#ignore the dark sketch lines still visible

[mostlydeadallday]

Lost Kin | Chapter XXVIII | Darkness Like Water

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: panic attacks, body horror, self harm AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XXIX | No More Questions First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Chronological Notes: Hornet revisits Deepnest. Hollow finds new resolve to hold to. Worldbuilding Deepnest was so fun, even for the brief period of time I spent there. I love taking bizarre and creepy locations and turning them around to imagine them from the point of view of the people who live there; for Hornet, returning home would be a great comfort, as Deepnest is the source of nearly all of her good memories. And here we also get a taste of one of my pet headcanons: vessel body language!

○

Hornet was home.

She would have known with her eyes shut, with her hands bound at her sides, with her mask wrapped in silk. The rumble of the ground beneath her claws, and the damp chill of the air against her shell, and the faint vibrations singing through the silken lines strung along every tunnel. Deepnest stretched out before her, vast and dark and beckoning, and every breath, every stride, felt lighter than the one before.

With one hand on the tunnel wall and the other on her needle, she stalked the empty passages, mouth cracked open to scent the air, though she smelled nothing more than damp stone and fungal spores, and the occasional trail of a deepling as they scurried between cracks in the walls that were too small for her to fit through. It was quiet, or as quiet as it ever got, the heavy air scattered with chattering and chirring in the distance, or the tapping of many legs across the ceiling above her. She knew where she was going; she always did. She was never lost here, not with the silk lines to guide her.

Under her fingers, one of those lines quivered.

She paused.

The line twitched again, scraping her chitin. The motion was almost large enough to be visible, the overbearing frequency blotting out the quieter hum of the other lines, practically screaming at her.

She turned back to look over her shoulder. The tunnel behind her looked no different, the faint glow of luminescent fungi silhouetting the sketched shapes of unfinished webs and the gleaming curve of an ancient shell embedded in the wall.

 The thread jerked again, and again, vibrating against her fingertips, the motions random, panicked, never quite falling still before the next shock came.

Something was caught in the lines.

Something big.

Hornet whirled and paced back along the tunnel, switching hands with her needle to skim her fingers along the wall, ensuring she did not lose the trail. The silk-lines, besides being a means of wayfinding in the pathless dark, were the pulse of Deepnest, allowing its inhabitants to keep watch on any trespassers that ventured in from hostile lands, or any beasts that rose from the lower tunnels to menace the spiders and their kin. Shape-changers and mimics, things that spread themselves out along the walls, or pressed into cracks and crevices with only the smallest feelers showing, waiting for an unsuspecting traveler to pass.

She was a hunter, and she wore the cloak to prove it. It was her responsibility to keep the tunnels safe, to string the traps and tripwires that would sing out far and wide, announcing the presence of anything clumsy or ignorant enough to stumble into them.

The line jumped beneath her hand. The farther she walked, the louder it hummed, and she broke into a low, springing lope, muffling her footsteps as best she could but willing to sacrifice stealth for speed. Whatever she had caught, it was strong, strong enough to potentially snap her silk and leave her with nothing but an empty trap.

She had never felt a motion like this. She knew most things that could fall into her traps, knew what they felt like, how they struggled, and this was not one of them. She was only a few leagues from the village. What could possibly have avoided capture for this long, creeping so far into Deepnest without her hearing about it?

The tunnel ended abruptly, spilling out into empty space illuminated only by the network of soul-silk strung from the foggy heights.

At first she could only see the motion, the frantic twitching of the lines to and fro, the unfamiliar creature trapped so deeply in her web that its form was lost beneath the tangle. She gripped her needle hilt, fine traceries of soul already threading between her fingers as she called up a defensive spell. There was no sound besides the taut humming of the traplines; this thing was either unwilling or unable to cry out, perhaps stricken mute by terror, or fearing to draw predators to its position.

Her fangs twitched. She swung up into the lattice, dancing across the bobbing threads, stringing a safety line behind her as she climbed toward the ceiling. Needle still gripped in one hand, ready to strike at whatever showed itself beneath the webbing.

She leapt the final distance and crouched atop the net, needle drawn back, soul buzzing through her veins—

A white mask jerked toward her, a white mask with slanted black eyes, a white mask with long, graceful horns—

It was Hollow in her web, twisted and trembling beneath her silk, their head arched back by a cable caught around their horn, their single arm wrenched behind them by the force of their struggles. Skeins of silk wrapped her sibling’s body, cutting into their joints and the soft places between their armor, looping round their neck and digging long gouges into their exposed shoulder.

They saw her. Their flailing stilled for an instant, though the whole web reverberated with their frantic terror, and she could see the way their chest heaved, the way their fangs glistened wetly, exposed to the light by the strained tilt of their head toward the ceiling.

Her insides knotted tight with horror. She was breathing nearly as fast as they were, panic welling up like an ice-cold spring, lost for answers, lost in the wrongness of them being here, of their neck twisted back and their claws tangled in steely threads, of their night-black shell wrapped cruelly tight with her silk.

She opened her mouth to speak, to call out to them.

Nothing came out but a spider’s hiss, rattling up her throat and splitting the chilly air.

Hollow writhed.

Fueled by terror, they thrashed against the web, arching further as the cutting threads pulled tight. Black limbs, long and clawed, yanked so hard that the trapline slipped beneath her feet. Hornet gasped, the sharp sound echoing, and snatched at the cable beside her. Her claws plucked it like a harp string and it snapped—

She dropped backward into darkness like water, like water closing in on her, sliding past her chitin like a clinging cocoon, and when she tried to scream it crept down her throat, dripping, choking, leeching the soul from her body and leaving it cold, cold, cold as death—

Hornet sat up.

The gasping was real. She’d been hauling at the air like a drowning thing, she could feel it in her throat and lungs, the way they ached and scratched within her. She kicked at the cloak she’d dragged over herself in the middle of the night, now bunched around her knees and tangled with her heel-spurs, until it was a puddle on the floor and she sat naked and chilled and panting on the hearth, claws half-clenched, stuck in midair with nothing to strike out at.

A nightmare.

Another nightmare.

The throbbing panic in her veins had no chance to drain before she spotted movement in the corner of her eye. Hollow.

Her sibling, very much awake, very much not trapped in a web in the dark, had started to push themselves up on a quivering arm, their wrist bowed so deeply that she thought it might snap, silk-sheathed talons slipping on the damp stone floor. They were fast, already halfway up before she had breath to speak, legs curling to push them into a crawl, neck trembling with the formidable task of holding up their head.

“No,” she gasped, and scrambled up, both hands extended, shaky as they were. “Stop. Stop.”

Hollow jerked to a halt, shoulders hunched, breath scraping hard through their throat.

Hornet had to beat back the memory of her nightmare, the uncanny glow of their mask in the dark, the harsh, unnatural angles of their limbs trapped in silk. They were not in Deepnest, not suffocating slowly in a web of her own making. They were safe. She was safe.

She had no one to blame for these horrors in her head but herself, though she couldn’t help another surge of impotent anger directed toward the Nightmare King, knowing he stood by and gorged himself on the terror of Hallownest’s lonely survivors. It felt good to have a god to curse, even if he was not the one responsible for her suffering.

She took a breath, and then another, until she thought she could speak without her voice cracking. “It was only a nightmare. There is no danger.”

Hollow—moved.

They broke their stillness to curl up slightly, chin tucked and head bladed sideways, presenting the smallest silhouette their ridiculous horns would allow.

She stared, frozen in the moment, in the strangeness of it. This… this was odd, especially for them. They had previously expressed very little besides fear, and that only sporadically; she suspected they were frightened much more often than they let on.

This was something different, though. This looked—

Oh, gods. On any other creature, anything else besides a vessel, she would call this shame. Or submission. A passive, self-diminishing response to a threat or an authority, a plea to be forgiven, or ignored.

Then she realized they were still holding themselves there, unsteady, in pain, because of her, because of the order she had unthinkingly given them. Expecting punishment, more than likely, for disobeying her, for acting without instruction.

Her shoulders slumped. She had been trying so hard to avoid this, to avoid treating them like—like her father, and she had already failed. That they felt the need to submit to her, to hold themselves still and wait for whatever she meant to do to them, was proof of it.

“Everything is fine,” she began, and when it sounded like she was speaking through a cracked flute, she cleared her throat and started over. “I understand that you were startled, but please—do not injure yourself trying to help me.”

They did not move, only peered up at her with their single visible eye, their head hovering near the floor in an attempt to diminish themselves. Their horns were nearly as tall as her, so the effect was useless, but it still pricked at her heart, like a shard of glass in a closed fist.

Was this what they had been trying to do during the fever? When they flinched back from her, when they stared up at her in exhausted misery she knew now had been genuine?

She could ponder that later.

Even as she thought that, she knew that she wouldn’t, that she would coil it up tight and push it down deep like everything else she could not afford to feel. Later was never, where she was concerned, and she had no intent to change that.

“You can relax. I am not upset with you,” she tried again, taking another step toward them, watching for a response, any response, any indication that she would not have to command them again. Perhaps it was futile—and she knew she was running out of time before they collapsed.

Was it selfish of her, to experiment now, at their expense? Just to salve her shame at snapping out an order while half-awake and panic-stricken?

She sighed, quietly, and swallowed her pride. “Hollow, lie down.”

They did as she asked.

Her heart was still beating hard, her limbs filled with shivers of energy, but she curled her claws into fists and shoved the crawling, clinging urgency away, on top of all the other things she told herself she would deal with later. By the time they relaxed again, that ugly rattle settling in their chest once more, she had condensed the panic into something smaller, tighter, something cold that lingered in her throat, like a drop of ice.

She would deal with it. They did not need her fear, in addition to their own.

Approaching slowly, she looked them over, walking up their length to inspect the full scope of their injuries. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch them again—she meant to give them the opportunity to ask to be touched, and didn’t want to chance that now, not with them still calming from their panic.

Her transference rune was intact. Nothing had changed appreciably since last night, nothing reopened or inflamed, though the infection still shone between the wider plates in their chest, like a slit of lamplight beneath a closed door.

Her hands clenched tighter, and she made them open slowly, made herself look away. Hollow didn’t seem to have noticed; their breathing continued to calm, the rattle dying down as their nerves subsided.

Well, today was off to a wonderful start.

Hornet nearly laughed, a sharp, biting thing that would undoubtedly have confused her sibling to no end. Or frightened them, or made them cower again, waiting for her to turn her anger against them.

She’d have to keep her reactions in a tight grip from now on. She was not on her own anymore, couldn’t let her composure slip.

The very thought made her want to bolt out the door.

She couldn’t afford to run now. The problems she had put off yesterday were still here, staring her in the face. She would just have to learn to direct her energy there, instead of vanishing every time something frightened her.

Distantly, she recalled the mental list she had begun the night before. Finish the laundry. Finish the mending. Make a nest for herself. Remake the bed for Hollow. And bathe them again. And give them a refresher on the signs she had taught them yesterday.

Hornet wanted to do anything but sit calmly and play tutor. Nevertheless, the signs would not take long, so she stepped over to the bookshelf to retrieve the sheets of sketches she had begun the day before.

Hollow’s next inhale rasped sharply, and she snapped a glance toward them. The tension she had seen bristling in their shoulders the day before was back, though they did not move while she stared at them, and she could detect no difference in the tempo of their breathing.

Hollow might not want her to play tutor, either.

She exhaled around an oath, not allowing her frustration to show, and placed the sheets back on the shelf. It could wait, at least until they were no longer stressed by her sudden awakening.

That tension did not dissipate, even as she stepped away from the bookshelf. She should have known better. Instead, she sat down and opened her sewing kit, pulling the unhemmed cloak into her lap to finish.

They would relax again eventually. All she could do was wait.

○

She was watching it.

It hadn’t intended to express its fear—it was only that after half-rising to go to her, its chest was tighter than it should be, and the unease constricted it further, until it had no choice but to make a sound as it breathed.

It should not have risen, either. She had been in no danger, and had said as much. She did not want it to protect her, especially not from a threat it had proven worthless against.

It could not protect her from nightmares when it had failed to protect the world from dreams.

Regardless, it could still see the papers resting on the shelf, waiting for—what? For its sister to finish her mending? For a moment when she could catch it unawares?

It should not feel this way. It should not be dreading her every move, lest she ask something of it that brought back the fear, the panic that cascaded down in an overwhelming wave. She would do so eventually; she could not help it. It could not predict when that might happen, when it might stumble unwittingly into a trap set by its own mind.

She wanted it to speak. She wanted information from it. It was obviously capable of providing that. And that should be enough.

It was not.

The very thought of what she might ask set its heart fluttering. What if she conceived of questions that it could not even fathom, questions that sent it tumbling into a pit so deep that it could not see the bottom?

It was weak indeed, if that was all it took to topple it.

And she knew. She changed her plans when she sensed its fear, delaying them until—until—

She had finished her task now, time spiraling away from it as it lay there in gnawing pain and apprehension, and she stood, and she would reach for the papers next, and ask it to answer her, to do what was forbidden to it, to speak of its pain—

“I’m going outside to finish the laundry,” she said, interrupting its alarming litany. “I will not be gone long.”

She did not bother to put her freshly-mended cloak on before stepping out into the rain, and it saw her hunch her shoulders through the glass as the water hit her. Her shape blurred and shifted as she stepped further away, blots of rain crossing the window and obscuring the shine of her dark shell.

Its next breath was deeper, more painful, and whispered softly as the air released, the twisted scarring in its throat giving it more of a voice than it ever had. The fear did not leave it, only changed, shifting shapes like the runnels of rain.

Watching her step out the door tightened a different thread around its heart, even as the dread of learning her purpose for it loosened.

She was plainly upset, even if she pretended not to be for its sake. And that was another puzzle entirely. Perhaps she reasoned that it was unlikely to be of any use to her—to anyone—if it was paralyzed by fear. So she hid herself away, attempting to bury her anger, her disappointment, though it sensed them in her all the same.

It did not know what she wanted.

She hated the city, the rain, the house. She had nearly torn the room apart yesterday, dissatisfied, and the vessel had wondered why she did not simply leave, as she had done after it revealed itself to her. Why had she come back? Why did she diminish herself? She was a hunter, and stasis did not suit her.

It was so caught up in its own misgivings, its own failures, that it could not obey her as it should.

If it could not force itself to do as she asked, would she finally leave it behind?

Its heartbeat surged. How long did it have before she truly tired of it? It had managed to break its constraints for her, once, twice, at the cost of its own terror, and… she had stayed, had rewarded it, and now she seemed to expect that it would do so, and it did not know what to do.

Would its sister have left it already, if it had suppressed the pain and never spoken to her? Was her renewed interest keeping her here?

It knew the Radiance had always enjoyed watching it break, when it could bear the pressure no longer.

It had so far been capable, technically, of what its sister wanted. It possessed the intelligence to understand and the physical ability to obey. But the panic was an unknown. The panic would seize it like a fist, refuse to release it, and its mind would unravel, and all of its composure would slip from it like beads from a string.

It could not unthinkingly obey. Not anymore.

A memory rose unbidden into its mind. Sister’s hand, a dark blur before its mask, trembling before it ever pressed its face into her palm. Sister’s voice, cracking like a broken plate, whispering comforts as it struggled to obey her.

She had asked it to spare itself pain. She seemed frustrated when it hurt itself, intentionally or not. And she had reacted with horror when she learned of the pain her own actions had caused.

She was not like the goddess. She was not.

The blank space in its mind was terrifying. If she did not desire its pain, its submission… if she did not value its restraint, or respect the boundaries that had been placed on it… what did she want?

It inhaled again, trembled, and its claws flexed minutely, expecting a silk binding and meeting none. Its eyes tracked the mottled blur of her through the window, as she worked to rid her things of the void-stains it had put there.

It was trying, little sister. It was trying.

Would it ever be free of this crisis? Would its own mind never cease to torment it?

And why should it matter? It was made to fulfill a purpose. Nothing else should stir it, no hardship shift it from its goal.

That goal was out of reach now, but it had found another. It would do as its sister asked. It would submit to her new purpose for it, whatever that might be, however ill-suited it was for the task.

It should be grateful, really, that she had found a use for it at all.

The fear shifted once more when Hornet returned, carrying a heap of wet laundry that nearly overtook her horns. It did not move, controlling its breathing with an effort, pushing its resolve to the forefront of its mind. It was something to focus on as its sister switched out the laundry, folding the clean linens and hanging the wet ones to drip-dry, the sound of their pattering strangely lonely in the muffled silence of the room.

The pile dwindled and was gone, the clean curtains and towels stowed away, and at last she dried herself off, and donned her clean red cloak from the hook where she had hung it, and reached for the papers on the shelf.

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#lost kin chapter #hollow knight #hk hornet #hk the hollow knight #hollow knight fanfic #mywriting #lost kin fic #hk

[varietales]

Hobbies and interests.

Over the years, there has been many things that she has denied herself as they were irrelevant to her mission or were a distraction. Some activities, such as swimming and dancing (ballet) were ones she was able to justify as training, and so they were allowed (yet she did her best to ignore any sense of enjoyment).

Now that she has moved on from restricting herself so much, she can allow herself to enjoy things.

Ever since joining Mermaid Heel and spending time in the guildhall, she’s been exposed to music due to Lady Evie’s love and skill with it. Music of all types and made with a variety of instruments has long been heard throughout the guildhall, and while Kagura has always found a certain strange peace when listening to particular types and instruments, it’s now that she can let herself pursue the possibility of learning an instrument herself. The violin has always caught her eye.

As a child, before her life was ripped apart, she’d always loved playing in flower filled meadows. Flowers have always called to her soul, and now she is learning Flower magic, something that her younger self would have been over the moon about. Along with learning Flower magic, she has begun to learn about the language of flowers and how to care for them too, as well as flower arrangement.

Along with flowers, she had a special place in her heart for butterflies as a child. They were so pretty and delicate. She now allows herself time to study and sketch them whenever she visits a lovely garden where they tend to appear.

Birds have also been recipients of her admiration, with their graceful wings and freedom. Like with butterflies, she sketches them, learns about them, or simply watches them when the opportunity presents itself.

Sunrise is her favourite time of day, the promise of a new day and new opportunities, she is typically up every day in time to see it. On the flip side, she enjoys the night sky when the stars are visible. Darkness makes her uneasy, reminding her of confined, tight spaces, yet the stars show she’s not caged in and there is a whole expanse around. It wouldn’t be uncommon for her to be staring up at the skies on a clear night.

Tea has been the one indulgence she allowed herself over the years, primarily because Evie always had a wide selection of it at the guildhall and insisted on its benefits, so Kagura was able to justify it to herself. Telling herself she can enjoy it for the simple sake of enjoying it has been a slow process.

Born from a family line of bladesmiths, it’s of no surprise that she is drawn to swords and blades of any sort. The study of weapons was another activity she justified as part of her training, yet even though she’s no longer on her darkened path, she still finds herself as equally interested and motivated to the craft and knowledge as she was before.

TL;DR: She likes flowers, butterflies and birds and will study and sketch them and would collect pretty ornaments of them. She also likes swimming, dancing, and music. Her favourite time of day is sunrise, she also loves the stars. She is an avid tea drinker and likes swords.

#❰ ･ﾟ❀ ― headcanon. kagura. ❱

[abovebelowetherington]

Sick of his fellow overloads ignorance and abuse of their status and power the overlord of the land of dark roads decides to send out his right hand man and top knight Fang to go and deal with those lacking leaders by traversing the worlds they ruled and get them to do their jobs right even if it means things have to get BIT physical 

as mentioned fang is our main character of the game and his design was inspired by a plethora of different sources, though most notably from a glance is the knight/ghost from hollow knight though he also has inspirations from other sources like other indie protagonists and other less convectional sources, for example while I planned for him to go for him being a silent protagonist who doesn’t emote again just like the knight however some recommendations from kyrstie got me to compromise on being a bit more unique with his personality while he still remains mute I made him more emotive by having the eye sockets of his skull mask emote as if they were eyeballs, this idea was mainly inspired by the design of Gromit from Wallace and Gromit, in those films Gromit doesn’t have visible mouth and since he’s also silent means that a lot of his emotions have to be expressed through his eyebrows and body language 

(side note but this moment in a matter of loaf and death was hysterical)

as well as that I also pulled a bit from Gromit's personality into fang which can be seen in some of the smaller doodles I created for his character sheet a somewhat relaxed and grounded straight man who has to deal with the bombastic chaos that those close to him and complete strangers seem to bring, this is why I depict him reading a book as despite being a combat trained swordsman Fang still has an appreciation for those more peaceful activities 

as well as further showing of elements of his personality I also included some drawings of members of his species in their infancy this not only fleshes out the idea that fang isn’t just a random entity that just materialised out of someone's toilet one day and just never seemed to leave but show’s off that yes he is a member of a species and that that species has stages in their life similar to all living things, I also really enjoy the visual of the little fangs trying to wear the oversized skull mask it’s very charming even I’ll admit that.

in terms of process for the original pieces the first 3 coloured sketches were made in a different pen compared to the rest as I was experimenting with different pen options to look one I liked. while I liked it it sometimes made the line art itself too messy so coming into the college I switched to a cleaner one that still functioned different compared to the default options but to go to the very start of the character sheet I had a few basic sketches with some pictures in the background of all the initial big inspirations that inspired my idea as you can see here I wanted to go for fang to have fang to have both a cloak and scarf but eventually decided on just going with a cloak with a hood attached instead since the scarf on cloak look may have not meshed well, also as you can see I was looking at various different types of skull heads for the initial design conception those being a T rex skull death from have a nice death Tabi an original character designed for a friday night funkin mode and the pyromancers mask misc from team fortress 2 all had a part to play in the initial conception of fangs design 

as things progressed I decided to give his body a very androgynous lizard like look seeing as his skull design already looked like it belonged to some type of lizards like creature I felt it fit I added other elements such as a tail toe nails and a crack on his left eye socket to give the character a bit more history like they experienced events before the games story, as such these were the first finished drawings of fang, and while there have been some smaller character alterations I.e his horns being far bigger in future drawings and being overall a bit rounder and more goofy these few pieces ultimately laid the groundwork for all future drawings of him.

after getting recommended to add some extra doodles to fill some space on the sheet from kyrtie I both made a few drawings in class as well as creating some wholly original ones for the sheet as well, either way all these doodles were then added to the character sheet to give it some more life and show off fangs personality more as well as fill out the space better, these were the original slightly rougher sketches which you can see for a few as I then decided to make some slightly cleaners ones for the final piece 

which finally leads us to our FINAL result with the less messy sketches this one wasn’t too really just cleaning up the line art in a new layer and adding some better details while still giving off the same vibe, overall after the marathon that this blog was to write as it probably was to read (sorry to either Kyrstie or Chris for how long this was lol) but I really wanted to cover most of my bases with fang from his production to his role in the story to his character basically just spill the whole can of beans to give a concessive blog on this character.

I don’t have much of an outro or conclusion other than fang is a character who’s design I really enjoyed making and talking about thank you and goodbye 

#FINAL

[greyskyflowers]

I like the idea of Tsukishima having soulmarks that link him to mobster/yakuza/criminal Bokuto, Kuroo, and Akaashi. Dark AU with soulmarks as tattoos and hints of magical realism.

It's just an excuse to imagine dark and possessive OT4. My favorite ~ 🖤

Soulmarks are meant to be eye catching and impressive, it represents the person meant for you and their love.

Tsukishima's marks have always been a little different though.

He has two big silver and black feathers that start behind his right ear and go down his throat to his collarbone. They're incredibly detailed and the lines are blackblackblack and the silver sketched through to add detail glows like platinum.

He never thought of feathers as unsettling but these are. They're impossible to ignore due to size and coloring, looking especially menacing against his pale skin. They ripple like they're catching the breeze and he catches himself running fingers over them absent-mindedly with the expectation of feeling soft tips. He's narrowed it down to owl feathers but not anything more specific than that.

He also has a paw around his wrist, it resembles a cat print before slowly morphing into a human handprint. The ink on this one is also a blackblackblack that lightens into a charcoal grey as the print becomes more human. There's rich red just barely tracing the lines, like rust or blood.

It's a big hand wrapped around a big paw print. The dark ink makes him think of panthers and the way red blood would soak into black fur. The ends sharpen into claws when he feels threatened or particularly mean and it makes him hope this soulmate will snap back at him when he feels snarky.

When he meets them, because he's well aware that there is at least two, if not three the feathers throw him off. Is it one giant mark or two of the same? His own color will fill in on his tattoos. The same way his soulmates will have their respective colors added to their own tattoos.

He wonders about them, about how big the marks are and how dark the ink is. He knows what the superstitions say about soulmarks like his.

How big marks are possessive

How dark ink is strength and desire

How bright colors are always admired but the vivid, deep colors are the ones that go down to bone

He could cover them, there's plenty of makeup and creams meant to help hide marks due to abusive partners or inappropriate marks.

But he doesn't want too. He wants them visible so they can find him.

The marks are possessive and he'll die before admitting it but he likes it. He likes that people leave him alone or back off quickly when they catch sight of the marks.

There's also a little voice in the back of his head that whispers how they wouldn't want him to cover the marks, that doing so wouldn't go well if they ever found out.

He gets use to imagining fierce owls and big cats, to the idea of sharp eyes and possessive hands and someone belonging to him and he to them.

When he meets them, time doesn't stop or angels start singing or anything like that.

He gets shoves into a brick wall one evening while walking home, rough brick digging into his skin and body going stiff with surprise.

A face presses against his neck and he would have started fighting if he hadn't felt the odd feeling that comes with a soulmark filling in.

The man is huge, with sharp golden eyes and arms bigger than Tsukki's head. He smiles like he's baring his teeth and he can't stop rubbing his thumb against one of the feathers.

Okay, mark the possessive thing down as accurate.

It's a whirlwind back to where ever he takes Tsukki, who's still trying to process everything.

The man crowds up against his back while he unlocks the door to a upscale apartment. Tsukki absent-mindedly noting the fact that the man's hands could probably meet around his waist.

He's nudged in and the lock sounding behind him feels final. Everything he's ever learned about stranger danger and not going to someone's house and not putting yourself in bad situations gets tossed out a window.

The hair on the back of his neck is raised but he also knows he belongs here, with a huge hand on his lower back and being guided to meet the others. He feels safe and scared and his heart is beating fast with either excitement or apprehension.

He doesn't get a chance to take in much about the apartment, other than his soulmates clearly don't have money problems before he's led into an office type room where two other men are.

They're both older than him, as he assumes the man behind him is as well. They look professional, faces a little mean before they seem to realize who barged in.

It takes a minute but they can't keep their hands off him when it clicks who he is, when they realize who the big man behind him has brought home to them.

The paw print belong to the man with black messy hair, a smirk that almost looks more like a snarl and hazel eyes that say mineminemine.

The other man claims the second feather. He's smaller than the others but no less intimidating. He's also stoic in a way the others aren't, dark blue eyes and brilliance lurking in their depths.

His marks burn pleasantly and he's not stupid, he knows dangerous men when he sees them. Feels calloused fingers against his skin and wonders if the dark shapes he saw on the table were guns.

He supposes he made his peace with that awhile ago though, the first time someone mentioned how dark and heavy his marks were.

His feathers are now lines with a vivid copper that makes the silver and black stand out even more. The paw print have bright copper claws that clashes beautifully with the red.

It's perfect.

They belong together. Like how cats and owls are creatures of the night, who live in shadows and hunt with silence while the moon hangs in the sky and drops kisses on fur and feathers.

#haikyuu #kuroo tetsurou #tsukishima kei #akaashi keiji #koutarou bokuto #bokuakakurotsuki #haikyuu!! #kurotsuki #bokuaka #kuroboku #akatsuki #bokutsuki #kuroaka #haikyū!! #hq #hq!! #dark au #soulmate au #soulmark au #yakuza au #playing volleyball with greyskyflowers

[shootybangbang]

In which peaches are eaten in more ways than one

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Explicit

[Prompt]: Arthur watches you seductively eat a juicy peach (from @outtricking)

[Ao3 Link]

———

The abandoned manor’s peach orchard is overgrown with tall grass and small white clusters of wild carrot blossoms. Most of its trees stand bare, choked with ivy, the vastness of their skeletons the only testament of their former grandeur. But here and there are straggled survivors, the majority of which have long since been picked clean by other travelers and passing wildlife. The only fruit left is strung up high in the topmost branches, hanging down golden-edged and plump. Ripe enough to make your mouth water.

“I don’t think climbing’s an option,” you say, pressing down on a tree’s lower branches to check its give. “We could get a big stick and try to knock ‘em off, or maybe you could just… uh… y’know… ”

You mime picking up an object and placing it on your shoulders.

Arthur sighs. “You want me to carry you.”

“It’s quicker and easier than anything else.”

“You ain’t paid me to be your horse.”

“That’s true,” you admit. At this point, the number of things you’ve had him do out-of-contract would probably fill a book. A decent person would concede his point and apologize. Instead, you try out a more oblique method. “And I’m probably too heavy for you, anyway.”

He gives you an irritated glance and shakes his head. “You tryin’ to bait me into provin’ you wrong?”

“Figured it was at least worth a shot,” you say, shrugging.

Arthur looks up at the top branches of the fruit tree, then at you, and works out a rough height comparison in his head. He sighs again and kneels down. “Alright then. Get on.”

“What — really?’

“Don’t wanna hear you complainin’ about this later is all.” He looks back in your direction expectantly. “C’mon. You want them peaches or not?”

You place a tentative hand on his right shoulder, leaning against him for support as you swing one leg over his left. “Then do I just… um… like this?”

“Yeah. Just like that. And now the other — yeah, there we go.”

Arthur steadies you by holding down your knees. He grips you firm but gentle, like a man trying to keep something frail and flighty from slipping between his fingers, and stands up.

The sudden shift in balance is startling. Your hands frantically search for something to hold onto for support, and you end up grabbing at his wrists as you reorient yourself. He stiffens at the contact, but says nothing.

When you’ve straightened your back enough to survey your surroundings from your new vantage point, you take a moment to appreciate the new perspective. “So this is what it’s like to be tall. Bet you run into a lot of spiderwebs.”

Arthur ignores this. “Can you reach ‘em?”

“Yeah, I think so.” You twist off a particularly large peach from a nearby branch and take off your hat to use as a makeshift basket, then swivel your hip to reach towards another that’s just barely within your grasp. “Too bad we’re not close to town”, you say, thinking already of possible desserts. “Sophia told me that over in Georgia they eat peaches with cream and sugar, and…”

For a while, you ruminate dreamily about peach cobblers and preserves, about the luxury of vanilla ice cream melting on latticed peach pie. And all the while Arthur clenches his jaw and tries as hard as he can to concentrate on what you’re saying in an attempt to divert his focus from the weight and warmth of your thighs atop his shoulders.

It’s something that he’ll carry with him for some time, he recognizes with a heavy pang of guilt. Something he’ll almost certainly keep carefully tucked away for later, when he’s alone in his own bedroll.

———

Late afternoon, you help him set up camp along the Kamassa River. After the horses have been watered and the kindling gathered, you both sit sprawled and weary against the ruined hull of an old boat half-sunk in the sand.

Resting his head against the sun bleached boards, Arthur briefly closes his eyes.

Through the woods comes the sound of cicadas, deafening in their multitude, ringing like an omnipresent hum, insistent and rhythmic in its cadence. Like a chant, a soft murmur of chitinous voices. Alongside it, the quick, clear notes of riverwater running through the rocks and the rustle of leaves overhead, the sway of branches arching from the wind in slow, lazy waves that merge overhead like a green sea.

And the distinctive scratch of graphite across paper. He drowsily cracks an eyelid open and angles his gaze downwards.

The battered notebook in your lap looks like it’s seen its fair share of miles. It’s tattered and dog-eared, with smeared ink at its edges. The leather cover is scuffed and stained, and the pages don’t quite sit flat, due to the occasional pressed flowers trapped between them.

He watches you scrawl out what looks like a brief itinerary of the day’s route, listing off landmarks passed along the road and detailing what flora and fauna you’re able to remember. Then little snippets of description that you cross out and rewrite with increasing frustration, disjointed but pretty little phrases littering the margins…

Your pencil stills. “You’re reading over my shoulder.”

“Trying to.” Arthur points to the corner of the page, where you’ve drawn a wobbly line with little stick trees atop it. Under it is a crude half-circle labelled boat. “This supposed to be where we’re at now?”

You bristle. “Yes.”

He gropes for something inoffensive to say, then opts for silence.

“Well, you’re the artist,” you say, offering him your pencil. “You draw it.”

“Sure,” he says, taking both notebook and pencil in hand. He flips to a clean page. “Not like I can do worse.”

Brushing sand off the seat of your pants, you stand up and stretch, raising your arms high and fitting your fingers together like interlocking gears. “I’m gonna go check on the peaches.”

———

The Kamassa runs cold, even in the dog days of summer. Earlier, you’d wrapped the peaches in sackcloth and submerged them in its waters, then ringed them tight with rocks to hold them in place. Now, you cut an inelegant figure as you crouch at the river’s edge and fish one out, cupping it thoughtfully against your palm to check whether it still holds the fading glow of afternoon heat.

You pick out the two biggest peaches in the pile before resecuring the rest, then seat yourself back beside him and proffer one to him.

Arthur shakes his head. He’s in the middle of sketching the sandbar in the middle of the river, drawing the shapes of shrubs and other assorted vegetation out from the blank paper expanse. “Don’t wanna get the page dirty.”

“Make sure you eat one later then,” you tell him. “So you don’t die in a ditch before I can hire you out again.”

He snorts. “Didn’t realize peaches could make a man bulletproof.”

“Ah, well… it’s more of a superstitious thing, really. Like knocking on wood or throwing salt over your shoulder.” A hint of embarrassment creeps into your voice. For a moment you seem almost shy — but then you toss a peach up in the air and catch it again, like a performance of the world’s worst juggling act, and it passes. “You give people peaches for good health and a long life. Considering your line of work, I figure you need all the help you can get.”

“Figure a decent gun’ll do me more good than any peach ever will,” he says wryly. “You eat ‘em both. God knows you need the luck just as much as I do.”

———

The rippled light reflected in the water is only just beginning to tint gold. The horizon edges pale, shifting slow to the soft, warm shades of early evening. But only the faint suggestion of it, a subtle gradation filtering in imperceptibly at the present, but that he knows will flood in all at once with the inevitable trajectory of the sun.

Golden hour, Mason had called it. Goes quick, but it’s worth it. I’ve known some photographers to set up camp and wait all day for just that little window of time.

The landscape itself feels soft and heavy, almost drunk from its own perfect interplay of light and dark. The clarity of day dims to a suggestion of itself, and everything is briefly gilded, momentarily transfigured into something striking and achingly pretty, and you no exception.

A sliver of sunset settles over your skin. A veil of amber, a veil of rose, both colors folding in on themselves like silk. The glint of light that reflects across your irises makes visible the ridged corona circling your pupils, the tiny crenellations and impurities of color. Bright and sharp as cut glass.

He watches you bite into a peach, and its dusk-pink skin breaks beneath your teeth with a wet, crisp noise as you tear through to the soft and yielding flesh beneath. Then you bite down again, and your lips are shiny with nectar now, dripping with it.

A clear rivulet of peach juice runs down your wrist like blood. You raise your arm to your mouth to catch it, then trace it back to its source with your tongue, and he can’t help but wonder at the taste — the sweetness of fruit mixed with the salt of your skin.

“Oh, these are really good,” you say with pleasant surprise. “Sure you don’t want one?”

Arthur tries to suppress the sudden twinge of arousal running through his body by staring very hard at a tree. “I’m sure.”

When he’s finally able to settle himself to a manageable level of sexual frustration, he forces his attention back to sketching. He lays out the wash of sand and silt that lies liminal between woods and water, then the ridge of grass that marks the river’s reach when swollen with rain and spring melt. The twinned, twisted alders on each shore whose roots hold fast to the ground as their boughs reach over the water and towards each other, like doomed lovers. The gaptoothed boat hull half-buried and long abandoned.

By the time he’s finished, both peaches have been reduced to their pits, and the light has begun its transition to a deepening red. A last brief cry of sunlight before it’s stifled by the cold blue of evening.

“It’s beautiful,” you tell him, when he hands the notebook back over. “If you finally get tired of robbing stagecoaches, you should do this for a living instead.”

He makes a dismissive noise, but there’s a clear look of satisfaction on his face. “You flatterin’ me because you want another favor?”

“No, I’m serious. This is pretty enough to belong in a book.” You touch your fingers to the page with the kind of care he’s only seen you lavish on the things he’s known you to hold very dear: the faded red hair ribbon, the well-thumbed guide to wildflowers, the thin jade pendant you sometimes wear tucked under your shirt… and now this — just an offhand scribble of his of no particular effort.

“I, uh… it’s a real rough sketch.” A flush of embarrassment colors his cheeks, and it’s obvious to anyone with eyes in their head that for him, compliments are a gift as rare as they are precious. “Next time you hire me out, I’ll sit down and draw you something proper.”

“I’d like that,” you say, and nod. “I’ll hold you to it.”

———

A few hours later, Arthur sits by the fire and tries to measure the exact depth of the idiocy he’s plunged himself into.

You’d gone to bed first, citing exhaustion. And he’d taken the time spent alone to jot down a few thoughts in his journal, attempt a handful of sketches, then inadvertently kindle in himself a desperate, hopeless need for intimacy so intense that, were he truly on his own, he’d not have hesitated to take himself in hand for relief.

It’s a foolish thing to do, encouraging his own infatuation like this. But the images are fresh in his head still and his hand itches to put them to paper, wanting to keep them somewhere beyond the whim of memory.

And so he traces with his pencil the soft, indulgent cast of your eyes as you’d cupped the peach in your hand, bringing it to your mouth with the simple decadence of Eve and her apple: the innocent gesture embodying something intensely sinful. Each bite near tangible in his blood, as though it were his heart in your teeth, its every painful beat an ache of barely suppressed impulse.

Then the drip of nectar down your wrist, the pink flick of your tongue lapping it up with a quick, smooth glide across your skin. Peach juice glistening on your lips like honey. And his own base reinterpretations of it all, distorting reality to innuendo and bringing to the surface things he’s only let himself imagine in the confines of his cot, with the tent flaps drawn tightly shut.

The weight of your thighs on his shoulders comes to mind again, and if he shuts his eyes he can nearly place himself into that oft-used fantasy of his — you, sat on the edge of a hotel bed with him knelt before you, whispering hoarse and breathless praise as he licks into you. Your fingers running through his dark blond hair as you speak to him like a favored pet.

The flat of his tongue running against your clit with slow, careful strokes. Your desperate whimpers as he draws the nub between his lips and sucks, the tremble of your body, the taste of your slick. The sound of his name on your lips, the syllables of it faint and shivery with pleasure.

And afterwards, the sight of you sprawled across the sheets, eyes dreamy and soft as you beckon him towards you. Take out your cock, you’d say. Show me just how much you liked doing that to me.

Arthur closes the notebook and walks down to the river. He dips his hands through its surface, the reflected moonlight there rippling into a bright mosaic of broken glass in his wake, then cups the cold water between his fingers and splashes it over his face.

“Dirty old man,” he mutters to himself. “Oughta be ashamed of yourself.”

When he reaches down to repeat the action, he brushes against sackcloth and automatically pulls the bundle of submerged peaches from the water.

Long life and good health, you’d said. He scoffs at the very notion of it. It’s a foreign concept for someone who’s taken so many lives that he’s all but guaranteed his own to be nasty, brutish and short.

And truth be told, it’s been a long time since he’s even bothered to think about any future for himself outside of the immediate. Not much to look forward to save the small, petty pleasures afforded to him, most of which have been bought with the blood of other men. Not much to work for, save the next big score. The promise of stability — it’s not a luxury afforded to the likes of him. Nor should it be, if a man’s fate really is weighed by his deeds.

He’s made his peace with it by now. Kept his expectations low and steered clear of personal commitments. So it’s really very stupid then, that he’s spent so much time nursing the seeds of his own wretched affection that they’ve already begun to sprout.

More and more these days, he’s caught himself marking down points of interest whenever he’s out wandering. Setting up the skeletons of future excursions in his head. And with each new meeting, the possibility of the next looms in him eager and expectant.

Arthur unwraps a peach from the sackcloth and brings it to his mouth. It’s sweet — sweeter than it has any right to be, growing as it has unattended and abandoned in that red Lemoyne dirt.

The cicada song has quieted to a whisper. Fireflies spiral in arcane patterns over the grass, blinking their silent messages through the dark. Night birds are calling, their sounds strange and strident over the rush of river water.

In the midst of all this, Dutch Van der Linde and all his talk of savage utopia seem further away than ever. More past than present.

He bites into the peach again and closes his eyes, savoring the taste. Long life and good health. Probably no more unfeasible than any other thing he’s had preached to him for the last twenty years. And not an unpleasant prospect, if the days spent are anything like this one.

No, he thinks to himself, pulling another peach from the bundle. Not a bad prospect at all.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #red dead redemption #rdr2 #fic #smut #my work

[words-writ-in-starlight]

also 9, 18, 29, and whichever other one you have the most potent Idea(TM) for, for leverage/dishonored au~??

GOD I love that AU so much yeah let’s do that.  Starring Empress Parker, Lord Protector Eliot Spencer, and Natural Philosopher/Inventor Hardison. I lost this in my drafts, sorry about that.

9. What is the most embarrassing thing they have done in front of each other?

Hardison has blown himself up in front of his Empress and her bodyguard so many times that he should be over getting embarrassed by it, but he isn’t.

Parker knows she didn’t actually die--admittedly, the recovery time from jumping over the rail, sorely wounded, and landing badly in the water below the overlook was long enough that she doesn’t hold it against everyone for thinking otherwise, to say nothing of the rest of it--but she hates knowing she lost that fight.  It was an attack she couldn’t have hoped to see coming, literally out of nowhere, and if even Eliot couldn’t stand against it, she didn’t have a hope in hell, but.  She hates knowing that she lost that fight, and she hates knowing that she lost it in front of Eliot, and she hates what happened afterward, and she hates what it did to her people, and she hates what it did to Eliot, condemned to torture in Coldridge for a regicide that didn’t happen, what it did to Hardison, left lying to save his own life in the new court so that he could try to prove Eliot’s innocence, and it’s not embarrassment, it’s so much worse than that, but--  It’s close.

Eliot is both extremely embarrassed and not remotely embarrassed about falling more or less to pieces, when he finds Parker alive.  On the one hand, he’s her guardian, he’s not supposed to look weak in front of her, it’s literally his job.  On the other hand, she’s been dead over a year, Eliot and Hardison have been mourning her like a severed limb for over a year, and now she’s here, scowling and rubbing her wrists where he cracked the cuffs off her after handling Moreau in a very permanent fashion, and--

He’s entitled to a little bit of a breakdown, he thinks.

18. When they fight, how do they make up?

So...Coldridge changed a lot.

It wasn’t actually Coldridge, it was everything, but if you asked any of them, it was Coldridge.

Eliot and Parker have had some fucking arguments in their day, mostly early on, when Parker was a recently corralled and unwilling imperial heiress and Eliot was a Lord Protector that she picked because she thought he would be easy to convince into slacking off.  Unfortunately for her, Eliot has never slacked off a day in his life, and the first time he caught her sneaking out via rooftop, he shouted at her like no one had dared shout since she was crowned.  She yelled right back at him, but--

Ultimately, the thing is, he was only angry with her when she put herself in danger.  She learned to think a little more carefully about what was likely to get her killed in a way that Eliot couldn’t protect her from, and Eliot learned to let her run a little wild, for her own sanity, as long as she took him with her and didn’t do anything actively stupid.

Eliot and Hardison bickered constantly, of course, and if either of them crossed a line, they’d go out of their way to make it up to each other--Eliot would leave one of Hardison’s favorite meals on the table so he’d remember to eat while he worked, or Hardison would build Eliot some new inadvisable gadget and invite Parker to come watch them test it for an hour or three.  On the rare occasions that Parker and Hardison really fought, Parker would hide for a few hours and then Hardison would corner her and they’d have an emotional conversation about it and then they’d be fine.

And then...well.  Then Parker was murdered, and Eliot was blamed for it, and Hardison was forced to lie for a year to stay alive in Moreau’s new court, and--

A lot’s changed.

Parker just wants things to go back to normal, as if she’d never been presumed dead for a year--she can’t bear the way they treat her like glass.  Hardison is being eaten alive with guilt for what he said to the court, the lies he told to survive--he can’t let himself be angry with Parker or Eliot, under any circumstances, when he feels so much more to blame for everything.  And Eliot--Eliot can’t speak.  Can’t sleep much.  Doesn’t like to be touched without a warning, doesn’t like to be alone, doesn’t like having his coat taken away from him, never goes anywhere without three knives.  He hates teaching them sign language, but he hates not being able to talk to them more.  Parker suggests bringing in a tutor, someone who knows the Serkonan sign language Eliot learned as a teenaged sellsword, and he scowls deeper and deeper until finally he just.  Walks out of the conversation.

Parker is in possession of what could be called interrogation records, if you wanted to make the understatement of the century, so she knows that Eliot’s voice is gone for good.  So does Eliot, if he’s forced to admit it.  Too much damage from that time he almost cut his own throat, from his tongue being cut out, from screaming until he tore all the tissue to tatters.  He just--hates it.  He hates it.

He takes a few hours to pull himself up onto the roof he used to yell at Parker for crawling on, and just sit there and mouth curses in every language he knows.  Then he takes some deep breaths, and climbs back down, and goes back and finds the Empress again.  

29) Why do they fall a little bit more in love?

After they fix things--as much as they can fix, dragging every one of Moreau's lies into the light and scorching the fucking earth on his entire network--Parker sits up late at night, in the darkness of her quarters lit by the dull glow of the city below her windows. This isn't particularly new. None of them sleep all that well anymore. God knows she woke up from a nightmare. But tonight is...quiet. She's the only one awake.

Hardison is still asleep on the lounge, a sketch for a new kind of crossbow open under his hand and his head tipped toward the bed. Eliot is asleep on the bed, his back to the wall--Parker made them move her bed into the corner, after she came back, after probably decades of the imperial bedchambers being unchanged. He's curved toward her like a parenthesis, and he slept through her waking, something he hasn't done since she returned. The dim blue light of the city softens all the scars of the last year and a half, until Hardison's hands are clear of burns and Eliot's throat is unmarked. Parker can see them both breathing, slow, almost perfectly synchronized.

It's only because she's watching so closely that she sees Hardison stir and grimace, flexing his pencil hand and cracking all the knuckles. She holds a finger to her lips, and he nods, and she gestures him toward them.

That does wake Eliot up, the motion of the mattress sinking down as Hardison settles on her other side, and her guardian jolts up automatically. He makes a gesture toward the pair of them, not sign but an obvious pantomime of switch with me.

"You gotta sleep, man," Hardison says quietly, gently, and Eliot's face goes forbidding, and Hardison reaches out across Parker, moving with a syrupy half-asleep slowness that's probably at least half genuine, but also gives Eliot plenty of time to knock him away. Eliot doesn't, and Hardison pinches Eliot's sleeve and tugs on it like a kid, the way he used to when Eliot was ignoring him.

Parker blinks at Hardison's arm, stretching over her, and grabs Hardison by the wrist. He lets her manhandle him without a fight. She sets his hand on top of Eliot's, and then wriggles down until she's lying down between them, their joined hands on her belly, rising and falling with each breath.

"There," she tells Eliot. "This way, if we move, you'll wake up."

Eliot's hand is clenched around Hardison's fingers so tightly that it makes his knuckles white, and Hardison squeezes back, and Parker wonders if maybe it's not worth it, if maybe they should just let Eliot go back to watch and stop trying to honeypot him into a full night of sleep. But then--then Eliot lets out a breath and visibly forces his fingers to relax, and rubs a thumb over the burn scar on the back of Hardison's hand.

He nods, and Parker nods back.

She doesn't know how much Eliot managed to sleep, by the time they wake up in the morning, but his drawn, grey pallor is a little less in the sunlight.

#leverage #leverage ot3 #parker leverage #alec hardison #eliot spencer #dishonored au #ot3: til my dying day #ask meme #headcanon meme #starlight writes stuff #the ask meme i DIDN'T FORGET ABOUT #sorry kells i did not pick a fourth headcanon because these are all ESSAYS #anyway i'm still obsessed with this au as a concept #parker the involuntarily recruited empress in hiding! #hardison the brilliant natural philosopher forced to denounce his lovers in order to live long enough to clear their names! #eliot the god! damn! tragedy! the lord protector! the survivor of coldridge! #and then they all get a happy ending together #(for a given value of happy but LIKE. is that not life? is that last headcanon not pretty happy as such things go?????) #they do all end up fluent in serkonan sign but also they develop a half-coherent private shorthand #THEY understand it perfectly but it makes parker's imperial tutor (aggressively vetted by eliot) completely frantic #cthulhu-with-a-fez #asked and answered

[birdsaesthetic]

Jane’s sketchbook

Summary: Jane freaking out over losing her sketchbook, my participation for 12 Days of Blindspot.

A/N: I wrote this a while ago then ignored it... But then I saw these prompts from @holidayblindspot which reminded me of already having written something that goes with one of the prompts, so I thought this was a sign for me to edit it real quick and post it. I’m so exited to be sharing this here because it’s beautiful and really worth sharing. ENJOY! 

Day 5: A ruined day. 

“Kurt,” Jane called from across the front room, to which Kurt immediately looked up and responded, “Yeah?”

“Have you seen my sketchbook?”

Looking around him quickly yet carefully, Kurt murmured, “No,” he then looked up at her, who seemed stunned at having heard the No from him. 

The two were in the middle of unpacking the boxes they brought up with them from their old apartment in New York all the way to the new one in Colorado, which, after managing to unpack the majority of the boxes and placing their contents ever since morning, it finally started to feel like home. Like their old apartment in New York. 

Doing so had been so fun at first, each one was having a glass of red wine in hand and there was loud music playing in the background and, since there weren’t curtains covering the windows just yet, there was the beautiful addition of bright and warm sunlight streaming inside the spacious front room that felt so rewarding and motivating. But when the sun went down, taking with it its light and warmth, the work got monotonous, and so by now they were both exhausted and hungry. 

Jane was also confused now. 

She looked down at all the boxes scattered on the floor around her, which were almost empty by now, and she felt the world spinning around her in confusion and fear for having been unable to locate her sketchbook among all these boxes. 

“Why? Couldn’t you find it?” Asked Kurt, seemingly confused too as he approached her.

Creases were starting to form on her forehead as she shook her head in confusion. “No,” she said quietly, then jumped from one box to another, double checking each one, randomly, quickly and with both hands, as if she were digging into a hole. And then, after all of that, which was in a span of thirty seconds, she shook her head yet again, though this time in disappointment, and looked up at Kurt in a plea for understanding. “I don’t know why I can’t find it because it should be here. I put it here. I put all my small things here, and I didn’t have a lot of things!” 

Kurt was standing right before her by now, hunching over to check inside the boxes again. It was helpless, he knew; she’d already rummaged in all those boxes with eager hands and big eyes and yet found nothing... But if there was a one-in-a-million chance, he would absolutely take it when it came to her.

When his eyes, wide open, met hers, he suggested, “Okay, maybe you’ve just got confused. Try to remember where you’ve last seen it.” She swallowed hard and tried to do as told, mouth slightly open. She settled her gaze at a random spot on his chest as both of them stood close against one another, then she pushed her mind so hard to visualize where she’d last seen the sketchbook and what she was doing, so she could retrace her steps in the process and hopefully remember something. 

But it was after a long, unbearable moment when Jane pushed her lower lip out in a sad pout and gave a shake of her head. Kurt hugged her loosely then. “It’s okay, we still have another set of boxes to be delivered here tomorrow morning.” He reminded her. “Hopefully we find it within one of the boxes then.”

Jane pulled back to look up at him, the sad look remained on her face. “But those coming boxes only have the kitchen supplies!” 

“You don’t know, maybe you forgot it there!”

“It’s not possible... I put it here,”

“Everything is possible.” He encouraged, then added, “Aren’t you hungry by now, though? Because I’m so hungry! How about pb&j for dinner, huh?”

“I don’t mind.” Jane muttered with a shrug. 

Together they decided to call it a day after dinner and climbed into bed, crawling close to each other as they lied down against the mattress. Their foreheads were touching as they shared a loving gaze, then Kurt whispered, “Can I get my good night kiss, or you don’t feel like—”

“No—yes, of course you’re getting your good night kiss!” She rushed to say, reassuring him just before she smiled the tiniest of smiles and kissed him hard on the lips, to which he kissed her back even harder. After that, she placed her hand over his arm that had been wrapped around her waist beneath the blanket, lifted it, rolled over to her side, and again let his arm be wrapped around her waist. This was how she’d always loved to sleep with him: she’d turn her back to him and he’d take the cue and cuddle her from behind with a light arm across her waist beneath the blanket and a soft kiss right behind her ear that would make her hum and snuggle deeper into his embrace until they’d look like two spoons in a drawer, very tight against each other. 

As she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, hoping to raise up to a promising morning that would bring with it her sketchbook, she could swear she saw the vague afterimage of the sketchbook in her eyes, but then she opened her eyes and only saw the darkness of the bedroom...

She didn’t own a lot of things, really. The only things she owned and loved so much were that sketchbook and her marriage ring. The engagement ring was as if glued to her finger ever since she had worn it years ago. As for the sketchbook, she had always made sure to keep it within her hand reach, though this time around it oddly disappeared! 

It was the very first purchase she made solely for herself when she started to receive a regular paycheck after working formally for the FBI. At first she didn’t know what to do with such a decent amount of money since she’d already been provided with a place to stay in, clothes, a cell phone and food—usually her detail had dropped food at her place without even asking for anything back, which made her really embarrassed.

It could be the crack of dawn or early morning when Jane fluttered her eyes open the next day, and after a long moment of gazing at Kurt’s sleeping face, she gave him a soft kiss on the temple then eased herself out of bed. With her eyes half closed, she managed to step the few paces toward the bathroom, rinsed her face in the sink, brushed her teeth and finally put on a comfy sweater she gripped from the hanger. 

Yawing, she stumbled across the front room that was messy with boxes they hadn’t even bothered to flatten or push away last night, until she made it into the kitchen. There she stood in the center, stretched her neck, and yawned some more with her eyes pressed close. When she reopened her eyes, the sight of a can of cocoa shoved in the far corner suddenly inspired her. And so, as if drawn by a magnet, she stepped toward the refrigerator, opened it and examined its contents, though there wasn’t much to see. There was random stuff and among them was a brand-new bottle of milk, which she only needed to fix a cup of hot cocoa for now.

She took it out then brought up a pan. There she poured some of the milk, dissolved cocoa powder, and finally put it on the stove to simmer. Standing with folded arms in the dim lighting in the kitchen, she stared down at the pan as the milk boiled within it, and after a full minute of waiting, small curls of steam rose into the air and the scents of cocoa powered revolved all around her, to which she felt torn between wanting to savour it immediately or just stand there and inhale it. But she awaited a bit more. Next she poured everything into an oversized cup with a faint smile. 

Warming her fingers with the cup, she made her way to the dining table, then settled on a seat there as she began taking small sips of the hot cocoa before it had even cooled off, to which it took her by surprise at first at how hot it was, scalding even. 

During such times, when she woke earlier than she would and was by herself, she would bring up her sketchbook and sketch on it whatever she was feeling at the given moment. It was the perfect timing and place to do so; her thoughts would emerge so originally in the early mornings, they wouldn’t be conflicted nor affected by the day’s activities just yet. 

She hadn’t known how good she was at sketching until one day she held a pencil, a very sharp one, and began sketching without any struggle. Back then, when solving her tattoos had been what her life was basically all about, she used to sketch them individually in hopes of finding any connection that might help figure out what they actually meant. But then as the days passed, she thought she wanted to do something else, something that was in a good way stirring her heart down to the depths, just like the way her spoon was stirring her cup of cocoa now.

And so, with her pencil sharp, she began with a light outline of a face, next she worked on the eyes, which she made them like the shape of almond. She let out a sigh then,  knowing that the eyes must be the toughest part, before continuing with them. She drew the first pupil, purposely making it darker than the eye, then did the same for the other eye. She added a little shading underneath the eyes and from there she started with the nose, extending two lines where the inner corners of each eye were located. 

The rest went easy: she did the eyebrows, the lips, the beard and then the hair, creating a solid and visible looking hairline from the sides of the head. 

It was Kurt’s face that she sketched and it looked impressive at the end. She made him look as if staring at her, and made his expression soft with a faint smile—the way he’d usually look at her. 

It was quiet around her now, not a single sound, until she heard running waters within the bathroom and, a minute later, she saw Kurt emerge and approach her. “Mornin,” he smiled, his face awash with decent sleep, his hair... so fluffy she couldn’t help but think it needed a trim, so badly.

“Mornin,” she replied. 

He bent down and stole his morning kiss from her then hummed. “You taste like a really good hot cocoa!”

“Because I was drinking one.” She told him, showing him her cup, almost empty by now. 

“Can I have the same?”

“Sure.” She got up and started doing the same thing she did earlier, taking the same measurements. 

“Did you sleep well, Jane?” He asked as she waited by the stove for the cocoa to simmer. “Yeah.”

“You don’t look like you slept well.” He claimed. 

“I slept well, Kurt. Now tell me, when is our ship  gonna get here?”

“Maybe after a bit.”

She served him his cocoa in a brand-new cup, and he took it with all smiles after thanking her. 

When their another set of boxes arrived, after some time, Jane tucked all of her hair back behind her ears and, kneeling down, she eagerly began looking thoroughly in each box along with Kurt. As she’d said before, the boxes contain kitchen supplies: dishes, cups, mixing bowls, knives and spoons, a cutting board, blender, vegetable peeler and a number of whisks. 

But even after all this effort, they couldn’t find it, Jane’s sketchbook, among all of those things. 

She stood up on her feet then, and took a deep breath, tired and disappointed, her palm wiping away the sweat on her forehead and her eyes, helplessly, maintained searching in the mess of boxes on the floor. 

“It’s alright, I’ll get you a new one, I promise.” Kurt tried to soothe her, to which she looked up at him and, shaking her head, she complained, “It’s not about getting a new one, Kurt. I need my old one back. It carries lots of memories and...” she trailed off with her head falling down, but after a moment of silence Kurt approached forward until he closed the gap between them and cupped her face in his hands, lifting it to his level. “We will be making new memories here. Beautiful ones.”

“I know, but...there’s just one drawing of you within the sketchbook that I just love so much and I want it back.”

“You have lots of pencils and papers here. You also have me here. I will sit still the whole day so that you can draw me, I really wouldn’t mind, you know me.” He suggested, to which she smiled the way one corner of her mouth tilted up whenever she felt affection for him, then chuckled. “You don’t have to. I can draw you easily without having to look at you.”

He grinned. “Right, because you’re the most talented person I’ve ever met.”

“It’s not wholly because I’m that talented though. I wouldn’t be able to do that with anyone else except for you, because I always have you in my head—this is how and why I drew you in the first place. I know your face very well—even more than my own, I would say—and I know how you would look from every angle.”

He pushed his lower lip out in an impressive pout, feeling awash with affection for her. “You know lots of things about me! Do you also wanna know what I know about you?” He asked, having already slipped both hands from her face down her neck, shoulders, and finally her waist. And before she could say anything in response, he was tickling her there. “I know how to make you laugh, and laugh, and laugh.”

She was laughing then, pleading him to stop it, squirming her body out of his arms, and calling his name aloud and repeatedly, but that was only for him to reward her with more stroking against her waist, the area where he knew was very sensitive for her. She tried to fight his firm grip around her, tried to push him away, tried to run away, but seconds later she was, almost instinctively, clutching into him hard, as if holding for her life, and kept laughing nonstop, like she never had in her whole life, head dropped back exposing her neck for him to bury his face there, mouth open to the fullest, and eyes squeezed. Her laughters rolled about the front room in the early morning, like a child's spinning top, vibrant and heart-warming as it moved around them in its chaotic way. It came in fits and bursts—loud to soft to nothing when she was gasping for breaths in-between, then back to loud again and so on.

Just like this, her previous, sad face was replaced with a happy and laughing one.

He really knew how to butter her up. Always had.

A/N: I don’t really support the idea of Jeller moving out of New York after canon. I love them to be there and I think it suits them perfectly to be New Yorkers. But I had to fake it only for this fic’s plot. So they’re still in New York in my head now, enjoying themselves...

#blindspot #blindspotfic #jeller #holidayblindspot

[elsanna-shenanigans]

April Contest Submission #3: Prism of White

Words: ca. 5,200 Setting: Modern AU Lemon: No CW: none

Light filtered through the window casting the room in a golden glow. Papers lay crumpled and torn on the coffee table and the floor beneath. Anna tossed her sketchbook on the table and threw her pencil next to it. Weeks passed and she still didn’t have another good idea for her next art piece. Her hands grasped a pillow on the couch beside her. Her freckled face buried in the soft cushion, a muffled groan joining the white-noise of the television in the background.

Art had been a passion of hers ever since her stubby toddler fingers first grasped that pack of cheap crayons. Her parents laid scrap paper out in front of her at the kitchen table. The adults left the room shortly after thinking little Anna would be occupied for a little more than five minutes.  Overjoyed with all the colors in the box, now strewn over the table some rolling to the floor, little Anna picked up the green and began to scribble in swirls and loops like any child does. Her mother came back ten minutes later to check on her and grab a cup of afternoon coffee. A gasp tore from her throat and her blue eyes widened at the site. The walls had been little Anna’s first canvas.

She laughed at the memory, the sound muffled by the pillow still pressed against her face. The scolding she received after that event lost to the feeling of joy at the colors swirling around her. Back then art had been carefree and fun. Now the blank pages in her sketchbook mocked her with that textured whiteness.

Twenty-one years of sketching, painting, throwing color on canvas’ of varying degrees, making a life out of it. A dream come true. One that would have been impossible if not from the support of her friends and family. One person in particular. Elsa.

Little Elsa could light up Anna’s world by merely stepping into the room. She used to be so very timid and quiet, often opting to hide in the corner with a book than engage with the other kids her age. Anna managed to pull her into their little games anyway.

As the two grew older their interests diverged slightly. They both found joy in the arts, joining in theater at school for fun, playing and listening to music (although their tastes differed vastly at times), and studying the history behind all forms of art. A bond formed and kept them close even when one started painting and sketching while the other used words to color with.

A writer’s search history and an artist’s eye left plenty for friends to laugh and grow concerned about.

Anna lifted her head from the pillow feeling someone fiddle with her twin braids. She smiled already knowing who it was behind her.

“What are you so distressed about?” Elsa hummed out sweetly. Her  eyes swept over the paper littered around and the discarded sketchbook. “Can’t think of a good idea?”

Anna groaned again and buried her head back in the pillow. Her reply came muffled and she knew Elsa wouldn’t be able to understand a word of it. This problem she had wasn’t that much of a big deal. Anna knew that. Every artist had periods where they couldn’t draw. An artblock as she so affectionately called it. But this felt different. She had ideas. The vision of what she wanted to draw sat crystal clear in her mind’s eye, but when she picked up the pencil each stroke on the page felt weighted. She knew what she wanted to put on the paper. She hated each stroke she made and the finished result. Weeks of this and the stress of not creating made her head spin. The ride she had been on had stopped with her sitting upside down unable to do anything.

The couch dipped beside her as Elsa sat down. Pale hands pulled the pillow Anna was secretly hoping would suffocate her until freckled cheeks and a pouty lip were visible. Anna whined and reached out for the cushion. Elsa held it out of reach ignoring the dark spot where Anna drooled on it.

“Ah-Ah,” Elsa wagged her finger. Anna’s shoulder slumped forward in despair. “You can get the pillow back and resume your little, um , whatever you were doing after you tell me what’s wrong.”

Sea-green eyes lowered to the open sketchbook, a frown settled on her lips. “I - I hate everything I make and it’s driving me crazy.”

Elsa set the pillow aside and shuffled closer to Anna. She gave her knee a reassuring squeeze and gently asked, “Is it one of your artblocks?”

Anna shook her head, braids swaying. “No, this is different. I know what I want to draw, I have the motivation to draw, but I can’t seem to like what I make. I hate the finished result, even if it looks how I wanted.” Her eyes glistened with frustrated tears, “It’s been like this for weeks and I’m going insane trying to fix it.”

Elsa cupped her cheek, running her thumb soothingly over the skin. Anna nuzzled into her palm, eyes fluttering shut at the coolness of her skin. “Anna,” she opened her eyes to see an amused smirk dancing on pink lips, a glint of humor dancing in blue eyes, “is this your first burnout?”

Her whole body stilled at the question. Burnout had been something she knew her artist friends over the internet talked about. How it could hit someone suddenly or slowly creep on through the years. The former could usually be seen coming and dealt with by short breaks, but the latter often crippled careers as it snuck in through the cracks undetected and infected everything slowly like a poison. Anna gasped lightly at the realization.

The ride she had been on for the majority of her adult life (granted it had only been 3 years since she graduated high school) was fast paced and constantly moving. She did not stop or get off, only urging it to move faster and faster. The need to create and improve outweighed any thought or concern the stress her body and mind were put under. She ignored all the signs, the warnings people told her to look for and now the stress had crushed her.

“What am I gonna do?” Her voice came out broken and unsure. Burnout was a completely foreign field for her. There was no map for her, no field guide to help her navigate through this problem. People mention taking breaks and stepping away from art for awhile to recharge, but that seemed impossible. How could Anna stop creating, when all she wanted to do was create?

“Is this new project for a client?” Elsa noticed the distress on Anna’s face and dropped her hand down from her cheek to grasp shaking ones.

“No, it’s one I plan to sell, or have prints made for my shop.”

Elsa nodded, “Okay. And do you have any client work lined up for the month?”

Anna answered in the negative. She had started a new system for her works where certain months she decided not to take on any client work. It was an attempt not to be too overwhelmed working on custom pieces that allowed her the freedom to work on her own as well. The system worked fairly well until this burnout happened. At least it happened now instead of when she had to work on pieces for clients.

“Okay, okay we can definitely work with this,” she breathed out a plan already forming in her mind. She knew Anna wouldn’t take a break willingly, that wasn’t her style. She would draw and paint until her hands fell off and even then she’d learn to use her feet instead. Nothing would stop her, not even the end of the world. The complete opposite of Elsa who procrastinated her own projects till motivation was high or the deadline approached. She often wondered how they never drove each other crazy doing things so differently. Instead of finding a reason she just blamed it on love. It was better not to question it anyway.

“Anna,” she turned and faced the younger woman determinedly, prepared for protestation, “do you trust me?”

Anna cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “Of course I do, silly. It’s part of why I married you.”

Elsa smiled and held her tongue to keep from commenting. That experience would be one she would never forget. She at her wife, eyes bright and said,

“Then you’ll understand what I’m about to do.”

Anna’s gut twisted in apprehension. She trusted Elsa with her life, but the twinkle in pale blue eyes told her not all of this would be a pleasant experience.

—-

“Anna, what color is the sky?”

From her position in the passenger seat of the car Anna scowled, her eyes screwed shut in a desperate attempt to fall back asleep. Elsa refused to let her in on the plan the day before, only telling her to pack a days worth of clothes and food and then promptly took all her art supplies and locked them inside a large chest. She never quite figured out why they had a large empty chest lying around and when she asked Elsa the older girl shrugged saying something about secrets.

“What.” Anna grumbled confused at the question and irritated at being woken up at three in the morning and rushed out of the house.

Elsa glanced at her from the driver’s seat. “What color is the sky?” She turned her attention back to the road, very much awake and relaxed. The half empty cup of coffee sitting in the cup holder helped.

“What kind of question is that? The sky is blue!” Anna twisted over and leaned her head on the window, arms folded across her chest.  Elsa still had yet to tell her where they were going and only mentioned a three hour car ride. That left plenty of time for her to catch up on sleep if her wife would let her.

“No, not - “ Elsa laughed at herself, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I meant what color is the sky right now?”

Anna cracked one eye open and grimaced at the passing street light that blinded her. “Black,” she stated matter-of-factly. Elsa hummed a smile on her face. She let Anna sleep the rest of the way, picking up and sipping her coffee. The low songs of the radio filling the silence in a quiet peace. She didn’t care for the station, but it was one of Anna’s favorites. The little things would make the difference on this trip.

Barely any time had passed, that’s what it felt like to Anna anyway, before a hand on her shoulder gently shook her awake. “What is it now,” she sighed tiredly and shuffled further into the car door. When she agreed to whatever Elsa had planned, losing sleep hadn’t even crossed her mind. She knew she was being unfair to her wife. Elsa only wanted to help. The stress of her burnout had taken its toll without consent and Anna wanted nothing more than to curl up in a corner and sulk. Sleep was the closest she could get right now, but the woman driving had other plans.

“What color is the sky now,” she asked eagerly. Her pale hand fell away and gripped the steering wheel again.

Anna squinted at the light outside. The night had faded to be greeted by the light of the sun just peeking over the horizon. Reds and oranges bled into pale blue as the orb of yellow and white ascended slowly. Any other day the she might have appreciated seeing the sunrise, she might have stared at the way the light shone and glistened along Elsa’s skin, bathing her in rays of gold. But it only annoyed her at having the same question asked in place of sleep. Still she answered,

“Red.”

Her eyes closed again with the plan to catch more sleep. Elsa didn’t bother her after that. She sipped her fresh cup of coffee, having stopped for gas before the sunrise. Anna grumbled under her breath adjusting to get comfortable in her seat again. Pink lips turned up at the corner in amusement. Anna may be grumpy beyond belief this morning and she knew it was her doing. The outcome of this trip will be worth it. Elsa knew it, could feel it in her bones. She could only hope Anna didn’t throw her in the lake as payback when they got there.

Elsa smirked watching, pulling out a pair of sunglasses and slipping them on. The day was only beginning. The coffee singed her tongue as she took another sip.

If Anna did throw her in the lake, she made sure to have plenty of jokes ready.

Gravel crunched under the tires as the car pulled off the main road. The road itself wasn’t too bad in terms of a drive. Anna woke up quietly glancing around at the trees and greenery around them. She said nothing to tell Elsa she was awake and continued to stare out the window. The sight felt familiar, she knew this place but couldn’t quite care enough to place it. Sleep still clouded mind and even if it was Wednesday she liked to sleep in late and stay up late instead. This whole early to bed and early to rise business wasn’t for her.

A light chuckle from her left told Anna all she needed to know. “There’s hot chocolate for you since you’re not the biggest fan of coffee.” Elsa never took her eyes off the road and merely motioned to the cup holder between them.

“Thanks.” Anna took the cup nearly dropping it. No protective sleeve saved her from burning fingers, not even the paper cup itself. “Geez, why’s it so hot!” She glared at her sister.

“Didn’t know how long you were going to stay asleep so I asked them to make it extra hot.”

“Extra hot,” Anna guffawed, “This cup feels like it came straight out of Orodruin itself! You could have got me a protective sleeve for it or something!”

“I didn’t know how long you were going to sleep!” Anna folded her arms at Elsa’s response, “Besides, you always get annoyed at the sleeves opting to burn your fingers anyway.”

“Yes, but the cups are never that hot!”

Elsa only smiled.

The car slowed and stopped with a slight jolt. Anna hadn’t touched her drink again still waiting for it to cool down from Mount Doom level temperatures. She figured out why this place had seemed so familiar. Her parents used to take her camping out here toward the end of summer, always running around the lake and sometimes taking a ferry over to the small island.

“I grabbed us a backcountry permit if you wanted to stay away from the normal campsites.” Elsa held up the piece of paper before tucking it into her jacket pocket. Anna hummed her agreement and stretched in her seat.

“I’m gonna find the bathroom then we can hike to wherever.” She ducked out of the car, breathing in the fresh air. A warm feeling of nostalgia washed over her at the familiar sight. She hadn’t come back to this park in years. Anna walked across the parking lot toward the public restroom. Coming back to the lake hadn’t even crossed her mind. It’s almost sad really. To forget about a place she once loved so deeply, have it take up a corner of her mind as a memory she kept but never thought about.

She turned the faucet off and shook stray water drops from her hands, wiping the remaining wetness on her jeans. Anna never trusted the automatic air dryers.

When she arrived back to the car, Anna bit back a bark of laughter. Elsa had strapped each and every pack and bag to herself and looked overloaded, but all too eager like a puppy. She smiled broadly at Anna and handed her the much cooler cup, “Come on, let’s go! I know of the perfect spot!”

Anna took the cup, her shoulders shaking as she held in her laughter.

“Wait, Elsa. Let me carry some things.” Elsa paused mid-step and tilted her head. All the coffee had gone to her brain in the most adorable way. “How did you even manage to hold all the bags, even mine?” Anna pointedly looked at the deep green duffle bag with a bright orange patch on the side.

“I played a lot of tetris as a kid.” She shrugged but gave Anna two of the bags anyway.

Anna adjusted the strap of a bag on her shoulder. “Alright, now show me this perfect spot.”

The blonde grinned and grabbed Anna’s hand practically dragging her along toward the trail and into the bush. Anna could only keep up and pray her hot chocolate didn’t spill.

—-

Anna had to admit the spot Elsa had picked was perfect. A little spot hidden behind dense shrubbery. Well off the path and if someone did make it this far the thorn bushes were certainly a discouragement. She knew she’d be picking the sharp thorns out of her clothes for a while and if it weren’t for the view and the feeling of peace she’d make Elsa do it without a second thought. Anna’s had her second thought and is still intent on making Elsa do the work.

“Nice view, right?” Elsa wiped the dirt off her hands stepping over to Anna. She had finished setting up the tent and decided to see what was keeping her wife. The view itself looked over the entirety of the lake and the mountains surrounding it.  The trees swayed in the breeze.

“It’s beautiful.” Anna tucked a piece of hair back into place. Elsa stepped up beside her. They stared at the scene in silence. A sense of peace forming around them. Anna closed her eyes listening to the birds singing in the trees and the wind rustling the branches. The smell of the air and the sun on her skin eased the tension in her shoulders she didn’t realize had been there. Anna felt free like she could step off the overlook and just fly. Elsa smiled at the content look on her face.

“Anna,” the red-head hummed and turned to face her, “what color is the sky?”

The question had her sighing exasperatedly. How many times would she ask that damned question. It didn’t make sense. She had answered it twice already. Inhaling deeply, Anna decided not to let this ruin the moment. She looked up at the sky, fluffy clouds dotting the expansive space.

“Blue. It’s blue.”

Elsa made no comment. Anna would have yelled at her but the pure love in pale blue eyes killed the thought before it formed. She found herself smiling back and shaking her head lightly. “You’re lucky I love you so much.”

Elsa chuckled, “I know. Now come on, let’s go exploring a bit.”

Anna followed eagerly. Exploring she could do.

—-

Night life in the forest seemed impossibly loud compared to the day. Anna didn’t mind much. She found the noise comforting in a way. All the little life coming out with the safety of darkness. Comfortable now that the sun has gone and they can hide in the shadows of the night. She could understand it. The night offered a sort of peace the day could not. She loved the sun, loved the hustle and bustle of day life, but the night hit differently. She closed her eyes, a soft smile on her lips. The day’s activities replayed in her mind’s eye.

After running around, revisiting old trails and memories and making some new ones, the two women sat around a little fire. Anna made Elsa pick out all the thorns and burrs while she roasted marshmallows. While Elsa didn’t agree with s’mores before dinner she let it slide this once.

They relaxed after that, Anna rigged a stick with fishing gear and went fishing. She didn’t catch anything. She came back soaking wet and Elsa only raised a brow. She changed into some dry clothes and sat by the fire to get warm. Elsa turned from her book then, a cheeky grin on her face and said,

“You know I love it when you -” Anna smacked her before she should finish.

Now they lay peacefully staring up at the stars.

“Anna,” Elsa started in the quiet. Anna hummed in acknowledgment before her mind jump started back to nearly every quiet moment previously,

“You better not ask me what color the sky is or I swear to god you will find yourself at the bottom of the lake!”

The crickets chirped.

“What hue doth the heavens above appears to thine viewing orbs?”

Anna laughed. She laughed loud and hard. She knew Elsa would find a way to rephrase the question the second she threatened her, but she never expected her to phrase it like that. She rolled onto her side and clutched her stomach from the force of her laughter. “I-I can’t -” she wheezed, tears pricking the corners of her eyes, “I can’t breath.”

“You should have let me ask the question normal then.” The cheekiness in her voice had Anna swatting blindly behind her. Her hand connected with nothing but air.

“Fine, this is the last time I’m answering that stupid question,” Anna finally said after she stopped laughing and caught her breath. She rolled back to look at the sky and exhaled deeply a smile on her face, “Black, the sky is black.”

“Wrong.”

Anna propped herself up on her elbow. Wrong. The first response back to her answers and it was to tell her, Anna, that she answered wrong.

“What, how can I be wrong? Are you seeing the same sky I’m seeing?” Anna grit her teeth ready to fully argue her point.

“No, no calm down, feisty pants. Right now you could argue it’s black, or a very deep blue.”

“Then how am I wrong?!”

Elsa kept her gaze on the sky. “I asked you three four times today what color the sky was. Only two of the answers were the same. Can you explain that?” “The sky changes colors, you numpty.”

“So what color is the sky then if it changes?”

Anna didn’t have an answer to that. Elsa turned to face her, the moonlight making her blue eyes glow in the night.

“What color do you say the sky is then,” Anna asked, moving closer to Elsa. The night breeze had a bit of a chill, but she didn’t feel like getting a jacket. Her arm brushed against her wife’s.

“If you asked me what color the sky is, anytime of day or night, I’d tell you it’s white. I know it’s crazy, but think about it. In general people say the sky is blue, but it’s not always blue. You said it yourself, the sky changes colors, so why is it blue then?” She raised a hand and traced along various constellations as she spoke. “Is it because that’s the color we see it as mostly. Blue during the day? The history behind it is actually fascinating, but I won’t go into that. But the sky can be any color depending on when you look. Black, dark blue, orange and red, yellow and pink, purple and light blue, even green. The sky isn’t just one color or one shade. It’s all of them all the time, we just only see what the light shows us. That’s why I say it’s white. White reflects all colors, the sky cycles through the colors based on a bunch of scientific stuff that I’m a bit too tired to get into. I didn’t really prepare to get into that bit anyway.” she laughed at herself.

Anna lay in silence. She never really thought about it like that.

“But why white, why not black?”

Elsa sucked in a small breath before answering, “Black is the absence of colors. If the sky was black that’s all we’d see. A black hole sucking the colors away and leaving nothing behind but darkness. That’s why it’s white and not black.”

“Geez, that took a depressing turn.”

Elsa hummed and entwined her fingers with Anna’s. “Think of it as a prism. The sun shines through and casts the colors fresh and new through the day.”

“A blank canvas.” Anna found herself mumbling aloud. A blank canvas to be painted each day in the same ways that vastly differed if you looked hard enough. The subtle hues shifting day to day, the contrast of reds and oranges against purples and blues. All of it spinning endlessly in a cycle, a prism of color splattered across a canvas of white that never is seen as white.

The two remained watching the stars for a bit longer. The little dots of color splattered across the dark sky. Almost a reverse of my freckles. Anna mused to herself. The crisp air raised goosebumps on her arms.

Anna went to sleep that night, snuggled in her wife’s arms, feeling so refreshed and full of love she thought it might overflow. And it did. Her emotions flowed over in little drops that ran down her cheeks and she whispered over and over how much she loved Elsa. In turn with each ‘I love you’ a kiss was placed on her head, her cheek, her lips, and her body squeezed a bit tighter.

The white sky, painted with the color of night, left them to rest peacefully. The moon watching over them.

The trunk slammed shut and all the bags and trash were loaded in. Not nearly as neatly as before but as long as it wasn’t falling out Anna didn’t care. She awoke buzzing with renewed energy ready and eager to get back to work. Her burnout long forgotten. The three hour car ride didn’t seem so long even though Anna sat wide awake the entire trip. Elsa would probably need a day to recover from the amount of talking Anna did in that small time. Maybe a new book and quiet day in a coffee shop or a day spent curled up in her bed with nothing but mindless games to entertain herself with. Anna made a note to thank Elsa for forcing her out for a day, whatever she wanted.

Anna went to work the moment she stepped through the doorway. Pencil marks flew across the page in hurried fashion almost as if the vision would fade before she could get it down. Supplies were strewn out over the kitchen table and counter tops as Anna fell into what Elsa called ‘The detonation zone’. It was a mess, but also the time and place where Anna seemed to get the most work done.

Guess I’m not cooking. Elsa thought and picked up the phone. She was kinda in the mood for pizza anyway.

Pale blue eyes watched from where she leaned against the wall as the blur of auburn worked in a frenzy. Her movements were both hurried and agonizingly slow to preserve the details in a way only Anna managed to do. A mesmerizing sight she could watch for hours if not for the delivery man ringing her doorbell.

She made sure Anna knew of the food sitting in the living room.

“Okay, thank you!” Came the reply from the kitchen. Elsa chuckled and shook her head taking her own slice or two of pizza. She disappeared into their shared room for the rest of the evening. The one day trip seemed to have worked in Anna’s favor. Elsa made the mental note to schedule more day trips once in a while.

Time ticked by and Anna didn’t even notice. The pizza had gone cold and the sunlight faded away. The brush in her hand was set in the water cup for the last time.

“There.” Anna sat back finished. She smiled at the creation in front of her leaving it to dry as her stomach made known it’s need for food. The clock read late into the night, or early into the morning, depending on how you look at it. Maybe setting an alarm for food and breaks would be a good idea in the future. She decided it’d be worth a shot if only to save her from a stiff back at the end of the day.

Her paint stained hands grabbed a cold slice of pizza and promptly inhaled it followed by three more. The kitchen sat in a disastrous mess and the urge to put off cleaning up until the morning hit hard. Anna considered cleaning up the worst part about doing art. Elsa would likely clean up for her in the morning since she always woke up first. Anna knew that and decided not to let that happen. As much as Elsa said she didn’t mind and that’s what she signed up for by marrying her, Anna wouldn’t have it. Not after what she’d done for her the past day, or really since they first-started dating.

Anna turned the faucet on, warm water cleaning her stained hands, and she began the cleanup.

It wasn’t until around four in the morning that she finally headed to bed. The bedroom door creaked softly. Elsa snored softly, curled on her side snuggling a pillow. The sight made Anna fall in love with her all over again. Anna would never get tired of seeing her wife in such a peaceful and vulnerable state. Gently, she climbed into bed beside her.

“I love you.” she whispered and kissed Elsa’s cheek. Elsa let go of the pillow at the contact and fully snuggled against her wife. Anna wrapped her arms around her and kissed her softly again.

“I love you so much.”

Elsa woke to gentle rays of sun dancing across her face. Untangling herself from Anna she stepped outside of the room. She paused halfway closing the door and looked on fondly at the sleeping mess of her wife.

The kitchen was spotless, save for the canvas resting on the table. Even the sink was clean, supplies neatly drying on the rack where they were supposed to be. A smile graced her lips.

The coffee pot sputtered to life as it began brewing. It was only nine o’clock and Anna likely wouldn’t be up for another few hours. Being your own bosses had their perks. The brown liquid steamed as she poured it into a plain ceramic mug. The rich scent very much welcome this morning.

Anna would always scold her for drinking too much coffee. The thought brought another smile to her face. She really loved Anna and all that came with her.

Coffee in hand Elsa approached the canvas on the kitchen table. She made sure to stay for enough back that if something drastic happened her coffee would not stain the creation. She rounded the table and the sight made her pause. The colors and detail splattered across it showed just how much that camping trip had meant to her.

“Oh Anna,” her eyes lined with overflowing emotions as she took in the painting. “You’re still full of surprises.”

#elsanna #submission #April 2021 contest #prompt: break

[beeblebrox-be-damned]

Growth (Part 2)

Dark!Loki x reader

TW: Exhibitionism, Pregnancy

The seamstress turned you around, measuring carefully. A few days after you had arrived at the palace, they had measured you for dresses, but now they needed to be adjusted. Loki insisted there be a few newer ones as well.

The seamstress smiled at you. She was a kind, elderly woman, with hands that were gnarled from arthritis, but she was still the best seamstress in the kingdom. “So, are you excited for the big day?” she asked, turning to write down the measurements she had taken.

“Big day?” you asked, a bit confused. Was she referencing the coming child? Surely it wasn’t that obvious yet, and besides, that ‘big day’ was months away. She glanced over her shoulder, then turned back around quickly.

“Oh dear, it seems I’ve said too much,” she chuckled. She brushed a few sketches aside. You stepped off the pedestal you were situated on and stood next to her.

“Please tell me!” You leaned in, grinning playfully. “I promise I’ll act surprised if it is a surprise.” She grinned back and shook her finger at you.

“Now, none of that missy,” she laughed. “You’ll see in due time. For now, get back up there,” she motioned to the pedestal. “I’m not done measuring yet.”

Obediently, you stood back up. She measured your waist and bosom. “Well, well, well, it seems there’s been a bit of growth here-” she patted your lower abdomen “-hmm?”

Your face flushed as you laughed shyly. “Maybe a bit.” She nodded knowingly. 

“Already carrying high,” she said as she wrote down more measures. “I’d wager it’ll be a boy. That’s how it was with all of my sons.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, still smiling but a bit embarrassed. “I didn’t realize I was even showing yet,” you admitted. She shrugged, waving her hand.

“Just a bit. Back in my prime I was a midwife. I’ve seen a lot of expectant mothers, they have a certain glow to them.” She smiled at you. “It’s easy to see on you, dear.”

Apparently, she was right about its visibility. And she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed it. 

Frigga had been hinting at it for several weeks, and now either Thor and Odin had figured it out themselves, or Loki had let the Midgardian cat out of the bag.

The two were arguing over whether it would be a boy or a girl. Odin seemed convinced that since he had two sons in line, fate would make the next child a girl. It made no logically stance, but he stood by his theory staunchly. Thor, however, believed the opposite. Or rather, he wanted the opposite to occur because he was rather excited about the idea of having a nephew.

Dinner was interesting that night, to say the least. You had walked in with Loki to discover Thor and Odin nearly at each other’s throats.There was amusement in their eyes, however, so you figured they wouldn’t actually kill each other. You sat down at your usual spot next to Loki and watched as the two argued. It wasn’t until a few minutes later that you realized just what they were arguing over. You shook your head. Loki grinned and leaned back in his chair, wrapping on arm around your shoulders.

Thor slammed the Mjolnir on the table, leaping to his feet. “Ignorance!” he shouted. Odin glared at him. 

“Sit, boy, and argue no longer. It will be a girl,” he said angrily. Thor refused to sit.

They were about to go at it again when, thankfully, Frigga arrived. “Both of you, stop this nonsense. Neither of you know anything about child-bearing,” she exclaimed. Thor sat down reluctantly. “And get that hammer off of the table.” He put it in the floor with a scowl at Odin.

Frigga sat down primly, shaking her head. “No more of this foolishness, please. Stress will do no good to the young mother’s condition,” she scolded with a gentle but firm tone. She turned towards you. “Besides, I think it best we ask the parents their opinion,” she said, smiling.

Loki nudged you. You cleared your throat. “It doesn’t matter to me, so long as the child is healthy,” you said, your voice quiet. It still made you nervous and shy to speak in front of your newfound family. Loki nodded in agreement.

“However, we must consider that perhaps it will be both,” he said smugly. Thor bellowed in laughter.

“Brother,” he grinned, “You seem to have much confidence in the quality of your, well, you know.” Loki smirked.

“Quality of quantity, brother,” he said slyly, “either would do.” Your face flushed and you looked down at your lap. Loki didn’t notice. “Though we must also acknowledge the mother’s role as well. Virility matters not when fertility doesn’t come into play.”

“Loki-” you squeaked “-are you trying to make me die of embarrassment?” He simply grinned.

Frigga waved her hand. “Enough of this talk before it becomes unsuitable for the dinner table.” She beckoned over the servants, who began to serve the food. “Besides, the gender of the baby won’t matter if the poor mother starves because she can’t get a bite of food between trying to shut her husband up,” she laughed. Loki chuckled. While he wouldn’t take well to a comment like that from his brother or father, Frigga could say whatever she liked about him and he would agree.

The food was exquisite as always, and you couldn’t help but notice you ate slightly more than usual. You just hoped you could keep it down. After dinner, you and Loki retreated to your quarters. Loki wandered off to change out of his day clothing while you used the washroom to freshen up and change into a nightgown.

The gown was thin and soft, velvety against your skin. It draped over your body elegantly, highlighting every curve and dip softly. The night was slightly cloudy, but it made the sky look even more beautiful. You walked out onto the balcony and leaned against the golden railing, watching the clouds inch their way over the sky.

A pair of arms wrapped around your body, holding you close in a gentle embrace. Loki’s hand rested over your womb. His fingers were notably cool, a hint of his heritage. You didn’t mind the coolness, but you flinched at it when he first touched you through the sheer nightgown.

“Sorry,” he murmured in your ear. He tucked his face against your shoulder, inhaling deeply. Something seemed to be on his mind. You turned in his arm until you were facing him. He looked up at you and smiled softly.

“Loki,” you murmured, your hand drifting over his cheek, “Is something wrong?” He shook his head, but then nodded reluctantly. He said nothing. Your raised your eyebrow. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? Or shall I have to force it out of you?”

He smirked. “And just how would you do that? I do believe I have a slight advantage over you.” He drew up to his full height, quite a bit taller than you, before leaning back down.

You smirked back at him. “By refusing every single one of your advances,” you stated smugly. Loki bared his teeth, grinning.

“Oh? And who says you can do that?” He placed his hands on the railing, caging you in. He leaned closer to you, nose to nose. “If I have to, I’ll take what I like by force.” His voice was a growl, low and sultry, but there was a smile in his eyes. Your cheeks grew warm.

“Not if I hide from you. If you recall from our earlier friendship, I am quite skilled at hide-and-seek,” you said proudly, crossing your arms.

“Okay, I’ll give you that one. But I always found you eventually.”

“True, and now stop trying to change the subject.” Your voice grew concerned again. “What is wrong?” You wrapped your arms around him.

He glanced away, head downwards now. “I… Well, the way you flinched…” he sighed “it just made me wonder, are you really okay with this? That our child will be like-” his voice broke “-like me?” His voice was wavering, and he almost looked scared.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “And here I thought I’d been chosen by someone smart.” You leaned forwards and placed your hands on his cheeks, drawing him down so your forehead was against his. “Of course I am. I only flinched because it startled me, silly.” You kissed him. “If you remember, I always was fond of the cold.”

He smiled again, looking relieved. He laughed. “Indeed. I do recall being ambushed several times with snow.”

You grinned. “I always wondered why it never seemed to get to you.” You kissed him once more. “You know… sometime, if you’d be willing… I’d like to see you i-in your other from.” You admitted it shyly, unsure of how he’d react. You’d never spoken much about the matter.

Loki blushed. It wasn’t too often that you’d make him blush, but to see his pale cheeks flush pink was certainly a sight. Of course, in the lighting, it was a bit hard to see. “Y-you want to see? I must admit, I believe you may be… frankly, disgusted by it.” 

You shook your head, smiling. “I could never find anything about you disgusting, silly man. But if it bothers you, you’re in no way obligated to.” You leaned forward and kissed him hard. “It is entirely up to you.”

When you pulled away, you were shocked to see a deep blue spreading over his skin. He was looking away, shier then you’d ever seen him. You brushed your fingers over the ridges on his cheeks, marveling at the intricate designs. They followed down his neck and chest, and you wondered whether they were in other, more hidden areas as well. His eyes were a deep crimson, strikingly beautiful. 

“Oh my…” you trailed off. Your heart rate had increased notably. He was ashamed of this? Ridiculous.

He cast his eyes downward at himself. “I… I know, it’s-” you cut him off.

“Gorgeous.” You knew what he was going to say but you didn’t agree with it. Your hands trailed down his chest, the skin cool to the touch in a wonderfully tantalizing way. He gasped as you moved lower.

“You are very warm,” he gasped as you wrapped his hand around him. “V-ery warm.” You licked your lips as you watched his facial expressions. His crimson eyes were hooded, pupils blown wide with desire.

Carefully, he reached down and lifted one of your legs until it hooked over your hip. Your other foot barely touched the ground, but he supported your weight easily, your back pressed against the tall railing. Though there was no way of falling, it was still a rush. You hand to withdraw your hand as he pressed himself flush with your heat.

It was an unspoken rule with Loki that you were to never wear undergarments at night. Your nightgown had slid up your leg as it was lifted, baring you for Loki to see and touch openly. Your arms wrapped around his neck as he kissed you passionately.

“You know-” you gasped between frantic kisses “-literally anyone could see us.” Loki groaned in response.

“Good. Let them.” His tongue slipped into your mouth as he ground himself against you. His cock massaged your clit deliciously. You shivered against him, your slick pooling. There were definite ridges along his shaft, making the sensation much more intense.

You were rapidly nearing the point of no return, your breaths shuddering and panting. Loki was in a similar state. He paused and looked at you, eyes roaming over your form as though he couldn’t believe you were really there for a moment. He broke out of his haze and pushed into you, stretching you deliciously.

He fucked you like that, against the railing, withdrawing and then thrusting himself into you with a vigor that you’d never felt before. He moaned loudly, his crimson eyes closed in pleasure. He was cold inside of you, but wonderfully so. He groaned in your ear. “S-o warm… fuck…”

Your walls clenched around him, The bone of his pelvis rubbed your clit as he replaced his thrusts with a motion akin to humping, animalistic and intense. Your nerves buzzed, lit aflame with cold coals. Loki growled your name, over and over, littering it with profanities and dirty whispers that made you gasp. You came with a burst of pleasure, back arching. Loki snarled, the sound echoing through the palace courtyard. He shoved himself in deeply, flooding you with his cum.

You panted as you came down from your high, trembling as you rested your head on his shoulder. Pale skin began to replace the deep blue, but you patted his chest, stopping him. “No, stay like this. It’s hot ’n this feels good…”

He laughed. “I’m glad,” he said, breathing heavily, “that you can use this to your advantage.” He held you close, running his hands over your back.

You smiled. “You’re amazing, did you know that?”

He pressed a kiss on your skin. “Darling, you are the one who deserves that title.” TAGLIST: @jessiejunebug  @knuffeltuff @sea040561@alexakeyloveloki@villanellevi@skinny-macncheese@shockwavee

#dark!loki #dark!loki x reader #dark!loki laufeyson #dark marvel #loki #Loki Laufeyson #loki x reader #loki odinson #loki fanfic #pregnancy #pregnant reader

[platypanthewriter]

Keg-King of Elfland’s Sword: REWRITTEN Ch. 1/10

Billy Hargrove and his sister travel across the ocean to his mother’s hometown, looking for answers about his past--but he’s distracted the very first night by a man he meets at the Hunt Ball, and starts to wonder whether the past or the future is more important.

Part One/Two/Three/Four/Five/Six/Seven/Eight/Nine/Ten for @ihni​

It wasn’t like the dances in New South Wales, nor yet was it like the ball Billy had attended in London, where everyone had seemed to blur together in endless lines of pearl buttons and curly white wigs. His first sight of Hawkins society was a confusion of colors and heights—the person offering to take his coat, he realized, pulling his eyes from the constellations of candles, was at least partly horse, and clapped their hooves over it, bowing. He bowed back, pulling Max forward through the doorway—she was as wide-eyed as he, her gaze catching on a woman floating near the punch bowl with a face either covered in moss, or made of it.

Billy wondered, watching the dancers, whether he could be less careful here—whether iron was more easily avoided, and he could apply himself at a stranger’s dinner table without burning his hands. The keys at the inn—where they’d flung their dinner clothes on and their baggage anywhere in an excitable flurry—had been iron, and he’d dropped them twice before Max took them, rolling her eyes.

He suspected there would be no such dangers here, in a house where the footmen greeting the carriages outside were horses themselves, formed of water. In the center of the room, surrounded by the most candles—and, he noted, after some consideration, floating flames with no visible source—were two empty ornate chairs, like thrones. Between them was a huge head, cut and seared bloodless from some hairy, fanged, one-eyed beast, on oilcloth, and he registered how many of the dancers had bandages, and torn clothes.

He’d stand out, he realized, smug in the knowledge that his new ocean-blue tailcoat brought out his eyes, and the embroidered brown brocade of his waistcoat complemented it perfectly. As he was congratulating himself on his lack of cravat, and the unbuttoned shirt that exposed his collarbones, the dance shifted to pairs.

A young man with a bloodied scrape across his face, a flower crown, and a wide grin spun his partner down the room. Billy stumbled, cataloguing fine shoulders under the torn and bloodstained shirt, collarbones gleaming with sweat.

Billy’s arm and shoulder pulled nearly asunder as Max yanked him, wide-eyed and wandering towards a person whose silvery ruffles matched their wheeled ambulatory device. Billy glanced at her, then back to the dancer, whose teeth and eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “I need that arm, give it,” he whispered, “I—I have to—dance—”, he trailed off, yanking at Max’s grip on his arm.

Her jaw firmed. “Stop gawking,” she hissed. “You look like a pillock. I want to talk to that person about their wheels. Alas, we should really greet the sheriff. We’d be kicking our heels in our rooms at the inn if he hadn’t invited us, Billy—”

“Right now, I have to go dance with him.” Billy pointed, and Max stood on her toes, still a head shorter than he, until he lifted her by her securely corseted waist, and she kicked out. “The one dancing. Everyone’s watching him.”

“You’ll have time after— Billy!” She squirmed, growling like a trapped fox. “I’m fourteen,” she snarled, her cheeks reddening. “You can’t put me on your shoulders, Billy, it’s a ball—”

“I’d suffocate in petticoats,” he told her, and she snorted a laugh, then smacked his head.

“Oh, I see him! There, with the—ah, the flowers on his head? He’s dancing with someone?”

“With the flowers,” he agreed, “—and the smile.” The grin was heady in the heat of the room, and Billy took a steadying breath. It didn’t help—everything smelled strange and exciting, unlike any ball he’d ever attended, the air full of the oils for the whirring machinery helping a woman with a fishtail dance, and the smell of the burned flesh of the beast on the dais, and the garlanded flowers.

Max folded her arms, comfortable with the corset boning supporting her weight in his hands. “You could, someday, dance with me when you escort me to a party.”

“I require the thrill of the chase,” Billy told her, and she snorted unbecomingly, like a horse, then reached behind her shoulder to knock on his head.

“...at least turn around a few times so I can search. Mr. Hopper did send a sketch. There can’t be a great many blue men here tonight.”

Billy had agreed when they opened the letter, but here in Hawkins—where the Hunt Ball celebrated not a stag or boar caught for the feast, but victory over a one-eyed beast whose head was the size of a horse—he wasn’t as sure.

Max patted his hand. “Turn a quarter turn to the right,” she ordered, and he shuffled obediently. “Again!” She pointed, as though she stood on the prow of a ship, and he laughed, spinning slowly with his sister’s feet swinging against his knees until she yelled, pointed, and smacked his head. He sat her back on her feet, but she held onto his jacket.

“Take me over there, your right respectable rudeness. We can ask about your dancer.”

“No need.” Billy allowed himself to be dragged away, eyes on the spinning white flowers and gleaming dark hair. “I’ll ask him myself.”

“What if he’s married?” She rolled her eyes, and nearly jerked Billy’s shoulder out of its socket when the idea spurred him towards the dancing again. “Walk, idiot. If he’s married, he won’t be less or more so in the time it takes to greet Mr. Hopper. Don’t make me go alone, he’ll think I’m a lost parcel.”

“You are,” Billy mumbled, straightening his tailcoat. “I should have left you in the train station where I found you. How do I look,” he muttered, frowning down, and she groaned loudly, putting an arm through his and dragging him through the crowd to see a man about his father’s age, and blue. He looked as though he half thought they were entertaining—after watching Billy progress across the room like an untrained dog on a lead—and half wished they’d leave him to his conversation with a tiny dark-eyed woman who kept laughing, tears in her eyes.

Billy blinked at them, noting the small woman’s pink hand on the sheriff’s blue one, and the man’s smirk widened. Max kicked Billy’s leg, aiming unerringly at the bone. “Sher—Mr. Hopper?” he tried, saving his revenge for later.

“I am, and this is Ms. Byers.” Mr. Hopper nodded at the small woman, and she blinked at them, laughing again, and wiping her eyes. “I beg your pardon,” she whispered. “I’m a bit...overwrought.”

“Ah,” said Max, freezing in place, and Billy rescued her with a smile he’d checked in the mirror.

“Mr. William Hargrove and Ms. Maxine Mayfield,” he said, offering Ms. Byers a hand—her fingers trembled against his—then shook Mr. Hopper’s, as Ms. Byers shook with Max. “May we get you anything? Punch?” he asked, ignoring Max rolling her eyes.

“No,” Ms. Byers said, smiling. “I’m overwhelmed by happiness. My boy is home tonight, thanks to the Hunt.”

“Is he?” Billy asked, lost, and the sheriff nodded to the great head on the dais.

“They brought home more than one trophy tonight. They rescued two of the town’s children,” he said, glancing towards the group of bandaged and bloodied dancers.

Ms. Byers took a deep, shaky breath, and asked Max how far they’d come.

“New South Wales,” Max told her, then, “Australia,” when she cocked her head.

“...you’re young, for such a long journey,” Ms. Byers' gaze lowered, and her eyes welled up again. She cleared her throat. “I h-hope you are enjoying it?”

“...we are,” Billy tried to reassure her, feeling the conversation had headed onto shaky ground.

“I received word only of Ms. Mayfield,” Mr. Hopper said, raising his eyebrows. “I am relieved to see her accompanied on such a long voyage. But your father worked here, once upon a time. I am surprised he didn’t write about you.”

Billy bit his tongue on an explanation of his father’s low regard.

“I am grateful for my brother’s company.” Max gave her most even and insincere smile, “—as it would be hazardous, for one of my youth, travelling alone.”

“We are relieved you have him,” Ms. Byers said, her eyes searching the room. “It is not safe, alone, always. Though the Hunt does its best.”

“I am here as her shield.” Billy patted his belt, where his sword would hang, and he saw that she took his meaning.

“Get much use, does it?” Mr. Hopper asked, his brows drawing together. “I’ll take no issue with a hand raised against the wilds, but we’ve had too many fights, as of late.”

“I’ll keep him in line,” Max promised, glancing up and elbowing Billy when his gaze strayed back to the dance floor.

“How old are you?” Ms. Byers whispered to Max, who set her shoulders.

“Nearly only five years, and I’ll be twenty!” she said, and the sheriff looked as though he very much wanted to laugh. He squeezed Ms. Byers’ hand, and Ms. Byers swallowed, dabbing her eyes with the kerchief she had wadded up in her other hand.

“I’m glad you’re not alone,” she told Max. “If your mother could see you, she would know not to be worried. Your brother loves you very much.”

Billy readied a smile, then startled as Max grabbed his hand in both her lily-white gloves and squeezed it like she was juicing a lemon. He tried to shake her off, squeezing his lips together over language inappropriate for a ball, and Max narrowed her eyes at Ms. Byers.

“More than my mother does,” Max said, in the tone of someone throwing down a gauntlet, and Ms. Byers’ face fell.

“I’ll keep her safe and well,” Billy promised, and Max huffed a sigh.

“I don’t need minding,” she hissed, and Billy thumped his side into hers, making her stagger.

“The dragon-craft that brought us was only constructed last year,” Billy began, and that was Max distracted, explaining its speed to a smiling Ms. Byers. She got distracted, as usual, describing her continued attempts—thwarted by crew—to climb the rigging, and speak to the dragon.

Billy listened with a smile, his mind half soaring between shining ocean waves and gleaming dragon scales, and half watching the dance floor, where his flower-crowned target spun and laughed, after fighting a monster to rescue a child. When he heard the word “pirate,” he rolled his eyes, imploring, “Good sheriff, as a man of the law, try to discourage my sister. She’s never more than three dull conversations from stealing a dragon ship and raising a flag with a skull and crossed swords.”

“A temptation shared by us all,” the sheriff replied, toasting her, and Billy made a fist and thumped it on the top of her head.

“Look, now you’ve corrupted him.”

“I would never!” Max grinned. “We saw the Pirate Queen, you know.”

“We may have done,” Billy interrupted, sighing. “At the very limit of our telescope, we saw a dark blotch—”

“She was standing on her dragon’s head,” Max said, twining her fingers together, and stretching, her eyes focused on visions of piracy.

“Every hour it was the Pirate Queen, listen.” Billy yanked the chain of his keepsake out of his shirt, and held up the battered shell, despite Max trying to smack it out of his hand. Her cheeks were reddening until they nearly competed with Ms. Byers’ gown. Billy held it out of her reach, and ran his thumb around the edges, and Max’s voice came out with the watery echoes of low-quality keepsake enchantment.

“There, that’s her,” echo-Max said. “There! Billy! Billy, it’s—oh. Oh, no, it’s—it’s not.”

Echo-Billy’s voice joined her. “Max, that’s an albatross.”

“No, wait! I see her! I see her now!” echo-Max cut off, muffled, as actual-Max climbed her brother like a tree, grabbing the keepsake. She dropped to the floor, feet wide-set, her arm up to guard, and Billy laughed, raising his hands.

“You’ve disarmed me. Return my keepsake, fierce Amazon, I’ll keep your secrets close.”

“I’ll record something over it first,” she hissed. “Something flatulent.”

“Give it back,” he pleaded, circling her and grinning.

Max tossed her head, crossing her arms. “Because it was your mother’s. I’ll surrender it for her sake, not yours.” She held it out by the chain, and he put it back on.

Ms. Byers was staring at it. “I suppose your mother's message was too—familiar? That you would erase it?”

Billy laughed, clearing his throat, and Max rescued him.

“She gifted only the keepsake, it came with no message. If it had,” she confided, cocking her head to grin up at him, “—he would not have filled its chamber with my nonsense about an albatross. I would be safe from his brotherly abuses.”

Ms. Byers was laughing, finally, still wiping her eyes, when a thin, pale boy walked up next to her, and she beamed at him, throwing both arms around his waist and hauling him into her lap so he kicked and giggled. They both made soft gulping noises, sniffling, and her fists clenched in the shoulders of his jacket.

The sheriff watched, his face set, then frowned at Max and Billy. “Will Byers,” he said, and they nodded, exchanging uncertain glances. “They were lost in the woods,” he told them, “—and ran into the fachan.” He pointed to the head on the dais, and Max grimaced, wide-eyed, just as the music leapt again, and a girl about Will’s age ran up, stumbled to a halt next to the sheriff, and eyed Max and Billy suspiciously. Ms. Byers beamed at her, as little Will grabbed both the new girl and his mother, and demanded a dance.

As another reel started, Billy leaned close to Max’s ear. “Do I look as well as I may,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth, watching the dancer, whose friends were carrying him around, and whooping war cries. He heard yells of “Wheeler!”, “Byers!”, and “Buckley!” and wondered which he was.

“I beg your pardon, Ms. Byers,” Max sighed, “—my brother has seen someone on the dance floor, and he’s having heart palpitations.” Ms. Byers snickered, steadying her hands on her glass of punch, as Max looked Billy up and down, then smacked his shoulder until he was low enough for her to assess. She pinched his cheeks a few times to redden them—he batted her away, laughing—and pulled forward some of the curls he’d carefully combed back and tucked to hide the almost-points of his ears. “Bite your lips hard ‘til you get over there, so he’ll want to kiss you,” she advised, and pushed him back. Ms. Byers was cackling into Mr. Hopper’s shoulder, but Billy ignored them, bouncing his heels to try and track the bright-eyed dancer.

By the time he’d sidled through the crowd, the flower crown was twirling again on the dance floor, its bearer laughing with—Billy tore his eyes away to inspect the partner—a human woman, he thought, though her ears looked rather pointed, from across the dance floor, and through the largest flower crown. He couldn’t tell whether the crown had antlers, or she did.

“Thomas Hagen,” said a voice in his ear, and Billy smirked to cover his start, turning to see a freckled grin. “But Hagen ‘the Elder’ s are everywhere, so Mr. Thomas, to most." He followed Billy's gaze to the dancers. "You are watching Harrington.”

Am I, now, Billy thought, raising his eyebrows at the memory of the name in his father’s leftward slanting script. “William Hargrove,” he introduced himself. "Billy, to most." He cocked his head, letting his gaze drift back to the dance floor. His target careened his partner with the headdress towards the musicians, spinning away every time at the last minute, and no one faltered, though all were laughing.

“Those two fill most of each other’s dance cards,” Thomas told him, and Billy nodded, watching the partner crouch, jump, and get spun over Harrington’s head. He’d shed his jacket, if he’d ever worn one, and rolled up his sleeves, so the muscles of his arms shone in the candlelight. The flowers, up close, were tiny and white, and also speckled with blood. Billy hoped it belonged to the monster, imagining Harrington swinging his sword through its neck.

“...Steve’s in love with her,” Thomas tried again, and Billy nodded again, appreciating the angle the light had on flowers, and gleaming dark hair, and tight, gleaming leather breeches. “He won’t want you.” Thomas punched his shoulder, and Billy raised his eyebrows, glancing over, and considering whether it was worth punching back.

“Hasn’t said so yet,” Billy replied, rolling his shoulders as the music came to a close. He angled himself to intercept the blur of golden waistcoat, flower crown, and bloodied face he could see through the crowd.

After sidling through what was probably the entire population of Hawkins, Billy spotted his dancer again. He finally got in front of Harrington by the punch, and took a deep breath, his eyes following a trickle of sweat down the side of the man’s face. It dripped into the unbuttoned neck of his shirt, and Billy shut his mouth and swallowed, nearly having drooled. “Dance with me,” he blurted. “...Billy Hargrove. I'm.”

Harrington had just tipped in a mouthful of punch, but he held out a hand, swallowed, and wiped his mouth. “Steven Harrington.”

Billy was watching the wetness of the punch on his lips. “...Mr. Harrington. May I have this dance? Or any.”

“Why not,” Harrington laughed, chugging another glass of punch, and then took Billy’s hand in his, cold and damp from the punch glass, and dragged him back to the dancing.

The complex pattern kept whirling Harrington away, but he kept returning to grab Billy’s hands and spin him around, all smiles and shining eyes and warm muscles under Billy’s hands as the room spun around them. Billy breathed in the smell of white flowers, and felt dizzy.

The next dance the antlers returned, and Billy wandered off to the punch, took a deep, steadying draught, and remembered he had a sister, because she punched him in the side.

“Max,” he wheezed.

“My thanks for escorting me to the ball, sweet brother.” She raised her eyebrows, and took his glass of punch. “I have appreciated your company at every divine moment. Ms. Byers said to watch the punch, by the by. Since they ride out on the morrow, it was supposed to be all sugar and mint, but that just means everyone with a flask dumps it in. She said by an hour in, it’ll be alcohol enough to fuel a dragon ship. When are we going to dance?”

“I can still smell flowers.” Billy watched for the flower crown, and Max groaned.

“What are you doing? Did you even get his name? Make sure when you’re walking towards him, it isn’t through a road.”

Billy laughed, shoving her head down. She flailed, nearly spilling the punch, and he mussed her hair. “I’m not—”

“Or into a river. You’d probably forget to swim.” She held the sloshing glass of punch at a wary arm’s length with both hands, glowering up at him.

“I’ll push you in the river,” he growled, swiping a hand at his cup again, “—and I did get his name, as it happens. It’s, ah. It’s Harrington.”

“How’d you know?” She blinked up at him, and automatically took a swig of the punch, before coughing. “Dear god.” She wiped her eyes. “—that’s not for fueling engines, it’s for cleaning them. How’d you know it was him? You already got a dance with him?”

“I…” Billy swallowed, yanked the cup back, and drained it. “I didn’t know it was him. I can’t—it won’t work, anyway. He’s engaged, or as good as. The one with the antlers. I’ll just—I’ll have to write...home.” He took a deep breath, staring into the cup. “Tell him I failed.”

Max rocked sideways, thudding her shoulder into his ribs. “You did get a dance with him. That doesn’t sound hopeless.”

“It was never going to work—” he hissed back, and then the music stopped abruptly, with the musicians joining in cheering and clapping with the crowd, as the floor cleared around Ms. Byers. She was carrying Will, flailing and giggling, to one of the thrones, while the girl they’d seen earlier furtively approached the second. A thin woman waved and cheered at the second child, who flashed a smile.

“Come sit with me, this chair is huge!” Will Byers yelled, and his mother kissed his cheek, squeezing him so hard he squeaked. The other child nodded, setting her jaw determinedly, and skirted around the enormous severed head. Her nervous glances were fixed more on the crowd than the dead monster.

Harrington and his antlered partner stepped up next to Ms. Byers to lift the chair, and the two children held hands, waving. Another few people ran out of the restless crowd, all bandaged in various places, and helped lift the chair, as Will whooped.

“...I should have run out,” Billy told Max, watching, and she snorted.

“I think it’s invitation only.”

“Maybe he needs help. Maybe he needs me to carry him—”

She smacked his thigh, and he snickered.

Once the chair was aloft, they carried it around, amidst whoops, and whistles, and drunken shouts like, ‘King and Queen of the Hunt Ball!’, ‘Welcome home!’, and ‘So glad you’re safe!’ The crowd smacked Harrington and his cronies on the shoulders and back, as they whirled the laughing children around in the chairs. Ms. Byers cried, and so did her kid, slinging his arm over the arm rest and clamping his hand over hers.

“Whose thrones are those, really,” Billy leaned to ask Max, realizing there was more happening than Steve Harrington lifting something heavy over his head.

“I heard there’s a bit of contention,” Max whispered back, waggling her eyebrows.

“Oooo,” Billy folded his arms, leaning in closer.

“This is Nan Wheeler’s house,” Max pointed at Antlers, and Billy nodded, listening. “She led the hunting party, and shot the arrow that felled it. She sought Barbra Holland, who went up the mountain two days ago, to visit her little sister’s grave in the mausoleum there.”

“Oho,” Billy nodded. A tiny crab scuttled out from under the monster’s eyelid, and then a few more, and Billy’s mouth fell open again. “They…” He frowned around, cataloguing the bandages, and Harrington’s scraped knuckles and scabbed-up face. “Her friend is still missing,” Billy realized. “Antlers’.”

“They turned around, because of that beast, and in aid of Ellie, and Will Byers. I talked with him after you went off all starry-eyed—he was missing for nearly a seven-day. Ellie was missing nearly two months.”

Billy reached out and squeezed her shoulder, and she ducked away, grinning.

“I promise not to wander away,” she told him, smiling, and he narrowed his eyes at her.

“I could lock you inside a trunk,” Billy mused, and she elbowed him. “They ride again tomorrow? Thus the horrid punch.”

“They ride again tomorrow,” Max confirmed. “Nantlers Wheeler hesitates to fill the other throne in celebration, while Barbra is not yet found.” Billy snorted at the nickname, then opened his mouth again, but Max rolled her eyes, waving him off. “I did ask,” Max sighed, “—who would sit beside her. I heard Harrington, or Holland, or perhaps Byers the younger—but it’s the Hunt Ball, Billy. It’s not her proposal, it’s who—who she decides—who deserves the laurels.” She jerked her head at the procession, and Billy nodded, eyes lingering on Harrington’s biceps. Max rolled her eyes, sighing. She waved to little Byers, and dragged Billy closer when little Byers waved back, his smile gleeful as the throne tilted and swayed with its carriers.

Billy waved, and Harrington waved back, grinning over.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” Max whispered, as Billy kept waving, until Thomas grabbed his hand.

“Noticed he danced with you. Hargrove,” he whispered, leaning in, and Max leaned around to give him a puzzled glower.

“Lucky me.” Billy tried to pull his hand back, and winced at Thomas’ grip.

“He’s King of the Hunt Ball, you know? He’s always King. Nan Wheeler sits next to him as Queen.”

It wasn’t hard to imagine how grand it would look—Harrington in his finest, instead of sweatstained and bandaged, and Wheeler at his side, borne through the air on the shoulders of their friends. He must have made some kind of face, because Max elbowed him.

“Byers wants her,” Thomas whispered, “—but she’s not for him.”

“Little Byers?” Billy raised his eyebrows at the laughing, crying child, and Thomas squeezed his hand until the bones ground together.

“Who the hell are you,” Max muttered at him.

“The elder Byers, Jonathan. Steve dueled him.” Thomas leaned close. “—he was watching her, with a telescope. Sketching her through the window.”

“Why didn’t she duel him?” Max wrinkled her nose. “I’d have—”

“Steve found out first, didn’t even wait for me, his second—” Thomas hissed back at her. “He fights for her— he'll never look at you.”

“I hear you.” Billy shifted to slam their shoulders together, and yanked his hand loose while Thomas staggered. “—do you want to fight with steel, or are you content to whine, and pretend good manners, and gossip like a—”

“No! Billy,” Max hissed. “You’ll be thrown out. You’ll miss the dance. Billy.”

“Oh, Max,” Billy said, baring his teeth in a wide smile, and keeping his eyes on Thomas, “—in fun, of course, don’t worry—”

“They wouldn’t dream of stopping us.” Thomas snarled back, his grin fixed and unnatural. “An exhibition match, to first blood.” He spun away, shaking his fists in the air, and shouted, “A sword! And a referee!”

“What is this place,” Max whispered to Billy, her eyes shining. “Instead of dancing, we can duel?” She watched in bewilderment as the dancers gathered around them, laughing, shouting, and—to her delight—placing bets. “You had better win, brother mine,” she said, rummaging in her pocket.

“Harrington,” Billy called, rolling his shoulders as the man’s brown eyes met his, sparkling with amusement. “A favor, if I win!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Thomas told him, but Harrington considered.

“...within reason,” he agreed, and Billy whooped, peeling out of his tight-fitting jacket, and handing it to Max.

“A dance,” Billy said, bowing, “—or perhaps a kiss?”

Harrington laughed, ducking his head as the hunters around him whistled.

“Oooo,” Max whispered, glancing up at Harrington. “Is this...common, here?!”

“Fairly,” he answered, pulling his gaze from Billy’s open shirt to look at her. “Why are they fighting?”

“Over you,” she shrugged, and Harrington choked, coughing. Max smacked him hard several times on the back.

Another antlered person wafted towards them, the silvery train of her dress shining after her. “As it’s my house, I’ll keep watch.” She held out the hilts of two fencing sabres, and looked Billy dispassionately up and down. “...They’re dulled, as humans are fragile. First blood. No death.”

Billy took a deep breath before accepting a sword, wondering whether he’d feel the dull, frozen ache of cold iron—but either the blood he’d inherited from his mother was indeed as fae as the Lady offering the sword, and it was some fae metal, and harmless to him; or else the madness rotting in his blood acknowledged that the sword was probably not iron, and didn’t set fanciful pains running up the veins of his arms.

Billy whipped the sabre through the air a couple of times, eyes narrowed. Thomas struck a stance, his off hand up in a pointlessly stylish wave, and Billy tested his defense. It wasn’t terrible, for a man who smelled more of whiskey with a dash of punch than the reverse, though he was focusing too much on trying to end the duel. Billy raised his eyebrows, dancing away from a wild swipe near his knee.

It became apparent pretty quickly he was in no great danger from Thomas, who seemed continually surprised to find his blows swinging into thin air, and was beginning to pant.

Billy spun to the side, nearly into a bystander. The circle was growing smaller, and the shouting louder.

Harrington was still watching, and Billy paced around the circle, dodging Thomas as he shrugged out of his waistcoat, waving it at Max. She glared at him, rolled her eyes, and crossed her arms. He threw it, somewhat hoping it hit her in the face with a brass button, and then Harrington leaned out and caught it, grin wide.

Billy pointed his sword, holding Harrington’s gaze. “Wish me luck?” Harrington laughed, shaking his head, but saluted back, and then Thomas was attacking again. The rhythm was easy, once Billy settled into it—simpler than the dances, just practiced muscles stretching and flexing, and Harrington’s grin, and cheering.

Thomas was starting to look a little wild, drenched in sweat, and when he stumbled backwards, wiping his brow, Billy realized the fight was nearly over. He was irritating Thomas into ever more desperate swings, enjoying his snarls, when a new round of whoops and cheers went up to his left, and the crowd parted to admit another fencer.

She walked in and threw an arm around Thomas’ shoulder, tossing back a cup of punch, and her curls. She stared, smiling, at Billy, and unbuttoned her jacket. Thomas yowled like a cat, and she tugged her sleeves off in turn, without breaking eye contact with Billy. He couldn’t help but grin back, even as she walked over to Harrington, handed him the cup, and tossed her jacket over the man’s head.

As the crowd whistled, Harrington growled, trying to free himself from the jacket without spilling the cup.

Billy raised his eyebrows, licked his lips, and dropped his sword on the ground. He turned to stare Harrington in the face, peeling out of his shirt and sauntering over to drape it over the man’s arm. Harrington was laughing, his smirk widening as his gaze traced the sweat gleaming on Billy’s chest. The musicians had started again, in the corner—a jig. Billy leaned in close to tug the flower from Harrington’s jacket, and breathed in its fragrance. Harrington watched, mouth hanging a little open, and Billy spun back to the duel, tucking the flower into the curls over his left ear.

The crowd was beginning to chant “Carol! Carol!”—and he could immediately see the difference, as she shoved Thomas out of the impromptu arena with her foot. Her stance was deep and steady without being showy, and she didn’t try for the obvious openings he gave her.

A good opponent was a heady pleasure, letting him show his best side to Harrington, and soon he and Carol had matching grins, circling each other. She was tired, though—her flowing shirt showed the same patches of dried blood as all those who had carried the thrones around in triumph, and she had a purpling bruise along her hairline, from her eyebrow to her ear. The point of her sword drooped a couple of inches, and she narrowed her eyes, sinking her stance deeper as though it had been on purpose. She tossed her sword into her left hand—Billy raised his eyebrows—and wiped her right on her trousers.

“Harrington,” she growled. “Candelabra.”

Harrington spun to the low dais by the thrones, where a heavy brass candelabra's flames were gleaming off the sharp teeth of the monster. He grabbed it, and tossed it to her. The wax sprayed across her chest and face, but three of the five candles stayed lit, and she laughed low in her throat, holding the candelabra in front of her at arms’ length like a buckler.

“My lord is fickle,” Billy protested, flashing a smile at Harrington, who did a weird curtsey with all the clothes he was holding, like they were skirts.

Billy hadn’t had much faith in a lit candelabra as a buckler, but her stance was sure, and it was more effective in her hand than many a buckler he’d seen, turning his blows aside with the slightest tilt of her extended arm. With the candelabra at arm’s length, though, heavier by far than the sword, he could see the barest tremble beginning in her wrist and elbow, and he pressed forward to end the fight. The still-lit candles dazzled him—her, as much as him, he thought, nearly slipping on spilled wax, and parrying her immediate thrust.

He flicked his saber to cut the two remaining lit candles, and one toppled. Carol kicked it off to the side, swinging around to nick the leg of his trousers, and he spun away.

Max whistled with two fingers in her mouth, and the candelabra tinked against the edge of his sword again, just nudging it the half-inch over so the tip went well wide of her thigh.

After the dancing, and the hours, days, and weeks of travel, Billy was growing winded. Her blade nearly took his ear off, and he scuttled backward, as her next swing scraped across the chain of his necklace.

Thomas cheered. “Carol!” he yelled, at the ceiling. “Carol, my sweet, my song!”

She was panting outright now, her arm shaking with the candelabra. The people around them were yelling both their names—Max the loudest, with his.

Billy let her chase him a bit, sidling around the edge of the laughing crowd until she pressed in, baring her teeth in a wide grin, the melted wax hitting his arm and chest as he ducked along the throne to block her swing, and flicked his blade to draw a few drops of blood from her shoulder.

“First blood!” cried the antlered woman, like a bell, and the tip of Carol’s blade hovered in a blur in front of Billy’s left eye. She staggered back, stumbling and dropping both the sword and the candelabra, but Thomas and another woman were there to catch her. Nan Wheeler was leaning against Harrington’s shoulder—but he waited, watching Billy, so Billy picked up the sword Thomas, then Carol, had used, as it rattled across the floor, and scooped up the candelabra. The other antlered woman stepped in front of him to accept the swords, so by the time he reached Harrington, all he held was the candelabra.

“I gift to you my spoils of war,” he said, bowing with every flourish he could manage, and Harrington’s grin widened.

“The Hargrove Candelabra,” he laughed, and Billy stumbled closer, as though the floor had tilted—or Harrington were the kind of celestial body to affect the tides, and the moon, and pull comets around to light his way. Billy was powerless to resist. “Am I your lord or your porter?” he asked, tossing Billy’s shirt in his face, and then his jacket, but his cheeks were flushed, and he flashed a smile. Billy caught his clothes in one hand, and stretched, peeling wax from his pectorals. He used his thumbnail to scrape at the rest. Harrington bit his lip, but drew Wheeler away by the arm, so Billy waved them back to the dance.

Billy allowed Max to pull him away, and thus made the acquaintance of one Lucas Sinclair, a boy who came up and bowed to her. She accepted a dance—though the music was unfamiliar—so he stayed close and showed her, and reluctantly Billy, the steps. After two songs, Max pulled him away into the dancing. Billy watched as she accepted a dance with another boy, and they began to chat. As he watched, she turned to frown at Billy waving her hand up and down at him and rolling her eyes, and then when he made understandably offended faces, she stuck out her tongue.

The boy half-collapsed with laughter, and Billy went to get more punch, ladling a massive ice cube into his glass and tossing back the horrible mix of flavors with a grimace. He was glad Max had come, he decided, again. It was a common thought, recently, but even more deeply felt as he neared the end of his efforts, and his stomach threatened to turn itself inside out every time he opened his mouth.

When the antler crown—Nan Wheeler—stepped away from Harrington again, and he turned away from the dancing, panting for breath, Billy stepped into the space she had left. “Free again?”

“Ha,” Harrington panted. He threw an arm around Billy’s shoulders, leaning into him, and Billy felt himself flush at the proximity to Harrington’s grinning face. “Little worn out.”

“After the heroics of the day?” Billy asked, then realized Harrington was watching Wheeler dance with someone else—the same someone as before, Billy thought, possibly, trying to remember. He looked like a soulful lover out of a painting, staring wistfully, and Billy felt a sting of annoyance at Wheeler, for being beautiful, and graceful, and winning love she didn’t value at all.

Harrington shook his head, turning a somewhat stiffer smile on the world at large, and laughed. “He’s doing a better job lifting her spirits.”

“...I understand that’s your sacred duty?” Billy asked, wondering if a kiss would get him a meeting of steel at dawn, more serious than his earlier sword dance with Thomas and Co.

Harrington bit his lips, and when he stopped, they were pinker, and moist. Billy licked his own, trying to pay attention to what Harrington was saying. “Ms. Wheeler...lost someone, as well. She is—thinking only of the search, until her friend is found.”

“...but she sits aside you, as Queen,” Billy offered grudgingly, disliking the set of Harrington’s jaw. "If you're her many times and future king—"

“I suggested the children sit the thrones,” Harrington said with a laugh, “—so she would not have to choose a King of the Hunt to sit beside her—me, or Byers there—”

Oh ho, Billy thought, eyebrows raised.

“—or maybe she would have left it free, for Barbra. Barbra Holland, the friend we sought. The friend she seeks still. There...” Harrington swallowed, watching the antlers waltz with the elder Byers, and Billy watched the movement of his throat. “There’s no formal arrangement. Between us.” Seeing the muscle work in Harrington’s jaw, Billy tried not to hope.

They didn’t dance long, Wheeler and the interloper—the interloper Billy was grateful for—before stepping away from the dance floor and consulting closely, their faces within an inch of a kiss.

Harrington cleared his throat, and laughed. “We’re—we’re riding out again at dawn. To look for Ms. Holland. They—they’ll be planning, for that.” He didn’t look like he believed his own words, watching the woman Thomas had said he loved, and Billy put an arm around him.

“I think I know the steps, now, if you’d admit another partner,” he said against the side of Harrington’s head, and didn’t press a kiss to his jaw, despite the fascinating trickle running along it.

“I’m tired,” Harrington whispered, watching Antlers Wheeler, and Billy sighed.

“Perhaps some punch?” he whispered back, his entire awareness on Harrington’s weight against him, the smell of sweat, blood, and flowers, and the shiny depth of Harrington’s smiling brown eyes. Whatever the strain of perilous lunacy fermenting in Billy’s blood, he thought, it was a marked improvement on Ms. Wheeler’s, for her to have Harrington ready and willing and yet be disinclined to pluck him like a ripe fruit.

“Today’s been a day longer than some years.” Harrington gritted his teeth, finally looking away from Wheeler. “Might need to sit down.”

“Where?”

“Maybe the balcony? I can dance aft—”

“I hear you’ve a fine hand with steel.” Billy thumped their hips together, his arm securing Harrington as he nearly toppled.

“A better one with a club,” Harrington said with a grin, frank, before nodding at the monstrous head, “—and I was not unaided, in that battle.”

“How is it there are many here, that are not, ah—” Billy’s eyes flicked from an owl in a hat, serving itself punch with the spidery arms it kept under its wings, and then to the grisly trophy between the thrones. “—that I would not call—precisely—I haven’t met many—”

“Fair Folk,” Harrington snorted. “We are invited to their ball, in thanks for aiding them against that villain. They prefer we call them fair, over mentioning what they are not.”

“And Wheeler is also...fair?” Billy grimaced, but Harrington just sighed, casting his gaze again upon her.

“The fairest. Really, it—it was she who felled the beast,” he sighed, hauling Billy around to the side of the head, now dripping silvery, long-legged crabs as though they were blood. He waved his free arm at a cluster of arrows. “—her arrows strike true, no matter which, I mean, whose heart she aims her—”

“Finish that sentence, and I’ll empty my stomach on yon beastie,” Billy cut him off, wrinkling his nose. “Let me distract you. Before you fall out a window, sighing into a rose.”

Harrington laughed aloud. “I think...I—I’ve no dances left in me—”

“Then a fight—” Billy leaned to take the lobe of Harrington’s ear in his teeth, letting them graze over it as Harrington startled. “—or a fuck.” Billy smoothed a hand down Harrington’s spine, and squeezed him through his breeches. “Let me drive you to distraction,” Billy whispered against his ear, and felt Harrington’s skin heat.

Harrington swallowed, staring at him, then flushed, biting his lips. “Wait,” he asked, turning away, and lifting his hand to cover his face. “Wait, wait, wait—you—” He laughed. “The—this set is nearly ended, we—wait,” he mumbled, and Billy nodded, stepping back.

The music paused, the musicians meandering—or floating, or in one case, clambering up the wall and across the ceiling—towards the punch, and in the sudden milling crowd, Harrington pulled him away. They ducked and wove past the thrones, away from the light of the candelabras, and into a darker, narrow hallway.

Next Chapter=>

Completed on Ao3 as peterqpan, but I’ll post the whole rewritten work here! 

#Swords and smooches #Lust at first sight #Billy is overwhelmed by Steve being Steve #Steve's delighted to be swept off his feet by a dashing stranger #monsters #fairies #duels #I'm peterqpan on Ao3 #platypan #platypan FINISHED FIC

[sweetteaanddragons]

Day 5 - Curufin

@feanorianweek

. . .

The first crown he’d ever made had been far from perfect.

He’d had access to all the the wonders of his father’s workshop then, all the tools he could need and the best materials he knew to ask for, and it still hadn’t been enough. He’d only been in the first year of his apprenticeship then, and the result had been predictably lopsided and imperfect.

He’d been out of time to fix it, though. It had been meant as a gift for -

For the only man who could have worn such a crown, then. For the man who had beamed over the gift and worn it out proudly for the rest of the evening, treasuring it as something precious even long after better ones were offered, right up until -

(In the darkness, he had stumbled over something, and his only thought had been terror that he would fall. He hadn’t realized what it was until someone finally managed to light a torch, and he had seen the pale, cold face.)

Presumably, the crown was still somewhere in Aman, gathering dust.

This time, he had none of those advantages. They were still working to set up the forge, and it would be a far cry from what they’d had in Aman even once it was complete.

That didn’t change the fact that this one had to be perfect.

He’d made another. A smaller one, more fit for a prince. The Crown Prince. It had been better. So much better. Perfect gold, wrapped in intricate patterns around rubies that glowed like fire.

There had still been a flaw, almost invisible, but that must have been immediately visible to his - To the recipient’s eyes. His delighted smile had never faltered.

(They had carried him as fast as they could until he ordered them to stop, and Curufinwe would have rather done anything else, because stopping meant he’d had to see - He’d had to acknowledge - )

That one wasn’t gathering dust in Aman. It was somewhere in the trunk of things none of them had yet dared to open.

He hadn’t made another, after. There hadn’t been time. Ideas had come to him, flashed through his mind disjointedly, and promptly been shoved aside. They had seemed glittering in that moment, but when he’d tried to sketch them out, later, he’d thrown the paper into the fire in disgust.

Useless.

Not that it mattered. Not that there would ever be a chance to -

(Maitimo had ridden away with his men. Curufinwe had turned away before he was quite out of sight. Why hadn’t - Why hadn’t he - )

Someone had left food beside him again. He ignored it. He didn’t need food. He didn’t need sleep either, no matter what the voices that came and bothered him kept trying to tell him. He needed to get this right was what he needed, he needed to sketch it out with their precious store of paper and ink so that he could make it right the first time, because history had proven that fixing it later would not be good enough.

He had to make it right.

But none of it looked right. The lines danced before his eyes, and he growled at them. He needed more space, but that useless plate was getting in the way. He’d throw it at the wall if the walls weren’t currently made of canvas. He could throw it at the ground, maybe, and then maybe, finally, finally, he would have enough room and enough patience to get it done, before it was too late, before he ran out of time -

A hand fell down on his shoulder and tugged. “Stop glaring at the food and eat it. Or go to bed. I don’t care which.”

He ignored it. They would go away eventually. They always did, and then he could work in peace.

The arm yanked harder, and he growled warningly.

“Now,” the voice said, and it had the gall to try to take the latest design away.

Curufinwe whirled around and snatched it back, shoving the figure away.

The figure shoved back, and he fell easily, too easily, possibly because the whole tent was spinning, but that wouldn’t stop him from spinning with it and pinning the figure down and punching down, down, down -

Then the world flipped, and he was the one on his back, and it felt like he was shaking, shaking so hard he’d fly apart.

Someone was shouting.

“You don’t get to do this, you don’t get to go away into the dark and disappear, don’t you dare go away in your head like that, don’t you dare, look at me, LOOK AT ME - “

Someone was crying, he realized distantly. Ugly, messy crying.

He thought it might be him.

He let his head fall back to the packed earth and stared up the canvas. He was still shaking, he realized distantly. Still crying.

The noise eased slowly without seeming to have any input from him.

The weight that had been on top of his legs suddenly vanished, and another figure collapsed onto the dirt beside him. He let his head flop to the side.

“Carnistir.” He hadn’t expected that, he realized dimly. Maybe he should have.

Carnistir’s face was even redder than usual.

He was not, Curufinwe realized belatedly, the only one who had been crying.

Carnistir wouldn’t look at him. “Three days of nothing, and that’s what you’ve got to say?”

Cold washed over him. “It hasn’t been three days.”

“It has,” Carnistir said. “You wouldn’t eat. Or sleep. Or talk. You were scaring Tyelpe.”

“So you punched me?”

“You punched me first,” Carnistir reminded him, and he ran a dirt streaked hand over his swollen eyes. “You went all feral over that stupid drawing.”

He looked down. The paper was still in his clenched fist, he realized. He could still see the corner of the picture.

It was nothing but nonsensical lines.

“Makalaure needs a crown,” he said, and it definitely wasn’t an apology. “It has to be perfect this time.”

Carnistir snorted. “Right. Because that will solve all our problems.”

He didn’t reply.

After a too long silence, Carnistir flopped his own head over to look at him, half desperate, half fierce. “You haven’t gone away in your head again, have you?”

“No,” he said shortly.

“Good. Don’t. ‘Cause if you do it again, I’m going to dump you in the lake, and I don’t want to have to carry you that far.”

“Noted.” The ground was surprisingly comfortable, he realized, now that the adrenaline from the fight was fading. And he was so tired.

“And I don’t want to have to explain that to Tyelpe,” Carnistir said, a bit awkwardly. “The you going away bit. Not the lake.”

“I’ll apologize to him,” he tried to say, but it came out as more of a mumble. It might have to wait. He wasn’t sure he could get up right now.

Maybe he could sleep awhile here. Just until the lines stopped dancing around his papers.

And maybe inspiration for the crown would come while he was asleep.

(He woke up still on the ground, but someone had dragged a blanket over him and stuffed a pillow under his head. They had also pinned a note onto the pillow that said in pointedly large letters, NOW EAT.

Just this once, for Tyelpe’s sake, he told himself, and he went to go do as he was told.)

#curufin #caranthir #first age #feanorian week #background character death #grief #unhealthy coping mechanisms #unhealthy methods of jolting people out of those coping mechanisms

[thiswasinevitableid]

Could you do #28 indruck? Or maybe OT4?

#28 was: Mermified. I went with Indruck. Hope you like it!

The rocks on the window start the night he moves in.

He writes it off as an anomaly, or perhaps kids from the town deciding to toy with the new resident.

After three nights in a row, he’s beginning to understand why this house was such a bargain. Yes, it’s a lovely houseboat for one on the Pacific coast, offset from much of the neighborhood for privacy. But every night, small rocks and shells will hit your window, disrupting your already tenuous sleep schedule.

It can’t be a human, because his bedroom faces the ocean, and he’d hear or see a boat or paddleboard or whatever else they used to get there. For awhile he assumes it might be a ghost; his last apartment was actually haunted by a miner who died from the Spanish Flu. They got along rather well, as he didn’t manifest often and Indrid was always careful to leave him offerings or tokens of respect on days like his deathaversary. 

But after scoping the house top to bottom, using a Oujia Board, and just politely asking if there was anyone there who needed to talk to him, he’s disregarded that possibility. 

And tonight, he’s made the mistake of sleeping with the window open, meaning the chunk of bull kelp hit’s him square in the face.

“Oh for goodness sake.” He sits up, sticking his head out the window to glare at the waves.

The waves glare back.  Or, more accurately, a face sticking out of the waves does. 

“Do you mind?”

“Yeah, I mind a whole fuckin’ lot.” The man swims right to the side of the house, locomotion too smooth for there to be legs beneath the water, “I mind because this whole area is under my protection, and this big fuckin house is gonna fuck up this cove.”

He knew there were merpeople along this coast, he just wasn’t expecting to see one up close. Or for it to be so grumpy.

“I’ll have you know I asked for multiple modifications to this house before I moved in. It is designed to have almost zero impact on the marine environment.”

“Uh huh, sure.”  The merman crosses his arms, “you ain’t just sayin’ that to get rid of me.” A flash of yellow light under the water. 

“Well, technically, I am. I would prefer to not have you hurling things at my window every night because you think my leaving is the only way for your patch of ocean to be safe. A strategy, I take it, that worked on my predecessors.”

“Yep. Most left after a couple of days.”

“Most probably had more places they could go. I do not.”

“Ain’t my problem. Never shoulda let them start buildin’ here in the first place; wrecks havoc on the forest.” He glances towards open water, tips of giant kelp just visible in the moonlight. He sounds tired. 

“How about this: you keep an eye on this cove, and if you notice any issues directly caused by my home, I will leave. But if not, you stop throwing things at my window.”

“Fine.” The merman turns, makes to dive under the water, then spins around, “but if I catch you tryin’ anythin’ funny, next time I’m throwin’ a shark through the window.”

The next night brings welcome silence at his window. The day after, however….

“What are you doin’ here, anyway?”

“Good afternoon to you as well.” Indrid doesn’t look up from his drawing; a benefit of being born with odd, future seeing abilities is that he isn’t startled by the merman’s appearance (said abilities don’t function well when he’s sleep deprived, which is why he didn’t see the merman’s initial appearance coming). 

“I mean, y’all can build houses wherever you want up on land. Why live on the water?”

“Because I find it peaceful. I have limited luck living in cities, and have grown used to isolation.”

“Don’t humans have to have jobs? You ain’t left here except once to get food.”

“Spying is impolite.”

“So is livin’ on someone else's turf without askin!” The merman raises out of the water, and Indrid finally gets a good look at him. He has dark hair, mismatched eyes and, just visible, a row of fins like those of a leafy sea dragon dotting his lower back. Ironically, his build is one Indrid finds attractive, a mix of muscle and fat that undoubtedly would feel nice to hold. Were it not for the complication of the tail.

“I am an artist. I draw for a living, hence my ability to live out here. And nobody told me there was a merman living around here, so I did not have the option of speaking to you ahead of time.”

There’s a huff of annoyance, and he barely moves his drawing out of the way of the splash as the merman disappears. 

Three days later, he’s once again sitting on the back deck when he hears, “You ain’t seen an injured seal around, have you?”

“No.” He looks up, finds the merman looking thoughtful as he scans the waves and shoreline, “ah, what does it look like? What color is it?”

“Smallish, speckled grey. Got caught in a net and all torn up gettin loose, but I can’t find it.”

“I will keep an eye out. Should I signal you if I see it?”

“Hmmm….yeah, that should work. Maybe hang somethin’ bright' on that line?” He points to the clothes line. 

Indrid closes his eyes, focuses on the futures.

The merman sniffs, intrigued, “somethin smells good.”

“It’s my lunch. It ended up not quite being what I wanted, you are welcome to try some.” 

The merman grabs the take-out bowl of soup, sipping from it gingerly. His face lights up, and then he gulps the remainder down.

“Damn, that was good.”

“It’s french onion soup. I can bring you more in the future if you’d like. Also, odds are good you’ll find the seal you seek on the beach about a mile that way.”

The merman blinks, “Shit, really? Thanks man.”

“You are welcome.”

The merman hesitates, a flash of white, barely visible in the daylight, zips under water, “Uh, name’s Duck by the way.”

Indrid smiles, “Indrid. Good luck with your search, Duck.”

Duck smiles, bright and friendly as the beach on a hot day, “Thanks.”

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

Indrid awakens with a cry of alarm. It’s only a nightmare, not even a bad vision, and yet he’s so rattled sleep becomes an unreachable goal. Hoping the night air and lapping waves might help, he drags a blanket onto the back deck, laying down with his back to the water. The nightmare pursues him still, setting off a dozen related memories and fears in his mind until he’s shuddering, trying not to cry. 

A cool hand touches his hair and he freezes for a moment before another gasp pushes from his chest, the images flooding his system too much to ignore. The hand continues down his back a ways, then starts at his head once again. 

“Why?” He says, not even sure who he’s asking it of.

“Helps the seal and otter pups when they get upset. Thought it might help you too.” Duck replies, “I was doin’ a night round and heard you yell. Came to make sure you were okay.”

He wants to say thank you, but the words are weighed down by the realization of how long it’s been since anyone did such a thing. 

“You...pet the pups? Doesn’t, doesn’t that make it difficult if they are eaten by something?”

“A little. Sharks got as much right to live as they do, but still, sometimes they need comfortin if their parents are out huntin. Not my job to protect ‘em from predators. I’m just the keeper of the forest. Means I look out for the animals, the plants. Nature does most of the work for me; lot of my job boils down to makin sure humans don’t fuck everything up.”

“It is a habit we seem to have.”

A pause, Duck’s fingers playing gently with his hair, “Not all of you.”

Indrid rolls over and Duck rests his arms on the deck, soft blue flashes coming off his tail. 

“Will you tell me more about what you do?”

“Sure.”

Duck talks and Indrid listens until finally his eyes droop closed. He wakes up hours later, a bit chilly but with the blanket drawn around him. He wonders how he avoided falling into the water in his sleep. Until there’s a soft splash as his nighttime gaurdian slips back into the waves.

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

“Ta dah! No, wait, stay over here. That’s a good boy.” Duck proudly circles the large ray he’s herded near Indrid’s boat as Indrid sits down to draw. Over the last few weeks, he’s brought the human more and more items to include in his illustrations, after Indrid mentioned he was working on a pictures for a book about marine life. 

It started with brightly colored shells or seaglass left on his deck, then Duck would ask for mason jars or bowls to help place a fish safely where Indrid could sketch it. Lately, he’s taken to shepherding larger sea life where Indrid can see it; seals, otters, rays, even a shark. It’s almost as if he’s showing off, and Indrid notices that his tail flickers bright green whenever Indrid flaps his hands with excitement or thanks him for his help. 

Duck visits him every day, even on days when there is no drawing to be done. They talk, or eat together, and Indrid has even hung a hammock out so they can talk well into the night without him accidentally rolling off the deck or Duck having to watch over him until he wakes. Duck can only be out of the water a short time, but he’ll join Indrid on the deck to sun himself, tail bright green and leafy at the “V” that marks the tip of it. When Indrid asks about the lights, Duck explains that they’re tied to his emotions, something to help merpeople signal to each other even in the darkness or murkiness of the ocean. 

Indrid buys a kayak, paddles out into open ocean with Duck as his guide, the merman eagerly showing him his favorite places, introducing him to wildlife, and generally mooning over him whenever he thinks Indrid isn’t looking. 

The mooning is mutual, of course. Duck is funny and kind, easy going now that he knows Indrid is not a threat to his beloved kelp forest. He’s also painfully handsome in Indrid’s eyes, but the futures show scant chances for Indrid to admit this fact without torpedoing the relationship. 

Their laying side by side on the deck tonight, dusk creeping across the sky. In the fading light, he notices Duck’s fins flashing between white and green.

“Are you alright, Duck? You’ve been rather quiet tonight.”

“Uh, um, yeah? Fuck. Uh, you remember me tellin’ you about my friend Aubrey?”

“The one dating the human surfer girl?”

“Yep. They, uh, Aubrey said they finally worked up to kissin. I never heard of mer kissin’ a human and likin’ it before, usually we do it on dares when we’re young and foolish.”

“You seem to be going somewhere with this.” Indrid rolls over, smirking at the future he sees. 

“No, uh, fuch, uh, I mean, would, would you ever wanna try it?”

“With any merperson, or just you?”

“Me.” Duck says softly.

Indrid leans in, cups the back of his head to draw him into a kiss, salt and sun mingling on his lips as Duck moans. Sun-warmed skin caresses his back as Duck pulls him closer, and a cool, smooth tail hooks over his ankles. 

“Indrid, I, I really, really like you.” Duck whispers, kissing a line along his cheek.

“I really, really like you as well, Duck.” Indrid runs a hand along his side, watches his tail light up bright blue at the touch.

“Can, can we try bein’ together? Like Dani and Aubrey are?”

“Of course.” Indrid grins, then gives a muffled laugh as Duck kisses him once more, rolling atop him, wiggling happily as the kiss deepens, Indrid teasing his fingers along his fins to make him whine. 

Then the mer gasps, dropping into the water and coming back up panting.

“Shit, that was close.”

“You were out too long?” Indrid shifts to his stomach

“Yep. Can’t blame me for gettin’ distracted, and honestly I’d fuckin pass out if that’s what it took to kiss you again.”

Indrid bends down, kissing him softly, “no need for such drastic measures yet. But I agree it would be nice to have, ah, dalliances that can last a bit longer. I’m sure we can think of something.”

They try filling the bathtub with seawater, but can’t get Duck to it. Indrid opts to swim, but he’s not a strong swimmer, and any beaches where they could be half in and half out of the water are either too well-traveled or made out of sharp rocks that hurt them both. 

They have some success when Indrid lays on his side, facing the water, to touch himself, moaning Ducks name and telling him just what he’ll do to him once he’s able as Duck frantically kisses him, tail flashing blue and purple. 

But after night after night of longing looks, too-short embraces, and kisses at odd angles, he decides enough is enough. 

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

“Why have you come, young man?”

“I wish to make a deal. There’s something I need you to enchant.”

The man grins, cat-like and hungry, “Very well. But it is going to cost you.”

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

Duck circles the patch of kelp he’s checking for the tenth time. He can’t focus, should just go home and rest, but he needs to keep occupied so he stops worrying about the note he found on the deck two days ago.

Duck, 

Have a problem that needs solving. May be gone several days. Don’t worry, it will be alright.

Love, Indrid.

In spite of the reassurance in the letter, he’s terrified that Indrid might be hurt. Might have left him entirely. 

An unfamiliar shape flits in the corner of his vision, and he turns.

“Holy fuck.”

“Good afternoon to you too.” Indrid grins, swimming to him a bit gracelessly with mottled black and red tail. The red and black fan of fin on his lower back flashes bright green for a moment. 

“Indrid.” Duck says with awe, not quite believing his eyes even as his tail curls around Indrid’s own.

“Indeed. I, ah, found someone who would help me. Help us.”

“Are you, uh, stuck like this?”

He shakes his head, “No, I have a charm” he holds up his wrist to reveal a small cord, “I can go back to being human as needed. But I, ah, I can no longer see the future. I...that was the trade for this.”

“You gave that up just for me?” Duck cups his cheeks, brushes their noses together.

Indrid grins, “Yes. After all, whatever the futures may hold, whatever I can no longer see coming, does not matter half as much as the future I’m holding right now.”

#indruck #mermay fills #mermaid au #indrid cold/duck newton #duck x indrid

[fredheads]

WIP WEDNESDAY (special birthday edition)

i flopped hard and did not write a thing for @fredsythes birthday not a special fic and not even a chapter of my own debauchery that i was gonna pass off as a present real quick so in order to make it up here is an extra long wip wednesday for clown au ft. some real gay ass shit ❤️ 🧡 💛 💙 💜 💚🥰pls enjoy

Harry Clayton came jogging up to them then, no longer wearing the blue uniform of the Church School band. He had replaced his trombone in the Neibolt School music room, and had changed into blue jeans and a cream-coloured shirt. A canvas bag flapped against his shoulder. FP noted, almost unthinkingly, how pronounced the muscles in his legs and arms were. Harry was built more solidly than any of them, even Hal and Fred, who were the biggest and tallest, respectively. 

“Hey,” said Harry abruptly, his eyes sliding over Hiram and FP before landing on Fred. “I saw him,” Harry confided, lowering his voice. “The clown. As we were going up Main Street Hill I saw him passing out balloons to kids. 

“It was the same one you talked about. He had a silver suit with orange buttons. And orange hair. And he was smiling, but… there was something wrong about him. He was facing away when I saw him, but as soon as I recognized him he looked at me. And something about him… it scared me. And the paint on his mouth was dripping. It looked like blood.” 

“I told you!” Hiram suddenly shrieked. He threw his ice cream on the ground and covered his face with his hands. “I told you! It’s here!” 

‘Let’s go,” said Fred quickly. His mouth had hardened into a thin line, and his jaw was taut. He touched FP’s shoulder abruptly, and a warmth flared from the place where his fingers pressed. Fred steered them towards the road. “We should f-find the others. Have you g-got the s-s-slides, Harry?” 

“Yeah.” Harry patted his bag. “My dad’s got a lot of stuff about Riverdale. It goes back a long time.” 

“Why’s your dad care so much?” FP asked. His own ice cream had melted down to a stump of cone, and he threw it on the ground as they walked. 

“He thinks it’s interesting. He told me once it was because he wasn’t born here. It’s like he came in in the middle of a movie and-” 

“He w-wants to see the s-start,” Fred said, and Harry smiled at him. 

“Exactly.” 

They found Hal, Mary, and Alice together at the fence bordering the tilt-a-whirl. Mary had been marching with the Boy Scouts, and was wearing her neckerchief and neatly pressed uniform. Alice was eating a stick of spun pink cotton candy and laughing at something one of the others had said. FP gauged by the exhilarated and terrified look on Hal’s face that they might have spent the morning together. The bigger boy was blushing so badly that FP expected smoke to start spiraling out of his ears. 

“W-We’re g-going to my h-house,” Fred explained. “H-Harry’s going to s-show us the puh-pictures.” 

The smiles disappeared from their faces, replaced by the serious looks of small adults. They walked in a solemn pack through the crowded streets and away from the festival, pushing their bikes by the handlebars. Fred’s house stood vacant and quiet, though music and fanfare from downtown floated very faintly over the tops of the neighbourhood trees. A tattered row of pinwheels turned doggedly in his neighbour’s garden. Fred pulled up the garage door and began setting up the projector while the others pulled up boxes and stools to use as chairs. 

FP stared at a photo tacked above Artie Andrews’ workbench. It was a ragged snapshot of the Andrews family on vacation. Oscar was there, sandwiched between his mother and father with a hand in each of theirs. And Fred was standing at his father’s shoulder, his head leaning against Artie’s arm, beaming at the camera. He looked very young and very happy. 

FP had a fantasy sometimes of telling Mr. and Mrs. Andrews off for the way they treated Fred. In this fantasy he was usually over at the Andrews house, maybe eating dinner or sitting with Fred at the kitchen island. The air was thick and painful, and Fred was trying to talk to his parents, and they were ignoring him. FP could see the tears welling up in Fred’s eyes, and his jaw was clenched like he was trying his hardest to be brave, but he was hurting. FP saw him hurting and it made him lose his cool a bit. 

In this daydream he jumped up and laid into both of them, really blew up and gave them the business. Fred looked embarrassed, a little, but grateful too. He looked at FP with stars in his eyes, like no one had ever done something like that for him before. FP indulged himself in this vision the way he did his dreams of becoming a rock star or a stand up comic in his adult life - it had the same mythical, incandescent quality as those daydreams, though this particular one recurred with frightening severity. 

“You’d better start treating your son right,” he told Mr. and Mrs. Andrews. In this fantasy he also had a strong, gravelly tough-guy voice, like he smoked a pack of cigarettes a day. He was suave. He meant business. “Do you hear me? Oscar’s gone, but Fred’s not. Fred’s still here. And your son is the smartest, strongest person I’ve ever met, and you don’t even know it.” 

His arm would go around Fred, then, wrapping around his broad back and holding him tight. Fred’s parents looked shamed, but FP wasn’t done. No, they’d know when he was done. He was just getting started. “This whole time you’ve been ignoring him he’s been braver than you’ve ever been in your life,” FP told them, and his voice rang out across the dining room clear as a bell. 

Sometimes Artie started to give him some trouble, but FP stopped him cold every time. 

“Don’t make me hurt you,” he would say to Artie Andrews, cracking his knuckles. “I don’t wanna hurt you, but I swear to God, I will. If you make him cry again, I swear to God you’ll regret it.” (He savoured these particular words like spun sugar in his mouth, reciting them sometimes in the veil between dreaming and waking like an actor rehearsing for his opening scene.) 

Fred would pull on his sleeve, but FP wouldn’t be calmed. He was a loose cannon. “I’m not crying,” Fred would say sometimes, wiping his eyes and trying to be brave, and that would make FP hold him tighter. 

Artie always apologized. They both did. “Don’t say sorry to me, you say sorry to him,” FP would order, and Fred would turn to him with those wide, adoring eyes in which FP could see reflected all the stars in the universe, and a tear would tremble on the rim of his lower lashes. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Fred would say when they were alone. He wouldn’t stutter either - FP would have fixed that one up too. 

“Sure I did, kid,” FP said. “You’re my best friend, aren’t you?” 

And Fred would smile at him, a smile that was brave and hopeful and then he would 

(NO! NO NO NO!) 

(yes yes he would KISS-)

kiss FP on the cheek, only here the dream would be so bright and wonderful that FP would come to in a start, would throw it off blushing with his tongue drier than sawdust and his stomach cramping madly, the dream and reality overlapping in lovely translucent strips so that flashes of it were still visible - Fred’s hand on his wrist, Fred’s hot dry lips on his cheek, and then he would leave it entirely with superhuman effort and go back to the start like rewinding a tape, sitting at the kitchen table, telling Fred’s parents that they’d better wise up. 

He got as far as telling Artie off the second time around when he looked up suddenly and realized he was the only one still standing in the middle of the garage. Mary was sitting on a folding chair to his right, asking him what the hell he was doing. FP dropped quickly onto a nearby crate and shook the dream out of his head. 

“Just thinking me thinks,” he said glibly, crossing one ankle on top of his knee and bouncing it, and Mary shook her head slightly and turned away. 

Fred pulled down the garage door, sealing out the light. In the moment before FP’s eyes adjusted to the pitch black, he had a horrible thought. Suppose something reached out of the dark and grabbed his neck, or a set of teeth fastened in his leg? Suppose the clown was behind them all now? Then the projector flashed on, illuminating a square of flat garage wall, and the breath came back to his body. 

“Some of these pictures go back hundreds of years, my dad said,” Harry explained. He was feeding slides into Artie Andrews’ projector, his broad shoulders silhouetted very handsomely in the blue light. “When you all were talking about the clown, I realized I’d seen something like it before. And after I saw it today, I’m sure I recognized him.” 

“You recognized him?” Alice asked, sounding horrified. 

“Look.” 

The slide clicked into place, throwing an outline of a photo on the garage wall. The projection was a scan of a black-and-white ink sketch, showing a clown entertaining a group of children. The children were smiling, but the clown was not. Its mouth drooped down in a sorrowful frown, its eyes gloomy black pits. There was an awful aura about the antique photo, as though the black and white lines radiated malice. 

PENNYWISE THE CLOWN read old-timey writing across the bottom. 

“What’s the date on this?” Hal asked. 

“My dad says this one is from the early seventeen hundreds. Back when Riverdale was just a beaver trapping camp.” 

This phenomenal news rocketed FP into action. “Still is! Am I right, boys?” FP shoved Hiram hard with his elbow and threw a hand up for a high five. Hiram looked at him blankly. Fred frowned. Mary shook her head at him until FP put his hand back down.

#it au #wip wednesday #fred andrews #fp jones #parentdale

[ashwindspires]

[fic] Sani: Stone Secrets (2/??)

follow the ‘fic: stone secrets’ tag for part 1 // check the reboggle

The ashfall hadn’t stayed away for long. When the wind had kicked up, dust devils dancing over the ash-stained sand, Sani had pulled his goggles down and mantle up and pressed on. He’d considered taking wing, catching some of those thermals he had felt spiralling up from the arid plain, but a glance at the sky showed only swiftly encroaching black. The sky wasn’t so much clouded over as it was swallowed up by a roiling billow of ash and smoke. Part of him, the part of him that had grown up listening to stories of travellers and pilgrims and the vicious sandstorms that could sweep Dragonhome, considered stopping.

But though the sun disappeared behind the black, casting everything in a strange reddened shade, and though the wind tugged at his wings and sent sand skirling, visibility stayed... visible. Sani pinned his wings in tighter to his body and pressed on. It was disorienting, at first, the eerie lighting, the strange shadows and heat haze. Time felt unreal, slow and sticky and endless.

So Sani wasn’t certain how long it was before he thought to check his compass rune again. It hadn’t stayed, after he’d begun walking, fading away into the aether or the ground or wherever it was that magic went after it was cast. Sani’d always fallen asleep during the Arcana classes. He settled back on his haunches first, pulling a waterskin out of one of his bags. Three measured gulps only--the pilgrims had always spoken of the importance of rationing your water, even before you needed to. 

Then Sani sketched his compass-rune again, sending the small pulse of magic to activate it with a splay of his fingers. Again, the pale jasper-brown glow. But this time, the rune... wobbled, spinning aimlessly over a shallow arc, the glow swiftly fading. Sani frowned and reached out, prodded the rune with one claw, sending another pulse of magic into it. It flared brighter and this time spun in a swift circle before settling on a direction. Sani frowned deeper. If that was north...

He’d veered off-course. Steered too far... east? Yes, east, the north was pointing a good 10 degrees west of where it should have.

“Oh shards,” he muttered. Well, that wasn’t the worst. He’d just head more west than he had been and it would all sort out. 

- + -

The sun was setting. Maybe? Sani thought the sun was setting. He’d also thought he would have made a road by now, surely, or seen some sign of habitation. He hadn’t expected to make the Sanctum itself today, having disembarked the Singing Scamp when it was already nearing midday, but surely... surely it shouldn’t be this barren.

Soft volcanic rock crumbled beneath his feet, sending his claws skidding back down the slope of scree he was climbing up. He growled angrily and slammed his feet more firmly into the ground, digging into the earth and rock. He squinted through the tinted glass of his goggles. How much further to the top of this slope? He was off course again, he was pretty sure.The wind had died down again, but the thick cloud of ash still hung low in the sky. There was a crack of blue on the eastern horizon, but that was it. And now that seemed to be dimming, along with what light had filtered through the ashcloud. So. Probably sunset. Which meant he really should make camp for the night, however off track he was.

Hopefully those stories that old Snapper had been telling in the skydock tavern about ashwraiths and vengeful fire spirits had been just stories. Sani shuddered. His studies certainly hadn’t said anything about such things, and if there was any truth to them then surely they would have. 

Such thoughts were not as reassuring now as they would have been when he first set out from the Monastery. Sani ignored the little twist of guilt at that realization and shoved both fear and guilt aside with the pragmatics of planning. Get to the top of this hill and the rocky outcroppings and decide where and when to camp. Even in the low light, he’d have a good view. Eat and drink. Shake some of the ash off. Take a really good look at his maps. Meditate, like his teachers back home had taught, though--there was that twist of guilt again--he’d been really bad for forgetting that.

With a last heave and scramble, wings flaring slightly for balance, he cleared the last of the scree and staggered forward on less precarious ground. Towers of natural stone, tall enough to double his not-inconsiderable height, spotted the crest of the hill like a strange stony forest. It did, oddly, look like sedimentary stone, layers visible in pale stripes. Not igneous or metamorphic. Perhaps this would be a good place for camp, here amongst the pillars of good, solid stone.

Sani was wandering through the pillars, contemplating, when he heard it. A sound that was not wind or the soft drift of ash or hiss of sand. Something--there.

Two thumps, and a scraping, like belly-scale on stone. Sani froze, tail lashing. There again, the heavy-soft drag of a body over the ground. Of a very large body. Behind him? Beside him? Sound echoed strangely over the peak and around the stones. Eyes wide, he strained to see in the growing shadows. The pillars, previously so welcoming, now loomed ominously. 

A deep, damp snort from behind was the only warning he got. But it was enough. Behind him. Sani whirled, spiked wing-edges flaring, every spike on his body quivering with tension. Something massive and scaly and horned bellowed and lunged at him, twisting out from a stone pillar. Sharp hooves lashed out, catching Sani on his side but he hardly noticed, eyes locked on the gleaming fangs in the monster’s maw. Instinct had him rearing his head up and back and the fangs clashed shut on only air.

With an angry snort the beast coiled backwards and--yes, it was wrapped around the pillar, scales almost blending in with the grey and black. Ophiotaurus, his mind supplied, ectothermic mammo-reptilian, opportunistic omnivore. 

He’d seen pictures of the things, of course. Precise pencil sketches, stiff lines of grey graphite. The pictures had never told him they were huge or hungry or that their eyes gleamed with a dark malevolence, fangs glittering in the fading half-light, that their nostrils flared with hot breath as they sized up potential prey.

But I’m a Ridgeback! The less sensible part of his mind gibbered. Heavy-weight dragons are the proven apex predators in every environment on Sornieth!

Sani had never been so very keenly aware of his lack of combat training as in that moment. The longer he stood there, the larger the ophiotaurus seemed to grow, and the broader the predatory grin on its face. It reared back, snake-like body seemingly endless, hooves drawing up into its chest and though he screamed at himself to turn to run, Sani couldn’t move. Muscles locked tight, heart racing in his throat, breath coming in short, tight gasps.

And there were scales scraping over stone behind him, swift and slick and oh stones, oh blessed fucking Pillar, there were two of them--

Sani whined, low in his throat, and closed his eyes.

#my fic #flight rising fic #fr lore #sani #fic: stone secrets

[satorutini]

Star Boy (M)| pt 1

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: fluff, angst, eventual smut

wc: 5.2k

note: wasn’t the fic I was supposed to be working on but ended up revising for two hours anyways. a revived fic I wrote in 2017 that i can’t remember if I ever posted or not but I’m actually excited to pick it up again! breaking it into 3 parts for now. Not edited. 

Synopsis: Having fallen into a mundane routine between home and work, you’ve led yourself to believe there isn’t much room in your life for romance. However, fate seems to have other plans in store for you the morning you wake up to a sketch you’d made, come to life - and claiming to be the love of your life.

The life of working in an office was mediocre. Wake up, rush to work, stare at the same four grey walls for eight hours, with the exception of lunch breaks in the staff room, which contained off-white walls and even a cheesy hang in there! poster of that unfortunate cat hanging on for its dear life that someone tacked up above the refrigerator for kicks. It only managed to make the whole scenario more depressing, to be honest. And yet, no matter how dull or how monotonous your life seemed to be, there was one thing you still shamefully clung to, shown in your advocacy in semi casual Fridays, in the carefully organized calendar you kept beside your computer monitor, in the sketch book hastily shoved  beneath a pile of paperwork from prying eyes - your pride. And that was why when your coworker sidled up to your cubicle thirty minutes before the end of your shift with the stupidest proposition she'd come up with so far, your immediate answer was, "Hell no."

June pouts, leaning all her weight over the back of your desk chair so that you roll much too close to the desk for comfort. "C'mon, it's just me and Hoseok and his friend, it'll be fun, I promise!"

"That's what you said last time!" You turn abruptly in your seat with a glare, nearly knocking June over. "I know I don't get out much, but I really don’t think a blind date is the best idea.

“Hoseok said he might not even show up.”

“I refuse to be someone's third wheel. Or fifth wheel. Or fifteenth."

Your friend's pleading look quickly 180's to one of concern. "Have we always made you feel like that?"

You sigh, running your hands across your face, ignoring the way June visibly cringes when you pull back with streaks of mascara across your palms. "No, of course not. It's just that ever since you and Hoseok started sleeping together-,"

"-I said it wasn’t anything serious-"

"-I feel like I'm intruding on something." From the very beginning of your employment, you had spent pretty much every work day comfortably squashed between June and Hoseok, your closest friends and coworkers. The three of you were practically inseparable; the three musketeers, the power team of the company's advertising department. Yet one drunken night about a month ago, when you had left early in the middle of your groups weekly tradition of let's find a cool new way to get plastered in favor of sleep, whatever unspoken tension that had been building between your friends had finally reached its peak. You found out only by calling June the next day to ask if she had seen your jacket anywhere - apparently left behind at whatever bar you had been loitering - only to have a very hung over Hoseok answer the phone, thinking that it was his. What came next was a lot of shouting and screams of disbelief on their end, while you stared at the phone in shock until you assumed it was the appropriate time to hang up (specifically when Hoseok's yelp of pain turned into something that sounded a little too much like a moan). Both approached you on Monday morning red in the cheeks, completely avoiding eye contact. You had promptly swiveled around in your chair to look at June with a smirk.

"So when's the wedding? Can I be the flower girl?"

"Y/N, shut the fuck up."

You hadn't missed the fond smile that Hoseok hid with a duck of his head.

Now, June studies her nails in faux disinterest. “Fine, I'll let it slide this time, but only if you tell me you have something better to do first that doesn't include your sketchbook and a bottle of wine.”

You open your mouth to make up some sort of lie, but the knowing look on your friend's face has you coming up short. You huff. “You're right, I don't. But I'd much rather stay at home tonight. I'll go with you guys next time, alright?”

“Alright,” she reluctantly complies, bending over for a moment to pick up her bag on the other side of the cubicle wall. June hesitates, peeping around your doorway. “And you're sure this has nothing to do with-,”

“Go already!”

Standing to usher her out of your cubicle by the shoulders, you shove her towards where Hoseok waits patiently by the elevator. He gives you an enthusiastic wave. “You coming, Y/N? I heard on the news we���re supposed to be able to spot a shooting star tonight. I know this great bar where-,”

June shakes her head, undoubtedly giving him a sour face out of your view. Hoseok makes a nearly identical pout. You roll your eyes; they're made for each other.

Your friend wraps you a tight hug before waltzing off to link arms with Hoseok. “Have fun on your date!” The elevator doors slide shut just as June flashes her tongue.

Despite your insistence, by the end of the night you had ended up exactly where your friends had expected you to be; curled up on the sofa with a half empty wine bottle and drawing in your sketchbook in the light of your TV.

A feeling of loneliness settles over you like a weighted blanket, makes your hand drag heavy and your lines drawn darker. Somewhere, deep in your chest you know the biggest reason you refuse to stay out with your friends on a night like this is that it hurts too much. More and more often lately you've become more consciously aware of couples; huddled in the corners of your favorite café, strolling down the grocery store isles playfully debating that night's dinner and who's turn it was to cook, sitting hand in hand at the library or just bumping into them at the street. Hell, even your supervisor had just gotten engaged. And as happy as you were for them, it stung to be around. At your age, so many people were already getting swept off their feet and settling down. You wanted that, but with your career finally kicking into full gear, it always seemed like there was no time for mundane things like love. Curling further into the couch cushions, you can't help but think woefully that a little company wouldn't be so bad.

The lines on your sketchbook paper soon enough become the clear image of a man. His expression is somber, much like a reflection of your own feelings. He likes wearing layers, you muse, but draw him in a comfortable hoodie with a rose insignia over where his heart should be, big enough that you could imagine a smaller person sliding into it to share the spaces left beside him. He's not buff, and his legs are a little slim, but he's lean in an attractive way that quirks your lips upward. You give him a mop of black hair, too lazy to search around for your colored pencils and spend the most time drawing out his eyes. They're gorgeous and deep, almost feminine, with a dark, near tired look to them that turns a soft gaze into a rather hard glare.

"Cute," you muse aloud, lightly running a finger across the product of your lonely night. A sudden change of tune on the television draws your attention to the screen. Having left it on the news and forgetting to have changed it, a you watch as a broadcaster straightens up with a plastic smile.

"Tonight on the 10'oclock news, we have sightings of a shooting star-,"

With gasp, you stumble off the couch and make for the window, knocking over the bottle of wine in your haste. Pulling up the blinds, you press your face to the cool glass like a kid in a candy store and wait. Sure enough, within minutes, a streak of light paints it's way across the night sky, over the quiet city. You feel almost childish squeezing your eyes shut and folding your hands, whispering over and over again. "Please, please, please." I don't want to be alone anymore.

 When you open your eyes, the shooting star is long gone, and you suddenly feel foolish. Putting the blinds back in place, you trudge back to the sofa only to moan in dismay. "Dammit!"

The open wine bottle had fallen onto the couch, spilling the remains of the drink into the cushions and all over your sketchbook. Tears prick your eyes as you rush to grab towels from the kitchen. In thirty minute's time you were able to soak up most of the excess wine, but the overwhelming smell of fermented grape still made you wrinkle your nose. Your sketchbook was severely damaged, your latest drawing stained deep purple. Hopeful that they could be saved overnight, you remove your creations from the binding and spread them out one by one throughout your apartment to dry. Running out of space, you place your last one on your bedside table, looking in disdain at the wine stained drawing of your conjured-up companion. "At least I don't have to color," You mumble, thumbing the edge of the sketch where the pencil had smudged at his arm.

Crawling into bed, you can feel the inkling of hope from wishing on that star be swallowed by a growing cloud of discontentment.

 You wake up warm, and uncomfortably so. Sweat dampens the back of your neck. There's a fleeting thought of a problematic AC, but sleep still riddles your bones, and despite the heat, the bed is so comfortable. The added factor that it's a Saturday morning - a whole day to yourself with no work and no worries - makes you feel all the more inclined to stay put. Stretching your legs and squirming a bit, you pause in half conscious surprise when your left foot comes in contact with something solid on the opposite end of the bed. You wiggle your toes around a bit; maybe you'd left your shoes or a book on your bed last night without a clear thought. Deciding that cleaning was a concern for another time, you aim to kick the object off the edge to make leg room. That is until you're suddenly smothered into the mattress by an arm and a leg, lazily thrown over you on top of the comforter.

"Stop moving around already, we've finally got a day off."

You freeze, but more rendered by absolute terror than by the command of the gravelly voice that grumbles just above your ear. Even with the comfort acting as your only barrier, you can feel every bit of weight and bodily heat weighed upon you; his foot between your calves, the knee at your hipbone, the arm loosely wrapped around your waist. The person shifts in his sleep, seemingly satisfied with your compliance. But you're wide awake.

It's a good three seconds before you go into complete fight or flight mode. Kicking away the impeding leg and slipping from the stranger's grasp with a yell. Snatching your phone and the lamp off your bedside table, you nearly yank the plug out of the outlet.

The intruder slowly sits up, bedraggled and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He looks up at you in confusion, quirking on eyebrow as you brandish the lamp at his head like a sword.

"Where's the fire?"

"W-Who are you?!" You glance about the room, searching for signs of any sort of forced entry. Everything looks the same as last night, the drying pages of your notebook scattered across the desk and dresser untouched. Last night…"Oh god," you mumble, pressing your phone to your temple. "How drunk was I last night? Did we…?"

You look back over at the stranger sitting fully clothed and much too familiarly on your bed. The man huffs a laugh, a smug grin on his lips. "I think you would have felt it if we did anything last night." Cringing back into the closet door, you tighten your grip on the lamp. The man must realize that was the wrong thing to say, because he quickly back tracks, dropping the smug expression. "I-I mean when I got home last night, you were already asleep, and I was dead tired so-,"

"Wait what do you mean home?" The lamp feels slippery in your grip; the way he uses the word so loosely as though he had laid a claim to this place for as long as you have. "This is my apartment, this is my home and you're breaking and entering."

The stranger stands up at this point, hands cautiously held in front of him as though facing a frightened animal. "Woah, woah, slow down sweetheart," When he takes a step closer, you raise the lamp, threatening to swing. He immediately stills, wincing at your bewildered expression. "Y/N…"

 "How do you know my name? Who are you and how did you get in here?!" You're on the verge of hysterical at this point, improv weapon shaking the slightest in your hands. Shaken and confused, you want to cry; this wasn't how your peaceful day off was supposed to start. You flinch when the man slowly reaches into his back pocket, only to reveal a basic, black leather wallet. He flips it open to reveal his ID, and you risk a few steps forward to snatch it before scurrying back to your corner of the room. "Min Yoongi, 24," He reads aloud for you. "I'm your boyfriend."

"My-my what?” A shaky laugh works its way through your chest. “I - sir I don't have a boyfriend, haven't had one since college.”

Yoongi frowns and opens his mouth to protest, but you're already tossing him the wallet to pull out your phone. “I don't know what the hell we did last night, but I was obviously very drunk. I'm sorry it has to turn out like this, but if you don't leave in the next ten seconds, I'm gonna have to call the…”

You trail off at the sight of your lock screen, a picture you swear wasn't there the last time you checked - just before you went to bed.

“Did we…possibly go anywhere last night?” You mumble, studying the two faces that smile cheerily back at you. A boy and a girl that eerily looks like you stand under a cherry tree in what looks like a city park, wrapped up in each other's arms, laughing into the camera. “That's not me, is it?”

Yoongi looks up from where he stares hard at the floor and dares to take a step forward. "C'mon, Y/N,"

You shake your head, unlocking your phone to frantically scroll through the camera roll. Much to your astonishment, row after row of two months' worth of pictures of you and him filter in between photos and screen shots that were already there. “That can't be me…”

 The last picture of you is dated back a week ago, a weekend at home that you were sure you had spent with June. That memory now defied with the image of you snuggled into your supposed boyfriend's side. Min Yoongi was knocked out, swathed in a hoodie and snoozing with his mouth slightly agape on what looked like the seats of a subway.

"I don't understand," You whisper, horrified as you thumb through the rest of the photos. "Why don't I remember any of this?" When you get nothing in response, you try for an easier question. "How long have we been together?"

Min Yoongi studies his socks, ducking his head. "About three months." His voice wavers with something that sounds a little like hurt, but his expression is unreadable. Arching a brow, you scroll three months back to discover that he’s right, the strange pictures stop after around the holiday season.

“Okay then…how did we meet.”

“At a coffee shop,” He responds softly and sharply looks up at your disbelieving laugh.

You shake your head. “I’m sorry, that just sounds like the most cliché thing-,”

“It was the fifth café on the street you take to walk to work, the one you stop by on Tuesdays and Thursdays because you normally prefer tea over coffee, but Monday and Wednesday nights are hell at work." Yoongi interjects, face set in determination. "I was standing next to you in line that day. You were asking for the sweetest thing on the menu, and I had leaned over and said you wouldn't have to look too far. You had just laughed and told me to go screw myself.” He mutters the last part with an inkling of a fond smile playing on his lips.

"It was raining," he continues, beginning to move one step closer with every pause. "And your jacket was grey, and your hair was wet. You were late for work that day, but still took the time to buy me an Americano and scribble an apology on the receipt taped to the cup." You're almost toe to toe now, his chest pressed into the top of the lamp shade, and although you should have probably brought the damn thing across his head by now, there's something genuine in the way he talks like it was a real memory that keep you rooted in place. You manage to whisper hoarsely, "I'm never late for work."

It was the truth. Over time your life had become so routine, you had no reason to be late. The proof was in your perfect attendance record.

Yoongi shakes his head. "The next day I saw you, I bought you coffee in return, but you wouldn't accept it until I let you buy me one as well. And after that we just kind of…"

He shrugs, tugging uncomfortably on the collar of his hoodie with one hand and pushing your now useless lamp to the side with the other. "Please, Y/N,"

You stare at him for a moment, brain lagging from shock. His features seem so familiar, but it's hard to put a finger on exactly where you've seen them. The curve of his nose, the shape of his eyes - you want to reach out and trace them with your fingertips just to assure that you're not dreaming, and yet, none of the memories he speaks of, none of the pictures on your phone seem to bring the whole story to completion.

Sliding past Yoongi to make for the bed room door, you set down the lamp and turn to Yoongi with a resigned sigh. "Look, I just…I just need a moment to wrap my head around this, alright?"

Yoongi nods wordlessly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, refusing to meet your eyes. "Just stay in here while I clear things up, please," You stop half way through closing the door to throw over your shoulder, "And don't touch anything."

 June picks up the phone on the last ring, sounding ten time more awful than you feel.

"What the fuck, why is my volume up so loud?"

"June, I need you to answer something really, really weird for me."

Your friend huffs into the receiver. "My dear, it's nine in the morning, I’m not sure I have the energy for trivial shit right now."

"No, no, just hear me out," you protest. Sitting on your living room sofa, you glance every so often in the direction of your bedroom, ear straining for the sounds of movement or opening drawers. "What was my screen saver the last time you saw it.?"

"Fuck, I dunno, the view of the skyline from our floor of the building?" You sigh in relief; so you definitely weren't delusional.

"And have I ever told you about seeing someone? Like have you seen me hanging around with some guy, preferably a little around my height, black hair, deep brown eyes, a little glum looking?"

June grumbles over the phone. "What kind of question is that? No, I haven't - Y/N, are you seeing someone?"

You hear something like bedsheets shifting and a petulant groan from somewhere behind June and almost scoff; Hoseok is there, of course.

"No, no, just-," The sound of shuffling feet and the slide of a dresser drawer catches your attention. Shit. "You know what, never mind, forget I asked anything."

"Wait, what? Y/N-!"

"Tell Hoseok I said hi!"

You quickly hang up and storm into the bedroom, fully prepared this time to kick some ass. What you don't expect is to walk in on a shirtless Min Yoongi digging through your dresser.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

The man looks up, blinks, completely unphased. He holds his shirt in one hand and a drawer open in the other. "I slept in the clothes I came in last night." Yoongi wrinkles his nose. "I was just gonna change while you were on the phone."

"Into my clothes?" He makes sure to give you a wide berth as you approach the dresser. Fully expecting for him to have been going through your sock drawer or something, you nearly reel backwards when you're greeted with the sight of men's clothes, messily folded and shoved into the compartment. Yanking open two more drawers you could have sworn contained extra pajamas and workout clothes, you find the same thing. Flinging open the doors of your closet, you also discover half of the closet space is taken up with oversized hoodies and men's wear.

"Did you happen to shove shit in here while I was gone?"

Yoongi shrugs, and you struggle to keep your gaze above his shoulders. "I live here."

It takes a moment for you to fully process this information, taking in a broad sweep of the room. Nevertheless, here and there are tell-tale signs of not one but two people sharing your space. The newfound clothes, a silver watch much too big for your wrist placed by your jewelry box, a second pair of slippers. A second set of towels and an additional toothbrush in your bathroom. A kumamon mug - which, although cute, is definitely not yours - stored neatly beside your morning coffee cup. Several pairs of sneakers perfectly lined up next to your own shoes. You don't live alone anymore, but with another person, a boyfriend, and the whole set up look so homey and so surreal you can't even stand to be in the apartment much longer.

After kicking Yoongi out of the bedroom to change clothes, you rush out the front door with a short, "I'll be back in a minute," in a desperate rush for fresh air. Except after you've calmed down, a minute becomes the morning, and then the most of the afternoon as well as you find small errands to do to keep yourself busy. Anything to give you a valid reason not to step back into that apartment. As the sun starts to go down and you've meandered around the local grocery store a little longer than you normally would,  you check your phone for the first time in a few hours. June has blown up your notifications, with ten missed calls and a whole goddamn paragraph about stranger danger, interrupted by a few concerned texts from Hoseok. At the very bottom of that list is two missed calls from Yoongi. You don't bother to wonder how he got your number; it probably appeared just as sporadically as everything else did. Reassuring your friends of your safety, you decide you've hid out long enough, and the low rumble in your stomach agrees with you.

The apartment is lit only by a lamp in the living room when you return home to find your new roommate sitting anxiously on your sofa, phone in hand.

"I was debating whether or not I should call you again."

You remain silent, stepping out of your shoes in hopes of slipping into the bedroom without conversation. "I was worried about you."

He sounds so sincere it catches you off guard for a moment, pausing in the doorway. "I just needed some time to think." Yoongi nods in understanding, and for a moment, the two of you hold each other's gaze. This time, you really get a good look at Yoongi, who still wears this morning's clothes and looks so wary and worn out in the dim lighting. His black hair hangs low over his eyes, and for a second you wonder just how concerned he was. Somehow, even worry looks flattering with his features. He now looks up at you expectantly, and you find yourself debating whether or not to join him on the couch. As part of your usual routine, you would have normally spent an hour or two in front of the television to unwind from a long day. Judging from Yoongi's expression, the way he ever so subtly left enough space next to him, in whatever reality he came from, that part of your ritual had not changed. It's almost a tempting offer, to curl into his side and space out for a few moments, to try to shoulder off the unshakable feeling of being a stranger in your own home.

Nevertheless, you retreat to your room with a heavy heart and an empty stomach, making sure to close the door behind you. Even walls apart, his presence is still known to you, tiny bits and pieces of this stranger strewn about your room, fitting together almost seamlessly. Changing out of your day clothes, you sigh at the sight of what could only be his shirts folded neatly beside your pajamas in the dresser drawer. You wonder if the version of you Yoongi knew ever slept in his shirts. The very thought of slipping one on had you shoving the drawer back into place.

"What the hell," you mutter, tossing your jacket over the back of your desk chair. It's only then that you take notice of the black hoodie, also carelessly thrown on the seat. It's simple and plain, much too large to be yours, but when you look inside the neck of the garment what surprises you is that there's no label.

Frowning, you flip the pullover upside down, searching the hem. "Maybe he ripped it off," you muse out loud. Dismissing the oddity, you begin to refold the hoodie when you see it - the rose insignia sketched in the style of your hand, etched into the shoulder of the fabric. Running a finger over the patch, you shake your head in disbelief. "How…"

And then you remember: the shooting star, the spilt wine, the mess you had made of your sketchbook. Hoodie in hand, you cautiously make your way over to the bedside table where you had last placed your latest piece. Searching around the sides of the table, you find the half-crumpled piece of drawing paper having fallen to the floor in your haste to escape this morning. Evidence of the wine still stains the paper in dark red hues, yet what surprises you the most is that the paper is blank. You flip the paper around frantically, searching for any signs of eraser marks or smudged pencil.

"There's no way…" you whisper, looking at your bedroom door as though you could see him right through it. It was impossible, the thought of your drawing coming to life. The very boy you had drawn on a lonely whim, now lounging on your couch with the premonition that he's your boyfriend?

You let out a dry laugh; did the heavens think you were in that much need of company?

Neatly folding the drawing paper, you tuck into the farthest space of the drawer of your bedside table, one place you've discovered has been left untouched by his presence.  The walls seem even thinner now as you settle into bed, far too consciously aware of your new lodger’s presence. Much to your relief, Min Yoongi sleeps on the couch.

It wasn't particularly hard to evade Yoongi, seeing as he didn't seem to exist outside your apartment and the café on the way to work. Your coworkers seemed to have no clue of his existence either, nor any of your immediate family. Coming home after he did was the most painfully awkward part of the day, the two of you falling into a courteous routine of soft-spoken hellos and how was your day's. He never pushed you, always bid you good morning if he happened to catch you before work or good night before you scurried into the security of your room. You could tell it pained him to see you actively avoid him like the plague day after day. Yet despite how disgruntled he may have seemed; his actions spoke louder than words. And little by little you had found yourself drawn to Min Yoongi in a way that some part deep in your heart already knew you would - you had made him, after all. It takes a good two weeks before you venture to join him on the sofa after a day at work. Trudging into the apartment with stiff joints and a headache, the sofa looks all the more welcoming with him sprawled out across half of it, already dressed down in a tee shirt and basketball shorts with one arm thrown around the back while the other props up his head. Yoongi's eyes drag from the television screen to where you loom over him, eyes flicking over your twisting fingers and uncertain expression. You point a bit childishly at the vacant spot at his side. "D-Do you mind if I sit here?"

The man feigns disinterest, turning back to the screen with a shrug of indifference. "It's your apartment."

A little deflated but still determined, you settle into the space beside him, ignoring the way your heart hammers in your chest when your shoulders brush. In all the time he's been here, since the morning you woke up beside him, this is the closest you ever been. And for a split second, you assume your little effort is all in vain until you spot the small smile that tugs at the corners of his lips.

More often than not, you find yourself scrolling absent mindedly through the photos that had appeared just as spontaneously as your new roommate, and had even taken the time to sort them out into their own album on your phone. There were pictures of the two of you – one taken at the local lake; a blurry street side selfie taken by a shaky hand; another in some sort of studio of the two of you sat in front of a large desk, you perched on his right leg, smiling down at him with a set of headphones looped around your neck. Most of the album, though, contained plenty of candid pictures him - asleep on the bus, behind the counter of the café, handing you a drink with a shy smile, capturing him mid forkful of food. It felt as though you were peeking through an intimate part of someone else's life. But it was you in every photo, your hands in his, your lips to his cheeks. A stranger with your face. And you were often reminded of this when Yoongi said something that you supposed was an inside joke that would make you shift uncomfortably or Yoongi duck his head in embarrassment. He was so real in every possible way, with no shortage of his own memories of you. It was hard to believe he was only a figment of your imagination.

You had drawn out the perfect boyfriend - and you didn't even know him.

#bts fic #yoongi fic #yoongi x reader #bts x reader #yoongi fluff #yoongi smut #yoongi angst #bts angst #bts fluff

[justlightlysedated]

for @michaels-blackhat just because 😊💖🖤

1.

Michael sits in the corner of the bar, a notebook open in front of him, a pencil in his hand.

Maria thinks at first that he's writing something, but when he lifts the pencil away from the page and uses his fingers to rub across the page she realizes that he's drawing something.

She itches with the urge to go take a peek of what he's working on, but she gets too busy to even breathe properly with the last rush of the night and by the time that she's able to take a breather, Michael is gone.

She frowns mostly because she's gotten used to closing the bar with him sitting down in his corner, waiting, but also because he usually takes the time to tell her goodbye if he's leaving before then.

She's distracted by Wyatt Long trying to start a fight, and doesn't think about Michael again until later.

She's getting ready to count the money in the till when she spots the paper, carefully folded and pinned to the side of the register.

She tugs the paper from its spot and unfolds it carefully, slightly trepiditious.

She gasps a little surprised at the sketched portrait.

It's of her, and she's laughing at something, mouth curled up in delight, eyes bright and shining, each curl on top of her head defined in perfect precision.

She looks beautiful, almost otherworldly, and it makes her heart skip a beat in her chest, and her stomach swarm with butterflies that this is how Michael sees her.

She bites down on her lip, and carefully folds the paper again, and slips it in the pocket of her jeans to take home with her.

2.

On the days that Liz enters her lab to find Michael furiously writing in one corner, she leaves him alone.

She goes about her day as normal ignoring him as he tears pages and starts over and over and over, until he just makes a noise in frustration and stops for a second.

She feels the prickly sensation at the back of her neck as his attention latches on to her, but it falls to the back of her mind as she gets lost in her work.

By the time she looks back over to the corner he'd been holed up in, he's gone.

Liz frowns a little, but doesn't really think twice about it.

As she gets ready to leave, taking her belongings out of the cabinet she keeps them in, a piece of folded paper falls to the floor.

She bends down and picks it up, unfolding the paper and smiling when she see the sketch.

It's of her, bent over her lab equipment, her hair falling like a curtain along her shoulder, tucked behind her ear, a look of intense concentration on her face.

It's a perfect rendition, and fills her up with warmth.

She traces the MG scrawled in the corner with the date and looks over to the corner where Michael had been sitting.

There are a few crumpled pieces of paper still on the ground and she lets curiosity get the best of her as she straightens up and walks over to them.

She bends down and picks one up and unravels it.

It's half a sketch of someone who Liz doesn't recognize, the fluffy hair tugs at her, but she can't quite put her finger on who it could belong to.

It's only when she opens the others and finds half of a smile and long slender fingers and dark serious eyes, all unfinished like he'd started them from memory and got mad when he couldn't get it right, and she looks at all of them that she realizes who he had been trying to sketch.

She smiles sadly, and debates with herself before crumpling all of the papers together and throwing them in the garbage.

She picks up her bag and slips the sketch he left for her inside as she walks out of the room, turning the lights off behind her.

3.

Jenna sits at Max's desk finishing reports and keeping an eye on Michael as he dries out in the drunk tank on the opposite side of Wyatt Long who is out cold and snoring up a storm.

Michael is sitting with a notebook propped on his knee as he scribbles fast, eyes darting up to her and back to the page like he's afraid that she's going to take the notebook away from him.

She just shakes her head and keeps working on her reports until the alarm sounds out that signals the end of shift.

It wakes up Long, sending him crashing to the floor, and while Michael immediately gets up and edges pass her when she opens the cage, she has to wait a few more minutes for Long to get himself up from the floor and out the door.

Jenna locks up behind him, and ignores his semi-drunken flirting and gathers her things from the desk.

There is a piece of paper folded on top of the case files that hadn't been there when she'd stood up.

She picks the paper up by the edges and opens it carefully.

She can't help the smile that crosses her face when she sees what it is.

It's a portrait of her, and it looks good enough to be something that someone would pay a lot of money for. The rendition is perfect, down to the way her hair was falling out of her braid, and the look on her face as she does the paperwork, which shouldn't make her look this good, but somehow Michael managed to make her look not bored, but determined.

She props the sketch up beside the framed photo of Max with his siblings and her smile turns a little sad.

She leaves it there and gets her things together to head home.

4.

Michael walks into his office and tells him that he just needs some quiet and that he'll stay out of his hair, so Kyle lets him sit down in the large couch he has in one corner of the room, where he takes naps if he's working double shifts, and promptly forgets that Michael is even there.

He gets really busy and by the time he remembers about Michael, it's past lunch time.

Kyle walks back into his office with enough food to feed the both of them, and finds an empty office.

He frowns thoughtfully, but sets the tray down on top of his desk, walking around to sit in his chair.

He's dragging the tray closer to himself when he spots the paper pinned to the corner of his monitor.

He tugs the paper out and opens it curiously and has to smother a smile at what he finds.

It's a drawing of himself and he's talking to a child, bent down to their level as he gives them a lollipop. There is a bright smile on his face, and the stubble across his chin almost looks too real.

He's a little surprised to find Michael's initials in the corner, but it's not really all that of a shock. Michael is good with his hands, so obviously he'd be good at sketching too.

Kyle stands and takes the sketch and tapes it to the wall where he keeps the drawings he's gotten from the children who have been in his care.

5.

Alex walks into the cabin and stops short when he spots a pair of worn cowboy boots still attached to the feet of the person passed out on his couch.

Alex just shakes his head, repressing the fond smile that wants to break out and drops his duffel right at the entrance. He'll take care of it later.

He walks over and can't stop the smile when he sees that Michael has fallen asleep with his hat covering his face, a notebook pressed to his chest.

He's breathing a little heavily, and it gets easier when Alex takes the hat off his face.

He just shakes his head and sets the hat down on the side. He looks at Michael and his hands itch with the urge to touch him.

He finds his hand hovering over Michael's head and then pulls back, shaking his head again and walking with determined steps to the bathroom.

Taking a shower always takes him a while, even when he's trying to rush, so he takes extra time, and tries to remind himself that just because Michael is asleep on his couch doesn't really mean anything.

By the time he makes it out of the bathroom, almost a whole hour has passed, and Michael is nowhere to be seen.

Alex tries not to feel too disappointed as he walks back to his room to get dressed.

He spots the notebook on top of his bed, and it snags his attention immediately.

Alex sits on the edge of his bed, with just a towel wrapped around his waist, and picks up the notebook.

On the cover, on the label where students would put the subject and the teacher, Michael has, #37 and beneath it Alex.

Alex traces the letters of his name, and takes a deep breath before he opens the notebook.

He flips through it quickly and then realizes what it is and starts from the beginning, looking at each page carefully and feeling his heart beating too fast in his chest.

The entire book is full of sketches of Alex.

Alex smiling, laughing, crying, yelling, watching, driving, sitting down across from the flames of the firepit, naked with back arched and mouth open in pleasure. Pages full of just his eyes or his mouth or his hands or his cock.

The last one was of Alex sitting across from someone else, smiling at something they said, but Alex can't quite remember where Michael could've seen him like that, but the longing is clearly visible in every line.

Every single page makes his heart race, and his breathing catch, and fills him with a whole well of emotions too bright and too strong for him to actually be able to handle, right now.

Alex closes the book and sets it aside, trying to just breathe.

He places his hand over the notebook and exhales roughly, before he stands up and goes to get dressed.

#this wasn't what i said i was going to be working on #but the idea kept nagging at me so here you go #michael just sketching the human squad as you do #this is set after the finale #and typed directly into my drafts on my phone #thank you for reading 💖 #malexnotitle