might be cut short. this attitude didn’t stop him from falling into alice’s arms and stumbling into her bed, despite knowing he’d never be able to truly love her, because he was being selfish and needed someone to comfort him, and maybe they did use each other in a way. maybe it’s cruel of him to make this distinction between the two women, but his heart insists he does just that — lucy gray deserves to be loved truly and permanently. unlike alice, who didn’t mind letting an intoxicated stranger warm her bed, who took advantage of the state that he was in.

i couldn’t handle it like alice seemingly can. his heart wants to respond by saying, i’d never ask you to handle it like alice did. he wouldn’t want to spend just one night with lucy gray. if he’s being honest with himself, he wants to give her his heart and soul, dedicate his life to making her happy. if he only knew he could give her the world and everything she deserves… he’s so lost in these thoughts that he doesn’t even realize when he’s managed to clean the bedroom, scrub the oil stains out of the rug, picks up the shards of glass and sweep the floor, tuck the empty bottle away among other trash, throw the dirty rags away. his sleeves still rolled up to his elbows, cheeks rosy from the effort it took to get these chores done, and a proud smile glued to his lips, he sits down on the edge of her bed for a moment, just trying to catch his breath and using it as an opportunity to look around. it’s such a cute, cozy room, he thinks to himself. he runs his hand over the soft, rainbow quilt, fluffs one of the pillows. then, his gaze falls on the stuffed bears, sitting neatly on a wooden chair, and he gets up just to examine them. assuming lucy gray won’t mind, he picks up the bigger one and smiles to himself because it has brown eyes, too, and in a way resembles the girl who probably used to play with it when she was younger. he tucks the teddy bear under his arm and heads to the dresser, glancing toward the door to make sure she’s not coming back, and picking up a hoop earring he finds on top of it. oh, she’s got so many pretty things!

[getoswhore]

ᥫ᭡ ─ PEEK-A-BOO! ⸝⸝ shuji hanma.

ଘ. featuring ⸝⸝ bully!shuji x f!bimbo!reader

ଘ. synopsis ⸝⸝ your dumb little self can't stop being so clumsy, especially around the biggest school bully, dropping your glasses and getting on your pretty knees in search of them only to just be teased for them..

warnings ⸝⸝ 1.1k+ wc. sws. dc. non/dub-con. noncon recording. coercion. time skip!hanma. college au. reader wears glasses. oral sex (m. receiving). public blowjob. face fucking. oral creampie. cum eating. throat bulging. voyeurism. dacryphilia. asphyxiation. hair pulling. bullying. degrading. slight masturbation. this is so taboo, help. (17+).

note ⸝⸝ yes, reader lowkey kinning velma, she a blind bitch— but BUT, this was supposed to be a kisaki fic but some whore–@dilftaroooo–convinced me to make this mr. turnip heads fic.. *runs on all fours*

“dumb bitch.”

were the first words you heard growl beside you the second your foot overstepped the last staircase. your eyes fall to the polished floors in front, legs buckling and anchoring themselves to the ground, and you can feel your jaw clench in anticipation already in resigned to the discomfort to follow.

your poor knees scrape against the campus floors when you were met with gravity, even when you try to heed your fall; newly painted nails skidding across the tiles, the pain radiates in a way that shatters your brain, or was it just purely embarrassment that made your breathing suddenly shallow?

either-or..

a silent sob prys from your mouth when you try to gather yourself up as quick as you can but hearing all of the snickers of how much of a loser you are stifling around made your breathing hitch.

yet, those slick comments didn't phase you that much; used to the remarks your classmates would always whisper around about you throughout the years..

used to them always giggling at you when you're desperately in search of those glasses that had always fumbled with gravity as well..

used to them always leaving you helpless, walking around you, blissfully unaware of the pain you endure..

you've always damned yourself about those goofy oversized glasses in silver frames because they were always finding themselves on the ground when you did. they've always made you look like a complete idiot in search of them; knees halted to the campus floors, hands sliding against the dusty tiles to find them desperately, not caring about the pile of clipped papers and books that went down too..

you just needed your glasses first. and everyone knew that. but they all only pointed and laughed at your clumsiness before leaving you behind like some dead meat..

“oh, oh, please,” your fingers slide across the tough leather of your books, dipping around them to find those thick lenses, “where are they..” your voice is faint as you ponder, just how the voices that teased you all fainted away slowly when the school bell rung.

so attentive on finding those lanky glasses of yours and worried about being late to class, the clicking of boots that bellowed closer and closer was out of your focus..

“hey, sugar, you wanna know somthin’?” a familiar deep and taunting voice echoes down the stairway behind you. you jump slightly, eyes squinting as your head spins around.

before you can process the blurred figure walking toward you, the man speaks again, “the number of times your dumbass has dropped these ugly ass glasses is the same number of girls i’ve fucked,” he's close now, feeling the heavy presence of the mans taller frame leaning down to you.

“and that's a lot.”

“h-hanma?” you know that snarky voice laced with foul intent by heart.

his screaming taunts always stung you and left a ringing in your ears throughout the years of his brutal harassment. just hearing his pitched voice made your skin cold, hands to even cramp up from the memories of him flinging your glasses across the room to only watch you crawl around for them before stepping on your newly painted nails with the heel of his boots.

“in the flesh, cutie.” hanma cooes before flicking at your forehead, a gentle pang from his pointer finger to your skin.

“leave me alone, asshole.” you pry away from him, trying to swat away his inked hand from your face.

“oh? fine then. i was tryna be nice and give you your glass but you wanna be a bitch–”

“no, give them to me.” you go to stand up quickly but the sudden familiar sharp sting to the roof of your hand kept you down. wincing at the tough feel of his boot imprinting against your skin made you whine, bones feeling as if there being crushed between the sole of his shoe and cement.

“hanma! get off of me! that hurts!” your free hand swats at his leg, only to take a new route of actions quickly; gripping at his thigh instead when he put more of his weight down.

“you gonna stop being a bitch then?” you almost pout at his words but instead you simply nod, too weak compared to him so what's the point of fighting him off when you know he always wins in the end?

“eh.. i don't know if i wanna give 'em now. you hurt my feelings.” you can practically hear the laugh he's holding in his chest slip through his teeth.

your burning eyes flicker up to his; partially a blur of a face but you can see the outline of that shit-eating grin he always holds highly around campus imprinted on his lips. hanma didn't mean to twist his tongue in his mouth and loosen his death grip on your hand, but he never realized how pretty your lips look when you pucker them up into a frown; the heavy gloss on them shining just like the stinging tears pricking at your lower lash line..

he truly never cared to even notice how the mesh of your skirt raised higher than it should have when you're on your bruising knees after a hard, embarrassing fall..

or even cared to realize how pretty you really do look on your knees in front of him..

hanma swallows down that bubbling feeling in his belly that rises at the pleaing look you give him. but seeing you almost whine, desperate with mercy in his hands, he couldn't help the way how his pants suddenly stiffen around him, feeling how the growing bulge in his jeans press painfully against the leather of his belt.

“heh, fine. you want them?” you nod vigorously, eyes squinting and seeing his hands motioning around your face, but hearing the clasp of a belt unclip made your brows knit together.

“have 'em.”

hanma frees your hand from under his heavy boot, and you can feel your blood rush to it instantly but the second your hands reached up for your glasses, your blood could only pump faster, feeling something harder and thicker than the silver hinges you're used to holding.

your hand flinches back. eyes now open all the way like someone was prying them apart, trying to get a good look of that thick blur prodding in front of your face.

“h-hanma? what're you doing? what is that?”

“do you not want your glasses?” he cooes, voice whisked like auditory caramel, “they're right in front of you.” hanma nudges himself closer to you, just enough to smell the deep husk of him and caving you in with your back staggering against the wall behind you.

barely, the focus you were putting in rushes; a fuzzy image of his pretty long cock in chastity that drools with a pearl of pre, his cock swinging heavily close to your face with your bent glasses resting close to his dark-haired base. your brain stutters, mouth left agape at the surreal sight.

hanma? the shuji hanma, your worse bully? prodding his beating cock at your lips? in the campus stairway halls?

the air felt as if it became thicker, harder to suck in when your focus moved to the side, seeing how his long legs caved you in, a lanky hand pressing against the wall beside your head.

“c’mon. quit actin’ stupid ‘n suck my cock already or your not getting them.” he's already nudging the crown of cock between your pursed lips as he enunciates.

all of this was happening too fast, your brain was still trying to catch up on how you even fell in the first place. but now? you couldn't even understand if this was a fever dream or not.

you try to push away, eyes wide, owlish-like, confused as to why this was even happening. yet, that irk of an itch in the back of your brain was bugging you, feeling the cool air hit against your panties that suddenly drool a little with your slick..

that itch in your brain screaming out to you to finally get some dick, even if it was your bullies fat and pretty dick..

and soon, that annoying itch was quickly brushed off the second you allowed his prodding tip to break past your pretty lips..

“mm, good little slut. open wider, gonna take a whole lot more than just this.” hanma groaned, head hanging low against his chest as he watched you take in more of him.

those golden eyes never left you, not even for a second, even if he heard people walking around the halls. he was too focused on the way you wrap your pretty lips around his length, the warm feel of your mouth before dipping further in, feeling the way your throat contracts around him.

your hands reach out for stability on his thin legs, gripping around them tightly when ‘sin’ rooted itself into your hair, fisting it into a ball to push you down against him faster.

“oh, fuck,” his eyes narrow, hooding into slits, only seeing a thin line of yellow glowing under his lashes as a smirk runs along his face, “why haven't i done this before?!” the fingers at the back of your head knot firmly into your hair, almost threatening to pull it from the roots.

your eyes almost knock to the back of your head when he crushes you fully against him, nose being tickled by the dark hairs at his base and the cold feel of your glasses.

tears begin to quickly prick from your eyes, nose beginning to run, and drool slipping from the sides of your mouth as he guides your head faster and faster over his cock. the tight feel of his cock head jabbing at the back of your throat made you whine around him, hips shifting around and a sharp pang to shoot between your thighs.

your hand twinges, quickly guiding itself down between your bodies and past your thighs to relieve that ache of tension. the pads of your fingers run along the sticky trail against your panties, adding pressure to your weeping clit that throbbed at the slightest touch.

“you getting off to this, whore?” hanma growls, a guttural moan scraping at his throat, “like being used like the hole you are?” he grows harder, forcing your throat to work him in and out of you at his impatient, incessant pace.

“answer me slut. you like this, don't you? playin’ with that little pussy while i use you?” he tugs the back of your head, making your lips pop off around his cock. bubbles of spit drool off the fat of his tip with a slimy string connecting to your lips.

you go to respond, a heavy breath of air catching in your throat but he was only toying with you, wanting to catch you off guard and stuff your pretty mouth full again. wanting to make you retch around his sheer mass that stretches your throat, a subtle bump of his cock bulging through when he slides back in.

his hands clapping around the back of your head to keep you in place, your mouth struggling for any agency. you try to flatten your tongue and try to drop your jaw as much as possible, licking lightly and stroking against the underside of his thick cock, but it felt impossible with his size to make some room without cramping up.

“yeah, keep playin’ with yourself like that, this the only attention you'll get from me, stupid whore.” pleasure was rising messier and greedier the more he rocked you back and forth. the sudden bucks of his hips sync with the devoted bobbing of your head that drove on with a singular intent.

though the words that slipped through his lips along with strained moans stung you, you do as he says; your fingers rolling around your panties with enough pressure against your sensitive bud, pinching and lolling it over, till you were moaning in coeval with him. you tease your clit, the smooth pads of your fingers running along the messy pool of your arousal as hanma can only scoff.

“never knew you were so fuckin’ filthy,” he titters over the loud bubbly slurps you provide around his cock, “‘n–fuck–never knew your throat can handle me like this.” his head lolls off to the side, craning over with his jaw hinged open.

his harsh words shouldn't have affected the way they did, but you can only moan around him, the tingle of vibrations makes the apple in his throat to bob.

trying so desperately to breathe but forgetting how to tell your body to do so, you can only hope he was close before passing out.. and so, you try to run your tongue over his cock to heed your help, soon feeling a particularly prominent, rising hardness begin to stand.

hanma didn't even want to give you a warning either, enjoying the sappy tears that roll down your flushed cheeks, makeup drooling along the streams as well. you looked so pretty below him like this, crying over him, desperate need to breathe all because of his fat cock. he couldn't help it, bucking his hips hard enough till your eyes squeezed shut and feet to tap against the floors.

he couldn't help it..

the desperate feel of you trying to prove to be able to handle the frantic indulgence and pleasures coming on stronger for his needs, he couldn't help but pinch your nose close.. watching the way you try to pull back when he forced you back against his base, suffocating you with the fat of his cock.

the heavy and hot tears that clump up around your chin drip down, just how his thick ribbons of cum shoot in the back of your throat. feeling your mouth being filled quickly with his hot sticky mess, some pooling out the sides of your mouth made your brain numb.

and you couldn't tell if it was the lack of oxygen or the high feel of your mouth being used for the pleasure of him till he popped and your pussy to drool even more..

“fuck, yeah, yeah, take all that fuckin’ cum,” his calloused hands keep you hostage to swallow it all, deeming you till you did, “any slips out ‘m breaking these glasses, bitch.” he snips.

finally, he lets you pop off his cock, but the recovery was short-lived, ‘punishment’ pinching into your stained cheeks, “y’know, just as pretty as you look on your knees, you look a lot hotter on camera.” he grins.

₍ ੭ᐢ..ᐢ)੭ @getoswhore — refrain from plagiarizing, translating, modifying, and/or reposting my work!

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Promise: Izzy Gallagher

CW: Neglectful/abusive parent, minor whump (emotional/neglect, nothing physical happens here), referenced implied shock collar (on adult), whumpee’s child, intimate whumper, sadistic whumper, isolation as punishment, referenced food control

@eatyourdamnpears, you asked for this, remember that. Also, I promise I’m going somewhere with this, she’s gonna get her crowning moment of badass.

Jax Gallagher belongs to @comfy-whumpee and is used with their permission, his dialogue is theirs

“Your daughter has such lovely hair.”

The little girl sits tall in her mother’s lap, hands folded, breathing in silent shallow inhales and holding perfectly still as her mother’s cold hand turns her head to the side by a grip on her chin, to show off the style that had taken what felt like forever and ever to finish.

“Doesn’t she just? I mean, it’s clear where she gets it, don’t you think?” Her mother’s voice is bright and slightly brittle, a little less than thrilled with the compliment aimed at the girl and not the mother whose genetics provided the curl, the texture, the thickness.

“Oh, definitely. You made such beautiful children with your husband, Sav, and Isabella is such a lovely example.”

Savvie relaxes a little, but the little girl knows her mother’s mood isn’t entirely placated, her fingernails still press just a little too harshly into the little girl’s softly rounded face, still losing her toddler puppyfat, just starting to narrow to show an edge of her father’s looks married to her mother’s.

She keeps herself sitting straight, tries to pretend there is a metal stick up her back to hold her like this, and waits for the anger, the snapping words. Not until this woman leaves, though. Only when it’s just Savvie and Jax and the little girl and her brother that the worst parts happen.

Maybe the woman will stay a long time. They never do, but maybe this time.

“Was your hair like this when you were young?”

“Oh, yes.” Savvie twines one of the little girl’s curls around her finger, with pastel purple nail polish that glints in the light, and the little girl presses her top teeth down into the soft skin of her lower lip to keep it from trembling.

Her hair spills in a waterfall of lush dark brown, the kind of hair that overwhelms a child, her mother's hair. It's already long enough to reach the middle of her back, carefully styled with the front and sides pulled back and twisted into a floral clip. My mother - your grandmother, darling, you never met her - brought this back from Italy when I was your age, her mother had said with sparkling eyes as she fixed the little girl's hair into place.

It hurts, the way her mother pulls on her hair when she styles it. Her scalp aches from the brushing with hard bristles, the scratch of nails at her scalp, the pulling and twisting and bobby pins and the clip. Her mother is impatient, unhappy with how she wriggles when she has to sit so long.

Her father, banished to the corner of the room while Savvie works, had jerked forwards when Savvie snapped at her for moving and said, Savvie, please, she can’t help it, she’s four-

Then Savvie had fixed him with a glare, and her father had gone still and made himself sit down, and the little girl had apologized so that he wouldn’t be disciplined because of her, and she had held so so still and kept her eyes locked on her father’s hands, curled into fists over his knees, the only sign of the anger he wasn’t allowed to feel.

The little girl is four years old, and already knows better than to let her mother see that anything she does hurts - except for discipline, which is supposed to. 

When Savvie and her guest keep chatting about the little girl’s waves of curly brown hair, she doesn’t wriggle, or shift, or move at all. She only allows her head to be turned, sitting perfectly still in her lap, a slight, faint smile fixed on her face.

She has learned how her smile should look from her father, who knows just how to keep them as safe as he can.

When her chin is moved to the left, so that the woman might admire the beautiful floral clip that looks like stained-glass against a creamy white background, set off by the dark of her hair, she is made to look right at her father.

He’s busy getting the tiny cakes and sandwiches ready for her mother and her mother's friend to eat, pouring their champagne and orange juice into fancy tall glasses, settling a small orange slice just so along the rim. His hair is styled, too, with some kind of product in it to fall a little bit over his forehead and one eye, and he wears a dark blue turtleneck sweater - they call them jumpers where her dad is from, he tells her that during their times alone when they can share secrets, in the single room in the house where her mother never follows - and pressed slacks. Her mother picks their clothes for when people come, for her, and her father.

Her mother chooses everything, overwhelms her, is the terrifying center of all of her fears. Her mother is the storm that knocks down tree branches and the snow that makes the house creak as it piles up. She's the wind that sounds like ghosts whistling through the attic. Her mother is the sharp fangs and claws that reach out from her dark closet, from the space under her bed, while she is left alone all night with no one but her teddy bear to hold onto.

It’s only in her father that the little girl finds hope. And even he can't give her anything until Savvie's storms have passed. 

She watches his hands move, scarred and roughly calloused hands that have laid gentle against her forehead to check for fevers and held her tight when she has bad dreams, to set each small bite-sized morsel just how Savvie will like it. He’s not really looking, though. His eyes are on her, on the little girl, and not her mother, or her mother’s fancy cakes. 

Save me, the little girl tries to beg with just her eyes alone, without losing the small smile, but she knows he can’t do anything, not really. If he tries, especially in front of guests, her mother will demand he get down on his knees for discipline.

He’ll try to hide how much the big black necklace he has to wear hurts him when she presses the button to the remote she always wears around her wrist.

He won’t be able to hide how it hurts for long. 

It’ll be her fault, too. If her mother has to punish him for wanting to help. The little girl is always told that it’s her fault after he is shaking on the ground, made to say she’s sorry. She dreams about her father in trouble, getting disciplined, because of her.

Because it happens all the time.

So she folds her hands together even more tightly, until it hurts, and keeps her smile perfectly in place, watching her father look back at her, both of them utterly helpless.

All he does is swallow beneath the big black necklace, and keep moving the little cakes onto the special fine china plates, scalloped edges with pretty gold paint flowers in their middles. 

The little girl loves the way the fancy plates look, but she is not allowed to touch them. When her father sets the plates down, one in front of her mother and one in front of her mother’s guest, she knows better than to reach for a tiny cake herself. 

"Bella, you should tell Miss Gladia thank you for saying such nice things, sweetheart." Her mother’s voice is sickly-sweet, fake with love she doesn’t really feel, and the little girl turns back to the guest who sits across the table and wonders what she said that was so nice.

She can’t let her mother find out she wasn’t listening, or she will be disciplined again, or her father will, and both of those possibilities are terrifying and bad and she has to be a better child, make it better, be perfect, be good. She has to be perfect all the time, forever, she can never ever stop or he will be hurt, because of her.

Again.

Her fingers tremble and she forces them to go still by closing them into tiny fists where they can’t be seen, just like her father does. Be perfect be perfect be perfect be perfect be-

“Thank you, Miss Gladia, that’s very kind,” She says in her high piping voice, widening her smile a little to show how grateful she is, pretending she has any idea what either of them said with all her hope and heart. Praying her mother believes that she means it.

She watches her father place the guest’s plate down across the little circular table, how he doesn’t look at her. It’s too dangerous, she knows that, for him to show that he loves her in front of her mother. Too dangerous, at least, when her mother is pretending to love her, too. 

He can’t help, but he’s here, and that makes it a little bit better.

She can smell, just a little, the cologne her father has to wear when her mother says so, blending with her mother’s overwhelming perfume, making her head spin and her stomach flip. She doesn’t want to eat, but her mother rewards her for saying the right thing by finger-feeding her a bite of one of the tiny cakes.

She can’t say she doesn’t want them, she doesn’t dare. Instead, she opens her mouth and bites down, feeling the burst of sugar-sweet and slight press of teeth through thick frosting layered over in pastel pinks and creams, little sugar flower on top crunching between top and bottom teeth.

She tries to enjoy it, but everything just tastes like being afraid.

“Thank you, Mommy,” She says, and Savvie laughs like it’s so ridiculous that she’s so polite, but if she doesn’t say it now she’ll be in trouble later.

“Bella, what good manners you have,” Miss Gladia says, and the girl smiles like she’s embarrassed and looks down, shy, as she is fed another bite. Her hands hurt in her palms from her fingernails digging in. “You’re doing such a good job with her, Sav.”

“Oh, I hardly have to do a thing,” Savvie says brightly. “Bella really just came out like this, she hardly ever cried even as a baby.”

The little girl doesn’t tell them that she hates being called Bella, it doesn’t feel like her name at all. When she and her father are alone, he calls her Izzy, and she likes that best. Izzy is a safe name, Izzy is a girl who is safe in the bright room with her father telling her their secret stories about the life he lived before, a whole big world the little girl will never be allowed to see, making promises the little girl already knows he can’t keep. 

Izzy is the safe girl - Bella is the girl who must walk on ice that cracks beneath her feet, knowing if it breaks she won’t be the one who falls in. Her father will. 

“Oh, you must be so proud of her,” Miss Gladia says, and takes a drink of the fizzy orange juice that the little girl can’t have because it has champagne in it, which is a grown-up drink that spark and fizzes and pops when her father opens it in the kitchen, the cork bouncing off the ceiling or wall, and she and her father sometimes feel safe enough to laugh, there. 

Sometimes. If her mother is far enough away in the house that she won’t hear them.

“Well, I am, of course,” Savvie says, waving one hand to dismiss the thought. She takes a drink of her own special grown-up orange juice and neither of them offers the little girl anything. Her plastic sippycup is somewhere else in the house. It ruins the look of the table, Savvie said earlier. She will be thirsty until she’s allowed to leave the room.

Her tongue sticks thick to the roof of her mouth from the sugar and dense cake. She feels the need to wriggle, to shift, growing inside of her and has to quash it down, breathing a little bit faster, trying to keep it so silent that her mother will be too distracted to notice. She tries to focus on her hands, the only part of her that is free to move, squeezing them tight and relaxing and then squeezing again. 

“... or I would be,” Savvie corrects, one hand on the little girl’s back. It looks like affection - it’s a promise, a threat, a danger. The little girl straightens her spine even more, until her back hurts, and she doesn’t say a thing. “If she didn’t have the worst tin ear.”

“Oh, really?” Miss Gladia sighs and shakes her head. “That is disappointing, coming from such a musical family.”

“Must have gotten it from her father,” Savvie says, long-suffering, and the little girl feels the tiniest bloom of warmth inside of her, that there is any part of her that is her father’s, and not her mother’s. Any part at all. “When I was four I was already able to play anything easy, really, and practicing five days a week. My daughter can’t even do a scale. Believe me, I have tried. She’s honestly been a bit of a disappointment from day one. No amount of encouragement has helped.”

The little girl thinks of her mother screaming at her to try harder, her tiny fingers fumbling and dropping the violin, wailing with fear at the rage in her mother’s face.

“I mean, you’d think she is choosing to be bad at music on purpose, some days.”

She’s scared of music, now. She is choosing to be bad at it on purpose. 

The little girl remembers the discipline after she dropped the violin (it was an accident, she didn’t mean to, only she was just scared). She’s too scared to even touch the violin now, or the big piano in another room, she shakes and cries and her mother finally stopped trying.

She can’t make herself safe - but she can hide this one small thing, and that’s a little bit safer, even if it’s not very much.

Remembering, she has to blink back the threat of tears. Tears are even worse than being ungrateful. She can’t let the guest see them, she can’t.

"Oh, sweetie, are you all right?"

The little girl's stomach drops, and she tries to will the tears in her eyes away, but it’s no use - her mother’s finger and thumb grip her chin tight enough to pinch as her head is turned for Savvie’s inspection, her bright eyes roaming over her daughter’s face, seeing the glimmer, the flush, the way she is biting on her lip to hide how they tremble. 

“Are you crying, Bella?” Savvie asks, and her voice is mild, but the little girl can hear the threat there, anyway, the coldness underneath. So can her father - she can see him, in the corner of her eye, go suddenly still where he was moving to clear the serving trays away and back to the kitchen. “Why would you be crying, lovie?”

Love in all its forms is a bad word. Lovie is the name for when the little girl is bad, I love you is what her mother says before she makes her father scream his apologies and what she says while petting his hair afterward and making him let her hold him until his shaking stops. You’re so loved is what she whispers when her hands close tight around Izzy in what she thinks is a hug.

Now that the tears are here, they won’t be stopped, and she shudders as they run down still-chubby cheeks and drip to leave watermarks on her pretty silk dress. Her breath hitches in her desperate attempt to hold them back, and her hands are fisted into the silk until her palms burn with pain from her fingernails and still she can’t stop. 

“I-I don’t know, M-Mommy, I thought-... ab-about something sc-scary is all, is-... I’m s-sorry, I thought about a movie, scar-... scary movie-”

She and her father have talked about what to say, practiced it - make it my fault, keep yourself safe - and the words fall off her tongue like she means them and for a second she thinks her mother will calm. The press of her hand on the little girl’s back lightens, and she smiles, and her eyes twinkle, so big and bright, and the black parts in the center are so small. 

“Well, Daddy shouldn’t be letting you watch those, should he?” She asks, playfully teasing, and looks up to her friend. “Honestly, what was he thinking?”

“Who knows?” Miss Gladia laughs, and her voice is kind, but the little girl hates her for seeing her tears, for making her have to tell the lie.

Then her mother’s eyes fall to the spots on her dress caused by her tears, and the hand on her back is suddenly pressing hard again. “Bella, what did you do?” Savvie keeps her voice light, airy, hardly bothered, but it’s a trick and the little girl’s eyes go wide to her father, who stands silent, watching them. She wants to see that he will save her.

She knows already that he can’t.

“I’m sorry,” She tries again, sometimes if she can apologize fast enough the danger passes, like a cloud moving away from the sun. This time, though, her mother’s smile stays brittle and she is bundled into Savvie’s arms as she stands. 

“I’ll just take her to change and have some time elsewhere while we finish our visit. Do you mind waiting here for just a second, Gladia?”

“Of course not, Sav. I’ve plenty of mimosas and I have a phone, I’ll be fine.” Miss Gladia laughs and waves them away, and Savvie holds the little girl so tightly she aches as she carries her out of the room. 

Why doesn’t anyone ever notice that she’s scared of her mother? If they notice, why don’t they care? Her cousins aren’t scared of their parents, they fight and throw fits while the little girl sits silent, watching them.

The difference is only that her father has the big black necklace, and none of theirs do. It’s the difference between being safe to have feelings and having to watch each and every one to make sure it’s only ever perfect. 

The little girl is good; she doesn’t start to cry again until they reach the second floor, where the bedrooms are, and she realizes what her punishment will be.

“Savvie-” She raises her head, eyes streaming tears, to see her father following on her mother’s heels, his eyes locked on her even as he says her mother’s name. “Savvie, don’t, it’s not her fault, I can-... I know how to f-fix it-”

“You can’t get a water stain out of silk. Honestly, crying in front of guests, Bella, what is wrong with you?” Savvie’s voice is sharp, now that Miss Gladia is out of earshot. “Jax, get something for her to wear when she comes out of time-out.”

The little girl panics, then, wriggling to try and escape her mother’s arms, only to feel them tighten around her until it feels like metal closing around over her ribs. Her voice goes even higher-pitched, airy and breathless. “No, no, don’t put me in time out, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t do it please!”

“Every single word you say will only make me put you in time out for longer, Bella,” Savvie snaps, and the little girl falls into a wail she muffles by burying her face in her mother’s neck, solid as stone, no comfort to be found. “Jax, I said get her a change of clothes ready.”

“Yes, Savvie, but-... another dress for company, or-”

“No.” Savvie stops in front of a door, and it’s not the little girl’s bedroom door. She raises her teary head to blink, confused. It’s painted pale blue gray instead of the pastel pink of her own door, and Savvie pulls an old-fashioned key from her pocket and unlocks it, swinging it open.

“No,” The little girl whimpers. “Please, no.”

It’s the monster room - a huge old room full of furniture covered in big draping canvas cloth that looks like each is hiding something terrible underneath, the room the little girl is most afraid of. Heavy drapes keep out all the light but the tiniest sliver that cuts across the floor, and dust floats through the air.

The monster room is the worst room in the whole house, and it’s the only room she’s too scared of to go in there herself, and her mother knows it. She knows it, but the little girl wasn’t perfect this time, and she has to be disciplined if she isn’t perfect.

The little girl feels a new fresh burst of tears, lower lip trembling, and pulls in a breath just as Savvie says, “If you start crying again, Bella, I’ll leave you here all night.”

The little girl’s sob catches in the middle of her throat and she fights to swallow it, snapping her mouth closed and forcing her hands over it to press so hard her teeth ache, trying to tell herself she has to be brave. Brave and strong and not make much noise while she is hurting, like her father does. She sniffs hard, audibly hard, and slowly nods to show she’s listening, she’s trying, she can be good. “Yes, Mommy,” She whispers, an echo of her father’s eternal Yes, Savvie, which sometimes stops the violence.

“Savvie,” her father says from behind her, a new urgency in his voice. “Savvie, she can’t be left alone, n-not all night, she needs to eat.”

“There’s a bathroom in there and she’s potty-trained. If she cared so much about eating, she wouldn’t have embarrassed me in front of a guest.” Savvie carries her inside and the little girl is tense in her arms, clinging tightly to her terrifying mother and staring with giant desperate panicked eyes over the woman’s shoulder at her father, who wants to but cannot help her. “She should know better than to cry in front of guests. She can cry in here all she wants, nobody will hear it.”

“I will.”

“I’m not worried about that, you have work to do.” She pries the little girl’s arms off of her and drops her, unceremoniously, onto the dusty off-white cloth pulled over the bed. The girl whimpers as she hits the rough canvas and pulls herself up to curl into the tiniest ball she can manage, feeling horribly small, afraid, and alone, even before they’re gone.

“Pl-please don’t leave me,” She tries, in her smallest voice. “Mommy, please.”

Her mother’s eyes are cold and unfeeling when she spares the little girl a single final glance. “Don’t get tears on silk and I won’t,” Savvie says, and then points back out the door. “Go, Jax. I’ll let you know when you can come get her back out. Have her clothes ready.”

Her father looks at her, at the frightened child with her knees pulled up to her chin and ruffled ankle socks and patent leather shoes showing under the hem of her dress, tears making her face ruddy and shining, the wide eyes that beg him for some kind of saving, and then back at the woman who calls herself his wife. “Savvie, please, does she - does she have to be alone in here?”

“That’s the whole entire point, Jax. I said go.” Her mother’s voice switches from the cold hard edges to a sudden sweet softness, turning to slide arms around her father’s waist, leaning into him and nuzzling against his face, seeking a kiss. The genuine affection the girl is denied, her father receives, but he doesn’t relax. He allows it, that’s all. “She’ll be fine, sweetie. Besides, James’ll be up from his nap soon, don’t you want someone around to take care of him?”

The little girl isn’t old enough yet to understand that her mother is laying a new threat, to treat her little brother the same way she is treated. But she sees her father’s tension rise. 

She can’t understand the unbearable, awful calculation he has to do, deciding which of them can handle her cruelty the best. It will be years before she can grasp how it must have felt for him, having to choose the infant who is utterly helpless over the daughter who has already learned to live in constant fear. She can’t understand, in this moment, that the torture that cuts deepest is how Savvie forces him to leave one to save the other, over and over again.

All she knows, then, is that he never seems to choose her. She can’t see that it’s not really a choice at all.

She only sees her father’s jaw set, his eyes lower, before he turns to her and says, gently, “I’ll be back as soon as I can, Isabella,” and leaves, her mother right behind him. The key turns in the lock.

She is locked in the monster room, one tiny little girl, all alone.

She starts to cry in earnest once they are gone, wailing her fear and some small slim spark of anger that has yet to be extinguished. She screams and begs them to come back, promises to be so good, but no one comes back for her, and the shadows in the room have eyes.

This isn’t fair. She tried her hardest but she can’t be expected to never cry, and she leans over and smooths her skirt out and lets all her tears fall on the silk, ruining and ruining it.

She hates all her dresses, anyway. Dresses are stupid, another bad word she isn’t supposed to say, dresses are stupid and she hates them. They suck. They’re crap. They look stupid and she hopes all her dresses will get water stained and dirt-stained and gross.

The anger grows, a comforting flame to hold back the teeth and claws she is terrified of, and it takes over her tiny body. 

She yanks the clip that holds her hair out and throws it as hard as she can, watches it bounce off the wall, throws her stupid shiny black shoes and balls up her socks to throw those and then she says every single curse word she’s ever heard her father say under his breath when her mother isn’t listening, and all the words he’s said in front of her, too. 

She screams the words, until her throat aches, until her voice rasps, until her muscles are all standing out pressing on her bones, until she can’t hear her heart anymore, because the anger is bigger than her body, and her mother can’t hear her to punish her for feeling it.

Then, the anger is gone and she is still here, and she starts to cry again. The cloth sways like there are bodies underneath, whispering voices she can’t quite understand, and she is too scared to get down and feel the claws of something under the bed reaching out to pull her in.

Something creaks, like monster-steps, and she half-screams, but no one is coming. No one ever comes to help her, not until her mother thinks she’s sorry enough for whatever she’s done.

The little girl lays down on her side and makes herself very small and prays and prays and prays that she won’t be eaten by the monsters before time-out is over. Her body shakes with sobs and the canvas underneath her head grows damp with her tears.

Somewhere in her praying, she falls asleep.

The next thing she knows is drifting awake to find her father’s warm arms already holding her, her cheek resting on his shoulder, her forehead just touching the black nylon on the side of his neck. The sliver of light through the big dark drapes has gone golden and weak, as the sun starts to set. Her stomach feels empty and sick, and she sniffs as he walks back out into the hallway. “D-Dad-”

“It’s all right, Izzy,” He whispers, and she relaxes into the safe nickname. If he’s using it, it means Savvie isn’t here, or she’s far enough that she won’t overhear them. “It’s all right, it’s over.”

He doesn’t smell like cologne anymore. He must have scrubbed it off. He just smells like him, now, and the little girl, still half-asleep, smiles. She likes the way he smells, all on his own, just shampoo and laundry detergent and the only kind of love that’s safe. 

“Sorry I was bad,” She mumbles, voice still slurred with sleepiness, and nuzzles into the big black necklace he wears around his neck, the one her mother uses to hurt him. She has never, in her whole life, seen him not wearing it. “I’m sorry, Dad. S-sorry I wasn’t good-”

“You’re perfect.”

Her father’s voice suddenly has an edge to it, a fierce insistence. His body shakes, muscles going tight and then relaxing. He must have made her mother mad, after she was locked in time out. Or maybe she had just wanted to hurt him for no reason - she does that sometimes, too. “D’you hear me, Izzy? You’re absolutely fucking perfect. She just can’t see it. She can’t-... see it. You did nothing wrong. I’ve got some-... some dinner for you, in your room, and James is in there with his blocks. Do you want to eat, play for a while before bed?”

Her stomach growls, answering for her, and she nods a little, sliding her arms up and around his neck. “Is-... is Mom gone?”

“She’s in her room. She won’t come and see you tonight.”

The little girl breathes a sigh of relief. She can just be Izzy, now, for the whole rest of the night until bedtime. If her mother doesn’t come see her, she can be safe, for just a little while, with her father and little brother, and she can pretend that’s all the family she has.

“I’ll be better next time, Dad, I promise.” 

His voice is heavy with an emotion she isn’t old enough to understand as he answers, “You shouldn’t have to be, Izzy.”

“But I do have to be.” She sniffs a little, and flinches with instinctive fear at hearing herself make a sound her mother hates. Her father’s arms only tighten around her in response, and she reminds herself, heart pounding, that she’s safe, for now. “I try, Dad, I try to be a good kid, I do. I try so hard.”

“I know you do.” He kisses the top of her head, briefly coming to a standstill, his body still giving the occasional all-over shiver, what her mother calls ‘aftershocks’. “You try your hardest. But even if you didn’t, it wouldn’t matter, not to me. You’re good all the time.”

“I’m good?”

“Yeah, Izzy. You’re…” Her father sighs, and holds her so tight she almost can’t breathe, but unlike when her mother does it, when her father does she feels, for just a second, like nothing in the whole world can hurt her at all. 

Her smile, hidden still against his neck, is wider than it ever is with anyone else. 

“You’re the best. And I’m going to get you and your brother out of here. I promise.”

She doesn’t hear how carefully he promises to save her and her brother, but never promises to save himself, too.

---

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @wildfaewhump @whumpiary @whump-tr0pes @moose-teeth @orchidscript @sableflynn @pretty-face-breaker @raigash @vickytokio @eatyourdamnpears

[selfetishizing]

In which Eiji grossly overestimates the amount of mandarins he and Ash can eat. / 🍊 / ao3

Eiji comes home with a carton of mandarins and drops them at the entrance step with a dull thump.

“It was a good deal,” he tells Ash between breaths. “Ten kilograms for six thousand yen.” And then something about Mikan mandarins being nothing like those Floridian jokes for citrus and how the season for them is coming to a close. Ash never asked in the first place. It was as though he was defending himself from something before Ash could even open his mouth.

“Okay.” Ash kisses him on the cheek and helps him out of his coat, always in that order. Eiji stands on his toes, balancing himself with the cords of Ash’s sweater to aim another on his mouth. Ash leans down to help him, unconsciously souring his expression as he pulls back. “Have one on your way home?” He kisses him again for surety and, well, sure enough, his lips taste like they had been doused with Tang.

“A couple. Two couples.”

Ash whistles. “Dang. These oranges must be somethin’.”

"Mandarins, Ash. Mandarins. Not that I’d know the difference,” he sighs. “Oranges, mandarins... They're all kind of the same aren't they? Maybe it's about the size, the firmness, the peel. Maybe it's about the taste. All I know is that mandarins are like candy, and whatever this is,” Eiji pushes his chest out and wildly gesticulates to the accursed box before them, “is not it. These must be clementines from— oh, I don't know!— Pensa-fucking-cola!” He erupts all at once, shooting up like a thermometer on a dog day June afternoon and fizzling out like cola foam.

Eiji leans back against the door and Ash on the bannister. They stare at it, Eiji with utter disdain and Ash with morbid curiosity. Like a pack of Tic Tacs magnified by one hundred, he muses.

Ash crouches down to pick one of the mandarins up. Eiji moves in accordance, hand reaching out as if to stop him— that the fruit would poison him if he so much as hovered over it. Despite this silent warning, Ash grabs three and plays court jester for His Highness.

He juggles.

He juggles and he absolutely sucks at it while Eiji watches in complete horror; seeing the mandarins not as mandarins, but clipped grenades ready to blow the very hands that handled it. The color had gone from his face. He is but a pale sheet reflecting the warm hue of the ball pit that tormented him from below.

Eiji flashes him a mortified look. What the hell do you think you're doing?

Ash concentrates. Trying not to mess up.

Eiji frowns. This isn’t funny.

Ash almost cries. Yeah it is.

And he messes up.

The mandarins drop to the floor, sad little balls with not a lot of roll in them. Their eyes trace them as they huddle next to the box, like they had desperately wanted to go home and out of the reach of these two men that were belittling them.

Defeated, Eiji's back slides down the door. He holds his head in his hands.

“I miscalculated,” he says exasperatedly. “What are we going to do with all of these oranges?”

“Mandarins.”

“Mandarins.”

Ash sits level with him on the first step, eyes gleaming with warrior morale. He grabs the enemy and thrusts his fingers unto him, peeling them from their leathery armor. Ash— the fearless brute!— sections his enemy into eighths and tears into their head, innards spilling down his chin. In savage fashion, he wipes their juices with the back of his hand, going as far as offering their remains to Eiji. He grins. “We’re gonna eat ‘em.”

──────────⊹⊱🍊⊰⊹──────────

The sun slowly filters through bleary eyes and he sees a blob of Eiji watching him, head propped on both elbows. Ash hums as Eiji runs his hands through his hair, neither awake or asleep.

“An angel,” he murmurs, grasping his wrist and pulling him in. He presses his lips on the inside of his arm.

“Not quite.” Eiji climbs over him, heartbeats tethered. He smooches his jaw, laces their hands loosely. “Your worst nightmare, actually. A real devil with horns and a pitchfork.”

“Oh no.” Ash wraps an arm around Eiji’s waist, keeping them fixed together. He aims— bullseye!— for his lips, scrunching his nose when he tastes him on his tongue. “Oh no.” Mandarines today. Tangerines yesterday. Clementines the day before.

The wisps of Eiji’s hair tickle his skin as he laughs into his chest. “Told you so.”

“Sugar, you’re sour!”

“You really won’t like what’s for breakfast then.” Eiji rests his cheek against his shoulder, looking up from behind his lashes. Ash stares at him, the world in his eyes. It's enough to mask his disappointment.

“Again?”

“Yes, again. It was your idea."

“Can’t I have you for breakfast?”

“No, silly. That would be cannibalism.”

“But you’d be so delicious." Ash brings their held hands to his mouth, playfully biting one of Eiji’s fingers. Oranges. Of course it tastes like oranges. “Actually, on second thought....”

“Poor thing,” patronizes Eiji, patting his head like he’s the star player of a losing team. “You poor, poor thing.”

“You’re evil,” Ash whispers.

“I know, and you’re absolutely mad about me for it.” Eiji winks and untangles himself from Ash’s cling. He swipes his bangs up and pecks him on the forehead. “It’s waiting for you downstairs.”

“‘It?’ What is ‘it?'”

Eiji is already out the door, down the hall before he can answer.

Ash rolls himself up with linen wraps and lays lax in their unmade bed, ruler of this citrus peel mausoleum. He curses to himself, at the sun, at his sweet-turned-sourheart. He wishes it was the weekend. Then, he'd have an excuse to stay in bed all day and never leave their room. He'd be able to snack on all the Eiji he wants without burning the roof of his mouth with acid fruit.

──────────⊹⊱🍊⊰⊹──────────

The low table is dressed with white lace placemats and their finest floral china— courtesy of Missus Mom Okumura. A carafe is the centerpiece, replacing the vase of lilies Ash had bought Eiji when he went into town. Ash looks through the glass, Eiji’s head bobbing in the saffron pool.

“Come sit,” beckons Eiji, motioning to the cushion adjacent to him. His smile is distorted by pulp. Cautiously, Ash enters. He keeps it cool, keeps it blasé as he shuffles his feet inside with his knuckles tucked into the waistband of his brief, elbows pointed outward. There, his place is set with wooden chopsticks and their granite stopper. And lo and behold, the main course’s presentation is that of a rose, blooming from its peel. He should’ve known.

“You’re joking.”

Ash would've laughed had the situation not been so ridiculous.

“I wish I was.”

“How is it that we have an infinite arsenal of mandarins?”

“Not infinite. The box is almost empty.”

“It took us four days of constant snacking to get to this point.”

“And it will take us one more to finish it.”

Ash points an accusatory finger at him. “You’re crazy if you think I’m gonna stuff myself with another one of those. My shit is literally orange.”

“Put me in a sanatorium then.” Eiji slides the plate in his direction. “Breakfast is served.”

──────────⊹⊱🍊⊰⊹──────────

Ash always liked train rides in Japan, liked how silent it was, and the comforting voice of the announcer telling them they’d arrived at their destination. Living in the countryside meant sprawling fields for hours until they reached the city, a scene Ash never seemed to tire of. A cow would greet him for a second before they were replaced by some grandpa with muddied ankles, before he was replaced by a young girl on a Tiffany blue bell bike, before she was replaced with…

As he stares out the window, he can see Eiji, sitting across from him cross-legged, peeling another offending mandarin. Ash sighs, trying to immerse himself back into his one-man game of I Spy. Eiji wins his attention again— he always does— and so Ash settles on watching Eiji’s reflection behind him.

Eiji always starts at the middle and digs his thumbs into the peel, pulling its skin off as if he were undressing it. Erotic, Ash thinks fleetingly. He strips it sensually, letting it unfurl into a sproutling. Juice drips down his hand when he carelessly breaks into its flesh. Eiji licks up from his wrist, the heel of his palm and sucks on a finger. Naughty, naughty. Ash smiles into his sleeve, letting the thought float up in his head and burst into a million soap bubbles.

Finally, for once this week, his mouth waters, parched. Ash supposes this is what it means to be in love. Even the most mundane of tasks can look enticing if your other half is doing it. He’s sure he’ll be over the moon about this snapshot scene for the rest of the month. He’ll count the replays of Eiji in the train instead of sheep just before slumber, ensuring him tender dreams.

“It’s a lucky sweet one.” Telepathic. Eiji seems to know exactly what he wants.

Ash nods.

Eiji breaks it into fourths, a fourth into a half. Instead of giving him a section, Eiji rises from his seat to sit beside Ash; crosses his legs, leans in, opens his mouth to say “aaaah” as he feeds him. Ash devours, nips his nail.

“There’s people in this car,” Eiji whispers sharply, eyes darting left and right. A man is reading the paper— a huge parrotfish is its cover story. There’s a teenage boy in the back fiddling with his phone, neon lights of his game reflecting softly on his face. A woman Ash presumes worked the night shift is sound asleep.

“No one’s looking.” Ash wraps an arm around him and scooches closer. “Quickly.”

Eiji, Mister Goody-Two-Shoes, puffs his cheek and scans the area one more time, switching his gaze from Ash’s mischievous stare to his near-empty surroundings. He surrenders and angles his head up, eyes closed, waiting, aching. Ash captures him.

“You taste like Sunday morning,” Ash coos, supping the remnants of his juice-glossed lips.

“Ever the poet.” Eiji, blushing, concentrates on turning more quarters into halves. “We still have four of these left. Hopefully they taste just as sweet.”

Ash is sure they will be.

He wouldn’t mind eating mandarins for the rest of his life so long as Eiji is peeling them for him.

[jaskierswolf]

You Set My Heart Ablaze (24/25)

Previous

Warnings: Jaskier has a small panic attack in this chapter, but Geralt helps him through it. The whole thing is barely a paragraph.

_______

Saturday.

Finally!

The first day of the summer holidays! Jaskier had barely been able to resist throwing his arms around Geralt the day before when the fireman had come to collect Ciri after school but they’d both agreed that they should at least try to wait until the weekend. So he’d forcibly stuffed his hands in his pockets and shuffled on his feet. He couldn’t help the dazzling smile he flashed at Geralt but at least he managed to keep his hands to himself.

But that was now a thing of the past.

He sat up in bed with more energy than he’d had in the mornings in years. He pushed his glasses up his nose and ran a hand through his hair as he searched for his phone within the pile of sheets. He found the bastard under one of his pillows and immediately rang Geralt without looking at the time.

It rang a few times before Geralt picked up.

“The fuck?” Geralt grumbled into the phone.

Jaskier frowned and pulled the phone away from his ear so he could look at the time. “Oh shit!” He cackled and then put the phone on speaker. “Sorry, darling. I’m still on school time.”

“Jaskier, you’re never on school time, even during term time,” Geralt muttered.

“Oh shush. I just wanted to say that I love you!” He trilled happily.

Geralt grunted.

“Oh ho ho! Aren’t you a grumpy arse this morning?” Jaskier giggled and rolled onto his back, planting his legs up against the wall.

“Fuck off.”

“No! Because it is the school holidays and I, Jaskier Pankratz, love you, Geralt Rivia.” He sighed wistfully.

“Hmm.”

“Geralt!” He whined.

He knew the fireman was tired but he could at least say it back once. The fucker.

“Love you too, now can I get back to sleep?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Yes, dear heart, but call me when you’re awake, alright?”

“Fine.”

The line went dead.

The bastard.

He considered going back to sleep himself but he had too much energy. He jumped out of bed, tripping over his shoes that were on the floor right by his bed, and went flailing across the room.

“Oh cock!” He cursed as he landed, rather painfully, against the door. He would probably have a lovely bruise on the hip that crashed against the wall, but it was better than landing on his wrists and breaking them.

He sort of needed those to play his instruments.

He supposed he could always just sing.

Nah. That was shit.

Plus Priscilla would kill him if he couldn’t finish up the new album. He still had at least one lute track to put down, and even though she could play the lute, he was more skilled and she preferred to focus on the singing. She’d complained enough about his insistence on using the lute over the guitar on this album but he’d refused to back down. He had a vision!

So fuck the guitar.

He sighed and straightened his glasses, frowning as he noticed the smudges on the lenses. How the fuck were they already dirty? He’d only cleaned them last night before bed.

Fuck it.

Pancakes!

Ooh he could make the chocolate chip kind and send photos to Geralt. They had an unspoken rule that one did not make chocolate chip pancakes without photographic evidence unless they were both there to enjoy it. He frowned as he reached the edge of his living/kitchen area, and stuck his tongue between his lips. Maybe he should wait until he could make pancakes with Geralt and Ciri? He didn’t want to make them too often. They wouldn’t be special if he made them too often.

He scoffed. “Yeah, well. I’m hungry.” He muttered. He gazed longingly at the flour and sugar on the top shelf of his cupboards and then grabbed a box of chocolate cereal instead.

Yes he still ate chocolate cereal. The boring old flakey stuff was shit and he actually had taste buds. He preferred his food to not taste like cardboard.

Gods, how was he an adult?

He sighed and scrolled through the social media on his phone. Triss had put up a few pictures from the pub the night before. He’d reluctantly declined the invitation as the wolves were going along, even though Geralt had stayed behind to look after Ciri. There were quite a few of Triss and Eskel pulling funny faces at the camera, and one adorable photo of Triss kissing his cheek. Eskel looked incredibly happy. They were cute together. Jaskier hit the heart button and typed out a string of heart-eyes emojis in the comments.

Even Yennefer had put up a rare personal post. She normally kept her social media for her art stuff  but there was a stunning photograph of her outside the pub. She was wearing a long white chiffon  dress matched with a leather jacket and heavy leather boots, not exactly summery but it was Yennefer. She was gazing off to the side, her face lit by dull glow of the street lamps, one fiery violet eye almost glowing in the darkness.

Jaskier pouted. How was she so fucking photogenic all the time? Seriously how was Geralt now dating him after that?

“Urgh,” he groaned and hit the heart button.

JaskierTheBard: Stop making us all look bad, Yennefer! Stunning photograph darling x

He reread the reply twice and hit send. It was kinder than he usual response to Yennefer but honestly he had to admit she was a little bit sexy in that one, which just wasn’t fair.

Renfri had posted a group photo of the whole gang and he whined. It looked like a fun night. Stupid Philippa and her rules. It wasn’t fair that he had to miss out, but thankfully those days were officially over!

He lost track of time as he scrolled on his phone. He swore as he suddenly remembered his cereal. He groaned as he peered into his bowl. The milk was chocolatey and the cereal had all but disintegrated. He fucking hated soggy cereal.

“Cock,” he muttered and threw the whole lot in the bin.

He was about to put some toast on when his door bell rang. He yelped and jumped at the sound. He looked down at himself. He was still just wearing his boxers. Fuck. He ran to his bedroom and grabbed his dressing gown. It was too hot really to wear it in the summer but he wouldn’t have time to get dressed.

As it turned out, he needn’t have bothered. Geralt was at the door holding a bunch of roses with a sheepish smile on his face.

Jaskier grinned. “Geralt!” He flung his arms around his boyfriends neck and then swore as he realised he was probably crushing the flowers. “Umm, let me just go get some water. Wait. These are for me? They are beautiful. Geralt!” He whined and covered his face in his hands.

Geralt, the fucker, just laughed at him. “They’re for you. I thought… well, Ciri said I couldn’t go on a date without flowers. She was really stubborn about it.”

Jaskier snorted and carefully took the flowers from Geralt. They weren’t too badly crushed, thank Melitele for that. “I wonder where she gets that from,” he teased.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Calanthe, her grandmother. Even Pavetta had a stubborn streak. Trust me, this one has nothing to do with me.”

Jaskier’s eyes went wide. “Oh shit! I’m sorry. I forgot. I didn’t mean… hmmph!”

Geralt had kissed him.

Not that he was complaining. He smiled into the kissed and then pulled back to gaze into Geralt’s beautiful amber eyes.

“You don’t get to do that every time you want me to shut up, dearest,” he chided gently.

Geralt smirked and just kissed him again.

Ok so perhaps he could.

Gods he was so smitten.

“I love you,” he breathed against Geralt’s lips when they finally pulled apart.

Geralt brushed his nose against Jaskier’s. “I love you too, even if you do have morning breath.”

Jaskier gasped and shoved against Geralt’s chest. “Rude!” He pouted.

“You love me,” Geralt reminded him. “How are you not dressed yet? You’ve been awake for hours.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Internet.”

“Come on, get dressed. I want to take you out.” Geralt instructed with a tilt of his head.

Jaskier laughed. “Take me out how? Kill me or date me? Honestly I’m down for both.”

“Jaskier!” Geralt growled and rolled his eyes.

“Kill me, right. Got it,” he winked at his boyfriend. “Now are you absolutely sure you want me to get dressed? Because I have the perfect outfit to wear but once I’m in those jeans I am not taking them off again,” he stroked Geralt’s cheek with one finger and then bopped him on the nose.

“Hmm. Brush your teeth and I’ll get water for the flowers.” Geralt took the roses back off him. “Do you have a vase?”

Jaskier scoffed. “Of course I have a vase. I’m gay!”

“That’s not an excuse for everything, Jaskier, and I’m pretty sure you’re bi,” Geralt rolled his eyes.

Jaskier laughed. “That’s just homophobic.”

“That’s not—” Geralt cut himself off and pinched his nose. “Bathroom. Now. I’ll find the vase.”

Jaskier giggled happily and went to brush his teeth.

Oh sweetest Melitele! He loved the summer holidays!

__________________

After a few false starts they finally made it out of Jaskier’s flat. He was slightly regretting his choice in black skinny jeans but really they made his legs and arse look great. It was was his first proper date with Geralt and he wanted to look good. They both managed a quick shower and Jaskier braided Geralt’s hair to elevate his usual half up do. Geralt even let Jaskier slip a couple of buttercup clips into the braids.

Geralt was wearing the outfit he’d turned up it which Jaskier hadn’t managed to appreciate before but he could now as he gazed happily at his partner across the table. Geralt had also gone for black skinny jeans, thank you Freya, and a slick black short-sleeved shirt. Honestly Jaskier didn’t know how the man wasn’t boiling in the heat of the summer in all that black but he wasn’t going to complain. It was the first time he’d seen Geralt in a shirt and he was loving it.

In comparison Jaskier had decided on a bright turquoise shirt. He’d left the bottom few buttons undone and tied the ends in a knot to turn the shirt into a crop top. The intensity of Geralt’s gaze on him when he’d finally been allowed to see the whole look had almost cause yet another delay to their date but Jaskier had just winked and pulled his slightly dazed partner out of the flat, switching his glasses for his prescription sunglasses.

He had been far too hungry to delay any further and he wanted to go on a cute date with his boyfriend!

Geralt suggested an adorable little sandwich parlour. It didn’t look like much from the outside but inside it was cosy and quiet, a perfect lunchtime date spot.

Or it would have if they hadn’t been interrupt by Lambert and Renfri… again.

Seriously, every time they ended up in a coffee shop those two were there. They both had wet hair and flushed red faces. Jaskier assumed the pair of them had been at the gym. Geralt had mentioned they liked to spar together on the wolf pack’s days off, that and the work out clothes sort of gave them away.

“Well, well, well,” Lambert laughed as they approached and crossed his arms. “So much for Triss and Eskel’s theory of you moving on, Dandelion.”

Jaskier gaped at the redhead. “Wait what? Have you been talking about us?!” He pointed a finger at the pair of them.

Renfri rolled her eyes. “Do you honestly think they have anything better to do? I’ve had to keep my mouth shut for months whilst these idiots try and think of a plan to set you two up. Triss was heartbroken when you told her you’d moved on. She was really rooting for you guys.”

“Wait, you knew?” Lambert growled at Renfri, she just shoved him in the face.

“Of course I knew. It was fucking obviously. You just had to look at Geralt’s face whenever Jaskier was mentioned. He lit up like a petrol can.”

“Renfri,” Geralt sighed. “I wasn’t that bad.”

Renfri snorted and Jaskier cackled. Oh ho! He was going to have so much fun with this. He held Geralt’s hand over the top of the table and smiled at his lover. “Oh darling, I didn’t know you cared so much,” he simpered with a flutter of his eyelashes.

“I’m pretty sure I showed you how much I care this morning, more than once.”

Jaskier blushed and pulled his hand away. “Touché, dear heart, touché,” he licked his lips as he remembered the morning’s activities. “Please, feel free to remind me any time.”

“Nope!” Lambert yelled and covered his ears. “No. You are not going to be that couple. Urgh.”

“Months I’ve had to put up with this!” Renfri complained. “Come on, wolf. Let’s leave the love birds in peace. They’ll put me off my lunch otherwise.”

“So gross,” Lambert agreed.

Jaskier laughed as the pair of them scarpered from the shop, and he rested his head on his chin as he ate his chips. They were like the kind you get in fish and chip shops and covered in blessed salty goodness. Geralt, the monster that he was, covered his with vinegar so Jaskier wouldn’t steal his chips as well.

“So what’s their deal?” Jaskier asked though mouthfuls of delicious fried potato.

Geralt tilted his head, he also now had a mouthful of cheesesteak sandwich.

“They said they weren’t dating?” Jaskier tried to explain.

Geralt huffed and Jaskier waited for him to finish eating. “Renfri doesn’t date. She has no interest in it.”

Jaskier nodded. “Asexual?”

Geralt shook his head. “Don’t think so. Just the dating thing,” he scowled as he tried to formulate his thoughts. “I think she called it aromantic, but even then her and Lambert are practically siblings. They’d probably both stab you for suggesting anything else.”

“Right. Noted. Rather not be stabbed. I made it all the way through the school year. It would be a fucking shame if I got stabbed now,” he flicked his fringe from his eyes. “Especially when you look so bloody sexy in that shirt.”

Geralt scoffed. “Says the man wearing a crop top.”

Jaskier grinned and leant forward so his lips were almost touching Geralt’s. “It would look better on your bedroom floor, darling.”

Geralt’s eyes went dark and Jaskier kissed the tip of his nose. “But not yet. I’m starving and these chips are brilliant! I cannot believe you would ruin them with vinegar.”

Geralt groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re a fucking tease, Jaskier.”

Jaskier just laughed and brushed his foot up against Geralt’s leg under the table. “You love it,” he agreed with a wink.

“Hmm.”

“You doooo,” Jaskier insisted. “And you love me!”

“I admit nothing.”

“I’ll make it up to you later?” He flashed his most flirtatious grin at Geralt, rubbing his foot further up Geralt’s leg.

“Jask,” Geralt half moaned and Jaskier laughed at the pretty blush on Geralt’s cheek.

“Yes, dearest Geralt?” He sang, feigning innocence.

“I hate you.” His boyfriend groaned and hid his face behind his hands.

“I know, love. I know.”

____________________

Jaskier was busy pulling on one of Geralt’s hoodies that he’d pinched earlier on in their relationship, when Geralt sighed loudly. Jaskier bounced back over to the bed and straddled his boyfriend’s hips.

“What’s up, dear heart?” He said with a tilt of his head.

Geralt’s long hair was now loose. Jaskier had taken great delight in undoing his own work and letting the silver strands fall loosely by Geralt’s face. His hair was naturally wavy after a shower anyway but it had been accentuated where the braids had been, and by the gods, Geralt had looked so beautiful. He still did. Only now he had his grumpy face back on. Jaskier gently stroked his thumb along Geralt’s cheek, brushing a loose strand away from his eyes.

“We need to tell Ciri,” Geralt groaned.

“Already? I thought we were going to tell her we’re friends first.”

“Won’t work.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow and huffed. “And why not?”

“She’s too clever, and I love you,” Geralt grumbled.

Jaskier felt his smile soften at Geralt’s words and he shifted so he could lie back down on Geralt’s chest, nuzzling into the crook of Geralt’s neck. “And I love you, my dearest of hearts.”

“Hmm.” He felt Geralt kiss the top of his hair and he sighed happily.

“So we tell her when?”

“Come home with me?” Geralt suggested. “She knows I was on a date.”

“It has been a long date,” Jaskier hummed thoughtfully, and it really had. Geralt had arrived mid-morning at it was now late afternoon bordering on early evening. “Won’t she be worried about you?”

Geralt chuckled and Jaskier felt his heart race faster in his chest. Geralt’s laugh was so warm, rough and woefully underused. It always made Jaskier’s day when he could make Geralt laugh so freely. “Yennefer took her to the zoo. She thought we might need the extra time.”

Jaskier giggled. “I cannot imagine Yennefer Vengerberg at the zoo!” He laughed harder as he pressed his face against Geralt’s bare shoulder.

“Why?”

“Oh I don’t know,” he grinned, placing a kiss on Geralt’s shoulder. “She seems too classy for the zoo.”

Geralt threaded his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and he hummed in contentment. He’d always enjoyed it when his partners played with his hair. The gentle tug at his scalp just turned him to goo. If he was a cat he was sure he’d be purring. As it was he couldn’t stop the happy hum in his chest.

“No one is too classy for the zoo,” Geralt said with such sincerity that Jaskier let out a peal of laughter and rolled onto the mattress next to Geralt. He felt Geralt roll onto his side and their eyes met. Geralt was smirking at him with mirth in his eyes.

Jaskier was overwhelmed with the love that was in his heart. In reality his time with Geralt really hadn’t been that long at all but it had just been blissful. Their forbidden romance seemed to have extended their honeymoon period and he still felt as gooey over his boyfriend as he had the first time he’d seen Geralt enter his classroom ten months prior.

“Quite right, dear. I love the zoo,” he sighed longingly. It had been ages since he had been.

“Next time we’ll go.” Geralt suggested. “I like the animals.”

“Deal. Ooh does this mean I finally get to meet Roach?!” He cried in excitement, a smile lighting up his face.

Geralt nodded. “She doesn’t like new people though. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Jaskier reached over to kiss Geralt and then rest his forehead against Geralt’s. “Of course not, darling.”

“Good…” Geralt paused. “Darling.”

Jaskier’s heart clenched in his chest and he buried his face in one of the pillows of the bed, making sadly incoherent noises that he wasn’t proud of. “Geralt!!” He whined pitifully. “You can’t just say things like that!”

Geralt scoffed. “You do all the time.”

Jaskier glared at him with a pout. He could feel the heat of the blush on his cheek. “Yeah, well…”

“Don’t worry.” Geralt smirked, kissing Jaskier’s temple. “I don’t think pet names are my thing.”

Jaskier pouted. “Hmmph.”

Reluctantly he rolled off the bed and pulled Geralt to his feet. With one last kiss he let Geralt get dressed. His boyfriend really did need to get back to Ciri and apparently Jaskier was going to be re-introduced to the young girl as her father’s new boyfriend; only a day after the term had finished.

Jaskier wasn’t nervous. Why would he be? Ciri loved him… as her teacher. Oh gods, he was going to fuck this up so badly. His heart was racing, and not in the good I’m in love way. Oh no. No, no, no, no.

He gasped a breath and leant against the wall. Geralt’s arms wrapped around his waist in an instance. “Breathe, Jaskier.”

Jaskier breathed, trying to match his breath with Geralt’s. “Sorry,” he mumbled when the worst of it was over.

“What happened?”

“What if she doesn’t like me?” He asked, his voice sounding pathetic even to his ears.

“She adores you, Jaskier.” Geralt nuzzled his neck gently. “She was disappointed when I said it wasn’t you.”

Jaskier groaned. “She’ll hate that you lied to her.”

“She’ll come round.” Geralt insisted.

“How are you so calm?” He snapped.

Geralt sighed. “Because she’s my daughter and she loves me, and she adores you.”

Jaskier nodded. “Ok. Ok. Yes. Let’s do this, before I run away and decide to live in a cave with just my lute for company.”

Geralt scoffed. “Always so dramatic.”

Jaskier managed a smile at that, even after his little wobble of anxiety. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

__________________

They were standing, hand in hand, outside Geralt’s house. Geralt and Ciri’s house. Jaskier hadn’t been here since the beginning of May when Ciri had been away with Yennefer. Ciri wasn’t away this time and they were about to reveal everything to her. He curled his toes in his shoes and hummed nervously under his breath. Geralt’s house suddenly seemed a lot larger than it had before.

Geralt squeezed his hand. “It’ll be fine, Jask.”

He nodded and took a deep breath. “I know. I know. I trust you.”

“Come on then. You’ll stay for dinner?”

Jaskier nodded again. “But I should probably go home after dinner. I imagine we’ll both need our own space by then.”

Geralt chuckled quietly. “Yeah. Ready?”

“Yes?” Jaskier’s voice squeaked a little, much to his embarrassment.

“Good.” Geralt moved to unlock the front door but it opened before he could get the key in the lock.

Yennefer stood on the other side with her hands on her hips. She was smirking at them both, looking far too evilly delighted for Jaskier’s liking.

“MR JASKIER!!” Ciri shrieked and there was a blur of blonde hair before Jaskier was knocked flying by the young girl.

He laughed nervously and hugged her back. “Hello, Ciri.”

“I knew it was you!!” She screamed happily. “Dad said it wasn’t but I knew it was you!”

“You don’t mind?” Jaskier asked, tentatively patting his former student on the back as she clung onto him.

Ciri pulled back and looked up at him. Her nose was scrunched up and she pouted. “Why would I mind?”

“Well, because I was your teacher and now I’m dating your father?” Jaskier stammered. He glanced at Geralt who just raised a knowing eyebrow at him. The bastard had known this would happen.

Ciri rolled her eyes and scoffed. “So? Everyone will be jealous. You’re the best teacher at school!”  She announced as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. “Maybe you shouldn’t boast too much about it Ciri. It’s not kind.”

Ciri just stuck her tongue out at him. He stuck his tongue out right back at her and she giggled.

“Jaskier’s right, princess. It would be best if you don’t tell everyone just yet,” Geralt said as he scooped her up into a hug.

“But it’s Mistle’s birthday party next week!” She pouted.

“Ciri,” Yennefer sighed, brushing the young girl’s hair out of her eyes. “Can we trust you to keep this a secret for now?”

Ciri scrunched her nose but nodded. “Ok, but only if we can go back to see the lions at the zoo! They were my favourite.”

Jaskier met Geralt’s eyes and smiled. “Well, buttercup, funny you should say that….”

____________

Next

[jimlingss]

The Colour of Our Voices [10]

Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 10.5 OR Chapter 11

➜ Words: 4.8k

➜ Genres: 98% Fluff, 2% Angst, Slice of Life, Broadway!AU

➜ Summary: He wasn’t supposed to hear. He wasn't supposed to know. But the instant Jimin came into your life and pulled the curtains back, you couldn't hide backstage anymore. You were no longer merely a phantom of the opera.

➜ Warning: Spoilers to the musical Les Mis.

cr.

You show up in sweats.   If you could, you’d take a swig of the rosette right about now. But you’ve long run out and decided not to buy more after the other day’s embarrassing stunt at Jimin’s doorstep.   You still cringe when you think about it.   So instead, you eat chocolate. You gnaw on the king sized bar like it’s Halloween and you’re indulging in the post-trick-or-treat spirit.    Your hair is also unwashed, a spectacular three day record now. It’s itchy at some parts and when you scratch, white fluff comes dusting from your scalp. You haven’t showered in general for a while. There’s no point, really. Not when you don’t have any arrangements, responsibilities, no job to go to.   The unemployed life isn’t actually a bad one — as long as you don’t think about the inevitable doom of your bank account and having to go into debt to pay off bills.   Your life sort of feels like that picture of that dog that’s sipping on coffee while thinking ‘this is fine’ and the room is on fire. But what can you do?   “Is she…”   “...yeah…”   “....it’s true then?”   There are whispers that you’re not unaccustomed to, stares behind your back that you can feel and sense in your peripheral vision. “...the ghost singer…”   You turn around to look and the girls immediately seal their lips, looking away. They pretend to be discussing other things, but still, you hear it all around you.   “So is she really the Phantom? How is that possible?”   “Don’t ask me.”   “Do you think she can really sing?”   “Probably not. She’s only here because it would bring in publicity. We all know that.”   Your efforts are fruitless. They’re right. You’re not going to get a role. You’re only here to satisfy people’s curiosity.    “L/N Y/N?” The girl reads off her list. “Is there a L/N Y/N here?”   Fuck it.   What do you have to lose? You’ve lost it all anyways.   “Here!”   You raise your hand, voice loud and clear. The murmuring of the girls cease once they confirm that it is you. But you pay them any mind, finishing the chocolate bar in the awkward silence. You chew your mouthful and smear your stained hand on your grey sweatpants, leaving a streak of brown on your thigh.   You toss the wrapper in the garbage.   “Uh...right this way,” the girl says as she gestures past the curtain.   Many auditions take place in closed off rooms, but it’s an open stage this time. A modest size with the pianist tucked in the corner. There are five people sitting before the front row, a panel of them — some producers, directors, writers — you don’t know and you don’t care much for their titles either.   It feels like you’re on some TV show, ready for their judgment.    Your nose runs with snot and you wipe it away with the back of your hand. “Hi.”   “You’re L/N Y/N?” There’s a shuffle of papers, people peering up at you past their glasses.   “Yes.” You swallow the last bit of chocolate in your mouth, clearing your throat. You hope your teeth aren’t stained. Well….if they are, it wouldn’t be the biggest deal.   “You worked at the Phantom of the Opera production?”   You should probably head to the supermarket after this and get some ice-cream. You’d definitely feel better with it, curled on your couch with a warm blanket and some television to drown out the silence of your apartment.   “Y/N?”   The call of your name has you focusing again. “Pardon?”   The woman is dressed cleanly in a blazer with her hair pulled back into a bun like yours. But hers is undoubtedly neater, probably holding a bunch of pins, maybe even hair-sprayed. Yours was bunched up carelessly with a stretched elastic you found on the floor of your closet.   “You worked at the Phantom production?” she repeats.   You give her a bland answer, but one that’s unfortunately the entire truth. “As an intern.”   One of them pipes up, “Can you tell us any details about your previous work at the Phantom production?”   “I did coffee runs.”   “Umm….” The younger female in the middle gestures with her hand. “Did you do anything else?”   “I swept the floor. I did a lot of paperwork and printed things out for the director there,” you list out and shrug. “I don’t know. Things like that.”   They exchange looks with one another, probably not expecting such a boring response. “Did you...contribute to the performance in any way?”   Your eyes dim. Of course — this is what they wanted to know all along. It’s the reason you’re here in the first place. But they shouldn’t have beaten around the bush. If they asked over the phone, you would’ve told them. They didn’t need to waste their time like this.   But unfortunately, the honest truth isn’t as glamorous as they think it is. “The actor couldn’t sing, so I did. Behind the curtain.”   “And how did that come about?” someone asks with a frown, and you can see the girls peeking out from the curtain to your left, listening in.   “They needed someone,” you deadpan. “I volunteered.”   “Well...alright then.” He clears his throat and the others shift uncomfortably in their seats. You wonder what it is that they wanted to hear from you, what kind of gossip they were anticipating. “What are you singing for us today?”   “Do you have a preference?”   “Uh…” They look at one another and some shake their heads. “No, not really.”   You approach the pianist with a sigh. You didn’t prepare, but after countless auditions, you know all the basic audition pieces inside out. Every lyric is embedded into your mind. Pathetically enough. But they’re all the same — they gave you the same outcome of failure.    “Do you have any sheet music?”   The pianist blinks at you and timidly points to the top of the upright piano. “You can look in the binder.”   You flip it open and grab for the first paper-clipped set, passing it to him. “Here.” Then you step up to the middle of the stage again, cueing the pianist with a lifeless hand and the notes start, light and optimistic much to your displeasure.    Usually, you’d begin to feel your palms become clammy. But instead, your fingertips are sticky from melted chocolate. “There’s been a change in me.” Your voice draws from your chest hastily without much care. “A kind of moving on.”   Typically, your heart would be pumping fast to the point where you could feel it all the way in your throat. Your mouth would go dry. A cold sweat would wash down your body. But you don’t feel any of these things.    “Though what I used to be, I still depend upon.”   Your knees don’t quake. You don’t need to hide any tremors in your hands.    It’s not a real audition after all. This is a joke.   And if anything, you feel pissed. No matter where you go, you’re strung along by people for their own entertainment.   “For now I realize. That good can come from bad.”   It’s supposed to be a touching song sung by Belle in Beauty and the Beast. It’s supposed to be gentle. Hopeful. But every word is filled with your aggression. It’s hostile and indignant. You’re exhausted at being humiliated and you wail out the lyrics in grief. It tears from your throat.    If they wanted to hear you sing, they were going to hear alright.   “That may not make me wise. But fuck,” you ad lib, “it makes me glad.”   “And I—” you belt the note in a kind of bitterness reserved for a resentful villain, and a kind of sadness bleeds into it. It’s not at all like a kind protagonist that’s meant to be a delicate princess. Your voice even warbles against your will, cracks at the top, but you don’t care. You embrace it. “I never thought I’d leave behind my childhood dreams. But I don’t mind.”   You look off to the top of the stairs in the small auditorium. You’re reminded of how you once sang on a stage like this, how a brunette boy appeared from thin air and began clapping for you.   “For now I love the world I see.” You shut your eyes to savour the memory. “No change of heart, a change in me.”   You stop. The piano slows and ends. It goes completely silent.   One of the men open their mouth and then closes it. “Um….”   You spare them from having to sugar coat it and tell you how awful you are. “Thanks for the opportunity.”   You step off the stage, grab your bag, and brush past the crowd of males and females preparing to audition. They all stare at you — but for reasons you’re wrong about. Though you don’t dwell long enough to find that their expressions aren’t of detest. You hop down the stairs and take the emergency exit out.   //   You don’t know where to begin with your belongings.   For one, you’re going to need cardboard boxes bigger than those containing your instant noodles. If you’re going to go home, you need to pack up your furniture somehow. But in the meantime, you haul out your dusty luggage from the back of your closet. You kick the busted wheel to roll it a few meters before hurling it on your bed with a sigh.   You’re not sure what clothes to leave behind and which to take with you.   The mattress dips underneath your added weight and you look over to the hanging dresses that you never go to wear, blazers and pencil skirts that are unwrinkled and were only pulled out for the occasional audition….   You stand on your feet after a prolonged moment, not yet feeling the urge to dump all the hangers onto your bed and fold up the clothes into neat squares. Instead, you put it off by heading to the kitchen for more ice-cream.   But as you grab for a spoon, you pass by that counter. The one with the abandoned ticket pushed to the side. It catches your eye and you’re suspended in your spot, feet rooted to the ground. You almost forgot — it’s tonight.   You hold the ticket up to the light. It’s a dark blue with a streak of red, a young girl on it facing the horizon. Les Misérables, a front mezzanine middle row seat.   It wouldn’t hurt to do one more thing before you begin packing to go home…   Right?   //   You’re startled when the bell at the top of the door jingles to signal your entrance.   “Welcome to the Bloom Room!” A female in a green apron turns around with a bouquet of flowers and shears in the other hand. All around her are fancy floral arrangements, from wreaths to overflowing vases. The fresh scent overwhelms your senses, vibrant hues that render you even more uncertain. “How may I help you?”   “Umm..”   She smiles softly at you. “What kind of flowers are you looking for? Anything specific at all?”   You glance at the surroundings, still unsure. Maybe you should get something that’ll convey how sorry you are, for showing up drunk at his doorstep, for saying all those mean things to him. Something that’ll make amends, to tell him you really miss him, his presence, friendship.   You should get something that’ll communicate how thankful you are for him — for always being there even when you pushed him away, for always supporting you, for being your backbone when you needed it.   “Just….something nice, please,” you end up telling her with a modest smile.   “Certainly.” She leads the way, through the shelves and cases of flowers and bouquets. The florist glances at you, sincere in her gaze. “What’s the special occasion?”   “Oh no, there’s not a special occasion.” You shake your head and your hands, and the volume of your voice quiets as you try to explain. “Well, not really. I’m just bringing it with me to a show tonight. Someone I know is performing for the first time on stage.”   “How exciting! What’s your relationship with this person?” She stops at a station that has jars filled with single flowers, an array of brown paper and ribbons on the side. “Friends? Family member? Boyfriend or girlfriend?”   “Umm…..” You don’t know why it’s taking you so long to think about it. “Friends…?”   And you certainly don’t know why there’s a hint of doubt in your voice either.   The florist’s pupils flicker up to you, a hint of a knowing smile gracing her features. “How about peonies? They’re very delicate and I think it’ll be perfect to bring with you to a show. Seven of them and some baby’s breath and lilacs.”   “That sounds nice.” You nod and she begins to choose them. But you wonder if it’s strange to bring flowers to him. You clear your throat. “Is it…” The woman turns to look at you. “Is it weird to give flowers to a guy?”   “Not at all,” she assures you. “Trust me, everyone loves to get flowers.”   “Do you…..think I should deliver it or give it to him?” You’re unsure of what protocol is. You’ve never bought flowers for anyone before.   “Oh, you should give it to him,” she tells you without a trace of doubt. “That’s just me, but I think it’s much more personal to hand-deliver.”   You nod and there’s a moment of quiet before you remember something. It flickers into your mind, a memory hitting you in the face. And your eyes light up.   “C-Can I get them in purple?”   //   The show starts at seven thirty, so you arrive twenty minutes beforehand.    Your ticket gets scanned and you shuffle into the auditorium. There are lots of people, a sea of glamour, couples going on dates to musical fanatics eager to watch their favourite theater performance to critics ready to analyze the show. You tug on your little black number that ends at your knees — it’s modest and simple, but one of the many dresses that you never got to wear. But there's not a lot of time to be self-conscious or to second guess yourself. The people are a tide that rushes in, and you’re overwhelmed, pushed forward by their force and unable to escape.   The theater is grand, brightly lit with the red curtains pulled down. You find your seat and hug the small bouquet of flowers in your lap.   When the show finally begins, the lights dim down completely and it’s glorious. Music begins to play, thundering through the auditorium, and men march onto the stage holding sledgehammers. “Look down, look down. Don't look 'em in the eye.”   Your eyes search for Jimin, but he’s not here.   If you remember the details of his role correctly, you have a feeling he won’t show up for a while. So you sit back and try to relax and watch. But the anticipation and excitement of seeing him keeps you on alert. Any time there are characters entering the stage, your eyes always scan across.   It’s not until an hour later that you finally see the familiar boy at the very corner of the scene, catching the edges of the spotlight. Immediately, a smile tugs into your cheeks.    Jimin’s singing with the others, wearing a long brown coat with disoriented hair. He plays the part of a young man from a rich family well. You can practically see the fire in his eyes.   “Look down and show some mercy if you can! Look down, look down, upon your fellow man!”    The song is similar to an anthem, riling up the crowd for a revolution. “It'll come, it'll come, it'll come... It'll come, it'll come, it'll come…”   Jimin doesn’t have a main role, but he’s still on the stage of Broadway, singing with many others. You’re happy to see him, elated that you know the boy that’s actually performing, and you have to hold back from giving a sudden standing ovation.    “Before the barricades arise?”   The crowd breaks up as the police enter the stage and just like that he disappears again. But ten minutes later, it’s his time to shine again. Jimin’s one of the nine men — the main character, Marius, and the supporting character, Enjolras, taking the limelight, but he’s one of the many students sitting around a table, at a supposed bar.   “Red!” one of them sings.   The male playing Marius faces the audience. “I feel my soul on fire!”    “Black!”   “My world if she's not there!” the main actor responds with vigor.   “Red!” Jimin belts with others.    “The colour of desire!”   “Black!” he sings again, and you can pick up his voice between the timbre of others.    “The colour of despair!”   Jimin sings with the actors and it echoes throughout the theater. While he never sings a line by himself, you can still hear his tone ever so slightly before it melts away. “The dark of ages past! Red — a world about to dawn! Black — the night that ends at last!”   His appearance is sweet albeit short. You see him one more time right before the intermission when the cast comes onto the stage and sings for the hope of the future in ‘One Day More’.    Afterwards, it’s a fifteen minute break. It’s an hour and a half through the show, but the intermission allows people to relieve themselves at the restrooms or grab a drink at the bar. In your case, you stick around, grasping the bouquet. The brown paper crinkles under your grip and you peer at the curtain as if hoping he’ll run out.   Instead, you catch Jimin coming out from the left door as the other people are spilling out of the auditorium.   But it’s bad timing.   He doesn’t come to where you are, but towards the orchestra section, right by one of the closest rows to the stage. An older woman and man stand, clapping and jumping. He runs into the woman’s arms and squeezes him.   It’s his parents, and you smile before turning around to walk away, not wanting to interrupt the intimate moment with your presence. His parents must be proud.   You’re happy for him.   //   The show continues afterwards. Jimin makes a few more cameos here and there without singing any lyrics, simply in the crowd at the barricades. Although, he does say a few lines.   “See! The people unite!” — “So what are we going to do with this snake in the grass?” — “You wear an army uniform.” And when Éponine dies, he comforts Marius. “She will not die in vain…”   But Jimin does sing one line by himself in the song ‘Drink With Me’. His eyes sweep across the audience floor as he steps forward, pretending to take a swig of the empty beer bottle. “Here’s to pretty girls who went to our heads!”    And you swear he looks right at you.   As if he had memorized where you would be seated.   But Jimin looks away right after, his eyes passing your spot. You release your held breath, realizing it was your imagination. There was no way he could actually see you.   The show lasts another forty minutes, filled with the spectacular performances of the leads, their beautiful voices that captivate your attention and everyone else’s. During the finale when the storyline has wrapped up, everyone comes onto the stage again. You see him one last time there.   Jimin is singing, smiling wide, looking out at the audience.    It could not be a better Broadway debut.   You muse that he truly belongs on the stage — there’s no place else he should be. Along with the rest of the audience, you give a standing ovation. The applause roars throughout the auditorium, actors and actresses bowing and waving goodbye.    When it dies down, the bright lights come on again. People begin trickling out and you’d leave as well, if not for the bouquet of flowers you’re still holding onto.   You look around. “U...Um excuse me…”   You stop someone who looks like a worker and they blink at you, confused. You swallow hard and hand over the flowers. “C-Can you give this to Park Jimin? He was an actor in the production.”   “Sorry.” The teenager awkwardly points to a family that’s gathering their belongings to show he’s with them and he offers a kind smile. “I don’t work here.”   “O-Oh. Sorry.” You bow your head and they say it’s no problem. But you’re still cringing from embarrassment, and now you don’t know what to do, how to give it to him without having to face him. You should’ve thought about this better.   But before you can contemplate any solution, you hear a sudden—   “Y/N?!”   Jimin’s sweaty. Like he sprinted here as fast as he could the second the curtains fell. His parents are nowhere in sight, probably in the lobby, but he's here with you. Still in costume. The nineteenth century french clothing — blue trench coat, puffy white shirt underneath, brown slacks.   His hair is riled up with what looks like soot pressed to his cheeks, makeup of some sort that makes him appear even more disoriented and soiled. But he doesn’t care. You don’t either.   His chest rises and falls as he tries to catch his breath. The two of you stare at each other, pupils locked into one another’s, holding the other’s attention. Captivated. Then after a beat, the biggest and goofiest grin spreads into his face. It’s enormous, causing his eyes to crinkle into half-moons.    “You came! You...actually came!”   “Y-Yeah…” You’re stunned and you tear your eyes away, the intensity becoming too much for you to handle. Your arm extends. “These are for you.”   “Flowers?!” He breathlessly giggles and takes them. Jimin doesn’t fail to notice that they’re all shades of purple, from lilac to violet. Because of you, purple has become his new favourite colour. “I love them. Thank you!”   “C-Congratulations on your debut, Jimin.”   He grins, so much that his rosy cheeks look like they’re about to burst. His teeth peek out, eyes crescent moons. “Thank you. I’m glad you could make it.”   “S-Same here…..” You don’t know why he’s gazing at you so intently at you. It makes it hard to keep eye contact. “You were really amazing.”   “I didn’t have that many lines,” the boy giggles, still giddy and hyperactive. It makes you smile.   “But you were still good.” There’s a lot of things you’ve been wanting to tell him, a million versions of an apology that you’ve practiced in the mirror. And now that he’s here and you’re no longer staring at a reflection of yourself, you gather your courage to face your regrets. “You deserve it, Jimin. I’m...sorry for everything that I said. I’m sorry for being resentful towards you. I’m sorry for being jealous. It wasn’t your fault. And all those things I said to you, I didn’t mean it. A-at the time I did, but now I don’t...I don’t know if that makes it any better but...yeah….I just…..you were great, you worked hard, so…”   It’s the shittiest apology. Worse than the first one you practiced. But you can’t get it out right.    You feel nervous for the first time in Jimin’s presence. A kind of anxiousness that doesn’t make you feel sick. Rather, you feel something else in your stomach — it’s fluttery. Something uncertain brewing there, stirring at its pits.   It feels similar in your chest. It isn’t a foreign sensation, but one you had ignored for a long time now.    Jimin suddenly laughs, noisy and hearty. It squeaks, a higher pitched giggle. It makes you look at him, eyes hesitantly lifting off the floor. And then you yelp.   Jimin picks you up right off the ground, arms locked around your waist. He spins you in a circle, squeezing ticklish laughter out of you. Your hands immediately come to grab his shoulders. The boy is unable to contain the adrenaline pumping through his veins and the overwhelming joy of you being here.   “Jimin!” you squeal.   He laughs. “God, I’m so happy that you’re here!”   “Did you think I’d miss it?” you quip and it feels like forever since you’ve been able to joke around like this. “Not for the world, Park!”   He sets you down to your feet again. His swelling smile might just break his face. He nuzzles into you, hair tickling your forehead. Jimin hugs you tight. He’s so happy, you can practically feel it radiate off of his skin. And your chest blooms with pride instead of envy. “Your Broadway debut was amazing. It only gets better from—”   “Can I please kiss you?”   Your heart stutters.   Jimin pulls himself apart from you. The sudden question has you blinking twice. But the temptation for Jimin has gotten too much. If there’s one thing that could make tonight even more perfect, it would be him kissing you…   You glance at his plush lips before your pupils flicker back to his eyes.   “You don’t need to ask.”   Just like that, he roughly tugs you in by the small of your back. The flowers lose a few petals from the harsh motion. But Jimin doesn’t care. He kisses you like he’s been waiting to do it for months now. He kisses you like he wants you. He’s hungry for it and savours your whimper that’s muffled between his soft lips. He’s been wanting to hear your voice like this.   Jimin’s half-lidded eyes soak up your pleasured expression before he gives in, shutting them to succumb to your scent. He breathes you in and you become helpless in his arms, the pad of your fingers pressing against the nape of his neck. You’re unsure if you want to part just to gasp for air, or if you want to push him even closer.   But your thoughts turn to mush as his hot tongue licks inside your mouth, eager. The pair of you don’t care that other people might be watching, that you’re placed in the middle of the auditorium, that you’ve stolen the spotlight.   When the both of you break apart, you stumble back from each other, mouths swollen. You wipe away his saliva that’s made your lips shiny with the back of your hand. The both of you are dazed and embarrassed, catching your breaths, his own cheeks reddened.    You divert your eyes from one another. But then infectious giggles spill over.    God, you might’ve been in love with Park Jimin for a long time now.

Director Lee sits at his desk with a sigh.   He shuffles his papers before sitting back in his swivel chair, unsure. Right at that moment, a blonde, lean man enters with a hot brewing cup of coffee. The assistant sets it on his desk.   “Are you sure you should be taking in caffeine this late at night?”   “Not like I’ll be able to sleep anyway.” He brings the cup up for a small sip. “I’m still deciding on the main cast.”   “Who do you have?”   “The casting director narrowed it down to these people.” He lays out the applicants of possible options and sighs. “Now I just have to decide who’s going to be part of this and who’s who. You should’ve been there today, Kim. If you weren’t late, you might be able to help me right now.”   “Sorry.” Taehyung sheepishly grins. “My alarm clock didn’t ring.”   The director is disgruntled, but still playful. “Same excuse every time, Kim.”   Taehyung laughs, but still tries his best to assist. He scans over the applications haphazardly, but then his breath hitches. He turns his body to get a better look and his eyes grow wide, recognizing you. “Oh. What about her?”   The director follows to where his assistant is pointing and hums a low note. “Oh. Her. We called her since we heard she was the ghost singer of Phantom.”   “Oh yeah.” The blonde nods. “I heard about that.”   “I was thinking about tossing her papers.”   “Why?” Taehyung looks at his mentor, genuinely curious.   “Well, her audition was….” He struggles to find the right words. “Impactful. It was really something. She stood out, that’s for sure.”   “Then….?”   “I just don’t know if we could find the right place for her.” He shrugs and taps his finger against the armrest of his chair. “She might outperform the other actors and actresses.”   Taehyung makes a noncommittal sound at the back of his throat. “I don’t know. But I think she should be considered for a role. That’s just me, but I have a good feeling about her. You said it was impactful, right? Isn’t that what we should be going for?”   Director Lee glances at his assistant, but Taehyung simply smiles and waltzes out the room.

[thgfanficinspo]

New chapter of my Odesta fic is up - please read!

(FINNICK)

They summon me, Blight, Cashmere, and Enobaria to an interview with Caesar Flickerman to discuss what happened with our tributes yesterday. They wanted Johanna to be on the panel, but she’s hung over and Caesar can’t stand her in general, so Blight takes over. I’d prefer Enobaria be replace, too – ideally by Lyme, but she’s too sympathetic for these blood-and-gore interviews. She doesn’t play up her victor persona.

I’m hung over, too, but there’s no getting out of this, especially after Snow cut me a break last night. Somes brings me some sort of concoction to calm my stomach after I barf in the kitchen sink. He’s one of those people that isn’t bothered by vomit at all, and I wonder if it has something to do with his life before he was an Avox. I know the ones from District 3 are usually electricians or techies; District 6 ones work in garages, doing repairs on trams and cars. I know the ones from the Capitol are usually servants, forced to wait on their former peers so they never forget their new status. 

I down the drink in one go and hand him back the empty glass. “Is this what you make for Broadsea?”

He nods.

“Does it work?”

He bobbles his head in a way that I think means, Not really or Sometimes.

“Fantastic.”

My stylist keeps quiet again. She’s usually very chatty and I usually don’t mind, but it was a rough night. And a rough morning.

When she’s done “sprucing me up” – a phrase Johanna taught me – I thank her and promise to be in a better mood next time.

She puckers her lips, which have been surgically altered to form a heart shape, and gives me a disproving look. “Mm-hmm.”

I like her much better than the last one.

I’m the third to arrive after Cashmere and Enobaria. Caesar greets me with an oversized smile and a handshake. “Finnick! Wonderful to see you as always. How have you been?”

I put on my best smile. “Can’t complain. And you?”

“Wonderful. Wonderful, wonderful! I was just telling Cashmere here how exciting these Games are already.” He leans forward slightly and lowers his voice as if to tell me a secret. “Between you and me, I was a little disappointed with the lack of action last year.”

“I think Timothy would disagree,” I say.

Cashmere whips out a few of her beloved blackberry cigarettes and offers them around. “Want one?”

“Sure.” I pluck one from her outstretched hand.

“Thank you, but I’m afraid blackberry isn’t my flavor,” says Caesar.

Enobaria spits, “I don’t smoke.”

Blight shows up out of breath. “Sorry. Overslept.”

We settle in around the table as Caesar starts his vocal warmups. I put out my cigarette as makeup artists apply an extra layer of powder to Blight’s sweaty forehead.

“I saw a kitten eating chicken in the kitchen.” Caesar over-pronounces each word. “I slit the sheet, the sheet I slit, and on the slitted sheet I sit.”

“Could we get some coffee maybe?” I ask no one in particular.

One of the production assistants comes bounding over with a huge mug. “Sugar, sir?”

“Yes. Lots of sugar.”

“Can I get a water?” Blight asks.

The assistant smiles politely, but the look in her eyes suggests she wants to smack him. “Of course.” How dare he interrupt her conversation with the illustrious Finnick Odair? She could be the woman to finally make that philanderer settle down! But now she’ll never know because some idiot wanted water.

“Betty bought some butter, but, said she, the butter’s bitter. If I put the butter in my batter, it will make my batter bitter.”

Cashmere lights another cigarette which we share. We take turns dragging and blowing out ribbons of pale purple smoke. Cashmere can blow out perfect blackberry-scented rings. I can't eat blackberries anymore because they remind me of Cashmere, of her cigarettes, of the way she tastes when we're forced to kiss.

“But a bit of better butter will make my bitter batter better. So Betty bought the better butter, better than the bitter butter, put it in her batter, and made her bitter batter better. It was better Betty bought some better butter.”

The assistant gives me and Blight our beverages as the director counts down. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One.” He points at Caesar to let him know he’s live.

“Good morning, Panem!” Caesar begins. “Yesterday, we witnessed the first major showdown between tributes following the bloodbath. Career tribute Piers Whitaker of District Four died trying to protect his counterpart, Annie Cresta, from his Career allies. Annie wounded Gad Centaury of District Seven, leaving his allies no choice but to kill him. Let’s take a look at that footage one more time.”

I concentrate on drinking my coffee while they play the clip.

Caesar directs the first question to me. “Now Finnick, I think what everyone at home is wondering – what do you make of Annie Cresta’s actions? I must say I was surprised. She didn’t strike me as being capable of such . . . violence.” He probably wanted to say savagery or barbarism but the whole thing is savage and barbaric. Needed to come up with a different word. “As her mentor, can you offer us any insight?”

This would be a great question for Johanna, who played the weakling when she was in the arena at first, but shocked the world with her violent attacks on the other tributes.

“You never know what someone is capable of until you put them in a situation like that,” I say. “I think that since we made it through those situations, victors know ourselves better than most.”

Caesar is nodding his head as he listens intently. “Mm-hmm.” He turns to Enobaria and asks her what she thinks of that statement.

Enobaria is a psycho but somehow doesn’t even make my list of the top five worst victors. What really puts me off about her is her teeth. In the final battle of her Games, she was pinned down by a boy twice her size and couldn’t move her arms or legs. The only weapon she had was her teeth, which she used to tear his neck wide open. That doesn’t bother me: she did what she had to do to survive. What does bother me is the fact that she had her teeth filed into fangs as an homage. I don’t know if she did it because she thought it would be a funny or if she plans to weaponize them again in the future.

“I agree,” she says to Caesar. “And I think all of our tributes are starting to understand who they are after this.”

“Oh, certainly. But what I want to know –” he puts his fingertips on the table and leans forward a bit “– is what do we think of Annie defeating Gad like that? Blight, any thoughts?”

Blight’s right in the middle of gulping down orange juice when Caesar asks the question so Cashmere answers instead. “Caesar, there’s always a longshot in the Games, and they always get farther than we expect. If you ask me, I think Gad was a bit too confident in his abilities.”

“There’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance,” Caesar says. “Don’t you think so?” he asks me with a chuckle.

“Me? Caesar, I wouldn’t know anything about that.” I flash a shmoozy smile at him.

“Finnick, so saucy!” Caesar’s oversized teeth steal the show when he opens his mouth to chuckle.

I excuse myself to the bathroom, where I vomit up Somes’s tonic and everything I’ve eaten in the last three days. I’m washing my mouth out over the sink when one of the televisions in the bathroom – they have televisions in nearly every room – cuts to a shot of Annie Cresta opening her eyes.

(ANNIE)

I’m on the docks. I know that because I’m wet and I’m all nestled up in ropes. And I can smell the wetness. The water against the concrete edge of the port. I don’t like that smell. I don’t like it anymore.

My eyelids are heavy. There’s gunk in the corners the way there is sometimes when somebody wakes me up in the middle of the night. But it’s not the night. I don’t think it is. The air at night feels difference from this. The air at home feels different from this. So do the ropes on the dock.

I make my eyes open. I’m not on the dock by the water. There is no dock and there is no water. Concrete and rain and vines and the vines have me all tangled up and I don’t know where I am.

I know I should stand. Should walk. I’m not supposed to stay here but I can’t remember why.

Sit up. But my head hurts. Let’s go back to bed. No, no. Can’t do that. Get up up up. Gonna fall back down – no, hang onto the vines that feel like rigging and don’t fall down again, Annie!

My mother, she butchered me My father, he ate –

Silver thing floats down and lands at my feet. Parachute. A gift! I open it up as fast as I can but it’s nothing, just the cannister itself. A water bottle! I can use it for water.

But I had a water bottle. I just had it I just had it it was just I was just –

Can’t breathe. Hands on me squeezing me squeezing my neck and Piers is screaming and my thumbs are in his eyes and I look down at my hands and there’s jelly on them but not jam-jelly it’s jelly from the eyes from his eyes from his eyes from his eyes and Piers is screaming and I cover my ears to block out the sound but there’s still jelly on my hands and it gets on my face and in my hair and I try to clean it clean it but it won’t go away I try to scrape it off on a concrete wall and I scrape my skin off too.

My mother, she butchered me My father, he ate me My sister, little Ann-Marie She gathered up the bones of me

And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper            Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!

(FINNICK)

There are bruises across her neck in the shape of Gad’s hands where he choked her. it looks excruciatingly painful. The damage is enough that I doubt she’d even be able to swallow a sip of water.

I wince when she begins to sing, partially because of how painful it must be and partially because it’s – well, terrifying. Her squeaky, scratchy voice sends chills down my spine.

My mother, she butchered me My father, he ate me My sister, little Ann-Marie She gathered up the bones of me

And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper            Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!

She abruptly covers her ears like she’s trying to block out a sound, but the microphones in the arena don’t pick anything up. She tears her hands away and looks down at them. They’re still stained with blood.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.” She starts clawing at her own hands like she’s trying to peel something off – the blood, probably. When that doesn’t work, she presses her palms into a nearby cinderblock and drags her hands down it so hard that she scrapes off some of her skin and smears blood on the block.

My mother, she butchered me My father, he ate me My sister, little Ann-Marie She gathered up the bones of me

And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper            Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!

She lies back down among the vines and curls in on herself.

There’s a knock at the bathroom door. “Mr. Odair?” It sounds like the production assistant from before. “They want you on stage.” I don’t respond. “Mr. Odair? Are you in there?”

I shut my eyes and sigh. “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

Blight and the others are leaving just as I come back to the stage. Caesar is looking at the monitor on the desk in front of him with a very strange expression. I know we’re not being recorded when I sit down and he asks me, “What on earth is she doing?”

“Singing, I guess.”

The song ends and Annie burrows into her little nest and falls asleep again. Caesar lets me go after we establish that the song is an old nursery rhyme and Annie’s in shock, and that there are nine far more interesting tributes to focus on, like the ailing tribute from District 2 or the boy from District 10 who captures and eats small mutts.

Maybe when Annie wakes up she’ll be normal again.

[justlookfrightened]

Emergency room meet-cute, Jack/Bitty or Ransom/Holster

Sorry this took so long!

“Please,” the small blond man said, gasping.

The child in the man’s arms was nearly half his size, Jack thought, hustling up a wheelchair for the … girl, it looked like, once she unburied her face from the man’s shoulder.

She was dressed in leggings and a sparkly shirt, her dark hair falling out of a ponytail and across her tear-stained face. One foot was covered in a sneaker and sock; the other was bare, and she was holding a towel that used to be green against the bottom of it.

“Thank you,” the man said, gently depositing the child in the chair. “You sit right there, sugar pie, and these nice people will get you fixed up in just a minute. You doing so good, baby girl. Just a little longer. Keep that towel on there, all right?”

The man turned back to the desk, digging a slim wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans.

“I’m sorry, you need her insurance card, right?”

“Euh,” Jack interrupted, before the clerk could say anything, “why don’t we get this one into triage while you do that? Can I take her just over there?”

He nodded to the alcove to the side of the ED waiting room.

“Of course,” the man said. “You go right ahead. You’ll be alright with Mr. —”

“Jack,” Jack said, nodding towards the badge clipped to his scrub shirt. He turned to the little girl.  “I’ll be your nurse tonight, milady.”

The girl, who had been sniffling with her face down, concentrating on holding her towel, glanced up, almost smiled, and put her face back down.

“You’ll be alright with Mr. Jack, Jo-bear, and I’ll be right here, and then I’ll be there with you,” the man said. “I promise. Okay?”

The girl, who was maybe seven, nodded without looking up.

Jack looked to the man – her father? They didn’t look much alike, but that didn’t mean they weren’t family – and he nodded.

“Thanks, Mr. Jack,” he said. “I’ll be there as soon as I’m done here.”

Jack wheeled the chair the few feet it took to get to the alcove.

“Can you tell me your name, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Jo,” she said.

“Yeah? Is that short for something?”

“Josephine,” she said. “Josephine Bittle.”

“Well, Josephine Bittle, can you tell me what happened to your foot there?”

“I cut it,” she said. “It’s bleeding.”

Then she looked like she was going to cry again.

“I’m pretty sure we can fix it up,” Jack said. “Can I see?”

At her nod, he peeled the bloody towel away from the sole of her foot and saw a cut, about an inch long, curved, and close to a centimeter deep. At least the edges were clean. No wonder the poor kid was crying.

“Yeah, you’re going to be just fine,” he said. “Let’s put something clean on there, yeah?”

He applied a sterile gauze pad and wrapped it loosely.

“Do I need to press on it?” she said. “My daddy told me to keep pressing on it in the car.”

The cut was probably a good thirty to forty minutes old at least, and her foot was up on the rest that was part of the chair. It was seeping, but not too much.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m going to use this to take your temperature, okay?”

That was normal. Her blood pressure was also in the normal range, despite the traumatic evening.

Her father was there by then, holding her hand and whispering encouragement.

“So, Miss Jo,” Jack said. “How did your foot get cut?”

She looked at her father, who nodded and said, “Tell Mr. Jack.”

“I wasn’t supposed to pour the milk,” she said. “‘Cause the carton was full and it was heavy. But I didn’t want to wait for Daddy.”

“And the milk cut your foot?” Jack asked, face and voice serious.

“Not the milk,” she said, and there was that almost-smile again. “But I spilled it and I was trying to clean it up before Daddy saw and the glass fell off the table and broke and I stepped on it.”

Jack made notes on the computer, which already had a chart started by the admissions staff. She was eight, not seven.

He looked at the father — blond, small, worried — and said, “Anything to add, Mr. Bittle?”

“Eric,” the man said, although Jack knew that from her chart. “Eric Bittle. Um, no, that’s pretty much what happened. I knew she had the milk out — I was finishing the lattice on a pie crust not eight feet away — but I figured it would be good for her to try — develop independence and all that? But the next thing I know, there’s milk all over the counter and glass on the floor and she’s bleeding and crying.”

The guy looked near tears himself.

“Maybe I should have done it for her?” he said. “Or at least been paying more attention.”

“It was an important pie,” Jo said.

“Not more important than you, Jo-bear,” her father said.

“Mr. Bittle?”

The admitting clerk had matching wristbands for father and daughter and a clipboard forms to sign.

“Was the pie important because it was for you?” Jack asked, hoping to keep Jo distracted until they were ready to move back to a room.

“No,” Jo said. “It was for a job.”

Before Jack could ask more, the clerk was fixing bracelets on wrists and shuffling the papers away.

“You guys are lucky it’s so quiet right now,” Jack said, getting up to push Jo’s chair. “It’ll probably get busy later.”

“Sh- shoot,” Eric Bittle said. “I left the car in the loading zone.”

“Come with us to the room so you can see where we’re hiding her,” Jack said, ducking his head to whisper to Jo, “It’s the room where we put all our most important patients.”

He looked back at her father and said, “Then you can go move the car. I can sit with her for a few minutes.”

Once they got to an exam room, Jack lifted Jo onto the table, and her dad set the unicorn backpack he’d slung over one shoulder on a chair. “There’s a book and some paper and markers,” he said. “I’ll be right back. You’ll be okay, I promise.”

“I know,” Jo sniffled. “Come right back?”

“As fast as I can,” Bittle said.

As soon as he rounded the corner and couldn’t be seen from the open doorway, Jo looked at Jack, chin quivering.

“You want your book?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Hurts.”

“I know it does,” he said. “But you’re being very brave.”

“My daddy said the more I cried, the more it would bleed,” Jo said.

“Well, getting upset does raise your blood pressure,” Jack said.

“Can we talk instead?” Jo asked. “Daddy said I’d probably need stitches, like sewing up my foot.”

“Well, probably, yes,” Jack said. “But we can give you medicine so it doesn’t hurt. We just have to wait for the doctor. Then you can go home and have some of that pie.”

At that, Jo started sobbing.

“Wait, no, what’s wrong?” Jack said.

“There is no pie,” Jo said. “Daddy never finished it because I cut my stupid foot. And I don’t know if he has enough ingredients to make a new one when we get home. And it was an important pie.”

“You said,” Jack said. “For a job? Does your daddy make pies and sell them?”

Making pies one at a time in his kitchen didn’t seem very profitable to Jack, but what did he know?“No,” Jo said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “He used to, before my other father went away. He worked at a bakery and made pies and cakes and cookies. But his pies are the best.”

“Is he trying to get another job in a bakery?” Jack asked. He hadn’t looked at the financial part of Jo’s medical record. If her father was unemployed, did he have insurance? Maybe someone should tell him about the children’s health insurance program? He clearly loved his daughter, who was just as clearly well taken care of, but Jack would hate for a minor mishap like this to send their little family into a tailspin. Especially if there was no other parent involved.

“No,” Jo said. “After my other dad went away, Daddy got a job in a office. He says the hours are better and there’s more money. But now he doesn’t work there anymore either. And he wants to get another job, and he was making the pie so they would like him.”

She looked up, and Jack followed her gaze to see Bittle hurrying back into the room.

“Right, Daddy?” she said.

Jack knew he didn’t imagine the blush on her father’s face. He could feel his own cheeks coloring at having been caught gossiping. With an eight-year-old.

“Uh, close enough, Jo-bear,” Bittle said, a little breathless from jogging back from the parking garage. “But I doubt Mr. Jack here wants to know all that.”

He turned to Jack and said, “I’m sorry. Lord knows what you think of me. Letting my little girl cut her foot open like that because I’m worried about a job.”

Jack shrugged. “Accidents happen,” he said. “Really, she’ll be fine. Lots of kids get talkative when they’re stressed. It’s actually easier than when they clam up and won’t tell you how they’re feeling.”

Ransom came in then, ignoring both Jack and Eric in favor of pretending to search the room, saying, “Josephine? Josephine Bittle? Has anyone seen a Josephine Bittle?”

He did a double-take when his eyes lit on the child on the exam table. “Excuse me, but do you know what a Josephine Bittle looks like?”

That got an actual giggle, and Jo said, “Me. I’m Josephine Bittle.”

“Well, then. I’m Dr. Oluransi, and I’m going to take a look at your foot.”

Ransom sat on the rolling stool, peeled back the dressing, prodding a bit at the edges of the cut, and then using a syringe of sterile water to clean it.

“How did this happen?”

This time, her father told the story of the spilled milk and the broken glass, using even more words than his daughter and sounding so apologetic that this had happened on his watch.

“We’re going to have to get an a quick X-ray just to make sure there’s no glass left inside,” Ransom said. “I don’t think there is, but better to be sure.”

“That means another ride in the wheelchair,” Jack told Jo. “You can come too,” he said to her father.

So they went down the hall for an X-ray. Jo holding tightly to her father’s hand the whole way. When they got there, he rooted around in the backpack and pulled out a tattered stuffed rabbit.

“I think I’m going to have to go over there while they take the picture,” he said. “But you can hold Senor Bun if Mr. Jack says it’s okay.”

Jack looked to Dex, the radiology tech, who nodded. “As long as she keeps it away from her foot.”

Dex was quiet as usual as he positioned Jo’s foot and the camera, spreading a lead-line apron over Jo’s lap (and Senor Bun).

“Now you’re gonna have to hold real still, then I’ll be right back,” Jo’s father told her, before stepping behind the wall.

Dex, who rarely commented at all, threw a “Cute kid,” over his shoulder at Bittle.

“Thanks,” Bittle said, his eyes never leaving his daughter.

That gave Jack a moment to look at her father, who had struck him initially as small and flustered and worried. As they went through triage and her exam, Jack had somehow decided that Jo wasn’t the only one who was cute in the family. And she had said her other father left, which implied that Bittle was a) attracted to men and b) single.

And unemployed, and worried about his daughter, and Jack knew better than to even be thinking about a patient like this.

But Bittle wasn’t the patient.

He was the parent of a pediatric patient. Was that really any better?

“All done,” Dex said. “I don’t see anything in the cut, but we’ll have a radiologist take a look to make sure.”

Jack picked up Jo to put her back in her chair, suddenly self-conscious. It was hardly any effort at all to lift her – she was a child after all – but was he imagining the way Bittle was looking at him?

Back in the exam room, Jack said, “It’s going to be just a little while. I know you didn’t get any pie for dessert, Miss Jo. Would you like a popsicle?”

“Yes, please,” Jo answered.

Jack swore he was just being nice by bringing two popsicles back to the room. He wanted to give her a choice.

“Do you want cherry or grape?” he asked, after opening both packages.

“Grape,” Jo said. “It makes my tongue purple.”

Jack handed it over, then held the cherry one out to her father. “Do you want this? I’ll just have to throw it away otherwise.”

“Sure,” Bittle said, then put it in his mouth and began to suck on the tip.

“Um, I’ll be right back,” Jack said.

“Of course,” Bittle said. “I’m sure you’ve got other things to see to.”

Jack didn’t return until Ransom told him the X-ray was clear and they were ready to put in the stitches. He had Holster with him, which Jack knew was probably a good idea. It would be good to have two of them to hold Jo’s foot still while they administered the lidocaine, and Holster was a big guy; he could block Jo’s line of vision so she wouldn’t see the syringe and needle.

Still, Holster had a way of sucking all the attention in the room to himself. Jack shouldn’t be jealous, not if it would make this easier on Jo. But he felt like he’d built a little bit of relationship with the two of them, delicate and fleeting though it was. Maybe it was silly, but he didn’t want Holster to take that over.

Jack entered the room first, and went right to Jo.

“How was that popsicle?” he asked. “Did your tongue turn purple?”

Jo stuck out her tongue to show him, then said, “Now look at Daddy’s!”

So he did, probably feeling just as silly as Bittle did sticking his tongue out.

“Now that we have the important things taken care of, Dr. Oluransi is going to stitch up your foot,” he said. “We’re going to give you some medicine so it doesn’t hurt while we do it.”

“Are you gonna give me a shot?”

“Well, yes,” Jack said. “But it will only hurt for a minute. Then your foot won’t hurt at all for a while.”

“Hold my hand?” she said.

“Your daddy’s right here,” he said. “He can hold your hand.”

“You hold my other hand,” Jo demanded.

Jack looked at Ransom and Holster, who nodded and said, “I think we got this.”

Jack and Holster moved to block Jo’s view, and Jack took one hand while Blttle took the other. Jack could tell when the first injection went in by the way her whole body moved and her small hand gripped his tighter. Her reaction was less with the next two injections, and by the time Ransom started suturing, she was calm, if not quite relaxed.

It was only a couple of minutes before Ransom was straightening up and saying, “All done.”

“I’ll just get your paperwork, and then be back to go over care instructions,” Jack said. “Then you two can be on your way.”

When Jack returned with the sheaf of papers, Bittle was in the chair next to the exam table, leaning down to listen to Jo.

“Yes, Mr. Jack is very nice,” he was saying when his eyes lit on Jack in the doorway. He blushed again. “Sorry to be talking behind your back. All good, of course.”

Jack couldn’t help but smile at his earnestness.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Let’s go over these. Because the stitches are on the sole of the foot, they’re going to need to stay in twelve to fourteen days. You can make an appointment with her pediatrician to have them taken out.”

“But Daddy,” Jo said. “Aren’t we going to see Moomaw and Pepaw? I don’t want to stay home!”

“Of course we can still go,” Bittle said.

At Jack’s inquiring look, he said, “My parents. In Georgia. We were taking advantage if me being between jobs to make a longer visit. But they have doctors there too. I bet Moomaw can get the doctor she used to work for to do it.”

“You didn’t sound like you were from around here,” Jack said. “And as long as there are no complications, it shouldn’t be a problem to have a doctor in Georgia take them out.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from around here, either,” Bittle said.

“No, uh, Montreal,” Jack said.

“Surprised you didn’t stay in Canada,” Bittle said. “Seems the medical system there is a little less crazy.”

“Maybe,” Jack said, not wanting to explain how difficult it would be to be the son of a national hero and work as a nurse. “But I went to school here and it became home.”

“Well, that certainly worked out well for Jo and I tonight,” Bittle said. “I wish I could do something to thank you.”

“No thanks necessary,” Jack said. “It’s was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Jo.”

Bittle was bent over, digging through the backpack. Jack knew he was wearing whatever he had on when Jo got hurt, but the jeans – now stained with blood on the thigh – fit him well enough to highlight a little round behind. Even though Jack also knew he shouldn’t be looking. He looked back at the discharge papers.

“You know to call your doctor if it shows signs of infection,” he said.

“I know,” Bittle said, coming up with an extra sock and shoe for the foot that now had stitches. “Ready to try walking on this, Jo-bear?”

“I can wait with her while you get the car,” Jack offered. It was probably against policy, but it didn’t matter. They were dead so far tonight.

“You’re sure?” Bittle said. “You can do that?”

Jack shrugged and walked them out to the waiting room.

“Right back, Jo,” Bittle said, and jogged off toward the parking garage.

Jo watched him go, then looked up at Jack.

“What’s your favorite pie?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “Maybe apple?”

“Do you work here tomorrow night?” she asked.

“I do,” he said. “But your daddy doesn’t have to bring me a pie.”

Jo shrugged.

“I bet he’ll want to,” Jo said.

**************************************

When Jack put his jacket in his locker in the staff room, the table held not one but two pies, an apple and a peach. A card was propped in front of them, thanking the whole staff, but especially Jack, Ransom, Holster and Dex for their help with Jo, who had contributed a drawing of herself as a mermaid.

Lardo, the nurse-manager, came in while he was reading the card. “Better get a piece a now,” she said. “Those are some good pies.”

“Okay,” Jack said, cutting a sliver of the apple.

“And I saved this for you,” she said, pulling another card from her pocket. The front of the envelope said “Mr. Jack.”

Dear Jack, I am so sorry I don’t know your last name. I’m sure it was on your nametag, but my mind wasn’t all there last night. But I did notice how kind you are – you were very sweet with Jo. And it would have been awkward to say this then, and you don’t have to ever respond if you don’t want to, but I’d like to see you outside of the emergency room if you want to. Call me or text me or whatever. I never do things like this, but Jo said I should.

It was signed “Eric Bittle,” with his phone number underneath.

Then, PS: The apple pie is a new recipe for me. It has maple syrup in honor of your Canadian roots.

“Seriously, bro,” Lardo said. “You should eat that pie. And if that note says what I think it says, call the guy. For all our sakes.”

[sareyen]

The Price of Hope (Cherik): Part 2/4

Read on ao3

Legion (2010) AU: The apocalypse is coming, and the key to humankind’s survival lies in a pregnant waitress and a rag-tag group of strangers, all broken in their own ways. Charles, the oldest of the archangels, sacrifices everything - his wings, his Gift, Erik - to help the humans that Heaven has given up on. Because, he believes, that even if they stumble and lose their way, it doesn’t mean that they are lost forever.

Chapter 2

“At that time Charles, the great prince who protects your people, will arise.

There will be a time of distress such as has not happened from the beginning of nations until then.

But at that time your people—everyone whose name is found written in the book—will be delivered.”

Daniel 12:1

Erik’s mind was always like a beacon to Charles. It was so bright that Charles could pinpoint its location anywhere, in any plane in existence, if he only closed his eyes and envision the seemingly glacial man.

Right now, that beacon was glowing like hot embers, anger radiating from the angel as he sat perched on a mottled rooftop at Auschwitz. Erik watched with rage bubbling in his belly as walking skeletons stumbled to their deaths, the numbers etched into their skin stark against their frailty.

“Erik,” Charles said, landing daintily beside the taller angel, white robs fluttering. Erik, unlike Charles, wore his dark battle leathers, his winged helmet resting beside him on the roof tiles.

“Look at them, Charles,” Erik said, voice simmering with anger and disgust – not at the prisoners, of course, but at the men that chained them and treated them like they were less than cattle. Charles shivered, lowering himself so he sat beside Erik, their wings bumping with their closeness. “Look at what they do to themselves, to their own kind.”

Charles swallowed thickly, the air thick and dense with misery, making it hard for him to think clearly. Charles has gotten good at blocking out such powerful emotions, he had to be – if he let go, he could hear all of the voices in the world at once, and he was sure it would overwhelm him. It _had _overwhelmed him, a long time ago, and Erik had been there for him.

But even as Charles became stronger as time passed, the human population was growing exponentially and the world population much more vast than it had been when He had only created the first two humans; En Sabah Nur and Nephri. Now, humans were many and more, and though Charles had an eternity of experience in bolstering the strength of his Gift, the constant influx of new minds weighed heavily on him.

Erik’s mind was unlike those of others, human and angel alike. It wasn’t that Erik’s mind was empty nor calm that made his mind so comforting to Charles. No, Erik’s mind could be tumultuous at times and infinitely impassioned, even if on the exterior his face was cut like cool marble, the tight line of his thin lips the only feature that betrayed his internal rage.

No, Erik’s mind could be as passionate and wild as anyone else’s, but it was the way in which it was passionate that Charles so cherished. Erik’s mind was always unclouded, always clear; other people could be muddled, lost and confused, but Erik’s was always so sure and resolute. So bright. Erik’s mind never faltered, and that always made him a steady anchor for Charles to latch on to when other voices threatened to overwhelm him.

“Yes, I can feel their agony, their suffering,” Charles said, voice quiet, face pinched with pain. Erik turned to look at Charles then, eyes softening slightly.

“That pain, how could humans willingly cause such torment?” Erik murmured, reaching out to overlay his hand on Charles’s, squeezing tightly. “These humans, they haven’t learnt, even after centuries and millennia. They still hurt and torture each other, and torture _you _with their pain and suffering.”

Erik’s hands trembled as he spoke his last words, clipped and bitter. Charles felt a spike in Erik’s vehemence.

Charles just let out a short hum, leaning into Erik’s side, and dropped his head onto the taller angel’s shoulder. Erik’s armour dug into his cheek a little, but Charles didn’t mind – Erik felt warm, as warm as an angel could feel – but maybe that was just the way his mind was enveloping Charles in an embrace, warming him from the soul his angel self did not possess.

Charles and Erik watched as a young Jewish boy tripped in the mud as his mother and father screamed for him, the gates closing slowly in front of his glistening eyes. The young boy cried out, rushing forward but was stopped by the hands of officers clad in stiffly starched uniforms. The boy’s knees dragged in the mud as he desperately called out for his parents who were being shepherded to their deaths. The boy yelled and yelled, but the gate still closed.

Erik’s fists clenched tightly, and the gate rattled a little, but nothing more than what could be passed off as a tremor due to a light breeze.

Charles’s eyes locked onto the forlorn boy, whose mind was like a knife twisting in Charles’s chest. As an angel, Charles did not have parents, not like humans did. Charles didn’t know first-hand what a bond between child and parent was, how a mother’s embrace felt, what a father’s protective touch meant. It was only through sharing the minds and souls of humans that Charles could understand, and it made him weep.

“Oh, Erik. That boy… his mind… what he feels…” Charles sobbed, turning his head away from the boy whose feelings were mirrored in his chest. Charles buried his head in the curve of Erik’s neck, the other angel a little stiff but wrapping his arms around Charles’s shoulders tightly nonetheless. Erik could feel a wetness seeping through the seams of his armour, but he didn’t care, not when Charles’s trembling made what could be his heart stutter and clench.

“How could humans do this to you?” Erik murmured, pulling Charles closer, breathing in the scent of his hair. Sunlight. “And how could you be so willing to bear it? To believe in them and love them, even when they hurt you like this?”

Charles let out a shuddering breath, pulling his head back to return to the scene playing out before him. The officers had let go of the young boy, who sat unmoving with his head hung, despair cloying around him. Charles watched as a young girl around the same age as him knelt by his side and gently chook his shoulders, murmuring in his ear. The boy nodded minutely, allowing the girl to slip her arm around him, pulling him to his feet. She smiled at him, urged him, gave him hope.

And Charles, tears still in his eyes, smiled, the clouds parting overhead.

Erik wasn’t looking down at the camp but at Charles, whom Erik thought was made of the same energy as the sun that now peeked through the break in the clouds.

“That, Erik,” Charles whispered, voice light and diffuse with warmth.

‘That is why I still believe.’

“Alex, Moira – barricade the windows. Hank, find anything we can use as weapons and gather them here. Sean, make sure that the back door is blocked, too. Logan, come with me,” the mysterious murderer – Charles – said, and even if he was pushy, his voice carried a sense of ‘this is absolute’ that made everyone jump into action. Before Charles lead Logan outside to his stolen borrowed car, Charles looked at Raven, who had since regained her wits, sitting in the corner booth and drinking a glass of sugar-laden juice.

“Raven,” Charles said, voice gentle. The woman startled, but didn’t shy away from the man, who was looking at her so carefully. For some reason, Raven sensed – knew – that this Charles fellow wouldn’t hurt her. Never. Still, Raven narrowed her eyes at him, but the man just continued to smile.

“What?” Raven asked, taking another sip of her drink and rubbing her belly.

“How are you? And your child?” Charles asked, Raven snorting.

“Well, we just saw a man dislocate his limbs in ways that are reminiscent of The Exorcist, and I saw said guy get his brain blown to bits. Those brain bits are still on the wall, you know. Like a bloody, gory, Jackson Pollock painting,” Raven said, shivering. “So, how do you think we’re going?”

Charles smiled, a little wryly to himself – if he still had his Gift, he would know _exactly _how Raven was feeling. But alas, without it, Charles was left stumped. Angels were more unfamiliar with feelings than humans with low EQ, and though Charles was more empathetic due to his Gift, he was simply blind without it.

“Ah, I see. That is… understandable,” Charles said, Raven raising her brow. “I hope that it brings you comfort to know that I’m here to protect you.” Charles smiled at Raven, who just gave him a confused and wary look. Charles turned to Logan before Raven could ask him exactly what he was protecting her from, the mystery man patting Logan’s arm.

“Come, Logan. I have some equipment in my car that would be of use to us,” Charles said, Logan grunting in response and trailing after the shorter, barefoot man.

When they stepped outside, dust swirling in the unnatural darkness, Logan spoke.

“So, Chuck, care to inform me about what the hell is going on?” Logan said, Charles humming.

“I still question why everyone uses ‘Hell’ as a curse. I suppose it makes sense in another context, but this is the apocalypse spearheaded by Him, so ‘Hell’ doesn’t quite fit the bill. But, I assure you, Logan – I’ll explain everything in due time. Time, which is short as it is, so we better get moving,” Charles said, bumping his fist on the boot of his commandeered car, the metal opening up to reveal bags of… weapons. Logan whistled, Charles letting out a small laugh.

“Where’d you scrounge all this up?”

Logan peered at the man beside him, who was busy pulling out a bag of machine guns and ammo. This man, with a disarming baby-face, who was wearing a scratchy tweed suit and a _lilac _sweater, for God’s sake. Logan felt like this man belonged in an office or a lecture hall, not in the middle of a desert with blood speckling his bare feet and a bag of AK-47s slung over his shoulder.

“Well, I just picked up a few things here and there on my way here,” Charles said, shrugging. “Now, could you so kindly help me carry our provisions in?”

Logan didn’t hesitate to grab the rest of the weapons from the boot, the two of them hauling them inside just as the rest of the group had finished boarding up the windows. Darwin emerged from the back room with a shelf, propping it up against the door after Charles and Logan returned.

“Woah,” Sean said, staring as Logan and Charles dumped the small armoury of weapons onto one of the booth tables. Hank, who had returned from scouring the kitchen for anything weapon-like, looked gobsmacked as he looked at the range of guns on the table, the kitchen knives and frying pan in his arms suddenly dead weight.

“I guess we won’t need the saucepan then…” Hank said, dumping the knives onto the table a bit sheepishly. Charles smiled at him, plucking one of the larger knives and twirling it in his hands, the blade whizzing around with practised finesse. Everyone just stared at him as he played with the knife, nodding.

“Mm. Very sturdy craftsmanship, I must say,” Charles said, throwing the knife and catching it, blade-side cradled in his palm. Sean clapped wildly, whistling. Charles handed Hank the knife, handle forwards, the taller man taking it shakily. “Now, guns are probably more efficient, but the knives will be good if we need to resort to close combat.”

Charles’s smile quickly fell from his face as he winced, letting out a quiet groan.

“What is it?” Angel asked, Charles shaking his head.

“They’re here,” Charles said, quickly grabbing guns and passing them around. “Now, who’s used a gun before?”

Logan, Alex, Darwin, Angel and Raven raised their hands. Hank shook his head.

“Do water guns count?” Sean asked, Moira elbowing him in the side, giving him an incredulous look as the boy glowered. “No for me, then.”

“I used a gun at a range once, but that’s it,” Moira said, Charles nodding.

“Better a little experience than none at all. Now, there’s going to be a bit of a steep learning curve, but here’s how you use a gun,” Charles said, grabbing Moira’s hands and wrapping them around an M4 Carbine. “Okay, safety here, aim…” Charles said, stepping around to stand behind Moira, arms wrapped around her as he held her hand. Moira sucked in a tight breath. “And – Raven, please cover your ears – shoot.”

Charles pressed the trigger, bullets spraying against the wall. Plaster flew into the air and the gun-shots made most of the group shriek, covering their ears (apart from Raven, who had already plugged her ears with her fingers). Logan was unphased and just checked the ammo of his own weapon.

“And that’s how you use a gun. Well done,” Charles said, patting Moira on the back, the woman trembling like a leaf.

“A little warning, next time!” Sean whined, Charles chuckling.

“My apologies, but time is unfortunately a luxury we don’t have,” Charles lamented, nudging Logan. “Logan, how good of a shot are you?”

“Three tours in Iraq, rifle marksmanship medal, some other shiny shit too,” Logan said, Charles beaming.

“Wonderful! Then, I’d suggest you get on the roof to them out before they get too close. Raven, Hank, you two should stay safe in the back because of the child. The rest of you should go up to the roof as well,” Charles said as he began ushering Raven carefully into the secure office, shoving the junk off the worn sofa so she could sit. Raven looked at Charles gratefully, while Hank looked at the gun Charles shoved into his hands.

“Hank, protect Raven, alright?” Charles said, Hank nodding frantically while Raven huffed a little, blonde hair flipping over her shoulder.

“I’m pregnant, not helpless,” Raven said, crossing her arms over her chest. Charles gave her a soft look.

“Of course not,” Charles said, meaning every word of it. “But that doesn’t mean you or your child should be put in needless danger. But here, take this, just in case.”

Charles handed Raven a hand gun, the young woman taking it firmly. Charles chuckled as she deftly checked the ammo, gun mechanism sliding and clicking. Patting the anxious Hank on the shoulder in parting support, Charles lead the rest of the group to the roof. Logan immediately set up the sniper rifle he had carried up in a bag, lowering himself down on the roof and looking through its scope. Alex, Sean, Moira, Darwin and Angel followed suit, their rifles pressed against their shoulders, eyes nervously darting out into what seemed like a desert abyss.

“Aren’t you going to tell us _what’s _coming?” Moira asked, turning to glance at Charles, who stood upright and proud on the edge of the roof, gun slung across his chest.

“Angels,” Charles whispered, the word carried away by the wind. Everyone looked at the man, bug-eyed.

“Angels,” Sean repeated, glancing at Angel, who rolled her eyes.

“Don’t look at me, man. That’s just the name my parents gave me,” Angel said.

“Angels. As in, God’s messengers?” Darwin asked, Charles chuckling.

“Yes, those angels,” Charles repeated, eyes narrowing as he raised his gun.

“You’re sure you don’t mean demons? Because that dead dude downstairs… He wasn’t wearing a toga and I didn’t see a halo,” Sean said, Moira elbowing him in the side again.

“Don’t rely on popular culture. What’s coming are definitely not demons,” Charles said, blue eyes seeing far into the distance, where a blip of light peeked through the dim. Logan noticed it as well, shifting his sights to the moving light. “Logan, what do you see?”

Logan was silent for a moment, peering through his scope, before letting out a snort.

“An ice cream truck,” Logan said.

“An ice cream truck? What, like a Mr Whippy?” Alex said, raising an eye brow.

As the ice cream truck neared, its catchy tune became audible through the silent night – the ice cream jingle made the hairs on the necks of the humans stand up straight, a chilled shiver running down taut spines.

“This is some horror movie shit,” Sean whispered, Alex nodding in agreement.

“An angel driving an ice cream truck though? This is a joke, right?” Angel asked, everyone staring at the approaching ice cream truck, which stopped in front of the diner. Its lights stayed on, but the jingle cut off when the driver’s side door opened with a clatter.

Two legs encased in a bright yellow and red polka-dot jumpsuit stepped out, revealing a slender man with an angular and slightly gaunt face, pompom covered hat perched on his head.

“He looks normal,” Darwin said, Logan letting out a bark of a laugh.

“So did that guy downstairs, kid.”

“Fair enough,” Darwin sighed, the ice cream man stepping forwards in the headlights of the car, casting dark shadows across the ground.

“What do we d-” Alex started, just before the ice cream man began to scream, a high-pitched whine that echoed across the desert. The noise was shrill, and nothing human vocal cords could ever reproduce, even Sean, who was a self-professed King of Karaoke. Angel let out a startled noise when the ice cream man’s jaw seemed to dislocate and stretch, falling downdowndown as he continued to scream. His arms began to elongate, as did his legs, his whole body stretching and stretching into something skeletal and utterly grotesque.

“Holy shit! He doesn’t look normal anymore!” Sean cried out, just as Charles began shooting, spraying bullets down at the man. The screeching continued as bullets riddled the man’s polka-dot suit, body jerking backwards before falling into the dust. His deformed mouth opened and closed a few times with rickety breaths before stilling completely.

“Oh God, you just killed another person,” Moira breathed out, finger shaking on the trigger. Looking up at Charles, who was still perched on the edge of the roof, Moira was surprised to see that the man had tears running down his face, though he did not sob. Charles’s beautiful face was still and serene, and Moira would’ve thought he were a statue if not for the way the tears slid down his face and the gentle sway of his chestnut hair as the wind ran its fingers through the thick locks.

“You okay, Chuck?” Logan asked, sparing a glance at Charles, who wiped at his eyes with his tweed sleeve and nodded.

“Yes, thank you,” Charles said quietly, eyes still locked onto the horizon. “And they aren’t ‘people’ any more. At least, not what you consider ‘people’.”

_‘They’re my brothers and sisters,’ _Charles thought sadly to himself, reloading his gun, spent shell casings rolling around and cooling on the rooftop by Charles’s feet.

Logan suddenly whistled, everyone bristling.

“More lights in the distance,” Logan said flatly, twisting something on his scope.

“How many?” Darwin asked, Logan’s mouth pulling into a grin bordering the line of deranged.

“A shit load.”

Logan was right – a procession of lights began emerging from the cloudy fog that had descended on the desert down, Alex cursing at the sight.

“Shoot them,” Charles said, everyone besides Logan hesitating. Logan fired a shot, one of the cars skidding to the side and colliding with another, bursting into flames. Charles began firing as well, cars skidding and swerving.

“There are people in those cars!” Angel said, as the cars that weren’t hit by Charles and Logan pulled in with screeching tires in front of the diner, their drivers pouring out of them like ants.

“They aren’t people anymore!” Charles yelled out over the sound of his and Logan’s bullets, the beings beneath them screeching and rushing at the diner. At the inhuman noises erupting from the invading mouths – mouths belonging to people that looked like plumbers, grandmothers, shopkeepers, children and businessmen – Alex yelled out and began firing. Darwin followed suit, as did Angel.

The bodies rushing in twisted and morphed, turning into terrifying caricatures of human beings – mouths gaping abysses, limbs long like spiders, eyes black as death itself. No, it was obvious that these invaders weren’t people, not the ones their bodies used to be, at least.

“Keep shooting them! I’m going down to make sure Raven and Hank are okay!” Charles said as he began to notice some of the angels beginning to make it past their line of fire, approaching the barricaded windows of the diner. Logan nodded in affirmation, Charles darting back down the stairs and into the diner, just as one of the angels had crashed through the window.

Charles gritted his teeth, firing his weapon. The angel was fast, scuttling across the ground and along the walls, leaping as it screamed through the mortal body that it stole.

_‘Charles!’ _the angel yelled, hurtling its crab-like form at the fallen angel, who turned his guns towards it, shooting it in the shoulder. That didn’t deter his sister though, the angel in the body of what appeared to be a youthful cheerleader jumping off the ground, tackling Charles.

Charles grunted when his back collided with the floor, a shard of a broken plate slicing his shoulder. Charles hissed and rolled, throwing his spent gun away and taking the hand gun out from his pants, firing. A bullet whizzed into the ceiling, another into the faux-leather booth, sending fluffy white seat stuffing puffing into the air.

The angel screeched again and clawed at Charles, fingers smashing down into the ground with inhuman strength, Charles grimacing.

_‘Disobeyer! Traitor!’ _the angel screamed at Charles, large maw snapping at the fallen angel who rolled again and brought his knee up to pommel his sister in the gut. The rabid angel skidded on the ground and righted itself quickly – but Charles was quicker, gun out and aimed at the angel’s crown.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said, squeezing the trigger. The angel fell back with the bullet’s blow, red oozing out onto the ground. Charles bit his lip as he looked at his fallen sister, mouth moving in a silent prayer, just as a window smashed behind him.

Whirling around, Charles raised his hand, but he had moved too slowly and too late – one of his brothers had thrown themselves through the window, teeth bared at Charles and about to tear out his jugular.

At least, it would have, if not for the bullets colliding with its temple and chest. Two rapid bangs lanced through the air, the angel skidding to a stop by Charles’s bare feet.

Charles turned to the source of the noise, surprise colouring his angelic face.

Raven was there, smoke still curling from the gun in her hands, eyes focused and brow determined. Hank hurtled out after her, gun awkwardly held in his hands, and his eyes widened behind his glasses when he saw the carnage in the diner.

“Oh God,” Hank said, wobbling a little on his legs, wrenching his eyes from the dead bodies on the ground.

“I told you I wasn’t helpless,” Raven said, giving Charles a small smile, which he returned.

“No wonder it’s you,” Charles said, Raven tilting her head to the side questioningly, before her eyes widened and her body keened over. Charles rushed forward as Raven bent, a pained gasp leaving her parted mouth as she clutched her stomach. “Raven! What’s wrong?”

“Raven!” Hank chorused, rushing behind the pregnant woman to support her, arm looped around her torso to help hold her upright.

“No, I’m fine,” Raven pushed out, waving her hand in the air. “The baby… The baby just kicked. Hard.”

“He’s a fighter,” Charles said, chuckling. “Like his mother.”

“He?” Raven echoed, curious. “How do you know it’s a he? I never confirmed the gender.”

Charles just smiled as there was a flurry of footsteps coming down the stairs, the group on the rooftop flooding into the ripped-up diner.

“Look at the mess!” Moira exclaimed, almost on the verge of tears. “I… I just mopped the floors this morning!”

“That’s the least of your concerns right now, Moira,” Angel said, mouth quirking up in a little amusement, despite the situation.

“They’re running,” Logan reported to Charles, nodding his head out the window. Charles hummed, shoulders seeming to loosen slightly.

“Well, it seems we have earned a moment of reprieve,” Charles said, walking over to one of the booths, brushing off a seat and setting himself down on it. Charles looked at the group before him, patting the expanse of faux-leather beside him. “Now, take a seat and rest your weary legs. I suppose it’s time for an explanation.”

Charles and Erik sat on a beach, wings resting in the golden sand. It was 1962, though time often seemed to blend into an incoherent expanse in their long existence.

“They were gifted with so much intelligence, and yet they use it to create tools of death and destruction,” Erik spat, standing up. Erik’s feet, clad in battle leather, did not leave any imprints in the sand as he stalked towards the water, wings unfurling in his anger.

Charles quickly got up too, following his closest friend across the sand to where the waves lapped at the shore.

A swarm of ships drifted across the sea – Russians and Americans – and were locked in a tense stand still. Charles could feel their fear and uncertainty swirling over the waves, their endless questions, the wondering if this was going to be their end. Charles knew it wouldn’t be, not yet, because He had not willed it to be so. But, these events were beginning to test His patience, Charles could feel it.

“What are their minds thinking, Charles?” Erik asked, grey eyes hard. “I can never understand them. What compels them to act like this? To make these choices that will only end in the destruction of their kind?”

“They are afraid, Erik,” Charles said, stepping to stand side-by-side with his fellow angel, who snorted.

“Afraid,” Erik repeated, Charles nodding. “I do not know what that is.”

Charles huffed, turning away from the stalemate of ships and their bombs, instead choosing to look at the profile of his friend. In the Cuban sunlight, Erik’s hair appeared more copper than brown, and at the angle of the noon sunlight his cheekbones were more angular than normal, making his jaw appear sharper. Charles always teased the man that he was the inspiration for the Italian statues of old, the old masters using the beautiful planes of Erik’s face and body as a model for the statues of their kind. Erik just snorted, but his eyes always lit up like the stars whenever Charles waxed lyrical about him.

“Fear is not exclusive to humans, Erik. Angels can feel fear, too, just not as often. We haven’t been given many opportunities to fear with our immortality and power,” Charles said, Erik beginning to grin, showing a flash of white teeth.

“Yes, because He made us powerful. More powerful than the humans, who die so easily yet spend their lives so recklessly. Compared to the foolish, foolish humans, it’s clear that we are superior, is it not, Charles?”

“My friend, you know I don’t believe that,” Charles said, placing his hand on Erik’s bicep, squeezing the taut muscle there. “We are not superior, nor are they inferior. They just don’t see like we do, Erik. Their lives are short compared to ours, their collective knowledge is eons shorter than what we have already experienced. We… We see things from above. We don’t live with our feet on the ground like them, with their emotions. Even I, who has the Gift to feel what they feel, only do it second hand. They live with their feelings, _by _their feelings. That is a power in itself, Erik. One that, I must admit, I find amazing.”

“Careful, Charles. It almost sounds like you are envious of the humans,” Erik said, glancing down at the man by his side, who just chuckled, stepping in front of Erik to dip his bare feet into the sun-kissed water.

“No, not envious, my friend. Just awed,” Charles said, gazing out across the sea. Charles listened – felt – at once; Charles was the Russian soldier longing for the conflict to end to be reunited with his infant daughter, and he was an American shipman twisting his new wedding band around his finger, praying that what he does today will protect the future for his wife at home. Most of the people on those ships, they all made decisions based on their hearts – of course, there were the few whose minds were tainted with darkness, but in the end, most of the men out there wanted to protect their countries and the people they loved that lived within them. That was a warm feeling that made Charles tingle, warming him up from the inside.

They just couldn’t see that the other side wanted the same thing.

“Awed at the humans who are ruled by fear?” Erik asked, Charles turning, wings dragging in the water.

“You don’t understand because you have never known true fear, Erik,” Charles said, Erik rolling his eyes.

“What do I have to fear?”

Charles just smiled, shrugging.

“Your fears are your own, my friend.”

“And you? You have fears that are your own? Fears that the humans don’t force upon you?”

Charles looked at Erik, deep into his blue-grey eyes, before dropping his gaze, the look in Erik’s eyes burning too bright.

“Yes, I have fears that are my own,” Charles said gently, stepping further into the water until it lapped at his thighs, the white fabric he wore billowing out languidly.

‘I fear that we will be torn apart one day.’

“So, angels,” Raven said, voice monotone. Hank’s mouth dropped open, having only heard this for the first time, unlike those on the rooftop. Still, hearing it for a second time didn’t make it any easier to digest.

“Yes, angels,” Charles repeated, Moira and Sean returning to the table with trays full of hot coffees and marshmallows. The group all took a cup each, but only Charles blinked as Moira placed a steaming cup in front of him. Curiously, Charles pulled the mug towards him, taking a careful sip – Charles had never consumed anything before, his body not needing human food for sustenance. But, now he had fallen, and Charles did not know what he was any more.

Charles decided that he didn’t particularly like this concoction called coffee, but that he did not mind the sweetness of the fluffy marshmallows that were like the clouds at home. Erik would probably prefer the coffee, though – the thought made Charles’s chest squeeze tightly.

“I suppose I should start from the beginning,” Charles said, pushing his coffee away and nibbling on another pink marshmallow. Everyone around the table nodded, the coffee forgotten as they listened attentively.

“The last time God lost faith in man, he sent a flood,” Charles said, breaths hitching all around the table. ��This time, he sent what you saw outside.”

“So, this is the apocalypse? Is that what you’re saying?” Alex asked, coffee cup thudding on the table.

“Hm, I suppose so. That’s what you all call it. At this point, it’s more like an ‘extermination’,” Charles said, smiling wryly.

“What, so we’re like cockroaches? Pests?” Alex piped up again, clicking his tongue.

“Divine fumigation?” Moira offered, Logan snorting a little.

“That’s the short of it, yes,” Charles said, smiling a little at the analogy before sobering again. “Those beings that you saw outside, they’re just vessels. Possessed, you could say. The weakest willed are the easiest to turn.”

“Possessed by angels then? You sure they’re not possessed by demons? Because that’s what the movies say, man. The angels are supposed to be the good guys,” Sean said, Charles shaking his head.

“Your popular culture is amusing, and oftentimes quite flattering,” Charles said, taking another marshmallow and squishing it between his fingers. “But no. This is not the work of demons, but of His angels.”

“Wait, how do you know so much about this? Are you a… pastor, or something?” Raven asked, Charles giving them a serene smile.

“I know all of this because, yesterday, I was technically on their side,” Charles said, back beginning to burn again at the reminder of the appendages he had recently lost.

“So you’re a-”

“Was,” Charles said sharply, cutting Alex off, the boy flinching. Giving him an apologetic look, Charles lowered his voice. “Sorry. It’s… sensitive.”

“Right, sorry Chuck, you say that you were an angel or whatever, but I’m not about to believe that so easily,” Logan said, dumping the rest of his flask of whiskey into his coffee and stirring it with his finger, chugging it down. “That being said, I also don’t believe in God and shit either.”

“Well, that goes both ways, Logan. He doesn’t believe in you either, not right now,” Charles said, everyone tensing. Logan just stared at Charles, almost challenging, the fallen angel heaving out a prolonged sigh. “I do suppose this is all hard to believe. Piety has waned in recent centuries, and pop culture has reduced us to shiny white-winged beings. Unfortunately, things aren’t so glamourous.”

Charles shuffled from where he sat, shrugging off his tweed coat – now soaked with blood and what Moira was denying were bits of temporal lobe – and subsequently pulled his lilac sweater over his head. Moira, who was standing slightly behind Charles, gasped. Charles laughed dryly.

“Yes, I can’t imagine that it’s a pretty sight,” Charles mused, everyone getting up to get behind Charles, wondering why Moira looked so pale. It was obvious once their eyes fell upon the two red and puckered wounds on Charles’s back which almost met in a V-shape, long bony protuberances jutting out like sawed-off stumps from the jagged cuts.

“Oh, wow. So what are you, like Michelangelo or something?” Sean asked, Moira giving him a look.

“You mean Michael, the archangel?”

“Or Gabriel, and Raphael,” Darwin added, Charles laughing.

“Oh, yes and no. Our names seem to have gotten lost sometime during the past millennia. Instead of Raphael, try Emma. And instead of Uriel, my brother would prefer to be called Janos.”

And Gabriel’s true name is Erik. Erik, Erik, Erik.

“But your wings… they were…” Hank asked, staring at the wounds on Charles’s back curiously.

“…Taken as a punishment for my betrayal,” Charles said quietly, taking another sip of his bitter coffee.

“Betrayal?”

“Yes. You see, I’m supposed to help with your… fumigation. Evidently, I was against it, and threw myself from Heaven to try and save humankind. Obviously, He did not take too kindly too it, nor did my brothers and sisters, and hence my wings were torn from my back and my Gift taken away,” Charles said, voice airy and light but stilted despite trying to sound unaffected.

“So you’re here to protect us? Like a guardian angel?” Angel asked, Charles leaning on the table.

“Well, not entirely,” Charles said, turning his eyes up from his coffee to look directly at Raven, the blonde girl blinking. “I’m here to protect her.”

“Me?” Raven asked, alarmed. “Why me?”

“Because your child is the only hope humanity has of surviving,” Charles said simply, the diner growing silent. Heads turned back and forth between a still Raven and a calm Charles, who continued to chew on his marshmallows.

“Well, shit,” Alex muttered, sinking into his chair.

“No way. Nope, nuh uh,” Raven said, standing up as she shook her head. Raven threw her hands up, pacing around the diner as Hank hovered around, trying to get her to sit down. “Why me? I’m nobody. Hell, I know what everyone says about me. I’m just the girl who got knocked up by some random guy a few states over, the girl that threw away my future because I didn’t use protection! Why. Me?!”

“Because you’re strong,” Charles said, voice soft but cutting through Raven’s near-hysterical rant, the girl silenced by Charles’s words. “Because you’re a fighter, and brave, and good. Because you’re the only person that is strong enough to carry this burden.”

“I’m just a waitress,” Raven whispered, letting Hank guide her back to the booth seat with worried hands.

“No, you’re Raven,” Charles said, like that meant something. “You’re stronger than you know. Trust me.”

After a long moment, Raven’s mouth curled up.

“Well, who better to trust than an angel?” Raven said, Sean laughing, Darwin and Alex cracking smiles. Even Logan let out a snort, while Moira and Hank exhaled soft chuckles.

“So, let me get this straight, Chuck,” Logan said, crossing his arms over his burly chest. “To survive the apocalypse, we’ve just gotta protect the girl and her bub until it’s born?”

“At the very least,” Charles said, eyes growing dark. “Let’s get to that stage first, because once the baby is born, the vessels out there can’t touch him. But after that…”

Erik will come to kill the child.

“More of them are coming, then?” Darwin asked, Charles swallowing around the boulder in his throat and nodding.

“Yes, which is why we need to prepare. This first wave was them testing our strength. Next, they will test our weakness.”

“Okay,” Moira said, leaning on the table. “Charles, what do we need to do?”

Next chapter (3/4) → 

[pietrotheavenger]

learn to love

chapter 4 - perfect start

summary: steve and y/n don’t get along. now, they have to.

pairings: au!steve rogers x fem!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of death

a/n: i just need a sugar daddy... so badly... princess polly if you’re reading this, please sponsor me

series masterlist

steve’s family had money. there was no other way to put it. in new york, he was a decently successful artist and lived comfortably, but in boston, he was disgustingly rich. y/n gaped at the beautiful and gigantic house that sat at the end of a long driveway. neatly trimmed hedges lined the sides and she could even see a proper garden in the distance. in front of the house was a fountain acting as a roundabout with several expensive cars parked nearby.

“you have a whole ass fountain in front of your house,” she deadpanned.

“yes,” he nodded his head.

“okay. glad we’re on the same page.”

when he got close to the other cars, he simply put the jeep in park, and turned it off. “alright, let’s grab our bags and head in?” he was looking straight into her soul with his insanely blue and intense eyes. his head was tilted to the side, like a puppy, with his lips slightly pouted.

she swallowed, hard. she was starting to feel nervous. “let’s do this.”

he grabbed her hand from her lap and gave it a squeeze. “remember, it all starts here, my lovely girlfriend.” he gave her a genuine smile and it made her heart flutter.

“laying it on thick, now, my beautiful boyfriend?” she pulled her hand away and averted her gaze to take her seatbelt off. she propped the door open as she awaited a response. she looked back at him.

“hey,” he said softly as he grabbed her hand again. he pressed a kiss to her knuckle, “anything to convince my parents,” he grinned cheekily.

“you are a tool, steven grant rogers,” she rolled her eyes, stepping out of the car.

he insisted on carrying her bag into the house, despite her protests.

“i am able bodied enough to carry my own bag in!”

“sweetheart, we used to go to the gym together. you can’t bench for shit.”

“what am i benching, steve? what am i benching? give me the goddamn bag.”

“let me be chivalrous. my family knows that i treat a dame like a queen.”

“dame? god, the air in massachusetts be hitting differently.”

“shut up.”

and with that they had arrived at the front door of the house. he simply swung it open and walked in. the foyer of the house was beautiful. the first thing her eyes settled on was the massive grand staircase. the cherry wood banister curved upwards to the second story. the floor was all marble and expensive looking paintings adorned the walls, as well as a family portrait above the entry table to the right. steve had the goofiest smile, and was dressed in a royal blue sweater. she grinned to herself as she examined the portrait for a moment before turning her attention back to the rest of the house. looking straight into the back of the house, she could see a glass door that led to a patio.

”hello?” he called out. his voice echoed around the house. jazz music floated from somewhere inside the house. she tightened her grip on her purse as they ventured further in. he dropped the bags at the base of the stairs before grabbing her hand. he laced their fingers together as they continued forward. the jazz music grew louder as they ventured deeper into the house. she sidestepped closer to him. she felt more secure when she was closer to him. his house was intimidating. he noticed, and his chest bloomed as he inconspicuously pulled her closer to him.

the house opened up into a large space. there was a living room to their right and a beautiful kitchen to the left. humming along to the music was a blonde woman in the kitchen. she was cutting vegetables. she wore a red apron with small white polka dots. her hair was clipped away from her face with a brown baratte. on one of the couches in the living room, were two lumps under blankets. she could just see the headphones that one of them was wearing while the other ate from a bowl of chips and watched the tv at a low volume. y/n shivered. the ac made the house very cold. she was used to her broken ac sputtering cold air out once every ten minutes as she suffered in the heat. “you good, baby?” steve raised an eyebrow in question. she nodded.

just then, the woman in the kitchen looked up. her face split into one that mirrored his. “stevie!” she exclaimed. she maneuvered around the island and gave him a hug. he dropped y/n’s hand to hug her back.

“hi, ma,” he sighed, squeezing her.

a chorus of “steve!” was heard from the couch as two more bounded over. y/n guessed that girl was sophia and the boy was sawyer. steve was right about sawyer looking eerily like him, aside from his curly hair. when he pulled away from his mom, he was attacked by his siblings. y/n took that moment to introduce herself to his mom.

“hi, mrs. rogers, i’m y/n. it’s so nice to finally meet you,” she smiled politely. inside her head, she was panicking. were they supposed to hug? shake hands?

his mom pulled her in for a brief but warm hug. “oh, you’re steve’s girlfriend!”

“yes, i am,” she laughed.

by then, sophia and sawyer had finished their siege on steve. the older boy had his arm around the younger one and the girl stood with a hand on her hip as she slapped steve’s bicep with a quite a bit of strength. he laughed it off.

“y/n, this is sophia and sawyer, and that’s my mom,” he pointed to his mother.

“hey sophia, hi sawyer. it’s great to meet you guys! steve’s told me a lot about his family,” y/n put on her best ‘girl-next-door,’ ‘perfect-daughter,’ and ‘nice-customer-service-rep,’ voice as she spoke.

“we can’t say the same! steve’s hardly said a peep about his girlfriend,” mrs. rogers crossed her arms over her chest and looked at steve pointedly.

“c’mon ma, i didn’t wanna jinx things,” he replied. he pushed sawyer. “where’s your girlfriend?”

the younger brother rolled his eyes and scoffed, “fuck off!”

“language,” steve and his mom chimed at the same time.

“that’s so funny,” y/n began. he reached for her hand and pulled her closer to him. he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and placed her hand on his chest and held it there. “you have such a sailors mouth and here you are, bossing your little brother around,” she continued teasing him as he pulled her into his arms.

“exactly!” sawyer gasped exasperatedly. “mom never believes me when i say you swear.”

“because i don’t!” steve responded, in the same tone. he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

steve is really laying it on thick, y/n thought.

“you do!” sawyer yelled back.

“alright, buddy-” steve began but was cut off.

“god, can you guys shut up! steve’s been home for two minutes and you’re back on your bullshit!” sophia groaned. she flicked her ponytail over her shoulder.

“language!” steve, sawyer, and mrs. rogers called at the same time.

“there’s no winning with this family,” sophia looked y/n in the eye as she spoke. steve, sophia, and sawyer all had the same blue sparkling eyes. they didn’t get it from their mother. she had stormy grey eyes. but they did get their beautiful blond hair color from her.

“steve, your dad and simon are out in the back. why don’t you take y/n out to meet them?” mrs. rogers offered.

“you down, babe?” he looked down at her.

“always down for anything,” she responded, patting his chest and pulling away. his arm dropped from her shoulders. he picked her hand up and tucked it into his pocket. “you’re so weird,” she laughed.

“it’s so nice to see stevie all loved up,” his mom looked warmly at her eldest son. “now, go. i’m already sick of your fighting,” she ruffled sawyer’s curls.

“let’s go, darling,” steve sang as he pulled her towards the sliding glass door.

they walked out onto the patio and y/n sucked in a breath at the sight of his backyard. there was a basketball hoop just to the left of the patio on an approximately 35 by 35 square of concrete. further off, there was a swimming pool with a lounge area to the right. beyond that, was just grass. she thought she saw a soccer goal but she wasn’t sure. out by the pool, steve’s dad and simon chased the dog around. the dog gleefully barked.

“remember, babe, the dog is rosie, not sophia,” steve said to her, quietly.

“noted,” she whispered back.

with their hands still woven together, they got off the patio and approached the pool. steve swung their hands back in forth. she suppressed a school-girl-like giggle.

“hi, dad!” steve waved. simon and their dad turned at the same time.

“steve!” simon yelled as he hurtled himself toward steve. the dog began barking louder and mr. rogers walked over more calmly than his son just had.

simon threw himself onto his older brother. he was less muscular than steve, but still had a lean figure. his eyes were a kaleidoscope of colors, a mix of blues and greens and browns. his hair was dark brown and just as curly as sawyer’s. “WE’RE BACK IN BUSINESS, MOTHERFUCKERS!” simon yelled to the sky.

“language!” mr. rogers chided.

“hi, mr. rogers, i’m y/n. it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she extended her hand to him.

he shook her hand and smiled as he said, “call me joe!” his blue eyes glittered in the sunlight. that’s where they got it from. his hair was dark brown and curly, speckled with grey hairs. “it’s great meeting you, too.”

“dad!” steve exclaimed, pulling him into the hug.

she laughed to herself, letting the scene unfold in front of her.

steve then introduced his brother and father to y/n before his mother called them all in. “why don’t you two get settled in? freshen up and then come down for lunch.”

so that's what they did. steve grabbed the bags from where he has dropped them and led her up the stairs to his room. his room itself was pretty simple. a whole wall was covered with shelves. the shelves were overflowing with various books, plants, and knickknacks. his bed was shoved up in a corner, made with grey bedding. a huge window took up another wall. in the corner of the room, y/n spotted a guitar. a bureau, a bedside table, and a desk completed his room.

“i didn’t know you could read,” she mused, picking up a book. she ran her fingers over the cover.

he rolled his eyes. “you’re a piece of shit.”

“and you’re an asshole,” she countered. right when she thought he was being sweet, he goes and says that. she should’ve known better. a leopard can’t change its spots. she was naive for thinking that he could ever be affectionate towards her.

she kicked her shoes off before pulling her pants off and getting into bed. she pulled the covers up. “wake me up when you’re done in the bathroom,” she grumbled, closing her eyes.

“why are you acting like that?” he sighed, spreading his arms out. he could feel the irritation rolling off of her in waves.

her eyes flew open. “acting like what?”

“a whiny little bitch!”

she sat up, rather abruptly. steve flinched, but she didn’t notice. “bitch, i’ll kill you. leave me alone for twenty fucking minutes or i’ll lose my shit. you’re getting on my nerves,” she growled before turning over in bed and snuggling into the covers.

he scratched the back of his head. they were off to a perfect start.

infinity tags:

@ssweet-empowerment ; @stardustandbucky ; @abuckyrogersworld ; @freightcarcap ; @c-a-v-a-l-r-y ; @coffeebooksandfandom ; @somethingmoreclever ; @2dreamcatcher8 ; @illegalportkey ; @fuckthatfeeling ; @xxashy999xx ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @tuliptx ; @wwhitewwolff ; @thisismysecrethappyplace ; @appreciating-chase-brody ; @renanyx ; @maladaptive-ninja-returns ; @marvelrose ; @sophiealiice ; @dreamsfollowed99 ; @galacticstxrdust ; @fitzsimmons-is-forever ; @dumblani ;

learn to love tags:

@youunravelme ; @thebutterflyxx ; @cailin-lefantasy ; @thatoneslytherinbeater ; @i-padfootblack-things ; @clockworkherondale ; @cap-owns-my-ass ; @clean-and-claire ; @tits-out-for-cevans ;

[kclenhartnovels]

Episode One

Do you have trouble remembering your past, so much that sometimes you wonder if you don’t have one? Do you often feel like your personality is flat, and dependent upon someone else in your life? Do you have a best friend, a lover, or a child that has a unique gift or talent, but lacks the drive to use it properly? Are you something other than a straight white cis man? 

Your life may be in danger!

Don’t let yourself become just another fridged person or tragic backstory. Take your life into your own hands today, call Secondary Character Protection Services!

“No one ever wants to admit that they’re not in charge of their own life,” Agent DeWitt began, thumbing over the edge of the flyer. “It’s like saying that you’re not worth it. You’re not worth the story. You’re not worth--worth even naming. Do you know what your middle name is?”

“My name is Kate,” the young woman across from them said. She twisted her hands, crumpling the flyer between them. “Kate Jackson.”

“Kate,” DeWitt repeated with a smile. “Is that short for Katherine? Did your mother pick your name, or your father?”

“I don’t know.” She picked up her mug of coffee aggressively, taking a drink to buy herself time.

DeWitt smoothed out the flyer again, and set it between them. “That’s okay. Tell me about the person in your life that made you call me.” They tapped the number at the bottom of the flyer. 

“He’s my boyfriend,” Kate said quietly. Her knuckles whitened on the mug handle. DeWitt offered her a packet of sugar. “He’s--well, he’s a great guy, Agent. I love him.”

“But?”

She shrugged, and her gaze settled somewhere above DeWitt’s head. “He was acting oddly, and I thought he might be cheating on me, so I confronted him about it. Turns out he was in some freak accident at the factory, and now he has powers over electricity. I made him an outfit to help him hide his identity. He found out that there’s this evil woman who’s--I don’t know. Doing something terrible. He told me the less I know, the better. It’s the only way to protect me.”

“What’s his superhero name he’s using?”

“Power Surge.”

DeWitt grimaced. “And he told you specifically, he’s not telling you anything to keep you safe? Do you know the name of the villain, at least?”

“Frosticle.”

The Agent choked on their coffee, and set it down carefully. “Oh, honey.” They cleared their throat. “Ms. Jackson, you are in very, very great danger. This is terrible writing.”

“You think so?” Kate brushed her hair out of her eyes. One wayward dark curl obstinately bounced back onto her cheek. DeWitt was sure it was the same artist who put her in a shirt that cut uncomfortably low. 

“Can I ask you, Ms. Jackson, when your boyfriend is at work, or when he is out protecting the streets at night, what do you do?”

“Usually I sit in my underwear beside the window and watch for him to come back.”

“Do you bite your lip?”

“Yes. I mean, when I’m not arching my back at odd angles so that the moonlight can hit my breasts and my ass at the same time.”

DeWitt glanced nervously towards the diner’s large window; they half expected a rocket launcher to come flying through the glass at any moment. “I’m taking you into immediate protective custody.”

There was no sign above the Agency’s door; in fact, there was no separate building for it. DeWitt just led Kate into a sprawling office building, passing doctor’s offices, tax preparation offices, industry offices, even a tiny closet-sized space dedicated for selling other people’s stuff on eBay. When they finally stopped, the door only had SCPA stenciled on its window. 

“Do you ever get people coming here looking to adopt a kitten?” Kate asked, squinting at it for a moment.

“Yeah. There are a lot of disappointed dyslexics in this town.” DeWitt unlocked the door with a swipe of their badge, then held it open to allow Kate to pass inside. The room was mostly empty, save for a single desk against one wall, and a few doors that bordered a more private office, a bathroom, and a small kitchen area. The interior walls were plastered with newspaper clippings about super occurrences from all over the greater metro area. Kate touched one of the clippings carefully.

“This is him. This is Trent,” Kate said quietly. 

“You said you made his outfit, right?”

She nodded numbly, tracing her fingers along the edges of the black-and-white photo that saw Power Surge facing off against a burning building, smoke curling around him. His back was to the camera. She put her hand to her chest, and her eyes fluttered. 

“It shows off his arms so nicely,” she breathed. Her chest heaved, and her shirt seemed to tighten over the impossible planes of her stomach.

DeWitt groaned. “We need to find that artist ASAP,” they muttered, and draped their suit coat over Kate’s shoulders. “Come inside and have a seat. I need to talk to my boss, and then we’ll draft a plan for you. You’re in danger of kidnapping at the very least. How long has your boyfriend been fighting this villain?”

“Frosticle,” Kate supplied.

“That’s such a terrible name,” DeWitt whispered, but led Kate over to a white couch anyway. Kate draped herself across it, the suit coat slipping off her shoulders to pool around her elbows. 

“Trent only just found out about her. She’s started freezing pipe lines leading into the upper district of the city. You know, where the big corporations are taking all the potable water and selling it?”

“While the poor still don’t have clean drinking water downtown, yeah. Typical mirror of current events.”

“I guess so. But the pipe lines are bursting and causing huge damage to the subway system that the same people depend on, so.” She shrugged. “Trent is trying to stop her.”

DeWitt leaned against the arm of the couch thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose he’s tried talking to her about it?”

“You can’t reason with someone like Frosticle. She’s crazy. And she hates men, so she won’t give him the time of day anyway.”

“Is that what your boyfriend told you?”

“That’s all he’ll tell me.” She sighed. Her bosom heaved. Her curly hair spilled over her shoulder. DeWitt could already see her broken and bloody on the floor, light framing her from a busted window in a clear display of martyrdom meant to make this Power Surge realize his true potential. 

This was worse than the child sidekick they had put into witness protection three weeks ago.

“AGENT DEWITT!” The voice boomed from the corner office, and the door swung open to show a tall, broad man in a three-piece suit. He wore two eye patches, one over each eye. “THIS IS THE CASE YOU WERE TELLING ME ABOUT? BRING HER INTO MY OFFICE!”

Kate startled, and nearly fell off the couch. She nearly fell out of her bra, too. 

“Yes, sir,” DeWitt called back, and offered her a hand up. “Chief Special Agent is a little loud, but you get used to him.”

“He has two eye patches. How does he see?”

“Sometimes I think he uses his voice for echolocation. Don’t worry, it’ll be a short conversation. Whoever writes his dialogue only knows how to steal from motivational posters.” DeWitt led her into the office. A shiny placard repeated CHIEF SPECIAL AGENT, and there were stacks of paper on one side of the desk covered in nothing but scribbles that were supposed to reflect writing. The walls were papered with repeated images of a kitten hanging from a branch, hang in there written beneath each sad-looking cat. 

Chief sat behind his desk, steepling his fingers and making his shoulders even more impossibly wide. Kate could have laid across them from end to end and hardly need to curl her toes to fit. DeWitt was fairly certain the artist had no idea what human proportions were.

“YOU TWO CAN SURVIVE THIS. YOU JUST HAVE TO WORK TOGETHER.”

“Yes, sir,” DeWitt answered. 

Kate’s hair disheveled from the force of Chief’s voice. 

“REMEMBER THERE IS NO I IN TEAM. THE CITY IS COUNTING ON YOU.”

“Of course, sir.”

“WELL, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? GET BACK OUT THERE, AGENT DEWITT. YOU’RE OUR LAST HOPE.”

DeWitt escorted Kate back out of the office. The kittens swam in front of her vision.

“Our last hope?” she repeated, alarmed. “Is there some bigger danger that you’re fighting?”

They leaned back against the door with a sigh, then rubbed at their eyes a moment. Exhaustion pulled at their cheeks, before they cracked a smile. “No, Ms. Jackson. The Chief was the first one I saved, you see. He was slated as a police chief that was the inspiration behind a cop-turned-superhero. He was only ever written to be a supportive father figure. I only narrowly got him out alive, but some of the writing stuck. He means well, and I give him the big office, otherwise he starts to get anxious. I have to try and keep him close to his script for his sake.”

Kate tugged at her curls, trying to smooth them back down. “I don’t understand. How do you know all of this? And how--how are you going to save me?”

DeWitt pulled their suitcoat back up around Kate’s shoulders. “For starters, we’re going to buy you some new clothes. Then, Ms. Jackson, we’re going to rewrite your story. Are you ready?”

*****************

No one was ever really ready to rewrite their story. 

DeWitt stared at the pouring rain, collar of their overcoat turned up against the chill, holding a smoking cigarette in one hand. They didn’t even smoke, but they had to think, and they knew this was the only way it was going to happen. 

Kate wasn’t ready. DeWitt saw it in the way she moved. She couldn’t keep the sway out of her hips. She kept wetting her lips with her tongue, but her lipstick never smeared. She walked on her toes. Her back had an unnatural curve. Even DeWitt found her irresistible, and this wasn’t even the story they belonged in. Hell, they didn’t belong in any story. 

“Agent DeWitt?” Kate stood in the pouring rain. Her hair stuck to her cheeks. She had followed orders and gotten a new outfit, one that was a relaxed fit and covered her from neck to ankles. Unfortunately, she had chosen a delicate and white fabric, and the downpour left it plastered to her every curve, even showing a flower-decorated bra underneath. And her jeans still hugged her hips. “Agent DeWitt, are you okay? You look--”

“Broody, I know,” they sighed. “I had to spend some time thinking, is all.” They dropped the cigarette, crushing it under heel. “And noir is the best way to think. I’m sorry about the rain.”

She blinked up towards the heavy clouds. Water trickled down her face. Her makeup didn’t so much as smudge. “I was thinking less broody, more mysterious. Why is the Chief a Special Agent, by the way, and you’re just an Agent?”

“There’s nothing special about me, Ms. Jackson.” DeWitt grimaced. They were not going to be the mysterious love interest if it killed them. “I was hoping you would buy sweat pants and an oversized hoodie.”

“I could borrow one of Trent’s hoodies. I wear it all the time.”

“Yeah, wearing that and just your underwear?”

Her mouth formed a perfect, innocent o. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.” They pushed away from the shelter of the low overhang at last, and tilted their hat against the rain. They didn’t remember putting on a hat when they left. “Damn it, there’s another one.”

“Another what?” 

“Continuity error,” DeWitt explained. “Mistakes that happen for the sake of the aesthetic. Here, you can stay with me tonight. We’re going to practice changing your script.”

“Your place?” she repeated. “You sure it won’t be putting you in danger?”

“Not at all. Like I said, you’re not in my story.” 

She took their arm to walk, stepping cautiously around the deeper puddles. Streetlights played across the dirty asphalt, and it took less time than it should have to reach their apartment. DeWitt guessed the artist didn’t want to draw any more cityscape panels today. They could hardly blame them. Windows took too many measurements, and with the rain there would be too many dramatic reflections and ominous foreshadowing.

“This is a cute place,” Kate remarked, toweling off her hair once they were in the safety of the apartment. “But...there’s only one bed. Where are you going to sleep?”

“What?” DeWitt dropped their cup of tea. It shattered dramatically, spilling hot water across their fingers. They swore, but the word only came out a series of asterisks. “No, I have a two-bedroom apartment.”

Kate stared at them as if they were insane. “This is a studio apartment, Agent. I can see everything from here. There’s only that one door to the bathroom, where I got this towel. You only have one bed.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” they said through gritted teeth.

Kate looked at the empty space beside the coffee table. “What couch?”

They dropped their head into their arms. “Fanfiction writers must be taking their turn.” With another sigh, they went to clean up the mug at last. “Listen, my first story was a slow-burn romance, too. Back when I was a private investigator. I was hired by a pretty dame, and she was in heaps of trouble. Well, I did everything that I could to help her. I fell in love with her.”

“What happened?” 

DeWitt shrugged, the broken pieces of the tea cup scattering into the trash can like a broken heart. Tea dripped from their fingers. “We slept together, and when I woke up, she was gone. She had gone outside to smoke a cigarette, and was kidnapped. Beaten to death by an enemy I didn’t even know I had.”

Kate gasped. Her bosom heaved. The towel dropped from her trembling hands. “That’s horrible.”

“What’s horrible is she was never even named,” DeWitt snarled, using the anger to piece themselves back together. “I called her babe. Ms. Jackson, do you know why I introduced myself to you as Agent DeWitt?”

She shook her head. 

“I don’t have a first name. Agent DeWitt is it. But at least I have a name, I have a profession, I have more than just a tight skirt and a plotline that’s only meant to end in pain and death.” They crossed the room, and took Kate’s hands gently. “So you are going to put on comfortable, loose-fitting clothing. You are going to sleep on the bed, alone. I am going to stare out the window all night and think of the love that I lost, because my angst will distract the writers long enough that you can get a good night’s sleep.”

“But...but what about Trent?”

DeWitt leaned forward to kiss her brow. The touch would be enough to satisfy for now, they hoped. “We’ll start on you and Trent in the morning. I promise.” 

Kate’s hands lingered on DeWitt’s. She stroked her fingers across the back of their hands. “I’m sorry about your babe.” 

They pulled away. Somehow, the hat they kept throwing in the trash was back on, and DeWitt gave in and pulled the brim lower over their eyes, casting a long shadow across their face. “Get some rest, Ms. Jackson.”

[Episode Two]

[Tag list: @gingerly-writing @rrrawrf-writes @thewinedarksea @writerofwriting @hechiceria @knightedwriter @kaypier

First dibs on updates happens on my patreon!]

[thiswasinevitableid]

The Wicked House

Prompt for the 31st was: Wicked. Thanks to @thats-amnesty-babe and Morgan E Ashton for the help brainstorming.

Duck whacks his hands together, clearing the dust from them, before raising a hand in friendly farewell to the movers. He picks his way through the boxes, up the stairs, and to his bedroom. Opening the door sends a bolt of dark, fluffed-up fur into the hallway.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry fuzzball, but I couldn’t have you bein underfoot or runnin out the door.” He scratches the cat behind her ears, and her affronted glare gives way to forgiving purrs. 

He unpacks for awhile, finds a good luck note from Juno tucked in the winter coat she gave him (“I mean it, Duck, winter up there’s a hell of a lot colder than here in West Virginia”). Orders pizza, gets the kitchen table set up in time to eat it. Flips through his to-do list for the next few days as he does. 

ka-BOOM

Winnie yowls and runs from the room as Duck nearly falls out of his chair. 

“What the fuck?” He dashes outside, expecting to find an exploded car or downed powerline.

He finds nothing of the sort. None of his neighbors are even poking their heads out. There’s a smaller boom, from the house next to his (his is on the corner, so only has one neighbor). 

“Well, Woodbridge finally managed to offload one of these places, huh?”

He turns to find a rather prim looking woman walking a furious looking Pomeranian. 

“Beg pardon?”

“You’re the first person to buy any of the houses near that wicked place in years.”

Duck looks around again. Every house on the block, save for his own darkly painted victiorian and the brightly painted one next to it, has a sun-worn for sale sign in the yard. 

“What the fuck?”

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

“Oh, so you’re the guy who bought the house next to Indrid Colds place?” The man at the grocery store asks as he rings him up. Duck  was overjoyed to find a real mom and pop place near his house and Leo, the owner, has been chatting with him.

“So it seems.”

“Don’t let folks make you too jittery about it. Indrid’s an odd guy, but he don’t mean no harm.”

“What the hell does he do? All kinds of weird lights and noises and shit coming from that place.”

“Not a clue. Seems like you’re in a better position to find out than most of us.” He tilts his head towards the beer Duck is loading into a bag.

“Dunno, kinda like havin all my limbs. Not sure I’ll keep ‘em all if I go in there.”

Leo shrugs, “suit yourself.”

As Duck walks home with his groceries, he mulls over the suggestion; sure, the loud noises aren’t great, but they no worse and no more frequent than a loud party or a neighbor with barky dogs. 

He sets the bags down on his front step, fumbling to find which pocket he put his keys in. 

“Don’t move!”

He freezes, finds a tall man with silvery hair moving purposefully up his drive. He’s in a long, silk bathrobe and bunny slippers, bright red glasses perched on his nose. When he places his hands on Ducks shoulders and starts moving him back off the porch, Duck tenses, tries to pull away.

He can’t. The man is surprisingly strong for such a beanpole.

“Hey, pal, look-”

“No, you look.” He points a finger, and Duck squints for a beat before seeing it; a black widow, dangling on a thread as she lowers down from his door frame. 

“Shit, almost walked right into her.”

“Yes, you did. I thought you might prefer not to.”

Duck takes another look at the stranger, including the spot where his hand is still resting on Ducks arm. The other man follows the gaze, pulls his hand back apologetically. 

“Gonna go out on a limb here and say you’re Indrid Cold.”

“Oh, you’ve heard of me!”  Indrid smiles brightly, only to have the expression falter, “oh, ah, you’ve heard of me. I can’t say I blame people for trying to warn you away from me, given my reputation.” The last few words come out so soft and resigned, the kind of vulnerability that’s either a trap or the truth of someone who has gone a little too long without the benefit of the doubt.

“Reputation don’t matter half as much as your actions. Far as I’m concerned, the only thing I know you done for sure is save me from a nasty spider bite.” He smiles kindly, holds out his hand, “I’m-”

“-Duck Newton.” Indrid takes it, shaking it with an oddly wide smile. 

“Uh, right. Well, I’m gonna get rid of that widow, but if you wanted to come in for a beer or coffee or somethin I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“That sounds wonderful but, oh, oh dear, um, excuse me something’s just come up. Hope to see you again.” He dashes back down the path, down the sidewalk, and up the steps to his bright yellow door. 

“Huh.” Duck watches the door for a moment, then goes to get a broom. 

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

The diner smells like eggs, bacon, and butter when Duck steps in from the chill of the early September air. 

It’s quiet, but he settles on a spot at the counter all the same, in case they need the booths for bigger groups. 

“Good morning,” a cheerful, somewhat crunchy-granola looking blonde woman greets him, pad in hand “any coffee or tea this morning?” 

“Coffee, please.”

“You got it.” She spins, grabs the pot, and pours him a mug. Several of the flatops are where Duck can see them, being worked expertly by a man who must be well over six feet tall. Whatever he’s moving about on them smells incredible.

“Ready to order.”

“Whatever he’s cookin right there.”

“Hash it is.” She smiles again.

The cook nods, and as he sets to work he asks, “you just passing through?”

“Naw, moved here a few weeks ago, got a job in the national forest.”

“Right on.”

“Oh yeah.” A voice behind him says, and he finds two older men sizing him up, “you’re the fella who got duped into buying next to Cold’s place.”

“He’s a man, Clarence, not fucking black mold.” The cook grumbles.

“How’s living next to the wicked witch treating you?” The second man, in a red ball-cap, asks.

“Warlock.” Says a clipped voice. It takes Duck a moment to see it belongs to the man going over receipts at the register, slick dark hair flecked with grey and face movie-star handsome, “if Indrid did have those abilities you all seem convinced he does, he’d be a warlock, not a witch.”

“How would you know?” Red cap retorts.

“Ey, shut up Jim, you know the boy was in the CIA. Better not disrespect him.”

“FBI, not CIA

“All I’m saying is that wherever Cold goes, disaster follows. Not to mention the man’s a known f-”

“One more syllable and you’ve got a lifetime ban.” Barclay points the spatula towards the men.

In the midst of the standoff, the bell dings. 

And Indrid Cold walks into the diner.

 He’s bundled up like it’s snowing, walks up to the counter and pauses when he sees Duck. 

Duck pats the stool next to him, “Nice to see you again, neighbor.”

“Likewise.” Indrid gives that odd smile again and sits down, “Good morning Barclay, Joseph.” He nods first to the cook, then the man at the register, “Oh, and hello Dani. The usual, please.”

Dani grins, turns to one of the drink machines and comes back moments later with a cup of cocoa.

“I can’t handle how bitter coffee is, even with sugar.” Indrid says, two seconds before Duck is going to ask him why that drink.

“You’re braver than I am, that much sugar this early’d have me on the ceilin.”

Indrid smiles softly, “Lightweight.”

Duck barks out a laugh, making Indrid snicker as well. 

“Any plans for this weekend, Duck?” 

“Got some new model ships to work on, might go for a hike, nothin too excitin.”

“You don’t get enough hiking at work?” Indrid cocks his head.

“I mean, not really? It’s different when I’m on my own; I don’t got an agenda or shit I’m supposed to be takin care of. I can just go at my own pace.”

Indrid makes a noise of understanding right as Barclay sets two plates down. Indrids’ is piled with pancakes and strawberries. 

Barclay points a can of whipped cream down at the plate, “say when.”

The tower of cream is almost a foot high before Indrid goes, “when.”

As they eat, they chat about this and that, though mostly Indrid asks Duck about his move, and how he’s liking the town. Then he muses, “I’d like to go hiking sometime. I really ought to get out a bit more.”

“You can come with me sometime, if you want.”

“Really?”

“Sure, long as you don’t mind me talkin about trees.”

“Not in the slightest.”

Duck raises his glass in cheers, “well, if you decide you want to, you know where to find me.”

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

Duck balances the plate of cornbread (his fathers no-fail recipe)  in one hand as he lifts the other to knock on the door.

“Come in!” Indrid calls a half-second before his hands meets the wood. 

The inside of Indrid’s house is laid out much the same as Ducks own. This is where the similarities end. There are drawings scattered everywhere, pinned to walls and strewn across tables. Art and posters and letters cover the walls, each of which is painted a different color.

As he makes his way into the kitchen he notices chalk and bottles of salt, piles of old books, and many, many, many sweaters. 

Indrid is at the sink, filling a kettle with water. 

“You’re right on time, I was just making myself some tea. Though I can make something stronger if you prefer.”

“Tea’s fine.” Duck sets the plate down, “figured I oughta make a proper, neighborly introduction.”

He leaves out the part where, in the two days since they spoke at the diner, he’s thought about Indrid quite a bit. And that whenever an explosion or other odd occurrence came from next door, Ducks’ first response is no longer annoyance; it’s worry. What if something bad happened and Indrid had no one checking on him?

“I’ve been thinking” Indrid sets a mug down in front of him, sits across from him at the rickety table, “there’s a little get-together at the Lodge, that hotel on the edge of town, this weekend. If you were interested, we could hike out that way and then stop by after.”

“You know the folks there?”

“I do. Barclay and Joseph live in one of the cottages, Dani lives in the lodge proper, and they were kind enough to invite me to movie night once. I suppose I found my people, so to speak, there even if I still am a bit solitary.”

“Be happy to come, like to get to know more folks in town myself.” Duck glances back from examining some nearby drawings, and immediately knows he gave the right answer. Indrid is looking at him like he hung every star in the sky. 

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

Ducks’ gotten used to the occasional smoke detector cry from next door.

But this one isn’t stopping. 

He grabs the fire extinguisher from under his sink and bolts out one front door and into another. 

Smoke drifts down the stairs and Indrid is nowhere in sight. So up the stairs he goes, turning into the room where the smoke is the worst. Mercifully, there is no actual fire, just clear signs of one being hastily and messily put out. He opens the windows, and after a few minutes of cross-breeze the alarm shuts off. 

It’s only then that he hears a tap running and someone muttering. 

He crosses the hall, finds Indrid glaring into the mirror over the bathroom sink, trying to sooth a nasty looking burn on his arm. 

“Shit, what happened?” 

Indrid stares at the water, “just an accident. I was careless. I’ll be alright.”

“Here, lemme look at your arm-yeah, okay, I’m gonna go grab my first aid kit from my place.”  

He’s out and back as fast as he can manage, returns to find Indrid sitting on the toilet lid, sulking. 

Duck holds out his hand and Indrid flops his wrist into it. As gently as he can, Duck tends to the burn. It’s not bad enough to need a hospital, but it’s still a nasty looking mark.

“What were you tryin to do?” He asks softly.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me?”

“I have certain...abilities. Magic. Most of it related to seeing the future. But some of it is more general, or is in other fields of the discipline, and I was trying to use one field to influence a future and it backfired.”

Duck considers him a moment, then gently squeezes his hand, “hey, it’s okay if you don’t wanna tell me. Don’t gotta make a story up on my behalf.”

“I’m not MAKING IT UP!” Indrid shouts, yanking his hand away and standing up.

“Indrid, you don’t expect me to believe-”

“ What? That I’m stuck seeing futures I can’t stop, stuck with powers I still can’t fully control, that I’ve made myself an outcast time and again all because of these blasted things.” He rips off his glasses and chucks them down the hall. Crumples to the floor, head in his hands.

Cautiously, Duck scooches across the hardwood. He wants to reach out, to soothe the tensed lines of Indrids’ body. But he’s not sure that’s what Indrid wants. Not sure if he’s royally fucked everything up.

“Okay, I’m listenin.” His voice, gentle as it is, may as well be coming through a megaphone for how Indrid flinches. Then he looks at his newly bandaged arm. 

“Ten years ago, I bought those glasses from a little curio shop. I thought they were stylish. I put them on when I got home and everything changed. Long story short, the glasses are a conduit to a demonish creature. When I put them on, he became my patron. I gained his ability to see the future, as well as some other powers. I panicked, tried to take the glasses back, but the store was simply gone. Turns out if I try to forsake his gift, it will go very badly for me, so I have to wear them all the time, save for sleep and things like that.”

“Jesus.”

“I’ve been trying to use my powers to stop the disasters I see coming but so often it doesn’t work, and then I have to watch it play out in real time after seeing it again and again in my head.” He stands, slowly, and walks to retrieve the glasses, “or when I try to do enchantments, sometimes things go haywire. Did you happen to see the little succulent garden in the living room?”

“You mean the one that’s as big as your coffee table?”

“Yes. That was originally two succulents. I bought them as a housewarming gift for you then decided maybe four was better. So I tried to magic up two more. And got a garden instead.” He’s still as he speaks, glasses held in his palm, “It isn’t all bad. I have been able to stop some things, and I’ve gotten much better at magic. But the failures so often dwarf that.”

“Indrid?” Duck stands in the bathroom doorway, waits for his friend to turn around before continuing, “thank you for tellin me all that. And I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

Indrid’s smile is weak, but genuine.

“Are there, uh, things that help when this happens? You seem real upset and if I can help you feel better, I’d like to.”

“T.V, the mindless kind.”

Duck holds out his hand, “C’mon, let’s go downstairs.”

Indrid settles on the violet couch, wrapping himself in a thick blanket as Duck flips channels. 

“You’re from West Virgina, right?”

“Yep.”

“Then you may be familiar with my patron. I don’t know his true name, but everyone just calls him mothman.”

Duck drops the remote.

“Mothman? As in Silver Bridge, Point Pleasant, TNT plant, and all that shit?”

“Yes.” Indrid says mildly. 

“Holy shit.” He fishes the remote from under the couch.

“That’s a remarkably succinct reaction.”

“Hush you, you know I ain’t a man of many words.”

“Duck, two days ago you talked for half an hour about Kudzu.” Indrid shoots him a teasing smile, and Duck elbows him lightly. 

“Oooh, a Halloween cooking championship! Let’s watch that.”

Duck sets the remote down, joins Indrid under the blanket when the taller man opens it for him.

“You doin anythin for Halloween?”

“No” Indrid sighs, “I love it, but after the ‘living pumpkin incident,’ parents stopped letting their children trick or treat here.”

“Hmmmmm” Duck rests his hand just beside Indrids’, strokes it absentmindedly with his pinkie “y’know, Indrid, I think I got a way to fix that…..”

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

Duck waves goodbye to the group of trick or treaters as they scurry back down the walkway. He has to hand it to Indrid: the man really has an eye for decoration.

The yard is strung with glowing cobwebs and purple lights, bats made of purple shadow and glitter flitting through the air.  The multitude of Jack’O Lanterns flicker in a rainbow of colors, thanks to Indrid doing an enchantment on the flames. 

Ducks house is equally festive, Indrid choosing orange lights and one (magically) large pumpkin to contrast with the dark wood of the building. Currently Aubrey (Dani’s wife) and her giant rabbit (Dr Harris Bonkers, PhD) are seated on Duck’s front step on candy duty. Duck had asked for his new friends help after realizing just how nervous Indrid was that something would go haywire, and decided it was best if he was there to keep him company.

It’s been a successful Halloween so far; no explosions, no disasters, no decorations accidentally coming to life. He and Indrid chat between visitors, The Creature from the Black Lagoon plays in the background, and both of them have eaten more candy than two grown men probably should. Not a single kid who’s come to the door seems afraid of Indrid. Some are curious, and some have parents that definitely watch them closely. But most are just happy to get candy.

Best of all, whenever they’re seated on the couch, or waiting to open the door, Indrid holds Ducks hand, or sighs happily when Duck rests his arm around his shoulder.

The groups are becoming less and less frequent, and stars peek out from behind the clouds, when Indrid turns to him.

“Thank you, Duck.”

“Hey, wasn’t gonna miss an excuse to hang out with you and poach your candy.”

Indrid chuckles, “Not just for that. For everything, for being kind, for getting to know me and not writing me off as wicked. I-” He falters, turns away suddenly.

Duck may not have foresight, but he’s perceptive all the same.

“Want me to finish that sentence for you?”

Indrid looks at him wide-eyed as the ranger steps into his space, “Please.”

“I wanna get to know you better.” Duck grins, moves to pull Indrid to him.

Indrid beats him to it, grabbing his shirt and pulling him into a kiss. Ducks back hits the door, Indrids fingers digging into his hair. He holds him tight, and as demanding as his kisses are the taller man’s whole body is shaking like the last leaf on a tree.

When they pull apart, Indrid rests their foreheads together.

“Yes, Duck, I would very much like to get to know you better.”

Duck kisses him again, keeps him close as he whispers, “well, happy fuckin halloween to me.”

Indrid kisses his cheek, “Indeed.”

[ancientbooshartifacts]

Carpe Noctem

Author: Silent-Fields

Year: 2010

Rating: PG-13

Characters: Richmond, Anthrax & Ebola

Richmond watched as the children of the night careened about in a haze of smoke, extending their pale arms towards Heaven and Hell. After weeks of careful research, tonight was the night Richmond had decided to set out and experience his first goth club. He had chosen Pandora's Box because it offered two rooms spinning various genres, a lounge, and a very extensive bar. He was in the gothic room at the moment, enjoying the contrast of ethereal female vocals with demonic male ones echoing from the club's speakers. With his last few paychecks as Project Executive, Richmond built himself up an extensive wardrobe, favoring mostly Victorian and Edwardian inspired styles, but liking the cuts on many of the more modern clothes as well. Most of his old clothes were then donated, but he did keep a few pieces. A purple dress shirt did look quite nice with a black tie. For his debut he wore a black frock coat, a black ruffled shirt whose cuffs dangled just enough over his hands to be dramatic but not a hindrance, and a maroon waistcoat. Black trousers and pointed boots completed his outfit. He had recreated the eye make-up he had done for Denholm's father's funeral, but chose to simply line his lips' natural shape rather than draw them into a frown. He wanted to be approachable, trying for subtle indifference with a hint of misery for tonight's look. His parents had been more upset about his demotion than his new lifestyle. "You always liked The Addams Family and Tim Burton movies," his mother said with a shake of her head. "And there was that time your father took you to see Kiss. But Richmond dear, can you still support yourself?" Richmond had enough savings to cover any emergencies that may arise within the next few months and tended to live rather frugally, so the lower pay hadn't really bothered him. What had been surprising was how much more comfortable he was now, finding solace in the shadows of the night after years of corporate competition under harsh florescent. Richmond had been so lost in reminiscing that he didn't notice two girls approaching him until they were right in front of him. The taller of the two was wearing a long black velvet dress with bell sleeves, her wavy blonde hair flowing over both her shoulders. The shorter girl's black hair was pinned back with spider shaped sliver clips, and she wearing a black knee-length tank dress with zippers on the straps, fishnet stockings, and combat boots. Both wore matching necklaces, a silver dagger on a satin cord that stopped at the tops of their breasts. Drinks in hand and small purses on their shoulders, they introduced themselves. "Hello, I'm Ebola.” said the blonde, her manner stoic. "And I'm Anthrax." said the other, her tone equally void of emotion. "Richmond." He replied with a bow. Oh dear, should I have created pseudonym? Alabaster? No, sounds silly. Ammonite? Possibly too obscure. Maybe I should have used my last name, it does sound a bit more gothic . . . "We haven't seen you here before, is this your first time?" Anthrax asked, interrupting his thoughts. "Oh yes, yes it is." "They seem to be playing older stuff tonight, not a bad night to drop in. Would you care to join us in the lounge?" Richmond nodded and Anthrax's lips curled upwardly slightly, flashing the tips of a pair of fangs as she turned toward the door. Richmond followed as the girls effortless weaved their way through the dancing patrons towards the lounge. They sat on a vacant purple velvet settee while Richmond sat in an adjacent chair, the table in front of them covered with ashtrays and empty glasses. Candlelight and black fabric draped from the ceiling surrounded them. Ebola sat her glass down and fished a cigarette and lighter out of her purse while Anthrax and Richmond held on to their drinks. "So Richmond, what do you do?" Ebola asked, lighting her cigarette. She held up her free hand before he could reply. "Wait, let me guess. Computer programmer? No no, graphic designer." Richmond furrowed his brow in confusion. "Nearly every guy here works with computers," Anthrax explained. "It provides a relaxed office dress code and a pay check that supports the lifestyle." "Oh. Um, I work in IT." It felt odd saying that, as Richmond still had no idea what kind of work he was expected to do. Though it is quite nice working in the basement. "Ah." Anthrax took a sip of her drink, something dark red. "The bartender here is quite excellent, always coming up with some new delicious and deadly cocktail. I see you've gone with The Green Fairy." "I quite like absinthe." Richmond replied with perhaps too much enthusiasm. He was drinking a cocktail of the previously mentioned bartender's own design. While lounge was relaxing, Pandora's Box was primarily a dance club, and did not lend itself to melting sugar cubes into luminous green filled glasses, so he settled for a mixed drink that contained some of his favorite liquor. "Oh I'm sure you'll meet him eventually." Ebola said, rolling her eyes. Richmond looked quite confused. "Absinthe is the owner and operator of a S&M club nearby." Anthrax explained. "It's members only with the exception of a few events throughout the year." She looked him up and down. "You could probably become a member without too much difficulty." "Oh I see." Richmond wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to interpret that statement. "Um . . . are you members?" "Yes." Ebola replied, taking a drag from her cigarette. "Why, are you interested?" "Not now, maybe one day." Richmond shifted and took a sip of his drink. He noticed Anthrax looking him again and he suddenly wondered if maroon was too bright of a colour for the occasion. "This isn't just your first time here is it?" she asked. "It's your first time out a goth club." Richmond blinked. "Oh dear, was it obvious?" "A bit" she replied, her fangs once again peeking out over her near smile. "Oh. Well I am still feeling my way around the culture." he admitted "It does get associated with a lot of different things." Anthrax commented. "How did you become interested in the lifestyle?" Ebola asked, placing her cigarette on the closest ashtray. "Cradle of Fifth." he replied, hiding his grin with a sip of his drink. "May I ask you two what interested you in becoming goth?" "Sure," Ebola said with a shrug. "For Anthrax it was The Hunger, that film with David Bowie as a vampire and Susan Sarandon's lesbian scene. If that wasn't enough the moment we start the film she's shaking me asking 'What's this song? Who's that bloke in the cage??'" Anthrax glared at Ebola. "You're the one with the thing for David Bowie." She turned to Richmond, "My older brother was into the scene as well so I'd often watch him put on his make-up before he went out and developed an interest from there. As for Ebola, she fancied my brother." "That wasn't the only reason, you cow." She glared back at Anthrax before replying. "I always loved Lydia's outfits in Beetlejuice, I wanted to dress like her every day. But it was so distressing to see her so happy and normal looking at the end of the film." "Oh yes, I agree. Even if the song is very catchy." Richmond swirled his drink in his glass, watching the bright green whirlpool, wondering what question to ask next. Perhaps they know someplace that provides a more appropriate atmosphere for drinking absinthe . . . Ebola reached for her cigarette, noticing a man walking quickly past them. "Good Evening, Lord Catalyst." she called out. The man froze and turned around with a grimace on his face. He was dressed similar to Richmond, but had chosen to accessorize with a top hat and cane. "You two!" he said with a slight twitch, pointing his finger accusingly. He turned to Richmond dramatically, his cape swirling to match his movement. "Take heed my dear fellow! They are harpies, who will snatch away your soul!" He glared at the two girls on the settee. "I do not mean this as a compliment!" "Oh fuck off!" Ebola hissed. "Or shall we tell him why you're so uncomfortable around us?" Lord Catalyst jumped, his twitch increasing in intensity, and scuttled away. Both girls exchanged a look and a snicker before turning to Richmond. "I'm sorry Richmond. We . . . collect boys on occasion but tonight we were just looking for conversation," explained Anthrax. "Though you are very handsome.” Ebola added. "That's quite alright. I must say, you both have beautiful skulls." "Thank you," they replied in unison. They spent the rest of the evening chatting away in the lounge, occasionally getting up to dance when a song came on that the girls insisted Richmond must dance to. Soon the antique grandfather clock in the lounge struck three, signaling that the evening was at an end. "You've both been very helpful. Thank you." said Richmond as they exited the club, trying not to smile. "There isn't a goth rule again smiling, Richmond." Ebola said with a laugh. "Just don't make it a regular habit." After exchanging phone numbers and email addresses the group went their separate ways, with the promise to meet again soon. ----------------------------------- For the first couple of years they were always out together; going to clubs and films and tea parties in graveyards, meeting up to chat and shop and dance. Anthrax and Ebola quickly discovered Richmond had no trouble pulling, his shy demeanor combined with his theatrical delivery proved highly amusing and rather attractive to both goths and non-goths of all genders. Sometimes they would meet just to compare notes on their various conquests. As the years went on Richmond began to come out less and less, mainly communicating by email and only occasionally by phone. He would still show up to major events and travel with them for Whitby, but Richmond slowly withdrew into his own world as Anthrax and Ebola continued to venture out in to the night. ----------------------------------- Neither Ebola nor Anthrax had seen Richmond for months and after weeks of persistent emails and phone calls, he agreed to come out. Before heading to Pandora's Box they decided to meet up at a near by cafe, sitting in a booth in the back corner, for privacy as well as ambience. Always a gentleman, Richmond waited until the girls had settled before sitting down. Anthrax sat near the wall, dangling her fingers over the table candle as she waited for her tea bag to steep. Ebola stirred her coffee, watching the creamer swirl. Both waited silently, wanting Richmond to speak first. He stared at his coffee, watching the stream curl out of the mug for a while before speaking. "My old boss committed suicide. He just jumped out of a window one day." Anthrax gasped and Ebola jumped slightly. That wasn't the whole story of course, but Richmond didn't feel like explaining that the pensions at Reynholm Industries had been tampered with for years and if Denholm had chosen to think about it, there had probably been an easy way to fix them. But Denholm has always been impulsive and unpredictable, up until the last moments of his life. "The one that demoted you?" Ebola asked carefully. Richmond nodded, still not looking up at either of them. "I slept with him shortly before it happened. It wasn't anything serious; I knew that before we did anything. In a way it sort of felt like closure." Richmond took a slip of his coffee, continuing to look at the table. "I wasn't allowed to attend the funeral, but at the time it didn't really bother me. As the weeks went on though, I found myself becoming rather depressed." "How are they treating you at work?" asked Anthrax. "Oh much better, I'm allowed out during daytime hours now. I still don't talk to my coworkers much - don't really see a reason to. I'm just sort of . . . there." Richmond looked up, saw two pairs of sympathetic looking milky lenses, and looked back down. "I'm not quite sure what to do with myself now." Ebola looked at Anthrax, biting her lip slightly. They searched each other eyes for the right words. Today it was Anthrax's turn to have the epiphany, eyes widening as she turned to face Richmond once more. "Richmond, do you remember the last thing that came out of Pandora's Box?" Richmond looked up from his drink at Anthrax, allowing his frown to become one of confusion rather than despair. She reached across the table and took hold of one of his hands. "It was hope." Richmond blinked, his mouth forming a silent "Oh". Ebola reached across and took hold of his other hand, both girls squeezing before letting go. The friends finished their drinks in a comfortable silence. "I think it's the industrial room tonight my dears." Ebola said as she began to rise out of the booth. "We can dance the night away and count how many times someone samples Dune." "No complaints here." Richmond replied, waiting until Anthrax was out of the booth before standing, trailing behind them both as they walked toward the front. "Oh Richmond we must tell you about this ridiculous boy we met at The Black Spider." Anthrax turned as he held the cafe door open. "He looked a bit like you but lacked your depth. When we asked him what his favorite song was he said it was Gary Numan's Dominion Day." Richmond sneered slightly as he followed her out. "First time?" "First and last, thankfully." And so the friends set out to drink and dance, extending their arms towards the infinite possibilities that lay ahead of them, capturing the night in their pale hands.

[shazyloren]

At The Bar, We Meet

Summary:  Dany's had three bad first dates in February alone, perhaps she was only meant for her pink vibrator after all. That's until someone else arrives at the bar having an equally bad time of it.

Notes: As you know, I am taking part in a challenge on tumblr by user @jonerysfics and @mhysaofdragons in which for seven days from Valentines day I am uploading a new one shot. The prompts have been provided and the stories have all been written and I gotta say you're in for a lot of Jonerys content. So Day 3, 16th February, which is when I'm uploading this, the prompt I chose was 'Bad First Date'. This is my spin on a situation many of us find ourselves in on Valentine's day.

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17812064

-----

“What’s wrong with me, Viz?” She sighs as she swirls the content of her glass in her hand. “Am I just some sort of freak magnet?”

Daenerys Targaryen had just returned from her third bad date of the month and given it was Valentine’s Day tomorrow it was safe to say she’d be spending it alone with a bottle of Rose and her pink vibrator.

“Nothing is wrong with you, Dany” He implored from the other side of the bar, filling her drink to the brim again. “You’re gonna meet the man of your dreams one day, I promise you. None of these men deserve the average woman let alone you. Your my sister, the best a man could get, I got your back don't worry about it!”

“Thanks” She puts a smile on, thankful for the niceties but in all honesty she just wanted to sit and wonder what had gone wrong.

One of them, had worked at a pet shop, which was fine, until he’d said that he takes the python to bed every night so it gets used to him. There was no way this side of hell she’d get in a bed with a snake that wasn’t attached to a man.

Fucking weirdo.

She shuddered to just think about it.

Another only wanted sex and told her outright from the minute they sat down in a fancy restaurant, turned out she’d arranged a date with a sugar daddy who was willing to give her £3000 for sleeping with him. Not the man to bring home to Rhaella Targaryen.

And then the one she’d just ran from, offered her a gift of his fingernail clippings and a Manchester United shirt. Daenerys didn’t know which one she was more disgusted by, her father never speak to her again if she wore the shirt and the nail clippings was just outright gross.

One day, I’ll date someone normal.

“Scotch, neat please” She hears a northern accent sound from the seat next to her, a sound which she associated with a bad day. At least she wasn’t the only one.

“Coming right up, sir” Her brother nods and fixes the man up with one. Dany turns sideways to glance at the man who has just decided to sit next to her and when she does, her eyes widen with feint recognition.

I know you…

“Jon?” She asks, unsure if it really is him. He turns and looks at her, his eyes confused for a moment while he sips his drink. Then, it clicks into place.

“Daenerys Targaryen?” He becomes nervous, shakily putting his glass down, and they both know why that is. Time flies, this was a blast from the past she had not been expecting.

Damn, he looks like a right snack … she thinks to herself. Jon Snow, she used to go to High school with him over ten years ago. He was a lot smaller then, in terms of muscle, but she could see his arms and torso almost pulsating through the shirt he had on now.

“How have you been? You look great” She almost smiles suggestively, sipping her own drink. She was eighteen when she last looked into those eyes. I sucked his dick in the school toilets in year 10, 15 years old and way inexperienced . Her luck with men clearly hadn’t changed that much. He says he's been good and thanks her for the compliment. “I haven’t seen you in what, twelve years?”

“About that, I just turned 30” He confirms, a look of reminiscing present on his face.

“What you doing in town anyways? Last I heard you’d flown to New York to work” She asked interested more so in his sudden reappearance in town than the lame dates she’d been on. Anything to stop being traumatised by fingernail clippings...

“Oh, I came back years ago” He said with a chuckle, gruff and causing a slight tingling in Dany's ears. “It was a great experience but, I missed home. My sister Sansa fell pregnant with her partner at the age of 20 and I just decided to come home and work and be a good uncle”

“I get that, my friend Missandei is always travelling the world, comes home every few months. Nothing like the comforts of home, she says” She sighed, looking into her once again empty glass. It was strange how the conversation seemed easy.

“You want a refill, Dany?” Viz asks.

“Go on then, brother. Give Jon one too, put it on my tab” She asks and Jon nods in appreciation. “So why you at the bar then? You haven’t happened to finish up a bad date like me? Or should I say I got the hell out of there as quickly as possible”

“Actually, yes” He laughs to her surprise. Maybe today was the day the universe turned on decent people . “Redhead, nice girl or at least I thought so, she wanted me to do the spaghetti scene from Lady and the Tramp with her at Hotel Paris on Baelor’s street”

“Gods above” Dany’s wide eyed response got Jon laughing. “I thought mine was bad”

“Let me guess, hair strands given as a gift?” Jon snorted.

“Close, nail clippings” The laugh on his face dropped as if he was going to be sick. He asks her if she was being serious, she nodded. “He also gave me a Manchester United Shirt so I had to dip on him, I should’ve known something was off when he didn’t want gravy on a roast dinner, what kind of moron doesn’t want that?”

“There are some strange folk around” Jon agreed, both of them kinda silent for a moment. However, Jon instigates the conversation once again. “How about yourself, what have you been up to?”

He’s hot…

Really fucking hot...

Like bend me over your knee and fist me like I'm nothing hot...

Daenerys, behave yourself…

“I run a non-profit” Dany replies, trying to temper her feelings. “It’s for helping women who’s been apart of domestic abuse get their life back on track, help with hygiene and food and school for their children, other than that I work on my father’s board of executives for his solar company which develop more economical ways to create electricity”

“So long story short, everything you wanted to do in high-school didn’t happen” He laughs, they both have to. A familiar memory of her dancing outside the school toilets to entice Jon in, ringing through their minds. What a wild and free-spirited individual she was then...

“I did not become a dancer, no” Daenerys found it really easy to talk to him, perhaps it was his familiarity. “Instead I just become a woman who has every aspect of her life going accept the one she has an interest in working”

“Pah, relationships are shit anyways” He grumbles and Dany can't help but chuckle at him. The distant memory of a redheaded girl leaving him for some other hotshot man came into her mind.

“You're not still upset about her, are you? Ygritte?” She giggles. His solemn silence answers it all. “Jon, that was Year 12”

“Still hurts” He shrugged, striking her as the type to never get over something truly. “Never met anyone like her since”

“Yes, the lying and cheating type is hard to come by” She cackles before gulping the last of her drink. If she wasn’t careful she’d fall off of her chair. “Look, there’s someone out there, bad dates just mean you’re getting through that shit to find them. Optimism!”

“Urgh, I hate that word” Well at least he’s honest…

“Jon” Dany stated plainly. “You do realise you’re a bit of a snack, yeah?”

“I’m a bit of a what?” He blinks, unaware of what is about to come out of Daenerys mouth.

“A snack” She nods. “Look at you, that curly hair still looks as well maintained as it did at our Leavers ball, your eyes are deep and mysterious, you clearly work out, your accent is gruff and sexy and you smile like a child who just found a stash of cupcakes, you’re a total snack”

“Here we go” She hears her brother mumble and walk off to serve other customers. Shut your face, Viz.

“Okay, that’s a lot to process” Jon chortles, but he knows it’s meant in good fun.

“It’s suppose to be a compliment” Dany speaks sincerely, a hand placed on his knee to show her sincerity. “Any girl who acts a fool, or turns you down, or cheats on you, is a fucking moron”

Well done, Daenerys, just open your legs why don’t you, cut to the chase .

Daenerys wasn’t finished. “And anyways, last week I went on a date with a guy who wanted to put me in his bed with his pet Python, so it can’t ever be that bad”

“People are indeed strange” He agrees once more. Fucking hell if he smoulders at me one more time I'm taking my knickers of now and he can fuck me against the bar .  

They were quiet after that, just a small groaning of the jukebox behind them playing tunes and the sounds of snooker cues hitting balls. Dany looked around, anywhere but Jon while she collected her thoughts.

Why not?

That’s all she can find herself to say. So what if she sucked his dick once all those years ago, so what if it’s only because they’ve both had bad dates and they were just looking for a bit of human contact. It’s just sex right, she should at least ask or she won’t get.

“Hey Jon”

“-Dany”

They both realised they’d spoke at the same time.

“Sorry, you go first” Jon offered.

“Oh, okay” She nodded, her eyebrow rising as a little smirk appeared on her face. “You wanna get out of here?”

If there’s any justice in the world, you will say yes, Jon Snow.

There’s a moment where she thinks she’s fucked up, but when the same smirking expression is sent back to her, she knows there’s only one place she’s going tonight, and that was the backseat of her car.

“Depends” He shrugs before stepping off of his seat and whispering in her ear. “Are you going to be a bad girl for me?”

Dany starts giggling, completely surprised that her evening was going to be not all bad and actually looked like quite a promising night. The prospect of showing Jon Snow how she'd improved since the blowie in the school toilets days filling her with fire and want. “Is the sky blue?”

"Excellent" Jon grins, gulping his drink and smashing it on the table. He hops off of his bar stool, guides Dany off of hers and smacks her behind with glee when she begins to lead him out the door, a wave goodbye to her brother.

Now this was going to be a good evening...

[writer-and-artist27]

To Care, Even in Sleep

For @langwrites. Or @cyb-by-lang if you wanted to put this up on the sideblog. Why am I writing this? Because I wanted to, I was inspired by CYB 27, and with some things in life, I can’t help but be worried.

You do a lot for me, Lang. It’s about time I give something back to you too. Aside from the rambling reviews where I occasionally feel ridiculous typing into the void.

Themes are split between Kyle Landry’s piano cover of Hikari from Kingdom Hearts and TYER Records’ English cover of Oracion from No Game No Life. They worked when writing this.

“Is it enough?” is something I constantly ask myself. This time, I hope with all my heart that this is.

“…Kei?”

“…”

I blinked, keeping my grip steady on the pitcher of lemonade in my hands. My voice came out in a barely audible whisper, almost blending into the quiet air of the Gekkō living room with the low frequency. “Kei-chan?”

My reincarnation buddy simply twitched, not even reacting to the call. Another moment resulted in her shifting on the couch, her back left lying against the cushions as her eyes remained closed. Kei’s hitai-ite bandana was barely covering her hair anymore as she unconsciously nudged closer to the nearest armrest, left arm thrown against her stomach haphazardly. The barely visible rise and fall of her jacketed chest as she breathed confirmed everything else.

She fell asleep, Hisako said softly in my place. She must’ve really been tired.

Considering that she came back to the village from a month-long mission a mere hour ago, probably.

I looked around. Wherever I looked, there was used clean furniture telling of a living room well-cherished by a four-person family, but that wasn’t the point. I needed a place to put down my delivery. Thankfully, there was a table nearby, so I could walk over to deposit my newest creation of lemonade pitcher. It could sit there for a little while.

Blanket?

Blanket. And pillow.

I clamped down on my chakra as much as I could to make sure Kei didn’t wake up before quietly skedaddling out of the living room. Flitting across the floor in slippers was surprisingly easier than I thought. “Miyako-bachan?”

Thankfully, once I hit a nearby hallway with my personal task, my surrogate aunt poked her head out of the nearest room. “Yes?” Miyako-bachan met my stare with an inquiring tilt of her head, her long hair falling against her shoulder with the gesture. “What is it, Tomoko-chan?”

“Do you have any spare blankets and pillows?”

She blinked at me, black eyes searching and curious as I approached her. A single second was all it took for understanding to shine in her gaze, and she nodded to herself. “Kei-chan fell asleep?”

With no other response, I simply nodded, avoiding the urge to hold onto the hem of my blouse. There was nothing to be nervous about. Miyako-bachan was a good auntie for many reasons, and this moment right now proved one of them. She caught onto things quickly.

“Wait here then, Tomoko-chan.” Miyako-bachan smiled. “I will go and get them for you.”

The bedding search didn’t take that long, so the only thing left on my mind was how to drape them over Kei without her waking up. The bundle Miyako-bachan found for me was light enough, but my chakra spoke up far more than I ever did in real life, both as Vy and as Tomoko. Kei as a sensor would notice unless I held it down as much as I could.

A balancing act is still a balancing act, Hisako said sagely, nodding her head to the point of her glasses shining over almost mockingly. If I didn’t know any better, it was like she parodied Fate/stay night’s old meme of, “People die if they are killed.” Need my help, dear?

Hm. I hefted the bundle in my hands with a small bounce in my step. The hallway’s wood tiling didn’t even echo under my step. Well. That was one check off the worry list. If you’re good at holding down spiritual energy?

Dear, I’m a Nobody. Energy is my thing. For the first time today, Hisako smirked, waving my approaching worries off with a hand fan. Leave it to me, honey.

Thank you, Hisako. That seemed like enough, but just in case, I added a small, Love you. There was really nothing better than that.

Awwww. I love you too, Tomoko-chan. Now get going. All the signal I had past those words was Hisako’s smirk and a mental push to my back, and I tried not to skip on the way back.

Huh. I probably should’ve expected that. Now where was that heat dial…?

Thankfully, opening the door to the living room revealed Kei still on the couch, and I tiptoed as best as I could across the floor. Now, for one last check…

“Kei?”

“…”

No answer. My reincarnation buddy continued to breathe softly, sleeping the time away.

“Hee hee.” I held the giggle back to myself as I tiptoed over to that couch, gently unfolding the blanket. It didn’t take that much effort to tuck her into it, and fitting the pillow under her head was just as easy considering the space between her shoulders and the nearest armrest. The entire time I went about this, Kei didn’t even move, her expression relaxed from sleep. Hell, the simple fact that she didn’t do so much as twitch when her hitai-ite fell off mid-tucking in said a lot.

Hmmm. Maybe she’s not having a nightmare for once? Hisako pointed out thoughtfully, shrugging her shoulders. She’s not sweating.

Maybe. Despite the uncertainty of the thought, I couldn’t help the smile on my lips. For once in our shared lives, Kei was getting the peaceful moment. She didn’t have to fight like this. Right now, it barely even looked like she was a ninja who could kill with how relaxed her expression was. Right now, with her unfurrowed eyebrows and light eyebags, she looked like the teenager she was supposed to be.

I didn’t even know what prompted my mouth to keep moving. The volume was quiet, and her eyes were still closed, so there was no way she could hear it. At least, I could hope. “Kei, you’re a dork, you know that?”

No answer again.

I sat down on my knees, folding my skirt under myself. “You put so much onto yourself. Taking care of Hayate, earning money to help Miyako-bachan and Wataru-jichan, and then you’re in Team Minato.” The team that suffers the most from canon aside from Team 7, and they already had bad luck. I couldn’t tell if the small laugh that left me was fond or regretful. “You’re amazing, Kei.”

Sure, Kannabi hadn’t happened yet. But Obito and Kakashi were getting along. Kinda. And Rin was alive right now, learning to be a better medic than Canon ever allowed her to be.

But as expected, Kei didn’t answer. Simply breathed in and out, and lay still. Just as she was supposed to, sleeping her stress away.

I brushed a strand of my hair behind my ear. Hopefully my feather hairclip could handle that bugger. Or I could adjust the clip itself later. Sure, it was a different sensation compared to my usual hair ribbon, but I could cope. My voice came out somewhat deep in pitch. Almost like Hisako’s inflections. “How am ever I supposed to thank you…? You take on so much of the work changing Canon over me, I don’t think I can ever compare.”

My smile was starting to feel the slightest bit forced, but I knew it was the truth. When Kei chose to be a ninja, I knew she had the audacity to do so much more than I could and ever would admit to. She was the game-changer. She was the main piece that would help us win the war against Madara and other Canon-related bullshit.

“I just can’t help but wonder if you’re happy. If I’m helping you enough.”

You do so much more than me, sacrifice so much more than me, and I can’t help but respect that. You deserve so much more than I can ever give you.

I leaned my head against the nearest empty couch cushion, reaching over to pat her blanket. This wasn’t the time to be feeling inadequate. This time was all about her. “You’re my best friend, Kei. And, just, thank you. For being here. For everything.” I closed my eyes. “Thank you.”

Good. I said it all. Even if I knew she wasn’t going to hear it, I said it.

Then again, what was I even doing? I was muttering ridiculous things to a person who was supposed to be sleeping. What was I coming to?

A mental hug was the next response. You did good, dear.

I did, huh…? Even though my legs called out otherwise, I slowly stood up from the floor to stretch. “That was enough witless and unneeded cheese. Time to make some mochi.”

To work off the sugar?

To work off the sugar.

Or it could just be unneeded fat.

I don’t know how I feel about the food analogies.

Baaaaah, says the girl who uses “happy juice.”

Hey. It works!

Just in case, I pulled on my chakra to keep it closer to my core before glancing over at my reincarnation buddy. Yep. Still asleep.

“I love you, Kei,” I whispered softly. “Just rest up.”

The last I saw before tiptoeing out of the room and past the doorknob was a bit of her messy cowlicks sticking out from under the blanket as she slept on. My hand moved for me in closing the door behind me, and once the familiar click of the door sounded as it shut into its frame, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Well then. I slapped my cheeks. No time to sit around. 

The next stop was finding red bean paste.