#maybe ill get a day off and go see a ballet or something | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mandoalorian · 3 years

Note

How do you think Max and Alistair would act when the reader is pregnant? Tbh I don’t see Alistair as a jealous sibling he seems too sweet for that

Bundle of Joy [Maxwell Lord x F!Reader]

Word count: 2.2k

Rating: 13+

Warnings: pregnancy, allusions to sex, pregnancy symptoms such as descriptions of morning sickness and loss of appetite, food and drink mention

Masterlist

You sat on the edge of the bathtub, waiting for what felt like a lifetime. You'd been feeling nauseous for the past two weeks. Max knew there was something wrong, but he hadn't been feeling too well either after you both visited a new seafood restaurant in the city. It made sense— you both getting ill. You shrugged it off as food poisoning, and it made sense at first. Max began to feel better within days, but you still weren't yourself. You were throwing up every morning, sometimes as early as three a.m. This morning was the worst.

"Oh honey," Max cooed, rubbing his eyes and following you into the en-suite bathroom where he kneeled by your side and held you as you threw up your dinner from the night before. "It's been weeks, maybe I should call the doctor?"

"N-no," you shook your head, wiping the tears that pricked your eyes and flushed the toilet. Max handed you a paper towel to wipe your mouth with, and dampened a washcloth to rest over your forehead. "I'll be fine." you reassured him, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck as he helped you to your feet and guided you back into bed. He shut out the bathroom light and crawled in next to you, falling asleep within a matter of minutes. You, however, couldn't sleep. You stared at the ceiling for what felt like forever— pondering.

It wasn't until the morning light crept through the curtains and illuminated Max just enough for you to turn over and admire him. His snores were light and shallow and you watched as his chest rose and fell. It was the one time you could see him at peace, before the day consumed him with stress and work. As you took in his features, the curve of his nose and his disheveled dark blonde hair, a thought struck you.

It came out of nowhere. It was something you hadn't even considered. Could you be… pregnant? It would explain the nausea. Your hands cradled your stomach as you furrowed your eyebrows together, trying to work it out in your head. There was no way— you and Max always made sure to stay protected. You don't remember a time where you had forgotten to take your pill… but that's when it hit you. The night of New Years Eve. You had left Alistair with a sitter and it was yours and Max's first night alone together in months. So, you had both got very drunk very fast. The night was a blur, and so was the next morning, but you remembered the sex very clearly— with Maxwell, it was always memorable. Your intoxicated state meant there was no way of knowing for sure whether or not you had taken the pill. There was always going to be a chance that you had forgotten.

You couldn't get back to sleep that morning, the thoughts racing through your head. By 6 a.m., you quietly slipped out of bed, careful not to wake your husband, and padded into your closet, finding a comfortable outfit to change into. You slipped into a pair of ballet pumps and grabbed your purse, throwing it over your shoulder. You walked to the pharmacy that wasn't too far from your home and purchased a pregnancy test. By the time you had come back, Maxwell and Alistair were already awake eating breakfast.

"Where did you go this morning?" Maxwell asked, sounding concerned. You sighed, slipping into the unoccupied seat next to Alistair and poured him a glass of orange juice.

"The pharmacy," you admitted, pointing to the paper bag on the counter. "I needed some fresh air. I got you some more vitamins." you told Max. A little white lie would do no harm until you had figured out what exactly was going on with your body. Maxwell nodded as he handed you the bowl of fruit he'd prepared while you were gone.

You began nudging at the melon medley. It was normally your favourite, and Max knew this, but you had completely lost your appetite. The smell of breakfast and Max's black coffee was knocking you sick again, and you couldn't even touch your food before you had to run to the bathroom to throw up.

"Is mommy okay?" Alistair whispered sadly, looking at Max.

Even Maxwell was concerned. He wasn't sure if you were okay, but he wasn't going to let his son worry about you. "She'll be fine." Maxwell reassured Alistair, ruffling his soft black hair affectionately.

You waited about an hour before you took the test, the anticipation killing you. Maxwell and Alistair were in the other room watching The Little Mermaid and playing with Lego. And here you were, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, waiting to see your result. You had taken Max's golden Cartier wristwatch into the bathroom with you, shakily setting the timer for three minutes. It beeped accordingly and you took a deep breath, slowly stalking towards the pregnancy test that was sat in the kitchen sink. Two lines. Positive.

You were pregnant. You and Max were going to be parents again. You felt tears well up in your eyes as you cradled your stomach, feeling nothing but love for the child you were bearing. You didn't know how you'd feel, but now you were filled with joy and happiness. Of course, the pregnancy wasn't planned, but you knew that no matter what, you'd love this child unconditionally.

Now you just had to tell Maxwell. You fumbled with your thumbs nervously, pacing around in circles. You found yourself checking the test multiple times, making sure it was still definitely positive. Every time you saw the two lines your heart swelled with love and excitement. You couldn't wait to tell Max. There was no way of judging his reaction, but he was your husband and you just couldn't keep it to yourself any longer. You slipped the test in the pocket of your oversized hoodie and walked into the living room.

You smiled when you saw Alistair and Maxwell sitting on the floor, playing together. "Mommy!" Alistair cried excitedly, waving you over. Despite you being Alistair's stepmother, it always warmed you when he called you mommy. Maxwell would always say how you were an amazing parent to Alistair, better than his own blood related mother, and your loving actions made Max into a better father. You were the one who had encouraged Maxwell to spend less time working and more time playing with his son— and now, Max wouldn't have it any other way.

"Hey baby," you smiled. "What are you making?"

Alistair lifted up a multi-coloured and unfinished Lego house. "It's our house!" he exclaimed excitedly. You could barely see the resemblance, but still humoured the six year olds enthusiasm. "Daddy helped but I did most of it."

Maxwell was smiling to himself and you curled your finger, gesturing for Max to stand up and come over to you. He did so, willingly. "Everything okay?" Maxwell asked as you briefly pulled him to the corner of the living room.

"What were you smiling at?" you cooed, flattening the palms of your hands against his chest and smoothing down his shirt.

"I'm just so proud of him," Maxwell revealed with a blush, looking back at his son who was bopping along to 'Under The Sea' from The Little Mermaid. By the looks of it, he was pretending to be Sebastian, waddling around the living room pretending his fingers were crab claws.

"He's proud of you too," you whispered, wrapping your arms around Maxwell's waist and pulling yourself into a hug.

"There's something going on with you," Maxwell sensed, pressing a gentle kiss into your hair.

"You're right," you hummed, pulling away from him but not tearing your gaze away from his chocolate brown eyes. You dug your hand into your pocket and pulled out the pregnancy test, placing it in his hand. "I'm pregnant." you said with shaky exhale.

Maxwell didn't say anything at first. He looked down at the test, his eyebrows furrowed together like it was some kind of complex puzzle he was trying to work out. Then, he looked back at you, the same bewildered look written all over his face. And finally, he looked back down at the test. You wanted to burst into a fit of laughter at his expression. He put the test in his pants pocket and pulled you into a cuddle. "For real?" he whispered in disbelief, happy tears glazing his eyes.

"For real." you confirmed, nuzzling your head into his chest as he swayed his hips against yours.

"But- but when? And how?" Maxwell asked you.

"I'm not sure," you admitted with a sigh. "Maybe New Years Eve?"

Max's smile grew into a grin. "I'm so excited darling," he exclaimed, curling his finger around your chin and pulling you into a kiss. "I know it's not something we've really talked about, but when I see you with Alistair… and I see how amazing of a mother you are… it's hard not to imagine you carrying my child. I knew from the very start I wanted a family with you."

"I was worried," you huffed against your husband's lips. "I was afraid you'd freak out."

"Maybe once upon a time I'd freak out, sure," Maxwell chuckled. "But you showed me what it takes to be a good father. I'm not afraid anymore."

"I love you so much." you smiled, crinkles appearing in the corner of your eyes.

"I love you too honey."

You and Max decided to wait a little while to tell anyone about the pregnancy. You had been to two doctor's appointments, both confirming that you were, indeed, with-child. You even got your first scan, admiring your little peanut shaped baby like it was the cutest thing you had ever seen.

"When are we going to tell Alistair?" you asked during the car ride home from the hospital. Maxwell was tapping his feet impatiently. It had been five months, you had started showing, and you and Max had just found out the gender of your baby.

"I say we tell him as soon as we get home," Max smirked, taking your hand in his.

"It's finally starting to feel real," you sigh with contentment.

"I'm so excited." Max revealed, pressing a kiss into your jaw.

You paid the sitter and grinned as you watched Alistair run into his father's arms. "Mommy! Daddy!" Alistair cried. "I missed you!"

"We missed you too baby," Maxwell grinned, picking his son up in his arms and carrying him into the kitchen. You followed the boys and Max set Alistair down on the counter. "Alistair, we have something important to tell you." Maxwell whispered, taking his son's small hands in his own.

"What is it?" Alistair questioned curiously.

"It's very exciting." Maxwell grinned, nodding knowingly.

"Disneyland?" Alistair gasped and you scrunched up your nose.

"No sweetie, not Disneyland." you giggle and watch as Alistair frowns. "No don't be upset!" you fish into your purse and bring out the sonogram, showing Alistair. "Do you know what this is?" Alistair shook his head, clearly confused. "It's a baby," you explained with a small smile. Maxwell pointed out the peanut shaped fetus and it only made Alistair look even more perplexed. "It's mommy and daddy's baby."

Alistair's eyes shot up and flicked between you and Max, his jaw dropping slightly. "Huh?" he asked and Max smirked.

"You're going to be a big brother Alistair," Maxwell grinned, pressing a kiss into Alistair's hair. "Isn't that exciting?"

"...Me? A big- a big brother?" Alistair bubbled.

"Yes Alistair, you," you giggled, pinching his chubby cheek. "You're going to have a little sister."

"A sister!?" Alistair gasped excitedly, kicking his legs against the kitchen counter. "I'm going to love her so much!" he squealed, his expressions almost animated as he put his hands over his mouth in surprise.

"She already loves you so much too Alistair!" you cooed, wrapping your arms around your son and pulling him into a tight hug.

"We're going to be best friends," Alistair announced proudly. "I'm going to build her a house- no, a palace out of Lego!"

"Oh Alistair, that's lovely," you giggle, helping him down from the kitchen counter.

"I love you baby sister!" he shouted as he waddled back into the living room. You could already hear the clashing sound as he got out the Lego.

You turned to Maxwell with a sheepish smile, your eyes widening slightly when you saw his appearance. His cheeks were rosy and his brown eyes were shiny with unshed tears. "What is it Maxie?" you ask quietly, resting your hand against his cheek.

"I spent so long not knowing what exactly I wanted in life," Maxwell revealed. "But this is it. This is what I was made for. This is what I want. Me, you, Alistair, and our little princess. Darling, I've never been happier."

Taglists— let me know if you wish to be added!

Permanent: @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes @honeymandos @rocketqueen @ladycumberbatchofcamelot @dybalalover10 @girl-obsessed-with-things @elena-myth @moth-guillotine @pedro-pascal-love @hayley-the-comet @pinkninja190 @maxiarapamaya @autumnleaves1991-blog @artsymaddie

Maxwell Lord: @mrschiltoncat

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #maxwell lord #max lord #maxwell lord x reader #max lord x reader #ww84 #wonder woman 1984 #alistair lord #maxwell loranzano

343 notes · View notes

yikesharringrove · 4 years

Note

oh god okay feel free to ignore this if you want, idk? but um ive been really struggling with eating lately (like i just kinda panicked about the thought of eating?) and you're really good at writing all this kind of stuff so maybe billy struggling with eating after starcourt (for medical and mental reasons) and steve helping but still bring gentle and encouraging (totally okay if this is a sensitive for you or if you don't want to write it 💕)

This is pretty heavy.

Under the cut for medical stuff, disordered eating, talks of throw up (nothing graphic), me projecting.

The first bit under the cut is my medical story, so skip that if you would like.

Read on Ao3

So, oof. A little background. I spent three years misdiagnosed when I was young. I was so sick and in so much pain (one of my organs had literally died) that I couldn’t eat. If I did, I was in such severe pain I would throw up. I was 5 feet tall and weighed 62 pounds. If I had lost 2 pounds, I would’ve had an intestinal feeding tube. The doctors thought I just had an eating disorder from doing ballet. They would look at my chart, see another chronic illness I have, and blame my pain on that. They found what was wrong BY ACCIDENT and fixed it within a few hours in one (1) surgery.

So this is based largely on that.

He pushed the mashed potatoes around the plate.

“I thought hospital food was supposed to be like, bad. This is pretty alright.” Steve had wolfed down the plate he had gotten himself, not paying much attention to how the plate he had brought Billy was still full.

“Yeah. It’s okay.” He had taken one bite.

He felt fucking sick.

The thought of food, of something in his sore stomach, made him want to hurl.

“You’re not eating?” Steve’s eyebrows were scrunched up, concerned.

“Don’t feel too good.”

“Would something sound better? I could get you whatever you wanted.”

“Um, just like a ginger ale or something. Then I’ll try eating again.” That was his go-to. Ginger ale or Sprite, the carbonation helped his stomach enough that he could force some food down for a while.

Steve got him a few cans from the vending machine.

He ended up taking three bites of potato.

Steve made dinner when he finally got to come home.

They had decided he would move in with Steve, “live” in the bedroom across the hall, but they both knew he would be spending the most time in Steve’s room.

He had just made buttered noddles, nothing that would be hard on Billy’s weak stomach, but he had made the noodles from scratch.

And Billy was just staring at them.

“You feeling okay?”

“Just, uh, you know. Stomach’s kinda off.” Steve got him a can of ginger ale from the fridge, slid it to him with a bright smile.

The gesture was sweet, but Billy just didn’t want to risk it.

Every night he spent heaving into the toilet, it made his muscles seize and hurt. It made his throat burn for hours, made him feel like he was wasting away to nothing.

He always used the same hole on his belts.

He knew it was the right one from the way the leather was stretched a bit, the buckle leaving indents on it.

But that was too big now.

Did nothing to hold up his pants.

His pants that used to fit.

He tightened his belt.

Two notches. He was two notches thinner.

Billy could hear the blender when he woke up.

He was curious as to what Steve was doing, what the fuck he was blending up.

He came downstairs, found Steve with grocery bags all around the kitchen.

“Hey! I’ve been doing some research.” He poured the thick smoothie into a blender. “I think this might be easier for you to eat and keep down. There’s protein powder and some ginger, that should help keep your stomach calm, and spinach and some fruit and stuff.” Steve was fidgeting with his hands.

“Thank you.” Billy sat down with it.

Steve let him take his time, let him drink it in tiny sips.

He was about halfway through when he threw it all up.

Billy hadn’t eaten in two days.

But he also hadn’t thrown up in just as long.

Steve poked a plate of plain toast towards him.

Billy stared at it.

Steve sighed.

“Will you just, take one bite? For me?”

He took the smallest bite he possibly could.

Steve let him wait ten minutes before he pushed the toast back towards him.

They continued that until Billy finished the toast, waiting a while between each bite in order to make sure it wasn’t on it’s way back up.

He kept it down almost the whole night, until the pain in his stomach flared again and he was heaving into the large mixing bowl Steve kept next to the bed.

Billy was laying on the bed, curled into himself, clutching his stomach.

Steve had been behind him almost all day, rubbing his back, talking in a low soothing voice.

He left when there was a pounding on the door. He left the door open, Billy could hear Max’s voice.

“Jesus, Max. You’re a mess.”

“It’s, it’s raining. And I fell.”

“Why were you skateboarding in the rain?”

“I um, I remembered, whenever Billy felt sick, he liked eating lime popcicles, and I went to Melvald’s, and I got some.”

She sounded hysterical.

“Alright, thank you, Max. Thank you. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He heard them coming up the stairs, going into the bathroom on the landing he kept the first aid kit in.

They were in there for a while before Steve came in, talking in that soft voice he always uses.

“Billy, Max is here.”

It felt like a feat for him to roll over.

Her knees were bandaged up, and her face was splotchy.

“Hey, Shitbird.”

“You look like shit.” He huffed a laugh.”

“Feel like it, too.” Her lip trembled. He didn’t want that. “Hey, thanks for the popcicles. Can I get one? Lime, right?”

“Yeah. Lime.” Steve helped him sit up, gave him one of the popcicles.

It tasted good, and the cold was nice on his throat.

And he even kept the whole thing down.

Steve was standing next to Billy as they waited for the doctor.

He had lost nearly thirty pounds since he’d been home. His muscle was nearly entirely gone.

“Steve, just, play it cool.”

“I will not.” He had his pissed off mom face on, and Billy knew he had no qualms about yelling at a doctor.

“Steve, this is just, my life now.”

“No. I refuse to accept that.”

“You yell at Owens every time we’ve come in for the past four months, Steve.”

“And I’m gonna keep yelling until shit gets fixed.”

There was a rap on the door before Dr. Owens let himself in.

“You need to help him.” Billy huffed as Steve started in immediately.

“Um, good morning to you both.” Dr. Owens looked between the two of them.

“Billy can’t eat without throwing up. Look at him. He’s fucking wasting away.”

“Steve-”

“No. I can’t take it anymore. There is something fucking wrong. It is your job to fix it.”

Owens’ eyes were wide, Steve was on a roll.

“Every day, every day he can’t eat anything. He won’t because he’s in pain, and he’d rather not eat than throw everything up. And you need to help him.”

Owens was quiet.

“Let’s run some tests.”

Billy was in imaging within a few minutes. He had an x-ray done of his abdomen, and Owens ordered several blood tests.

They were in another room, Billy was having an ultrasound done of his entire stomach.

The tech was looking at his intestines, finding everything normal.

“Look, you’re already doing all this, can’t you just kinda, poke around?”

“I’m not sure-”

“Just kinda,” Steve made a vague wiggling gesture around Billy’s stomach.

She gave him a look.

But she sighed, moving the wand up his body.

“Huh?”

“Wait, what’s huh?”

“Um, excuse me.” She left in a hurry.

“Wait, you think they found something?” Billy’s eyes were side.

“If they did, and I was right, you’re never gonna hear the end of it.” Billy rolled his eyes.

The tech returned with an older woman, pointing at the screen and discussing in low voices.

And then the doctor was leaving again, and the tech was wiping his stomach.

“So, we’re going to prep an operation room. We’re going to have you in there as soon as we can.”

“Wait, what?”

“His gallbladder is infected.” Steve was fucking grinning when he turned back to Billy.

“So, I was right?”

“Steve, read the room. Surgery.”

“Oh, fuck.”

Steve was biting his nails.

The chairs in the waiting room were stiff and uncomfortable.

They were given the run down. Billy’s gallbladder had become infected. Probably due to the traumatic situation of his injuries and the many surgeries it took to put him back together.

It was almost completely dead inside his body, causing severe pain and all the vomiting. The doctor had explained that his rapid weight loss had probably only hurt it more.

They said it would take about two hours to remove.

Steve had been staring at the large clock as the two hours clicked by.

It was creeping up on two and a half, and he was getting fucking antsy.

He scrambled to his feet when a nurse called him back.

“You family?”

“Yeah, I’m his brother.” It was easier to lie. He needed to see him.

“He should be waking up very soon. It’s easier if there’s family. His surgery went well, the surgeons were able to remove his gallbladder with no other complications. He may be in pain and delirious when he wakes up, put that will pass, and we can give him more medicine if he needs.” They had stopped in front of a nondescript door.

Steve let himself in, taking the seat closest to Billy’s bed, taking his hand. His eyes were already blinking slowly. He smiled softly when he saw Steve.

“Pretty,” his voice was soft.

“Hey, Baby. I’m right here for you.”

“Thanks for, thanks for fightin’.” Steve smiled back at him, running a hand through his hair.

“Of course, Bill. I’ll always fight for you.”

“Love you.”

“I love you, too.” Billy smiled again. “You feelin’ okay? Need more meds?”

“Nah. Feelin’ good. Feelin’ high.”

“Yeah, they gave you the good drugs.”

“Good drugs.” He laid back in the pillow, his eyelids looking heavy.

“Go to sleep if you’re tired, Bill.”

“Don’t wanna. Wanna see you.”

“I’ll be here when you wake up again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Steve kissed his hand.

#i was literally so skinny the doctor found out i had slight scoliosis just by me like standing there #yikes writes #tw disordered eating #tw eating #tw eating disorder #tw medical anorexia #tw throw up #tw vomit #steve harrington #billy hargrove #steve harrington x billy hargrove #billy hargrove x steve harrington #harringrove #harringrove fic #harringrove ficlet #harringrove drabble

104 notes · View notes

perseusjackson-jasongrace · 3 years

Text

Day 2: “You should probably go home.”/“But I’m already home.”

masterlist

Kingdom Collisions AU (prequel scene): you do not have to read or be caught up on my Kingdom Collisions fic to know what’s happening here

Princess Piper Mclean wakes up to the midday sun and sighs contentedly, stretching her languid limbs until they shake. It is one of those rare days when her princessely duties are non-existent and her mother wouldn’t bug her because she’s not there. She hears the soft chirp of birds outside and peers out the window to see scarlet-breasted sparrows hopping along the branches and singing merry tunes. She loves summer. Everything is always so cheerful and full of life. It reminds her of childhood. A gentle knock sounds at the door and she recognises it as her handmaid/tutor/nanny. Her friend.

“Come in Anisa.”

“Princess,” She smiles, bowing her head with one hand over her chest.

“Hello,” Piper sits up in bed, “I like your hijab.” It is the most beautiful shade of blue, like sapphires in glittering water.

“Thank you.” Her lady smiles, “I have brought you something to eat.”

“Are we classifying this as breakfast or lunch?” The princess teases, knowing her need for order and compartmentalisation.

“Brunch. A truly glorious invention.” Anisa huffs, scrunching her nose at the crack.

“Well thank you all the same. Are you going to join me?” She takes off the silver cover of the tray to reveal berry and cream waffles and a steaming cappuccino with the prettiest leaf design. “Chef Ambrosia is really getting creative with their designs.”

“I’m pretty sure they just have the biggest crush on you and the only reason they haven’t put a heart is because it would be wholly inappropriate.”

The princess just laughs and digs into her meal with vigour. They talk about non-essential things like her dress for the upcoming ball and their various plans for the weekend. Anisa was finally going home to see her children and anyone could see the excitement radiating off her. Now that she didn't have to be a nanny all the time she could actually look after her own children. Finally the waffle is demolished and the cappuccino nothing but froth.

Anisa looks at her carefully.

Piper raises a brow, “What?”

“I have some news.”

Immediately her heart is beating a thousand miles a minute and there is disaster after disaster crossing her mind. “What?” She says again, this time breathless with worry.

“A certain Prince wants to visit.”

She immediately lets out a gush of air, her whole body dropping in relief. And then she registers what her friend had said and her brown eyes go as wide as saucers. The last time she had seen that prince, because undoubtedly it could only be that prince, she had nearly ruined their lifelong friendship by almost kissing him. Now she doesn’t trust herself around him, which means she’s been avoiding him.

“I think you should say yes.” Anisa gives her a pointed look, “He’s worried something is wrong because you can’t woman up and face your feelings. You’re hurting him by avoiding him.”

The Princess groans, scrubbing a hand across her face. “I know, I know. But I just can’t face him without wanting to either make the world swallow me up or jumping his annoying pretty bones.”

“You should invite him to the ball.”

Piper closes her eyes, the sun suddenly too bright, too hot against her sensitive skin. If she invites Perseus she’ll get to see him and reassure him and actually get to spend time with her friend, which she misses, greatly. Her own fault. If she doesn’t invite him she can put off dealing with her ever-growing, constantly-harder-to-ignore feelings and have an embarrassment, possibly rejection free night. The coward’s way out. She is many things, but a coward has never been one of them.

“Okay,” She nods, letting the decision settle in her core, “Let’s invite him. He can stay the night. Hell the week if he wants.”

Her friend claps her hand and gathers the empty dishes and cutlery. “Ill be here to collect the letter this evening to send out for the night post. Don’t be late.” She waggles a finger, ever the mother. “And use the blue wax seal. It’s his favourite.”

“It is?” Sometimes she feels like a terrible friend.

Anisa just winks and makes a graceful exit, her hijab catching in the once again warm rays, and glittering sweetly.

A week later her castle is abuzz with activity: caterers and decorators and various other event planners all running around like hounds are at their feet. There is little more than an hour to the ball and Piper is finally getting around to putting on her dress and swiping a little lipstick on. She fell in love with her garment the moment she laid eyes on it and now that she sees it in her gilded mirror she feels as if every stitch was made with her in mind. A deep maroon fell across her in waves of silk, starting with the string-thin straps over her shoulders, into the straight neckline, and down, down, down to the skirt that flared at her waist and trailed against the pristine marble floors. She buckles gold shoes at her ankles and slips on two small diamond encrusted earrings. With a final glance at her reflection she steps out of her room and into the transformed hallways. There are flowers hanging from the ceilings and stars underneath her feet and she feels as if the world has turned on its axis. Adequate considering it is Summer Solstice which marks the changing. She nods hello to the guests and servants rushing through the passage and then she is outside the ballroom doors.

With a deep breath she smiles at the doorman who returns it before pushing the door open.

“Presenting Princess Piper Mclean of Hanaan.” A loud clear voice says from somewhere to her left.

She curtsies low to the room and then glides down the stairs to greet her mother. All the while her eyes are scanning the room, trying to catch a particular head of black curls, and skin only slightly darker than her own. When her scan comes up empty she hides the disappointment behind a practiced smile and engages in conversation with some duke and duchess. She really isn’t paying attention to anything so it catches her by surprise when a warm hand brushes her waist and the familiar scent of ocean, and wind, and life surround her.

“Sorry Duke,” A charming smile disintegrates her worries. “May I steal the princess away for a dance?”

“Please,” The duke is jovial, waving them away. The duchess smiles that smile that says aw cute young love.

Piper wants to see them through her eyes. But before she can think on it she is being whisked away and planted on the dance floor, suddenly staring up at hypnotic green eyes and that troublemaker’s smirk.

“Sorry for my tardiness Princess. Wanted to make a grand entrance.” Crown Prince Perseus Jackson grins.

She narrows her eyes at him as they sway across the floor, “You overslept your nap again didn’t you?”

He rolls his eyes, stealing a pinch on her side that tickles more than hurts. “Actually I got caught up in the music room.”

Her eyes light up like crackling fire, “Will you play for me?”

“Anything you want,” He whispers and pulls them closer, so her dress is flush against his suit, also made of the smoothest satin.

“How have you been?”

He gives her a look that she chooses to ignore. “You would know if you weren’t avoiding me.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” He dips her, and she thanks the heavens they put her hair up or it would be sweeping the floor.

He pulls her back up and sets a determined gaze on her, “Yes you are. I haven’t seen you in almost three weeks. We’ve never gone that long without-”

“Okay, okay,” She’s never going to win this argument. “Maybe I have been avoiding you just a little.”

“Tell me why.” His voice is soft but his tone is demanding. She loves when he gets like this.

The music speeds up and before she can reply he’s twirling her so fast only the years of ballet are keeping her from dizziness. When she stops abruptly right against his chest she is only faintly aware of the scattered applause.

“It’s not important.”

“It is to me.” Raspy, gentle, caring, raspy, raspy, raspy.

She suppresses a shiver. “I’m planning a surprise party for your birthday and i’ve been a little busy with the details.”

He growls in her ear before lifting her up in a twirl of his own and setting her down, “Liar.”

“Am not.” She huffs. The music speeds up.

They spin, and spin, and spin.

“You are. You used the surprise birthday party excuse every year for something or the other.” A gleam enters his eyes as he dips her and swoops her all the way up until she’s back to looking at his beautiful, angular face. “In fact last year you used it because two books from your favourite series were coming out at the same time and you didn’t want to be disturbed until you were finished.”

She stifles a giggle and looks anywhere but at him, because she will burst out laughing if she sees his judgemental look.

“Okay, okay.” The music reaches a crescendo as he lifts her high above his head, so she can see every patron attending the ball, and the crystal chandeliers hanging like rose bouquets above her. He sets her down and they stop abruptly; the last chord of the violin reverbrates through the room. “But let's go outside.”

She is breathless, his chest is heaving, and the applause is deafening. They are angelic. Percy raises a hand to present her and she curtsies for their audience. The claps get impossibly louder. She maintains a dignified smile, but can do nothing about the beautiful flush of her cheeks as she presents her dance partner who bows low and blows a kiss. The spectators laugh, some swoon, she wants to scowl. She smiles brighter.

And then they're racing outside and into their favourite place to get lost: the Maze of Madness. He laces their fingers together and sprints for the center, diving around corners and cursing at dead ends. She just laughs, her hair coming loose and her princessly state unhinged. She is nothing but sweetness, and flower petals, and summer breezes.

Finally they get to the center where the white stone bench sits, engraved with the words Si vis amari, ama. If you want to be loved, love. Gifted to them before she was an inkling on the horizon by the Kingdom of Caelum. The bench has held many a love story, and supported many a heartbreak. She believes it’s good luck.

They collapse onto it, stars glittering in their eyes and take a moment to catch their breaths.

Percy is the first to break their silence. “So,” he pokes her side, ‘Why are you avoiding me?”

“I was being a coward.”

He turns his body to her and gives her that intense look that simultaneously makes her wince and sets her soul on fire.

She starts slowly, trying to find the words that wouldn’t ruin their friendship but would still make her feelings clear. “I wanted to do something that night in the House of Hope but it might have turned out badly and I didn't want to risk it”

He doesn’t say anything for a while, doesn’t even seem like he’s breathing, so she forces her gaze upwards, to see green eyes burning into her.

“Some risks-” He is just as slow with his words, just as gentle. “Some risks are worth it.”

Percy puts a hand to her cheek, cold fingers brushing her skin. There is a question in his eyes that opens the cage of butterflies in her stomach.

“Kiss me Percy Jackson.” Piper whispers.

His answering smile lights up her every nerve, and when he finally brushes his soft lips against her own, every beat of her heart shudders to a stop. He cups her face in his hands, and brushes their lips over and over and over. Like he’s tasting the barest hints of her. Like if he goes any deeper he’ll never stop. She doesn’t ever want him to. So she laces her fingers behind his neck and keeps him pinned to her and when he groans her world detonates. They explore each other, in languid, deep strokes. His lips. Her tongue. His teeth. Her lips. Their hearts. They kiss like they mean it. They kiss like they’ll never get the chance again. They kiss like this is the meaning of life.

And when they break apart for gasping-interrupting air they are both grinning as wide and bright as moonlit ice. Her lips tingle and she touches a finger to them to make sure they’re still there, working, experiencing what she did.

He chases her hand away and brushes the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “You are so beautiful.”

Before she can reply a messenger rounds the corner, breathless. “Prince, your mother would like you back at the castle. She says it’s urgent.”

“Can it not wait till tomorrow?” He doesn’t bother to put any distance between them as he turns to the young boy. Her lips brush his cheek.

“I’m afraid not Prince, she says it’s a matter of great importance.”

He nods stiffly, and she can see the exasperation trying to escape his lungs. The messenger hurries away and Percy turns back to her, resting their foreheads together, eyes half-closed.

“You should go home,” The princess says after several beats of silence.

He presses a kiss to her forehead. “I’m already home.”

And she cannot help the smile that bursts out of her, like fireflies escaping the glass jar.

“We will continue this again soon, yes?” He opens his eyes, looks at her with all his intensity.

“Yes,” And the possibilities running through her soul float her up to cloud 9.

“Good,” He nods once, captures her lips with his again, and then tugs her up. “Then i shall go home, attend to whatever emergency my mother has and come back within the week.”

“I can’t wait.” Somewhere in the back of her mind, a clock is already ticking.

He kisses her again, like he can’t get enough, like he’s addicted. “You are beautiful Little Dove.”

Her heart squeezes at the familiar nickname. “Come back soon.” She hugs him by his car. “Come home soon.”

“You should come to Mare with me.”

“I cannot. I have to be here for the ball, and besides it’s the Floating in a few days.”

He takes her hands in his, kisses her knuckles. “Then I will be as fast as I can.”

Her eyes are shining with love as she pulls him in and kisses him one last time. He returns it with vigour, promising, promising, promising worlds between their lips.

And when she waves goodbye to the retreating black vehicle until it blends in with the night she decides the bench is in fact goodluck.

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

Tags (if you want to be added to/taken off the tag list all my channels of communication are open):

@nishlicious-01

@leydiangelo

@spoopylucy

#mcjackson #12 days of fanfics #day 2 #pjjg series #pjjg challenge #pjjg fanfic #kingdom collisions #Percy jackson #piper mclean

26 notes · View notes

melodiouswhite · 3 years

Text

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde rewritten - Ch. 61

Chapter Sixty-One: Everyday life

“Ah, Dr. Faust!”, Dr. Lanyon said, “You're here for your appointment?”

“No, I want to learn how to dance ballet”, the German doctor retorted sarcastically.

Lanyon mock-gasped: “What, you can't dance ballet???”

“I don't need it in my everyday life, so why would I learn it?”

“Point taken. Do sit down. So, tell me, how have you been?”

The alchemist arched an eyebrow. “Do you want a typically English answer, or-?”

“An honest one.”

“Breathing is unusually hard lately”, Dr. Faust told him. “Must be the asthma and the permanent after-effects from smoke poisoning.”

“If you don't mind, smoke poisoning from what?”, Lanyon queried.

“The Thirty Years War. Everything was on fire back then. Then there were the witch hunts – I can't even remember how many times they tried to burn me at the stake.”

“Oh my god!”

“The 17th century was that brutal, Dr. Lanyon. Don't mind it.”

“But I do!”, Lanyon protested. “And don't act so nonchalant! If you're not traumatised after those horrible experiences of war, I seriously have to question your humanity!”

Dr. Faust sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose: “It's long in the past. And I'd rather not talk about it to you. I may be able to look into your mind and hear your thoughts, but that doesn't change the fact, that I hardly know you.”

Trust issues. That was something Lanyon was more than familiar with.

“You're right”, he gave in. “Let's talk about it no longer. Right now, the more pressing issue is the surgery.”

Lady Summers was filing her therapy protocols.

A tedious task, but it had to be done.

More than often it took hours to sort everything into her abundant folders, of which some were thicker than the others. The countess always sorted her folders alphabetically and the protocols and notes inside them chronologically.

The one she was working on right now was the newest folder of her friend Victor Frankenstein – it was one of the biggest ones in her archive. After all, he had been alive for almost 130 years, she had known him for over forty years and the man had a lot of issues, some of them impossible to get rid of. Victor was a complete mess (and kind of a tool) and most of it he had brought upon himself. Sometimes Lady Summers couldn't help but question, why they were still friends. Probably pity and a tad of sympathy – they had been through the same torture all those years ago.

With a sigh, she finished filing the newest of her notes and protocols. She would need a new folder for Victor's case and he already had six of them.

All of her friends had several folders, even Dr. Jekyll, who had been her client for only a few months (then again, he had more problems than most of her clients).

Lady Summers closed the file, put it back into the shelf, went downstairs and prepared to go out.

It was Monday evening, when she would habitually visit the local police stations and prisons.

Not because she liked going there, but because the police liked to spare themselves the trouble of actually doing research by employing her mind-reading abilities. They tipped her handsomely for her service and that was the only reason, why she cooperated with them.

But that didn't stop Lady Summers from taking her frustration out on them for not using their own brains. Really, was it too much to ask, that they just did their job and deduced their cases without the help of a civilian?!

Her butler helped her into her jacket, cloak and shoes, Aoimoku handed her her parasol and they went on their way.

Marie would handle everything in the meantime.

When the three arrived there, Lady Summers gave a curt nod to the porter, before entering the building.

Almost everyone in the room turned to look at her and there was some mumbling from one or the other.

“Good evening, inspector Grumman”, she greeted the oldest of them.

Then she turned to the youngest man in the room: “I see, you're new. Well, good evening, officer Joyce. I hope your wife is feeling better?”

She almost laughed at how the young man stared at her for solid five seconds.

But then he recovered: “U-uhm, yes. M-my wife is feeling better, thank you. But how did you know my name and that she was sick?”

She smiled sweetly: “I'm Lady Summers. It's a pleasure to meet you. Anyway, inspector”, she turned back to Grumman. “I assume you have new-”

“Oh, good evening, Lady Summers!” Another inspector stepped forward and she withheld a groan, when she recognised D.I. Blackwood.

“How good to see you, Milady! If I may say, that's an exquisite dress! You look queenly toni-”

“Yes, yes”, she interrupted him, “words are cheap and so are your attempts at flattery. Let's get started, shall we?”

“Thank you so much for your time, Dr. Jekyll”, the woman sighed in relief. “You truly are one of the best physicians I have ever met.”

“Oh, stop it, Madam!”, Jekyll chuckled. “One of these days the flattery will get to my head and I can't possibly let that happen! Who knows, what that would do to my judgement! Anyway, you don't need to worry. It's just a common cold. Be sure to keep warm, drink lots of herbal infusions (peppermint, sage, lavender and ginger, mixed with honey, do a world of good against a sore throat), rest as much as you can and be sure to air the room regularly. But if it gets worse, be sure to send for me. Have a good day and get well soon!”

The woman nodded and saw herself out.

Jekyll took five minutes to air the room, before calling the next patient in.

“Good morning, Mr. Blake”, he greeted the man. “Oh dear, I see the pollen season is taking its toll on you.”

Before the man could answer, he sneezed violently into the room.

The Doctor couldn't help but frown. “Mr. Blake, how many times do I have to tell you to please sneeze into a handkerchief or into the crook of your elbow! It's common decency!”, he added pointedly, when the old man opened his mouth to nag.

This is going to be a long, long, week.

“Alright, Sir Carew”, Utterson spoke to his elderly client. “Is there anything more you have to discuss with me?”

“No, no”, the old politician chuckled. “This is all for now. Thank you kindly, Mr. Utterson. You're always such a big help.”

“It's always my pleasure”, the lawyer replied. “Before you go, I heard that you're going to retire from the Parliament?”

“Ah, yes”, Sir Carew confirmed. “I'm beginning to feel my age, I must admit. I'm planning to retire into the country, once I am retired and my daughter has got married. And once that day comes, I would be happy, if you could assist me in ordering my possessions.”

“I will gladly do so”, Utterson promised. “How is your daughter anyway?”

Carew smiled: “Ah, she is as darling as ever. To be fair, it worries me how many suitors she has. You can never know, if they just want your daughter for her beauty, if they truly love her.”

“Well, I have no children, so I can't really relate”, Utterson stated.

For a second he wondered how an old man like Sir Danvers Carew could have such a young daughter (she was not quite twenty), but then he remembered, that Carew had adopted her.

Maybe my own memory is getting rusty.

“By the way, how is Lady Summers?”, Carew inquired out of the blue, startling the other. “After all, she was quite ill used at the royal gala over a month ago.”

“Oh. Her Ladyship is fine”, Utterson told him. “In fact, she visited her father-in-law in Cornwall earlier this month. She returned to London a week ago, you can visit her yourself, if you wish. I'm certain she will be delighted to have tea and crumpets with you.”

“Oh, wonderful”, the older man cried in delight. “Really, that baron was such an animal towards her! She could have died from internal injuries!”

“Hm, she had the good fortune of several capable physicians being there as well”, the lawyer pointed out (wishing Carew would stop talking about that accursed gala already).

“Indeed. The Lady always had fortune on her side – then again, fortune favours the bold. And speaking of them, how are they? I seem to recall, that they are intimate friends of yours?”

“You could say that”, Utterson confirmed, albeit apprehensively. “We have known each other since our school days, so we're very close.”

“Well, give them my regards and my thanks for being such good friends to you and to the countess. And while you're at that, won't you give my thanks to that young brown-haired man, who saved my daughter from that scoundrel's clutches? What was his name again …”

“Mr. Hyde”, the lawyer supplied.

“Right! Anyway, give him and Dr. Jekyll my thanks. As Lisa's father it put me quite at ease to see two gentlemen help my daughter out without ulterior motives.”

Utterson nodded. “I will let them know next time I meet them. Have a nice evening, Sir.”

Then he saw his client off.

He didn't ask, whether Carew remembered, that Hyde was the very same man, who had almost killed him the year before and if yes, how he was feeling about that.

I will just have to ask Lady Summers, he decided. I pray she will be willing to enlighten me, because something about this is making me anxious.

#the strange case of dr. jekyll and mr. hyde #dr faustus #dr. jekyll #henry jekyll #hastie lanyon #dr lanyon #gabriel john utterson #mr. utterson #sir danvers carew #oc #johann georg faust

6 notes · View notes

polaristranslations · 3 years

Text

The Seventh Box

■ ■

Now then.

The story changed a little bit—when it came to Hakobune Middle School's 66th Generation Student Council led by Kumagawa Misogi (although saying it was "led" by Kumagawa Misogi might sound ironic to those who knew him), when I discovered that I had a predecessor that had been in the position of Treasurer before me, the story changed.

Like a bolt from the blue, perhaps.

At the very least, it was the first I'd heard of it—I'd expected as much from President Kumagawa, but not even my brother had said a word of it. Or rather, it felt like the two of them had hidden that fact from me intentionally. No, no, they weren't just trying to hide it—it seemed that they were just trying to get me to think that I would be the first Treasurer in the Executive Committee.

If that was true, you could say those two weren't a bolt from the blue, but a revolt from the blue[?]—in fact, when I heard about it from Akune Kouki, from General Affairs Manager Akune, I wasn't exactly feeling tranquil inside my heart.

It was unpleasant enough having something be hidden from me, but the feeling of having been deceived was rather strong, too—in hindsight, there wasn't really anything wrong with Kumagawa Misogi's words and actions, his behavior, to the point that I could have simply ignored it. But at the time, I didn't understand President Kumagawa at all, you see.

Well.

It's hard to say that I understand anything about Kumagawa Misogi even now, though... But that's not important right now.

At the very least, I could surmise that President Kumagawa didn't have a particularly deep reason in hiding my predecessor from me—but when it came to my brother, there was surely some sort of deep reason to his concealment.

Apparently, my brother had a lot on his mind.

That was true even now, and I really wanted him to live his life a little more refreshingly—and that goes even for the Flask Plan. If he had come to consult me on the matter at a much earlier stage, then maybe—well, I can't help but think that way, but even if he had consulted me, I likely wouldn't have been able to do anything as a middle school third-year.

Hm.

It's not good that I end up grumbling whenever I talk about my brother.

Not to mention it strays from our original goal—because, Torai Kudaki, what you want to hear is about Kumagawa Misogi's middle school days. Well, for the serious type of person that you are, a guy like him may seem like an alien to you, and perhaps even cool in a way... It's not like I don't understand how you feel.

Although, well, I would deny it.

Right, if I heard that from someone, I would definitely deny it.

Even the me from the past would deny it.

However, it was an unshakeable truth that I entered the Student Council because I had an interest in Kumagawa Misogi—and it was true that, after learning the truth that I had a predecessor, I felt a small sense of betrayal.

Something like betrayal.

Against Kumagawa Misogi, it was a pretty empty way of criticizing him—I guess I should say that, in my first year of middle school, I was still young. It's what they call "youthful indiscretion"—but anyway.

After hearing that from General Affairs Manager Akune, I could say it was the natural flow of things to go and visit my predecessor who went by the name of Chinu Namaji.

■ ■

It probably wasn't even that much of a secret.

With the way General Affairs Manager Akune so nonchalantly mentioned it—as if it was more surprising to not know about it—it surely wasn't some sort of taboo or dark history within the Student Council Executive Committee.

Unlike Hakoniwa Academy, Hakobune Middle School wasn't the kind of school with skeletons in the closet.

It didn't have any secrets.

It was something that the people who knew, knew—or rather, students simply didn't know because they didn't care.

About the Treasurer who had taken up post for but an instant, Chinu Namaji.

Later on, I'd confirmed that not even Zenkichi had known about it—well, regardless of whether we cared or not, it was only natural that new students like us wouldn't know about something like that.

Anyway, I received the profile of that Chinu Namaji from General Affairs Manager Akune.

I had every intention of getting a grasp of every student in Hakoniwa Academy when I became President, but that wasn't something I could do as a new student in Hakobune Middle School—thus, I had no prior knowledge about the student named Chinu Namaji.

Apparently, she was a second year.

In other words, the same year as General Affairs Manager Akune.

Though they weren't in the same class—

That day, after school, I went to Chinu Namaji's class to visit her.

She wasn't there.

I thought that she must have gone home already, but when I asked another student that was still there, it seemed she'd gone to club activities.

Hearing that, I figured that Chinu Namaji must have resigned from her position as Treasurer in the Student Council because she wanted to concentrate on—to devote herself to—her club. With that exceedingly ordinary thought in mind, I headed for where the club activities were taking place, as the other student had told me.

That thought was off the mark.

It was too carefree for something this late in the game—the words "exceedingly ordinary" were not something that could possibly exist in front of Kumagawa Misogi.

The club that Chinu Namaji was a part of was the basketball team.

The girls' basketball team.

I was on the taller end for a middle school first year, so I recalled being scouted for the girls' basketball team in the beginning of the school year—this might end up being a weird way to put it, but I wasn't exactly suited for clubs, so I declined.

Anyway, I'd come to the gymnasium.

Of course, I had no intention of getting in the way of Chinu Namaji's club activities, so I'd planned on watching from afar until their practice was over—but once I arrived at the gymnasium, my plans changed.

The gymnasium was being shared by the ballet club and the basketball team—the boys' ballet club, the girls' ballet club, and the boys' basketball team—but it was different for the girls' basketball team.

It was different, in a way.

Well, you could say the team was playing basketball—but in fact, there was just a single girl using one half of the court, dribbling from the half-line to below the basket and then shooting with both hands.

Her movements were sharp.

But to my knowledge, basketball should have been a team game—well, I suppose that's not something I should say, considering I'd tried to handle the Student Council all on my own.

In fact, there had been a time where I'd attempted a five-on-one basketball game myself, but in this case, there wasn't even an opposing team facing that single girl—it was entirely a one-woman show.

Could that girl be Chinu Namaji?

If I were to believe the words of the student that had told me to come here, then that could only be it—but if that was it, then waiting until practice was over seemed like a bad idea.

Had the other members coincidentally just taken a day off today?

But a coincidence like that was hard for me to believe.

Having said that, as mentioned before, just the other day I'd been scouted for the girls' basketball team—at that time, I had definitely been surrounded by several team members.

It was hard to believe that there was now only a single member of the girls' basketball team—it was hard to believe, and yet it seemed that there was some sort of abnormal situation going on here.

So, I called out to the girl in the middle of practice.

"Excuse me. Are you Chinu-senpai?"

"That's right," she said.

It seemed she'd already noticed my gaze—for that was how she responded.

Even as she responded, her hands didn't stop handling the ball.

At that point, instead of going below the basket, she shot the ball from outside the three-point line—it would have been pretty impressive had she made it into the basket just then, but unfortunately, the ball bounced off the rim and rolled across the court to my feet.

It would also have been pretty impressive if she'd shot the ball with the intention of making it roll over to my feet, but that seemed pretty unlikely. Maybe there was a possibility, but it was more reasonable to just normally think that she'd missed her shot.

"And you are, um..."

As she raised her arms, she—Chinu-senpai—spoke.

"Right, right. That girl that not even that Servant of Destruction-kun could destroy—right? Your name was, let's see, Kurokami Medaka-chan."

It seemed she'd heard of me, too—well, it was less that I was famous and more that Akune Kouki's level of recognition was something to consider.

Speaking of which, even in Hakoniwa Academy, Akune Kouki's level of recognition was fairly high—it seems that, no matter where he goes or what he does, flowers will bloom for him. Well, it was mainly his ill repute that reverberated during his middle school days, so I suppose his turnabout in high school is something to praise.

"Although, even if you weren't destroyed, I heard you'd gotten pretty beaten up. Are you all right now?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Well, there's no need to thank me."

Chinu-senpai smiled wryly.

Well, it was true that it was a bit unusual to say thank you to her here—the term "social etiquette" had a strong nuance of formality, but this could be a good example of how it could become comical when applied thoroughly.

"I was able to take off all the bandages and gauze. I recover pretty quickly, you see,"

I said.

"Is that so... Well, I guess it was Servant of Destruction-kun that ended up destroyed, huh."

As she spoke, Chinu-senpai kept her arms in the air.

What was she doing, I wondered. Should I raise my arms back at her—was this some sort of greeting for sports-minded people? But then I noticed the ball at my feet.

Basically, her raised arms meant that I should return the ball to her.

Just barely managing to realize it before almost embarrassing myself, I picked up the ball with my right hand.

Hm?

Yes, my right hand.

I've never really thought about what my dominant hand was, but it's easier to live in society these days if you mainly use your right hand—ah, is that not what you meant? Huh? Then what did you mean?

Girls usually can't hold basketballs in one hand?

But it's hard to dunk the ball if you can't hold it in one hand, right? I would think it's harder to do it with both hands—anyway, Torai Kudaki, what about you?

It's impossible just from the size of your hands?

It's not like my hands are particularly on the larger side—well, whatever.

In any case, I picked up the ball with my right hand and passed it back to Chinu-senpai with one bounce. The reason I did a bounce pass was because I wasn't sure how strong I should return the ball otherwise.

In the past, when I was in fourth grade or so, I tried doing a chest pass to Zenkichi and ended up blowing him away—Zenkichi likes to say I'm lacking in common sense, but I do learn from my experiences.

"Huhu,"

said Chinu-senpai, neatly receiving my pass and entering into a dribble—I thought she'd try shooting again from there, but instead she passed the ball back to me. With a chest pass, at that.

It seemed like that was the flow of things.

Was she telling me to try shooting the ball?

Since my senior had just missed at shooting the ball, I wondered if I, her junior, should now be the one to take a shot here—but I'm only able to think about that now after time had passed. But back then, without really thinking about it, without really trying to read the atmosphere, I simply threw the ball at the basket.

And, without even touching the rim, the ball went in.

I was standing quite a bit behind the three-point line, but that wouldn't really increase my score.

"Haha. You're pretty good. Have you played before? Perhaps in elementary school?"

Chinu-senpai came at me with that question, so I said,

"I've played most sports before,"

in response.

"But I've never specialized in anything—and I wasn't particularly good at team sports, either."

"I see—so you're a genius, just as the rumors say."

"There is no such thing as a genius in this world."

"It sounds like you've never looked in a mirror."

Saying that, Chinu-senpai went to get the ball—and, from below the basket, she tried shooting again. This time, it hit the backboard and neatly fell into the basket.

"Apparently, in the past, they used to use literal baskets. That's how basketball got its name—but, if you think about it, it's kind of strange. Now—or rather, fairly early on—they changed all the baskets to all be the same uniform hoops, but only the name 'basketball' remains. Even though the baskets can no longer be found in the game, people continue to call it 'basketball' without questioning it. It's weird."

"...Well, I suppose so."

That didn't mean that we should start calling it netball, after all this time.

It's pretty hard to change a word that's been established, and if you consider that the name points to the game's origin, it wasn't necessarily being misused, either. So I didn't think it was particularly that strange.

"However," she said.

Chinu-senpai said.

It seemed that her way of picking a fight with the name of basketball was simply a preface, an introduction.

"Though I do feel that the name has deviated a bit—do you know about this? Kurokami-chan. In fact, basketball is a game that was thought up by a single person."

"Is that so?"

I hadn't known that.

Look, I'm not someone that knows everything and anything.

Or rather, I'd been under the impression that most sports came into existence naturally, forming itself over time.

"Yes, it's true—of course, various rules were tacked on afterwards, but basketball is fundamentally a game that was made up by a single gym teacher. Isn't that incredible? That this game, which now boasts a huge number of players and hundreds of millions of dollars in the American pro leagues, originated from a single person—that's the kind of genius I'm talking about."

Chinu-senpai made repeated shots towards the basket.

She was clearly proficient at shooting from that distance, because, at the very least, her free throws never missed.

"Just a single person that made something that spanned eras, that created eras. That's my definition of genius."

"...I see."

I nodded.

"I understand, that's one way of looking at things. It's true that the thoughts and actions of a single person can have a great impact on the world."

Although opinions would probably be divided on whether that itself could be considered genius. However, for example, if you took a superstar NBA player that everyone knew about—basically, someone universally acknowledged as a genius—even so, if the game itself were to not exist, if the game itself were to not be thought of, then that player would not have the capability to be recognized as a genius.

In that case, perhaps I didn't object to the idea that the person who thought of basketball, which led to the birth of many genius players, could himself be called a genius—of course, I was pretty rejecting of the expression of "genius" in the first place, so I couldn't exactly explain it well.

"Yeah. In the end, eras are influenced by individual geniuses."

"...No, I'm not so sure about that. I would say that it's an exception for basketball, and that for most things, for most eras, they were influenced by the actions of a large number of people—don't you think?"

"To think you'd say something like that, Kurokami-chan."

There, she passed the ball to me once again—I caught it with my left hand.

Hm? Yes, with one hand.

"Aren't you one of those individual geniuses that can change eras, that can create eras?—in fact, you were already able to change the era of this Hakobune Middle School. By destroying Servant of Destruction-kun—by destroying Akune Kouki."

"It wasn't my intention to do something so outrageous, though."

But it seemed there were people that referred to Akune Kouki with the over-familiar name of "Servant of Destruction-kun"—even if she had been a part of the same organization as him, I couldn't help but feel slightly uncomfortable at that intimate, or perhaps casual, way of referring to him.

"Hm. Whether or not that was something outrageous will be decided by history from now on—although, for me, it's already been decided. But even so, the thing about you being a genius is beyond help. From a third-party perspective, it's clearly 'true', but you really hate being called it, being described in such a way—both you and Kumagawa-senpai."

"!"

At President Kumagawa's name coming up—I tensed up.

Right.

I hadn't come here to unravel the history of basketball together with Chinu-senpai.

"Kumagawa-senpai also really hates being treated like a genius—it's true that he's not the kind of person that's particularly smart or excels at anything, but if you ask me, there's no one better fit to become a hero that can stir up the current era."

"A—a hero?"

It was a word that fit Kumagawa Misogi even less than the word "genius".

Still carrying the ball, I lowered my hand.

"Chinu-senpai,"

I said.

"I heard that you worked as the Treasurer under Kumagawa Misogi—but why did you quit? And, what happened to the other basketball team members?"

Basketball was thought up by a single person, but was now a game enjoyed by a great number of people—or so it should have been, but if the basketball team was made up of Chinu-senpai alone, then that ran counter to her earlier words.

"It's kind of hard to answer when you just ask why—and it's also hard to answer when you ask what happened. Because—"

Chinu-senpai spoke.

She spoke languidly.

"People are born without meaning, live without relations, and die without worth. That's why."

Those were.

Words that I had heard somewhere before.

3 notes · View notes

farfromsugafanfic · 3 years

Text

Pas de Deux

Genre: Nutcracker AU, Swan Lake AU, slight Fantasy AU

Pairing: Jimin/Reader

Warnings: mild depictions of violence

Synopsis: When you were just a baby, Herr Drosselmeyer cured your feet. Becoming a dancer, some believe your ability is related to his magic. Even your dance partner, Jimin. Herr Drosselmeyer comes the Christmas Eve night before your performance in Swan Lake, a turning point in your career. After a frustrating rehearsal where you and Jimin couldn’t get the lift right, you find that the nutcracker gifted to you by Herr Drosselmeyer may be just as magical as the man himself.

Note: Hello, Tumblr! I’m Alyce and I normally write on Wattpad, but I decided to start crossposting my imagines and one shots here. And, maybe move towards making Tumblr my main platform. Bear with me as I learn how to use Tumblr. I may change up things or make some mistakes (such as the dividers in this post are likely not centered lmao. Enjoy!

✦✧✦✧

Your godfather only came into your life every few years. He always brought with him gifts from around the world, little worlds on their own. You remembered how on your eleventh birthday he brought you marzipan from Germany, alpaca wool mittens from South America, and sesame snaps from China. He had not come to visit since, although you'd heard of him throughout the years.

He'd made the emperor of Japan disappear for ten minutes. Your godfather turned sawdust into wooden planks in America. But, most famously, your godfather mended your feet.

✦✧✦✧

You were born on the night before Christmas Eve. Snowdrifts reached the eaves and your father had spent most of the day shoveling the door while your mother cried out. Her labor had begun in the early hours of the morning, but neither the doctor nor you had arrived by evening.

The doctor arrived after dark and Herr Drosselmeyer appeared just before ten o'clock. Herr Drosselmeyer rarely attended births in the village, but your mother, despite her sweaty brow and exhaustion cried out when she saw the man.

Herr Drosselmeyer rarely attended births in the village. His abilities were better suited for other matters. Yet, occasionally, a child was born that summoned the magician. Most believed that destiny controlled the man, a truly divine being on Earth. If you asked Drosselmeyer, he would say that he knew all along where he would end up, but there was always a glint in his eye that told otherwise. The man's excitement and surprise astounding even himself.

"I feel your child will dance," your future godfather said. "One of the best dancers in the land. I have no idea why such a thing should concern me." He stood in the corner of the room, his height caused the crown of his head to nearly touch the ceiling.

You were born about a half hour after Herr Drosselmeyer's arrival. Your parents relaxed as you began crying nearly immediately. Their fears that the magician's appearance meant your death or eternal ill health ceased.

"A girl," the doctor said. He cleaned you off and he brought the rag down to your feet and paused. "Herr Drosselmeyer, I believe I understand why this child requires your presence."

Your parents, the doctor, and the magician gathered around you. You already had sprigs of thick hair that stood up on your head and your eyes were wide as if you were trying to memorize the four faces in front of your own.

Your mother gasped when she saw your feet. They curled in on themselves and each toe was crooked at a different angle. You didn't seem to notice, no pain crossing your features as the doctor felt your bone structure.

"The child will certainly never walk," the doctor said. "She's lacking many bones of the foot and I suspect her muscles would never fully develop this way."

Your parents looked to the magician who looked down at you with the same interest he would study characters of an unfamiliar language. His hands replaced the doctor's, except that he placed his palm flat against your heel, the only part of your foot that appeared intact.

"Your observations were astute," he said to the doctor. "But, this child will dance one day, not just walk."

✦✧✦✧

For the first two years of your life, you're told that Herr Drosselmeyer visited you every week. He would place his palms against your heal and close his eyes. You never cried at his touch. Most of the time you simply looked up at him with wide, clear eyes.

For the first few months, he would place his hand against your tiny, slow-growing foot. No magic appeared to take place, but he told your parents he was gaining an understanding of how your bones worked. How they curled in on each other and formed intricate spirals. They were as fragile as a horse's leg, a break of one bone would mean losing all the others.

When you were five months old, it was the middle of spring and you always smiled at Herr Drosselmeyer's appearance. It was most likely because of the chorus of violins that played from the music box he'd gifted you on your first Christmas when you were just two days old. It played music whenever he arrived.

At that visit, what looked like thick, red liquid passed from Drosselmeyer's hands and wrapped around your fragile foot. There were no visible changes until you were one year old when the arch of your foot became visible. You had unusually high arches with the peak of your arch not touching the ground if you laid it flat on the ground.

As expected, you did not start walking at the usual time. You tried, your formed heels and arches allowed you to stand, but your curled toes and balls sent you toppling over whenever you tried to take your first step. Whenever this happened, your mother would rush towards you and make you promise to never try again, yet, you always did.

✦✧✦✧

Just before your second birthday, your parents took you to see the orchestra. As the music started, you sat forward in your chair, your feet kicking outwards. The horns and the flutes and the harp hypnotized you. You hardly realized when your arms swung above your head and you landed on your heels in front of your seat.

Your mother reached for you, but something stopped her as she noticed the natural way you found balance on your heels like a flamingo in water. Surely, balancing on the back of your feet was not the standard form or practice, but there was grace as you brought your left foot up above your shoulder. If you'd had toes, they would've been at a perfect point.

Herr Drosselmeyer came a few days later on your second birthday. As usual, he laid his hands against your arch and heel, the red colored magic encompassing your foot. This time the ball of your foot formed, only your toes remained at odd, crooked angles.

After his treatment, he presented you with the first present you remember receiving. He'd wrapped it in a petite box and it was wrapped in a silk cloth. You opened the box and unwrapped the cloth to reveal a wooden nutcracker.

The nutcracker was about a foot tall. He wore a green colored uniform and black tufts of hair stuck out from beneath his soldier's cap. You looked at his wooden skin and blue eyes, not having the vocabulary to explain how beautiful you thought he was. That night, your mother placed him on your vanity and he stood guard over your bed for the years to come.

✦✧✦✧

Jimin's hands touched your waist as he lifted you higher than you could jump during the first lift of the pas de deux. The move was simple. Jimin holding your waist and lifting you as you lifted your legs in a flowing motion You'd completed it plenty of times with other dancers. Yet, every time his hands brushed your waist, you landed hard on the heel of your foot, occasionally feeling your knee knock, threatening dislocation.

"Damn it, Y/N," Jimin said, "if we can't do this how are we going to dance at all." He ran his hand through his hair. "You need to get a hold of yourself. Focus on the landing."

You scoffed. "I am! You're holding me too tightly!" To prove him wrong, you performed the move on your own, leaping in the air with your legs out in front of you. You landed on your right foot and performed a pirouette only to show that it couldn't possibly be you.

"Your shoes don't even fit right," he said, gesturing down to your ill-fitting pointe shoes. "That's probably causing all of this."

You stayed silent, knowing that he brought up a solid point. Every night you soaked your bruised, raw feet in warm water and soothing salts, sometimes falling asleep in the chair. Pointe shoes needed to fit well, if not for the quality of the dance than to spare the dancer's feet. Every ballerina knew the perils of aching feet and blisters, but non-fitting pointe shoes only made them worse.

"I'm working on it," you said, sitting down beside him and doing some stretches. "You know it's not exactly easy finding shoes that fit."

While your godfather mended your feet by the time you turned four and could begin ballet, pointe shoes never fit completely right. Sometimes, when you pushed yourself too far during practice, you'd see your toes curl inward and you'd feel panic rise in your chest until you were able to extend them on your own.

Jimin didn't say anything more, but you suspected he didn't quite believe you. All of your fellow dancers knew of Herr Drosselmeyer and how he had fixed your feet. Some believed that he was the one who was responsible for your talent, your grace. That when he mended your feet he'd somehow infused an inherent gift for ballet.

You weren't sure where Jimin stood on the rumors. While you were certain that he held some resentment for you, he'd never contested you gaining the lead opposite him in Swan Lake.

"Let's start from the beginning," you said. "We have to get the pas de deux right." You stood up and took the beginning stance, waiting for Jimin to join you. This was the moment that the audience realized that Prince Seigfried is being deceived when Odile is introduced, when the true reality of the story begins to unfold. What starts as a love story becomes a tragedy.

He stood across the room from you and the music started. You bounded towards each other as the choreography dictated. Everything went smoothly as you approached the first lift. Jimin's hands came to your waist and the move was completed. Yet, you still came down a bit too hard on your feet. While you should vary the technique to play the black swan, hinting to the audience the difference in character. Even so, your technique should still be good. You should still appear graceful and lithe like a swan, not coming down too hard on your feet.

"Fuck," you said, leaning down to massage your feet through your slippers. You tied them tighter and adjusted the fit. "Let's go again."

The music started and you ran towards each other again. The familiar feel of Jimin's hands on your waist and the gentle grip as he lifted you in the air. You landed softer this time, albeit it not with complete grace.

"Opening night is in two days, Y/N."

"You don't think I know that?" You sighed and unfurled your hair from its tight bun. "This is the most important dance of the entire ballet. I understand the stakes, Jimin."

Ballet was about pushing your body to its limits. Feeling like your entire body would snap back like a rubber band, your vision going fuzzy because you felt dizzy from turning so many times, your knees constantly bruised. You were going to get this right, get over whatever was causing you not to land a simple lift. You tied your hair back up, tighter this time and glanced over to Jimin.

"Let's practice the other lifts," you said. "We need to make sure we have them all." He nodded as the two of you took your places on opposite sides of the room. You still landed a little shaky on the first lift, but it was getting better. The two subsequent lifts were simpler and you and Jimin completed them without issue.

Yet, the rest of the lifts were more complicated. As you danced on your own while Jimin rounded the room, you dreaded the next one, the one where he lifts you high with his arms completely extended. You needed to have enough force on your jump or else Jimin's arms would wobble. While you required his arms to stabilize you, you were responsible for a majority of the lift.

You leaped into the air with Jimin's hands on your waist, feeling his grip tighten as you reached the peak of your jump and extended your leg outward. As the descent started, you began to shake and Jimin's fingers loosened, sending you tumbling down on top of him.

His chest rose against yours as he huffed and grabbed onto your shoulders and rolling you off of him. Jimin sat up and rested his weight against his palms. "You can't be serious," he said. "I don't think you're ready for this. We'll have to bring in the understudy."

You sat up and met his eyes. "No," you said. "I'll get it. Maybe I just need to eat something." Your limbs were still shaking and you had practiced all day, not remembering when you last ate.

"I do believe I can be of assistance then," a voice said. Your eyes lit up as you stood up and run over to your godfather who stood at the edge of the studio as if he had suddenly materialized in the space without knowing himself.

He carried a bag on his shoulder like he always did and he let it slip off his shoulder as you hugged him. Your godfather always felt a little magical, like touching him would transport you to another world.

"I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow," you said, thinking of the pre-debut/ birthday party you were holding for all the dancers.

"I felt the urge to come a bit early." Herr Drosselmeyer reached into his bag and pulled out a parfait topped with fruits you'd never seen before. "I know it's not my normal treats, but I know you need to eat well before the debut performance."

You nodded and took the lid off the parfait before you felt a gaze on your back. "Oh, Herr Drosselmeyer, this is my partner for the production, Park Jimin."

He approached and your godfather held out his hand. Jimin reached for it hesitantly and shook it. You could see the way Jimin raked his eyes over the other man, having only heard of his myths and never seen the man.

"You two look tired. I won't keep you too long as I'm sure you still have a lot of practicing to do."

"Yes," Jimin said. "We do."

You caught the glass shards in his voice and knew Herr Drosselmeyer did as well. His eyebrow arched in curiosity and his fingers twitched.

"I'll take my leave then. I will see you at your birthday party tomorrow and I look forward to the show." Your godfather left with the wind, you and Jimin blinked as he faded from your view.

You momentarily forgot about your dance partner as you once again grew used to the nearly empty dance studio. Drosselmeyer could make the dustiest rooms turn into fantastical wonderlands.

"Y/N? Are you ready to start again?"

You looked back and met Jimin's eyes which were surprisingly soft. He never normally looked at you like that and it made a spark run down your spine.

✦✧✦✧

"Your guests will be here soon. Are you sure you want to do this now?" your mother asked, pouring the salts and herbs into hot water.

"I have to," you said. "I don't think I'll walk otherwise." Slowly, you lowered your feet into the tub and relaxed as the water stung your red, raw toes.

"Will be okay for the performance tomorrow?"

"Of course," you said. "And, if I'm not, I'll figure it out. Maybe Herr Drosselmeyer can help."

Part of you didn't want to use Drosselmeyer's magic to ease your pain, only giving into the rumors that he was the only reason for your success.

Your mother nodded. "I'll come get you when everyone's here." She left the room with her frown lines becoming permanently etched in her forehead.

When the door shut, your shoulders relaxed and you allowed yourself to enjoy the pleasant hum of the salts and herbs on your muscles. Your eyes wandered to your vanity which held all of your jewels and trinkets for the performance. White feather hair clips for the white swan and a black diadem with a large diamond that dripped onto your forehead when you became the black swan. Eventually, on the opposite end of the vanity sat your wooden nutcracker.

He was turned slightly towards you. He still looked the same as when Herr Drosselmeyer had first given him to you. The green uniform still the color of evergreen trees in winter and his dark hair hadn't fallen out, even when you'd attempted to brush it when you were five.

"Nutcracker," you said. "Will you bring me good luck?"

As always, the nutcracker didn't respond, but something about the juxtaposition of his rigid stance and soft eyes always made you feel at ease. You failed to notice the small difference. The painted ring around the black pupil was no longer the vibrant blue, but the same shade of brown as the vanity itself.

"I don't know why I can't get the lifts," you said. "Maybe I really am a fraud. Maybe I'm only good at this because of Drosselmeyer's magic." Your head came to rest in your hands. "It's too late to give up the part, Nutcracker. What am I going to do?"

The nutcracker watched as you fell asleep with your feet submerged and your head having fallen to rest on your pillow. Inside the tub, your toes curled backward and your heel shifted positions before going back to normal. You seemed to feel no pain as your slumber continued. That, or you were simply used to it.

✦✧✦✧

"Y/N," your mother said. "Your guests have arrived."

You shot up, not realizing you had fallen asleep. Taking your feet out of the water you attempted to stand up, immediately falling onto the wood floor.

"Y/N!" Your mother's hands were on your shoulders and pulling you back up. "You know you can't stand right out of the tub." She helped you sit back on your bed as your feet throbbed back to life. Carefully, you slipped your feet into your clunky boots, which you wore when outside of your ballet slippers. They were heavy, but provided you the extra support to maintain your feet for the performance.

By the time you got down the stairs, you'd gained control and no one could tell you'd been so unsteady on your feet. Your friends, fellow dancers, and family each wished you a happy birthday and good luck on the performance. Hors d'oeuvres were passed around: chocolate-covered strawberries, peanut brittle, and frothy, fruit drinks. You couldn't stomach any of them.

"Have you see Jimin?" someone asked. You shook your head, realizing you hadn't seen your partner. While the two of you had practiced into the early hours of the morning and he'd seemed somewhat frustrated with you, you hadn't expected him to miss the party. Your brow furrowed in curiosity.

Before you could wonder further, all the room's eyes turned to the doorway as music played. You recognized the familiar sound of violins indicating Drosselmeyer's arrival. You smiled.

The crowd gasped as two life-size dolls walked through the door. They were dressed in the costumes you and Jimin would wear during the pas de deux. You watched as they performed the dance that you and Jimin could not, executing the lifts without issue.

Halfway through the doll that represented you, disappeared down the hall, just as you would dance backstage. When the doll re-emerged, the costume had shifted from Odile's black, to Odette's white. The partygoers oohed and ahhed, all taken with the two dolls. Your brow furrowed again.

✦✧✦✧

The festivities ended and the exhaustion settled into your limbs. Climbing the stairs to your room, a chill came over you. You sighed, opening the door to your room.

Inside, your things lay ransacked. Clothes strewn around the room, your bed covers lay on the floor, necklaces broken with their pearls spread out across the room. Everything on your vanity was missing, except for the nutcracker. The little soldier had fallen on his side and you grabbed his hat and gently stood him back up.

"Attack!" A shout rang out with the nutcracker still in your grasp. You fell backward, the nutcracker tumbling with you.

✦✧✦✧

When you opened your eyes, you were sprawled on the wood of your bedroom floor. But it was not your bedroom that surrounded you. Tall pine trees erupted from the ground beneath your back and snow seeped through the cloth of your dress. You shudder as the cold reached your skin, causing you to sit up.

"Stay down."

Your back hit the snow.

You turned to see Jimin standing above you, a sword at his hip and wearing a soldier's uniform. The uniform was a little big. The sleeves ended just below the wrist and the coat dwarfed his hips, even the hat lay lopsided.

It was then you saw the brightly colored gumdrop come towards you. It landed with a loud bang a few yards away, snow and pine needles flying into the area. The ground shook beneath you and you spotted all the soldiers in the distance. Gingerbread men?

"Y/N?" Jimin's voice was hushed as if the two of you were hidden. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," you said. "Where are we?"

"I don't know."

The gingerbread soldiers drew closer and you spotted another army in the distance. This one made of rats who stood on two legs. At the back of their convoy, the king sat on a palanquin, looking as if he were sailing on a sea of his soldiers.

Swords clashed. You stood up, ready to run. Only to tumble back down into the snow. You knew your feet were failing you and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.

"Jimin, I can't run."

His dark eyes met yours and it was then you recognized them. They were the eyes of the nutcracker from the night before, looking at you and begging you to notice.

"It's okay," he said, drawing the sword from his belt. He held it awkwardly in his hand and his palm barely wrapped around the girth of the hilt. "It's just like dancing."

A rock sat in your stomach as you watched your dance partner stand in front of you with the tip of the sword pointed diagonally towards the snow.

Before any words of protest could come out of your mouth, the fight began. Jimin's sword clashing with a gingerbread soldier's. Another soldier approached you and you kicked at him, knocking it to the ground. Using the strength you had, you brought your feet down on the cookie's chest, breaking it in half.

With your attacker no longer a threat, you turned to find Jimin still clashing swords with the gingerbread soldier. The cookie had taken a few hits, frosting leaking from his wounds. Jimin's sword swung and sliced off the soldier's right arm. The candy sword falling to into the snow, turning it a faint pink. With one final swipe, the soldier crumbled.

Hope swelled in your heart at his first success. You shuffled your legs, trying to stand up. You couldn't feel your feet, as if they were frozen.

Just past Jimin, the rat soldiers battled the gingerbread men. The rats devoured the soldiers until they were crumbs in the snow. At first, you believe the rats would provide a reprieve. They decimated the gingerbread soldiers with ease.

Your hopes were dashed as one of the rats swung at Jimin, cutting through the fabric of his shirt. His shoulder staining a deep red. You noticed the small golden crown sitting on the rat's head. The Rat King.

"Jimin!" You tried your best to stand, making it to your feet for a few seconds before falling over again. This time you landed on your stomach and you crawled towards the battlefield. While your feet certainly hurt often and caused you to fall, you'd never experienced this.

What did the Rat King want with Jimin? The two of you suddenly thrust into the fight. Although, it was

At the call of his name, Jimin looked back at you, causing the rat to slice at him again. The slice hit his chest this time, more blood seeping through the deep green uniform. He fell to his knees and the rat raised his sword above his ears.

"No!" You twisted to sit straight in the snow and you unlaced your boot as quickly as you could. Your fingers were stiff and wet, but you managed to untie the lace of your right boot and fling it at the Rat King.

The heavy leather boot hit the King's head, knocking off his crown. It took a few moments, but the Rat King fell back in the snow. Red stained the snow around him, but his whiskers still twitched.

Jimin--despite his injured form--took the opportunity and picked up the sword and brought it down swiftly. The Rat King was dead.

✦✧✦✧

The rest of the rats retreated after their king was killed. While the feeling in your feet hadn't returned, you shuffled on your knees to Jimin. He'd collapsed on his back and his chest rose and fell quickly.

"Hey," you said. "Steady your breaths. Come on, like you do when you dance. Count." You started counting and following the beat as you examined the cuts. The one on his shoulder was mostly superficial and the bleeding already slowing. Blood still flowed from the one across his chest and you pulled up his shirt to see it was much deeper than it looked.

You bit your lip, not sure where to start. While you were in a pine forest covered with snow, your bedroom was still beneath you. If it was still in its ransacked state, you knew you could easily find something to stop the bleeding. Digging through the snow, your hand eventually landed on fabric and you pulled it up.

It was the white swan costume. While the outside was covered in beading and feathers, the inside was soft silk. You turned it inside out and held it firmly against your lap, ready to rip the fabric when Jimin's hand grabbed your wrist.

"No," he said, his voice labored and sweat sticking to the ends of his hair. "You need that for tomorrow."

"Jimin, I need you for tomorrow."

You winced as you heard a ripping sound. You'd managed to remove half the lining. Pressing it down on Jimin's wound, it immediately became soaked.

"Y/N," he said. "I'm sorry."

You paused, meeting his eyes.

"For what?"

"For not believing you."

You shook your head. "Forget it, Jimin," you said. "You're going to die if I don't stop the bleeding."

"I don't even think this is real. One minute I'm going to bed and the next I'm your nutcracker. And, then I'm battling gingerbread men and mice. Y/N, do you think it's him?"

He didn't need to clarify for you to know who he meant. Herr Drosselmeyer. While you hadn't had time to stop and think about how you ended up here, the only explanation was magic. And when there was magic in your life, it always traced back to your godfather.

"I don't know."

The fabric was saturated now and blood covered your hands. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, knowing there was nothing more you could do. Even if he didn't say anything, Jimin faded fast. His eyelids drooped and sweat mixed with blood.

"Jimin, you can't leave me like this," you said. "We're going to debut tomorrow. We're going to get all the lifts right. We'll get a standing ovation. They'll pick up our production for a world tour. You can't die. Jimin, please."

"Y/N, stop." He placed his hands over your own. "It's okay. Everything will be okay. You're going to do great tomorrow." His breaths slowed and your own picked up.

"No, no, Jimin. I can't let this happen."

"Shhh." His hand came to your cheek. "It's like the end of the show. Just don't jump in after me, okay?"

His eyes closed. His breathing stopped. And the feeling and your feet came back.

✦✧✦✧

"What is this, child?"

You lifted your head. You'd stayed on your knees by Jimin's side, your head resting on his chest. Tear tracks stained your face and your eyes red. A woman stood above you. Her bright red hair contrasted with the purple ball gown she wore.

"What happened, my sweet?"

"The gingerbread soldiers and the rat king and I couldn't run--"

The woman smiled. "You have no reason to cry. Valiant death is always rewarded." She crouched down beside you and Jimin. She held out something and you soon noticed it was a small, round plum. "Split it between the two of you."

The woman disappeared when you blinked, much like how Drosselmeyer was prone to do. You looked down at the small fruit and bit into it. The purple juice ran down your chin and it tasted like sweeter than any other plum.

Swallowing, you place the other half in Jimin's mouth. You weren't sure how it was supposed to work, but after his mouth closed around the fruit. The world spun.

The snow swirled around you and you held onto Jimin's shoulders to keep from feeling dizzy. Somehow, you'd ended up on your feet, with the feeling of nothing solid between them. You closed your eyes and felt as Jimin's hands gripped your waist.

The world turned from pine trees and snow to the more familiar setting of a dance studio. It wasn't your usual studio though. The floors were perfectly waxed and there were no dents from when Jimin dropped you.

"Jimin?" you asked, feeling his grip tighten around you.

"I'm here."

Your feet touched down on the floor. It felt odd and you looked down to see black ballet slippers tied around your ankles. In fact, you were perfectly dressed as the black swan and you noticed that Jimin was in his matching outfit for the pas de deux.

"Dance for me," the woman's voice sounded. The music from the ballet played, no orchestra in sight.

You and Jimin exchanged a glance before taking your places and beginning the dance. Hesitance bubbled in your stomach as you ran for the lift, feeling Jimin's hands take hold of you immediately. This time he did not let you drop, nor did you lose your focus or form.

When he placed your feet back on the ground, you threw your arms around him. He reciprocated and the music without a source stopped. No more voices sounded, no more soldiers came out of the woodwork, Jimin no longer felt rigid.

Your feet lifted off the ground as the world shifted again. Jimin's lips connected with yours at the same moment. You weren't sure if the dizziness you felt was from the spinning or the kiss as he pulled away and your feet once again touched solid ground.

✦✧✦✧

You cradled a bouquet of roses in your arm as you came off stage. You couldn't stop smiling, even as the cold air rushed in from where families entered to greet the dancers.

Jimin wasn't far behind you and you soon felt his touch on your lower back. His touch had become so familiar now, nearly as much as your own.

"You did well out there," he said. "I don't think you missed a step."

"I think you made the audience cry at the end. Everyone believed you sacrificed yourself for a trick, for love."

Jimin's lips perked up at the ends. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"You'd jump into a lake for me? Even if it meant dying?"

"Absolutely."

#bts imagines #bts fanfic #jimin #jimin fanfic #bts fanfction #bts fan fiction #park jimin #bts jimin #bts au fanfic #bts au fic #farfromsuga #originally posted on wattpad #bts #bts black swan

18 notes · View notes

justjessame · 3 years

Text

First A Moses, Then A Cooper Chapter 1

Making dinner as my son and daughter fought over one of their many shared tech gadgets, I had to ask myself if Will and I were sane for wanting a third. With him working constantly, and me doing the brunt of rearing our little demons, I had to think that a third child might be outside the realm of my abilities.

“J, Mira, stop fighting!” I snarled it, causing both kids to look up at me from their spot just inside the living room and I knew I had hit my limit and also stopped being the mother they knew and expected. “Dad called and we’re having guests for dinner.” I hoped that helped them understand, but they continued to stare. “WORK guests.” That got them moving, suddenly they were working to straighten the living room and they were miraculously using their inside voices. “Thank you!” I went back to working on dinner, trying to decide if the last minute additions were foodies, or if they’d make due with comfort foods.

“Honey?” I heard Will’s voice, and sighed as I put the finishing touches on the table. “Michelle,” and then his warmth was surrounding me and a ton of my extra tension started to relax. How he could manage to do that would be a mystery forever. “Something smells delicious.” He was saying it into the side of my neck so I had no doubts that he didn’t mean our dinner.

“Yeah, is that pot roast?” Another voice, bringing me back to the reality that we were having guests for dinner and that our kids would be in attendance. Damn it. “Sorry,” the man didn’t look sorry, he looked like he was holding back laughter at Will and I wrapped up in one another.

“Michelle, sweetheart, I’d like you to meet Frank Moses.” My eyes widened, I couldn’t help it, I KNEW who this was even if his face wasn’t familiar. Will moved on, introducing the two other guests who made up the ragtag band who would add to our table. I barely listened, even though their names were known to me too. None hit me like Frank’s. “Honey?” I looked up at my husband, seeing him staring at me with confusion.

I shook off my look of amazement, and smiled reassuringly. “Welcome to our home,” I offered to the trio as our kids joined us, clearly hearing the additional voices. “This is our son, James and our daughter Mira.” I saw Frank look at both my children and then back at me. Clearly trying to place me, but he wasn’t having much luck. And he wouldn’t, because my mother made certain that no one would ever know just who I really was. I gave a silent prayer of thanks and told everyone to get comfortable at the table while I brought dinner in. Will was on my heels, offering to help, but I knew my very observant husband had questions.

“Chell?” I smiled up at him as I handed him the lined bread basket that I filled with warm rolls. “Honey, why did you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Licking my lips, I carefully arranged the roast onto a serving tray, then moved to grab the dish I had ready for the potatoes and carrots. “Michelle -”

“We have guests, Will,” I reminded him, swallowing the dry lump in the back of my throat because I HAVE seen a ghost. Just one that I knew about while no one else in the house did. “We can’t be rude.”

Of all the men I could have married, I picked William Cooper, one of the most observant men on the planet AND one who had the most in common with my birth parents even if he had no clue about that. He was studying me while I carefully filled the bowls with starches, then vegetables, then made certain the gravy boat was filled just full enough, adding the silver ladle my mother had gifted us with on our wedding day.

“Michelle Cooper, we will be having a conversation about whatever it is that has you on edge as soon as our guests are settled in for the night-” Wait, what? “It’s one night, sweetheart,” one night, I thought, feeling my tension ratchet up to a fifteen. “I know they look like a -” he stopped, considering how to describe the mess of a trio he’d brought home. “It’s one night.” I nodded. “A nice long, hot bubble bath with your husband should do the trick,” I smirked, and they said torture was outlawed. “You and me, Mrs. Cooper, after dinner.”

Will’s voice, when he wanted it to, could take on an octave that I swore could make me do things that nothing else could. He would laugh and say I was being silly, but I’d squint and challenge him back with the theory that he used it to get sources to do his bidding in all manner of terrible and wonderful ways. Since I didn’t have the type of security clearance that could either refute or prove my theory we would forever be at a stalemate on this particular argument.

“Take the bread out and come back for another load, Mr. Cooper.” My order was tempered by the lingering kiss I couldn’t help but give him. “Our guests will be more likely to settle in faster with full bellies.”

Surreal, that’s how dinner felt to me as I sat at the foot of our dining room table while Will sat at the head, J and Mira sat on one side and Frank flanked the woman he’d brought along - Sarah Ross - while Marvin Ross sat on her other side, the last to taste any of the food set before him - as if I’d poison guests in my home. Frank Moses, a man I’d heard stories about long before I’d met Will - I tried to show no extra interest in the man, not with my overly observant husband keeping watch, but it was a difficult thing. How would anyone manage such a task after the hero in their bedtime stories was plunked down to have dinner with them?

Lucky for me, Sarah seemed as ill at ease as I felt, and while I grew quiet, she grew talkative.

“So -” she smiled across the table at my children, both sitting straight and behaving as they were expected with people from Dad’s work in attendance. “What grades are you guys in?”

James answered first, his voice loud enough to be heard, but not too loud - Will’s pride shining as he listened to his son answer without faltering. “I’m in ninth grade.” He’d put his fork and knife down and was looking Sarah in the face. Eye contact was important when carrying on a conversation, something we’d worked on after the bullying incident when Frank Moses had first come into Will’s orbit. “I’m first string on the football team this year.” He was proud of that accomplishment, and so were we. It had been a tough won feat, and J had earned it.

Not to be outdone, Mira waited until her older brother finished, since we did have guests and etiquette was important, at least around strangers. “And I’m in eighth.” I smiled at Will, his eyes almost glowing across the full length of our table in pride. “I prefer dance.” Her tiny chin went up a notch as if daring any of the trio across from her to argue that dance was a lesser endeavor than football.

“Ballet or -” It was Marvin, not Sarah who asked the follow up and I shot a look his way to make certain it wasn’t coming at her in a mocking way, but he looked both sincere and interested - well knock me over with a feather.

“I do ballet, but also tap, jazz, modern, hip-hop,” Mira’s smile grew as she spoke and so did mine. I loved the passion that my children showed for anything - be it J’s football or love of drawing, or Mira’s need to move, watching them light up just from discussing it was enough to make me happy.

“You’re quite the accomplished tiny dancer,” Marvin’s smile wasn’t one I might find safe if seen in the wild, but at my own table with my husband close at hand I found it kind.

“And what do you do, Michelle?” I wasn’t expecting it. The question nor the person who asked it. I know I flinched and I know that it wasn’t only caught by Will. “I’m sorry, was that too forward of me?”

“Not at all,” managing to find my smile again by focusing on J and Mira I turned to face Frank. “I take care of my family, Mr. Moses.”

“She’s being modest,” Will cut in and my eyes flicked to him. “She’s not JUST a housewife, not that there’s anything wrong with that.” My eyes narrowed at the implication that anyone who made their family’s lives easier by being a homemaker was somehow less than, it was something Will had pointed out to me on multiple occasions. “Chell writes. She’s a published writer.” His eyebrows rose as if to dare me to contradict him, but I couldn’t, he was telling the truth.

“What have you written?” Sarah, clearly someone who couldn’t stand silence - awkward or not - wanted more information. “Maybe we’ve read it.”

“I’m sure you have,” Will’s smile was growing and my eyes were narrowing again. The tease. “She wrote ---” And there it was, him literally removing my mask and letting these three know my nom de plume, my secret identity - I should have told him I was going to have to kill him.

“Wow,” Sarah’s mouth dropped open and a large part of me hoped this meant she would be rendered speechless and dinner could go back to being eaten. “That’s -”

“Impressive,” Frank’s eyes were on me, and I inhaled deeply and met his gaze. “Where do you get your ideas?”

Shit, I internally added money to the swear jar that we didn’t actively use anymore - and hadn’t for years now, but honestly. Trust my husband to out me to this man, a man who he had NO idea was someone I’d known about for YEARS before he did, and now here were were face to face and HE wanted to now where I got MY ideas for books that - if someone wanted to hold a microscope up to them - bore a striking resemblance to a lot of what HE had a hand in over the years. Fuck.

“I have an EXCELLENT imagination.” I offered, thanking my genetics, my birth parents, and God above for the ability to lie the way I could.

“Yeah, I guess you do,” he looked like he might believe me. Maybe.

I took a drink out of my glass of wine and swallowed carefully. “Eat up, I’m sure you could use a good night’s rest.” Because I sure as hell could.

#william cooper/oc #red 2010 #alternative universe #after the film #slow burn #Frank Moses/oc

5 notes · View notes

mor-beck-more-problems · 3 years

Text

Don’t Do Sadness || Morgan & Deirdre (feat. Ruth Beck)

TIMING: Current

LOCATION: Houston, Texas

PARTIES: @deathduty & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan flies back to Houston to pick up Agnes’ bones. But there’s other family who need her attention first.

CONTAINS: Mentions and discussions of past abuse

By the time the Houston trip finally rolled around, Morgan booked and planned their stay around her old hangouts in an autopilot haze rather than any eager sentiment. Thanks to modern technology, they largely avoided customer service desks and transitioned from plane to car to hotel without having to ruin anyone’s day. Morgan even put in a delivery order for her once-favorite Vietnamese restaurant from her phone and had it brought up like room service, with just a knock at the door and a quiet ‘thank you’ called into an empty hallway. There was little to say, since the gritty smog didn’t reach her nose and the lo mein she got for herself was soaked in soy sauce and sriracha before she could get a hint of any flavor aside from the brains she’d picked up on the way to the hotel. Morgan hadn’t even liked sriracha when she was alive. At the end of the night, they left the TV on (Titanic was playing on TNT) and laid down holding each other. Morgan thought of all the things she’d once imagined showing Deirdre, the cemeteries, the magic shops, the food, the landmarks. With crazy, non-existent zoning laws, high rises rubbed elbows with tire shops and mom and pop burger joints. There was no such thing as a ‘generic’ street until you were at least thirty minutes to an hour outside of downtown. But those were Alive-Morgan’s plans. This one just prayed that after they dug up what she needed tomorrow, they could bubble themselves up and forget all about White Crest and everything they’d left there on their last full day before they had to go crawling back.

But before they could dig up Agnes Bachman’s grave in the dead of night, Morgan needed to scope it out. And before she could do that, she owed her dead their respects. Sunrise seemed best for the visit. No one would be there except for the workers, the humidity was too intense, and morning traffic on the freeways was already in a gridlock. People would want to be anywhere but Washington Cemetery. Morgan reached for Deirdre’s hand as they passed through the gates, taking a second to appreciate the vastness of the sky. Houston was a flat swampland; from the right place, you barely had to tilt your head back to see as far as the human eye could see. The sky stretched above them like a golden purple dome, not a flash of wings or shadow or teeth in sight. The grass was patchy, but mowed even, so you could hardly tell the weeds from the rest. Flat headstones tiled the area in a perfect grid, so orderly you could play checkers on it with pieces big enough. Her parents were off to the side, near the roar of traffic and mumbling drifters. Every time she visited them, Morgan feared she would forget the way and get lost, but as soon as her feet met the pavement, she knew just where the next turn should be. “Agnes is kinda here by chance actually. When the older cemeteries got condemned, they split up the bodies to be re-homed or whatever, and some randos got the fancy cemetery next door, and Agnes and her kids got this one. They did some random algorithm or lottery thing, and apparently it made my grandmother so mad that she would have to share space with her. But it’s really not that surprising, with our run of luck.” She winced. “I know it’s not…as pretty or anything as what we have back home. Not sure what Texas has against standing tombstones. Maybe it’s all the hurricanes? At least markers don’t drift off course when they’re nailed flat to the ground.” That didn’t sound how she wanted to either. “I’m sorry, what I’m trying to ask is, how do you like it?”

Deirdre would not let them drown. For all the sadness that congealed around them, for every shred of darkness that pleaded to be accompanied, Deirdre would be stronger, louder. For all the pain that weighed down her love, she would carry it in herself, and lift her free. Months ago, a trip to Texas together would have read like a happy occasion—they’d spent nights tangled together swapping stories of their homes. She knew Texas through Morgan’s eyes. The smells, the heat, the thick and sticky air, were not new to her mind, only to her ill-equipped body. Though Morgan moved like she wasn’t so much coming home as she was walking to her death, Deirdre held a measure of excitement about everything, despite everything. It was magical to be in the place that once only existed in the stories she loved. There were the trees Morgan described, and while not those ones exactly, they were just as important for Deirdre’s slowly filling image of Morgan’s life. Their hotel held a beautiful view, and a large, lush bathtub perfect for soaking off the Texas heat. Morgan couldn’t see it, she realized, which is why she pointed each detail out with a smile. It was fine, anyway, love didn’t need to be hundred to exist. Whatever tar was intent on dragging her girlfriend underneath, she would be the life jacket. She could love enough for the both of them; be enthusiastic as if she carried two minds and care as if she were born of two hearts. And, of course, Vietnamese food from such fame as Morgan’s stories of sad nights eating it alone, was just as good as she described it then. Titanic, played in low quality on some choppy basic cable, as featured in tales of Morgan’s viewing it, was just like she said it was. And the side-of-the-road cemetery was just like she heard it might be.

“I love it here,” she breathed, happily leaning over to stare down at each name they passed. Loving it here, was not entirely accurate. She’d complained about the sticky heat already, waltzing around in a thin summer romper and still feeling like her skin was melting off. And she always liked cemeteries, so much so that it wasn’t even a question worth asking. It was being here, in the places that Morgan walked, in the home that she knew, that Deirdre loved. It felt like she had a place in those stories too, in her life. “As if pretty matters...” she breathed. “Oh my love,” Deirdre turned her attention away from the names she didn’t recognize and smiled at her girlfriend. “Don’t worry about that.” She paused and drew her into her arms, picking her up for a quick spin and kiss. “I love you. Do you know how exciting it is to be here? I finally get to see the grass that you did, smell the scents that you did, see the—“ she gestured at the sky “—everything that you did. It’s like...being a part of you. Knowing you. And you—“ she grinned and pressed another kiss to her girlfriend. “—are my favourite thing to know. I would never tire of it.” Even if it felt like Texas was trying to dump hot glue on her. “Tell me more,” she asked, brushing Morgan’s hair back before she settled her hand on her cheek. “Show me more, whatever you feel like. It’d be impossible for me to hate it.” She turned her attention to the cemetery and chuckled, “were you worried about me not liking a cemetery or are you concerned about your touring skills?” Deirdre turned back with a smile. “I think you’re doing a wonderful job, and this isn’t the only time we’ll come back here—we can take a thousand trips, if you wanted them. So...don’t worry; I always enjoy myself when I’m with you. And you’ve got more important things to keep your mind on.”

Morgan’s eyes welled as Deirdre poured all her affection on her at once. She knew she was loved unconditionally, that whatever else came up, Deirdre would care and care and care as long as Morgan let her, but with the air beneath her feet and her banshee’s strong arms around her body, it all pierced her shell and rushed in as a flood. She had burned to give Deirdre pieces of her no one else in town, no one else alive possessed. She had kept them up for hours some nights, talking about how good, how interesting and exciting for all its mundaneness Houston was. The murals, the galleries, the roadkill, the sprawl, the smell. Now they were here and she felt so weighed down by herself. The air, so eerily imperceptible to her new body, felt like it was pulling her into the ground.

I want to be here, Morgan reminded herself. I need to be here.

She clung to Deirdre for a moment, anchoring herself in her body. “I love you too,” she murmured into her shoulder. “After this I’ll show you anything you want. We can go anywhere, I’ll take you to a play at the last minute, they have one with skeletons and murder in it. Or this Italian restaurant my mother would insist on going to that does brunch, or the little one my dad would take me to sometimes that’s not as fancy but makes the best fettuccine and you can have fresh scooped gelato there, and this giant chessboard, and the Rothko chapel, it’s all in black and the skylight is beautiful, but it’s always a little cold in a good way and you can pray to any being in the universe there, and…” The list tumbled out of her in a rush, even if her voice didn’t quite lift to the occasion. Half of the words on her lips were impossible to recapture the way she was. Fresh tears came to her as she parted with pieces of each memory. The awkward silence as she and Ruth scraped their forks at Birraporetti’s, running out of things to say about the ballet only twenty minutes after the show. The mess she made on her shirt with the gelato in Rice Village, the dangerous thrill of buying a new shirt at the boutique next door instead of mending it with magic while her dad lingered outside for plausible deniability. Having something new, and whole, and secret. And there were hours singing loudly in her car, sloppily slathering sunscreen on her forearms too late because she’d gotten so caught up in the escape of the moment. It was all over and never coming back, as permanent as the ache her parents left behind.

Morgan breathed slowly and wiped her eyes, flashing Deirdre a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” she said. “I know everything is so awful back home and I’m trying to shake it off, but I am so glad of you, and so relieved. This is everything I want right now, even if it doesn’t look like it. I...stars, I hate not having anything to do after this visit most years, and now I do, and I’m not so painfully alone.” She jumped on her tiptoes and kissed her again as best she could. Wrapping herself against Deirdre as much as she could, Morgan led her around the next few turns along the path, guiding their steps by intuition and distant memory, until she saw two ghostly figures clustering by the fence.

Morgan stopped short. She couldn’t make out their faces, but she knew who her parents were. Somehow, even with all the Agnes drama, it hadn’t occurred to her that she might see them. Certainly not her dad. “Oh, stars…” Neither of them moved. Maybe they didn’t see her yet. “You see them, right? They’re really here, it’s not a trick this time. Shit, I can’t even…Deirdre, it’s my dad.” His face, from this angle, was whole and warm, and he did see her. He was just watching as serenely as he’d watched everything in life. His head tilted to one side, like he was working out how to parse a line of poetry, and Morgan burst with a laughing sob of recognition. He had the same ugly Hawaiian shirt he’d died in, and from this far away the sick on his shirt looked more like a food stain. It was so normal, so silly and safe and unlike anything in her life now.

Morgan didn’t know what to say to either of them, if they would be proud or even like the person she had become, but even having a fight in front of her girlfriend didn’t seem so bad right now. “It’s real, right?” Deirdre’s eyes could see them, if she tried. It wouldn’t be like before. How could it be, with her dad here? “We have to—he’s gonna love you, come on! Now!” She tore herself away and pawed for Deirdre’s hand, running for the spot so fast she nearly lost her shoes.

Deirdre leaned down to press her lips against Morgan’s neck, laughing in a warm flutter against her cold skin, afraid if she kissed her anyplace else, she might interrupt her. Her mind drifted as easily as Morgan rambled, she pressed nipping kisses in response to each point: a play would be divine, Italian sounds great, I’ve always liked fettuccine, what does a giant chessboard even look like? Houston held so many memories for Morgan, and just as many for Deirdre to learn. As well as she knew her girlfriend, there would always be some things that came new, and she could think of no greater delight than to know them. There was another feeling she didn’t know how to explain, something about life at her fingertips, a world under her lips. She loved their bubble in White Crest, but the earth was vast, and it could be theirs. Houston, Austin, whatever part of Texas Morgan wanted to show off—that was a new world for their taking. Was it so wrong for her to want more for them? To share in everything life had to offer, and then some? To love Morgan in White Crest, in Houston, on every inch of land they set their feet upon? Deirdre lifted her head from where she’d nestled it and smiled warmly. “Don’t apologize, my love. You don’t have to be chipper all the time, excited to show me restaurants and parks all the time….I just want to be with you, in whatever shape that takes. That’s always what I want. And if you want to do something after this, we can. And if you don’t, we can do that too. I’m really just happy to be here, and share in all of this with you….it means so much to me. Thank you, for letting me do this with you. Nothing will rob me of my excitement to be here. I love you, my Morgue, I always do.”

She held Morgan tight and careful, praying that her words might carry the power to soothe some worries. Visiting family graves was no easy task in general, there was no need for her love to be plagued by other thoughts. While the Dolan catacombs were a dark place of pride and worship—there was no sadness in death, after all, it was the greatest show of servitude—Deirdre imagined that Morgan, whose entire family was buried here, would find a visit heavier than most. She was prepared to hold her extra tight, even closer, kiss harder and love louder. She would not allow the sheet of sadness to smother Morgan. It was natural, then, that when Morgan happily yanked her along, Deirdre was shocked. She hadn’t even processed the information that Morgan’s father was a ghostly presence before she was running alongside her.

“W-wait! I’m not ready!” Deirdre yelped, laughing. She hadn’t expected to be meeting her girlfriend’s ghostly father either, and so she had no charming quips prepared. Should she have brought an offering? Did she call him Hector or Mr. Beck? Would he know what a banshee was? Was it appropriate to mention how rich she was before or after she explained the lengths at which she loved his daughter? “What am I supposed to say! All I know is that he likes musicals! I didn’t brush up on my musical knowledge!” She grew sweaty from anxiety rather than the heat, for once, blinking rapidly as her eyes spread into darkness and oh Fates, he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Of all the shirts she pictured he must have died in, that one wasn’t it. His face was soft like Morgan’s, and he tilted his head just like her and—Deirdre shook her vision back to normal and tried to think. She needed to ready herself. At this rate, her eyes would be glued to his questionable fashion and that’d just be rude. Did humans still do that thing where parents had to be asked before their daughters could be courted? Why was it that she suddenly couldn’t remember basic manners? They ran to a halt and Deirdre doubled over trying to collect herself. She huffed and tried nervously to straighten out the wrinkles in her dress. “What if he hates me because I forgot to bring flowers?” She mumbled to herself, deciding finally on a simple ‘hello’. She took Morgan’s hand back in hers for emotional support and as her eyes darkened, she rehearsed her introduction. Hello, Mr. Beck, so nice to meet you, I love your daughter so much I’d burn the world down. No, that was too strong. Howdy, Hector, lovely ghost weather we’re— “My love, I don’t see him.” Deirdre blinked her death-vision away, turning to her girlfriend. “...Morgan?”

Morgan only looked away for a second. It was too good to see him laughing to himself, beaming and shaking his head like he’d just figured out something wonderful and obvious to turn around every time she said, it doesn’t matter, it’s fine, you’ll be great. But she looked back once so Deirdre would know by her smile just how true it was, and when she turned to the grave where her dad was waiting for her again, he was gone. Morgan stopped short, staring at the empty space. There wasn’ anywhere for him to hide in all this open space. And he wouldn’t. He’d never played those kinds of tricks on her. She searched the sky, and the roof of a plain mausoleum across the way, the still-fluffy top of an oak tree, but he was gone.

“What the fuck…” she whispered. She had seen him. It hadn’t been in her head, she’d really seen him, and he’d looked at her. He’d been happy. He didn’t know anything about the choices she’d made since her last visit, but he’d been happy and he’d wanted to see her. “Where did he go? I don’t understand.”

“Oh, and what am I, chop liver?” Ruth Beck demanded.

Morgan was too hurt to hide her pained grimace. This wasn’t about her mother, at least she’d gotten to practice speaking to her once before. But she hadn’t had a conversation with her dad since she was eighteen, a stupid kid in over her head. Why hadn’t he stayed to talk to her? Why didn’t he want to meet her again? Morgan continued to stare at the emptiness over his grave, mouth trembling.

“They don’t bring you the metaphysical manual for ghostly rules and behavior, Morgan. You don’t seriously expect to be handed a tidy little answer to make you feel better, do you? It’s fine; I've known all along how much you two care about me.” Her tone cut with bitterness. “I knew he wouldn’t stick it out with me forever, but I’ll give him this, I don’t think it was an entirely conscious decision. Whatever you took or whatever spell you cast to see us like this, it scratched his itch and now he’s signed off and done.”

Morgan stiffened. Nothing her mother said felt untrue, exactly, but it all sounded so twisted and awful, like her dad had betrayed her by crossing peacefully or like Morgan should be sorry for missing him after having a second chance dangled in front of her. She could never just be; Ruth always demanded her due. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she mumbled, trying desperately to keep her tears in. “I am happy to see you too. I should have said so.” She swallowed, forcing her body to remember breathing. “Are you okay?”

Ruth scoffed, unimpressed, and turned her attention to the woman with her daughter. “Who’s this? She’s taking you talking to the air pretty well. Should I be concerned?”

She knew it. It was her ruffled romper or tousled hair that did her in. Or the sweat, maybe it was the sweat. Hector took one look at how sweaty Deirdre was and vanished out of disgust. Or maybe it was that she’d taken so long to introduce herself, she should have ran up with her greeting instead of standing around waiting for her chance to do it. Deirdre frowned, turning to Morgan to apologize when another voice cut across the air. Deirdre couldn’t see ghosts without summoning her vision, but she could hear them perfectly fine. And she remembered then, hearing this woman and her biting remarks, that she’d seen two figures—the now-gone Hector and someone who was unmistakably Ruth Beck. Out of politeness, she tried not to look angry. She knew Ruth Beck better than she did Hector, not because Morgan loved Hector less, but because Ruth controlled her life even in death. Her painful, complicated memory could not be shaken. Deirdre knew Ruth by way of tearful retelling, shaky explanation of locked rooms and denied love—and the infuriating hypocrisy of her journal, left behind as if to taunt her daughter. And she knew her now, by the sharpness of her voice, and the burden shuddering down Morgan. Eventually, politeness was dammed, and Deirdre’s face twisted with displeasure. She drew Morgan close to her, and then—though she knew it wouldn’t help anything—shifted their bodies so she stood between Ruth and Morgan.

Deirdre let blackness spill across the whites of her eyes again as she looked up and stared Ruth down. She had Morgan’s brilliant blues, and lips that might’ve looked like her daughter’s if they weren’t pulled thin. Her sour expression was different both from Morgan’s transparent emotions, and the pictures Deirdre had seen of Ruth’s past. There were a thousand things she wanted to say to Ruth. She blurted just one, the thing that burned on her tongue, pulled her brows together and her lips down. “Your daughter is dead.” Couldn’t she see it? Feel it? Was it really so important now to be thinking about anything else, when the life of her blood was a zombie? She’d wanted to ask about the locked rooms, about why her husband could find peace in seeing his daughter but she could not, about why she loved Morgan so poorly, or if she remembered being in that cursed coin at all, but Deirdre’s confusion stuck out instead. She’d known Ruth was a questionable mother, but hearing her more offended about a greeting than noticing her own daughter was dead, was something strange. “I’m Morgan’s girlfriend; Deirdre. I’m sorry your husband’s vanished so suddenly. I wonder how terrible that must be for someone who hasn’t seen him since he died. It must be exciting to see someone after that long, don’t you think? Perhaps you’ve been spending so much time remembering that there is no competition here that you forgot your own manners.” Deirdre didn’t know what she was saying, exactly, the words tumbled from her mouth freely. Unlike their forgotten meeting on the beach, Deirdre knew the kind of woman Ruth was now, and she wasn’t so eager to impress her. It would be nice for Morgan, she knew, if her mother approved of something she held dear for once. And perhaps Deirdre should have taken more care for her manners, but Ruth’s words were needlessly petty, and Deirdre didn’t care to make either of them listen to it. She stood straight, stern, breaking her stance only to attend to Morgan, and lend her strength where she needed it.

Ruth had to do a double, no, triple take at her daughter to see if this strange woman was telling the truth about her daughter. She had assumed that sentimentality had gotten the better of Morgan and she’d taken some drug or commissioned some truly powerful magiks to see if her talking to the air all these years amounted to something or not. But she looked, and even with this Deirdre woman blocking her full view, she understood. Then, of course, the woman kept talking, offering her opinion on things that weren’t any of her business. How could she know that Ruth had been looking forward to seeing her every November? Or how much it stung that when granted her ghost-sight, Morgan hadn’t said, it’s my mom and dad, it’s my parents. Only her dad, the one who had coddled and endangered her with his stubborn sensitivity, and then marked himself as a damn saint when he died just four months after Morgan turned eighteen. And this Deirdre couldn’t know how much she’d tried to shuffle off this god-forsaken coil, or how it felt to be left alone, for good this time, by the only person in her miserable life who had been stubborn enough to stay in the first place. No one knew. Even in death, Ruth Beck was certain she remained cursed. When she was sure this Deirdre was quite finished, she looked at the fluff of hair poking out from the woman’s arms. “Is this true, Morgan?” She asked.

Morgan let Deirdre whisk her out of sight, if only so she could compose her face and gasp out the few sobs that wouldn’t be swallowed away. She should probably be happy that all her dad wanted was for them to really see each other again, or maybe see her happy and loved. But her mind was still circling that one second. She could’ve squeezed out an I love you, or a hang on. Just hang on a little fucking longer, enough to meet my girlfriend, enough to know that I’m teaching at a real university, I’m going to make Constance pay for what she did to you, I miss you… but all those possibilities had evaporated in an instant.

But Morgan couldn’t evade a direct question from her mother, no matter how Deidre tried to shield her. Morgan lifted her head and nodded, still holding onto her girlfriend. “Surprise,” she said, breath shaking. “The curse got me, just like you said.”

“I told you,” Ruth began. “On our last phone call, I told you, Morgan--”

“Yeah, well I tried anyway! And actually I got kinda close, but…you were right and I was wrong.” Morgan shrugged, her smile pulling into a pained gash on her face. “So now I’m this. Sad zombie lady. About seven months and counting. And it’s the worst, but I have at least a couple of friends, and Deirdre, who loves me, and who you would probably like if you weren’t spending so much time scrutinizing her like she’s a science problem. She’s insightful, and clever, and curious. She loved me even before I was like this, and she’s still here. So I can’t say I truly regret any of my actions, because I don’t want to know where I’d be without her. But I know that doesn’t sound like good news to you, so I’m at least partially sorry for that, I guess.”

Morgan changed the topic by way of reaching into her bag and fishing out a now partially crumpled bouquet of flowers. “I was gonna split up the bunch in two, but I guess they’re all yours now.” She held them up for inspection out of habit, before realizing that Ruth may not be able to take them for herself and so knelt in the grass to cram them into the bronze vase welded to the gravestone for this purpose. As she arranged the mess, the real news she wanted to share burned on her tongue. But some habits were hard to break, and she was too stiff with ritual fear to begin without first asking, “Are you really okay, Mother? Is there something I can do for you?”

Ruth Beck didn’t say anything for a good long while, but stared, just barely holding her heartbreak at bay. “Oh, pumpkin. I told you going to White Crest would only bring you more suffering,” She sighed. She looked over at Deirdre, defiantly transparent in giving her a critical once-over. “And what are your thoughts on this nonsense? If you’ve been with her through death, you’ve had to learn about our little family sickness eventually. Has she told you what happens to nice, loving girlfriends yet? I’d give you three guesses, but you just saw one of them disappear. And just how are you perceiving me, exactly? I don’t think you’re the one responsible for granting Morgan an extra half-life, but the exorcists and the wannabes who come out here don’t generally get ink in their eyes when they look at me.”

Morgan bowed her head as she worked, visibly cringing at the exchange. “Please be nice to her, Mother,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Deirdre had been expecting more bite, perversely, she had hoped for it. Not for Morgan, but onto herself. She hoped, perhaps, that if her annoyance shifted someplace else, Morgan could be freed from it. Yet, as she had been learning about Ruth, the woman could not make herself easy to hate. Complicated was less like a descriptor and more like a way of life. Even Deirdre, who had no intentions of conceding to Ruth, slumped a little when her bait wasn’t taken—embarrassed that she tried it in the first place. But she shook the sensation away and watched Ruth carefully, listening with an attentive ear. If that bite ever came back, she’d swallow Morgan up in a hug again and stand between them...but if she could be gentle...Deirdre shifted, releasing her high wall of protection for a sturdy one of support. Though she felt a little more like a guard dog, ready to snap if anything came too close. She anchored herself to Morgan’s side, even as she moved, as if stuck there. She hadn’t been expecting, either, that Ruth would address her again. She thought one angry comment was enough for her to ignore her, but Ruth was, as Deirdre supposed, terribly complicated. All she had really wanted to say to Ruth was how dare you and if she had some corporeal body, she might have settled for one dramatic slap. She knew Ruth by her failures as a mother, and as someone who loved Morgan as well, she was the harshest critic of the woman. Just as, she imagined, Ruth was in turn harsh of her.

“I love Morgan very much,” she began, though speaking to Ruth, she smiled warmly at Morgan. “I’ve loved her for a long time. If you’ll let me be dramatic to say it, maybe since I’ve met her. I intend on loving her for a longer one.” She turned to look at Ruth, her smile colored by confusion. Surely the woman who loved, and started a family, understood why Deirdre stayed, so was she testing her? Or did she really not know? “I always have. I’m not so afraid of death, that I would refuse to live. You and your husband have had a good life, wouldn’t you say? She has told me what happens, it might have been the first real thing she told me—and even if it wasn’t, you and I both know that Morgan wears her emotions freely.” Deirdre tilted her head to the side, withholding remarks about how terrible it would be to stamp that away. Or that she couldn’t understand how Ruth would know how badly her daughter wanted love, and then deny it. And if she could understand it, then she certainly couldn’t grasp how a mother would do that, and then expect that her daughter might still be excited to see her. She either played the villain and accepted it, dealt her tough love and recognized what it must have done or...well, she was the standing example of what happened when someone didn’t. “In a good way; in the best way,” she added quickly, nearly in a hiss. “I thought it was noble of her to want to fight fate, silly maybe, but the spirit to fight is a commendable one. How could I not want to be by her side? Maybe we would have had five years, or a few good months, maybe she would have won and freed herself...all I knew then was that I loved her, I wanted her to be happy, and if I could be there too...maybe we could make something together. Pain is unavoidable for anyone, death is equally as demanding, but somethings are worth it, aren’t they?” She had more to say about risks and love and much she knew that death could take prematurely, but that she was always ready. It never was so much the length of time, but how well it was spent. That she knew, better than the average person, just what fate she might have agreed to, and that she didn’t care. She loved Morgan more than letting fear rule her, or them.

But she realized quickly that Ruth was not as endeared to her long speeches and Morgan was, and left it there. ”I’m a banshee,” she explained simply, pressing a kiss to Morgan’s forehead. “And you didn’t answer her question: how are you?”

Ruth’s face remained impassive as the woman, the banshee, spoke. She understood a great deal, though how, Ruth didn’t know. It hadn’t been from Morgan. It would have been nice if she had been able to put those desperate puppy eyes Morgan seemed to have for her to good use and stop her. Keep her alive. But of course she hadn’t. The only way to get Morgan to do anything she didn’t want to was to make her. “I can see why she likes you,” Ruth said. “You’re a romantic fool as much as she is. More common sense, but…” Not enough to keep her in check. “In a less cursed lifetime maybe more of what you said would be true. Maybe wherever the heck you come from, it is. I guess I’m glad she stopped being a liar long enough to tell you.”

“Mother—“

Ruth continued as if she hadn’t heard Morgan’s interjection. “You seem kind, Deirdre. Enough to deserve better than whatever being attached to us is going to bring you. Everything is a bargain, Deirdre. And sometimes the universe cheats. And if she’s gone and made herself a zombie and made this mess last until some dumbass with a sword comes along, I’m not sure if you can know what you’re signing up for.”

“The curse is over, Mother,” Morgan said, hand clenched in Deirdre’s. She feared what looking away from her mother would do, if she would be left dangling and abandoned again or if her mother would read something cruel into it, so she only held onto Deirdre, tight, and hoped she understood that her love was keeping Morgan from falling apart. “I didn’t break it, but it’s done with me. And there’s more, something good and more I want to tell you, but for the mother of earth, I wish you’d just tell me anything about how you’re doing or what I can do for you.”

“I’ve been about as well as you can be after three years being a specter in this place. Neither of you want to know how well I’m really doing.”

Morgan exhaled stiffly. “I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t—I died too, okay? I ‘m not a ghost but I do get something about how awful—

“Don’t say that like it’s something I want,” Ruth’s voice managed to cut without raising to a scream. “If you had just listened to me, if you had accepted for once that I know what I am talking about and I’m not some evil gorgon bent on ruining your life, maybe you wouldn’t.”

“I am trying to tell you that I am taking our power back, Mom!” Morgan flinched to hear the way her voice snapped with anger. She always took the bait, no matter how long it had been or how much she said she wouldn’t. And realizing this made no difference. She couldn’t stop herself from going louder, more determined. “I found the miserable little witch who cursed us. I ripped her out of the ether to make her confess and after she came back to finish the job she started, I found a way to make her pay. She is going to suffer as much and as long as a ghost can for what she did to me and to you and your mother before you and mother before her. I am doing that. Me, Mother! I am taking control of our lives and if there is some miserable little Bachman descendant out there, they aren’t going to have to suffer another cursed year when I’m done with her! I am as free as I am ever going to be, and when she is ground into nothing but floating particles, she is never going to be able to cast her shadow over me or you or anyone. That’s what I wanted to tell you.” She smiled sadly. “I thought it might make you happy. I may not be doing what you wanted, but I am doing something right.”

“Morgan—”

“I’m not finished. I know you lied to me about going to White Crest. I met Nisa and her kids. I found your stuff. Everything you kept from me about your time there. I know, Mom. Everything you pretended you never were.”

“White Crest was a mistake. If you knew, it would only give you hope, it would encourage your outrageous tendencies to reach for something that’s not yours to have. I wanted to keep you safe, Morgan. Are you trying to say that’s a crime, now? Clearly I didn’t do a good enough job teaching you or protecting you, but now I’m a demon for even bothering?”

Morgan hung her head and wondered why she bothered.

“I’m waiting,” Ruth murmured.

Somehow her quiet tone hit Morgan worse than the rest. The words on her tongue started to dissolve. The questions she had for her drifted away like so much dust. What had she really expected? What could there have ever been to hope for? Morgan didn’t have it in her to hold back her tears. Everything went into keeping her voice even. “Maybe the way you tried was. Maybe…” Maybe it should have been.

Deirdre grimaced, pulling Morgan in so she could be tucked tight against her chest. It would have been wholly inappropriate to throw salt at Ruth, but that didn’t stop Deirdre’s hand from inching towards Morgan’s purse. “Hey,” she cooed for her girlfriend’s ears only. “You’re okay; you’re doing good.” She wrapped her arms around her tighter, just the way she liked, like the two of them were the only people who existed. She pressed her lips to the top of her head, hard as she could, and turned to look at Ruth. “It’s a terrible crime, actually. To let fear masquerade as love.” She pulled back just enough to lift her hand up and thumb Morgan’s tears away, as covertly as she could—not that the tears themselves were shameful, but because she understood the desire not to lend any more ammunition to an angry mother. “May I say something?” She asked Ruth, having no intention of listening to her answer anyway. “It’ll be long, so bear with me. But if anything, maybe we can let it serve as a breather for this conversation. I ask you, Mrs. Beck, do you love your daughter? Is there an answer to that you can admit? I would assume you do, and if so, there’s just something I don’t get...let me try and understand you a little better. Correct me where I’m wrong, but let me take a stab at your life.” Deirdre breathed in, drawing her attention away from Ruth so she could care for Morgan. There were tears to wipe, and strength to work back into her bones. Look at me, she was saying, don’t think about your mother, look at me. And like that, she began. “You hate the way your mother raised you, Mrs. Beck. It was cruel, and unfair, and I’m sure she must’ve justified it to you—if your life was suffering, if you loved nothing, there would be nothing to take. Or maybe she just didn’t care, she didn’t want a child anyways. But you grew up, and you got away, and you lived your terrible, tragic life until you found your way to White Crest with hope. But your curse, and the pursuit of its end, hurt people or it would hurt people, eventually. Good people, kind people, even yourself. Maybe the guilt was too much to live with, maybe you tried and tried and there really was no end—not without something too drastic even for you. So you left. And then you met your husband. And he, like you’ve called me, was a romantic fool. Stubborn, I bet. What did he say when you told him about the curse? That it was okay? That he would stay with you anyways? That he didn’t care?” Deirdre looked up at Ruth, smiling softly. “So, he finally convinces you and you two get married. And then you think, or maybe he gets through to you, that there might just be a life around your curse. If you’re smart, and careful, maybe you can make something good. And then you start a family, maybe by plan, maybe by surprise, it doesn’t matter how just that it did. And you have a daughter. And you realize that you can’t raise her like you were, so you try to be better. You don’t tell her about the curse, because the curse only brings pain, and ignorance can be a powerful thing. Either that’s your idea or it’s your husband’s, but that doesn’t matter either. You don’t say anything, and neither does he. But his love is open, yours is not. And how could it be? You know the dangers of love better than anyone else. You’re smart, and careful. And so your daughter wonders, tragedy after tragedy, what’s wrong with life. But you don’t tell her. And ignorance isn’t enough, she needs to be more careful, like you. You try to teach her how not to laugh, love, look forward to things. But you know it’s not working, despite your best efforts, because your daughter is like her father, in that regard—open. And then he dies, and there are some secrets you can’t keep alone. And suddenly all your daughter’s self-hatred has another place to go, and you know what happens next. You’ve lived your life, you know what it does to hope and argument. You try to tell her that she can make a good life with her curse, a smart one, a sensible one. You did it, after all; for those few years. And then you die, and she goes anyways, and you wait for her every year like clockwork. But you see, what I don’t understand with this story is how? How did you ever expect her to learn how to be happy in between the years when you taught her to fear happiness? How are you so blind to the fact that you hurt your daughter? How can you claim to know her so well, and yet speak with such ignorance? How is it that you can love your daughter, and yet never say it? She wasn’t wrong to go to White Crest, just like you weren’t. It’s a courageous act. How do you not know that? Her recklessness, her naïveté...none of those things are bad. She hopes, she fights, even when her odds are impossible and to do so doesn’t make her wrong, it means she was able to do something you couldn’t. How are you not proud of her? Morgan is the strongest person I know, strength she learned not because of you, but in spite of you. How can you think so lowly of her, that you don’t trust that she understood the risks? How?”

Deirdre shook her head, sighing her speech away. “You know what effect you have on your daughter. I know you see it. The curse is gone now, and even if it wasn’t, you’re both dead. You don’t have to keep this up, Mrs. Beck. I know you want to be a good mother, there’s nothing stopping you now. I ask you again, do you love Morgan? And are you sorry, for the role you’ve had to take in her life? Or do you want to float there and justify it to us like your mother might’ve?” Deirdre offered another smile, small but not but less sincere. At least, if everything she was saying was wrong, she hoped Ruth could see that her love for Morgan was true. And if she really cared about her own daughter, then they’d be two people on the same page. “Why don’t we try this conversation again, Mrs. Beck? Maybe listen to Morgan a little better, for once.”

��You don’t know fear,” Ruth tried to interrupt. Whatever airs this woman put on, she didn’t understand what it meant to be a mother, or what the cost of their existence truly was. She didn’t know how much of the banshee myths were true, but she couldn’t know enough about the universe to know when you were pinned down and doomed. “You don’t know me--” But the woman wouldn’t be stopped, and Ruth fell quiet. For the first time, she began to believe that Morgan had figured some things out. She had at least figured out enough for Deirdre to connect most of the dots. She didn’t have enough to make the spell work, to see Ruth as she truly was. Her affection for Morgan, blasted and cursed and biased, was too strong for that. But it was more than Ruth had expected. She couldn’t help but be stricken by it.

The only thing that kept Morgan from turning into Deirdre’s arms and hugging her was the pull of her mother’s face. The more Deirdre went on, so gently and kindly and with so much confidence, the more Ruth seemed to crack. It probably wasn’t visible to Deirdre, but Morgan had scrutinized her mother’s face for years searching her mother’s face for approval, for forgiveness, for a shadow of affection. She could transmute any scrap of tenderness into just enough to hope for. She knew the widening of her eyes, the way the edge dulled in her jaw or her frown slackened, there was something there. Some feeling that was for her. Morgan wished then for any passer-by to wander past them so her mother could borrow their body for a second, just long enough for Morgan to throw herself into her arms and beg and drag that feeling out of her.

“Mommy--” She whispered.

“It was a mistake.” Ruth said, clenching her airy fists. “I didn’t want to bring a child into this world with my problems, my curse. I am aware that I lack the typical temperament people look for in a good mother. And besides that, I wanted to be the end. And my one job above all else was to protect you. Not to be your friend, not to coddle you--”

“Mommy, please.”

“You need to understand.”

“I do! I do understand why you hurt me! I know you tried and I know you were afraid of loving me because of Constance’s fucking curse, but that doesn’t mean it was okay! And you can’t throw me into a room anymore just because you’re afraid that I’m having too many feelings for you to handle!”

“I wasn’t afraid of loving you, Morgan,” Ruth said, more quiet and stiffly controlled than ever. “I was afraid because I already did. I took one look at you, doughy and red and screaming and I loved you. And say all you want about chemicals and hormones in the wake of a pregnancy, but I couldn’t shake that love no matter how stubbornly you disobeyed me or how miserable you tried to make me. A love like that could only mean it would find you sooner rather than later. So I protected you.”

Morgan’s face crumpled with tears. She had waited her whole life to hear her mother say she loved her and now she wanted to scream to drown it out. “You hurt me. You didn’t even want me and you hurt me.”

“I changed my mind about wanting you as soon as I saw you.” Ruth said.

“That doesn’t matter. Like what, if your mother was here and she said she loved you, that would excuse how she destroyed you? Everything she took and burned and beat out of you?” Morgan stared wide-eyed at her mother, daring her to challenge what she said. “She turned you into someone capable of locking your kid away all day. Someone who would try to yell at her out of a fucking panic attack. Someone who would rather gaslight her child into hating herself to the point of danger than admit the truth. Someone couldn’t say I love you for her whole life. Is making you capable of that okay if she loved you? Love isn’t supposed to hurt like that, Mother. It’s not anything a person should want or be giving if it’s giving out licence to be cruel too.”

“Sometimes, pumpkin--”

“No. Not with love. Other reasons, fear, jealousy, anything else. But not that.”

“Then what is it you want from me, Morgan?”

Morgan had to think. She couldn’t touch the thing she wanted, not if it came with accepting all those miserable years, all that misguided bullshit, the skewed equations that meant her self-hatred was worth this so-called perfection and calling it love. She clung to Deirdre’s arms, fastening her tight to her back. It had been a difficult autumn, but what they had was never cruel, never calculating. Their mistakes and lapses were honest. They told each other what was wrong and what they needed. They were honest. They were sorry. Morgan threaded their fingers together as she cried. She tried to breathe with her, steady and confident. “I want you to apologize,” she said.

“I did the best I knew how. I swear to you, no, you--” she pointed at Deirdre. “If I am holding back even a little truth, I will vanish from this cemetery and haunt somewhere else for the rest of my days. I swear--”

“Don’t, Mother,” Morgan said softly. She let go of Deirdre and slipped away, coming right up to her mother until they were face to face. She needed to do this much on her own. “You don’t have to swear. I get it. This is hard for you. And you just want to feel like it was all worth it. All those mistakes, those shitty choices, all of that pain you made both of us carry. You want the exchange for what you sacrificed. But the spell isn’t what you thought it was, Mommy. You got it wrong and it’s not going to bring you what I feel like you’re asking me for.” She sniffled and tried to cup her hand around the shape of her hand. If she could just squeeze it, if she could hold even a piece of her for a second-- “Now, I’m going to destroy the person who really started this. Because you used to be just a sad little kid like I was and none of it was ever going to be fair and you deserve to know that she’s going to be punished. I’m gonna do that for us. Her soul will be nothing and she will hurt as much as we have the whole way. But I can’t get rid of what you did by destroying her. If you want something back from me, you have to at least tell me--” Morgan shuddered as her resolve crumbled one word at a time. “Tell me you’re sorry and you know now it was wrong. Just tell me that much.”

Ruth didn’t say anything for a long time. She could not bear to look at her daughter’s face, unnaturally pale as she began to sob. Morgan always grew red so quick. She forgot how to breathe, it was like she was so ready to run from any suffering, she’d try and take herself into the ether to hide from it. How she made Ruth panic when she hyperventilated. Her eyes would grow big she’d wheeze so helplessly, expecting Ruth to simply know the antidote. “I love you, Pumpkin,” she whispered, just for her daughter’s ears. Then she leveled her gaze at Deirdre. “My vow still stands. I swear I shall not haunt this place another moment again if I am holding any lies or doubts in my heart. I was wrong. I was wrong and I’m—I’m—”

There was a terrible pause before Morgan saw her mother dissipate. She had expected the trick as soon as the words had begun, but there was no bracing herself for the silence that claimed her mother’s voice and in the farthest, saddest parts of her, she thought she screamed just so she didn’t have to hear it.

There were several reactions Deirdre expected—anger, acceptance, sorrow. But for all she expected, Ruth was undeniably hard to read. She reminded her of her own mother in that way, as if her only emotions were anger and pride. Deirdre had yet to see the pride though, but she imagined it would come. And she hoped, as anyone who loved Morgan might, that it would be the right kind. She watched her intently, knowingly. Ruth had an answer delivered to her on a plate in two courses; an admittance of love, and an apology. She knew one would be easier than the other, but as Morgan had taught her, she hoped for both parts. And she waited. And she listened and she cut her ears through all of Ruth’s filler. And she waited. “I don’t accept that,” she mumbled, rejecting her vow. How could she? Neither of them were asking Ruth to leave, only to accept the truth all of them knew. There was no reason to swear to her, and Deirdre held no desire to humour her game. She would stand there and she would be honest on her own merits. She would listen to the sound of her own voice for once. And so she waited. The love came strangely coated in guilt, before her attempt at bolstering a fae bind, but at least it came. As Ruth continued to speak, Deirdre realized her vow was some manner of a performance. She had been withholding the truth from the start, hadn’t she? And now she wanted her exit, and freedom from Morgan. How would her daughter ever find her if she haunted some other place and she had no more magic to search? The hope she had, little as it was, shrank. Ruth revealed herself to be many things: a liar, a coward, and a bad mother. “I don’t accept,” Deirdre mumbled again. She wanted to ask her what it was this time, fear or guilt? Which did she let disguise itself as care? But she was gone soon, perhaps realizing Deirdre hadn’t created any promise between them, and she needed to be away from any more ideas she didn’t like. Deirdre turned her gaze to the cemetery gates, half expecting to find Ruth there, tip-toeing her way out with her bag of stolen goods over her shoulder.

Satisfied that Ruth wasn’t lingering behind some tree, Deirdre blinked her death-vision away and wrapped her arms around her girlfriend. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, trying to pull Morgan against her, “I’m sorry.” As it was, even trying to show how much they understood of her—how much her daughter, the very woman she didn’t think understood much, knew—and how she had no more places to hide, she still manufactured her own escape. “I’m sorry your mother is...like that.” She surrounded Morgan with her love, affection that would not leave, and hoped it could make something okay. “I didn’t accept her promise, by the way. It didn’t seem right to let her have that. But I suppose she just left anyway.” Deirdre sighed, and tried to meet Morgan’s eyes. “How are you, my love? Are you okay?”

Morgan whipped her head around, one side, then the other, searching for where her mother had gone. How far could she have gone? Where was she? Her chest burned and she clenched her fists to keep herself together. “You coward!” She screeched. She strained her eyes on the horizon, hoping to see her silhouette, even a vague Ruth-shaped blip nearby. How good could she be at this after only three years? “You don’t love anything, how dare you!” She kicked the bronze flower holder, over and over until it bent and the flowers spilled over. “You don’t want to talk to me, fine!” Her voice broke and she slumped in Deirdre’s grasp, weeping and gasping. “I should’ve known, I should’ve known she would never--” She grit her teeth and shook her head. “I heard you, and I knew you would never, you wouldn’t take her from me…” She shuddered, choking on sobs. “I don’t want you either!” She screamed to the sky. Maybe she was hiding there, or in a treetop, or behind a car. “I don’t want anything from you until you can tell me that, you coward!” She screamed again and buried her face in Deirdre. “I should’ve known she wouldn’t ever--” Change. Be different. Be better. She had died cruel and now she was determined to be that way. All that fear, all those stupid horror stories and bad memories-- Morgan sobbed and sagged against her girlfriend. “I’m sorry,” she said, still gasping. “You shouldn’t have had to put up with her, and what she tried to put on you.” At least she had run away on her own terms, if that could even be counted as a bright side. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I guess at least I don’t have anything left to say to her,” she laughed bitterly. “I don’t know. I wanted her to be better. If she was here, I was hoping she would...be someone who wanted to be better. I thought if I just understood…and I do, I do understand her pain. But she couldn’t…” Morgan shook her head and let it fall onto Deirdre’s chest. She was tired, and she wanted to be somewhere else.

“It’s not so bad—not so wrong—to hope.” Deirdre hummed, holding her girlfriend close, arms weaved around her as tight as she could manage. “I did too. I really thought she would—“ Deirdre swallowed, sighing the rest of her sentence away. It didn’t matter so much now that they had; Morgan wasn’t at fault for expecting her mother to...be a mother. Deirdre breathed her girlfriend in, pressing her lips against her jaw. There was much she didn’t know about motherhood, or family itself, but she had hoped that Ruth loved Morgan enough to face herself. She couldn’t imagine any other feeling being stronger than love. “It’s okay,” she kissed her cheek now. “Don’t be sorry to me. I’m okay.” She reached her hands down, and felt around Morgan’s purse for a pen and a tissue. “Let’s go back to the hotel, okay?” She kissed her again, pulling back and clicking the pen. “And we don’t have to do anything else. And if you’re feeling up to it, we can come back for the bones tonight like you planned, or we could do it tomorrow, or I can get them, or—“ Deirdre smiled softly. “Let’s just go back, and we can figure out the rest from there. We always do.” She scribbled carefully on the tissue, showing its contents off to Morgan when she finished. “Our address,” she smiled, stuffing it under the bent flower holder. “In case she wants to be civil for Yule. If not, I can throw salt at her. Ghost mothers are convenient like that.” She stepped back, her eyes drifting to the small note she left in the corner “if you want to try it differently”. Deirdre took Morgan’s hand in hers. “All good?”

Morgan rested in Deirdre’s arms, barely standing at all. There was something so counterintuitive and strange and gratifying about knowing Deirdre had hoped too. Even with all she knew of the world and all she knew about Morgan’s mother, she had it in her to hope. Morgan hiccuped another harsh sob and squeezed her girlfriend tight. “I love you,” she mumbled. “And I never, never want to hurt you the way either of us were. I love you and I want our life to be better. And I don’t need anything she has if it’s not going to fit with that.” She just wanted it. Or rather, she wanted her mother to learn to give something she could keep. Just one thing. One nice thing. Morgan hadn’t been able to give her peace with anything she had to say and she had nothing left in her to offer. She clung to Deirdre’s body as she fiddled in her bag and scribbled on the tissue. The rawness in her throat eased as she saw the note, the hope Deirdre was determined to carry for her, for both of them. She felt like a discarded pumpkin, hollowed out and too soft to stand. When Deirdre had finished her work, Morgan squeezed herself flush against her body again. “Thank you,” she said. “I...really like that. I guess when she can choose different…” Morgan shrugged, even as her trembling lip gave away the lingering pain.”Maybe she’ll be at peace. Maybe we both will.” Because that ache was still in her, the one cut by the girl she’d been, banging on her locked door and begging her mother for another chance, for her love. Morgan told the ache to hush, and wait, and have hope. She breathed slowly, trying to make her body still again. If it worked at all she couldn’t tell, but with Deirdre’s hand in hers, it didn’t matter. She nodded and started walking back toward the parking lot. Morgan cast one more glance at the cemetery, watching the shadows and the ripples in the short grass. Was she here? Was she watching? Was Agnes? But there wasn’t a soul to be seen, living or dead anymore. Morgan tucked herself into Deirdre’s side, murmuring, “I still want today to be good. I just need to lay down with you for a little bit, in our world. And then we’ll do all those things we said. And when we come back for Agnes--” She cast one more look back at the cemetery, lingering on her mother’s grave before turning to the spot where she knew Agnes was buried, too much in the shadow of the mausoleum for the grass around her to grow even, her placard probably weathered down to nothing. Morgan squeezed Deirdre’s hand to signal that she’d be back. She scooped up the fallen flowers and ran them over to Agnes’ neglected grave. It was so old, it wasn’t even granted a bronze vase with the others. Who was alive to care about her? Morgan laid the flowers down as neatly as possible and ran back to Deirdre’s arms. “We’ll make things good for Agnes too. If she’s still around here, we’ll help her too.”

“I love you too.” Deirdre said, marveling at how right those words always felt tumbling from her lips. Like breathing, she thought, and couldn’t imagine how anyone else thought they could be so hard to say. She nodded her agreement to Morgan’s words; they would be good to each other, as good as they possibly could be; they would be kind; they would be honest; the hurt they had endured would never be the hurt they left in the world. She could understand Ruth’s fear and cowardice, but only where it had come from, not why it needed to be clung to. She would not emulate her, and she knew Morgan wouldn’t either. It felt so simple then, holding Morgan in the cemetery that held her family, that they could be good. But as she had started to learn, simple did not mean bad. “Are you sure you want to—?” Deirdre swallowed, nodding. “Okay.” She watched Morgan with fondness and curiosity melded into one soft smile and head tilt. As she had also begun to learn, “good” was not some looming branch, fruit too far above to be plucked, it was smaller than that. Seeds, perhaps. Old roots, maybe. It took many shapes, just as evil did. Good was, sometimes, flowers for a neglected grave, dirt brushed off an old name. It was listening to a girl who knew far more about the world than anyone gave her credit, even her own mother. It was life’s discovery, one day at a time. It took the shape of people, or of arms wrapped around. “Yes,” she breathed, leaning down to kiss Morgan finally, fiercely. “We can make it good for her too, even if she isn’t around, even if she is.” Good was not one thing, once, but many things, all the time—shifting. It was choice. And there was no one who knew choice better than Morgan Beck.

#don't do sadness #wr deirdre #wr ruth #wr ruth beck #wr chatzy #wr deirdre chatzy #wr ruth chatzy #wr ruth beck chatzy #abuse tw #tw abuse #domestic abuse tw #emotional abuse tw #mentions of #wickedswriting

11 notes · View notes