#yet another wip to add to my never ending pile

[a-romantics-guide-to-life]

i had a thought so HEAR ME OUT, so we know that billy runs from town to town but what if one time

he's riding out of a town that has already got his very wanted face up all over town so he has no choice but to ride away from that town and when while he's riding he finds a stream so he set's up camp for the night by the stream. he's already hunted his dinner and fed his horse, he has his fire and whatever he's eating roasting when he hears singing. gun at the ready, he's walking close and closer to the person singing when he see's you singing as you look for mushrooms or other plants by the stream. now billy can't stop staring at you, listening to the sweet melodic tune you're singing(i imagined this as 'i wonder' from sleeping beauty). he just can't take his eyes off of you and you finally turn to see him and you just greet him with a "why hello there" (with a lil wave or something).

and he is still just awestruck now that he can see your face, ofc he's in awe of your beauty. by now he's already holstered his gun and he just stands up walking to you with a little "howdy miss" and it just goes from there. you start talking, even asking if he'd like to stay with you for the night in your cabin where you were raised by your three aunts away from the corruptness of the town where billy had just run from (i also imagine that the aunts were away for the week selling their goods in town which is why you ask billy to stay over). i can also see billy teaching you about the world since you have been sheltered your whole life.

[coyotescribbles]

Dead Signal [Chapter 1/?]

*sigh* Did my squirrelly ass cave and add YET ANOTHER WIP to the Eternal Pile?

Yes. Yes I did. Thanks, Finding Frankie.

[CW for suicidal ideation]

~*~

There were a lot of things, Felicity Faustus mused, that had led up to standing in line to buy a bus ticket at three o'clock in the morning.

Like a decade and change spent trying to make it in broadcast media, but never actually going anywhere because they "weren't camera-friendly enough."

Like struggling to stay afloat as rent and bills continued to rise, while they were denied raises time and time again even as less-experienced coworkers advanced ahead of them and their other job applications continued to go unanswered.

Felicity had always been a scrapper - it had gotten them into trouble more times than they could count as a kid - but as the months crept by, they felt the fight leaving them as the proverbial water closed over their head.

They would have been lying if they'd tried to say that they hadn't been tempted to end it all more than a few times. The means to their end were plentiful, and it would have been easy to pick one and make use of it.

They'd just never been able to work up the guts necessary to do it.

Instead, they'd aimlessly gone looking for solace in their favorite cult game show, even as they sank deeper and deeper into despair. But cartoons and livestreamed events weren't much of a life preserver when the rest of their life was falling apart around them.

But then, just as they were teetering on the literal razor's edge, the semi-regular announcement was made that Finding Frankie was looking for another batch of contestants.

Four tapes. Four boxes of cereal.

And maybe, just maybe, Felicity had cracked, just a little bit.

In a fit of mad desperation, they'd run up their last remaining credit card buying cart loads of cereal and then, once that had maxed out, resorted to shoplifting even more cereal than they would ever be able to eat. They were pretty sure that they were on some kind of list for that.

They'd only had to open one, though. Just one, to make sure there was nothing hidden at the bottom. After that point, their kitchen scale had been their best friend, looking for one box that weighed a few ounces more than the rest.

The laser-focused obsession had paid off, after four whole months of diligent (obsessive) searching, when they'd finally scored that coveted VHS tape - and their ticket out of this hole in the wall.

(It had paid off for their neighbors, too. All the unopened boxes got dumped in the run-down "community room" of their slummy little apartment building, and they were always gone by the next afternoon.)

They'd spent half of a breathless, sleepless night tossing and turning after that, their heart hammering like thunder in their ears, before ultimately deciding that it didn't make sense to wait.

(It didn't matter that the show wouldn't be airing for another week, and they had plenty of time. Nothing mattered anymore, why should time?)

They'd rolled out of bed, taken a quick, cold shower and gotten dressed, then stuffed their wallet and cell phone into their thigh bag and their Swiss Army knife into their binder, grabbed their jacket, and hurried downstairs to catch a bus to the Port Authority terminal.

"What can I help you with?" The woman behind the counter sounded as exhausted as she looked.

"Can you tell me when the next bus to Dallas leaves?"

The woman stifled a yawn and turned her attention to her computer monitor, tapping away on the keyboard and squinting at the information that her query brought up. "…Eight-thirty A.M. There are only three seats left, did you want to reserve one?"

"Yes, please."

More tapping, more squinting; maybe she needed to schedule an eye exam, Felicity thought to themself.

"That'll be… Four hundred and sixty dollars and seventy-seven cents."

This time, they had to stifle a groan, fishing their wallet out and handing over their debit card.

It was going to use up most of the pitiful little emergency fund they had left in their checking account, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered anymore - not the money, not the debt, not the job or the apartment or anything. Either they were going to win, and the prize money would make everything right again, or they were going to die, and none of their problems would be their problem anymore.

"Credit or debit?"

"Debit."

More tapping; it felt incessant now.

And then there were signatures to be signed, scrawled barely-legible onto the little OLED tablet screen.

And then the ticket was in their hand.

And, just for a moment, the weight of the world lifted off of their shoulders.

[fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic]

Ah i LOVE your blog! I know you only review finished works, but do yuo have any works in progress fanfics you're enjoying?

Thank you!!!! There’s not tooo many right now, I don’t tend to read a lot of WIPs because I can forget details in between and the amount I read makes it sometimes hard remember what’s in what fic but here’s a couple! Bad formatting because I’m not breaking out the laptop

Poetry carved in flesh by @fellandcrow is my most anticipated one everytime it drops. Tattoo omens!!! my favorite!!

For Loving One by TheScholarlyStrumpet an excellent priest au that only has 2 more chapters left!

Still We Know Each Other So Well by PaperclipNinja. I haven’t gotten far yet but I’m very intrigued and am saving my catch up for a little bit

You’ve Got Mail by SouthDrarryReturned a remake of the movie You’ve Got Mail which I’ve never actually seen! but I was having so much fun. I’m really behind rn but it’s only got one more chapter!!! I’m going to catch up asap!

long time listener, first time caller by @ineffabildaddy which just started and I’m so excited to see where it leads!! It’s a very intriguing concept

Wild Hearts by @foolishlovers which is another I haven’t gotten too far in because I want to do a full in depth binge read when it gets closer to the end but what I have read so far is excellent

Are We Meant to Read the Footnotes? by RiaTheDreamer I actually stopped reading because I need to binge read it once it’s closer to finishing!!! I was getting antsy at the end of chapters

probably a couple more i forgot about but if you have any suggestions to add to my ever growing pile I’ll happily add them!!

[fortjester]

More for the fanfic ask game: 18 and 29. If you can :)

writing asks

18. What’s one of your favorite lines you’ve written in a fic?

“Not all of our propaganda is fear mongering,” the Lyctor objects mildly. “Some of it’s racy pornography.”

OR

“Darling, I didn't recruit you so you could get distracted by a moral quandary on the clock,” she replies, chuckling a little.

(both are from ch3 of my bre fic "train up a swordsman / to stab you in the back")

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic.

hmm. okay how abt an excerpt from the long-abandoned 700 word wip of mine which i entitled "harrow the forever widow" (aka harrow takes john's word and absorbs gideon's soul fully in htn au)? lots of poetic angst and not much else, which is why it never went anywhere, but i'm still quite fond of it.

"She needs death energy to do what it is she was conceived to do, without death energy she’s a powerless nonsensical worthless wretch, and she cannot be any of those things, not after the price that was paid for her to live at all. It makes rather a lot of sense to be the only one left standing, time and time again. It makes rather too much sense to only love with death looming, death cresting, death shrouding that which she loves. Add another skeleton to the pile in her walk-in closet, surely there’s still some room left; go on, add one last log to the fire, a final straw to her back. Cast one more shadow on the cave wall for her to mistake for reality and stupidly reach for.

It’s not at all what Gideon wanted — Gideon wanted freedom and respect and kindness, things that Harrow could never ever give her. It’s not what Harrow wants, either — Gideon, as unwilling and crass as she was, was all Harrow had left. And yet. Gideon, selfish, brave, stubborn Gideon, the lamb to the slaughter. And yet; Harrow asking for safe passage, assuring compassion and reward. Harrow; pulling the knife and dooming them both. Harrow; holding the stone. Harrow; pivoting on her heel, performing the damning action of turning around and – oh, now she’s gone and done it – looking – yes, now she’s damned them both – beholding. Gideon, submitting. Gideon drowning; Gideon being beheld; Gideon, dying at Harrow’s hand. Here she is. Here she must always be. Here is the repeated image of the lover, destroyed.

How wretched to entertain the idea of the lover. Who was Gideon, really, but a victim of circumstance? Who was Gideon, but a worthy sacrifice, a reasonable charge for admission? Here is Gideon, come and look, tonight she plays the stung toad, the bared neck, the martyr. Here is the flesh, here is communion, open your mouth, it is holy, after all, it is holy and expected. (How Harrow has always hated to eat, hated how all things must end with consummation, a grizzly bow with which to wrap up proceedings. How she has swallowed every iron-sharp bite, no matter how rough or bitter, since infancy.)"

[darkpoisonouslove]

1, 2, 5, 7, 12, 19, 26, 33, 39 for yet another writing ask game (I tried to pace myself, believe it or not 🤪)

(Mhm, I can see that! XD)

yet another writing ask

1. Which of your fics would you keep the basic plot of but rewrite completely?

Why would you do this to me? Don't I already have enough WiPs on my plate? You know this is only ever going to end one way.

I'd say Prey on the Heart. I do like the descriptions of the setting and the worldbuilding but *pinches bridge of nose* Valtor is SO OOC, I'm in literal pain. I don't know what was going on through my head but oh, boy! Then again, it's been almost three years since then and my understanding of the characters has definitely improved plus my headcanon game has evolved too!... Now I feel the need to add that to the pile of WiPs. I. Am. Mad. at. You! 😤

I'm also definitely touching up the three chapters of Gifts Are Given To Be Taken if I ever get to writing the rest. And same for Have No Name for My Heart. That one is such a downer. 😅 I need to rework the tone completely.

2. Anything that you'd like to write but feel like you're unable to?

In general? Murder mysteries. I LOVE murder mysteries (though I'm somehow way better at identifying the red herring (as such) than the actual culprit)! But they require way too much research and that's literally the bane of my existence. So, uh, yeah... that Scream AU for Winx is probably not going to happen.

In particular I feel that I'm unable to write the Winx rewrite. Like, I want to! I have so many cool ideas that I'm excited about! But I lack the motivation and the sheer size of it scares me. Besides, there are so many rewrites out there that it feels like a waste of time to do that when I can be working on Griffin x Valtor (or a Griffin x Faragonda or Marion... or anyone really) fics, which are... mostly my niche (not to monopolize the ship but *looks at the Griffin x Valtor tag on AO3*).

5. What's a tag you never want to use for your works even when it applies?

I can't think of one? If I don't want something associated with my account, I just don't post it. But I guess, generally speaking, I wouldn't want to tag something if it's spoilers. AO3 luckily has the "creator chose not to use archive warnings" and you can write an additional tag to the same effect if it's a trope you don't want to tag rather than an archive warning.

7. Your favorite ao3 tag.

I was gonna say I didn't have one but I'm afraid that if my answer here isn't angst, you will hunt me for sport. XD You know I love my pain and tragedy.

12. If you write in more than one language, what's the difference?

I write in Bulgarian very rarely anymore. I think the last time was in the beginning of last year and I have only written down a few ideas since then. But the key difference I feel is that I have a much easier time describing things in Bulgarian because the language itself is more descriptive. It's possible that I simply understand it a lot better than English since it's my mother tongue but I have also analyzed some Bulgarian texts and their English translations and while translations can rarely capture the full spirit of the original, I still feel that the Bulgarian language just offers more when it comes to how descriptive words are. Idk if that makes sense.

Another one is that I have a much easier time with varying sentence structure in English. Though, that might be because I've paid special attention to that while I haven't practiced it in Bulgarian... at all.

19. Share a snippet from a wip without giving any context for it.

I want you to know that I have to try so hard to restrain myself from saying at least five different things about this:

She slid a hand between her breasts to touch only flesh instead of her monad necklace that was usually nestled there. Its shine was replaced by the gold she’d threaded into the plunging neckline of her nightgown with her own powers, all on Valtor’s insistence it would bring out her eyes. Despite the darkness trying to creep over her form, a smile was curling her lips at how right he’d been.

A draft disturbed the room, the air moving as if with something shuddering.

Griffin whispered his name. Only once. Like it was some cursed, forbidden knowledge. The power it held was immeasurable – greater than any spell.

Her fingers dipped under her neckline to trace a path for him directly to her heart.

As if offended by its thundering, a lightning tore through the blanket of clouds enveloping the castle.

The flash of light revealed in the mirror a pair of glacial blue eyes, pale skin and maroon fabric that would blend together with her nightgown perfectly if not for the gold threads distinguishing where her form ended and his began.

The darkness surged over the room once again a moment later, greedy, great enough to swallow even him, making it look like she was a lonely island surrounded only by empty air and the hazy glow of her magic. Yet, even that omnipotent cover failed to hide him from her.

He was silent, motionless, not even a gasp of breath coming from him to make the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. The magic that had clung to her day and night had evaporated, leaving only a hollowness behind, a cold that made her shiver as if she’d been thrown out in the storm.

It didn’t matter.

She was dressed for him, in her favorite nightgown she hadn’t worn for anyone else – a tribute to him. She’d only needed to call his name once and he’d come running. He wasn’t leaving here until she was ready to let him go, until all the cards were on the table, everything revealed. No more distant voyeurism and half-lies, only naked truth.

26. What would you describe as OOC?

A behavior or action that isn't properly supported by the previously established characterization. For fics specifically, a character isn't OOC if the story took the time to take them from their canon self to the person that they are in the fic but there has to be a hint at least of why they are the way they are.

33. Give your writing a compliment.

You know, I'm starting to like my descriptions more and more! I'm learning to focus more on the vibes and that makes it easier to pinpoint which parts I need to describe. I was panicking about this one description I needed to do recently and then I ended up getting it almost perfect right away!

39. Wildest AU scenario you have written?

I answered this here.

[dcbbw]

In Progress

Hello, fellow tumblrs! I know I haven’t been around as much, and for sure not as engaged as I used to be. Can I just say that since 2019, my professional and personal lives have been filled with next-level adulting and living the consequences of other folks’ life choices. Add on that 2020-3 has been a major Groundhog Day cluster, and that’s my life now.

Maybe I’ll return to my Good Daughter WIP and write it ALLLLL out. Maybe I’ll discover I’m not alone with my frustration, anger, and innermost thoughts. Or you all will find out just who I am when I take off my masks and allow myself to be vulnerable in front of God.

We’ll see.

In the meantime, I have been working on some writing and hopefully in the very near future, I’ll be posting some things for your reading pleasure super soon (if you’re interested; I know you guys have options).

Snippets and synopses are below the cut. Everything is in a form of draft, and final editions may vary.

 Trudy Sloane (#Sloane Washington Appreciation Week)

Song Inspo: Closer, Gaopele

Sloane Washington sat on the side of her bed, running her palms over her face. A twinge of pain in her shoulder caused her to roll her neck in an attempt to alleviate the hurt. She exhaled a quiet sigh as her eyes opened; they blinked as they adjusted to the darkness.  

The quiet in her domicile sounded … different. Despite having shared her space with not one, but two people for months, it was no longer a temporary thing. Sloane extended her left hand, feeling the heaviness of the engagement ring on her third finger permeate her entire body.  

Gertrude Sloane Washington was engaged. To be married. The permanence of her answer changed everything. Or perhaps nothing. Time would tell. Naked, she rose and padded silently across the bedroom floor to a rocking chair that sat in a corner of the room. There was just enough moonlight eking through the closed blinds for her to make out her robe laying atop the pile of unfolded laundry that sat on the chair’s seat.  

Her hair, normally plaited in an elaborate coronet braid, was twisted into two thick ponytails, one hanging over each shoulder blade. She lifted the tresses while black polyester fabric whispered against soft, almond-colored skin as she shrugged into the covering. Sloane glanced over at the still-sleeping body in the bed; it heaved slightly and rhythmically, in sync with slumber-filled breath.  

Khaan Mousavi. The man who would be her husband.  

Sloane walked over, feeling the stickiness from their earlier coupling between her honeyed thighs before scooping her cellphone from the end table and exiting the room.  

 The Poisoned Apple (Birthday Fic for @bebepac)

Song Inspo: Somewhere in the Universe, Pity Party

“Nico,” she called out in an authoritative voice.  

No answer.  

She jiggled her wrist and forearm, causing the handcuff tethering her to the bed’s guardrail to rattle. “I know you hear me,” she taunted.  

Pain, disgust, and desire coursed through his blood as Nico tensed at her words, at the very sound of her voice.  

He hated her. She had murdered his son. His only child.  

He loved her. He had loved her mother first, and as with her mother, Nico found himself vying with another for her affections, her attentions.  

The Brooks/Rys women were trouble. Difficult, messy, drama magnets.  

Dangerous.  

“I’m not guilty of Nicolai’s death yet, and I never will be. The hand-picked congress my dear father is pulling out of his ass as we speak to ensure my innocence will make certain of that.” 

Nico finally turned away from the windows, a disdainful expression on his face and a smirk on his lips. “Oh, is that why the King of Cordonia has placed you in a psych ward under a 72-hour hold? Because you’re so innocent? Or is it because of your true lineage?” 

The girl’s eyes narrowed threateningly. “Mind your words and your tone, Guard. I am still the heir to the Cordonian throne.” 

“Are you?” He moved slowly, deliberately closer to the bed. “Being a royal, there may not be actions taken against you for taking my son’s life, but there will be consequences.” 

For the first time since Crown Princess Eleanor had been admitted to the facility, uncertainty flickered in her chocolate-brown eyes and a frisson of fear licked at her belly. No one saw her with Nicolai; no one saw her push her him off the cliff’s edge.  

Everything hinged on her story, and as the only witness to her boyfriend’s death from an “accidental fall”, her story was the truth.  

Her eyes followed Nico’s movements as he drew closer to her: the stealth-like way he walked, his shoes making no noise against the floor; the rigidness in his broad shoulders; the blank expression on his face, as if Ellie were an everyday object.  

“Nicolai fell! He lost his footing and fell.” 

Nico shook his head slightly. “Too convenient. My son, a King’s Guardsman, lost his footing on dry land the day after he discovered us naked together? You killed him, and you owe me the why, Eleanor.” 

 Partner Knows Best (Ask from @peonierose)

Song Inspo: Rollin’, Blessing Offor

Who knows who best? That is the question, and hopefully I can provide some answers. Debating between using the Him & Her crew (Mermaids, Riam, SGL x Riley B., UnRomance Liam x Riley) and the DC AU crew; leaning towards Him & Her because I have ideas/plans for DC.

Below are their questions; let me know in the comments if you have any better ones!

·         Who’s the early riser? 

·         Go-to breakfast? 

·         What’s their love language? 

·         Sun, snow, rain? 

·         Who initiates sex? 

·         Who loves harder? 

·         First to apologize? 

·         One must-have if stranded on a deserted island? 

·         Who’s the better communicator? 

·         Who’s the better driver? 

·         Who’s needier when they’re ill? 

·         Who’s more likely to walk away from the relationship? 

·         Where do you see the relationship in five years? 

 Hell to the Hail (ask from @peonierose)

No song inspo yet

The DC AU gang celebrate a belated Valentine’s Day together (I call it PALentine’s), where Leo gloats over the Kansas City Chiefs’ 2nd Superbowl win, much to a salty a.f. SGL’s dismay.

Also, working on updating next chapters of Mermaids, Discontent, Platinum AU; a Commoner’s Wife one-shot; and quite possibly some Liara for Kiara Theron Appreciation Week.

Thanks for reading, and sticking with me during this ongoing, long-running trying time. Your support, encouragement, and care mean the absolute WORLD to me!

 Tagging:   @jared2612 @ao719 @marietrinmimi @queenjilian @indiacater @kingliam2019 @bebepac @liamxs-world @mom2000aggie @liamrhysstalker2020  @neotericthemis @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet  @busywoman @gabesmommie1130 @tessa-liam @beezm @gardeningourmet @lovingchoices14 @mainstreetreader @angelasscribbles @lady-calypso @emkay512 @jovialyouthmusic @princessleac1 @charlotteg234 @queenrileyrose @alj4890 @yourfavaquarius111 @motorcitymademadame @queenmiarys  @burnsoslow @lizzybeth1986

[mrbexwrites]

heya Mo, happy last STS of the year!! it's hard coming up with an original end-of-year ask, so I'm just gonna shoot off a bunch of questions, and you feel free to answer whichever you want/haven't already:D are you satisfied with where you're at right now in your writing journey? where do you hope to be at this time next year? do you have any Must-Accomplish 2024 writing goals? anything new you'd like to try in your writing (technique-wise, story-wise, scheduling-wise, structure-wise, etc.) next year? any stories you'd like to start? end?

Hi Cee!

Happy STS and all the best for the New Year!

Buckle up, as I'm going to answer all your questions, so this is probably going to turn into a massive essay (you know how much I love to ramble on!!)

I'm fairly satisfied about where I am as a writer; sure, there are areas that I'd like to improve on- such as descriptions- but overall, I'm pretty happy about my WIPs and how they've turned out. Most of them are first drafts, and need further work, so I'm hoping to improve my editing skills. I've had beta feedback which has been invaluable at helping me focus on areas that need to be worked on, which has been great!

As for 2024...I've been toying with idea of putting some of my work on Wattpad, or another similar website, to share the completed WIPs. I write a lot, and then I just... do nothing with them. They just sit on my google drive collecting metaphorical dust. Being an active participant in the writblr community has really engaged me as a writer, and made me more confident about sharing my stories with other people. So who knows? Maybe in 2024, Memento Mori and Blood Harmony will be up and available for people to read in full.

My 'must accomplish' is a pretty long (and unachievable!!) list. In my head, I'll be able to finish my rewrites of Memento Mori, then finish editing my first draft of Blood Harmony, then finish writing up the follow-up story (currently unnamed) and then I can start on a new WIP (A Light in the Blackest Sea) that I've outlined in the last couple of weeks. All of this in addition to my day job, trying to catch up on my TBR pile, etc etc. Totally achievable... *cough cough* <.<

As for my actual writing style, I think over the last few years, since I started on Memento Mori, I've found my voice as a writer. So the main focus for me is editing; I'm a terrible editor, I hate it with a passion, so rather than focusing on learning how to edit, I should just learn how to write a perfect first draft!! I'll add that to the list of achievable goals for 2024! 😂

I've sort of given the game away with beginnings and endings for WIPs. I'd like to finalise my current WIPs into proper first drafts, and finish my current unnamed WIP, before I make a start on the next project. I like to be methodological- I tip my hats to those of you who can write multiple WIPs at a time. I'm a plodder; I'll plod through one at a time until it's done!!

That's my plans for 2024- whether or not I obtain them is yet to be seen (I've never kept a new years resolution, and I'm too long in the tooth to start keeping them now!!)

Happy New Years/Hogswatch and all the best of the coming year guys!

[soulmate-game]

New fic *test*

New Bio!dad Bruce story? I’m testing out this first chapter, and if I like where it’s going I might add it to my growing pile of WIPs. If I have inspiration, I might as well use it. Because of life events stressing me the hell out, I’m throwing any writing plans out the window and I’m purely gonna write to destress right now. Whether that means updating THG or not, or continuing Maribat March, we’ll just have to see how this all pans out. Things are subject to day-to-day change.

I got inspiration from this from rereading my day 1 story for Bio!dad Bruce Wayne month from last year. I’m just gonna change a few things.

—*—*—*—*—*

For once, an unfamiliar face attracted the attention of everyone who caught even a glimpse of them. It wasn’t even because of the person themselves at first, but their dress. The skirt like the most fantastical of storybook ball gowns, fluffy layers of satin over a luxurious petticoat, with a stunning pink floral pattern whose busy appearance was tastefully offset by a shorter, sheer layer of leaf green tulle artistically weaved and somehow sculpted over the floral in order to tame it. The effect turned what should be a grandmotherly pattern into something softer, sophisticated and youthful and yet also reminiscent of fairytale princesses. Over top the short layer of green tulle was an even shorter later of white tulle, almost invisible except for the elegant embroidery of crystal-white vines that twined all over it, connecting the green below it to the bottom-most floral pattern and oddly adding a layer of childishness instead of maturity. At the waist of the dress was a dark plum pink satin ribbon, to separate the elaborate ballgown skirt from the bodice. Attached to the simple ribbon was a large brooch of fabric flowers, with a single plastic ladybug in the center.

The bodice of the dress came up into a cheongsam neckline, but was sleeveless. It was a simple design, of half green and half dark pink, with a white border separating the two. The white border had expertly done embroideries in a soft silver thread that would only be visible close up, the images the thread made being that of fairies and ladybugs dancing around one another.

It was, all in all, a stunning display that made the small eurasian woman wearing them look like absolute royalty. Perhaps a long lost fairy princess. Her black-blue hair was even done up in elaborate looping braids and a braided bun, with silver and green pins that further completed the regal ensemble. And yes, while the expertly done dress was what initially captivated her current audience, it was not what kept them from leaving her alone. That was all her personality, bubbly and bright as her blinding smile. It was a sunny disposition that very few people present had any exposure to at all, and it drew them like a sunflower to the daylight. They could not help but flock closer, or even just stand back and keep themselves turned to her presence. Already she had been at the gala for two hours, but there was no issue. She just kept proving her generosity, admitting she had donated both a dress and a suit of her own making to the charity auction that would begin soon, one of the main attractions of the gala. She skillfully charmed the more snooty of the attendants, and artfully twisted her words so that they felt compelled to donate more money that they truly had no use for. Later, they would remember their donation and wonder what compelled it, but come up with no satisfying answer.

And yet she was entirely unaware of her more silent audience, who stood back and observed. Truth be told, every one of them was glad to not be the center of that attention for a change, to have room to breathe for so long at an event where usually that commodity was so scarce that it demanded a fierce competition for. Compared to her garden of color, they were all shadows in shades of blacks and blues and whites, with a touch of red here and there that was entirely too thematic for their home city. The one who sported a royal blue suit tilted his head at the scene they were all calmly witnessing, his bright azure eyes glittering.

“She’s like magic,” he mused, clearly enchanted despite having not said a single word to the woman. “Perfect socialite. She’s kind, generous, she made that dress and the ones she donated to the auction herself so she’s obviously got an intimidating amount of skill for her age. She even tricks those old fuddy-duddies into spending money. It’s like a dream come true!”

“I don't trust it,” the one to his right said, a man just a few inches shorter in a classic black suit with a red dress shirt underneath. He absently swept his bangs away from his face as he narrowed his eyes at the woman. “It seems too perfect. She doesn’t have any identifiable character flaw, except maybe being a little clumsy and too energetic. She does babble a little… but nothing that actually suggests any depth besides her just being— good. That’s impossible, and I don’t trust it.”

“Tt. I agree with Drake for once. She seems entirely too comfortable with this setting, despite her blushes and rambles,” the one who spoke this like was taller, clearly a teen in the middle of his growth spurt. He, too, wore a plain black suit but his had subtle charcoal embroidery and he wore an emerald-green dress shirt under it that made his matching eyes gleam dangerously. “It seems almost playacted. Expertly so, but nonetheless not entirely genuine.”

“Wow, not many pick up on that. I’m gonna give your observations a solid eight out of ten. They’re all perfectly sound, but not quite complete,” a new voice made all of the silent group stiffen— somehow they had been snuck up on. The newcomer smirked at them as if having fully expected their reaction but still being pleased at being able to evoke it. This was yet another stunner; far too much color in her outfit to be a Gotham native, and far too much skill in the construction for it to signify anything less than extreme influence. She had bright golden-blond hair that was coiled into a low bun, with her bangs artfully curled and arranged to display her crystal blue eyes.

In contrast to the garden-themed dress of the Eurasian woman who had garnered their attention at first, this newcomer was wearing a pantsuit. It was all in a dark honey-gold, in a stiff fabric with construction that made it lay entirely in perfect, straight lines and hug her form in the right places. Black embroidery decorated the long, flared sleeves and pant legs and dripped around the square neckline like a faux necklace. A cape made out of the same material as the rest of the pantsuit was draped on one shoulder. It started out as the same honey-gold color, but it became a gradient as it faded to a solid black at the ends. Gold thread embroidery decorated the solid black bottom of the cape in delicate, deceptively simplistic swirls. The top half of the pantsuit was clearly inspired by military garb, simultaneously rigidly constructed yet fitted, with circular onyx buttons going down the center of the chest and a thick metal belt, all in swirling silver and black, sat perfectly clasped around her waist. It was far more solid-colored and simplistic compared to the fairytale dress in the center, but no less show stopping and luxurious. It simply showcased an entirely different attitude, almost as if the two women could never get along if their personalities matched their outfits.

“And who are you?” The man who had been the center of the group of shadow-like adults spoke up, back straightening to milk every speck of his generous six-feet-and-three-inches of height. This was none other than Bruce Wayne, the host of this annual charity gala. And normally, his current stance would either intimidate or utterly charm whoever it was directed at— but not this pantsuit-clad blond warrior. Her smirk merely widened, and her blue eyes took on a slight shade of teal as if trying to mimic the dangerous ocean depths.

“I am Chloe Bourgeois, the daughter of Andre Bourgeois, the mayor of Paris, and Audrey Bourgeois, the Style Queen. It’s nice to meet you again, Monsieur Wayne,” she introduced herself imperiously. “I also happen to be the best friend of the girl you were just staring at.”

Bruce nodded, but had trouble reconciling this clear powerhouse of a woman with the bratty and entitled preteen he had met years ago, at the last gala she had attended with her mother. “Of course, I didn’t recognize you at first Chloe. You’ve grown a lot since the last Gala I saw you at.”

Chloe wrinkled her nose, clearly not appreciating the reminder. “I was a bitch,” she admitted easily, seemingly not at all bothered by the confession. It caused not only Bruce but also the oldest three of his sons, who had all also met her in the past, to blink in silent shock. “Things have changed. Paris is apparently the perfect chaotic environment right now to promote emotional growth and smack spoiled kids over the head with reality,” she shrugged. Part of the reason her and her whole class had even been able to come to the Gala in the first place was the fact that Bruce wanted to offer the most attacked group of Parisians a respite and some support from their crazy lives. The fact that even Gotham seemed sane in comparison to Paris was a bit of a hard hit for both involved parties, but in the end everyone understood that “more sane” didn’t always equate with “less dangerous.” Considering all that, Chloe had no reason to sugarcoat the situation in her home city. “But it wasn’t easy at all, and Marinette was largely responsible for my improvement too.”

“Marinette?” The heathen who somehow got away with attending a gala in a black leather jacket over a dress shirt and suit pants asked, raising a brow. Chloe nodded.

“The girl you were just goggling at. Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the class president and resident workaholic. Does she ever sleep? Nobody knows,” Chloe shrugged.

The blue-suited man, Dick Grayson, shot a suspicious glance at Tim, who was standing to his right, as if he was worried his brother had made a female clone of himself just so he could continue to work hard and never rest. Tim ignored him and sipped from the thermos of coffee he had somehow snuck in.

Bruce cleared his throat to bring the focus back onto himself, and shot his most charming smile at Chloe. “They would have known who she was, if they had read the brief information I gave them about your class. But they never do listen to me,” he complained with good humor. “But back to the original topic, Miss Bourgeois, do you care to correct us on how our observations are lacking?”

Chloe laughed easily, smiling and nodding to indicate Marinette, still stuck in a circle of socialites and not seeming the least bit worn out.

“Of course. First; She is not completely acting. She really is like magic sometimes— disgustingly kind, generous, far too willing to help just about anyone for just about any reason. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever met, as much as it pains me to admit it. But she is exaggerating her personality a bit and hiding the parts she doesn’t want anyone to see, so there is a little acting involved. Just not as much as you seem to think,” Chloe then waved her arm in a flourish as if she were presenting Marinette to them. “In short; behold Mari Dupain-Cheng, the ridiculously likeable, disgustingly cute, extremely philanthropic mask that she shows everyone at public events like this. You don’t see any of the insomnia, or the anxiety, or the self doubt. Just the parts she wants you to see, accompanied with a smile to blind you to everything else,” her all-too-deep blue eyes settled back on Bruce then, a knowing glint shining in them. “Don’t you think that’s ridiculously similar to Brucie Wayne for you, Monsieur? Utterly, ridiculously, similar?”

Bruce grit his teeth. He hadn’t expected anyone else to know about his exceptionally well hidden secret, not even his kids had caught on or found his buried evidence yet. Yet his heiress comes up, nearly flaunting her knowledge in his face with all too many unspoken questions and criticisms.

And her cryptic words had succeeded in making all of his kids look at him with extreme suspicion. Shit.

“What are you saying, Miss Bourgeois?” he cautiously prodded. She hummed noncommittally before dropping the bomb all too casually;

“I’m saying I’ve seen her adoption papers, and you won’t be able to run from her for long Monsieur Wayne. As soon as she gets an opening, she’s going to pounce,” Chloe’s eyes glittered dangerously again. “And nowadays, Marinette doesn’t ever let people escape her. Your problem with adoption has created a rather unique problem, you know. You’re at fault for a large majority of her self confidence issues, and I want you to know that I am not going to forget or forgive that anytime soon.”

“Bruce,” Jason’s voice was dark and threatening. “What is she talking about?”

“Something we don’t want getting in the tabloids,” Yet another new voice popped up, allowing Chloe to smugly sink back into the background.

Somewhere during their discussion, Marinette had ambushed them.

“Chloe and I are very good at locating all the reporters in a room and distracting them, but we’re not infallible and this event has far too much coverage,” Her smile reeked confidence and charm, but this close all the Waynes could see the doubt hiding in her bluebell eyes. “Since I’m about to turn eighteen, I figured this would be as good a time as any to finally confront you. I want to make it clear that I seek nothing from you, except the occasional contact. I would like to keep in touch, if nothing else. But if you are adverse to that… then at least answer my questions after the gala,” her eyes developed a hint of carefully controlled desperation. “Please.”

Bruce met her eyes evenly, trying to read her. But she was difficult, simultaneously too many emotions to sort through in her demeanor and much too little. After an extremely tense moment of silence, his voice came out barely above a whisper:

“You do not want anybody to know?”

And hell, if she didn’t recognize the hidden vulnerability in his voice as the very same she heard in her own far too often. In a much tamer version of her own rambling, he went on:

“I can keep it silent if that is what you want. But I want you to know that I will not be adverse to you admitting it anywhere. I don’t expect you to change your name, but I would not be ashamed of the truth getting out. I am not ashamed of it, of you.”

Marinette’s smile grew a little watery. She had to clear her throat to keep herself from tearing up. “Maybe eventually, but not yet. I… I want to stay a little more anonymous for now. It’s one thing to be a well known designer with good connections. It’s an entirely different thing to be…”

“A Wayne?” Bruce finished, ignoring the daggers that were being stared into his back. “I understand completely.

“Father,” Damian’s voice was all sharp edges and rapidly suppressed panic. “What. Is going. On?”

Marinette shot him an apologetic smile. “Apparently, eighteen years ago, his prerogative was to put the child he actually knew about up for adoption when the mother died in childbirth,” her voice was once again only barely loud enough for them to hear, since she didn’t want any eavesdroppers. “Imagine my surprise when I find out he completely flipped sides only months later.”

--*--*--*--*--*

Hey, so please share your feedback on this. This is just to test out a possible new bio dad, multichapter fic and this is the opening scene I'm trying out. If you like it, please tell me what you like about it and please suggest titles for the story! I love you guys' feedback so much!

[avatarmerida]

🎃,🦅, and 🤲

🎃 Do you write fics for certain holidays? Which is your favorite holiday inspired fic?

I don’t usually write fics about holidays, I usually write them for holidays like if a fandom I’m active in is having a secret Santa type thing. But that being said, I’m a sucker for Christmas mistletoe fics but I don’t think I’ve ever written one yet

🦅 Do you outline fics or fly by the seat of your pants?

I try to outline my multi chapter fics because usually I do these instead of one shots if there are musktipel things I want to happen and they rely on another things happening but even then I find myself making most of it up as I go along and kind of use the plot points that inspired me to write it as dots I’m connecting if that makes sense. This is also why I tend to avoid writing multi chapter fics because unless the ending is something I’ve known front he beginning I never know how to end them. Fun fact: I have only ever completed one multi chapter fic that I started, because I’m impatient and move on quickly.

🤲 Would you please share a snippet of a wip?

“Why are all the books about magic here so dusty?” wondered Gus as he shifted through another pile Luz brought over.

“I guess cause people here stopped believing in magic a long time ago,” said Luz. “So no ones checked out these kinds of books in years.”

“Even so the librarian really needs to make sure these books have regular upkeep,” commented Amity. “These pages are barely legible. I’m definitely writing a letter when this is all over.”

“Not to mention these are almost all entirely inaccurate,” groaned Gus. “If I could find at least one book with something factual I could take it as a reliable resource, but it’s clear none of these check their sources!”

“Well, they were in the fiction section,” said Luz. “Guess they were right about that at least.”

In the next room, Willow sat on the ground beside Hunter, gripping his hand as he slept. They all took shifts sitting with him, allowing their magic to help recharge him but Willow was always the first to volunteer. This was the time she allowed herself to worry, spring on him to check his breath every few minutes and imagine the worst possible scenario to prepare herself. But the moment he awoke, he took over that role and she returned to business as usual, refusing to add to his worries. She knew Hunter hated needing and asking for help, so she did her best to make it seem like it was no problem at all. She would do anything to help him, it was no inconvenience, she just hated the idea that there was nothing that could be done.

Fanfiction emoji ask

[thegirlonpeetamellark]

Christmas Break - Part 1

Surprise!! After a looong time away Court returns to Everlark fic world with a little holiday treat for everyone  - enjoy! :)

Hi everyone. So 2020 has sucked. For me, the beginning of quarantine was actually a bit of a gift. Being home gave me the gift of time, something I haven’t had much of as my daughters (who were very little when I started writing in this fandom) have gotten older. While I never stopped writing, it was a struggle to find long enough chunks of time to get into a flow. I started writing again with earnest. Not all of it was my fanfiction; some of it was my original work. El keeps me posted on the humbling and kind asks she gets about my writing. I felt bad that despite my increased writing, I still wasn’t ready to update any WIPs. But I did remember a story I had started for the final holiday PiP that I was never able to get past the first page (due to lack of time that year) and to my surprise, it started flowing. I had every intention of finishing it and having El post it as a gift to this fandom. But once my school went “back” in October and hybrid learning started, that was it. My time was gone. And further, my family experienced the very sudden and non-Covid-related death of my aunt. So while I have nearly half of this story written, it’s not done. But it will be, very soon, since it is a one-shot. As with all my stories, it took on a life of its own and it needs more love. So what I have for the readers who have loyally followed me is the first part, the part that involves Christmas. It’s my hope to have a second part posted in a week or two, so that by the time that part posts, a final part is nearly done. 

Thank you for your asks and your patience, and thank you to El, one of my favorite people in this world and the best thing my time in this fandom has given me. Thank you for your encouragement. Our friendship means the world to me. 

Here’s to a better 2021. Love to you all. Court

Christmas Break

Fuck, not again, Peeta grouses as the opening notes of that insidious Mariah Carey song pipe through the loudspeaker. That’s the third time in the last two hours. He’s all for holiday spirit, but if he never hears this fucking song again it will be too soon.

Leaning his forehead against the cold pane of glass, he peers out of the fourth-story window into the darkened sky. When he had arrived at work a few hours ago, the snow had just been starting to fall; a slow, lazy tumble of flakes. Now it’s coming down in a tumultuous swirl. It figures Panem would finally see a white Christmas his first Christmas Eve on rotation in the emergency room. No doubt the weather is partially to blame for the crush of bodies crowding the waiting room tonight. 

Peeta walks away from the window and opens the cabinet where he stashes his Clif bars. The economy-sized box looks suspiciously closer to empty than it did the other day. He’s heard complaints from other doctors and nurses that snacks are pilfered on a regular basis and was warned to label his own boxes. But he had forgone the warnings. If someone needed an energy bar badly enough to steal one, what was the $20 he had spent on them at Costco. He snags one and unwraps it. 

He’s just raised it to his mouth when his Apple watch pings and his silenced cell phone pulses insistently against his thigh. Heaving a loud sigh, he sets down the energy bar and withdraws the phone from his pocket. 

“Mom, you’ve got exactly 60 seconds,” he grits out. He doesn’t even need to look at the screen to confirm it’s her. She’s called twice already tonight, calls he’s ignored with good reason, but somehow his mother thinks a phone call from her trumps any actual emergencies her doctor son could be dealing with. Which, tonight, have been nonstop since his shift began at six. 

“Please tell me you ate something,” she begins. 

“I was just about to, when you called,” he replies. “I’ve only got a couple of minutes. It’s been utter chaos for the last four hours.” 

“We missed you at dinner. I can’t remember the last Christmas Eve when I didn’t have all three of my boys together.” Peeta closes his eyes. All these years my mother has been gushing about having a doctor in the family, and yet she never stopped to consider the ramifications of actually having a doctor in the family, he thinks. Particularly its impact on holiday gatherings. She obviously hadn’t learned anything from this past Thanksgiving, as now, just a month later, she’s already dumping a fresh guilt trip on him for missing another family dinner.

She continues, “And Jackson and Maxwell were just devastated when they heard you weren’t coming, until I assured them they’d see you tomorrow. We will see you tomorrow, yes?” 

Peeta suppresses another exasperated sigh and breaks off a chunk of the Clif bar. “Yes, Mom, I’ll be there.” And though it’s childish, he crams the bar into his mouth and mumbles around it, “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” His chewing masks the sarcasm that weighs down the words. 

“Excellent. We need an updated family portrait before Everly and Rye have to leave for her parents’ house.” Placated, his mother moves to ends the call, but not before getting in a less-than-subtle comment about how much she adores his brother Rye’s fiancée and how happy she is Rye is settling down. 

Staring at the disconnected call flashing on the screen, Peeta tries not to let the remark get to him. Mostly because he knows it’s a lie. His mother has complained more than once about Everly and how she’s not good enough for Rye. Peeta knows the dig was directed at him. He hasn’t truly had a serious girlfriend since junior year of college; just a few casual relationships that barely qualified as relationships. He doesn’t know how his mother expects him to meet someone with the hours he keeps. And his father, for as close as they are, never seems willing to jump to Peeta’s defense. 

Taking a deep breath to let his irritation suffuse, he jams his phone back in his pocket and scarfs down the rest of his pathetic dinner. All three bites of it. Then he uses the restroom, dutifully washes his hand, and stalks out of the staff lounge, his short break over.

As he strides up the corridor, he hears loud shouting coming from the ER waiting room. 

“…should be asleep in her bed, waiting for Santa Claus to come, but instead, we’re still here waiting for someone to take a look at her arm! It’s been over two hours! Don’t you people have any compassion? Or is Ebenezer Freaking Scrooge running this place tonight?”

Curious, Peeta veers towards the reception desk, where his eyes land on the ranting woman. She’s young, probably no older than her mid-twenties, and in spite of the fact that her dark hair is spilling out of a messy braid and she’s not wearing any makeup, Peeta is immediately struck by her beauty. The rosy flush to her cheeks from her tirade actually makes her even prettier. She’s cradling a toddler and protectively shielding the little girl’s right arm. The toddler’s blonde head rests on her mother’s shoulder, her thumb wedged into her tiny pink mouth. Her left arm clutches a stuffed orange cat. She looks tired. Actually, both mother and daughter do. 

“Miss, I understand your frustration, I really do,” the receptionist says calmly, her eyes cutting to Peeta as he stops by her side. He reads the name on the file on top of the stack, the next patient scheduled to be seen: MCMURPHY, JOSEPH. Clearly not the little girl in front of him. 

“I don’t think you do!” the young mother cries, her eyes flashing steel. “She’s three, she’s in pain, and she’s scared. And what’s more, I’ve seen at least five people go ahead of us who came in after us!” 

“That’s not how the emergency room works, miss,” the receptionist replies. She drums her fingertips on the desk, offering the young mother a tight smile. 

“It’s Christmas Eve,” the young mother adds, an edge of desperation creeping into her tone. Discreetly, Peeta moves around the receptionist’s chair, scanning the desktop until he spies the stack of files for the patients awaiting admission. While the receptionist continues to give the young mother the run-around, he thumbs through the stack, searching. His eyes land on what he’s looking for: a date of birth. His lips tip up. Bingo. This has to be it: HAWTHORNE, IVY ANN. 

At the exact second his hand snatches Ivy’s file from the pile and slips the other one in amongst the stack, the young mother’s eyes lock on his. Her gaze narrows. He can see the exhaustion all over her beautiful face. Her full lips twitch, her countenance suspicious as they stare at one another. 

“Ivy Hawthorne?” Peeta taps the file he had extricated. An immediate flicker of relief lights the young mother’s mercury eyes, and that lush mouth breaks into a grateful, relieved smile. The receptionist’s neck snaps up. “I’ve got this,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for her to argue with him. It’s not protocol for Peeta to take a patient directly, but it’s also not blatantly against the rules. Sure, it might mean a little more work for him, but if it means he can get this little girl home sooner on Christmas Eve, it’s worth it.

He smiles at the little girl. “Ivy, I’m Doctor Mellark. I’m going to help make you feel better, okay?” She nods once but doesn’t lift her head from her mother’s shoulder. Peeta’s arm sweeps to the side, ushering the young mother and Ivy past the desk. He scans the hallway and spies a partially drawn curtain halfway up the corridor. He leads them to the available partition and close the curtain behind them. As he turns to face them, he nearly slams into the woman. She hasn’t moved, and her luminous grey eyes fasten to his. She looks as if she’s going to say something, but several seconds pass and she’s still quiet, still watching him. The silence starts to become uncomfortable. Peeta clears his throat.  

“If you’d have a seat, please, Mrs. Hawthorne. You can hold her while I get some more information from you.” 

The young woman’s lips part slightly, again appearing as if she wants to say something, but instead she shuffles forward and Peeta waits while she settles on the edge of the hospital bed, gingerly adjusting Ivy so she’s sitting sideways across her mother’s lap. 

Peeta sinks down onto the stool and scoots towards the edge of the bed. This close he has a much better look at Ivy’s mother. She really is a beautiful young woman, and given how adorable Ivy is Peeta assumes her husband is probably also very attractive. He feels a twinge of jealousy. Lucky bastard. Pretty wife, cute kid…probably has a nice little house and a golden retriever too. Living the dream. His dream, if he allows himself to admit it to anyone but his mother. If he was being perfectly honest, he had always envisioned himself married by now. 

“How old are you, Ivy?” he ask, even though he knows from her chart and her mother’s declaration that she’s three years old. She hesitates, and still clutching the stuffed cat, manages to display three fingers. Peeta smiles at her again.

“I have a nephew who is the exact same age as you are. He told me just last week that he’s a big boy now. Are you a big girl, Ivy?” He keeps his tone gentle, hoping it will put her at ease with him. She nods, her big blue eyes lightening imperceptibly. “I thought so. Can you be a big girl and tell me what happened to your arm?” 

Her mother answers automatically, “She fell. I was only gone—” Peeta holds up his palm. He has the triage nurse’s initial assessment, so he knows Ivy’s arm is likely broken. What he doesn’t know is how the arm got broken. And those details he needs to try to get from Ivy herself. Kids her age always tell the truth when it comes to how they were injured, and unfortunately it’s part of Peeta’s job to make sure there isn’t a more sinister reason she’s in the E.R. tonight, no matter how sweet and innocent her mother appears. He’s already had a few encounters with suspected child abuse, though his gut tells him that isn’t the case with Ivy Hawthorne.

“Please. I would like Ivy to tell me how it happened.” 

Something dangerous flints in Ivy’s mother’s now stormy grey eyes.

“She. Fell.” The words are curt, enunciated coolly, but her voice is soft and Peeta can tell she’s keeping her temper in check for the benefit of her daughter. Eyes still pinned to his, she inhales deeply. A second later, her shoulders relax. “Go ahead and tell the nice doctor how you hurt your arm,” she whispers, stroking Ivy’s curls. 

“I was trying to see Santa,” Ivy replies, her tongue tripping in a lisp on the “S’s.” 

“What do you mean by that?” he prompts her. 

Ivy scrunches up her button nose. “I was trying to see up the chimney. ‘Cause the chimney at Aunt Katniss’s house is so skinny and Santa Claus is real fat and I don’t know how he’s gonna fit down it to bring me my presents!” Her blue eyes brim with tears and her lower lip starts to tremble. Peeta reaches over and pats her knee. 

“I wouldn’t worry about that, sweetheart. Santa Claus is magic. He’ll get you your presents, no matter what the chimney looks like.” He exchanges a look with her mother. 

“It was all my fault,” she says quietly. “I went in the kitchen, to get the cookies and milk—”

“And the carrots! For Rudolph and the other reindeer!” Ivy chimes in, her eyes shiny wet. 

“I never should have left her alone, not even for a second. This is my fault. It’s my fault. She wouldn’t have slipped and fallen off the hearth if I had been watching her.” Guilt chokes her words, and it sounds as if she’s close to tears. 

“Accidents happen, Mrs. Hawthorne,” Peeta says empathetically, “that’s why there are emergency rooms.” She presses her lips together, her brows knitting.  

“It’s Everdeen,” she says quietly. Peeta drops his eyes to Ivy’s chart, and furrows his brows, his gaze wandering to the young woman’s left hand. No ring. A brief thrill curls through him at the thought that she’s single. Asshole, he immediately chides himself. So not what you should be thinking about right now. He scans the chart more carefully and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, “but this lists Primrose Hawthorne as the mother, under the Parent/Guardian information, and a Rory Hawthorne as the father. I just assumed—”

She cuts him off. “Primrose Hawthorne was her mother. But I’m not Primrose Hawthorne. I’m Katniss. Katniss Everdeen. I’m her aunt. I should be listed as her primary emergency contact.” She swallows and squeezes her eyes shut briefly. When she opens them, they plead with his. Peeta glances down at Ivy, and then raises his eyes to Katniss again. The guilt that was clouding those silver irises a moment ago has dissipated, replaced with anguish. He doesn’t know what the full story is here, but he didn’t miss Katniss’s usage of the past tense in referring to Ivy’s mother. So he honors her silent appeal not to ask questions.

“Okay, Ivy, you fell, and you landed on your arm? I bet that hurt,” Peeta says to the little girl, but his gaze stays fastens on Katniss. She gives him the faintest smile and mouths, “Thank you.”

~*~*~*~

An hour later, the orthopedist informs Peeta that Ivy Hawthorne is ready for his approval to be discharged. Not wanting to keep her and her aunt waiting any later than necessary, he sets down the X-ray he had been studying, and heads back to where Ivy is. 

Standing outside the curtain, he hears quiet singing. He draws back the curtain and sees Katniss seated on the bed, with Ivy nestled in her lap. A bright pink cast safely cocoons the girl’s arm. Her blonde head rests on Katniss’s shoulder. Her eyes are closed, and her little body rises and falls with the deep breathing of sleep. 

Katniss continues to sing, unaware of Peeta’s presence. He doesn’t recognize the tune she’s singing. It’s not a Christmas carol, at least not one he’s ever heard before, but he continues to listen, captivated by her voice. It’s soft and decidedly feminine, but there’s raspy undercurrent to it that gives him chills. It’s like the first sip of a rich, smoky bourbon.

Gingerly, he tiptoes towards the bed and stands before her for several more minutes, until Katniss finally lifts her eyes. She immediately stops singing. Peeta smiles and nods towards Ivy.

“Someone is worn out,” he whispers. Katniss’s lips twitch into a chagrinned smile. 

“I’m sure the second we get home she’ll be wide awake and it’ll take forever to get her into bed. She was already amped up about Santa Claus before this.” She tips her head and gestures with her chin towards Ivy’s arm. 

“Warm milk. With a little bit of cinnamon,” he suggests. 

“Really?” Her eyes round. “Cinnamon? That really works?” Disbelief clouds her words. He shrugs sheepishly.

“I have no idea. No kids. And I’ve never had much trouble sleeping. I’m usually asleep the minute my head hits the pillow. But I’ve heard from a friend with a toddler that it does the trick.” He waits for her to say something—anything—in response, but she doesn’t. Her gaze is back on the sleeping toddler in her arms. 

Watching her stare tenderly at her niece causes something unexpected to claw at Peeta’s chest and he’s overwhelmed by a fierce compulsion to want to keep her here, to get to know more about her. It’s been a long time since he felt this kind of instant attraction to a woman. Why couldn’t he have met her under different circumstances? 

“Are we all done, doctor?” 

Peeta startles from his thoughts and offers Katniss an apologetic smile.

“Yes, sorry. You are good to go as soon as you sign here—” He holds the clipboard at an angle, to allow her to sign without having to disturb Ivy, “and here.” He flips the sheet back to the second page and she scrawls her name across the line there, too. Normally a nurse would go over discharge papers and protocol with patients, but Peeta had taken it upon himself to grab Ivy’s. He needed to spend every possible minute in Katniss’s presence. 

Once the release forms are complete, he review the plan for Ivy’s follow-up care, including how to manage any pain she has and when she’ll need to return to have the cast removed. Katniss listens attentively. 

When he’s finished, she stands up slowly, her movements tentative so as not to jostle Ivy. A sigh parts the little girl’s lips and she stirs, but she remains asleep. God, she’s cute, Peeta thinks. 

“Thank you, Dr. Mellark,” Katniss says softly. “For everything. I know what you did…” She falters. “I mean, I know we, ah, weren’t next, and ah…” Peeta waves a hand dismissively, sensing her discomfort with his hijacking of the queued patients.  

“It was my pleasure,” he replies. “Little girls should be home on Christmas Eve. Waiting for Santa.” He echoes Katniss’s earlier words. “I hope he’s good to her.” 

He doesn’t miss the forlorn expression that flits across Katniss’s face as she glances down at her sleeping niece. 

“He can’t bring her what she wants most, but he’ll try,” she murmurs and moves towards the open curtain. Just before she steps out into the hall, she pauses and turns to face Peeta.

“Merry Christmas,” she adds.  

“Merry Christmas,” he concurs. With a faint smile, she steps around the curtain. It rustles in her wake and resettles. Peeta exhales and slumps against the wall, regret washing through him, followed by a stronger wave of sadness at seeing Katniss go. If it hadn’t been for Ivy, he might have concocted some kind of delay to keep Katniss here longer, found some excuse to pry more information out of her. Like if she’s single. A surge of adrenaline spikes in his blood. He can’t let her go this easily.

He bolts out into the corridor, scanning the bustling hallway for any sign of Katniss and Ivy, but they’ve vanished. Disappointed, his shoulders slump as he trudges towards the nurses’ station to hand off Ivy’s file. 

It’s probably best, a nagging little voice inside him taunts, and he reluctantly concedes that it probably is. As much as he’d love to finally shut his mother up and find a woman that he’d want to spend more than a night with, it’s not fair to subject one to the kind of schedule he has to keep. New doctors are low-man-on-the-totem-pole. He’s had mostly graveyard shifts and he’s often on call. It’s his dream to have a pediatric practice, but he’s well aware that he’ll have to toil for a couple of years to get on track to make that dream a reality. 

A few minutes later, en route to his next examination, Peeta spies Johanna, one of the triage nurses, coming out of the room Ivy had occupied. His eyes immediately narrow when his gaze lands on her left arm.

“Was that in there?” He motions towards the vacated room and then nods towards the stuffed cat Johanna has wedged under her armpit. 

“What, the cat? Yeah. It must have fallen under the bed. I’ll take it to the station, in case someone comes back to claim it.” 

Ivy’s cherubic little face flashes in Peeta’s mind. He remember how fiercely she had been clutching that cat, and how she had reluctantly agreed to put it down when it had been time for Delly, another one of the triage nurses, to take her for X-rays. 

Peeta’s pulse quickens and he immediately thrusts his hand towards Johanna. “I’ll take it,” he says impulsively. She wrinkles her nose and cocks her head, her hazel eyes intensely scrutinizing him. Though they have a casual friendship, Johanna is far too insightful for her own good. Peeta doesn’t really need her questioning his motives for taking possession of the toy. 

“The little girl it belongs to goes to preschool with Max. I’ll make sure he takes it to her after the holiday break.” Fuck, that lie flew off his tongue so easily he almost believes it himself. Johanna shrugs and tosses Peeta the cat. 

“Suit yourself. One less thing to overflow the Lost and Found.” She strides past him and disappears into Triage 6. He stares down at the stuffed animal. His heart skips another beat and a slow smile tugs at his mouth. 

~*~*~*~

Stifling another yawn, Peeta squints at the numbers above the garage. He’s definitely in the right place. He kills the engine and sits for a moment, glancing at the clock on the navigation system. It’s quarter after nine. Early, but not obscenely so. When his shift had ended at six am, he had driven home and fought the urge to crawl into bed; instead, he grabbed a quick shower and freshened up. True, part of him hadn’t wanted to see Katniss Everdeen again looking like the bedraggled, exhausted mess he was at the end of a rotation, and also true, he was going to have to clean up before he’s due at his parents’ house at one. But he also knew he couldn’t really have shown up at Katniss’s house at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning, even if he suspects Ivy likely had her up by then. He recalls, with a wistful smile, that Christmas morning was the one morning he and his brothers were always awake before his father. It was only a question of which Mellark brother was going to be the first to rouse the others. Him being the youngest, it was usually him, he admits with a wider grin.

He quietly exits his car, careful not to slam the door, and gingerly steps across the icy driveway. He pauses at the un-shoveled front walk, where a pristine blanket of snow blocks his path. “Shit,” he whispers, gritting his teeth as he takes the first step. His foot plunges into the deep drift, up to nearly his calf. He braces himself and takes a huge step, hoping to eat up the distance in a few long strides. Fortunately, it’s not a long front walk. He reaches the also un-shoveled front steps and carefully ascends them. He contemplates ringing the doorbell, but instead raps his knuckles against the door. His breath pipes out in white plumes and he rubs his palms together for warmth as he waits. 

No one comes to the door, at least not immediately. Peeta lifts his fist again, but just before his knuckles can connect with the wood again, the front door opens a crack and he’s suddenly looking at Katniss. Those silver eyes round almost comically as recognition lights them. 

“D-Doctor Mellark? Wh-what are you….”  

“Hi. Merry Christmas,” he begins. “I thought Ivy would be missing this.” He smiles and holds up the stuffed cat. 

Katniss stares at him, her lips parting faintly, and shock and confusion war on her pretty face. But then her grey eyes darken with what Peeta can only describe as restrained fury. 

She opens the door fully and glares at him.  

“You had Ivy’s cat?” she accuses. 

“Uh…yeah…” he stammers, his own confusion welling. Why is she so angry? “My nephew…he has a bear. Otis. Can’t sleep without that thing. I thought if Ivy is anything like Max…well, she’d be missing this.” He holds the cat out to Katniss. She snatches it so violently that she stumbles backwards. Peeta is equally jarred, but his jolt is from the very brief brush of Katniss’s fingers against his when she had grabbed the toy. 

But Katniss gives him no time to revel in the feeling.

“So this is why no one at the hospital had a goddamned clue what I was talking about when I called there looking for this cat an hour ago!” she spits. 

Shit, Peeta thinks, an uneasy feeling clawing its way into his gut. 

“Why the fuck—” He can’t help but notice her slight hesitation before she lobs the obscenity at him. “—would you take my niece’s cat? Is this something normal people do?” She’s shivering visibly as she rants, a clear consequence of stepping onto her front porch wearing nothing but green plaid pajama pants and a threadbare black Henley shirt.

“I….I…” He shakes his head. He’s not even sure how to defend his actions. He can’t very well tell her his ulterior motives in bringing the stuffed cat back to her niece. Not now. He definitely fucked this up.

“I was just trying to be nice. That I’d save you a trip on Christmas morning,” he finishes lamely. 

Katniss’s nostrils flare and her jaw flexes. “Christmas morning,” she mutters, just barely audible over the clattering of her teeth. “Did it occur to you, Dr. Mellark, that I might be looking for Ivy’s cat and I might call the hospital looking for this cat?” She shakes the toy in his face. “And did it occur to you that, in spite of all the toys she had just opened, Ivy might be bawling and throwing a fit because Buttercup was missing?”

Buttercup, he has to assume, is the stuffed cat.

She pauses, as if waiting for him to defend himself, but all he can do is swallow against the lump crowding his throat.

So she continues, “They made me think I was crazy—but not until after they left me on hold for 20 minutes while I tried to calm a wailing toddler. And then they said there was no toy matching this description in the Lost and Found. And that’s because you had it!” Her eyes are a maelstrom now, but he notices that an edge of frustration has crept into her furious tone. 

“And now Ivy doesn’t have it. So thank you. Thank you very much, Dr. Mellark. Merry Christmas.” And before Peeta can release the breath he’s been holding during her outburst and plead his case, she whirls around, her disheveled braid lancing through the air like a whip, and slams the door behind her. Stunned, Peeta can only stare at the wreath on the door as he processes what just happened.  

What. The. Fuck. 

Heart pounding, gut churning, Peeta retreats to his car. He takes a few minutes to absorb the shock of his encounter with Katniss, his mind reeling through the accusations she made. He never would have expected her to react like this. So much for any shot with Katniss Everdeen. 

He finally gathers his composure and navigates out of her complex. As he drives, his mind continues replaying Katniss’s words over and over, and he finds one thing nags at him. 

And now Ivy doesn’t have it.

Those words don’t make much sense to him. He just gave the stuffed animal back to Katniss. She can give it back to Ivy. She’ll have it now. In her wrath, Katniss just wasn’t being rational, he decides. 

But her words continue to haunt him off and on for the rest of the day. Along with persistent images of Katniss that further torment him. She is never far from his conscious thoughts. As he sits down next to the fireplace in his parents’ house with a tumbler of scotch to exchange gifts with his brothers and his nephews, he finds himself wondering who Katniss is celebrating with. Ivy, obviously. But does she have other family? 

By the time the Mellarks all settle around the table for dinner, he’s conjured up the notion that Katniss may not be married, but she surely has a devoted boyfriend who is showering her with gifts at this very moment. Her mood is infinitely better than what Peeta witnessed earlier. She’s probably dressed nice for him, and he’s sitting around her dining room table with Katniss and Ivy, like a makeshift family.

His mother’s irritation is palpable when she has to command his attention twice to try and draw him into the discussion centered on Rye’s upcoming wedding. Peeta murmurs the apology he knows she expects and feigns his dutiful brotherly interest for Rye’s benefit the remainder of the meal. But a dull ache has taken up residence in the center of his chest and he realizes just how badly he wants what his brothers have. 

He just won’t be having it with Katniss Everdeen.

[tazzytypes]

Apocalypse: Sanctuary -- Chap 18

Hey guys! Still working on my professional writing endeavors, getting past some BETA reading stages atm. However, I had this unfinished chapter in my WIP pile, so I thought I'd add more to it to work past some writer's block. Thank you guys for all the continued support both for this story and my professional writing career! I'm hoping to respond to some of y'all's comments soon!

Read More on AO3 or see MASTERPOST for more chapters!

Michael let out a sigh as he entered his room, the smile he had been wearing all day finally leaving his lips. He could handle the attention if he didn’t need to smile at every moment. It was annoying, their pride. As if they were the ones who had descended into hell. As if they had seen the river Styx and spoken to the devil himself. Michael had known they would treat him like a puppet, but he hadn’t expected it to be so annoying.

Ariel tried his patience the most. The blond boy could barely get in a word when he was around, hand on his shoulder and speaking for him. If not for Miss Mead, Michael wouldn’t be able to bear it. Who did the man think he was? His father? Then again… the two weren’t as different, he supposed.

He let his bag fall off his shoulder and onto the floor. Why he even bothered with classes anymore was a mystery. What little friends he had — if he could call them that — shrank away from him. Such was the cost of power. That’s what Mead always said.

He missed her.

Pulling off his tie, he settled into his desk chair. Taking a book from the collection in his room, he set to reading. That girl had been looking at it while the witches and warlocks discussed the semantics of the Seven Wonders. He could still feel the way his finger burned, the way her green eyes bugged from her head before she tossed the book back on the shelf.

The last thing he needed was some inexperienced witch accidentally putting a hex on him. What sort of fool read magic spells aloud without considering the consequences? Had she not seen a single horror movie?

Michael remembered her eyes, the milky film that came to them in hell and the fire that burned in them when she faced that demon. If she were a fool, she was certainly a competent one.

Written mainly in Latin, Michael did his best to translate the words of the tome, some of them lost to water damage or tears. Speaking Latin, which had slowly become a synonym for the devil’s language, was simple for him to master. He thanked Satan for that ability. It was the only thing that could have put him behind his fellow warlocks. Ariel and the others had to think the blond boy was perfect. Anything less would ruin his plans.

Even so, perfection wasn’t easy. Mead assured him he was, but perfections seemed more impossible than hell itself.

He tutted at himself. So, this is what the girl had been talking about.

With a sigh, Michael moved to ready himself for bed. Passing the Seven Wonders only ensured him more work during the day. Ariel may not be a demon, but he certainly worked to possess the boy day and night. Nothing would satisfy the man until Michael moved like him, sounded like him, ruled like him. A perfect replica.

It was pathetic, really.

He tossed his tie onto the bed and slowly went to work unbuttoning his shirt. There was not a moment in the day where he wasn’t deep in thought, planning, re-planning, checking the chessboard to see how his pawns moved in his absence. The only time his mind was silent was when he dreamed. Even then, they felt like fevered visions, quickly forgotten when his alarm rang in his ear.

Unbuttoning his sleeve, Michael was startled by a flurry of pages. He jumped and his eyes were wide for only a moment before they hardened into an unreadable mask. When he turned, the pages of the tome were moving on their own, the force behind it frantically searching for something.

“Finis venit, ante initium.” A chilling breeze whispered.

The end comes before the beginning.

Slowly, Michael moved closer, body tense and on alert. He half expected the book to fling itself from the desk. His father was always impatient.

Finally, the pages settled. Craning his desk light closer, Michael saw the layout of a summoning circle. The spell, its components and the words to be spoken, were laid out in perfect detail. What it was to summon, however, was but a blur of intelligible ink.

The faint voice continued to whisper, “Mulieres gladius tuus sic recensetur. Tempus belli.”

Your sword has awoken. It is time for war.

.

.

.

Emily stood in a field, a sea of green reaching out for miles around her, no sign of ever stopping. She spun like a dog chasing its tail, hunting for something familiar. There were no wildflowers, no clouds in the sky. The air was not too warm nor too cool. It was, in all ways, perfect.

She didn’t know tranquility could be so suffocating.

Panic rose in her bell. In hell, at least she had Michael, but here she was alone. Emily ran towards the horizon even though she knew it would never end, tall grass catching at her legs like a million tiny hands. They whispered as she pushed on.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

The mere thought was enough to make her breath catch in her throat. If she had any need to breathe, that is. Dreams were peculiar that way. You could be strangled even when your body needed no air.

“You’re back!” A voice cried. Emily turned to the familiar figure, tripping over her own feet before righting herself. Her chest heaved and her eyes were dilated in alarm. A dark figure stood in long robes, unaware of the heat. How long had the heat been there? “They said it would take longer, but I knew you’d get Cordelia’s help.”

“Nan?”

Emily’s mouth had opened to say the name, but it was not her voice that spoke. Instead, another’s passed her lips. It was an unpleasant feeling — as if someone had reached down her throat and pulled out her tongue.

Her head turned as if someone were doing it for her. The brunette’s resistance only made it worse. Behind her, Cordelia stood almost swallowed by the verdant grass. Each step she took was careful and calculated. If she ran, the pair would only get further away… or so she believed.

Nan.

Nan.

Nan.

Then she was by Emily’s side, placing a hand on her shoulder. They felt like talons instead of flesh, digging into her shoulder; a breath away from being painful. She did not want to look. Looking made it real.

“What are you doing here?” Cordelia asked.

“I was asked to be here,” Nan replied, then nodded to Emily, “to meet a friend.”

The younger witch spared a glance to her Supreme, brown eyes meeting green for a fraction of a second. Those brown eyes quickly flicked back to Nan, unwilling to give anything else her attention. Emily opened her mouth to speak, to ask Nan all the questions that had been plaguing her since Hawthorne — What voice had spoken to her? Why had it spoken to her? What did it all mean? Why her?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Once again, she was spoken over. The words caught in her throat by something she could not see. Green eyes narrowed and grew dark, annoyed as Cordelia spoke once more.

“Nan, where are you?”

Emily’s heart fell. This was her Supreme’s true intention. She shouldn’t have been surprised. When Cordelia had said the spell would unleash the true potential of her powers, Emily had expected something different. Optimism had made her foolish.

The sky turned dark, gray clouds replacing azure skies. Emily did not notice, far too consumed by her doubts and fears. Why were her dreams always subverted? Why did they always get torn out and turned into another’s designs?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Nan’s eyes dashed from Cordelia, eyes narrowing as she observed the changing sky. She did not have time for this. Cordelia was a side effect and the spell would only last so long. There was work to do, work Cordelia would never comprehend or appreciate. Nan walked towards Emily, shuffling through the tall grass, her hand reaching into her cloak to pull out a bright, shining orb from the void and shadow.

Emily was nice. Her thoughts were nice. Overcast skies peeled away into bright blue once more. Nan’s eyes flickered towards her former Supreme whose brown eyes looked upwards in silent awe. Her thoughts were less nice. Then again, they had always been that way. She blamed Fiona.

With a flourish of her robe, Nan’s face lit up with a proud grin she couldn’t control.

“I believe this is yours.”

Confusion laid wake to slow joy which reminded Nan of a child on Christmas. It flickered in and out, but never disappeared, her mind warring between blinded optimism and pessimistic doubt.

It was beautiful, more than beautiful; opalescent and scattering light like the brightest star in the sky. Blue skies and the bright sun paled in its wake. A rainbow of refracted light scattered colors here and there.

Dainty hands hovered over the orb as if the smallest touch would burst it like a bubble. It was warm, magnetic — like a fire on a cold day.

The dead witch held the orb out even further, nodding to Emily with enthusiasm. Cordelia should appreciate the girl more, Nan thought. Perhaps, after this, she would. There were so many plans for the girl. More plans than a mortal mind could comprehend.

Emily cradled the orb like a child, her chest thrumming. A buzz filled her body. She looked between Nan and the object in her arms, unsure which she should focus on.

“What is it?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper, “is it—”

Nan smiled, “Exactly!”

Emily stared at her. Reading her thoughts, Nan smiled and nodded, giving the girl time to process.

“Your power,” Cordelia said.

Her eyes fixated on the orb as if it were a star held in Emily’s arm. “I’ve never seen—”

“I tried to give it to you last time,” Nan said, leaning in to whisper, “but you weren’t ready for it yet.”

“Ready?”

She looked to Cordelia, but the woman held no answers for her. When Emily turned back to Nan, the girl was gone, carried away by the breeze.

Cordelia looked to Emily only to stumble back and fall to the grass. Swallowed whole by verdant green. There was no pain. No sense of impact. Even if there were, she would not have noticed. All she could do was stare.

Emily’s green eyes had become a solid, glowing white that matched the glow of the orb in her hand. The girl looked ethereal — skin as clear as marble, hair swaying as if it were in water instead of air. When Emily knitted her brows and cocked her head in confusion, she didn’t look human at all. She looked… more.

Her gaze quickly returned to the orb, curling around it like a content cat. The smile on her face was that of relief, of a mother holding a newborn babe. Her hand gently brushed over the orb, trying to convince herself it was real.

“I’m afraid it will disappear as soon as I awake,” Emily said, a faint laugh leaving her as she said the words and looked back to Cordelia. “No matter how hard I try to pull it into the physical realm.”

Even her speech sounded different. Cordelia, at that moment, realized why Emily was so different than her other girls. With a power rooted in the limbo world — the world of visions, dreams, and hellish realms — Emily belonged more there than she did in the physical plane. The strain, the spark not quite a flame, was not her power trapped in this plane, but her body trapped in theirs.

Emily watched Cordelia, a flicker of anxiety and fear breaking past the overwhelming joy, “What must I do?”

The Supreme sputtered. She and Myrtle had worked tirelessly to create this spell, to get them into this limbo, but the next steps were lost to her. The blissful smile left the girl’s lips, Cordelia’s doubt hanging in the air like suffocating humidity. Why? Why did she torment her like this — with intangible possibilities and crushing hope?

The brunette’s voice caught in her throat. The sound startled the Supreme. “Please.”

For a moment, it seemed golden tears would pour from eyes of pure light. “I have missed it so much.”

One moment Cordelia was sprawled in the grass. The next she was standing. She had not moved to stand. It just, quite simply, was a fact. Something in her hand threw her off balance, hard and cool — A dagger, sharp enough to cut stone and polished so well she could see the conflict dancing in her eyes. Those eyes looked to the weapon with furrowed brows. Then, they looked at the girl before her.

What was this power? If she looked in her own soul, would her eyes be consumed by the same light? She thought of the dream Emily had told her, the child witch nearly burned to cinders. Was this the force that saved her that day?

Would this be a force that could save them?

But why was Nan there? Was it even Nan or was it a spirit playing pretend? You could never trust anything in a dream.

Emily stood, enamored by the orb, wanting to commit it to memory before it was lost for good.

Cordelia spared one last glance to the shining beacon in her student’s arms. The knife felt heavy. That heaviness only grew as the moments passed. It was divine, that light. She didn’t want to move. She wanted to bask in its light till the world stopped spinning.

But she was the supreme.

She was a leader.

She had lives to protect.

She had no choice.

In the end, it took little force to strike. Weight was but a concept in this realm. Cordelia’s ears rung as blinding light burst forth, a bomb of magic. Its comforting warmth burned with the heat of a thousand suns.

She had no choice.

The good of the coven had to come before all else.

.

.

.

“Delia? Delia, are you alright?”

Cordelia was pulled from her dream by an urgent voice. A blur of red was all she could see of Myrtle, a blur that refused to go away. Her hands shook over her face as she tried to rub her sight back into existence. Was she blind again? What had she done? She couldn’t be blind. Not now. There was far too much work to do. Far too much—

The Supreme swayed ever slightly and steadying hands tightened around her arms.

“Get me a chair,” Myrtle ordered.

“I’m fine,” Cordelia insisted, “Did we get it right? Did we—”

“Calm yourself, Delia. Getting worked up won’t help anyone.”

Cordelia felt a stood hit the back of her leg. With shaking hands, she reached back and lowered herself upon it. She couldn’t do this again. The girls could not see her fading. The warlocks could not see her fading. Not now. Not like this.

“Emily?” Cordelia called out, “Emily?”

Misty came beside her Supreme, brows knit with worry and hands reaching out for hers, “Miss Cordelia—”

Words were torn from her mouth as a loud gasp filled the room followed by a gust of wind that those of the inner circle could not shield themselves from. Queenie ducked to the ground, Myrtle to the table, and Madison to Zoe. If not for Misty, Cordelia would have been thrown to the ground. They shielded their eyes from the dust and debris that had accumulated over decades and when the wind stopped all they could do was stare with open mouths.

The greenhouse had always been well-loved. It had been attended to over the years by many a witch, creating a chaotic accumulation of plants, dirt, and tools. Cordelia herself had spent many an hour inside those walls. However, with her role as Supreme, she had found herself there less and less. The plants that did continue to grow were stubborn and dry, the colorful petals of flowers muted and wilting.

Cordelia rubbed her eyes and the blur receded from her sight, details coming into focus. First her fingers, then the table, and finally beyond.

“Oh, my god,” Zoe said, hardly louder than a whisper. Cordelia’s vision continued to clear, but she did not need sight to know the look upon the young woman’s face.

Queenie looked to her friend, muttering out, “holy fucking shit.”

Every brown, dry, and twisted stem now grew a verdant green. The flowers were brighter than any they had ever seen. Vines curled and moved before their eyes, curling up the table and around Emily’s arms.

She was still panting, covered in a cold sweat as if she had woken from a nightmare, but she could feel the vines slowly creeping up her hand. She held it up before her, eyes wide as the vine continued to advance up her arm. Her body was buzzing. The vine seemed to be a part of her, yet entirely separate from her being, a phantom limb or a tail that moved in instinct. It reached towards her wrist and settled in the palm of her hand, blooming a single small wisteria flower.

“Behold,” Myrtle spoke, “our oracle has awoken.”

Emily’s green eyes danced around her. Her heart drummed in her ears and nearly burst from her chest.

“Did I — Did I do this?”

Misty left Cordelia’s side, content now that the perceived danger had passed. A smile came to her lips as she came to Emily’s side, a spring in her step. She regarded Emily’s wide-eyed awe with amusement.

“I’m going to teach you about Louisiana mud now.”

“O— ok.”

“I don’t think she needs Louisiana mud,” Queenie noted, pulling off a few plants that had rooted themselves around her leg.

Misty frowned, “A little mud never hurt nobody.”

“Say that to my neck,” Madison scoffed, “I still have to use a bottle of perfume to mask the smell of shit.”

“I think that’s just you,” Zoe said.

“Whatever.”

Queenie moved closer to Emily as the two began to bicker.

“Did you see Nan again?” she asked.

Emily regarded her expression, the grief in her eyes and the heavy weight which pressed upon her shoulders. She nodded.

“Did she say anything?”

The expression on the brunette’s face spoke louder than her words. “Nothing beyond the circumstances.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you done being a killjoy?” Madison snapped from across the table.

Queenie’s grief quickly melded to annoyance, “You done being a bitch?”

“You say that like a bad thing.”

“Because it is.”

“Whatever.”

Flicking some dust off her shirt, Madison sauntered to the door only to turn back at the last moment.

“Welcome to the coven, bitch.” She said, “You’re our new Sabrina.”

When Emily stepped out of the greenhouse, the sky was scattered with stars. Time was different in the other. She shouldn’t have been surprised, but her mind was still buzzing, her ears still ringing.

She was a witch.

She was powerful.

She was something.

“Someone looks happy,” Misty noted, linking their arms together. Emily wasn’t even put off by the contact. All she could do was beam until her cheeks hurt. Words were intangible. Not a single one could describe the elation that beat in her chest with every step. If she could, she would soar.

“Careful there!”

Cordelia’s voice cut through the night, the songs of crickets and frogs stopping in their tracks. A hand latched on to the back of Emily’s shirt, pulling her back like a toddler on a leash. Her feet sink into the grass… or, should she say, back on the grass. The light from the house was enough for her to see Cordelia’s expression turn from that of surprise into one of amusement.

“Let’s save the levitation for later.”

“…my bad.”

The Supreme couldn’t quite place the look Emily gave her. It felt like she was looking past her… into her. She didn’t move, a deer caught in headlights. Her hand remained balled around a piece of Emily’s shirt until another voice broke the silence.

“Don’t worry, Miss Cordelia,” Misty assured, tightening her hold on the girl as the Supreme fell back into pace with her red-haired mentor, “I won’t let her float away.”

Queenie bumped Emily’s shoulder. “What else you got? Besides that, Airbender, Earthbender shit.”

“I… have no idea,” Emily said, “What else is there?”

Cordelia’s voice rang out behind them once more.

“Perhaps we should leave the experimentation for later.”

“You’re the one who keeps telling us to push ourselves.” Queenie reminded, reaching into her pockets and presenting a coin. “Here. Take it.”

Emily did as she was told, plucking the coin from her hand.

“Not like that, idiot. With your mind.”

“Oh.”

Holding the coin in her palm, Emily focused on her hand. Her fingers curled around the coin as if she were holding an apple instead. A picture of the coin pushed into her mind, she imagined plucking it up with her fingers, turning it in her hand.

The coin rose, fell, then rose again. Twisting her hand, it began to travel towards the girl before dropping in her empty palm. Emily shook her hand free of the buzzing, cracking her fingers for good measure.

“Smart-ass,” Queenie muttered.

“But you said—”

“I’m teasing, girl. Relax.”

“At least now you can actually participate during lessons,” Zoe noted, stepping aside to let Emily up the back steps of the mansion.

The brunette frowned, reaching for the handle of the back door, “I participate.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Look—”

One moment she was opening the door and the next she was in the hall. The breath left her lungs as she fell face-first onto the hardwood floors.

Zoe’s voice came from down the hall, “Emily?!”

“I’m fine,” the girl groaned, rolling over and laying on her back. When she looked up, the inner circle was coming around the corner. Queenie and Misty were snickering at the sight. She frowned.

“Oh. shut up.”

“At least you weren’t impaled,” Zoe offered, moving to help the girl to her feet.

“At least I wasn’t what now?”

“Don’t worry. Misty would make you good as new. You’ll smell like shit for a while, though — Louisiana Mud and all that.”

“Okay. Wait. Hold on.” Emily said, pushing up her glasses just so her hands had something to do, “Let’s go back for a second. You were way too calm about that. How often does this shit happen?”

“What was it?” Queenie asked, looking to Misty as she counted on her hand, “Madison died twice, Zoe died and came back, you died and came back and died again. Plus Nan, then me. So… seven times?”

“Don’t forget Myrtle.”

“Oh shit, you’re right. That’s two more deaths — so nine?”

“She died twice?”

“You were dead the second time,” Zoe interjected. Misty simply nodded in acknowledgment. “And don’t forget Fiona.”

“Fiona doesn’t count. She was a bitch.”

“So is Madison.”

Madison, who had been regarding the interaction quietly, frowned. “Hey!”

“Fair point. So that’s a total of ten.”

Emily looked to the three women with an expression of concern — like watching the village idiot run into a wall over and over and over.

“Only one impalement, though,” Misty reassured.

Emily sighed, “This place really needs to come with a liability warning.”

Zoe shrugged, “Just don’t use it to play tag and you should be good.”

“Well damn, that ruins all my plans for tomorrow.”

Zoe smiled and shook her head, “I think all that power is going to your head.”

“… maybe a little.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“One question: How do I stop the spontaneous…” Emily said, gesturing about her, “y’know?”

“Only by training and hard work, my dear” Myrtle spoke. “Which is why my dear Cordelia made you this.”

From her hands, a necklace hung. It wasn’t fancy or ornate. A simple thing, really. It looked like something you might find in a thrift store. At the end of the leather chain was a gold coin with a singular line carved in the center.

“It’s —”

Emily interrupted before she could finish, “The Isa rune.”

Myrtle smiled and nodded. Good. The girl was prepared. She would need that knowledge in the coming conflict.

“Simple, but effective,” The red-head said, “It should help you channel your power properly until you can do so yourself.”

The brunette looked at the amulet for a moment, turning it this way and that. Had runes always felt so… alive? The closest way she could describe magic was the buzzing of bees in your body mixed with a magnetic pull. Her eyes flickered between Myrtle and the coin.

“Thank you,” She finally spoke, moving to place the object around her neck. It weighed more than she thought it would and rested right under her heart.

“Think of it as insurance,” Myrtle said, “we’ve got enough destruction with our younger girls.”

“At least now I can keep up with them.”

“Or join them,” Madison said, pushing herself around the small crowd they had formed in the center of the hall, “now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more important things to do… like sleep.”

Emily listened to the sound of footsteps on the stairs behind her. Then, she turned.

“Madison.”

The woman sighed and turned around, “What?”

“Thank you.”

The former starlet was silent for a moment, then turned around and kept walking. “… Whatever.”

Emily smiled ever slightly and turned to the other girls. “You guys, too.”

“You know what they say:” Myrtle said with a knowing smile, “blood of the coven is thicker than the water of the womb.”

Her words echoed in Emily’s mind as she prepared for bed; rosewater for her face, rosemary for her hair. Before, they were household remedies. Rose was an anti-inflammatory that helped with redness. Rosemary promoted hair growth. There was something more to them now — her skin glowed and freckles danced across her face like stars, her hair was soft under her fingers and shone in the bathroom light.

Misty was already snoring when she made it back to her room, curled up on a thin mattress set up beside Emily’s bed. The brunette tip-toed across the floor, avoiding the creaky floorboard she had come to know by heart.

Heavy eyes pulled her towards the realm of dreams. The bed was warm, the sheets just heavy enough to sink her into the bed. Her thoughts began to slip into white noise, echoes of words that could not be recalled.

“Finis venit, ante initium.” A voice whispered, just as she was about to doze off. She hummed in annoyance, turning over on her side.

A cry made her blood turn to ice. She shot up in her bed, looking around for the source. She had nieces and nephews. She knew the sound of a baby’s cry. Footsteps paced the floor above and the cry continued — the attic.

“Misty,” She hissed, “Misty!”

Silence consumed the room, only broken by the baby’s cries. Emily climbed across her bed and reached to shake the woman awake.

“Misty! Do you hear that?”

The woman groaned and swatted at the hand that shook her. Her words came out low and slurred. “’Is jus’ a bird. Go t’ sleep.”

Emily looked to Misty, then back at the ceiling. Footsteps came from above once more. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the crying stopped. She regarded the ceiling with narrowed eyes, then slowly lowered herself back in the bed. Someone must have taken care of it. One of the younger girls probably had a nightmare.

With a sigh, she turned on her side, willing sleep to return to her. Her hair continued to stand on edge and an intense need to move plagued her limbs. With the grace of a mouse, she scampered over to the door, locked it, and threw herself into the covers once more.

The moon cast the room in a pale glow. Emily had lucked out, the room facing the back of the house where she was free from the obnoxious yellow lights from the street lamps. She looked at the plant on her bedside, wilted flowers now proudly blooming. She reached out a hand, picturing water crawling up the stem. Yellow petals turned blue, the color sweeping across them like an ink stain. Even when she pulled back, the color proudly stood. One minute, two minutes, three — the color remained.

Emily stared at it with pride. Something had awoken inside her, something she had yearned for since the moment she was born.

Power.

She finally had power.

[therealsaintscully]

Here again, gone again - Mary between the tarmac and the end of TLD

tl;dr: Why are John and Sherlock seemingly ignoring Mary in the first minutes of T6T? 

PS - I decided to have a copy of this post on Google Docs, which will be updated as I go along. I’ve given everyone permissions to add comments on my doc, to encourage further discussion.

One of the things that caught my attention in S4, while still a casual watcher and long before I began to read Sherlock meta, was the whole issue of Mary coming back to John and Sherlock’s life after shooting Sherlock.

I remember being outraged about it, especially regarding Mary’s prominence and strange redemption in T6T (and of course, the closing montage in TFP).

As with my earlier posts, I’ve been rewatching HLV/T6T over and over again as research for my WIP Turned, and new things have been standing out, now that I read meta. Recently, for example, I noticed Sherlock’s response to ‘John’s’ ghost!Mary in TLD. Sherlock responding to a ghost who insists throughout an entire episode she’s a figment of John’s imagination is strange, I’d say. I’ve since learned I wasn’t the only one who noticed this - I remember coming across a mention of this in meta by @loudest-subtext-in-tv​​ as well @discordantwords​​, who mentioned this in response to a fic prompt I sent her (you’ll find some interesting clothes meta in there too, by @bakerbee​​).

And then I watched TST again and noticed something weird. Sherlock’s interactions with Mary between the tarmac suddenly seem, to me, as if they go back and forth between completely ignoring her to only barely acknowledging her presence. This could be NOTHING, or a part of the general fuckery of S4, or could fit well in with a larger theory I haven’t read up on yet. It could also be Sherlock not liking the person who shot him, and ignoring her, but my feeling is that this is something else. The question is, whether this is ghost!Mary in Sherlock’s mind, John’s mind, or something else?

Just to spice things up, I’d like to first direct your attention to something fucky that @tjlcisthenewsexy​​ had pointed out about the penultimate scene in HLV. That part is supposed to be happening after Sherlock’s Victorian dream and his return to reality (SUPPOSEDLY). In this post, tjlcisthenewsexy claims and adds screenshots that show that after Sherlock ‘lands’ back in reality, every shot of Mary, unlike before, conceals her pregnant belly. It’s kinda creepy - go have a look. In fact, go on and read the entire post and ask yourself why is Mary pregnant on the tarmac but not in Victorian days, and where Mary is during the final scene of TAB.

The photo below was taken from @tjlcisthenewsexy​‘s blog.

Another ‘feature of interest’ regarding Mary in the tarmac is her scarf - it has colourful butterflies on it, and remember that because I’ll get back to it soon.

Sidenote to my ‘water is dream’ homies: Sherlock’s pardon scene seems to attempt to reinforce we’re back in reality when Sherlock tweets ‘Back on terra firma’  (meaning dry land :ahem:, solid ground) and Lady Smallwood insists that Sherlock is now ‘home and dry’.

So, in the first ignoring-Mary scenario, Mary wears the same ‘frock’/kimono (I’m not sure what to call it) we saw her wearing at Sherlock’s parents’ house. This is the famous ‘fake blog post’ scene, or the jpg blog, where John is writing a post about his new fatherhood even though Mary is still incredibly pregnant. Sherlock mentions that if things continue the way they’re going, he’ll be needing two knives. Here’s the dialogue:

JOHN: It pays to advertise.

(Sherlock sits down in his chair, looking at his phone. Mary, standing near the window and rubbing her very pregnant tummy with one hand while pressing her lower back with the other, looks at him.)

MARY: So, what about Moriarty, then?

SHERLOCK: Ooh, I have a plan.

(Grimacing, Mary rubs her bump again.)

SHERLOCK: I’m going to monitor the underworld – every quiver of the web will tell me when the spider makes his move.

(As he was speaking, he has also tweeted “#221Bringit!”)

JOHN: Basically your ‘plan’ is just to sit there solving crimes like you always do.

SHERLOCK (smiling across to him): Awesome, isn’t it?!

(He jumps up, steps across to the mantelpiece and rips the top letter off the pile.)

Credits to Ariane DeVere for the transcription.

Watch this conversation and you’ll notice that neither of them acknowledges Mary, despite her physical presence there. There are two ways to read this conversation: in one Sherlock responds to Mary, in the other Sherlock is somewhat vaguely pointing out that he has a plan to deal with the issue of needing to with wait for Moriarty despite the deluge of cases he’s been getting.

Next up, the Dusty Death case:

A few things I noticed here: John never acknowledges Mary’s presence here (and neither does Sherlock) and Mary’s STRANGE APPEARANCE HERE: Where’s the belly? Where is the red lipstick, colourful clothes? The fact is that everyone’s appearance changed between the tarmac and now - whenever this now is; John’s hair and clothes are dramatically, Sherlock suddenly has a trump-tan and Mary’s hair is longer and more curly. But look at Mary in this photo - she’s all washed up!

The belly is back, but even though Mary calls Sherlock’s name a number of times he doesn’t acknowledge her at all. Look at John, too, who throws a glance at Mary’s general direction for a split second, but we don’t see an actual exchange of words between John and Mary. There’s something strangely reminiscent of TLD in this photo that I can’t put my finger on, maybe the lighting?

Things seem slightly different once Mary is in labour - although let’s not forget that Mary is ignored by Sherlock and John for long enough to the point they’re missing out on 59 calls. Interestingly Mary, who feels comfortable enough to (later, when John is on the bus) tell Sherlock that John is available at 5PM one day for a case (‘Mary says it’s fine’) never calls Sherlock when she’s in labour and can’t get a hold of John.

Sherlock is again immersed in his phone in the car on the way to the hospital, and only acknowledges Mary when John tells him to. The interesting thing in this scene (besides the fact that there are setlock photos of a version of this scene shot where Sherlock was the one doing the driving) is Mary’s dress. It’s a black dress with butterflies, a callback to her tarmac scarf. The Google search for butterflies and symbolism of death(?) are easy enough.

Sherlock is again immersed in his phone at Mary’s flat when John and Mary asks Molly and Mrs. Hudson to be the godmothers (you know, when the photos ‘don’t come out right’). He never fully acknowledges ONLY MARY and her words or even looks at her, and he’s surprised by the choice of name for Rosie later in church. To me, here at church as well as in the car on the way to the hospital, Sherlock looks surprised to find himself wherever he is.

And then comes the Welsborough case, during which we see for the first time in this episode, an actual conversation between Sherlock and Mary - I’m sure there’s a lot to be said about this case etc, but the one thing that stood out to me was Sherlock, in a split second of premonition, standing completely alone in the room staring at the Thatcher busts - in a way that ties in my mind to another idea I’ve been having, about Thatcher representing Mary in one way or another (but let’s save that for another time).

Now think again about ghost!Mary, John and Sherlock in the hug scene in TLD.

Whatever’s going on here, it’s strange. I wonder if what we’re seeing here are different versions of the same ‘unreliable narrator’ reality/narrative, jumping back and forth between ‘John’s alibi/blog’ and Sherlock who’s still locked in his Mind Palace (in the same fashion of TAB, where we switch between the various layers of supposed reality and Sherlock’s various layers of his mind).

Thoughts?

And while I have your attention, I’m researching another idea. If you know of any significance of the hazelnut/hazel tree/the word hazel or Luz in the BBCSH universe please let me know. Could be a photo, a wallpaper, the name of a place etc.

PS- I doubt any/many of my point here are completely new and were never pointed out before by others - if they were I apologize for not giving credits, at this point it’s very hard to know every single origin of meta ideas going around. Let me know if you deserve the credit for something.

Tags after the cut.

@tjlcisthenewsexy​ @sarahthecoat​ @the-7-percent-solution​ @gosherlocked @loveismyrevolution @inevitably-johnlocked @xistentialangst @devoursjohnlock @disregardedletters @helloliriels @tjlcblr​ @may-shepard​ @waitedforgarridebs​ @helplessly-johnlocked​

Let me know if you’d like me to not tag you in the future!

[taeyongtime]

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹 thats 125 roses :3 ❤️❤️❤️❤️

i purposely saved this one for last because you, my friend, are big brain 👍125 sentences for 125 roses *slow claps*. in respect of such a big brain move, the following preview is for a hogwarts!au feat. hufflepuff!taeyong and slytherin!reader. i’ve actually already finished it, but it’s supposed to be a joint work with another writer, so i haven’t posted even though it’s basically completed. 

for every “🌹” received in my inbox i’ll post one random sentence of a random WIP i’m currently writing

◆

It is no surprise that the first thing you hear stepping into Hogwarts is a question asking if you were Kim Doyoung’s sister.

Soon after the Sorting Hat places you with the tables of emerald green robes, upperclassmen and students your year flock to your seat next to your brother, who simply offers a smug nod as he begins a spiel of how the family had expected nothing less (old-money purebloods such as yourselves were a shoo-in for the Slytherin House, no doubt about it). Chimes of agreement follow, an occasional joke on how your parents would have reacted if you had been sorted into Gryffindor or Hufflepuff garnering a gasp of shock from the crowd.

Imagining if you had been sorted into Hufflepuff brings about a budding headache and you politely ask for them to give you space to eat, your stomach famished from the long train ride and the sheer conviction to not let go of your purse strings to purchase snacks from the cart that rolled down the aisle every hour or so. Luckily they oblige, and your brother sighs as you dig in, piling your plate high with potatoes, meats, basically a little bit of everything you can reach within arm’s distance.

“You’re going to become a pig if you continue to eat at this rate.”

“Oh, shut up and eat your own food already.”

Doyoung scoffs and picks apart his bread, tossing bit by bit into his mouth. “I hope you won’t speak to any of the Professors here in that tone.”

“Please stop nagging me when I’m eating, it’s annoying.”

A dirty look sent your way, he adds a final word of putting some vegetables onto your plate before leaving to find a different seat where someone would listen rather than provide a rebuttal to his every sentence. Naturally, you ignore his nagging and reach for another portion of potatoes, gravy dribbling down like a volcano had just erupted all over your plate. More meat, more biscuits, you eat until your stomach is at its limit, threatening to implode at everything you had just ingested.

Pushing your chair out, you search the sea of heads for your brother but fail to spot the lanky second year who was all the rage for the Slytherin House. Not wanting to remain in front of all the food and certainly not having the energy to sample any of the decadent desserts, you ask your neighbor on the right for directions to the Slytherin common room, heading out to find the entrance yourself without waiting for everyone else.

“Where do you think you’re going, little lady?”

Turning around, you meet the eyes of the headmaster, his hands clasped together as he waits for your answer.

“I… I think I ate too much,” you begin slowly, calculating each word spoken. “I wanted to look for the way to the Hospital Wing.”

“The Hospital Wing will be to your right. Madam Pomfrey will have something ready for you by the time you get there.”

“T-Thank you… Sir.”

“Next time, find someone to accompany you,” he adds with a knowing smile, “Especially when you have yet to discover the way to the Slytherin Common Room.”

Spooked, you hurry towards the Hospital Wing and endure another bout of nagging from Doyoung when he comes running after hearing from an upperclassman that you had gone to see the school nurse after the feast.

---

Year One is over before you know it, and you find yourself back on campus grounds again once August ends, following your brother off the Hogwarts Express and into the Great Hall to be seated for the new year’s welcoming ceremony and accompanying feast. Once you find a spot along the green tables for Slytherin House, your brother slides in on your right and another quickly fills in the left, the dimpled smile offered your way a sight for sore eyes.

“How was your summer, Y/N?”

“Bo-ring,” you reply in kind, rolling your eyes as your legs kick underneath the table. “You should’ve brought me with you to France, Jaehyun.”

“Next time,” the second year says with a chuckle. “I don’t think you would appreciate the beauty that is Quidditch when you never showed up to any of my games last year.”

“It’s a pointless sport,” you refute. “Chasing a little golden ball in the air while risking getting your teeth knocked out by Beaters? No thanks.”

“You just haven’t seen a good game yet.”

“Shh!” Your brother’s sharp voice hisses in your ear. “The Sorting is about to begin!”

A hush falls over the table as the Sorting Ceremony begins. Just last year you were one of those children waiting in line to be sorted, the feeling of anxiety at your sorting still as palpable as ever as you watch each sortee be divided into one of the four Houses at Hogwarts. A few enter the ranks of emerald, but most make their way to the rich scarlet and gold of Gryffindor or warm honey of Hufflepuff, two of the most popular houses across the campus compared to your very own.

“Really, you’re so yappy whenever you’re with Jaehyun.”

“Okay, Doyoung, go find somewhere else to eat at if you find me annoying.”

“I never said that.” Against your protests, he scoops some peas onto your plate along with some carrots. “Eat some vegetables, you need it.”

You immediately push the vegetables onto Jaehyun’s plate once Doyoung turns his head the other way, reaching for two slices of corned beef and a breadstick in lieu of the empty space next to the mountain of potatoes and gravy. Jaehyun finishes before you and you split half of your breadstick, keeping the left half while handing over the right.

“Thanks.”

“Did you not eat anything on the train?” you ask incredulously, amazed at his second full plate when you barely made a dent in yours.

“I did earlier, but I’m starving now. Haven’t had a bite since they were sold out of chocolate frogs.”

“Pig.”

He oinks in return and you laugh, catching a glance from your brother and ignoring it once his attention is again captured by someone else calling his name. You were used to it by now, the wonder boy that is Doyoung being the pride of Slytherin House since he first set foot onto Hogwarts.

Going to bed early after dismissal from the Great Hall, the next morning you return to the routine of classes, meals, homework, studying for exams, more homework, and so forth, a never-ending cycling of academia that left little room for leisure time when there was so much to do. Not one to socialize much and not at all interested in going to see Jaehyun at his Quidditch games, you spend most of your time in the library when you didn’t need to be in class, the peace and quiet comforting when you wanted to be alone (which was all the time).

Today, you find yourself not in the mood for Potions on such a fine sunny Tuesday afternoon, thus you make your way to the library once you finish lunch, courteously greeting the librarian before scurrying off to your favorite spot by the windows. Madam Pince was stern to all students entering the library, but your frequent appearance last year and diligence in following library rules made you tolerable in her book, hence the blind eye cast when you show up when it was clearly not a time for a student your year to be in the library when there were classes going on. Spreading out your bag and other things to lay claim onto the table, you head over to the Care of Magical Creatures section and pull a few volumes off the shelves. Two hours easily fly by as people begin to trickle in, your eyes scanning the pages of information on fairies, elves, and other creatures of the like. Currently not enrolled in a Care of Magical Creatures class, you ponder on the thought of taking it as an elective next year as you return the books you had just finished reading in exchange for new ones.

After making sure everything was placed back in the correct alphabetical order, your fingertips graze along the spine of each book as you wander down the shelves, eyes locking in on a volume regarding dragons when another set of hands reaches for it at the same time. The physical contact catches both you and him by surprise, neither saying a word until you break the silence as you glare at the black-and-gold robed Hufflepuff who wanted the same book as you.

“Let go, I got it first.”

“I… Go ahead.” He gestures for you to take the book and you do so, letting out a huff of indignation at the audacity after. Mumbling an apology again, he reaches for a book on the upper shelf and you roll your eyes before turning tail to return to your table. Waiting until your Potions class was over, you pack up your things and head to the librarian’s desk, only to be stopped in the process of checking out the book on dragons you had just successfully taken off the shelf.

“The gentleman behind you had put in a request to reserve this book.”

Your eyes meet the Hufflepuff who you’d bumped heads against, a hesitant smile etched across his lips as he points at the book in your hands. “I wanted to tell Madam Pince I found it on the shelf, but then you took it, so…”

“Fine.” You hand over the book gruffly and overlook the glare in Madam Pince’s eyes for your ‘rough treatment’ of school property. “Take it.”

“Have you finished reading it? If not—”

“Take it already.”

You flinch at the feeling of his fingers against yours and quickly pull your hand away, running out of the library without speaking another word. Tossing the encounter with the Hufflepuff out the window, you make your way back to the Slythern Common Room, where a certain Jung Jaehyun bounces up from his seat on one of the leather sofas the moment he sees you enter.

“You missed Potions today, Y/N.”

“Can I see your notes later?”

He nods without skipping a beat, grabbing your hand and pulling you after him. “Only if you come with me to watch one of my Quidditch games.”

“What,” you exclaim, “No, I don’t—”

“One game. We’re going to play right now against Hufflepuff; that’s all I ask in exchange for my notes.”

“Ugh, fine!” Forgoing the resistance, you let him drag you out and towards the stadium, where the stands were already divided to parades of yellow and green respectively. Not sure where to go since Jaehyun was a Beater on the Slytherin team, you inch your way through the lines of already-filled seats until you see Haechan, one of the first years that you knew through Doyoung. Your best friend should have at least saved you a seat if he was going to drag you to watch his game, the nerve.

“Is this spot taken?”

He shakes his head and you sit, accepting the offered pair of binoculars as the game begins. You recognize your brother’s voice over the speakers narrating the events of the game as all you see are broomsticks flying left and right, up down and back again while balls of every shape wiz by, threatening to knock unsuspecting players off their brooms. Cheers and boos simultaneously sounding out across the stadium, the whole ordeal is chaotic and you roll your eyes at how people found this entertaining and worth the time.

“Here,” you begin, handing back Haechan’s binoculars. “I’m going to go back to—”

“The Snitch! Lee Taeyong has just spotted the Golden Snitch!”

A hush falls over the entire crowd and you snatch back the binoculars, intrigued by the sudden overcast of silence. Through the lenses, you spot a lean figure picking up speed while chasing what looked to be a small golden ball. Recognizing him as the Hufflepuff from the library, you watch him zoom around the Slytherin team, ducking just in time to avoid a Bludger to the head. He reaches his arm forward and seals the Golden Snitch in his grasp, spinning to a loop-de-loop and throwing a fist in the air triumphantly with the Snitch fluttering its wings in defeat.

“And that’s the end of the game! Hufflepuff wins, 150 to 40!”

“That’s it?” you exclaim. “End game after he catches that stupid ball?”

“Y/N, the Snitch is worth 150 points,” Haechan deadpans. “It’s the fastest and hardest ball to see and catch out of everything that goes flying around; if the game doesn’t end after someone catches it, we’d be here all day.”

“Okay, I get that, but he caught it in like… just 20 minutes. Aren’t games usually longer than that?”

“Taeyong’s the best Quidditch Seeker at Hogwarts in all of the teams! No one’s been able to take the Quidditch Cup from Hufflepuff since he joined his first year.”

Impressed by the statistics, you aim your binoculars down at the grounds where both teams had landed and were getting ready to change out of their robes. Spotting the Hufflepuff Seeker immediately, you feel your heart grow warm at seeing the wide grin on his face after he made the winning catch, his teammates huddled around him as they lift him up in the air to celebrate another win under their belt.

“Hey, can I get my binoculars back now?”

Snapped out of your trance, you hand over the lenses back to Haechan, admiration growing in your chest for the Hufflepuff who had just quite possibly stolen a piece of your heart after the stellar performance right before your very eyes.

---

The rest of the year spent buttering up to one of the upperclassmen on the Slytherin Quidditch team to learn more about your growing crush on a certain Hufflepuff Quidditch Seeker, you find yourself dismayed that he was a year older than your brother, meaning it would be hard to find a chance to talk to him when the chance to share classes wasn’t possible at all. Yuta had figured it out after two minutes of answering your questions about Taeyong, but promised to keep it a secret after you made a deal to buy him a pack of Chocolate Frogs each time you went to Honeydukes, which was growing to be your favorite place to go to in Hogsmeade after obtaining the needed signature on the permission slip given your third year at Hogwarts. Clearly not in your favor when you went to Honeydukes at least once every weekend, but the emptiness in your purse was worth it if it meant you got to know just a little bit more about Taeyong despite only speaking with him once.

You weren’t the only one who had fallen into the group of people who had “Taeyong Syndrome” (as labeled by your brother), but you certainly spoke nothing of it when most of his fans were from his own house, not wanting to be teased when you were in Slytherin of all houses.

“Professor Slughorn sent me an invitation to a get-together tonight,” Jaehyun says to you one morning at the breakfast table. “Want to come?”

“No thanks,” you grimace. “I’m not interested in your little Slug Club parties.”

“But Doyoung said—”

“Especially not if Doyoung’s going to be there.”

[alluremin]

pairing: park jimin | reader

genre: parent!au | fluff

warnings: none

premise: Babies are hard.

word count: 2.1k

a/n: i can’t seem to find any inspiration to write any of my wips, but here is yet another dad!bts one shot with NO PLOT. bold of you to expect anything different from me!

Your feet ache, your head feels like it’s going to explode, and your back is so sore, you’d much rather crawl into a hole than to ever return to work again. The keys that hang from your chain jingle as you shut your car door. You can feel your feet dragging across the cement as you make to your front door. Calm immediately washes over your visage as soon as the keys enter the lock, the satisfying click meeting your ears.

Upon entering the house, everything seems much too quiet for comfort, especially considering who you live with. Thankfully, Jimin took the day off today. It was comforting on days like today when you knew that your husband was home to take care of everything.

“Jimin, I’m home!” You call in the general direction of the living room. No response.  “Did you eat yet?” Again, silence meets your ears.

Making your way living room, you catch a messy tuft of hair pooling over the arm of the couch. He had been running his hands through his hair all day, it was easy to tell. You continue your route into the room, your steps softening against the carpet when you suspect the man on the couch had long since fallen asleep.

The clock on the wall read 6:36 p.m.; you can’t help but whisper ‘Old man’, under your breath as you crouch next to your comatose husband on the sofa. You couldn’t help but swoon at the image gracing your vision.

His mouth is hung wide open in his slumber and his eyes are swollen with exhaustion. Your gaze scans down his bare torso to the tiny person whose expression, and state of consciousness matched Jimin’s own.

Her small, lips mirror the out of her father, a small amount of drool dripping out of her mouth and onto your husband’s chest. You softly coo at her as you grab the baby cloth by Jimin’s head, using it to wipe Scarlet’s lips and dab the slobber from your husband. It’s not like baby drool was anything new to either of you. For new parents, it was almost guaranteed that you would have some type of unidentifiable stain on you at all times, at least this time Jimin was naked from the waist up --- easy cleanup.

After you wipe her face, she smacks her lips together a few times and you hold your breath, hoping that your actions didn’t wake her up. She settles after a few seconds, so you drop the cloth in your lap and slouch against the coffee table behind you.

Though only 5 months old, your daughter’s hair seemed to grow at an astronomical rate. Scarlet’s long bangs are secured with a small elastic on top of her head, a look Jimin likes to call ‘The Tree’. The raven locks defy gravity, hitting the bottom of your husband’s chin. Every time the man releases a breath, the tiny ponytail bounces. Maybe you were slap happy with fatigue, but the sight causes a chuckle to reverberate through your gut.

Laying your head on Jimin’s shoulder, you watch Scarlet's back rise and fall in time with her father. Consequently, your skin contact causes Jimin to stir slightly, the hand he had resting across the baby’s back tightening slightly. His other hand stiffens on her onesie-clad feet.

Jimin’s bicep was warm under your cheek and you unavoidably nuzzle your head into his neck. It was almost a primal need at this point for you to leave kisses in the juncture of his shoulder.

It seems as if all the aches and pains disappeared from your body as soon as you walked through your front door. Scarlet and Jimin were your home, your paradise, and your own personal form of medicine.

You lean forward to place a quick peck on Jimin’s cheek, doing the same to Scarlet’s. An inevitable groan leaving your lips as you push yourself to stand. The snoozing party looked so peaceful, so with gentle steps you approach your bedroom to change out of your work clothes, leaving the two to nap for a little bit longer.

Sore muscles object as you peel your shirt over your head and your ankles crack as you pull your pants from around them. Upon rummaging through your closet, you find one of your husband’s old, worn out hoodies and pull it over your tired body. The soft fabric drops just past your knees. While combing through the pile of clothes on your floor, looking for a pair of pants, wails erupt from the living room before you can cover your legs. You’re quick to abandon your search and hastily make toward the source.

Your husband has since sat up on the couch and meets your gaze when you enter the room. His eyes are half open with exhaustion when they meet your own. Your feet quicken their pursuit toward your child, her face bright red from her screaming. All you can do is offer your husband a small smile as you scoop the baby out of his lap and up into your arms. This was Scarlet’s, “I’m hungry, feed me now,” wail.

When you turned to leave the room, you heard the couch squeak as Jimin stood to follow you.

“Is there any milk left in the fridge? I didn’t pump at work today and my nipples are too sore to feed her right now,” you said as your groggy husband follows you into the bedroom. You mentally add this to the list of phrases you’d never thought you’d say to Jimin.

He pauses briefly in the doorway, his eyes still only half open before wordlessly turning around and dragging his feet toward the kitchen. The plush comforter hits the back of your thighs as you sit down on your mattress.

The crying continues to berate your ears, so as you bounce the toddler on your chest, you bring your lips to the crown of her head and make little shushing noises until her screams turn to soft whimpers.

Scarlet calmed down tenfold since being enveloped in your arms, now only tiny crocodile tears were leaving her eyes and soaking the center of your borrowed hoodie. With your arm under her tiny bottom and your ring-clad left-hand surrounding the baby’s chubby thigh, you pull your head back, double chin at all, to get a look at the scrunched-up face of your baby.

“Oh, nugget. You look like a grumpy old man with your face like that.” Your voice was at a low tone due to the angle of your neck, making Jimin huff in amusement as he enters the room. The fish-like pouting of your lips recedes as you smile at your husband’s brief chuckle, but your eyes don’t leave Scarlet’s chubby cheeks.

In the past 5 months, you had become an expert tear-wiper, now was no exception. With your free hand, you use to wipe the remnants of her fit from sight. Your hand returns to cradle the back of her head as you leave a series of tiny kisses against her forehead.

The bed dips next to you as Jimin sits down. Only when you felt a quick peck on your cheek did you remove your lips from the crown of Scarlet’s head. You turn toward the source, earning yourself a peck on the lips from the man.

“Hi,” Jimin’s groggy voice mutters against your lips.

“Hi, honey. You sound like a frog.” You giggle as you lean away to get a good look at Jimin’s face.

His eyes are hardly open. His lips are parted slightly as his head begins to droop. His cheeks are rosy, something you can’t help but swoon over to this day. It’s been years and this man still makes your heart pound out of your chest after a single glance.

You reach your hand up to cup his cheek and lift his head to look back up at you, pecking him on the nose. Warm plastic taps against your bare thigh, and without breaking eye contact, you drop your hand to wrap around bottle Jimin was nudging against your leg.

“Thank you,” you whisper before pecking his lips.

You break eye contact and return your attention to the baby on your chest. After realizing that you, in fact, do not have 3 hands, you set the bottle between your knees and adjust Scarlet in your arms.

Her tiny lips wrap around the bottle and her tiny fist clasps onto the dark hoodie. As she ate, the baby looked into your eyes --- another one of her endearing quirks. Her eyes reflect your own, but her lips were a mirror image of her father’s. Sometimes you wish that she had Jimin’s adorable eye smile, but it was to see a part of yourself emulated in your child. As much as you love your husband, you did grow her in your uterus for 9 months, it was only fair.

You can’t help but let your head drop to look at the ceiling, releasing a long sigh of relief. Jimin was currently using your shoulder as his pillow. At first, he was watching Scarlet eat just like you, but after you lift your head back up, you notice that not only is your daughter asleep, the bottle hanging from her mouth, but Jimin is as well. Maybe it was the fact that you were on the verge of sleep as well, but it was only now that you feel all of Jimin’s weight on your body.

“Seriously?” you whisper incredulously. Jimin only nuzzles your shoulder in response and your daughter tightens her grip on the hoodie. You can’t help but laugh at the situation. “Jimin? Wake up, honey.”

After enough adamant nudging, though without waking your daughter --- you had a talent --- Jimin jolts awake. His eyes wide as he looks around the room like a man possessed. You only chuckle as you watch him.

“Did I fall asleep?” His voice is thick with sleep as he rubs his eyes.

“Yes,” you say as you stand, “but you weren’t out for very long.” He only mumbles in response.

You walk the baby over to the crib in the corner of your bedroom. Scarlet started out sleeping in her own room, but colicky babies aren’t exactly a choice. How are you supposed to let her self-soothe when she cries for hours on end? You and Jimin were good parents, but you couldn’t stand to listen to the wails every night.

Regardless, Scarlet no longer has that problem, but she didn’t like to sleep anywhere but your and Jimin’s room. In your defense, she used to sleep in your bed, but now she was in her own crib; progress. You two decided that you would deal with moving her into her own bedroom when she could just sneak back into your room on her own accord and not scream in the middle of the night to get out of her crib. You could already tell that she would be a bold toddler.

The thoughts you had in your head would’ve gotten you kicked out of ‘Mommy & Me’ in a week if you had said them out loud. Hence the reason why you only went to the class once. Some moms seemed to have a permanent stick up their ass and so much air in their head it made you feel weightless.

You can’t help but brush the soft hair off Scarlet’s forehead as you watch her sleep soundly in her crib. One of your greatest pleasures in life was watching your kid sleep and you weren’t ashamed to admit it. Once you felt your head drop in exhaustion you decided to go to bed.

Three minutes. You were standing by the crib for three minutes, max. As soon as you drag your body around to face toward the bed, the sound of Jimin’s soft snores hit your ears. The thick blanket was pulled up around his ears, a small tuft of his dark hair popping out over the top. You can’t blame him, especially now that you were collapsing in the bed beside him.

The warmth of the covers envelops your body and it doesn’t take long for Jimin to wrap his arms around you from behind. He pushes his head between your shoulder blades and a feeling of peace rushes over your body, your consciousness fading by the second.

If somebody had told you two years ago that you and your husband would be in bed at 7:00 pm, on Friday night, with a baby, you would’ve laughed in their face. Scarlet was definitely a surprise, but the best surprise that you or Jimin ever had, and you wouldn’t change anything for the world. Except for Jimin’s hand that has somehow made its way to cover your face. That you would change.

© alluremin 2019

no reposting

[hispeculiartreasure]

Dress Shopping - Steve Rogers x Reader

Well, y’all. I’m doing it.

I’m posting my writing and I’m scared out of my mind. But here we are. This is a little drabble I wrote a few months ago when found in a very similar situation. I’d love to know what y’all think. But go easy on me, hehe.

Shout-out to @ursulaismymiddlename for pep-talking me and @abovethesmokestacks for inspiring this drabble in the first place. And @firewolfkelly, it’s not the story I’m writing for that WIP challenge, but it’s something! I’ve stalled long enough. Here goes!

Word Count: 2kish

~

When you flipped through your calendar and saw ‘Johnson Wedding’ scrawled in next Saturday’s slot, you wanted to implode. The best man happened to be your ex-boyfriend, the last serious relationship you’d had before Steve. The relationship had ended. . . poorly, to say the least. Your heart had been trampled on by the manipulative jerk and it had taken a while for you to recover. You briefly pondered upon the idea of skipping the wedding altogether, but the bride had been such a steadfast friend in college and you couldn’t bear the thought of missing her big day.

You’d torn through your closet for a suitable dress, knowing full well there was nothing that would make you feel as confident as you needed to.

Huffing out a sigh, you ran a hand through your hair, hoping a new dress would appear from thin air. You were so preoccupied with how to solve your dilemma that you didn’t hear the several heavy knocks or the front door to your apartment opening. So when a muscled arm snaked around your waist, you nearly jumped out of your skin.

Steve snickered from behind you, “Sorry, darlin’, didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“It’s okay, I was just distracted,” you leaned up to steal a chaste kiss, “I’m so glad you’re home. How’d the mission go?” You rubbed the arm wrapped around you and leaned back against his broad chest, reveling in your boyfriend’s presence. His suit was scratchy against your skin, but it merely served as a reminder that he was back.

He presses his lips to your shoulder, resting his head in the crook of your neck. “It’s over, and we’re all safe. That’s what matters.” He felt the tension in your body and lifted his eyes to scan your face, noticing the furrow in your brow for the first time. “What’s on your mind?”

Shaking your head, you mutter, “It’s stupid.”

Steve’s hands settled on your hips to gently turn you around. “It’s not stupid if it’s bothering you.”

“I forgot about a super formal wedding I have to go to next Saturday and I don’t have a dress. I need a good dress.”

“What about that blue one? I love you in that dress.”

You wrap your arms around his neck as you giggle, “I know you do. You love it so much it has a rip along one of the seams that I’ve yet to have repaired.” His cheeks grew faintly pink at the memory of him being slightly overzealous after a date night a few weeks ago.

“How about the black one you wore to Tony’s birthday party?” he asked thoughtfully.

You scrunched your nose in disgust. “Eh, I didn’t like the way it felt on my hips.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed as they scanned your face. “What’s this really about, doll?”

“He is in the wedding,” you add before you began chewing on your lip nervously. You’d been honest with him from the start about the volatile relationship with your ex-boyfriend. And he’d done everything he could to reassure you that you were worth so much more than your ex had led you to believe.

Steve stilled momentarily before pulling you closer. “Okay. And you’re set on going to the wedding?” You nod reluctantly. “I wish I could be there. We just received new intel on a Hydra sleeper cell, so Tony scheduled us to leave on a mission next Friday.”

Of course Steve was going to be gone. And you’d be left to fend for yourself at a wedding filled with reminders of a failed relationship. You wanted to comfort him, let him know that it wasn’t a big deal, you could handle yourself for one day. But if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure that was the case. So instead you said, “I wish you could be there too.”

Steve’s face fell, remorse causing his brows to knit together over his gorgeous baby blue eyes. “So we need a new dress?”

“Probably. But the idea of shopping right now sounds so stressful, there’s no way I’d be able to make a decision.”

“I’ll come with you.”

You immediately began shaking your head as you said, “Oh Steve, you just got back, I’m sure you’re tired and just want to rest.”

“I missed you, doll. I don’t care what we do, as long as I get to be with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

Steve pressed his forehead against yours, breathing you in. “I know. But I want to.”

~

An hour later, Steve’s arms were laden with a dozen dresses, the pile continuing to grow. He encouraged you to grab anything you even slightly liked, promising to give you his honest opinion. After you’d barricaded yourself in the dressing room, Steve took a seat on the couch a few feet away. But none of the dresses were right. They were too frumpy, too revealing, too tight, too baggy, too eccentric, too boring.

You rubbed your hands down your face, too frustrated to look at the lime green monstrosity you were wearing. “Why did you think this would ever look good?” you chastised yourself in the mirror.

“Babe?” Steve knocked on the dressing room door, “You doing okay? You haven’t come out in a while.”

“Nooooo,” you groan, “I hate trying on clothes.”

“Would you mind if I choose a few for you to try on? I just saw a few dresses out here I really like.”

You move your hands, narrowing your eyes at the door. He wanted to. . . shop for you? The idea of Steve, leader of the Avengers, searching for the perfect dress made you stifle a giggle. Although he was an artist with an eye for colors and shapes. What could it hurt? “Umm I guess not. I’m not having any success on my own.”

“I’ll be right back, hold tight.”

A few minutes later Steve hung up another assortment of gowns in the changing room. Your eyes roved over the array of bright colors and fabrics. The only time you’d seen dresses like these was when they were on models coming down a runway. You would never pick these out for yourself, you tended to stay on the more classic side of fashion.

“Steve. . . these are. . . bold,” you comment, lifting up a crazily patterned mini-dress.

“They’re what the salesgirl called ‘haute couture’. I think they’re unique and different, just like you,” you raised an eyebrow at the cheesiness and he shrugged, “Just try them. You never know. And if you hate them, we can go to another store.”

What did you really have to lose at this point? You gestured for Steve to return to his seat, a grin seemingly glued to his face.

Steve loved you in the high-fashion gowns. His fingers itched for a notepad and pencil -- hell, he’d settle for a napkin and eye liner right now -- to capture your graceful shape in the flowing fabrics. You looked like royalty. He’d buy every single dress if he thought he could convince you to wear them all the time. You were his favorite subject, his muse if he let his artistic mind get away from him. There was something timeless about you that had drawn him in from the very beginning. You had no idea, but there were several sketchpads filled with your portrait. They were mostly drawn when you didn’t know he was looking. Steve wanted to commit your face to memory, and drawing was his way of processing you over and over.

You were perched in front of a large mirror now, not far from his seat on the couch. The dress you were currently floating around in was his favorite. The high neckline fell just below your collarbones to perch on the top of your shoulders. Ruby red flowed from the cinched waist to tumble to your feet, intricate beading swirling along. You were watching yourself with a critical eye, fingers tracing the beads absentmindedly. He could feel the uncertainty radiating from you and it broke his heart. When he looked at you, he saw your eyes shining with kindness. He noticed the pink curve of your lips and the welcoming presence your arms afforded. He wished he could show you what he saw. Which is why he would show you his sketchbooks one day, when he thought he had finally captured your perfection on paper.

The truth was, you loved this dress. This was the first time you hadn’t felt ridiculous all day -- you felt elegant. If the way Steve was looking at you was any indication, this was the dress you needed to wear to the wedding. You turned around to face the blond, his blatant adoration causing blood to rush to your cheeks. Flinging your arms out to the side you asked anyway, “What do you think?”

He muttered your name reverently before adding, “You look beautiful. And that color on you is stunning. I love it.”

“I really like it too,” you confessed quietly, looking down as you swiveled your hips to watch the fabric flow, “but there are a few more left to try on. I would hate for your hard work to go to waste,” you added with a hint of teasing.

“Sure thing. But this dress is the contender, without a doubt. Do you feel good in it?”

You tilt your head thoughtfully, nodding as you say, “I do,” and Steve’s grin widened as he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

You make your way back to the dressing room and moved a few dresses you’d already vetoed to find the last of Steve’s choices. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of the gorgeous white dresses in front of you. They were just a few fancy details shy of wedding gowns. The thought of Steve seeing these and thinking of you sent warm fuzzy feelings from your head to your toes. The two of you had never talked about marriage before, you’d never known if that was something on his mind.

Reaching out to feel the soft fabric of a lace dress, your mind began to wander. It’s not like you hadn’t thought of spending the rest of your life with Steve. Oh, you had. But you’d never let yourself dream of a wedding. Now thoughts of flower arrangements and tuxedos and rings were running through your head. There was no way you could buy one of these dresses to wear to your friend’s wedding. . . that didn’t mean you couldn’t tease Steve a little bit, though. Once you slipped the lacy dress over your head, you opened the door to show Steve.

That boy’s eyes nearly popped of out his head when you came into his line of sight.

“Steve, you know I can’t wear this, right?”

He blinked a few times, then finally looked you in the eye. “But why not?”

“Because I’m not the one getting married. . . which is usually what a white dress means. . .” you trail off, giving him a small, knowing smile.

He was quiet for a few seconds as he processed your meaning. “I-I. . . oh, yeah, ri-right, of course,” he stuttered out before clearing his throat, shaking his head while rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, “that’d be kinda rude.”

“Besides that. . . what do you think?” you almost regretted asking him, hoping you hadn’t pushed any boundaries.

Steve stood, his face pensive. He grabbed your hands in his, the pads of his thumbs swiping over the back of them. Standing toe to toe, him looking down at you with such softness, hands entwined, the warm fuzzies began to flutter in your stomach again.

“You. . . are exquisite. I wouldn’t mind seeing you in white a little more often.”

“Oh yeah?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he nodded, leaning closer so your noses almost touched. “You know what?”

“What?”

“I think I might like it better than the blue dress,” he smirked before pressing his lips to yours in a dizzying kiss. “Also,” he added as he pulled away, “I called Tony while you were changing. I got him to push the mission back so I can go to the wedding with you. If you still want me there.”

Relief bubbled out of you in the form of laughter, throwing yourself into his arms and squeezing his neck. “Thank you, Steve. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

“Anything for you, baby-doll. Now let’s buy you that red dress and go home.”

You sigh contentedly. “Sounds good to me. On one condition.”

“Yes ma’am,” Steve questioned as his large hands settled on your lower back.

“You don’t get to touch that dress until after the wedding. Understood?”

He threw his head back in mock frustration, your laughter drowning out his groans. “Fine, fine. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

Your heart swelled with gratefulness for having found this man. You thought after your previous heartbreak that this kind of affection and commitment was lost to you forever. Instead, you couldn’t help but confess just how much you cared for him. “I love you, Steve.”

“I love you too,” he returned easily, though with the same amount of gravity.

It took one of the employees clearing their throats for the two of you to separate from your embrace, something being muttered about Captain America being caught making out in public. This only stirred sheepish laughter and more kisses as you started to think that maybe this wedding could be fun after all.

[a-splash-of-stucky]

Bargain

Pairings: Steve x Reader

Summary: What lengths will you go to, to save the man you love?

Warnings: Language, implied abusive relationship, dub-con things...I genuinely don’t know what to put for this one :/

Notes: Hello, it is I, Elsa, Queen of Angst™, back with more angst >.<

Life has been c r a z y but I found this one lingering on my notes app, so I decided to spruce it up and post it on here. There is literally no context for this, I just had the scene in my head and wrote it out. Have fun trying to imagine all the possibilities, I guess. 

Also - I have not abandoned my WIPs, they are still there, I just need to carve out some time to update them :)

The brisk autumn wind whips around you, its stinging tendrils nipping your skin. You rub your sweaty palms up and down your bare arms to chase away the cold, but there’s a particular chill inside of you that no amount of friction can seem to heat up.

It’s the middle of the night. As you’d expected, the industrial yard you’ve agreed to meet him in is vacant and eerily silent. The pungent smells of urine, mould and general decay waft into your nostrils. As you pick your way through the dilapidated buildings, you note the junk stacked into haphazard piles, the grimy lights shining sickly yellow circles on the grubby concrete floor.

You round a corner and — there he is, standing with his hands in his pockets and his back towards you. Your heart skips a beat at the sight of him.

Fuck, but he is breathtaking.

Steve is standing at the far end of the courtyard underneath one of the few overhead lamps that seem to be working in this godforsaken place. The stark lighting above him, combined with the shadowy darkness of night have turned his pale blonde hair into a shade of honeyed gold. He’s wearing a black bomber jacket, a pair of basic, light-wash jeans and some scuffed black converse. When turns around and spots you, a small grin illuminates his expression.

It takes everything in you to not do the same.

Neither of you say a word as you walk towards him. Your heeled boots crunch in the gravel, the sound quickly carried away by the brisk wind. Steve stays where he is, hesitant to approach you. You come to a stop when you’re about three feet away from him, your hands clasped in front of you, your gaze downcast and to the left, focused on a tuft of grass emerging through the gravel beside his feet.

“You look good,” Steve murmurs, in lieu of a greeting.

You don’t reply. Instead, you self-consciously tug on the hem of your little black dress, painfully aware of how much thigh it is exposing.

“You couldn’t have picked a more shady spot to meet, honey,” he continues, gesturing in a grand, sweeping motion with one hand. A pregnant pause, then, “I missed you,” he adds quietly, like it’s a secret he’s been holding onto.

Fuck. This is going to be difficult.

Your hands ball into fists as you squeeze your eyes shut. You exhale slowly through your teeth, willing your racing heart to calm the fuck down. When you open your eyes, you find Steve looking at you with his head cocked to the side and a line creasing the centre of his perfect brow.

It’s now or never, woman.

“Steve, we need to talk,” you say, proud of how clear and steady your voice is.

His mouth twitches at the corners. “Kinda…figured that’s why we’re here, right?” Steve asks carefully, in a voice that tells you that he’s more confused than he’s willing to let on.

“When were you gonna tell me?” you ask, injecting as much spiteful venom as you can into your words.

“Tell you—what?” Steve echoes, his brows knitting together, his body is beginning to tense up defensively, in response to your accusatory tone.

You swallow back the bile rising in your throat. “Steve,” you growl, “Don’t fucking play dumb, alright? Gimme some credit, here.”

“Honey, I genuinely don’t—,”

“No?” you snap, shooting him as much of a murderous glare as you can manage. “There were so many that you just lost count, huh?”

You can see the gears and cogs spinning like crazy inside his head. Steve is frantically racing to figure out the reason for your anger, but—fucking hell. He’s giving you his confused puppy look and goddammit Steven, why do you have to be so good at that?

“Let me spell it out for you, Steven,” you grit out, when you think you’ve allowed him to puzzle it out for long enough. “I know you’ve been screwing around behind my back.”

“WHAT?” Steve shouts, utterly aghast. You wince internally, fighting hard to not let your true emotions show. You can’t betray the real motive behind your dramatics, but fuck if it isn’t killing you to do this. You want to take it back, you want to take it all back, to throw yourself at his feet and say you don’t mean any of it but you can’t. God, you’d give anything to wipe that look off his face; the hurt, the betrayal, the completely lost and—and heartbroken look in his eyes.

You swallow, buying yourself some time and mentally steeling yourself for the next blow you’re about to dish out.

“Steven, cut the bullshit,” you hiss, “I’ve seen the videos myself, I know the truth.”

“Videos—what?” Steve sputters, shaking his head in disbelief. “Honey, honey, I swear, I didn’t—whatever it is, I didn’t—no, I swear.”

“Steve, I’m done,” you say, the finality evident in your tone. “We’re through.”

He’s been respectfully keeping his distance up until now, but Steve now takes two long strides to stand beside you, catching your wrist as you’re about to turn away and stomp off. His touch is like an iron brand against your skin, the calluses on his fingers familiar and strangely comforting. You want to turn into his grip, to fold yourself into his arms, but you force yourself to yank your hand out of his grip. “Steve, let me go.”

“Please don’t go, honey,” Steve begs. You don’t have to turn around to know that there are tears flowing down his cheeks; you can hear them in his strained, broken voice. “I—I don’t want you to leave—please, I—”.

“Too bad,” you spit, forcing yet more venom into your words. “I’m going.”

“Sweetheart, I—I love you! Please,” Steve cries desperately, his other hand curling over your shoulder, trying to get you to turn around. You struggle against him, resolutely staring in the opposite direction, because you know that once you make eye contact, it’ll all be over.

“No,” you whisper, your voice as coarse as the gravel beneath your feet. “Don’t do this to me, Steve.”

“I—will you, please,” he begs, “Please, I swear on my life, sweetheart. No one else. No one else owns my heart—whatever you saw, it wasn’t—please, baby.” Steve is inching closer, trying to wrap his arms around you, even as you fight to shove him away. You wedge your arm between your bodies and manage to press your palm flat against his chest, pushing hard against the unyielding wall of muscle.

“Stop it,” you growl.

“I can’t, baby, I can’t — you…you make me crazy, you make me want to tear the world apart so we can be toge—,”

“I said stop!” you shout, your voice ringing loud in the deserted yard.

Steve’s jaw slams shut with an audible snap. His hands loosen their grip, allowing you to pull yourself away. You curl in on yourself, bringing your shoulders up to your ears and your arms over your chest. The intensity of Steve’s gaze is practically burning a hole into the back of your skull.

“You don’t mean any of that,” you say, voice barely louder than that. “You—you say it, but you don’t mean it.”

“I do,” Steve says, voice equally as hushed as yours. “With every single fibre of my being, right down to the nucleus of every atom, sweetheart. I love you. I was made for loving you.” The sincerity is evident and it’s physically hurting you to push him away like this.

“Oh really?” you snap, spinning around without warning to snarl in his face. “You love me, really?”

Steve’s brows knit together, the confusion and sheer helplessness written all over his face. His eyes and expression hide nothing — you can see the gears turning inside his head as he tries to make sense of the situation. You’re praying, pleading to the heavens above that your acting skills are up to par; if Steve has any inclination whatsoever that your word are less than genuine, then this would all have been for naught.

He can never know the truth.

“Sweetheart—,” Steve cuts himself off, chewing on his bottom lip as he rakes his fingers through his hair. The tear tracks on his cheek glisten in the murky light. “Baby—whatever’s hurting you…you know you can tell me, right? We—we love each other, and whatever it is, we can work it out. Together.”

“Is that right?” you snap, your voice wobbling a little as the threads holding your facade together begin to fray. “You love me, is that right?”

Steve opens his mouth but you barge on before he can get another word in. Your composure is rapidly slipping and you need to finish this, now.

“I’m not your sweetheart, Steve,” you say coldly. “What we had—yeah. Yeah, it was great while it lasted. But this is on you, Steve. This,” you snarl, gesticulating between you and him in tight circles with one hand, “This is over.”

“Sweetheart—,”

“I am not your goddamn sweetheart!” you shriek, “Fucking stop it will you, you sick bastard!”

Steve jerks back, the force of your words cutting deeper than any knife ever could. They’ve had their intended effect, though; you’ve stabbed him right where the heart is.

But at what cost?

You ache to take it all back, to apologise profusely and swear that you meant none of it, but you can’t. You’re seconds away from puking your guts out, so you hastily deliver the last blow.

“Heartbreak hurts, doesn’t it?” you spit out, “Guess you should’a thought of that before you went and stomped all over mine. Have fun tryna piece yourself back together, Steve,” you say dismissively, turning on your heel and strutting away.

“Y/N—,”

“I’d say see ya’ around,” you call over your shoulder, “But if you come anywhere near me again, I will cut your balls off.”

As you cross the courtyard once more, you don’t hear the telltale crunching of footsteps rushing after you. It’s worked, then.

Blistering hot tears sting the back of your eyelids. The pain in your chest is becoming increasingly acute. You dare not turn around, fearing that the sight of Steve — the love of your life — will be too much for you to handle, in your compromised state. With a resigned huff, you tug down the hem of your dress and march across the courtyard, before weaving through the tight alleyways of the industrial yard. You shoulder open the chain-link fence that marks the perimeter of the site, and, just as you expected, a nondescript, sleek black hair awaits you.

As you approach it, the back door swings open. Your pace falters as you swallow nervously. This is it, you think, as you cast one last glance over your shoulder, towards the yard. Towards Steve. You can’t see him now, as there are too many buildings in the way, but you bid him a silent goodbye, nonetheless.

Squaring your shoulders, you stride forward with confidence and slide into the car in one seamless motion, the door swinging shut automatically one you’ve tucked your legs in. It’s pitch black inside the car, thanks to the heavily tinted windows. The interior reeks of fresh leather.

“Well done, Agent,” croons a nasally voice that seems to originate from the shadows themselves. The mere sound of it sends a sickening shiver down your spine. You fingers tug at the neckline of your dress, wrenching off the mic clip attached to it. You toss the mic to the floor in disgust. You realise that your hands are trembling like leaves in the wind.

“You promised me,” you whisper, your voice wavering slightly as your fingers curl into tightly-clenched fists in your lap.

“Indeed,” the voice continues, inching closer as its owner slides across the backseat towards you. The car lurches to a start, knocking you off balance. You sway at the sudden motion and an arm slings over your shoulder to steady you, drawing you against the man’s side. It takes everything in you to not retch at the contact. You have to physically restrain yourself from shaking him off.

“He’ll stay safe?” you ask, despising how timid you sound.

“I am a man of my word,” he says, avoiding your question. “But only if you uphold your side of the bargain.”

You feel the tips of his fingers trailing over your bare shoulder. You squeeze your eyes shut, battling down the panic and nausea trying to claw their way up your throat. You know how this night is supposed to end; you’d walked into this agreement fully aware of all the terms and conditions, but none of that knowledge is helping to make this moment any easier. You’ve brokered a deal with the Devil himself, but you’re not ready to accept your fate.

Please don’t hate me, you think, as you feel cold fingers pinching your chin and tilting your face upwards, My heart belongs to you, darling. It’ll always be yours. I love you, Steve.