#simon is just bursting with dad energy that's all

[pouletpourri]

I know the circustances didn't make it avaliable, but..I kinda wish we had a farewell scene

#listen listen their friendship means everything to me #screw canon screw anything that's her DAD he's her honorary DAD alright #simon's a honorary dad to whoever needs it #also drawing dad figures being soft with their honorary children is therapeutic to my familial issues #simon petrikov #adventure time #fionna and cake #my art #fanart #fionna and cake spoilers #fionna campbell #adventure time fionna and cake #damn i can't draw people hugging to save my life #btw i didnt forget about marceline marcy's the apple of his eye #simon is just bursting with dad energy that's all

[herarcadewasteland]

His Property... Part Two!

A/N: After like 2 requests and His Property being one of my best rated/liked fics on here, I’ve decided that part two is here. Now its probably horrible but it was asked for and I kinda want to write more for it anyways so here we goooo

@scullyswick and the lovely anon, here you go. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You woke up in a dark room, the pounding in your head being drowned out by the searing ache in your forearm. Chatter outside the door allowed your mind to catch up to the events that had occured before you blacked out. It was blurry and you weren’t entirely sure exactly what happened but as you lifted a weak arm to trace the raised “N” on your skin, you had a pretty good idea.

A groan filled the space as you turned over on the hard mattress. Your other wrist ached, but for a different reason, and as you peered up towards your arm your thoughts raced. Was Daryl alright? Did Maggie make it? Was Rick fairing any better than Daryl? Did anyone really survive when you were carted away in unconsciousness? Your thoughts stopped abruptly as a blinding light filled the cold space, your arms struggling to cover your sensitive eyes but failing due to whatever conditions for your health weren’t met while you were out cold.

“Well well. Look who decided to grace the world with her pretty face today.”

His voice was too loud for your ears and you cringed away from his, his laughter coming louder than his words as he knelt to run a large finger over the letter just as you had.

“F-Fu-...”, you coughed violently as you tried to cuss him out, his eyebrow raising in typical dad fashion. 

Cold ran from your lips down your chest as he poured water over them, your cracked lips opening to try and get as much water as you could before it inevitably ran out. He sighed at you as you choked on some of the water, your eyes dropping tears as he stood up to unchain your arm from the wall. You lay still as he released you, your body slowly waking up and realizing the situation as you coughed.

“Now, we’re gonna get you up and get some food in you. This is no way for my daughter to live, now is it?”

Your mind reeled over his words, your eyes tearing up as you thought of your family back in Alexandria dealing with the knowledge that you not only knew Negan, but were his daughter. Negan’s eyes met yours as you leapt up to your shaky legs with a burst of energy, whatever instincts you had left pushing you forward and past your father, the shock of such a large motion making him freeze as you bolted down the hallway to god knows where. You were proud of your escape until you saw Daryl being roughly shoved into a cell a little ways down the hall, his eyes meeting yours through greasy hair and dead eyes. 

You froze mid-step, laughter coming from Negan behind you and Simon in  front of you as you locked eyes with Daryl, your own filling with tears as he stared at you like he couldn’t believe you were actually alive after all this time. You booked it towards your lover as the laughter stopped dead moments before you took off again, Daryl watching you with shocked eyes as you wrapped around him in a large, gentle hug. The two observers watched for a moment before the haunting whistle filled the air and Daryl was ripped from your weak arms, your fathers wrapping around you waist and hoisting you over his shoulder, your hands beating at his back like you could stop him. Daryl’s calls for you got blocked out by the heavy slam of the cell door, your ears ringing as you watched Simon stalk behind Negan and your prone form.

“Daryl...”, your voice gave out as you stared at the door, tears hitting the cement floor almost soundlessly as you accepted your fate. 

Whatever happened, you knew Daryl was okay. And if Daryl was alive, that meant you could stay alive too...right? You began to doubt that thought as Saviors watched you pass, disgusting smirks on their cocky faces. Negan’s voice rang through the space with some instructions, your ears too unfocused to even begin to hear anything but the phantom shouts of Daryl calling for you, his desperate voice engrained in your mind as pain shot through your arm worse than before. Your bleary eyes focused on the small red trail you left behind, your brain catching up with everything as you glanced to your now opened wound. Your ass hit a soft bed as your head lolled heavily to the side, your eyes closing as you lost consciousness again. You were getting quite tired of it, but as you woke up what you assumed was hours later with Daryl kneeling at your bedside, gun pointed at the back of his head, you figured watching him get carted in would’ve been a whole lot worse than what was about to happen.

“Say hello to your lover boy, princess. It might be the last you ever see of him, so lets make this count.”

#twd fanfiction #twd daryl #twd fanfic #twd x reader #twd negan #reader x negan #daryl dixon #daryl x you #daddy #twd canon typical violence #canon typical violence #kinda canon

[hoffmans-hoffman]

Simon Bartlet

Name: Simon Cain Bartlet

Nicknames: Aces(Secret Service), Flowers(Secret Service), Single Sally(Josh Lyman), Butterfly(Abbey Bartlet)

Occupation: College student

Family: Dr. Bartlet (Grandfather), Mrs. Bartlet (Grandmother), Jonathan Bartlet(Uncle), Josiah Bartlet(Father), Abbey Bartlet(Mother), Elizabeth Bartlet Eleanor Bartlet Zoey Bartlet(younger sisters)

Relationships: a few unnamed girlfriends and boyfriends

Allergies: Meat(All)

Religion: Atheist

First appearance: Five Votes Down

Last appearance: Tomorrow

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

Five Votes Down

With his father down five votes in the house to pass the Gun Control Bill, Simon makes some visits and very interesting phone calls to some people hoping to sway the votes, but Leo McGarry phones a friend in Hoynes who also takes all the credit for the bill passing.

Crucified

Simon is in the scandal sheets every couple of weeks, whether it's who he's dating, his religious choice against his father or...weirdly his veganism. He makes a visit to the senior staff and to hide from his mom. In this visit CJ has a long painful talk with him and a few hours later, he came back with a small piece of paper that says “I will try my best to stay out of the scandal sheets for the next three months - Simon Cain Bartlet„ and CJ still has it in her office.

Aces is Missing

In a visit to Simon's college, his parents along with the senior staff have a moment of fear and worry for Simon's health. The visit started out as normal and all well and good till a rogue student starts a riot and suddenly Simon is nowhere to be seen which makes the secret service worried so they send three agents to try and find Simon. When Simon was found he had a broken nose and arm...but other than being traumatized he was okay.

Simon, CJ and Josh

(yeah I know it's not Josh and CJ's actors it just fits)

When they lose Mrs Landingham...it affects everyone in a different way, Jed is angry, Leo and Charlie were in shock, Toby was putting in a front and Sam was sad. Simon, CJ and Josh were grieving together like siblings...Simon the strong shoulder to cry on, CJ the caring one and Josh the one crying a lot. In losing Mrs Landingham, Simon, CJ and Josh bonded with this loss but it wouldn't be their last time going through this.

Twenty Five

Simon is moved out of his college dorm and into The Executive Residence as his youngest sister is kidnapped. Simon...Simon isn't doing well at this point in time, he's tired and angry that he has no power in this situation all he can do is watch his parents struggle along with the senior staff. When his father invokes the Twenty Fifth amendment Simon leaves the oval office and almost the white house but is stopped by Josh and CJ as Toby returns from the hospital. Simon starts a full blown argument with the Senior Staff and leaves the White House in a huff, Toby suggested to Glen Allen Walken that sending a few secret service men to go after Simon and Glen allows this.

Leo McGarry

Simon had always been close to Leo even before his dad was president, Simon looked up to Leo and always came to Leo about his problems mostly because his dad scares him. Being at Camp David when Leo has a heart attack Simon panics and freezes as other people help Leo. This makes Simon feel it is his fault Leo dies. Mallory asks Simon to speak at Leo's funeral and at first he accepts it...but when it comes time for him to say his few words he is unable to.

A bond so strong

This time coming to his aid is CJ and Josh, this time them being his shoulder to cry on as only a few words into his speech he says “I,I'm sorry...I can't„ and quickly remove himself from the podium as he bursts out in tears. In that moment everything sinks in for him and every tear he has suppressed over the past years comes exploding out and he tells Josh to help him out and they walk out to try and calm him down.

Gremlin Energy

Simon is working hard on Santos campaign and it's physical and mentally killing him over it as he just wants to make everyone proud of him. As he is doing this his friends and coworkers can see the toll it's taking on him and it is Josh who ultimately tells Santos to take Simon off the campaign team. Later Simon becomes Josh's aid/Secretary after the end of the campaign.

#simon bartlet #west wing oc #zoey bartlet #abbey bartlet #jed bartlet

[talatomaz]

the silent brothers | izzy lightwood x fray!reader

a/n: I may have projected a little but oh well 🤷🏽‍♀️ I’m actually really enjoying this so far and hopefully, I’ll continue with this

warnings: brief mentions of death

word count: 2.6k

masterlist | navigation | request rules

pt.i | pt.ii | pt.iii

reader is clary’s younger half-sister who learns about the shadow world at the same time clary does

i do not give you permission to repost or translate my fics on any platform - likes/reblogs are okay and are much appreciated

“Ugh.”

Simon groaned as he lay down on the bed beside you.

After Izzy had marked a healing rune on you, Clary had expressed her interest in questioning Hodge, an ex-Circle member, but you had declined to join her and Jace.

The both of them were getting increasingly close whilst you and Clary seemed to be growing further and further apart. She supported your decision, not wanting to push you after your father’s murder, but you could tell she was still annoyed.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to help find your mother - of course you did - but you had this feeling that whomever this Valentine person was, and why he wanted the Mortal Cup, was much more linked to Clary than it was you. And you learned the hard way to always trust your gut instincts.

So instead, you both agreed that you would let Clary and Jace question Hodge whilst Izzy would watch over you and Simon, or rather, ‘the mundane’ as Alec kept referring him to.

Currently, you and Simon were in one of the spare rooms in the Institute, which was glamoured to look like an abandoned Church but was actually the Shadowhunters New York HQ, and Izzy was making some breakfast which Jace had ominously warned you to stay away from.

“It’s been a hell of a day, Lewis.”

“You’re telling me.”

You sat up, resting on your elbows, “Oh, really? What have you been doing?“

Simon playfully pushed you when you failed to hide a snicker, “Shut up, Fray. This whole Shadowhunter thing has taken a toll on me.”

“You’re a mundane, Simon.”

“Shut up.” He repeated, but there was no harshness behind his tone.

“Hey, I’m just saying. I always knew you were a muggle.”

“Rude.” He said, swiping at your elbow so you fell back down on the pillow, making you both burst out laughing.

You and Simon always got along well.

Though he was Clary’s best friend, he was more like your big brother, even though he was less than a year older than you. The three of you had known each other for almost all of your lives. And despite you moving away, you and Simon still remained close. So, of course, he was there for you and Clary during this particularly bad time.

You lay beside each other as the silence encompassed the room. Though it was quiet, your mind was loud as you played through the day’s events in your head.

When you had woken up, you were in college, relatively care-free. Only bound by the ropes of education and nothing more.

But now, you were fatherless and practically motherless. You had lost your home, all your belongings too because your father had burned them to protect you from being traced, and on top of that, you found out that you were an angel.

It really had been one hell of a day.

“How are you, y/n?”

“I’m exhausted.” You answered. “My mind is spinning and I just want everything to stop.”

“I’m so sorry. About this. About your dad. About everything.”

“It’s okay. I’ll deal with it.“

Simon sat up and looked down at you.

“You need to learn to process it, not just deal with it. You’re allowed to cry and be upset, y/n.”

“Simon-“ You sighed.

“Yeah, I know, you don’t like to cry in front of anyone but you have to let yourself feel everything. You can cry in front of me and Clary. You know that.”

“Simon, just let it go. Please.” You said quietly, you didn’t have the energy to argue.

“Okay, but promise me you’ll talk to someone if you need to.”

When Simon raised his pinkie finger in the air, you laughed. You hadn’t done this for a while and it was a silly thing you did when you were kids but it was important. You raised your pinkie and locked it with his.

“Yes, I promise.”

Izzy smiled when she peeked through the door and saw you laughing with Simon. She had finished making breakfast a few minutes ago but had been standing outside the door, listening to you and Simon. She hadn’t meant to do it but this was the best way she could learn important information about you. After all, you, Clary and Simon were complete strangers and she needed to protect her family from any danger.

She was about to interrupt when she heard Simon mention her name.

“How do we know we can trust Izzy and the others? We should be going to Luke.”

“I know. And whilst I agree with you about that, I also trust Clary and if she says we can’t trust him, I need to believe in that judgement. At least for now. She’s all I have left.”

“Okay but just because we can’t trust Luke doesn’t mean we can trust these-these supposed angels-these Shadowhunters.”

Simon said exasperated.

“I get what you’re trying to say but they seem like good people and you know I have a sixth sense about these things and I’m never wrong. Besides, Clary and I are Shadowhunters. My dad is-was. I need to learn more about him. This is the only link I have left to him, Simon.” Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“Okay fine, but should we even let Clary be alone with Jace? We might need to protect her from him.”

“And why would Clary need protection from Jace?”

Your’s and Simon’s head turned to face the door where Izzy walked through holding a tray of food. She gently placed it on the ottoman at the foot of the bed and approached Simon.

“He’s the ultimate protector. I mean, hello, have you seen the guy?” She smirked as she got closer to Simon.

He leaned back, flustered in his usual Simon way. He adjusted his glasses and stumbled over his words as he tried to stand up but failed.

“Now, let’s eat.”

She said, grabbing a piece of toast. Simon politely declined whilst you grinned at his awkward composure.

“Y/N, you need to eat. When was the last time you had anything?”

You thought back to the cup of coffee you had had earlier and remembered that was the only thing you had consumed. And honestly, you were hungry. You picked up a piece of the, well, burnt toast and began eating. You managed to finish one slice before losing your appetite again so you washed it down with some water and sat back as Izzy started to ask you both questions about your life.

She wanted to know what life as a mundane was like and a bit about your family history. You revealed more than you usually would have but you weren’t sure why.

Simon looked like he was ready to hand over his life for her which you thought was unnecessary as Izzy looked like she could take care of herself.

But you could understand why.

She was stunning.

                ✧── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

“Valentine has her.”

Clary said, a mixture of anger and horror on her face.

During her conversation with Hodge, she’d learned that your mother was an ex-Circle member and that both of your early memories had more than likely been taken by a warlock, at your mother’s request.

Clary then had a vision of Dot at a club called “Pandemonium”. But, by the time you had geared up and arrived, she was gone. More than likely having been kidnapped by Valentine’s men.

When you all arrived back at the Institute deciding on what to do next, Jace had interrupted to suggest a dangerous option.

“I’m sorry, who are the Silent Brothers?” You asked, confused at Izzy and Alec’s outrage and downright refusal.

“They’re like superior Shadowhunters.” Jace explained.

“They possess the ability to recover memories.” Izzy continued.

“Yes and that process can kill you, so there’s that.” Alec finished, making you look wildly at Clary.

“Your bedside manner is abysmal.” Simon’s attempt at humour failed to make you laugh as your mind started to spiral with the possibility of losing Clary.

Alec, Izzy and Jace argued amongst themselves about the danger that it posed and that they should report to the Clave instead.

The Clave was essentially like the Shadowhunters’ Government and Justice System. And all Government agencies were sure to be working in their own interests and not the people’s. And you had a feeling that the Clave were no different.

“Unless someone can give me a better option, we’re doing it.” Clary said, making everyone look at you and her.

“Speak for yourself, I’m not doing it.”

“Y/N-“

“No, Clary. If you want to, fine, but I’m not.”

“Don’t you want our Mom back? Your memories?” Clary asked, raising her voice whilst everyone else remained silent.

“Of course, I want Mum back! But I don’t want to know what I’ve forgotten. I don’t need to-“

“Yes, you do. They’re important or else Mom wouldn’t have had a warlock take them from us.” Clary started to scold you before you shouted.

“Clary, for God’s sake, just shut up!”

Everyone stared at you and you started to blush at your outburst but still remained angry at Clary‘s carelessness.

“You’re so goddamn impulsive that you can’t see the danger in this situation. You could die! And then where would I be? My dad was just murdered, Mum’s been kidnapped by some maniac and now you want me to lose my sister too?”

When she remained silent, you saw tears forming in her eyes and, to your horror, you could feel yours doing the same.

“You think with your heart. Which I love about you. But you need to think with your head too. If you want to do it, whatever. But don’t force me to do it too.”

Then you walked away from the group and made your way to one of the only rooms you were familiar with.

“I’ll go after her.” Simon said, holding Clary’s arm in support.

“No, I’ll go. Might be better if it’s not any of you two right now. And I think I know where she’s gone anyways.” Izzy countered.

She didn’t wait for an answer and immediately followed after you.

She found you sitting on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands.

You looked up as you heard the door open, surprised to see Izzy standing there. Well, it was her room after all.

After you had eaten breakfast earlier, you had learned that the supposed ‘guest’ room you were in was actually Izzy’s room. And, to be honest, you weren’t sure why you hadn’t made that assumption yourself as the room was elegant but also simple at the same time which suited her.

“Nice room choice.” She teased lightly, smirking when you blushed again.

“Sorry. This was the only room that I knew. I should have asked first.”

“Well, that would have ruined the roll you were on. You couldn’t exactly say ‘do what you want, Clary. Oh, can I just storm into your room, Izzy?’”

She said it in such a way that you couldn’t help but smile.

“Awh, see? There’s your beautiful smile.” Izzy commented and you felt yourself blush even harder.

You stood up, feeling uneasy that you were sitting down on her bed, and made your way to a pillar that stood in her room and leaned against it.

“I know Clary’s angry with me and I get it, I would be too. But she’s just jumping into things without thinking of the consequences.” You sighed.

“I know why she’s doing it. The moment she stops and has a moment to think, she’ll probably spiral so this is her way of managing that but she can’t just expect me to follow her. There’s just so much happening and I just need a moment to breathe.”

You explained, your head resting against the pillar with your eyes closed, trying to calm yourself.

“Are you expecting me to give you a pep talk or something?” Izzy joked.

“No, not really. Pep talks are overrated.” You shrugged.

When you opened your eyes, you found yourself momentarily stunned because Izzy was no longer by the door, but was instead standing a few inches from you, staring at you intently.

“What?” You asked, your voice but a whisper.

“Nothing, you’re just very...intriguing.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Most definitely.” She smiled.

Then she moved closer and lifted her hand to push a few strands of hair behind your ear.

You held your breath as she did this.

It was such a gentle thing for her to do, and you weren’t sure how to feel.

“You were born to do this, y/n. You both were. This is your destiny. You got this.”

You nodded, biting your lip gently and you caught Izzy’s eyes flickering down to your lips and then back up to your eyes. It was only for a brief moment, but you had seen her and she knew you did too.

“Now, if you don’t want to get your memories back, that’s your choice and something you deserve to have because it’s one of the few things you have left. But we should still be there for Clary, in case she needs it.”

                ✧── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

“Are you sure?”

Jace asked as everyone looked at you.

After your conversation with Izzy, you had agreed that you would support Clary in her decision to meet the Silent Brothers but you wouldn’t relent on your own. You would be there for her but you weren’t going to recover your own memories.

So you were all currently outside the City of Bones, where Izzy and Alec had agreed to keep watch and look after Simon whilst Jace and Clary would go inside.

“Yes. I’ll stay here.”

Though you hesitated for a moment, you quickly brought your sister in for a hug. Scared of what could happen if things didn’t go well.

“Be safe.”

“I will.” Clary whispered fiercely, holding you tight in her arms. When she pulled away, she smiled gently, “I’m sorry for trying to force you do this.”

“It’s okay, I get it. Go get Mum back.” You reciprocated her smile, gesturing for her to enter.

                ✧── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

“Woah, what happened?” Alec asked when Clary and Jace came running out of the dungeon, tears running down Clary’s face.

You quickly approached her and held onto her arms.

“What happened, Ry?”

“V-Valentine. H-He”

You looked at Jace in alarm, Clary wasn’t making any sense and you were beginning to worry.

“Valentine’s her father.”

Though you gasped, you weren’t entirely shocked. You had had a feeling that this was more connected to Clary than you.

Alec then began to scold Jace about Clary’s true intentions, making you lash out at him for the first time.

Since you had both arrived, Alec had been the most unwelcoming, and whilst you did understand his wariness, you didn’t appreciate him acting as if the two of you were as malicious as Clary’s father.

“Wait, where’s Simon? Where’s Izzy?” Clary interrupted, just now realising that they weren’t here.

You were about to explain how Simon had forgotten his phone in the van and how Izzy had decided to accompany him when the latter came running towards you all.

“He’s gone. I just left him for a minute because I heard something but when I came back, he was gone.”

You and Clary began to freak out and started to run in the direction she came from, calling for Simon.

“Is that the mundane’s name?”

You all turned around, looking up at the bridge and what you saw had your heart dropping to your stomach. Simon was being held upside down over a bridge, threateningly close to being dropped and falling to the ground.

“The mundane, unharmed, in exchange for the Mortal Cup. Tick-Tock, people.”

The pale man shouted before disappearing with Simon and another woman. Simon’s scream for help lingered as you looked at Clary and saw the same horror on her face that you were sure was on yours.

“Who the fuck was that?” You asked, looking at Izzy.

“Those were vampires.”

Dead Man’s Party ->

#shadowhunters #shadowhunters x reader #isabelle lightwood #isabelle lightwood x reader #izzy lightwood #izzy lightwood x reader #clary fairchild #clary fray #clary fray x reader #clary fairchild x reader #alec lightwood #alec lightwood x reader #jace herondale #jace herondale x reader #clary x jace #simon lewis #simon lewis x reader #malec #clizzy #clace #the mortal cup #the shadowhunter chronicles #c: isabelle lightwood #c: clary fairchild #c: shadowhunters #s: mine #c: the silent brothers

[stockphotomanonastick]

Percy Jackson And The World Without Gods Chapter One

A Percy Jackson and Renegades Crossover. 

Luke unlatched the side straps of his armor, showing a bit of his skin under his left arm, somewhere it would be very difficult to hit. Then he stabbed himself. 

The cut wasn’t deep but Luke-and maybe Kronos-screamed. The throne room shook, throwing Percy off his feet. “NO!” Kronos’ voice bellowed, releasing an aura of energy that surrounded Luke, the burst of energy around him made everything slow down, but inside the energy, bubble time seemed to speed up, Luke spasmed on the floor a mile a minute, glowing more and more as the seconds passed.

Before he could process what was happening, instinct took over, Percy ran as fast as he could, pushing his body and mind to go further. At the last second, Percy jumped into the energy bubble, which flashed a bright white light and disappeared. 

On the other side of the throne room Annabeth screamed, rising to her feet painfully she ran over to where Percy and Luke had been a moment before, but there was nothing. Tears streamed down her face as Grover hobbled over to her, gently putting his hands on her back as she sobbed. 

Percy’s mind was spinning, his body stretching like he was a rubber band and then compressing like he was stuck in a garbage machine. 

And then, just as soon as the horrible pain had started, it stopped. 

But then he fell out of the sky. 

The cold wind whipped against his face, and through the absolute terror he was experiencing right now, Percy distantly thought about why Zeus wasn’t throwing a fit about Percy being in his sky.

Just as the thought popped into his head, he slammed into the hard concrete ground. Mentally thanking the Mark Of Achilles, Percy stood up, ignoring the aching of his joints, and looked around. 

Next to him was a huge dumpster, which smelled exactly like you would think. Two huge buildings towered over him, though some parts of them were falling apart, like in the post-apocalyptic movies.

  “Well, that was an entrance” a deep voice said, Percy stuck his hand in his pocket, easily finding Riptide, he looked around, his eyes landing on the voice’s owner. 

The man before him was huge-not Titan level obviously but still bigger than an average person-he had dark brown hair and was wearing a leather jacket. The most interesting thing about the man was that he was moving, last time Percy checked all Mortals were frozen just outside Manhatten, so either he landed way further than he thought, or the man before him was a Monster.

Percy drew out his sword, holding it in front of him like a shield, “what? Are you going to draw on me?” Percy looked down at his sword and frowned, he must be Mortal, maybe the spell had worn off? 

The man walked closer to Percy, pulling out his own weapon, a gun. “Look kid, I don’t want to hurt you, but times are tough, so you can either give me all the money you have, or I could use this-” he lifted the gun, pointing it at Percy “so what's it going to be?” 

Percy raised his eyebrow and looked over at a puddle, he felt the familiar tug in his stomach, “Hey! What's going-” a voice shouted just before Percy slammed a wave of water down on the man, knocking him to the ground. 

“Woah!” a guy said, jogging up to Percy and the older man, the guy looked around Percy’s age, he had black glasses and was wearing a strange black and red jumpsuit with a single R in the middle, “cool trick!” he said, Percy tensed, “you saw that?” the boy chuckled, “yeah, you probably gave Tusanmi a run for her money”

Percy looked down at Riptide, “do you like my pen?” he asked, ready for a fight-or if this guy was a Demi-god, a good questioning the guy looked down and smiled, “yeah sure, why? Do you like drawing?” Percy frowned but nodded. 

“Adrian! There you are!” four teenagers rounded the corner, “who’s this?” the boy-Adrian-turned and faced the others, “sorry I heard some noise and wanted to check it out, this is… what's your name?”

“Percy” Adrian smiled, “Percy this is Oscar, Nova, Ruby, and Danna,” he said pointing to each teen as he said their name. Before any of them could respond, a single gunshot rang out throughout the dark ally. 

Percy’s hands flew up, expecting shots to come flying, but nothing happened. “Fuck!” a boy’s voice exclaimed-though it wasn’t Adrian’s-Percy lowered his hands and opened his eyes, the teens in front of him gaped at him, one boy-Oscar?-summoned a wisp of smoke and directed it back towards where Percy’s attacker laid when he turned around Percy saw that the man was holding a gun, though he had smoke covering his eyes. 

“Percy, here lay down” Adrian raised his hands out as if expecting him to collapse at any moment, “what?” Adrian gaped, “‘what?’ Percy you were just shot!” Percy turned his head to look at his back, touching the part where he would’ve been hurt. It was just an inch or two away from his Achilles Heel.

“Oh. Yeah, I don’t think it worked” the teens gaped at him, “Percy, do… do you have invisibility?” he nodded slowly, “why didn’t we know about you! We have to get you to my dad he’s gonna flip!” Percy shook his head, “oh no that okay I-I don’t need to do that” Adrian adjusted his glasses, “no come on! I think you’re the only person we’ve seen since my dad who has that type of ability!” Percy wondered if Achilles had any children, “look I’m terrible with dads! My own, non-existent. My step-dad, dead. Both my uncles hate me. I have like no experience with male figures in my life”

Nova-a dark-haired girl who reminded Percy of Thalia-chuckled at his ranting, “Hugh and Simon are fine, I mean they still tolerate me even though I was a double spy for them and got their son kidnapped” she shrugged as if this was common knowledge. Percy distantly thought of Silena, his very own double spy, who had given her life to make up for what she did, and his heart tugged a little. “Okay fine. But after I meet them can I go home. My mom’s probably worried sick” Adrian nodded and smiled brightly “you’re going to love them!”.

#percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympions #renegades #luke castellan #annabeth chase #grover underwood #nova artino #adrian everhart #danna bell #oscar silva #ruby tucker #hugh everhart #simon westwood #hazel levesque #frank zhang #leo valdez #jason grace #piper mclean #kasumi hasegawa #tamaya rae #evander wade #writing #fic #percy jackson fic #renegades fic #crossover #percy jackson and renegades crossover #my writing

[spierfics]

Hi just started reading ur fanfics and they are great. If it's not too much to ask I was wondering if u can do one about Simon and Bram after hs like maybe in college. No pressure tho I'm sure u get lots of requests 💓

Sugar and Smoke Rings

Simon turned over on his side, tightly closing his eyes in an attempt to trick his body to go to sleep, but it was pointless. Simon knew it was nearly impossible to go to bed without Bram right there next to him.

Luckily, his boyfriend wasn’t too far away. Bram was planning to pull an all-nighter in an attempt to perfect his final essay for the semester and had drunk four energy drinks in one sitting. He had a plan, and as much as it made Simon fear for his health, Bram was going to complete his paper by the next morning.

Simon got up once again, pretending to get a glass of water from the kitchenette in their small apartment, but really using it as an excuse to check up on Bram. As he walked into the other room, he saw Bram with his face buried in his hands, clearly upset.

“Bram,“ Simon said, walking up to Bram and gently massaging his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Mmm gmna fahl,” Bram mumbled through his palms. Simon slowly moved the revolving chair around so he was facing his boyfriend, and pulled Bram’s hands away from his face.

“Say that again?” Simon asked, worriedly glancing at the bags under Bram’s eyes.

“I’m gonna fail,”

“You’re averaging an A- in this class, there’s no way you’re going to fail,” Simon reassured him. “You’re just exhausted,”

Bram sighed, rubbing his forehead in an attempt to relieve the stress, “If my average lowers, I won’t get that scholarship. And if I don’t get that, then affording this place is going to be even harder, and then I’m going to have to ask my dad to help out which I don’t want to do…”

“Bram,” Simon said sternly, trying to snap him out of this state. “Look at me,”

Bram stared at him, and Simon grasped his arms reassuringly. “In the near-impossible case that happens, is moving out of this place that upsetting?”

“No,” Bram exhaled. “It’s not the place, its the thought of us not living together,”

“Why would that happen? We both wanted to move in together,”

“I don’t know Si. In case this place doesn’t work out because of me and then it would just be easier for you…”

“Bram,” Simon interrupted. “Do you know why I’m still awake at three in the morning?”

“No,” Bram looked at him in concern. “Why are you still up?”

“Because I couldn’t get to sleep without you there next to me,” Simon confessed. “I don’t even think I’m ever going to be able to get to bed if you’re not there by my side,”

“Really?”

“Yup, and I don’t care if we’re sleeping in the backseat in one of our cars, as long as you’re huddled up under the same blanket, I’m happy,”

Simon felt Bram’s hand on his cheek, as he reached forward to give Simon a soft kiss.

“I needed to hear that,”

“Pep talks and kisses. That’s what I’m here for,” Simon laughed.

“Now I wish I didn’t have all those Red Bulls, but I could lay down beside you until you fall asleep,” Bram offered while closing his laptop.

“I weirdly don’t feel sleepy either,” Simon admitted. “I think once I pass that two a.m mark, I’m up for the night,”

“So what do you want to do?”

“Let’s make a cake,” Simon declared.

“You’re serious?” Bram questioned skeptically.  

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Simon pulled out his phone, “You check what ingredients we have on hand, and I’ll pull out a recipe,”

“We’re cooking at three in the morning?” Bram said, already looking through the mini-fridge. 

“In our pyjamas, no less,”

“I kind of love that,” Bram said scrunching his nose.

“Me too,” Simon said, feeling warm all over. There was something weirdly domestic about this; besides the fact that they’d been living together for almost a year, this felt different.

Their apartment functioned like a dorm room most of the time, a place to sleep and complete assignments. Of course, it offered a different level of privacy for specific instances, which Simon was so very grateful for, but he recognized this as another level of intimacy.

This was homely. It was different from what they’d had so far in college and drastically different from high-school. Simon felt like this was a glimpse into their future, something to look forward to, something that promised a life together with Bram. And though Simon expected that thought to frighten him, it did the opposite.

It comforted him, the same feeling Bram had given him from day one.  

—–

The clock on the microwave read 3:47 a.m when they finally popped their chocolatey batter into the toaster oven.

Bram dutifully set the cooking timer with a small cheer of accomplishment.

“And now for the best part,” Simon stuck his finger in the leftover batter, checking the taste of the upcoming dessert.

“We put raw eggs in that, Si!” Bram exclaimed.

“Aw, it’s just a little,” Simon repeated the action, but this time held a chocolatey finger towards  Bram, “Come on, live a little!”

“Nope,”

Bram should have seen it coming, but he was backed up against a counter and there wasn’t enough space to move. Simon reached over before Bram could dive away, but managed to close his mouth just in time. As a result, Simon smeared the batter all over Bram’s lips and chin.

The two of them burst out laughing, and Simon wrapped his arms around Bram’s waist, kissing him apologize and in an attempt to remove the batter rather creatively.

Bram leaned back against the counter, taking in the pleasant atmosphere of absolute bliss. Every aspect of this moment was pure comfort for Bram, and nothing made it better than the boy in his arms.

Simon had a point, as long as they had each other to hold, there was nothing else that he needed.

#notyourb-a-b-e #love simon #love simon fanfiction #love simon fanfic #spierfeld #spierfeld fanfiction #spierfeld fanfic #svthsa #svthsa fanfiction #svthsa fanfic #simon x bram

[mvrcutios]

— INTRODUCING:

➺ Alexandre Preston as  M𝔢𝔯𝔠𝔲𝔱𝔦𝔬

Hi everyone! I’m Olivia, 24 from the pst timezone !! I love romantic foreign films and every incarnation of Skam ever created. Also, tik tok. Way way too much tik tok. This is my interpretation of Mercutio (loml tbh), Alexandre! A pretty boy with charm and brains and you bet your ass he knows it. Portrayed by the beaut that is Maxence Fauvel,  i’m genuinely filled to the brim with muse for this boy so, without further ado, time for the main event! (as he prefers to be lbr )

name: alexandre henri preston

age: 21

birthday: July 28th, 1998

gender: male

pronouns: he/him

degree: double major of business & music composition (father currently aware of the 1st)

zodiac: leo.

languages: fluent in french & italian, attempting to swear in russian and japanese.

hobbies: piano, cello, running, sex, parties, reading

vices: whiskey, gin, socialites, card games, fast cars, midnight symphonies, menthol cigarettes

pinterest is here !!

the aesthetic: Dom Pérignon, lipstick stained shirt collars, blue eyes with darkened circles, menthol cigarettes, 2am melodies on a piano down the hall, bruised knuckles, hotel balconies, strobe lights and heavy bass, macarons flaked in gold, lips pressed to cheeks, 3am club invitations, lingering eyes, too bright smiles, bitten bruises soothed with a tongue,shattered mirrors, ripped fingernails, screaming into the silent night, laughter whispered into skin, pills pressed to tongues,  platinum amex cards, chewed on pens, eyes growing distant, texts left on read, ink over his heart for his maman, naps under campus oak trees, flasks sipped in a lecture hall, hands on hips, backs, and his own throat.

           ➺ but what is in a name?

➺ { Alexandre } : The french translation of Alexander. Defender of Man. The irony of a name is not lost on him, nor the man who’d held it. He was named for his maternal grandfather, a man who had sold his soul (and his eldest daughter)  for money, power, name, all under the guise of the importance of family. A name meaning man of honor. Certainly a strong name for a boy who’d been born to rule a soiled throne, but content to find ways to sneak sweets from the kitchen, trick a smile from his mother as she stared out the window yet again. But defenders are not born, no.They are made, and from the moment blue eyes opened for the first time he was destined to be just that. Made. Into his father’s visions, his mother’s dreams. And Xandre is no fool. All he wants — no, rather. All he desires from life is simple. Everything.

➺ { Henri } Ruler of households. Once again nothing but irony for a boy who grew up wanting for nothing in life, but knowing the expectations were to be just that. A leader. Who would be the one to tell him that the throne he was set to rest upon was built on the blood and bones of the lesser fortunate? More importantly, who would teach him to care?

➺ { Preston } Meaning priest, settlement, enclosures of God. Carried to England from Normandy after the great conquest. A name befitting to the family who in some circles considered themselves holier than most. Gods among men. Who turned whiskey to gold, words to bank notes, and blood into power. If you were a Preston, people knew it. And what could be better than that?

   ➺ for he  is the devil in every detail                

➺ ( + ) He was a boy of pressed shirts and dark windswept waves. Blue eyes that sparkled of mischief and peels of laughter that echoed down marbled halls. He was Alexandre Preston, a boy with the stars in his eyes and the world at his feet. Who when he smiled, his entire face lit from within and led to that hint of the  devil sparkling just so from that gaze of his. Who smelled of citrus and whiskey and a bite of mint. Who adored beauty, in life and what it had to offer him. A man who’d grown into his looks and was taught by a wise mother just how to use them, a well placed kiss to a cheek or brush of skin, eyes meeting across a room enough to give them what they desired and more than ever, what he craved. He was tall, dark and oh so handsome, and knew how to get just what he wanted. Born with his father’s intellect and drive for more, padded by his mother’s beauty and ability to wield it for the weapon it could be. It made him anything but a bore, a useless first son too afraid to grasp what was before him. No, Xandre knew his fate. But in the meantime, he lived his life how he chose. If dearest dad was none the wiser, well. What’s the harm?

➺ ( + ) But let’s go back to the beginning, shall we? Born on a warm evening in late july, Alexandre Henri was destined to be the only child of Simon Preston and Violette Dupont. A product of two passionate individuals and a loveless marriage, Xandre’s mother was the eldest daughter to a man of debt. The Dupont family had in name what they lacked in capital and with a marriage between Violette and Simon, had everything to gain. Xandre’s birth was a bright burst of fleeting color for a mother who felt caged into the world she’d sold herself to, doting on the little boy and doing what she could to leave him with a part of her, a piece of her own waning soul. Where Simon was boastful, she was wicked, demure. Where he was aggression, she was soft sighs and whispered curses. Two sides of  what lead to be a machiavellian son. Destined to rule with a gilded fist and fleeting, passionate heart.

➺ ( + ) He was put into lessons as a boy to dwindle that energy that thrummed with his every step, sports and arts and languages but they were fleeting moments of time, hobbies cast aside once the obsessive grip of his mind released them. But his mother’s love of piano rang true to his blood, picking up the instrument even with some difficulty. It bothered him so, to have something he couldn’t master with minimal effort. It required a honed drive, a passion and ethic to create something magnificent through nothing more than hard work. It fueled him, the boy almost manic with the late hours he spent alone in the sun room, fingers dancing along keys and cursing with every missed note. As he grew, so did the realization that it was not something you could master. The great composers themselves went mad with trying. It was a never ending race, and one he still holds steadfast this very day. It is as much a part of him as anything could be. Alexandre is meant to be a leader, Alexandre blows thousands on parties and card games, Alexandre needs music like air to rattling lungs. His current double major at Ashcroft is a direct result. If he’s to live out this new version of day to day, he’ll do as he pleases. As long as his father remains where he belongs, ignorant as the rest are.

➺ ( + ) if music was a stronghold, most everything else in his world was a passing fancy, aimless ways to spend time and money and have fun in this life he was so destined to lead. High school meant parties and fun, learning the intricacies of the body and passion as girls and boys alike came and went from white rumbled sheets. For his mother had taught him to wield beauty for what it was; a weapon. And oh, did he learn with the best. A university career begun at Oxford (if only to spite his father), where the real fun began, nights spent in club after club until the sun rose again, liquor fueled nights of passion and fun, barred from certain clubs and embraced at others, heavyweight card games and street races with a bottle of dom in hand. Started a gambling ring in his dorm hall until the RA caught wind a year later. (But he eventually joined, so no harm no foul) He was at an all time high, never fearing the inevitable crash to follow. He welcomed it like an old friend, navigated the highs and lows with a long learned finesse. Now in Edinburgh, he chases the residual high with his normal vigor, finding drinking buddies to waste an evening with, occasional bodies to slip into his too high thread count sheets.

➺ ( + )  The very definition of love ‘em and leave ‘em. Xandre doesn’t do true relationships, has never truly given his heart to someone in any form. He doesn’t believe in it, the type of love that makes people do such foolish things. He does foolish things just fine on his own, heart be damned. He can be passionate, charming, attentive lover at the best of times, possessive fool at the worst of times. He loves to feel desired, wanted, needed even. But never aims to be someone’s entire world. That type of need, that type of love does nothing but wound. And every wound he will ever have will be of his own creation. Has had more than a few flings, even reoccurring instances of women or men a few times in a row. But the connections are shallow, surface deep. You don’t need to witness his soul to get into his bed, afterall.

➺ ( + )  It was all a beautiful distraction from the blood that stained every letter of his name. His cousin was allowed to live in blessed ignorance of the family means, but Xandre, he was thrown headfirst into the lion’s den and came out grinning, the truth of it never leaving past blood stained lips. He isn’t resentful of that fact. A part of him feels it was always meant to be this way. If his cousins were the sun, he was the endless night, the whispers of shadows and secrets meant to withstand. For he could take it, surely. Right?

➺ ( + ) while his fate may be anything but up for debate, he is anything but a too willing participant. Being at Oxford meant enough distance to gain a bit of the freedom he craved. The night his father was arrested, Alexandre was doing what was normal, even on a tuesday evening. Partying at a local hotspot four bottles deep in champagne and whiskey, pills pressed to lips in between fevered kisses of a woman who’s name escaped him the next morning. Sweetened black coffee in hand as he watched his phone buzz over and over, the news blaring the headline of what he’d always known would come to fruition. But his father was still kicking, and so the heavy head who bears the crown was not yet his own. So he went about his day, his week, his months. Until, octavia.

➺ ( + ) his cousins were the siblings he’d never had, and for a man who doesn’t truly believe in intricacies of love he loves them with all he has in him. Wolfie the brother he’d craved, the two stirring trouble with every laugh as they raced down the cavernous halls of their homes. Days spent listening to his whispered dreams, his own a hollow echo in response to the passion that thrummed from his cousin’s. The lectures of his poor influence never bothered him, his role had always been rather set after all. The shadow to the sun. Was he ever to be a leader? Possibly. But he was never born of the responsibility and dreams that lingered over his cousin, never expected to amount to anything rather spectacular beyond the built business reputation and blood that soaked the name Preston. He was too impulsive, too passionate to have it beaten from his bones, just always a little too much.

➺ ( + ) And Octavia – she held a special place in his heart. Daddy’s little girl, it was easy to see how she could bat her lashes and smile her smile and let the world fall at her feet. He admired it, respected it even. Game always has to appreciate the game. She and her brother leaving for Ashcroft was a blow he hadn’t anticipated, for they’d always had one another, the two musketeers and the girl who fought to be anything but a shadow. It was an unfamiliar ache, missing them. And with Octavia now gone, that ache has grown tenfold. Morphed into anger for what he knew she was up to, for somehow somewhere, she’d pissed off the wrong people to where even the Preston name couldn’t quite save her soul. But her essence is everywhere, haunting the halls and whispering in ears. It’s all so very dramatic, so very her. He’d pour one out for her if he didn’t think she’d simper about his distaste for wasted wine. Her spirit was a mild comfort, a balm over a roughened wound. a bigger amusement than anything, a middle finger to those who’d ended her bright existence. A Preston knew how to fuck you over, that was made all the more clear with each report of her sightings. And god, did he love her for it.

➺ ( + ) and that at the very crux of it all, is what has brought him to ashcroft. A new scene for parties, new faces, and a remaining cousin who could use a shoulder to lean on. & those all look lovely on paper, but the fine print? Always read it carefully. For the smiles and charm are all Violette without a doubt. But the danger that lingers, the passion and fire that fuel his soul and border on the precipice of mania? Alexandre is Simon Preston’s son, that was never to be denied for long. And someone has wronged them all, taken things they had no right to take. Someone he considered to be a part of his heart. He doesn’t take kindly to such things, and so to Ashcroft he’s come. He is passion, recklessness, a hidden grief fueled by fleeting love wrapped in a shiny veneered package. He’s here to revel, to discover, to maybe even punish. If deemed necessary. Blood will always be blood, and for a man who’s always willing to go a little too far? It is all that remains.

➺ ( + ) as for what has qualified him for such a prestigious society upon his enrollment well, that is a mystery to some and a hard headline to others. His family’s connections? His relation to Wolfie? His letters of transfer from his classical composition professors back in London? As far as Xandre is concerned, it’s nothing more than a certain Oberon Ashcroft seeing he has a role to play, and one he plays rather well. Unassuming at first, a disarming charm soothing the blunt edges of his words. He says what he feels, and what he knows must be said. And due to that, he knows his worth, what he brings to the table. Knows how poorly it would look if he hadn’t been inducted. He brings a good time, a laugh, a chance to rebel against the societal norms and oppressions that leak from every pore of Ashcroft. But he also brings a weighted name, a wicked ability to decipher through the purple prose people can preach, to the truth at the core of it all. And he plays a mean Chopin, what can he say?

➺ ( + ) there is no way to wrap up all that he is, to summarize a man who is nothing short of a dichotomy, a symphony in fractured parts. Perhaps a jekyll and hyde of his own making, two heads of the same beast he wielded within his soul. for there was something to be said of being seen, eyes drawn to your every move, to feel the power of being adored, desired, craved. He is the devil on your shoulder, crooning saccharine words and screaming in triumph in a breadth. A gleam of mania tinging those baby blues when he pushes just so to get his way. He is that very symphony, a concerto who’s pace continues to drive faster and faster, upward and onward until its very PEAK, a cacophony of beauty and agony as notes ring out, clash, COLLIDE. and then, the briefest moment of silence. He has discovered the distractions his body can wield, but also the power to be found in stillness, in silence. At his lowest he craves it, aches to be surrounded by masses just once more to drown out the roaring in his mind, to draw it to ecstasy, to blissful silence. All leading up to the final, ringing note. Before the applause, of course. never deny yourself the applause. That had always been Lesson One.

                          ➺    A LETTER TO OCTAVIA:

Tavia —

Where do I start? You always knew how to make an entrance, tav. should’ve figured your exit would be the same. But…why the fuck wouldn’t you call me? Why wouldn’t you tell me the extent of just how bad shit had gotten so quickly? You knew no matter what I said, or how I complained or warned you off to be careful I would’ve been there in a heartbeat. You didn’t have to do this alone. I should’ve seen that and come the first time you called. Don’t haunt me for that. And that police chief mentioned a baby, Tav. You never– me of all people would have understood. You were the only one I ever told about Clara, how my dad paid her off. You never judged me for him, you understood. Let me get wasted and cry it out in that shitty suite in London. We could have made a club of it, you and me. Poor little Rich kids with secret kids. Poetic, no?  Poetic justice is bullshit in hindsight. And I just really, really miss you.

I’m sure everyone in these letters are telling you the reasons they adored you, how they’ll never forget you, the wild memories they’re sharing with you, that they say they’ll never forget. I don’t need to say all those things. You know I do, and you know I won’t forget. You’re a part of my heart, as battered and shriveled as we liked to joke it is. But apparently death makes us sentimental fools, so here’s this for you, because it’s 4am and the memory won’t leave my mind no matter how many times I close my eyes. That summer we spent, all of us, vacationing in that house on the riviera. Remember? I spent the day running around the grounds with Wolf and we’d laugh and tease like elder brothers do when you’d seek us out, pouting those lips and crocodile tears until we included you in our games. But when the sun set and dinner was long gone, you’d drag me into the tea room with that baby grand in the corner and demanded I play. You always were a determined thing, you brat. But you’d smile that smile and even I couldn’t fight the urge to sit and play your favorites.You sang along and danced and danced and danced until you were breathless with it. Only you could make dancing to britney fuckin’ spears look like an artform you know? You’d call me your co-star, and never let me hate myself for the mistakes, never laughed if I stumbled on a note. You were my biggest supporter that summer, but I was only one of your many adoring fans. That’s how it was supposed to be. That won’t change, I promise.

( A few tears stain the edges of that previous paragraph, angry, bitter droplets that he wipes away and slips the paper further to defend the onslaught of them. He sighs deeply, clears his throat. )

And look at you now, huh? Haunting your friends and your brother with the best of ‘em. Leave it to you to find a way to remain the star of the show even in death. I can see how it’s unravelling them. The ones who look too pale to be innocent, everyone here has a fucking secret. Thanks to you maybe we’ll see them all sooner than later. And what fun that’s gonna be. But do me a favor and haunt some hot freshman for me, will you? Whisper sweet nothings of my beauty in their ears, make it a good one. I’ll owe you one. You know I’m good for it.

I’ll watch over Wolfie. Of course I will.  I’ll get him piss drunk at that club you mentioned last time we talked, bring a few lines and a bottle of dom all just for you, gorgeous. I’m here now for him, for you. I’m here for what I should have done from the beginning. If you had to leave him —had to leave us, it won’t be for nothing.

I miss you, cherie. Visit me tonight in my dreams, alright? You can dance for me, I’ll play you a song.

We’ll make it a happy one, for old times sake.

                                                     -Xandre

#spectreintro #𝔞𝔩𝔢𝔵𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔯𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔦 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔫 ╱ 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺 . #if you read this whole thing ur a god and i am sorry

[goldeneyedgirl]

Fic-Mas Day 7: hybrid.

Hello lovelies. Today I bring you a chunk of one of my massive projects. A pet project, in fact. I have written and rewritten the first 7 chapters so many times, I could almost recite it by heart. 

So, onwards!

(AU in which Alice is the daughter of a vampire-human hybrid, who was raised in an abusive home, and ends up in the care of her father and his husband in Forks. Hybrid biology is a little different - or rather, expanded - from canon. This was basically my attempt at expanding the Twilight universe beyond vampires and werewolves and examine the idea that humans are really the worst. At this point in the story, Alice has arrived in Forks, had a less than welcoming experience with the Cullen kids and met Dr Cullen in a professional capacity.) 

You know when something huge happens to you, and you tick yourself off because somehow you managed to miss all the signs that it was going to happen? But when you think back, there were no real clues - everything that happened was completely innocent and ordinary. There was no way you could have known.

Thursday night turned into one of those. There was no way I could have ever seen it coming.

“Alice, honey, could you run to the gas station and grab some milk?” Simon called from the kitchen, surrounded by pots and pans. “We are completely out, and your father is highly unpleasant without his morning latte.”

Cynthia and I were watching TV; Cynthia was tapping away at her phone with a bowl of popcorn between her crossed legs, and I was flipping through my biology textbook boredly trying to summon the energy to do my homework, some sitcom playing on the television.

“Um, sure,” I said, tossing my book onto the couch and standing up. I’d do pretty much anything to avoid Biology.

“Great, there’s some money here. The gas station is four blocks down, then to your left. Don’t forget your phone,” Simon beamed at me, as he took an enormous knife to a fish that I suddenly felt sorry for, whilst gesturing at a small dish that held spare keys, change and a few folded bills.

Plucking a ten from the bowl, I grabbed my bag and my sneakers. I could kind of understand Simon asking me – Dad was in the shower, Cynthia was already in her pajamas, and I was almost eighteen; much safer than a fourteen-year-old walking the dark streets. Plus, I knew how to defend myself. And this was Forks – as far as Simon knew, a perfectly safe place to walk around after dark.

The walk was cold, seeping in through my hoodie, and I was grateful to spot the gas station, cutting through the alley between the buildings.

The gas station was brightly lit, and clean – it was really more of a mini-mart. I found the milk, and detoured down the candy aisle to snag myself some chocolate. The cashier was some college-aged guy, more interested in his car magazine than me, as he slid the change and my bag across the counter.

Sighing, I headed out, cutting back through the alley, stepping around the dumpster.

I didn’t see anyone.

I didn’t see him until it was too late.

Jasper Cullen; he was standing at the end of the alley, in an army green hunting jacket.

I paused next to the dumpster, my hand tightening around the handles of my bag.

He said nothing, but watched me with a strange and unpleasant look on his face. The back of my neck prickled as I continued walking down the alley. Why didn’t I turn around and walk back to the gas station? Why was he here?

Why would a vampire hang out in dark alleys if they were trying to blend in?

The little voice of logic in the back of my mind was rattling through all the reasons I should stop, but I didn’t. I just kept walking, my hoodie obscuring my face enough that I looked like I was looking at the ground when I was really keeping an eye on him. He was unmoving, his hair in his eyes, casually leaning against the brick retaining wall. He could have been any other bored, rebellious teenager.

My problem was my complete stubbornness. I can’t back down from a challenge. I don’t enjoy retreating and regrouping. A one-girl army against the world.  

I just kept walking, not even planning on acknowledging him. I just wanted to get home, back to the warmth of my fathers’ house, the hum of the television. And I would be; in ten minutes, I’d be home, back on the couch with my candy. Simon wouldn’t be happy about me eating chocolate, let alone gas-station candy, before dinner but he wouldn’t stop me this time.

Distracting myself with my daydream of getting home, I didn’t even have time to flinch when Jasper finally moved.

His hand jerked out like a striking snake, clamping around my forearm, dragging me towards him.

I yelped, trying to jerk free, but his grip was like iron. His eyes were completely black, and he was pulling me along, despite my feet scrabbling against the concrete. I was too far away from the gas station now – perhaps I could have gotten the attention of witnesses before, when I was closer to the street, but now we were fully cloistered in the shadows of the alleyway.

He threw me against the brick wall, and pain flared up my back; I choked on my own gasp. The bag containing the milk and candy fell from my grip and the milk burst cold and wet over my sneakers, as I stared up at him, trying to re-orientate myself.

Jasper was staring at me with naked desperation, moving slowly closer to me – his eyes were dark and dull, boring into mine; his jaw set and nostrils flaring slightly. I met his gaze and waited, trying not to show fear. That was important. Fear provokes predators. It gives them power.

It wasn’t easy – I was afraid. Bone-chillingly terrified, to be honest. I kept reminding myself that this wouldn’t be the worst thing I’d lived through. If I survived, of course. And thinking of home, whilst trying not to vomit.

It’s easy for a place to become home, if you think about it. Warm, safe, and with somewhere to sleep and food to eat. That’s all anyone really wants when it comes down to it. But it had taken only a week for me to love that place, the family I’d never known.

He fisted one hand in my hair and twisted my neck harshly to the side. The bones screamed but didn’t break, and I could hear my breathing – shallow and panicked. The even rational voice in my head politely reminded me that I was lucky – lucky he hadn’t snapped my neck or spine, that an ordinary human would be dead  

This, this had been my fear since I had seen them in the cafeteria, and now I was living it.

His teeth pierced my jugular roughly, and I gasped, my hands bracing futilely against his chest. It hurt, but it felt kind of good, too. His mouth felt hot on my throat, and it was only his hands holding me in place that kept me upright. I whimpered as my head swam and then suddenly he tore himself away - it hurt as my skin tore in his mouth, and I dropped to the ground dazed, blood spilling down my throat and shoulder, disgustingly warm.

He was choking and gasping, looking at me with horror before vanishing, and the world around me slowly darkened, until the cold and rough feeling of the pavement under me was all that I was aware of.

And slowly, even that left me.

I don't know how long I was unconscious but suddenly, I felt cold hands on me out of nowhere, only vaguely aware that an undetermined amount of time had passed.

"Mary-Alice? Mary Alice, I’m Esme Cullen," came a gentle voice, “You’ve been hurt, sweetheart.”

I blinked but everything was blurry and I was so tired. Was I sitting up? I didn’t know, and I couldn’t move. A soft, feeble whine of misery came out of my lips, but it didn’t feel like I’d made it. It felt like just breathing was taking up all my energy reserves.

“Holy shit, look at her eyes,” came a male voice.

“We need to get her to Carlisle.”

It felt like I was in a dream, as I was carefully picked up and carried. I could hear and smell the milk and blood dripping from me, feel the roughness of the towel against my torn neck. The coolness of vampire skin seeping through my clothing.

And then I was gone again.

--

A swirl of light, a massive space full of shadows.

My boots clicking on the floor as I walked in, dozens of mirror reflecting my movements.

The sound of my boots changing, and suddenly I was wading through blood. A gasp, and I looked up to see Cynthia in a nightgown, standing at the very edge of the pool of blood, looking scared; Dad and Simon clinging tightly to Cynthia as the blood kept closer to them.

Turning around to see Bella Swan, broken and staring, a mirror shattered all around her.

And the sound of every single mirror shattering into tiny, infinite pieces that sounded like rain as they fell…

--

“Mary-Alice?”

There was light.

It was kind of blue.

“Mary-Alice?”

And highly irritating.

“Mary-Alice?”

I blinked slowly as it shone directly into my eyes.  

“Mary-Alice?” came a pleasant voice.

My vision was blurry, but slowly clearing as I looked around. Dr Cullen was crouched in front of me; I was lying on a couch, with a pillow under my head, and the contents of a first aid kit spread out over a coffee table. The rest of the Cullens were scattered around the room, all with grim expressions of varying degrees.

Nothing like regaining consciousness in a room full of people standing around and staring at you.

At least no one was getting handsy.

I ignored them as I slowly sat up, my head feeling like it was full of sand, but glaring when Dr Cullen moved to assist me. My hand reached up to the bite wound – only to find bandages covering my throat.

“Just a few stitches,” Dr Cullen said, with a pleasant smile. “You lost quite a bit of blood.”

“Mm, I always seem to be misplacing that,” I muttered, testing movement in both my arms and my neck. My back felt like one massive bruise, but I didn’t want to draw attention to that right now. Better than the broken ribs – or paralysis - anyone else would have ended up with. Still, it hurt and would take its sweet time to heal. My neck stung and pulled as I moved, but again, I was alive, and that was all that I ever really hoped for.

Surely I was running out of lives. One of these days, something had to put me down for good.

I looked up at Jasper, standing awkwardly in the corner and scowled. “You know Hale, normally you take a girl out to dinner or something first.” I mentally winced; my voice was slurring and croaky, not exactly the sign of ‘the unstoppable force’ I wanted to portray.

But I was clearly understood, as everyone froze, gaping at me, before Emmett began to laugh. And Rosalie seemed to be intent on murdering me with a glare.

“That answers our next question,” Dr Cullen sighed, gathering up the first aid kit. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” I said grumpily, and trying to work out my next step, to get from couch to no-longer-in-the-Cullen-home.

I had learnt through previous experience that I didn’t have a chance of outrunning a vampire, or fighting one hand-to-hand, but I had a few tricks that would usually allow me to navigate myself to safety. Most of the time. With a bit of luck. And my bag always held an aerosol of deodorant and a cigarette lighter, in case of emergency. You can do a lot of damage with those things.

My head was spinning. I wished I was… basically anywhere but here.

Mrs Cullen suddenly appeared at my elbow, holding out a glass of water, with a strangely worried-hopeful expression on her face.

I took the water with a grimace that was meant to be a small smile of thanks.

What? They might have been bloodsuckers, but that didn’t mean I was going to be a complete asshole. After all, Mrs Cullen had come to rescue me, when she could have left me to bleed out in the alleyway and let a mugger or a wild animal take the blame. That was decent of her, and it couldn’t have been easy, with all that blood.

And I didn’t want to annoy them.

“You had a seizure of some kind, and when Esme and Emmett found you, your eyes and lips had turned blue,” Dr Cullen said. “I have a few questions.”

“Okay,” I said. I spied my bag next to the couch and reached for it, trying my hardest to keep a poker face at the pain that had taken up camp everywhere, rifling through for my phone.

Dad and Simon would be losing it. I had gone out to pick up milk.

“You know about us,” Rosalie said suddenly, her eyes flashing angrily.

“I do,” I said, finding the phone – which was flat. I still hadn’t quite gotten a hold of owning a cellphone, let alone remembering to check it and charge it.

“Start talking,” Rosalie snapped.

“Rose, calm down,” Esme said.

“She’s not human,” Edward said suddenly, his gaze flicking towards Jasper. “Her blood…”

Everyone looked at Jasper. He looked ashamed and tired, and I kind of wanted to hug him, even after his exsanguination attempt. It honestly wasn’t the worst thing that a vampire had tried to do to me. He looked like he needed a lifetime of hugs, actually. Maybe it was the blood loss, but I would have given him that hug if it meant I got to cop a feel; it would just a bonus for being a good Samaritan, really.

God, I was completely loopy. Had I hit my head?

“It wasn’t right,” Jasper said slowly. “It was wonderful at first, and terrible. Not thick enough, not warm enough either. At the end, it was like a bitter burn. Just… wrong. Contaminated.”

Everyone swung back to look at me, whilst I pointedly ignored them and jabbed the buttons on my cell phone experimentally. Nothing.

“What … what are you?” Dr Cullen asked me, his curiosity evident.

“I don’t like that question,” I said shortly. “And you get used to the flavour, I’ve heard.” Those stories, ugh. Mom like to use those as threats every time I had protested about anything – from another pointless ‘test’, to refusing to take a bath. It’s why she never, ever went anywhere near Nevada.

I grabbed my blood-stained hoodie off the end of the couch and struggled to pull it on.

“Jesus, what happened?” Emmett blurted out, and did they really have to stare like that?

I looked down, to see the neckline of my shirt had pulled to the side, to reveal the worst of my scars. It ran from the left side of my throat, across my upper chest and ended at my right clavicle. It was faint, invisible to the human eye, but vampire sight would see the webbing and tearing pattern.

“Boston when I was fifteen,” I said, zipping the hoodie up. “I spent my fifteenth birthday in hospital, handcuffed to the bed, so I couldn’t get away quick enough to heal it better.”

No one really knew how to respond to that.

“You’ve got quite a collection of scars,” Dr Cullen tried again. “And more than a few bite marks.”

“I should call my father, he’s probably worried,” I said flatly. “I went to get milk.”

“You cannot expect us to let you leave without telling us something. You know about us,” Rosalie snapped, stepping in front of me. “You should die for that.”

And I looked at them, really looked at them. In their nice clothes, with their nice house. A human girlfriend, and a human job. They had helped me, instead of leaving me to die. Whatever these people were, they weren’t like the vampires I had known.

“You all need to pretend you never met me,” I said finally, meeting her gaze without flinching. “Or you will die for that.”

And then I stood up, and left.

#TwilightFicMas2019 #twilight #twilight fic #alice cullen #jasper hale #carlisle cullen #esme cullen #cullen family #human alice #sort of? #my writing #my fic: hybrid #i can't believe i'm posting this tbh since i've lost all comprehension of whether it's good or not.

[juliehamill]

Wayne Hussey, Gillian, and me.

In my teenage years I went to The Barrowland Ballroom in Glasgow countless times to see The Mission with my pal, Gillian.  The Mission has always been a band that makes a big powerful sound, full of melody, and Wayne Hussey in his dark glasses, black hat on a smoky stage has a clear dominating presence with which the crowd connect to and thrive upon.  The Mission gigs in the 1980s were crazy, bouncy, full of love; and me and Gillian revelled in the chaos.  Too young to drink, we stole a cider from the bar and threw ourselves amongst it, laughing as we got shoved around in our black clothes.  The whole room stunk of patchouli.  It was a blast. 

Before Wayne Hussey came over for his tour last year (Nov 2019) Omnibus had provided me with a copy of his book, Salad Daze to review for the rock n roll book club.  It is full of great stories about his time with The Sisters Of Mercy and such evocative tales of his childhood.  After reading it, I wanted Wayne for a live interview for rock n roll book club, more than I ever wanted anybody. It’s great when I get to interview people that have meant something to me in music.  It’s even better when their book is brilliant.  I wanted Wayne, for his juicy stories, but mostly for Gillian and our past.

The publisher set it up for November and put us in touch on email.  With a date pencilled, I wrote to Wayne and told him of my friendship with Gillian, and how the The Mission was one of the bands we enjoyed together.  I told him of how we would sit in her bedroom playing God’s Own Medicine and get up and dance and shove each other about.  I told him of the day that Gillian peeled back a small piece of the wallpaper and wrote on her bedroom wall, in biro, ‘I still believe in God, but God no longer believes in me’.  We folded the wallpaper back over, so as not to get in trouble.  Thirty-five years later, when the house was being cleared to sell, the little quote was still written there, on the wall under the paper.

Gillian and I were best pals for almost forty years.  As teenagers we were never out each others houses drinking tea and eating chocolate biscuits and talking boyfriends and school.  Once I accidentally broke her kitchen table and my dad came round to fix it.  Their house was always full of young teen drop ins drinking out of a stainless steel pot of tea and hanging out with Gillian’s sisters Fiona and Monica, her dad Jim and her mum in a peeny, Gina.  For a short time there was also a mad dog, Paddie, he enjoyed everybody’s legs. Gillian and I shared a love of music and were very close.  We took trips together to Fort Augustus and slept on Michael and Ronald’s floors.  We never thought twice about taking off somewhere with a backpack.  I copied her French homework and she borrowed my tapes.  When I moved to London she lived around the corner for a while.  We were steeped in history and hilarious memories that carried us through a lifetime.  When she lived in Manchester she’d send me silly funny notes in the post and I’d do the same.  When she moved back to Edinburgh we would phone each other and sing The Mission and Lloyd Cole and The Smiths down the phone.  She was cement for me and I for her.  Although far apart saw each other whenever we could. We phoned each other a lot and just became kids again. 

She was, in fact, best pals with so many people. Her little sisters, Fiona and Monica, and our other pals, Jacqueline, Elaine, Caroline, Babs, Sharron, Lorna, all of her school mum pals, all of her cousins, all of our school friends, the boys from the Academy.  Anybody she touched in life instantly loved her.  Even foreign exchange students and pen pals kept in touch.  Like her mum, she had an abundance of love that beamed out from behind an apron.  She was generous, loving, intelligent, loyal, hilariously funny and strikingly beautiful; and she was always, ALWAYS, making tea.  She had a glow about her; an energy of positivity, youth, mischief and fun.  Everybody had adventures with Gillian, and I was lucky to be one of them.

In Spring 2018 we received a text out of the blue saying that Gillian had been diagnosed with bowel cancer.  When she was diagnosed my first thoughts were of how young she was, only in her forties, and how they would definitely operate.  She had no symptoms.  It was just there.  As time moved on she discovered it was incurable and six months later she was gone.  I got to spend some time with her in her last days in the Western General Hospital.  I took in photos of us to look at and the old things we used to do.  We laughed, even though she was in excruciating pain.  I have never seen somebody in such pain, she couldn’t stay still despite every powerful drug available being dripped into her body. But still she laughed and smiled.  ‘No greeting!’ she said, ‘You’ll get me going.’  I treasure those last few days, but forever feel useless and confused because there was nothing that could be done.  I couldn’t save her.  Nobody could.  It is a powerless, rock hard and impossibly raw feeling to accept.

When Wayne Hussey sent a nice gentle reply to my email I just burst into tears. Because I wanted to phone Gillian. There’s a second when, although you know a person is dead, you get some news that relates to them, and you go to dial their number, and the crash of remembrance is overwhelming.  The realisation that I couldn’t tell Gillian first was devastating.  I wanted to hear her high excited voice. ‘Oh my God!  What you gonnie wear?’ I wanted to smile through the sore tears.  She deserved to be here; she deserved to meet him.  In those minutes a parallel of our past life and my current life without her smashed together, and I felt lost, empty and just heavily sad.  How come I’m here and she’s not?  

But Wayne, well, what a gent.  Gillian - you would have loved him.

I met with him quite a lot in a short space of time.  First for dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Camden with the Omnibus team where I talked rubbish and asked him to sign my records.  I had veggie fajitas and kept offering him a bit.  He laughed, and was kind and charming.  Honestly the nonsense that poured out of my mouth.  I composed myself and then interviewed him at The Dublin Castle for rock n roll book club.   We could have talked all night. Watch the link, he’s sensational.  

The next morning he came into do my radio show Hamill Time on Boogaloo Radio.  We had such a laugh.  Wayne is easy to talk to, funny yet professional and quite mischievous.  Perfect for Gillian.  

I went to his gig in Nambucca that night, which was just brilliant.  I felt Gillian beside me. Wayne Hussey’s connection with his crowd is very genuine.  He gave me a shout out from the stage.  His performance was incredible, authentic and moving.  I’m pleased to say we’ve stayed friends.

Gillian, Thanks for sending me Wayne Hussey. I miss you every day. I’m off to listen to God’s Own Medicine now.

Wayne, thanks for reading my books, thanks for all the music and the kindness.  You’re the best.

Thanks to David at Omnibus.  With love to Fiona, Monica, Jim, Simon and the weans.

In September a fundraising ball was to be held in Gillian’s name to help raise money for Bowel Cancer, but regrettably it had to be postponed.  Every day, 110 people are diagnosed with bowel cancer.  It can be symptomless, and reach late stages without any signs.  Please donate to help fund research. Do something amazing today.  You can donate here.

If you can’t donate (times are hard) but you have some wonderful object that would be amazing to raffle at Gill’s ball in 2021, please get in touch.  Thank you. X

RIP Gillian Farrell 10 June 1971 - 8 September 2018.  

(You and Wayne would definitely have enjoyed a pot of tea and a Caramel Wafer). 

#the mission #bereavement #cancer #friendship #music #salad daze #books #Wayne Hussey #grief

[bytheangell]

The Love We Share

(This is a follow-up of Taking Care, found here, but can be a standalone <3) (Read on AO3) 

Alec doesn’t bother knocking when he arrives back at the loft, turning his key in the lock and pushing the door open without hesitation.

“Magnus Bane’s Home for Wayward Shadowhunters - come right in, I’m not even sure why I own a lock!” Magnus’ voice reaches him from the kitchen, not even bothering to look out and see who it is when he hears the door open.

Alec is about to question the statement when he sees exactly what he’s referencing: sitting in the living room are Isabelle, Jace, and Clary - with Nora in the middle, eating up every last bit of the attention focused on her. Isabelle is holding the little warlock girl upright gently by her hands, her dragonfly wings coming through the little slits Magnus expertly cut into all of her shirts, jackets, and dresses, fluttering quickly in excitement.

“It’s just me,” Alec calls to Magnus, side-eyeing the group. “What are you all doing here?”

“They were here when I got home.” Magnus supplies with a pointed tone before any of the others have a chance to chime in first.

“I said the key was for emergencies.” Alec sighs. But seeing everyone together like this, laughing and smiling with the sort of energy that only seems to come from being around a child as full of life and curiosity as Nora is, warms his heart. And it’s especially comforting to see given the news he just received.

Just a month ago on a mission-gone-wrong Nora’s guardians were killed, leaving the young warlock girl the sole survivor of her family by the time Alec and his team showed up. They got their Intel too late to stop the attack, but not too late to save Nora. Instead of handing her over to the Clave Alec and Magnus volunteered to watch her, a temporary guardianship while inquiries were made into any other family she might have to go to.

When it came back that there were not - or at least none stepping forward to claim her, not even friends of the family who may be willing to accept that life-changing burden - Alec was told to turn her over so she could be placed in an orphanage somewhere overseas, set up for abandoned warlock children. Magnus immediately shook his head, remember how it felt to be a warlock child no family wanted. To be a warlock child rejected by a mundane family? That was difficult enough. But to not even have Warlocks willing to take her in? He didn’t want to stand by and watch that happen. So they talked about it, for hours and over several pots of coffee, until…

“I thought Magnus might like some help with Nora,” Izzy is quick to defend, bringing Alec back to the present. “So I offered to watch her while he ran out on an errand.” “That explains exactly one of you.” Alec says, looking expectantly at the other two.  

“Jace had some questions about a report, so I told him to come here so I could look it over without waking Nora up from her nap-”

“-and I was with Jace,” Clary chimes in brightly before going back to puffing out her cheeks and making funny faces at the little girl who burst into hysterics each and every time.

“And when I got home from the market-” Magnus makes a show of checking his watch. “-An hour and a half ago, none of them would leave.” Magnus makes his way out from the kitchen, diverting his path to cross in front of Alec to give him a quick kiss before walking over to the others. He’s smiling and there’s a light, melodical lilt to his voice that makes it very clear that he’s just giving them a difficult time as he watches them all fawn over Nora with a fond expression.

“Well, you can all go now,” Alec says. “Thanks for the help.”

“Do we have to?” Clary asks, all smiles and doe-eyes at the warlock girl. Jace is looking at the way Clary’s looking at the child with slight concern, not sure if baby-fever is exactly what he wants his girlfriend catching right now. Alec catches the look of mild terror on his brother’s face and almost laughs, but he’s too preoccupied with other thoughts.

“Yes. Out.” Alec says, and it occurs to them that he looks a little… nervous? Anxious? He’s standing a bit too straight, fidgeting back and forth from foot to foot.

Magnus gives Alec a strange look - it isn’t like him to be so quick to get rid of his family and friends, especially knowing how much everyone loves spending time with Nora. Something seems off, but he can’t quite place it, raising an eyebrow in his direction.

“We don’t mind helping out. Really, it’s great that the two of you volunteered to watch over her, but it isn’t just your responsibility - it’s all of ours, while the Institute has her. We’re all here to help.”

“Actually-” Alec starts, lifting his hand a bit. “She is just our responsibility now.” Magnus’ gaze is drawn down to the papers he holds there for the first time since his arrival. There’s a shaky smile on Alec’s face as he locks eyes with Magnus and the Warlock’s own eyes go from the papers, to Alec’s face, before immediately widening with realization and brimming with tears.

“I thought they weren’t supposed to go through for another week?” Magnus’s asks, his voice soft.

“Well, there are a few perks to being the Head of the Institute...” Alec points out, his smile widening.

“...what’s happening?” Isabelle looks a mixture of confused and slightly concerned. “I feel like I’m missing something here.”

Magnus looks from Isabelle to Alec. “We were going to wait until it was official… do you want to tell them?”

But it’s hardly necessary - Izzy gasps, Jace is grinning, and Clary looks a second away from tears herself as they all put two-and-two together.

“She’s doing so well with us and she’s been through so much already…” Alec smiles. “Who am I kidding, we both grew too attached to ever want to give her up now. When no one stepped up to claim guardianship we filed to adopt her, and they just passed the papers through today. It’s official - we’re Nora’s dads.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!” Jace says, and for a moment he looks like he’s about to cross over to Alec to congratulate him, stopping at the sound of a choked-off sob. They all look over to see Magnus in proper tears now, with Clary moving to wrap her arms comfortingly around his shoulders as he sinks down onto the sofa.

“I’m sorry,” Magnus says, smiling through the tears. “I promise they’re happy tears.”

“Of course they are,” Izzy says, catching Jace’s eye and nodding towards the door. “I think it’s time we head back to the Institute. I’m sure you two have it from here the rest of the night.”

They’re all aware of why Alec was so eager to get them out when he arrived - it’s clear the two of them have a lot they’re holding back, overly aware of their audience.

“Thanks, everyone. Really.”  Alec is relieved he doesn’t have to fight to get them out for now. There will be plenty of time for them all to celebrate later - and a lifetime to spend playing with Nora now. “I’ll see you back there later.”

“You better not,” Jace says firmly. “You’re taking the night off to spend with your daughter.”

Alec looks like he’s about to protest until Jace uses the word ‘daughter’, and the words die on his lips. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Izzy, Jace, and Clary make a hasty exit, and once the door shuts behind them Alec turns to Magnus to share a proper moment with him for the first time since he got the news.

“This is it,” Alec says simply. “This is really happening.”

“Do you regret agreeing to it?” Magnus asks, and Alec hates the flicker of fear he sees on Magnus’ face while he waits for Alec’s reply. They didn’t talk about it much before Nora came into their lives, but Magnus admitted that he always wanted a proper family: marriage, children, a chance at a domestic life with someone he loves. It was never in the cards for him before, but now? The hope of this working out for them, of being the start of their forever together, wasn’t lost on Alec during their conversations leading up to today. To see Magnus afraid of coming this close just to lose it again is too much.

“Absolutely not.” Alec says it with such certainty that Magnus visibly relaxes. They both look over at Nora who is still sitting on the floor, staring towards the door that all of the people who were just playing with her disappeared through before turning her attention to the stuffed giraffe next to her. “I hope she’ll be happy here.”

“She will be. Do you know how I know?” Magnus asks, standing from the sofa to cross over to where Alec stands. When he reaches him Alec wraps his arms around Magnus from the back, pulling him in close.

Alec rests his chin on Magnus’ shoulder as he asks, “How?”.

“Because she’s going to be so loved here. I’ve seen the way you look at her. And not just you - your sister, and brother, and even Jace and Simon. She’s never going to feel alone.” Magnus turns slowly to face him, staying close so Alec’s hands stay wrapped around his waist. “She’s going to be fine. And so are we.”

Alec doesn’t reply, instead leaning in to place a kiss made nearly impossible through his smile on Magnus’ lips.

“We’re going to be more than fine.” Alec says when they break apart. “I love you.” He pauses at the sound of Nora making noises to get their attention. “I love both of you, so much.”

And when Magnus replies Alec feels more full of warmth and fondness than he ever imagined himself capable of.

“We love you, too.”

#malec #magnus bane #alec lightwood #shadowhunters #shfanficnexus #isabelle lightwood #clary fray #jace herondale #malec and kids #because I randomly wanted to write this after remembering a few requests for it! <3 #elle writes a few deadbeat lines

[otp-bubbline]

I didn’t write this it was requested

ImmoImmortals (1/8)

[Originally posted on my fanfiction.net account back in May, before I had a tumblr, but since the Bubbline fandom’s pretty lively here, thought I’d share. It’s been turned completely AU by Stakes, but still works pretty well as an alternate history. Romance/Angst/Tragedy

[As it turns out, Marceline and Bonnibel have more history than all of Ooo, and back in the beginning, Marceline still had a moral code, and Bonnibel still had a heart. But a thousand years is a long, long time, and nothing lasts forever.

[Adventure Time belongs to Pendleton Ward and the song “Immortals” to Fall Out Boy.]

.

(they say we are what we are

but we don’t have to be)

.

“Why isn’t there any…chicken…soup?!”

That plaintive cry echoes throughout the dead city, ricocheting off busted cars and broken buildings, and muffles in the freshly fallen snow that clogs one of its alleys. In the alley’s center, an elderly man, his skin tinting to blue, shakes his fists at the unsympathetic leaden skies.

And nearly gets concussed by the falling can of chicken soup.

“What? I’ll freeze you!” he yells, spinning around with his hands extended, crab-like, but there’s nothing there—no threats, no oozing monster. Just a deep divot in the snow, shadowed blue as his skin. He lowers his hands, the fear fading from his face, and fishes out the miracle can. “Er…”

“Simon? Simon, what’s going on?”

He turns around, still cradling the can, but waves arrestingly at the girl halfway out of a rusting automobile. “Marcy! Stay in the car! I’ve got your soup, but it’s cold now—the air, not the soup, although I suppose it’d be cold anyway, being that it’s in a can and all—but whatever, I mean, you’re not well, and what if there’s more monsters—”

His protests fall on deaf ears, as Marceline disregards his concerns and clambers through the snow to his side, even though it’s up to her knees and she’s decidedly not equipped to be trekking across a polar landscape. She laughs upon seeing the can, like it’s the prize at the end of a long quest, but her attention is quickly caught by something in the background.

Something smiling. Something pink.

The half-demon approaches the sticky substance where it’s strung across the wall. “Is this who gave you the soup?” she asks, mirroring the smile hanging in the translucent material: the happiest semicircle of a curve.

“Huh? What?” Simon bleats, and he looks vaguely at the pink goop. “What’s that? You think that thing gave me this soup?” He chuckles, but it’s ranging towards a cackle, and Marceline slants him a suspicious look, which swiftly swivels to fixate on the crown hanging from his belt. Simon clears his throat and tries to salvage the situation and fails rather miserably. “What? It’s just a wad of sentient bubblegum.”

“Simon!” she protests, glancing nervously at her magenta benefactor, whose smile has faded. “That’s really mean! I think she heard you! And she probably has a name, you big jerk!”

“Eh? She? Why d’you think it’s a girl? It’s a blob,” the man says, pointing up at the strings of gum that wander up the wall like rigging on a ship. “Quite a bit of blob, too.”

“You really are a jerk,” Marceline declares, laying her hands on the gum somewhat to the sides of the eyes: her best guess as to where the ears are. “And of course it’s a girl. It’s pink. What kinda boy would be pink? Geez.”

“A bubblegum boy, that’s who,” Simon grouses, but there’s no real fight in his words, and he exhales a long sigh. “Fine, fine. ‘Princess Bubblegum’ here gave me the soup, sure. Can you just eat it now? You’re sick, Marcy, and I want to help you. Would you let me help you like I’ve always done?”

Her dark eyes narrow, not oblivious to the sarcasm riding his words, but she capitulates with a nod. “Okay. I am hungry, anyway.”

He beckons, already halfway back to the dilapidated husk of the car. “Come on. It’ll be warmer in here, and safer, too. Once you’ve eaten, we need to get out of this city. Who knows how many more slimy monsters are prowling the streets.”

Marceline starts to follow him, but she hesitates, glancing back at the gum. “But what about her? We can’t leave her here, Simon. Those oozy monsters might attack her next, and she can’t protect herself.”

“She can if she drops ballistic cans of chicken soup on their heads,” he mutters, but with a note of fondness. Rather more realistically, he poses, “There’s enough gum up that wall to weigh both of us down, Marcy. How do you want to go about carrying her? Or are you suggesting that we chew her up and blow the world’s biggest bubble and balloon away from here?”

The half-demon child laughs. “Oh, Simon, you’re so silly! Blowing a bubble, geez. You’re pretty dumb for being so old. No, we…pull her down, kind of, and mush her up until she’s…person-shaped. Like…like a snowman, but with gum, and a girl. A gum-girl. Yeah. We’ll make a gum-girl.”

One of Simon’s eyebrows rockets skywards, and he cranes his neck, scanning the lattice of pink elastic roped up the wall. “Well,” he says at last, “I’ve heard stranger ideas. What the heck. Let’s give it a whirl.”

Giddy, Marceline claps her hands together and turns back to the nearly-featureless face on the wall. “Did you hear that, Princess Bubblegum? You can come with us. Just…come on down here.”

The smile returns, spreading wide and semicircular again. As the child and the old man watch, the strands of pink gum shiver and contract and coalesce, creeping down the building like a vine growing in reverse. It pulls in streamers and reclaims clumps until, at long last…

Simon blinks. “It’s a wad,” he echoes.

Marceline crouches next to the lump, which is almost half her height and possessing all the form of a beanbag chair. “Aw, Princess, that’s not right. You need to have legs! And arms! Otherwise, how’re you gonna do anything?”

The small, hazy eyes are half-closed, though, as if coming this far were exhausting enough. With a last burst of energy, a tendril extends and scrapes loopily through the snow.

The half-demon cocks her head to the side. “Sugar?” she reads, and she sends a questioning glance to her adopted parent.

Simon scratches his whiskery chin. “Makes enough sense,” he muses. “Not only are simple carbohydrates the core ingredients in most metabolisms, given the fact that she’s composed of gum, it might also serve some secondary, structural purpose.”

Marceline’s brows pinch together. “…What?”

“She can’t form a body without sugar,” he explains, and he sighs again, more heavily this time. “But to get sugar, we’ll have to venture even further into the city.”

His small companion, though, falls on her knees and hugs the pink blob. “Aw, c’mon, Simon, we have to! It’d be great to have a friend!”

He blanches. “Aren’t I your friend?”

She considers this. “Well, yeah, but…you’re kinda like a dad, Simon. I meant a friend who’d be another kid. And then you’d have another kid, and we’d…” She falters, her chin trembling, and tears bead up in her eyes. They slip down her cheeks in crystalline trails and drip, soundless, onto the mound of gum, which looks up at her sympathetically. “We’d be like a family.”

Simon stares at her for a long time, the crown heavy on his belt. One day, he knows, the power of it will pull him beneath its gilded surface and he’ll drown in its depths; one day, he won’t be able to be there for Marceline, to protect or provide or simply accompany. When that day comes, he would dearly like to guarantee that she won’t be alone, even if all she has left is a princess made of bubblegum.

Walking over to her through the snow, he braces an arm around her small shoulders and presses a kiss into her night-black hair. “We are a family,” he gently corrects her, and he empties his pack onto the ground. “Here, take Hambo,” he says, passing over the teddy bear. “I think our new friend here will fit inside. That way, we can carry her to the sugar and still able to run away if we have to.”

Marceline scrubs the tears off her cheeks and grins, sharp-toothed and riotously happy, and she squeezes Hambo so hard in her arms that his seams threaten to burst. “Thanks, Simon! You’re the best!”

He chuckles, a little embarrassed, but shimmies the empty pack over the pink blob and hefts the whole thing onto his shoulders. “You still need to eat your soup,” he reminds her.

“Oh, right!”

.

It doesn’t take them long to find sugar; the stuff is apparently more plentiful than chicken soup, or perhaps horrible slime monsters prefer more complex offerings. Either way, they find torn-open, paper-wrapped pounds of it spread about the shelves like snow in the first grocery they check. After exchanging a glance and a shrug, Simon sets his pack down and opens the flap while Marceline gathers handfuls of the sweet crystals and dumps them over the bubblegum blob.

Some of the grit sinks in, but most of it just spills over the top and sits there, delicious dandruff.

“Um…” Marceline bends over the bag, head tilting to one side, lips pulling to the other. “Are we supposed to do something, Princess…?”

But the bubblegum begins writhing, kneading the sugar into its own flesh, and the half-demon stumbles backwards. Simon catches her under the arms and pulls her a safe distance away, and both of them look on in wary interest as the pack begins to jostle this way and that as the gum surges about inside it. The motions are so violent, though, that the flap flops shut, and neither the man nor the child can quite summon the courage to approach closely enough to tip it open again.

At length, the shaking stills, and Marceline gets her weight back on her feet and creeps closer. There is movement again, but it is now sluggish and slow. The half-demon reaches out and pulls aside the flap…and looks down into a face that is no longer so featureless, into eyes that are no longer so small and dark and a smile that isn’t a perfect semicircle.

It’s better, though. It’s practically human.

Violet lashes blink across lavender eyes, and teeth as white and square as sugar cubes shine in her smile. Her skin is pale, barely pink at all, but it absorbed the majority of the sugar and so faded out. Her hair retains its obnoxious shade and almost all its stickiness, too, falling in globs instead of strands around her small, round-cheeked face.

“Whoa! You’re like alive and stuff!” Marceline exclaims, grinning another razor-edged smile.

The gum-girl bobs her head. With the help of the half-demon’s hand, she unfolds herself from the pack, standing strong and steady on her new legs. “Bonnibel,” she says in a voice that’s light and sweet.

Marceline quirks a dark eyebrow. “Eh, what?”

“My name,” she clarifies, and she touches a hand to her breast and bows. “I’m Bonnibel.”

The other girl chortles. “Not Princess Bubblegum?”

Bonnibel tucks her chin to her chest in a posture of deep thought. “No,” she says at last, “but I suppose I could be, if you want.”

“Nah,” Marceline dismisses, “I like Bonnibel. I’m Marceline, and this is Simon,” she says, taking in her other friend with a wave.

“Yes, I heard,” the gum-girl confirms, and she offers a bow to the old man as well. “Thank you for coming along to save me.”

Simon arches a doubtful eyebrow. “We hardly saved you,” he says. “You pulled yourself down off that wall without any help from us.”

“Yes, but I had nowhere to go before,” Bonnibel explains. “I had no reason to leave the wall for years, and no sugar to grant me form. You see, I got blown there during the final bombings.” She stretches her fingers into stars and adds for emphasis, “Splat.”

“Gross,” Marceline remarks with a smirk, fangs just jutting into her lower lip.

Bonnibel nods solemnly. “Gross, indeed,” she confirms, and then she smiles again, sugar-bright. “But then you two came into my alley, and spoke of friendship and family, and I…had almost forgotten about such things. I’ve been so lonely.”

The half-demon boldly grasps one of her hands and extends her other to Simon, who completes the chain. “Well, you’re not alone anymore, Bonnibel!” she declares, her smirk widening into an almost perfect semicircle of a grin.

“No,” she agrees, “I’m not.”

.

.

(i’ll be the watcher of the eternal flame

i’ll be the guard dog of all your fever dreams)

.

Slouched next to the campfire with her crossed arms balanced on her knees, Marceline stares through the flickering yellow flames at the sprawled figure of Simon. He’s deep asleep, his crown hugged possessively to his chest, as if he fears someone will take it from him—and his fear is well founded, as Marceline has attempted exactly that over the years but has always been met with failure. Now she doesn’t really try, because afterwards, Simon always seemed more enraptured by the power than before. She doesn’t want to be the one that pushes him over the edge.

She couldn’t catch him if he fell. It’s not like she can fly.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

The half-demon glances sidelong at Bonnibel, who’s peering at her from the depths of her own sleeping bag. Lavender eyes flash orange in the firelight. “What thing?” Marceline prompts, scratching idly at one pointed ear.

Now laughter flashes, too. “Trying to think.”

“Har har,” Marceline tosses back with just a smidgeon of acid. “You’re hilarious, Bonni. Go back to sleep already before I bop you one.”

But the gum-girl disregards that warning and sits up, smoothing out the rumples in her sleeping bag. “Really, though,” she presses, “what’re you thinking about? You’re so intense, you look like you’re gonna blow a blood vessel.”

Exhaling through her nose, Marceline leans back against the half-rotten log behind her and gazes up at the stars scattered—like sugar, like snowflakes—across the velvety black expanse of sky, their light poorly hidden by the leafless branches of the surrounding forest trees. She fails to respond, although a muscle works in her jaw, pulsing like her heartbeat.

Bonnibel waits half a minute more before surrendering—but not in the way Marceline would have expected. Instead of rolling over and punching another ticket to dreamland, she wriggles out of her sleeping bag entirely and reclines at her friend’s side. They’re the same height, the half-demon idly observes: their arms, their legs are the same length, too. But these facts don’t really surprise Marceline, and she’s always secretly appreciated the unspoken explanation. After all, Bonnibel doesn’t have any rules about growing up—the girl’s made out of gum, for glob’s sake. She could skip straight to adulthood if she wanted to, if she packed on enough sugar.

But she’s always been very careful about how quickly she ages.

She’s always been the same height as Marceline.

Their shoulders brush, and the half-demon sighs once more, blustery this time. “He’s calling you Princess Bubblegum again.”

The other girl hums, an unconcerned confirmation. “It’s a little creepy,” she concedes, “but he’s harmless. It’s nothing to keep you up at night.”

Marceline’s lips twist in a grimace, one fang poking free. “It’s not the creep-factor I’m worried about. I mean, I don’t want him creeping on you, ’cause that’s mega-nasty, but…” She trails off, her expression creasing further, and she pulls her legs closer to her chest, locks her arms more tightly around them. She’s fairly bristling with angles, like a defensive star. “But he hasn’t called you that in seven years, Bonni.”

Eyes dimming, Bonnibel, too, stares across the fire.

“I think he’s forgotten,” the half-demon concludes in the most regretful whisper. “And not that he’s forgotten that it’s not your name or whatever. I think he’s forgotten the last seven years altogether.”

She tucks her chin in. “And he’s calling you Marceline,” she adds slowly as the realization occurs to her.

“Exactly,” she agrees, even less than a whisper now. “He’s never called me by my full name. I introduced myself with it, of course, but…he never used it. I’ve always been Marcy.” She tries to swallow, but her throat’s too thick, and the knot of emotion serves to slowly strangle her.

Until Bonnibel rests a hand on her shoulder, that is; then she can breathe easier. She takes in several gulps of the cool night air, willing its chill to calm the hammering of her heart, and she shakes her head in a terribly lost motion, black hair rustling in a waist-length curtain. “What’re we supposed to do, Bonni? It’s the crown, I know it’s the lumping crown, but…I don’t think I can save him from it. I mean, what am I? I’m a scrawny teenaged half-demon, not a hero. And it’s taken him already. There’s nothing I can do.”

Pink fingers tighten in reassurance. “Perhaps not,” she admits, low and gentle. “But he’s not a lost cause yet.”

“So, what?” Marceline rasps, half-sneering and hating the tears that burn in the corners of her eyes. “We’ll sit around, twiddling our thumbs, until he becomes one?” She shoves the other girl’s hand from her shoulder, not caring that such a forceful motion almost causes the threadbare fabric of her t-shirt to tear. “That won’t solve anything!”

Bonnibel studies her in the shivering firelight, her expression inscrutable, her eyes dark and distant. “Not every problem has a solution,” she says at length. “Some equations are broken from the beginning.”

“Simon’s not an equation,” Marceline snarls, fangs gleaming gold, knuckles bleaching white. “He’s a person.”

A wrinkle appears in her brow. “I know that.”

“Do you?” the half-demon snaps, and she unfolds her gangly limbs to stand, stiff and shaking, above her friend. “’Cause it sure as hell doesn’t sound like it! It sounds like you’re ready to write him off, like one of your stupid experiments when they go wrong!”

Bonnibel’s lips seal in a thin line, but whatever she intends to say is never heard: across the fire, Simon stirs lethargically and half-opens one swirling, ice-blue eye. “Hrm, Marcy? Is that you? Are you alright?”

Marceline slackens like a sail that’s lost the wind, flapping loose against the mast of her spine. “Yeah, I’m—I’m fine,” she croaks, and her voice splinters into shards. “G-Go back to sleep, old man. Glob, you’re such a pain.”

“Hmph! You’re no cakewalk yourself, kid,” he mutters, and his white-lashed eyelid drops shut again, sweeping the snowy madness out of sight.

Marceline stands there and trembles, tears sliding slickly down her pale gray cheeks, until Bonnibel breathes a soft sigh and wipes them away. The droplets soak into her sugary skin, melting shallow depressions, but she doesn’t seem to mind. “We won’t leave him,” she declares, fingers lingering on the slanting planes of the half-demon’s face.

She snorts, but there’s no humor in the sound. “He’ll leave us,” she points out, cracking and hollow.

“Yes, one day, he will,” Bonnibel murmurs. “But we’ll stay until he does. It’ll be his decision.”

The skin strains around Marceline’s eyes and mouth, and she corrects darkly, “It’ll be the crown’s decision.”

There is nothing Bonnibel can say to that, so she says nothing.

.

It takes three more months, and Simon, lost in the depravity of his magic, is no longer so harmless. A horrified Marceline has to tackle him off Bonnibel, yelling and grabbing fistfuls of his beard and his coat, and even then, she can’t hold him down unaided. He’s old, true, but the crown grants him terrible power, and she’s just a scrawny teenaged half-demon, not a hero.

In the end, Bonnibel whacks him in the head with a stick. Even though that knocks off his crown, both girls know that doesn’t make a difference anymore: the crown is in his soul, its madness buried deep where they can’t dredge it out. So she hits him again and again until he’s exiled to unconscious realms, but she has more trouble extricating Marceline, who’s sobbing into his chest, all regret and apology and anger.

Mutilated by the magic, he has betrayed her loyalty and her love, and that knife sinks up to the hilt in her heart and twists and twists and twists.

Bonnibel manages to untangle the other girl’s fingers and drag her away; Marceline is incoherent in her grief, and she lacks the clarity to walk or stand. So after a dozen paces, Bonnibel lets her friend sag against her and cry a divot into her shoulder.

Before they flee, Marceline throws the hated crown as far as she can, heaving it somewhere into the dark trees. It won’t help him now—he’ll always, always find it, chained as he is to its irresistible anchor—but it makes her feel a little better.

It makes her feel like she tried.

(sometimes the only pay-off for having any faith

is when it’s tested again and again everyday)

.

Three years pass, three years without Simon—but not without snow, no. They crossed some mountains, and there was a trio of winters to contend with, but this snow melts, and it doesn’t taste like insanity. Three years in which Bonnibel carefully adds seemingly inconsequential amounts of sugar to her own frame, because after three more years, Marceline isn’t quite as scrawny anymore. She’s still a riff on the theme of angles, pointed ears and teeth and nose and sharp triangles of collar- and cheek- and hipbones, but there’s a softness now that wasn’t there before, even considering their meager diets, their constant travel.

Bonnibel’s taken note of these changes, but she has to, she tells herself, because she has to augment her own body to match. They’ve grown up at the same rate, and they’ll continue to do so. She’s not noticing anything because shewants to, oh, glob, no.

She doesn’t admire Marceline’s hair when it shines iridescent like a raven’s wing in the moonlight. She doesn’t stare when Marceline’s movements are languid and lithe, smoothed by a grace that Bonnibel can’t quite replicate, despite having almost exactly the same proportioned limbs. She certainly doesn’t wonder what it’d be like to twine her fingers through Marceline’s, and not for comfort or for support or simply not to lose one another on foggier days but just because she can.

She doesn’t think about any of these things, ever.

Never, ever.

“Kssh. Earth to Bonnibel. Come in, Bonnibel. Over. Kssh.” And knuckles rap on her sugarcane skull.

“Ow!” the gum-girl protests, and she swats peevishly at her friend’s arm. Snickering, Marceline retracts her hand and plops down beside her in her usual effortless lounge. “You’re back already?”

“Yup,” the half-demon replies, tilting her head back to ease the kinks from her neck. Bonnibel resolutely does not trace her eyes up the slender curve of her throat. “No sign of any nasty monsters anywhere around our campsite—hooray.” She raises a loose fist in a parody of triumph, and she tips her head forward again, opening one dark eye to peer at her friend. “Good thing, too, ’cause you woulda been dessert. How lost in thought were you, eh? Forget to bring a map when you wandered into that big ol’ brain of yours?”

“Shut up, Marcy,” Bonnibel grouses, and she sniffs importantly. “Maybe I was concocting marvelous plans about how to fix the entire world, and now you’ve gone and interrupted me, and everyone will suffer. Way to go.”

But the other girl shrugs, an easy ripple of thin shoulders. “Well,” she concedes, “I am the daughter of Evil Incarnate. If I didn’t ruin the world’s chance for, um, a second chance, then I’d hardly be living up to the family expectations.”

She squints sidelong at her friend. “Yeah…what’s up with that?” she asks. “Like, how evil are you?”

“Pretty evil,” Marceline quips, forked tongue flicking out from between her sharp, sharp teeth. “But seriously, I don’t even know. Glob, I haven’t even been in the Nightosphere since I was way young; I don’t remember much, ’cept for like fire and brimstone and junk. Mom thought I’d grow up better in the human world, but I guess she wasn’t expecting the Mushroom Wars. ’Course, for all I know, Dad orchestrated the whole thing. Seems kinda like his style…more souls to munch and all. Whatever, though, right? I mean, if I am the harbinger of the Apocalypse or somethin’, then mission accomplished ’cause, wow, did the Apocalypse happen hardcore. Go me, I guess.” And she raises another fist, this one much more sarcastic, into the air and gives it a half-hearted pump.

Bonnibel absorbs this with the impartiality of a true scientist, and as such, she goes on to wonder, “Do you have any abilities? Outside of the physical characteristics, you don’t seem particularly demonic.”

Marceline shifts her weight, getting more comfortable against the pillows of their packs braced against the sheer cliff wall. “Who made you drink curious juice, Bon?” she asks in a lazy drawl, her eyes slipping shut, as if she intends to take a nap, conversations be damned.

The gum-girl tries not to take offense at this. “I just realized that we always talk about the present, that’s all. Where we are, where we’ll be going tomorrow, what’s for dinner. Nothing consequential, really. Nothing about…before.”

The atmosphere crystallizes, ever so slightly. Before means before Simon, and that just dredges up his frozen ghost. Marceline suddenly seems to have more edges than usual, but then, just as suddenly, she relaxes. “Oh, is that all?” she says, her tone determinedly light. “Well, dang, you shoulda just said. I think I’ve got some latent magical talent that I’ve never really messed with. Like I’m pretty sure I can open a portal to the Nightosphere whenever the plop I want, but really, who wants to do that? And I’m immortal, just like the old man.”

Bonnibel lifts her eyebrows, impressed. “You’re deathless?”

“I’m…something?” Marceline hedges, her brow furrowing, and she stares inquisitively off into the night. Storm clouds are brewing in the west; she can smell the change in the air from here, and she vaguely concedes that they’ll need to set up the tent soon. “I mean, I’m aging, right? I don’t know if I’ll stop at some point or what. I’m only half-demon, after all. I think I’ll live forever, though; it’s a surety I’ve got in my bones. But, like…I also think I could die,” she adds, more quietly. “That’s in my bones, too.”

“I don’t want you to die,” Bonnibel blurts before she can think better of it.

The other girl tips her a wink, and Bonnibel’s glad the darkness hides her blush. “Aw, shucks. I knew you were sweet, but now you’re just giving me cavities. Lemme just dig out my toothbrush and—”

“Shut up,” she grumbles once again, and she pulls her knees in to her chest and sulks with her chin on their knobby curves.

Marceline sniggers. “Geez, I didn’t know you were so sensitive. Guess you’re not hard candy.”

Bonnibel throws her a flinty glare. “I do have feelings, you know.”

The half-demon rolls her head back again and flaps an unconcerned hand. “’Course ya do, babe. There’s bound to be more than just sugar in your veins.” She frowns but doesn’t straighten up to ask, “Now how does that work, eh? How do you function? I’m not the only mysterious person in our intrepid little duo.”

“I function on the same principles as everyone else,” Bonnibel says, adding conscientiously, “at least, everyone else who exists in a corporeal fashion. The only difference between us is that I’m carbohydrate-based and you’re protein-based.”

“English, Bonni.”

The gum-girl sighs. “I’m made out of sugar and you’re made out of meat.”

“Well, geez, you could’ve just said,” Marceline says with hint of annoyance that smoothes into a luxurious shrug. “Whatevs. That’s all I’ve got. I’m tappin’ out.”

Bonnibel stalls for a long time, trying to organize her thoughts, and they’ve never been so hard to file before. As of late, though, she finds that as much as she prizes her intelligence, she’s liable to be receiving awards for idiocy if she remains in the unsettling grasp of this strange emotion whilst in Marceline’s presence. But even with the threat of embarrassment, she can’t find it within her heart to want to leave—just the opposite, in fact.

She’ll do anything to stay.

Awkwardly, she clears her throat. “Marcy,” she ventures, soft, “do demons…have feelings?”

“Just went over this,” her friend drawls, twirling one finger in a circle for emphasis.

“No, I meant like…” Her throat closes up and chokes off the words, and only with determined prying can she open the pathway again. “Like, y’know…feelings.”

Marceline blinks up at the faraway stars and watches for a few beats as more and more of them are covered by the incoming clouds. “Like feeling-feelings? Like love and crap?”

Love and crap, Bonnibel echoes internally. Oh, glob. What do I see in this girl. “Yes,” she confirms aloud. “Like love.”

“’Course,” the half-demon replies, settling more deeply into her comfortable slump, lashes like crow’s wings feathering on her cheeks. “I loved Simon. I loved my mom. I…think I love my dad? Ish? That one’s hard to say; I don’t remember the dude. I’ll have to pop into the Nightosphere one of these days and have a big ol’ family reunion.” She shrugs again, clearly done talking.

Bonnibel’s more than certain that her candy heart is going to crack in half. “And…no one else?”

Marceline furrows her brow and stares, once more, straight up at the sky. “Have I met anyone else?” she wonders, sounding genuinely confused.

The gum-girl reaches over and taps her fist into her friend’s forehead, exactly as Marceline herself had done when she arrived at the campsite. “Hello, you dingus! Me! What about me!”

The half-demon shifts her gaze down and across until charcoal irises meet lavender ones. “What about you?” she protests, bewildered.

Bonnibel resists the urge to throttle her, or perhaps just to burst into mortified flames. “Argh! Do you love me?” she all but yells. The words echo off the cliffs, mockingly hollow.

And Marceline explodes laughing. “Whoa, calm down, Bonni! Of course I love you,” she says, still chortling, her arms wrapped around her ribs: “You’re my best friend! Glob, what a dumb question.”

A strange, curious ache sets in the back of Bonnibel’s jaw, like she’s eaten too much sugar—except she can never eat too much sugar, and this ache goes deeper, far deeper, right down to the molasses in her marrow. She turns aside stiffly, and it will rain soon; she can smell it too, the promise of moisture, the pressure of the surly atmosphere. They need to set up the tent. She needs to stay out of the wet, lest she start to melt.

But she gets to her feet, instead. “I’m going for a walk,” she says, her voice small.

The humor hitches in her friend’s smile, warping it into something closer to a frown. “Er…okay?”

Bonnibel doesn’t reply. As she wanders off into the darkness, she vows never to ask Marceline that again.

Never, ever.

.

It starts to rain, and Marceline curses, fumbling through their packs for coats, blankets—anything that will pass as a makeshift umbrella. “Stupid sugarbrain knows she’s gonna melt but goes for a freaking joyride anyway,” she mutters under her breath as she irritably knots a jacket around her waist. She slips a second one on properly, hiking its collar up against the rain even though her hair provides more of a barrier than the stiff material can really hope to match. “Stupid lumping sugarbrain…”

She crawls out of the tent, and the steady plunking of rain on canvas is replaced with the rather more intimate plunking of rain on her face; the droplets are fat and heavy, each one bursting like a ripe berry as they strike her skin. Marceline scowls and retreats momentarily into the tent, snatching up a well-worn baseball cap and screwing it onto her head, and the pressure of it makes her ears stick out even more, appearing almost wing-like at a glance. The cap’s bill shelters her face from the deluge, though, and grants her a modicum of comfort, so she sets out again, still grumbling but no longer quite so miserable.

The cliff road is dark and wet and treacherous, and only intermittent lightning flashes illuminate its tortuous length. Once upon a time, Marceline recalls, she and Simon had flashlights, but the batteries succumbed to time and use and went to rest with everything else antebellum, and they never did manage to find replacements. Marceline retains the flashlight, though, empty and useless as it is; it’s stowed in the bottom of her pack, as if it will still keep her from getting lost in the dark.

It doesn’t help her now, and not just because she didn’t bring it along, and she slips more than once on the slippery rocks, the broken asphalt of the long-forgotten mountain pass. Rusting guardrails flare and shine in the lightning’s evanescent electric glow, but there’s no sign of Bonnibel, not even a trail of half-melted sugary footprints, which Marceline has been hoping she’d find. Eventually, after a quarter hour of determined trekking, the half-demon discovers that the road winds back into the mountains, and along the path of least resistance, too—or the path of greatest resistance, if you’re a pessimist—because it carves a tunnel into the rock face. Its far end is a distant gray smudge, and its arched length is opaque and black.

Marceline has no time to appreciate the brief respite from the rain; her breath hisses in past her fangs, instead, when she realizes what’s lying on the ground just inside the tunnel.

It’s a leg, still oozing sugary blood, molasses-slow.

“Bonni?” she yells, and its first iteration is a shriek, scraping up the octaves in her throat via the train of sheer panic. She grapples for control after that and manages to shout, rather more audibly over the raging storm, “Bonni! You in here? You alive? You better freakin’ answer me!”

A weak reply reaches her pricked ears, small and shrill with fear. “No! Marcy, get out of here! Go away!”

Relief washes over Marceline like a tsunami wave, and it almost topples her, too. She hangs onto her balance with grim determination, and after a wavering moment of pure nausea, she gingerly lifts the severed leg—it’s surprisingly heavy, for being made of sugar. Biting back against the acid that rises unstoppably in her throat, she ventures into the tunnel.

“Don’t be a total moron, dude,” she says, loud and carrying, although the cheerfulness falls terribly flat. “Who d’ya think you are, the lumping gingerbread man? You can’t just go around lopping off your limbs and think you’ll be fine.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Bonnibel’s voice possesses more of an edge now, its timbre buzzing like a saw. “Get outta here!”

Marceline homes in on the sound, stumbling in her haste and the inky darkness, and she can barely distinguish the shadow of her friend from the shadow of everything else. “Here you are,” she declares, and she crouches down, willing the enveloping blackness to recede so that she can investigate the gum-girl’s terrible injury. “I’ve, er, got your leg…I’ll just set it down, shall I? Like right next to whatever stump you’ve got left, yeah?”

Bonnibel recoils in the thick gloom, though, her shoulder blades endeavoring to burrow through the stone wall behind her. “Glob, Marcy, I don’t care about my leg!”

“Now that’s just blood loss talking,” the half-demon dismisses. She scootches closer again, still wielding the leg like a determined carpenter wrestling with a broken chair. “Can I borrow some of your hair, maybe? I think I can, like, glue it back on, kinda, with the gum…”

“Stop it! You don’t understand! Why aren’t you listening to me?” Bonnibel reaches out, and at first she twists her fingers in Marceline’s jacket’s sleeves, as if she wants to keep her here, but then she uses her grip to propel her friend backwards, instead. “It’s still here! It’ll attack you next—”

But Bonnibel’s warning is truncated as Marceline slams into her, and that only happens because something, in fact, slammed into Marceline. The girls’ foreheads knock together sharply, dizzyingly, and with a discombobulated groan, the half-demon braces her hands on the tunnel wall and tries to lever herself back up. The weight on her back, though, is so heavy, and somehow, it’s getting heavier…

“What the hell?” she grunts, and this close, she can read Bonnibel’s expression: utter terror. The same fear lances through her willowy frame as a voice—low and guttural and riding cold, rancid breath—purrs in her ear.

“Ahhh, you smell good,” the vampire says, slow with relish, and something that feels very much like a tongue slides slickly up Marceline’s neck. “Like real blood, not that syrupy crap…”

The half-demon only has time to gasp, “Oh, shit—” before the vampire’s fangs pierce the delicate skin on her neck and delve into the mineral-rich seam of her carotid artery. Agony like no pain she has ever felt before rushes through her veins: a wildfire or chain-lightning or anything that moves too fast to be predicted or blocked. It burns, it burns, and then, once her entire body is screaming itself hoarse, the pain switches direction, running against the grain of its own just-inflicted wounds as the suction starts.

She can feel like the life draining out of her, but she can’t stop it.

Bonnibel tries. Not paralyzed by the vampire’s poison herself, she drives her fist into the monster’s head with as much power as she can manage, howling rage at him all the while. Her pummeling, though, achieves no victory, and helpless saccharine tears flood her cheeks.

Marceline’s heart stops, a sudden arrest that leaves it hanging hollow behind her ribs, and it never starts again. The last thing she sees before the world fades into inescapable shadow is Bonnibel’s horrified face, her eyes wide, their lavender irises washed gray in the darkness.

And then she doesn’t see anything.

The vampire, swollen with blood like some disgusting, engorged spider, finally plucks his fangs from Marceline’s neck and tosses her body aside with all the care and ease of a child discarding a rag doll. Another scream catches in the traffic jam in Bonnibel’s throat, and she stares through the blurring screen of her tears at her friend’s corpse sprawled gracelessly on the cracked asphalt, just a shadow within a shadow.

“Mmm, delicious,” the vampire says, his voice thick and lush like velvet now. “So much more satisfying than you, my candy princess. Your red was so watery, and your blood…mm, it was not very pleasing. Not nearly enough salt, no.” He runs his tongue, stained with Marceline’s ichor, over his icicle fangs, and his eyelids flutter at the pleasure of the taste.

A thousand desires flood Bonnibel, principal amongst them the driving need to rip out the vampire’s throat, but before she can rush to any foolish action, a dry laugh rasps in the air. It’s a quiet sound, and she’s surprised she can hear it over the continual rumble of thunder and shudder of rain. Her own heart stills in her chest when a very familiar voice reaches her ears.

“Haha, oh, wow…did you think I’d take death lying down?”

Bonnibel’s gaze flickers aside, and yes, Marceline’s body is stirring, awkward like a marionette that’s had its strings cut and needs to learn to stand on its own. Her hair sweeps across her face in a black curtain, but the strands slip aside to reveal her eyes, gleaming red, the dark red of sullen embers in a banked fire. Her lips pull back in a terrible grin, and the once-even serration of her teeth is interrupted now by the sharper points of prominent canines.

The vampire beast still squatting in front of Bonnibel stares at her, his jaw slipping open in wordless shock. With dint of great determination, though, he manages to speak. “I didn’t want to turn you!” he all but squawks. “I wanted to kill you! I—I did kill you!”

“I’m the daughter of Evil Incarnate,” Marceline lets him know, as she had let Bonnibel know. She stretches her arms wide like she’s expecting applause. “You can’t kill me.”

She lunges then, faster than Bonnibel’s eyes can follow in this gloom, and snarls her fingers in the bat-like fur rising up all over the vampire beast’s body. She pivots on one foot and, with unprecedented strength, throws the monstrous form across the tunnel, where he slams into the far wall and groans pathetically.

The gum-girl stares up at her friend for a fracturing instant. “Marcy?” she whispers.

Marceline glances over her shoulder, and something in her face softens; some of the fire in her eyes dims. “This must be how Simon felt,” she remarks, quiet and bitter and with half her mouth still cranked in a parody of a smirk. “Calmly accepting a curse just to protect a friend. Yeah. I think I understand now.”

Her heart wrenches in her chest. “You…you came back like this…for me?” she croaks.

“Don’t be an idiot, Bon,” she replies, the insult curling fondly off her tongue, and her smile straightens out. “You already know I love you. Glob, you only just made me say it. So what did you expect? That I’d leave you here with this lumping freak to die? Geez.” And she shakes her head. “You’ve got like the worst opinion of me, babe.”

Her heart just writhes further. “Marcy,” she echoes, plaintive and pleading—although for what, she doesn’t exactly know.

“Sit tight, not that you have much choice,” Marceline quips, and she jerks a thumb at the beast, who’s stirring again. “I’ve got a vampire to slay.”

It’s hard to discern much in the darkness, but Bonnibel can see that, for being new to the vampiric lifestyle—deathstyle? Unlifestyle? She’ll have to work on that—Marceline manages to steal and keep the upper hand. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that the other vampire seeks strength in its huge monstrous form, which might have been more of an advantage if the tunnel weren’t so cramped. Marceline, by comparison, flits about easily, dodging and landing quick strikes, and Bonnibel is certain that it’s not just a trick of the dark—she’s certain that Marceline’s flying.

The male vampire’s roars suddenly cut short as the female dives in for the kill; humans might need to kill vampires with elaborate methods, all garlic and sunlight and wooden stakes in unbeating hearts, but amongst their own species, brutal violence suffices. Bonnibel closes her eyes, because even the storm-dark is not enough of a shield against the carnage, and she presses her fingers into her ears, too, so she doesn’t have to hear the cold flesh tearing free of ancient bones.

She only knows it’s over, then, when Marceline is gently pulling her hands down, and she blinks up at her friend. Smoldering eyes gaze back at her, level and searching, and the new vampire must feel her arms trembling beneath her grasp, as she sighs and lets go.

“Oh, Bon,” she breathes sadly, “you’re scared of me, aren’t you.”

She doesn’t pose it as a question, already resigned to the answer.

“No, I’m not,” Bonnibel protests, not admitting that she’s more than a little disconcerted by the change. It’s a lot to process, but she’s a scientist by nature, and she approaches all things with as much clinical detachment as she can muster, and she scrambles for its objective comfort now. Marceline being a vampire just means there’s a fresh set of variables to consider in the never-ending experiment of their lives. Nothing more, nothing less.

“My leg’s torn off,” she points out, as if that’s a detail inconsequential enough to be forgotten. “I think the blood loss is having some ill effects on my constitution, that’s all.”

Marceline crouches down, her vision now augmented by the inclusion of infrared, and reviews the wound. “Yeah, it’s not pretty,” she remarks, her tone still a bit brittle around the edges. “I think my gum-glue idea is gonna work, though. It should keep things from getting worse, at least, while I nip back to camp and borrow a cup of a sugar, heh.”

Bonnibel tugs a clump from her hair and hands the sticky wad over. The new vampire accepts it without really looking, and after swiveling the severed limb so that it’s lined up with the stump, she smacks it down haphazardly. “Um, there?” she ventures, tilting her head to the side without much confidence.

The other girl laughs, thin and light. “I’ll seal it better while you head back to camp. Don’t worry about it.”

Marceline grimaces doubtfully, and she rocks back on her heels, not yet departing. The sullen embers in her eyes are shadowed by her lashes as she stares down at the ground. “I’m…not gonna end up like Simon,” she whispers at length. “I know being a vampire comes with a whole ton of baggage, but I won’t let the bloodlust drive me mad or anything. I won’t go nuts.” Her eyes flicker up. “I won’t hurt you.”

There’s supplication in her tone. It’s raw, so raw.

Brow pinching in sympathy, Bonnibel reaches out and brushes her fingertips across Marceline’s cheek; the pale gray flesh is cool now, no longer suffused with the warmth of living tissue. It’s more than enough to bring tears to her eyes, but she determinedly holds them at bay. “I know,” she says, soft, and she taps a finger to one of the new fangs. “Besides, I have it on good assurance that I don’t taste good to vampires.”

“Well, we’ll see about that,” Marceline remarks impishly. She sticks out her tongue, just to taunt, not to taste, but it’s a fine line.

Despite the blush heating her own cheeks, Bonnibel rolls her eyes. “Glob, gross, Marcy.”

The vampire chuckles and gets to her feet—or not, because she hovers above the crumbling asphalt—and this newfound ability gives her pause. After a second of deliberation, she shrugs out of her jacket, draping it over her friend, and then scoops the gum-girl effortlessly into her arms.

“Wh-What are you doing?” Bonnibel yelps, the blush returning full-force.

“Dude, I can fly,” Marceline says with a shrug, and she unties the second jacket from her waist and arranges it on the other girl’s legs. For a moment, then, she’s just holding Bonnibel with one arm, and not apparently taxed in the slightest. “It’s super radical. And, like, I can get us back to camp and to all the sugar your little candy heart desires in no time flat. Maybe it’ll be the greatest thing ever, me being a vampire, eh?”

The optimism rings false, but she’s trying, and hard.

After a second’s hesitation, Bonnibel lowers her head to Marceline’s collar, and as she shuts her eyes, she catches herself listening for a heartbeat. Her friend’s chest is silent, though, and she twists her fingers in the vampire’s shirt over the spot where the sound should’ve been. “I know it’s a curse, and I know it won’t be easy for you,” she murmurs, throat thick, “but I’m really lumping glad you’re still here.”

Marceline’s fingers flex. “Yeah,” she agrees, “me, too.”

“We’ll be fine,” Bonnibel adds. “We’ll…we’ll both be just fine.”

Something like a laugh escapes the vampire as she floats out into the rain. “Oh? Is that what your science tells you? Is that a fact?” There’s no real venom in her voice, though—just more bitterness.

“No,” Bonnibel admits, the softest yet. “It’s just faith. I believe in you. In…us.”

Her lips tilt, and it might be a smile, though it’s hard to tell for sure.

(live with me forever now

pull the black-out curtains down)

.

Summer steals across the ravaged world, bringing warmer winds and longer days, the latter of which only yields complications for Marceline. She discovers early on—with drastic results—that vampires don’t appreciate sunlight, and Bonnibel has to bodily shield her from the burning rays while she digs through her pack with blistered hands in a desperate search for appropriate articles of clothing. But layering up isn’t so bad, because she doesn’t really have a body temperature anymore, and like a lizard, any amount of warmth she absorbs is almost instantly dispelled. It’s strange, and it takes some getting used to, but by the time they achieve the western side of the mountains, slapping on a hat and gloves in eighty-degree weather is second nature.

They could’ve simply begun traveling nocturnally, but Bonnibel has the worst eyesight in the dark—her fructose-filled diet isn’t exactly bursting with vitamin A—and they’ve yet to come across a handy pair of night-vision goggles in any of the abandoned cities they encounter. They do find an unbroken pair of sunglasses, which Marceline dons with a serrated grin and a tip of her hat, and in the end, she doesn’t really mind the sun.

Its indirect warmth almost makes her feel alive again.

She’s aware that Bonnibel’s kept a close eye on her ever since her transformation, but it’s tactfully done, and Marceline knows she means well. Cataloguing her strengths and weaknesses might prove useful down the road, and it would be outside of the gum-girl’s nature to ignore the chance to study something. For example, it’s Bonnibel who discovers that Marceline can simply subsist on the color red, not blood itself, and the vampire believes for a little while that she won’t have to be a monster at all.

But the color is thin and lacking compared to the fluid, and it doesn’t sustain her half as well. She hunted for food long before she turned into a bloodsucker, though, and now she’s the kind of predator that other carnivores can only dream of imitating. Hunting is a breeze, and she no longer has to bother with cooking.

Still, she doesn’t eat—or drink, rather—in front of Bonnibel. She just…doesn’t.

Some things shouldn’t be observed, even by a scientist.

But this new life, or whatever it is of Marceline’s, acquires much the same rhythm as the old. Sometimes, she almost forgets she’s a vampire until she notices that she’s hovering a few inches off the ground on absentminded instinct, or that she has a craving for strawberries that has nothing to do with flavor.

Bonnibel’s still there, though, right there beside her, and that’s all that really matters.

Sometimes, Marceline finds herself holding Bonnibel’s hand, just to preserve the illusion of her own lost body heat in her friend’s warmth.

And sometimes, she finds herself twining their fingers together, just because she can.

.

By autumn, they reach the coast. The ocean stretches out before them, seemingly infinite as it conquers the horizon, and the cities here seem less pillaged—still ruined by the apocalyptic might of the Mushroom Wars, but not as ransacked in the aftermath. They wander down pockmarked and desolate streets, scavenging supplies from shops, until Marceline sees one they’ve never found intact before: a music store.

“Oh, Bonni, we have to check this out!” she exclaims, all giddy enthusiasm, and she tugs on her friend’s arm.

The gum-girl raises her eyebrows, a little surprised by this excitement. Sure, she’s heard Marceline humming nonsense to herself and singing made-up songs to the moon, and sure, maybe she likes listening to her voice more than she really should, but somehow she’s never actually pegged the vampire as a musician.

She allows herself to be pulled into the dark, musty, cobweb-filled interior and glances around at the veritable forest of instruments decorating the walls and littering the floor. “Do you…know how to play any of these?” she asks. Stretching out a curious finger, she plucks the string of a rotting acoustic guitar; it only makes a dull thunk.

“Well, no, not know exactly,” Marceline says. In the shade of the shop, she’s busily stripping off her sun-gear until she’s just left in jeans and a t-shirt, and Bonnibel rolls her eyes inwardly at the latter garment. It’s such an ugly shirt, like the worst thing she’s ever seen, black and branded with some cartoonishly terrifying version of…she’s not quite sure—zombie marshmallows, maybe, spitted for their future as S’mores? But when the vampire found it shortly after her transformation, she was thrilled by the discovery.

Dude, this was like the best band ever, she confided. And this thing’s like in mint condition. Check it! And she tugged it on.

Of course, it fit perfectly. Fate and all that.

With the way Marceline’s floating to and fro now, unable to focus on anything in the grip of her exuberant glee, Bonnibel’s reminded of that day and of the fact that vampire or not, her friend is still reassuringly human. No monster would ever be this overjoyed by music, or a t-shirt.

Marceline’s speaking, though, and her voice drags the gum-girl back to the present with a bump.

“That’s why I’m gonna try every last lumping one until I find one that fits. You don’t mind, do ya, Bon? It’s not like we have anywhere to go, right?” And she glances pleadingly at her friend, fingers laced together in prayer, scarlet eyes full of blood and delight.

Bonnibel shrugs. “Why not? I’ve still got half of that chemistry textbook left.”

“Nerd,” Marceline teases, lips curved in a fond smirk, and she turns eagerly to her task.

The gum-girl opens the tome and invests herself in learning, listening with only half an ear to the vampire’s extremely thorough and often woefully out-of-tune exploration. She gets so lost in the wonders of thermodynamics and equilibrium that she doesn’t even notice when it becomes quiet again. She reads right through to the section’s end, and before she can begin the learning about the properties of gases, it occurs to her that she’s getting hungry, and only that prompts her to look up.

Marceline is reclined cross-legged on the window sill, surrounded by discarded instruments. Her eyes are shut, loosely so as if she’s only half-caught in a dream, and she cradles a red electric bass in her lap, vertically as if it were a cello with its neck extending up past her own. She isn’t really playing anything, just hugging it to her chest and plucking the lowest string over and over and over again, steady as a metronome.

Dunnn. Dunnn. Dunnn.

Quietly, as if she believes she’s witnessing a wizard casting a complex spell—not that she’d have half as much respect for that—Bonnibel approaches, her brow wrinkling in quizzical thought. “Marcy,” she whispers, hesitant to break the almost-silence but needing to satisfy her curiosity, “what’re you doing?”

The vampire doesn’t open her eyes or even reply right away. She just keeps plucking that string. “I want this one,” she finally replies, soft and sure.

Bonnibel considers the instrument politely. She’s picked up a thing or two, so she asks, “Are you certain? I think a regular guitar, as opposed to a bass guitar, would grant you more versatility.”

“No. This one,” Marceline repeats, instantaneous. “The bass…I need the bass. The vibrations of the sound…I can feel ’em in my chest, Bon.” She taps one of the prongs on the top of the guitar’s body, which is resting squarely on her sternum. “I haven’t felt anything in my chest in a long time, not since…” She trails off, her lids rising halfway, but her ember eyes are still shadowed by the lashes. Her voice scrapes, roughshod, in her throat as she concludes, “It’s like a heartbeat. It’s like having a heartbeat again.”

Empathy nearly overwhelms Bonnibel, and she’s forced to swallow before she can speak. “Then you should definitely get that one,” she agrees. “Don’t forget to stock up on extra strings and all. Who knows when we’ll find another place like this.”

“Yeah, good idea,” the vampire murmurs, still playing that lone note.

Bonnibel gazes at her for a long moment, sadness swirling in her lavender eyes. “You seem to be doing well,” she ventures at last. “With the whole vampire business.”

Marceline chuckles, low and dry. “Yeah, I’ve somehow come out on top, haven’t I? I mean, sure, I have to drink blood now, but I had to eat back in the day, and a balanced diet at that—now I don’t ever have to worry about getting scurvy again. Going feral, sure,” she concedes, “but that’s the only problem, and it has an easy solution. Just think of the positives, dude: I can fly, which is beyond mathematical; I’m super strong; I like never get tired; my teeth are even sharper; and I can heal from almost any injury in no time at all. Being allergic to sunlight is hardly worth complaining about.”

As Marceline mentions her healing ability, though, Bonnibel’s gaze is drawn to the two holes pierced in her neck, which still gape as raw as the day they were inflicted. “What about those?” she asks, nodding at her friend’s stigmata. “They’ve never gone away.”

She reaches up gingerly, just brushing across them with her fingertips, and winces. “I don’t think they’re ever going to.”

The gum-girl frowns at her friend’s reaction. “Do they still hurt, too?”

“Nothing awful,” Marceline dismisses in a show of bravado. She lowers her hand and tilts the bass in her lap, holding it now in the more established horizontal position. “I guess that’s a strike against vampirism. Oh, glob, is that three strikes? Then I’m out.” She grins, but it falters, and she turns her head to stare out the window, her gaze getting lost in some middle distance.

Before she knows what she’s doing, Bonnibel’s shifting closer, and her own fingers extend to trace the bloodless holes. Marceline flinches away, but it’s just reflex, and when she understands her friend’s intentions, she relaxes against the window frame once more, tacit permission.

Bonnibel touches the pale skin beside the marks, not wishing to cause the vampire pain, and all she can think is that the flesh is so smooth and that she wants to touch more of it. Her fingers ache with the desire; her cheeks burn with it; but Marceline has her eyes closed again and doesn’t notice. Maybe that’s what gives Bonnibel the courage, or maybe she’s more reckless than she ever believed, because she leans in and ever so carefully presses a kiss to the eternal wound.

Marceline stiffens beneath her touch, a more subtle reaction than her earlier one that is nevertheless infinitely more profound. A breath she habitually inhales catches in her throat.

Bonnibel still has the blood to pound in her ears, and it nearly deafens her as she draws back. “There,” she whispers, barely audible to either of them. “All better.”

The vampire is blushing, and it must be from the blood she consumed earlier, because otherwise the reaction wouldn’t be possible. But it is, it is, and heat and color she thought lost forever flow up her otherwise empty veins to settle in her cheeks.

Embarrassment is understandable, Bonnibel thinks within the haze of her own awkwardness. After all, she did just kiss her friend on the neck—not a place generally associated with platonic gestures. Which it was decidedly not, but if anyone asks, she’ll swear to that lie for all eternity.

Marceline at last musters a response, and it’s caught between a surprised hum and a strangled grunt. Her eyes, wide and even redder than her cheeks, are fixed on the gum-girl in…it’s hard to say. It might simply be shock. But then again, there might be something more than her usual banked fire burning in their depths.

“You can fix things with kisses, right?” Bonnibel remarks with a shaky laugh, several eons too belated to be a legitimate explanation.

Another indistinguishable sound escapes Marceline’s throat, and she blinks a few times in an effort to regain her composure. At length, she manages to unlock her jaw and woodenly reply, “So I’ve heard.”

The gum-girl dips her head, looks aside. “Ah, well, good. I hope it helps.” She makes to move away, but Marceline lashes out, viper-quick, and snags onto her wrist. She stares down at the pale gray fingers wrapped around her own pale pink flesh, as if daring them to disappear. When they don’t, she tentatively returns her gaze to the other girl’s.

Those changeable eyes, locked on hers, draw her in. She wonders briefly if it’s some sort of vampire hypnosis designed to attract prey, but she disregards that notion as ludicrous in the next second. She wanted Marceline long before she became a vampire. It’s a bit moot, as thought processes go.

“You asked me once,” Marceline says slowly, deliberately, “if demons were capable of love.”

“I did,” Bonnibel confirms, her voice little more than a breath. Oh, how she can’t look away.

“I’m not a demon anymore,” Marceline continues. “Bit of a downgrade, really, when it comes to my evil-factor, but…” She trails off, shakes her head. “That’s way beside the point. My point is—”

“—Are vampires capable of love?” Bonnibel finishes for her, the words slipping out as gracelessly as amateur skaters on ice.

The vampire in question studies her for another timeless moment, and the setting sun somewhere outside stains everything in molten orange. And it might just be a reflection, but Bonnibel can swear that the fire in Marceline’s eyes is real, and she can almost swear it’s burning just for her. She shivers at the thought, despite all the heat prickling her skin.

“Yes,” Marceline says, as low and rough as musical sandpaper. She tugs on her friend’s wrist, pulling her closer, and lifts her other hand to the back of her neck, pulling her closer still. “The answer is decidedly yes…”

She doesn’t need to breathe to live, but she needs to breathe to speak, and the air is cool and soft like twilight’s last caress as it drifts across Bonnibel’s lips. In the next moment, Bonnibel discovers that her lips are cool and soft, too, and that she tastes like the reddest autumn leaves and wood smoke and the promise of winter’s edge, something cold and dangerous and utterly thrilling lurking just a whisper out of sight. Sensations ride down her spine on an express train to the bottom of her belly, where they curl and twist and conspire to sap all the strength from her legs.

She stumbles forward, catching one hand heavily on the window sill and blindly planting the other on the wall beside Marceline’s head, and accidentally crushes their mouths together. The vampire makes a small sound, but whether that’s in protest or pleasure, Bonnibel can’t discern. But she does feel her grin a second later, and there’s a rasp of fangs against her lower lip.

“M-Marceline,” she gasps, a shuddering little breath.

“Yeah?” the vampire prompts languidly between searing kisses.

For the first time in her life, Bonnibel gives up on thinking. She just tangles her fingers in the collar of that ugly t-shirt, even though it’s no longer the worst thing she’s ever seen. Maybe it’s the best. Maybe she’ll never be able to see it again without swooning a little inside.

“Just do that again.” She means to make it a command, but it comes out rather closer to a plea.

The fire fairly dances in Marceline’s eyes, and she obligingly scrapes her teeth across once more.

(i’m bad behavior

but i do it in the best way)

.

Time passes.

So much time.

Centuries rise and ebb like tides in the sea of the gods, pulling the spinning, half-destroyed world along their undulating sine-wave path to infinity. Marceline and Bonnibel see all of it, or all that’s left of it: they climb to the peak of the highest mountain, cross the vastest sundering ocean, and even stand on the lip of utter ruin. There, they gaze down grimly at the subtle yet shocking transition of rocky crust to molten mantle all the way down to the starkly disconcerting glimpse of the planet’s sullen iron core, almost invisible behind the rising convection currents.

They find settlements occasionally, too, groups of survivors that have cobbled together rudimentary societies.

“It’s like watching history come full circle,” Bonnibel observes once after they’ve departed a village of friendly albeit seriously mutated crab-people along the waterfront. “We’re nomadic hunter-gatherers. Now other people are starting to experiment with agriculture and the concept of stationary communities. Fascinating.”

“Yup,” Marceline lilts in absentminded agreement, floating along on her back and picking out a new melody on her bass. “Totally math.”

“More like ‘totally anthropology’,” Bonnibel corrects, reaching up to tweak her girlfriend’s elbow.

“Bah, you keep your fancy schooling,” the vampire grumbles, rolling over and out of the other’s grasp, though she flickers a teasing tongue and lazily opens one eye in an inverted wink. “I’ll keep the sick jams.”

The gum-girl shakes her head, accustomed to these barbs; they’ve never been sharp, anyway. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a nerd and you’re a badass. Got anything new, Marcy?”

The vampire’s smirk acquires a particularly wicked slant. “I’m sure even after five hundred years I can come up with something new, babe,” she replies, all sultry taunt, and she waggles her eyebrows in a suggestive ripple. “Wanna bet? I know you wanna bet.”

Bonnibel snorts. “What makes you think I want to bet against that?” she wonders rhetorically, her own lopsided grin dimpling one cheek.

“So you’re willing to find out?” Marceline presses, licking a fang in a thoughtful fashion.

Her girlfriend catches onto her collar and pulls her around in mid-air, capturing her in a sudden and clumsy but far from unsatisfactory kiss. “Glob, would you just rock my world already?”

“Yes, princess,” the vampire agrees, her smile edged in razor-wire.

As it happens, even after five hundred years, Marceline can come up with something new.

Afterwards, as they’re lying in the grass—Bonnibel half in the sun and Marceline all in the shade—the former raises a tired question. “I wonder if there’s any way to accelerate social progress—you know, get things back to where they were before the Mushroom Wars.”

The vampire blinks up at the lush canopy above them, her saving grace from daylight’s wrath. And then she snickers, still tracing her fingers in idle swirls up Bonnibel’s bare arm. “Dude, is that seriously what you’re thinking about at this moment? Social progress? Really?”

She smacks her hand lightly on her girlfriend’s stomach. “Don’t mock me, Marcy,” she chides. “I wasn’t thinking about that during, for glob’s sake. Now that my blood’s back to circulating in my brain and my hearing’s returned—”

“I always consider it a bonus if I can deaden one of your senses,” the vampire interrupts in a fit of cocky triumph.

Bonnibel continues speaking as if Marceline hadn’t. “I think it would be beneficial to the world if we established…a role model. Display a higher-ordered society that everyone else can imitate and learn from. There’s still very little security, what with gangs and bandits and glob knows what else. We’re only safe because you’re mega-terrifying.”

“Thank you,” Marceline quips with a toothy grin—and with her particular pearly whites, that’s saying something.

“Indeed,” the gum-girl acknowledges. “But not everyone on earth can have a vampire bodyguard. So our next best alternative is structured society.”

The other girl shakes her head, grass catching in the ankle-length strands of her inky hair. “So, what, Bonni?” she poses with audible humor. “You wanna save the world?”

“No, not save,” Bonnibel corrects. “The world’s already been lost. But fix, perhaps. Not everything, and not everywhere, but maybe some things, here. Or somewhere else. But somewhere.”

Marceline wrinkles her brow and considers her girlfriend sidelong. “Who knew you were such a hero,” she remarks, but the humor is gone, replaced with a curiosity that shades towards suspicion.

“Oh, plop, no,” she dismisses. “I’m not a hero. I’m a scientist. I identify problems, and I provide solutions. It’s not altruistic, exactly, it’s…rational.”

The vampire sniggers, amused once more. “Real stirring speech, babe. You might wanna work on that before you accept your Nobel prize.”

Bonnibel rolls her eyes and sighs, “Oh, Marceline. As if there’s Nobel prizes anymore. But I would totally win one if there were, obvi,” she adds impishly.

Shrugging and disrupting Bonnibel’s comfortable repose on her shoulder, Marceline remarks, “Well, I’m all for, er, saving the world. I mean, why not. So how do you wanna go about this, eh? It sounds like it’s gonna be really lumping complicated.”

“First we have to research,” the gum-girl declares, all confidence. “We need to get back to that one library, the really ginormous one.”

“Dude,” Marceline protests in an elongated whine, “Oxford is like so freakin’ far away…”

Bonnibel sits up, brushing grass flecks from her skin, and reaches for her shirt. “Nevertheless,” she insists, and after wriggling into the garment, she leans down and plants a kiss on her girlfriend’s lips. “If you take me there, I’ll do to you what you just did to me.”

The vampire perks up, cautiously. “That sounds totally rad, babe, but does that mean I get rewarded now or in like three weeks? ’Cause, three weeks…that’s a long-ass time to wait. I’ll be, like, chafing by then.”

Bonnibel taps one of her fangs; it makes a faint ting. “You need to save your energy for flying.”

Marceline scowls. “You suck, man. You really, really suck. Like hardcore.”

The gum-girl casts her a fond, askance look. “So tonight, when we’re done traveling for the day and you don’t need to fly anymore, then I’ll reward you. Geez, if you would just let me finish talking…” She trails off, smiling close-lipped and not at all mysterious, and bursts out laughing when the vampire takes to the air so quickly that she nearly collides with the trees branches above them.

“What’re you freakin’ waiting for?” Marceline protests, yanking on her outfit for daylight travel—gloves and hat and sunglasses crammed crookedly in place. She darts out into the golden glow once she’s done, gathering up the rest of Bonnibel’s clothes and tossing them in her face. “Get dressed on the way! Nobody will see! C’mon! Places to go, babe, places to go!”

.

The library is subjected to so many cobwebs it almost looks like it has snowed indoors, and the windows, equally subjected to centuries of grime, only let a fraction of the sunlight inside. That’s just as well for Marceline, and Bonnibel very carefully navigates with a glassed-in lantern, her feet kicking up thick, choking clouds of dust.

They’ve been to every library in the world before now, and they have an established routine. While Bonnibel hems herself in on all sides with teetering towers of tomes, Marceline wanders in and out, hunting for her own meals and scavenging supplies for her girlfriend’s. In her free time, she floats along the stacks, sometimes perusing the volumes for her own pleasure or fetching something new for Bonnibel, but mostly she finds a comfortable perch up in the ceiling’s arches and strums out song after song on her bass.

It’s a symbiotic relationship. They’re both remarkably independent, for being so reliant on each other.

Weeks pass, filled with long dusty days and short dusty nights, and sometimes, Bonnibel shares her new knowledge and fledgling theories with her girlfriend, who listens politely as she hugs her bass. But by and large, the gum-girl keeps her thoughts to herself, and Marceline’s unbothered by that. If something truly important comes up, Bonnibel will let her know, and there’s no point pushing for answers before then.

Eventually, though, the vampire observes that the genre of the books has changed. No longer are they concerned with history or philosophy or even science; now they venture into more mystical realms, flirting with the bounds of sorcery and magic, whispering promises of power and dominion.

Marceline hovers near one of the more recent stacks, nudging aside a treatise on Marxism and idly thumbing through the biography of someone named Machiavelli, who doesn’t seem like the nicest sort. “What’s up with all this junk, Bon?” she wonders, one fang snaking out to balance her rising eyebrow.

The gum-girl doesn’t look up from the ancient, yellowed pages of her latest interest. “Mm, oh, that stuff…that’s just different theories on government, really. I need to examine every alternative so that I can create the most efficient hybrid. I’ve been over it all, though. I think I’ve got a handle on what’ll work best.”

The vampire nods as if she really understands. “Radical, babe,” she remarks, and she floats closer to her girlfriend, glancing down over one pink shoulder. “And…what’s this? I mean, if you’ve filled up your thinking cap, then shouldn’t we make tracks? Start building…whatever we’re gonna build?”

“The model kingdom,” Bonnibel provides with a hum and a nod. “Yes. But you can’t have a kingdom without subjects.”

Marceline’s lips pull to one side, and she peers closer at the page—it’s written in a foreign tongue, though, and no amount of scrutiny will force it to yield its secrets to her. Somehow, that makes her feel uneasy, as if Bonnibel’s hiding things from her, as if she’s reading different languages on nefarious purpose. She shakes her head and tries to shake the feeling with it, but it won’t quite budge.

“Er, well,” she begins, slow and confused, “aren’t we going with the whole, if you build it, they will come notion?”

“Oh, glob, that’s optimistic,” Bonnibel dismisses, her eyes tracing the strange script. “And mega-naïve. You can’t just build a castle and expect the right people to show up.”

Everything unsettled in her belly sloshes a bit more, and Marceline swallows. “The right people?” she echoes, even though she hardly wants to hear the answer.

“Yeah,” the gum-girl absently confirms. “Our model kingdom should be easily imitable, so that others can construct replicas of it without needing to acquire all the knowledge that went into devising it in the first place. Everything has to go according to plan, then, and so we’ll create the subjects—subjects that will perfectly match the kingdom.”

The vampire half-expects those words to echo in the library’s dusty air, they’re so ominous. She has no idea how to respond to that, so she just hovers there, struck dumb with this swelling dread.

“I’ll need more than just science to do so, at least initially,” Bonnibel continues, oblivious of her girlfriend’s reticence. “I think I’ve discovered the answer, though. Many of these books reference Stones of Power, which seem to be collected in one special book called the Enchiridion. If we find the Enchiridion, then we’ll have everything we need.”

With effort, Marceline pries her teeth apart. “And where’s this En-ky-whatsamajigger?” she asks, and it’s so, so hard to keep her usual nonchalance tacked onto her tone.

Bonnibel flips through the thin parchment pages until she reveals the inked contours of a map. She points at it, all the explanation required.

“Oh,” Marceline whispers. “X marks the spot.”

.

There isn’t an X, but buried deep beneath the ruin of a temple, condemned to millennia-long sleep in the cradle of a catacomb, there is the Enchiridion.

Marceline’s skin has been crawling ever since Bonnibel set them on this quest, and now that the moment is here, she just wants to vomit—an urge she hasn’t had since she used to use her stomach. The book reeks of power, giving off waves of it that entice Marceline’s half-demon soul to sit up like a dog and beg, because it reeks of evil, too, and so strongly that even she wants to make it her master.

Even she, daughter of Evil Incarnate, wants to submit to its thrall.

“What is this?” she asks hoarsely, one hand raised as if she expects it to shine sunlight at her.

“Technically, it’s a hero’s handbook,” Bonnibel explains, blowing the thick coating of dust off its leather cover. “I believe it was designed as such as a safeguard. Only someone pure of heart could claim the book, so only someone pure of heart could claim the Stones.”

And are you? Marceline wants to ask but doesn’t dare. Pure of heart?

Head cocked to the side, Bonnibel studies the book for a long moment in the flickering light of their lantern, and then she reaches out with steady fingers and twists the sword emblazoned on the cover. To the vampire’s surprise, the sword spins like the hands on a clock, and a compartment in the cover cracks open, revealing glittering gemstones, arranged in a circle.

Three of them are already missing.

“Oh, plop,” the gum-girl laments, her brow furrowing. “That’s a bit disappointing. It’ll be okay, though; I shouldn’t think we need quite that much power. Besides, if we do,” she adds, and she digs into the stone sarcophagus that held the book and withdraws something gleaming on a chain, “we have this amulet. Pretty math, eh?”

Marceline swallows, something in her instincts—her demon instincts, again, not her vampire ones—recognizing the shape of this magic. “I dunno, Bon,” she whispers. “Amulets of power are…” She trails off, trying to find the words. But for all the skill she has for penning lyrics, she can’t fathom a way to subvert this doom with mere diction.

“Powerful, I bet,” Bonnibel finishes for her, sounding freakishly unconcerned, and she loops its golden chain around her neck without so much as a flicker of doubt.

“What’re you doing?” Marceline shrieks, and she snags at the chain. “Take it off, Bonni, take it off now!”

The gum-girl recoils, batting the vampire away with one hand and pressing the amulet’s pendant snug to her chest with her other. “Fudge, Marcy, what’s gotten into you?”

“Do you know what this thing does?” the vampire protests, swiping at it again—ineffectually, again. Bonnibel’s stronger and faster than she should be, for being a hodgepodge of sugar and gum. “Do you even know what you’re taking on? What if it’d blown your head off?”

The other girl eyes her with irritation and just a pinch of pity. “Except it didn’t, Marceline. It’s harmless.”

“Harmless?” the vampire echoes, not believing that for a second, and she glares darkly at the amulet. She wants to sink her fangs into it, bite it hard and drain its poison.

Bonnibel stares at her, lavender eyes dark in the catacomb’s shadows and flickering in the lantern’s light, and she shuts the Enchiridion’s compartment and hugs the book to her chest as well, caging it in with her arms. “What the plop’s gotten into you?” she repeats, her voice hard-edged.

Marceline’s jaw works soundlessly for several iterations, incredulity jostling in the queue of other emotions. Eventually, she finds it easiest just to ignore the question and pose her own. “This kingdom,” she says with difficulty. “What’s it gonna be like? Who’s gonna be king, eh?”

“There won’t be a king,” Bonnibel sniffs. “It will be a monarchy, though. All simple societies start with a single sovereign leader. Lawmaking is easier that way, as is enforcement. It will also be easier for other groups to imitate the structure—they’ll only need one really capable person to begin.”

Marceline’s shaking. Dear glob, she thinks, I’m actually shaking. “So, what, Bon? You’re appointing yourself queen?”

Bonnibel looks away. “I was thinking princess, actually.” Her lips curl, the ghost of smile. “Princess Bubblegum, even.”

“That’s sick,” the vampire spits, automatic and dead-certain. “Mega-sick, and not in a good way.”

“I don’t mean it in poor taste,” Bonnibel denies. “It just seems like a good title for the ruler of a candy kingdom.”

“A candy—?” Marceline echoes, and she coughs up a peal of acrimonious laughter. “Blood and hellfire, Bonnibel, what’re you planning to do? Bake your subjects in your own image?”

To her horror, Bonnibel simply shrugs. “More or less, yes.”

“You can’t do that!” the vampire shouts, the sheer volume knocking down dust from the ancient stone ceiling. “You can’t make people and then—then have them do your bidding! You’re not a god!”

“I know that,” she snaps. “I also know that if you’re not going to help me, then get out of my way.”

“Bonni…” Marceline staggers back a step, as if those words were a physical blow. “Y-You can’t be serious. Not after all I’ve done for you!” And she taps two fingers to her bitemarks.

Bonnibel shakes her head. “I didn’t ask you to do that,” she says, quiet and steady and so eerily, eerily calm. “I’m grateful, obviously, for your sacrifice, but the fact remains that it was your sacrifice. I don’t hold with the old-fashioned notions of life-debts, so I can do what I please with the life that you saved. And what I want is to craft a kingdom. My kingdom.”

With a hollow, fracturing laugh, the vampire shakes her head as well. “Oh, Bonnibel…is this really all about power? Because I thought if either of us was gonna go crazy, it was gonna be me! Because of this!” She strikes her stigmata again. “I’ve been terrified for centuries that I was gonna snap and do something horrible. But in the end, geez, it’s you, Bonni! You’re the one who’s gone completely whack! I never thought it would be you. I mean, come on—I’m heiress of the freakin’ Nightosphere and a vampire to boot, and you’re literally made of sugar! And probably spice and everything nice and you’re freakin’ pink and yet somehow your heart’s colder than Simon’s! At least he was possessed by evil magic! You’re choosing all of this with your eyes wide open! It’s sick!”

Bonnibel’s hands tighten on the Enchiridion, and it is true: there is more ice in her eyes than there ever was in the old man’s. “I already told you,” she says, biting off each syllable with scientific precision, “that if you don’t like it, you can leave.”

The dead tissue of Marceline’s dead, dead heart cringes in its bony prison in her chest, and tears spring to her eyes, tears filled with burning salt that Bonnibel’s have never contained. “And go where?” she demands hoarsely, even though her arms are spread in something much more like a plea.

The self-proclaimed monarch turns away. “Wherever you like. You have the entire world to choose from.”

Marceline sags, every last vestige of strength drained from her body as surely as that vampire had once drained her blood. She sways in the weak breeze that worms through the catacombs, as if it truly has the power to topple her. “That’s it?” she whispers.

Bonnibel doesn’t look back. In fact, she begins striding away, taking her amulet and her book and her light with her. “That’s it.”

The words echo in Marceline’s ears.

They never quite fade.

(i try to picture me without you but i can’t)

.

Centuries pass, but this time, oh, they pass so slowly.

After some deliberation—and some tears, so many tears, entire storms and rivers and oceans, and she doesn’t know how she can shed them when she never drinks any water, but even so, she can’t make them stop—Marceline surrenders to fate or destiny or whatever it is and retreats from the world entirely, seeking refuge in the Nightosphere.

Home sweet home, she thinks. Nothing like fire and brimstone to warm the cockles of my unbeating heart.

The Nightosphere is chaos, unrelenting and raw, but it seems like the most benign of tumors when Marceline considers the sterile, calculating order that Bonnibel is imposing on the world above. She tries not to think of it, though—it’s impossible not to, or not to think of her, but at least she tries. She lives in her father’s house and watches as he presides with cruelty and stark, raving madness and recalls that absolute power corrupts absolutely and how’s that going for you, Bonnibel?

She samples some souls, but she doesn’t really like the taste. It doesn’t hold a candle to blood. (It certainly doesn’t hold a candle to Bonnibel.) There’s plenty of red here, though; the place is madly decorated with it; and even if she used her whole eternity to drain each morsel gray, she’d still never drink it all.

She joins a ghost gang. They’re petty and stupid and mean, and Marceline finds herself hoping they’ll corrupt her, that this whole place will corrupt her. Maybe if she rusts and rots, maybe then she’ll be able to go back to Bonnibel and look her in the eye and not cringe at that cold, cold clarity she sees there.

She writes a lot of angry songs. She writes a lot of sad songs. She writes songs for her, too, with words that plead and beg and forgive and condemn and forgive again, but she burns the papers where she scrawled the lyrics. Sometimes she records them just so that she can tear the cassette tapes to shreds, just so she can watch it all fall apart.

It’s lonely. She forgets things, things she ought to remember.

Then her father eats her fries, and that’s the last lumping straw.

The world outside the Nightosphere is foreign to her now, and she hisses in pain as the sun scalds her flesh, forcing her to retreat into the shadow of an overhanging cliff. Oh, yes, she vaguely recalls, that happens here.

This time around, she simply adapts to being nocturnal. There’s no one else’s comfort to consider.

She doesn’t know where to look first, so she just flies around, refamiliarizing herself with the geography. It hasn’t had a chance to change, not in a meager three hundred years, but there do seem to be more cities than she remembered. Not cities like there were in antebellum ages, towering spires of metal and glass, but cities out of antiquity, castles and fortresses of stone.

Not all of them are made out of stone, though.

One of them seems to be made out of incredibly stale cake.

Marceline floats down towards it in the darkness, and with her bird’s eye view, she perceives that this is the center of it all. The other castles, the other cities ring it like planets, each on their own orbiting arc, each revolving around this sun. Landing in front of the castle door, she knocks—she’s not a heathen, after all.

When someone answers, she almost cracks up laughing. It’s a banana. It’s alive. It has a spear.

“Who dares come to Princess Bubblegum’s door at this hour?” it demands gruffly, dark little eyes glaring at her.

Shit, I can’t believe she went with that title. But that’s an inward thought only, and outwardly, she considers for a moment and then flashes her fangs. “Tell Princess Bubblegum that Marceline the Vampire Queen wants to see her ASAP.”

The banana guard’s eyebrows rocket skyward. “Q-Queen?” it echoes. “Oh! Oh! Your Majesty! Forgive my rudeness! I shall fetch Her Highness immediately. Come in, come in!” It backs up, bowing over and over again, until she’s standing in the entrance hall, and it skedaddles across the cavernous room and waddles awkwardly up a flight of stairs at the far end. Left to her own devices, Marceline glances around. The whole place is pink: pink and made of sugar. It’s disgusting, and she wrinkles her nose and hawks a contemptuous loogie on the floor. The saliva melts into the saccharine tile, and she smirks, dark and humorless.

She’s only been waiting for ten seconds total when she gets bored. Lounging on her back in mid-air, she swivels her bass around and plucks out unconscious melodies as she wonders, for the first time, what the plop she’s doing here. What does she really expect to happen? What does she want to happen?

She doesn’t figure it out before Bonnibel arrives.

The princess pauses but once when she catches sight of the vampire, and then she glides across the hall, graceful as ever and seemingly pinker. But that might just be the surroundings, or because she seems to have acquired quite the penchant for purple, which only accentuates her coloring.

Marceline doesn’t notice much of these details, though. Her attention is fixed only on the golden crown.

“Why is it always crowns?” she laments under her breath. She slings her bass onto her back again and comes to rest on the floor and nods as cordially as she can manage. “Bonnibel.”

“Marceline,” the princess replies in kind, and one of her eyebrows arches. “You’re a queen now? Or so I’m told.”

The vampire smirks, all teeth and no heart. “I didn’t want you to think you could give me orders, Princess.”

“You wouldn’t listen in any case,” Bonnibel dismisses. She folds her arms on her chest.

Marceline hums inattentive agreement, and she can’t bite this bitterness back: “Nice crown, babe. Did it come with the title?”

Lavender eyes narrow. “In a manner of speaking,” she allows, ignoring the reference to Simon, to his descent into rotten madness. A pause, and then, “Did you simply come here to harangue me?”

“That depends.” The vampire cracks her knuckles, glacier-slow. “Does that mean I get to rip you a new one?”

“Crude but accurate,” Bonnibel concedes, and she shakes her head, her gaze falling away. She does not attempt to speak again, leaving the ball in the other girl’s court.

Marceline pushes off the floor, hovering about eight inches up, and circles the monarch like a buzzard weighing the chances of dinner. “A nice Franken-nana answered the door,” she snarks at length. “That’s pretty jacked up, Princess—giving life to fruit. Giving life to anything and then making it serve you. Pretty freaking jacked up. I s’pose I should be thankful that you didn’t cross the line of calling yourself Goddess Bubblegum and making them worship you, but it’s a small blessing. Practically a pittance.”

Bonnibel’s jaw tightens, but that is all.

“I don’t see your precious amulet,” Marceline continues, lashing out again, her tongue a whip, her fangs knives.

She sighs. “I lost it, quite a while ago.”

“Is that so,” the vampire murmurs, and her eyes sweep back to the crown. “Seems you didn’t lose the Stones of Power. You’re wearing that one pretty proudly.”

Bonnibel lifts an absentminded hand to caress the opalescent stone. “I retained this one, yes,” she admits. “The others I distributed amongst the kingdoms.”

“Mighty gifts from their benevolent ruler,” Marceline sneers. “What did they do to win your favor, eh?”

Unspoken, but glaringly loud: What could I have done to do the same?

The princess swallows but maintains level speech. “They established orderly, fair, and just communities. Thusly they were entrusted to guard a portion of the Enchiridion’s power.” She pauses again, almost as long this time, but Marceline has nothing more to say, so Bonnibel picks up the thread of the conversation by herself. “Speaking of…I’m actually glad you’ve come.”

“Oh?” the vampire challenges, but it comes out too raw to truly be a taunt.

She dips her head. “I would ask you a favor.”

Marceline barks a laugh, and it’s thin and full of tears. In contrast to that response, and to Bonnibel’s surprise, she permits, “Ask away, Princess.”

The monarch beckons the vampire to follow, and with a half-suspicious frown, Marceline floats after her. They ascend staircase after staircase until they reach the highest room in the tallest tower, where princesses are always required to live. When she realizes where they are, the vampire summons another scathing laugh, but again, it doesn’t come out quite as harsh as she wants it to.

“Wow, Bonni. Don’t you think it’s a bit presumptuous, asking me for a favor and then showing me to your bedroom?”

The other girl just slants her a look, otherwise not deigning to rise to that. She heads to her closet, instead, and shoves some of the boxes and dresses aside. Marceline ventures over, curiosity getting the better of her, and frowns as something catches her eye.

“Hey,” she says, reaching out for the sleeve of a black t-shirt. “Isn’t this mine?”

“What? Oh,” Bonnibel realizes, straightening from her crouch. “Yes. I…think you must’ve stowed it in my pack by mistake back…well, back then. Yes. Er.” She stares at the garment for a long, ticking moment, and then she returns to her rummaging. “You can take it, if you want,” she offers, muffled.

The black cotton is thin and almost slick between the vampire’s fingers, but cotton lasts practically forever if it’s not exposed to direct sunlight, and Marceline has always been careful to avoid just such a circumstance. She’s also always been careful to keep her own clothes in her own pack; she and Bonnibel have never exactly had the same taste when it comes to fashion.

Marceline’s throat thickens, just a sliver. “Nah, I haven’t missed it.” But you’ve missed me, she adds in the astonished silence in her head. Maybe you’re not a lost cause, after all.

“Oh, well, if that’s fine with you. I guess I have enough room in here to store it,” Bonnibel says, still with deliberate evasion in her voice, and then there’s the heavy metallic sound of a lock slipping free, of bolts sliding back. “Come on,” she adds, and she steps into the thick press of the hanging dresses.

Marceline steps closer guardedly. “Dude, where’re we going? Narnia?”

The princess laughs, and now Marceline’s throat does swell shut—it’s been so long since she heard her laugh. It’s beautiful. Musical, almost, light and bubbly. Like sugar. “Glob, no. We’re just going to my strongroom.”

“You have a…strongroom…” The vampire trails off, her mouth slipping open as she stares. Calling this place a strongroom is an understatement—it looks like the most fortified chamber in the whole world. “What’s this lumpin’ placemade out of?” she asks, brushing fingertips across a wall.

“The hardest substance known to candykind,” Bonnibel replies, and a grin flits across her face. “Jawbreakers.”

Marceline whistles appreciatively and tucks her hands into her pockets. Bonnibel is standing near the plinth in the room’s center, and she floats over. “What’s in the box?” she wonders, nodding at it.

In response, the princess pulls a key from around her neck and unlocks it. There’s a click and a rush of steam, and when that clears, there’s the Enchiridion.

Their last meeting playing sharp across her mind’s eye, Marceline wills her hands to unclench. “Why’re you showing me this?” she asks, low and hollow.

Bonnibel hefts the book from its resting place, her fingers tapping arrhythmically on the leather cover. “With the Stones of Power distributed, this…well, I have no reason to have it,” she decides at last. “It’s a handbook for heroes, and I’m not a hero.”

“Neither am I,” Marceline reminds her, ember eyes gleaming crimson with the blood of the creature she killed and drained earlier that night.

For a moment, the vampire swears that the princess is going to fight her on that one, but Bonnibel lets it pass. “You can fly, though. I’ve located a place to keep it safe, a place only a true hero can reach. You’ll be able to deliver it there with ease. The trials aren’t as insurmountable when you’re airborne and undead.”

She tugs at the strap of her bass, a nervous tic of a motion. “You’re not making much sense, Bonni. Geez, look around you—this place is a freakin’ fortress. Why d’ya wanna move it somewhere else?”

Bonnibel shrugs. “It doesn’t require a pure heart or heroic courage to get at the Enchiridion here. All it takes is the key.”

Marceline has to give her that. “And that’s no test for a savior,” she realizes. “Just a test for a really radical burglar.”

“Exactly,” the princess concurs. She proffers the book, heavy beyond its physical shell. “Will you take it there?”

“If you riddle me this,” the vampire replies, not yet accepting the tome. “What’re you expecting to happen, eh? You’re setting this up so you can judge someone competent enough to save you. So what danger do you imagine you’ll need to be saved from?”

There’s a terrible weight in Bonnibel’s eyes, too, even more so than that which burdens the Enchiridion.

“Would you believe me,” she whispers, “if I say myself?”

The only blood in Marceline’s veins is stolen and sluggish and cool, but that statement nevertheless serves to make it run cold.

.

Marceline takes the Enchiridion to the appointed place, skimming through the clouds over the trials below and placing it in the hands of its new guardians. She doesn’t return to the Candy Kingdom afterwards, choosing instead to wander the new, somewhat more civilized countryside of Ooo.

(“Why’s it called that? Ooo? It’s a lump of a name,” she asked Bonnibel before departing.

The princess exhaled an awkward laugh and scratched the side of her head. “Er, well, when I’d first built the kingdom, everyone who came by was so impressed by it that…well, the first words out of their mouths were, ‘This place is…Ooo!’, so, as a joke…”

“You named a country after a joke?” Marceline cackled. “Dude, I knew I loved you for a reason!”

That had killed the atmosphere pretty quick.)

That’s not why she doesn’t return, though. She doesn’t return because she couldn’t save Simon from his crown—she was just a scrawny teenaged half-demon, not a hero. Now, she’s a powerful eternally-eighteen vampire, but even so…

She can’t save Bonnibel from her crown, either.

(i’m still comparing my past to your future

it might be your wound but they’re my sutures)

.

All across Ooo, Marceline claims or constructs or carves out houses. She acquires dozens, in convenient places, in whimsical places, forever searching for a home that she knows is only present in the heart of a princess made of bubblegum.

She does whatever she wants, whenever she wants to do it. She even gets a terrible boyfriend who treats her awfully because sometimes, when he smiles at her, there’s a hint of Bonnibel in the curve. Eventually, though, she kicks him out, because a dash of remembrance isn’t worth putting up with his crap and she’s nine hundred years old, for glob’s sake. She’s finally outgrown fairy tales.

She’s not a knight, so she doesn’t get the princess. That’s the long and short of it. She might as well stop pretending.

(She still doesn’t have a home.)

.

Bonnibel labors ever for stability and progress, fashioning experiments in her lab and crafting order and prosperity outside it. She champions the rule of law, the rule of justice and decency, and in Ooo before anywhere else in the world, there is a glimmer of hope for the future.

Such hope is a little forced, a little false, since she had to create the population by herself, but there has never been any hope that could survive unsupported by sheer willpower. And there has never been any progress that rests on a foundation untainted with sin.

The world doesn’t work that way. And Bonnibel is shrewd enough to understand that, and cold enough to carry it out.

.

Princess Bubblegum has a line of suitors (because, let’s be real, they’re not there to court Bonnibel herself) that she never even begins to consider. She hasn’t thought about dying since that vampire ripped her leg off centuries earlier, and sees no reason to provide an heir to her throne, especially in such an uncouth way. But she glances at them sometimes, the poor candy fools, and each time she does, she experiences a little pang. Marceline’s never lounging there with her razor teeth and her red eyes and her raven-wing hair, ready and willing to sweep her off her feet and take her away from all this…gravity.

Marceline’s never there at all, except in the shirt she let Bonnibel keep.

In the beginning, the princess only takes it out sometimes, caressing the ancient fabric and remembering that first heady rush of Marceline’s lips on hers. She presses the cotton to her face and breathes in, deeper than deep, as if there’s really a scent left there after so many hundreds of years. There isn’t, of course, but the memories remain, twisted and tangled in the threads, inextricable as barbed wire in her heart.

As the years drag by and her crown grows heavier, she takes it out more and more often until she starts to wear it to bed. It protects her in her sleep, wrapping her in memories of happier times, of freer days. It adheres to her skin like armor, and maybe it’s more of a talisman than she thought, because the alluring whispers of the Stone of Power fall on deafer ears.

When it gets really bad, she wears it beneath her clothes in the daytime, too.

It keeps her mind sane, but it wears her heart so, so thin.

.

A message arrives at Marceline’s treefort during late summer when the dusk lingers thick on the western horizon in the most glorious, sullen shade of gold. She lazily pokes open the window with her foot, letting the carrier bird flap inside, and when it drops the envelope in her lap, she arches a curious eyebrow.

The bird pecks at her shoulder as she turns the letter over and recognizes the seal of the Candy Kingdom. With a frown trickling across her face, she absently sinks a fang into the scarlet wax and dissolves the seal, flicking open the paper a second later.

There’s not much of a message. Come to the castle, it reads. Very important.

It’s not even signed, but that doesn’t matter. Marceline’s been reading Bonnibel’s handwriting for almost a thousand years. It’s not as if she can mistake it.

For a moment, she’s caught at a crossroads. The flinching pressure in her hand wants to crumple the note, and the flinching pressure in her dead heart wants to preserve it behind glass and a frame.

In the end, she scowls and shoves it in a drawer and spitefully takes her time, waiting for full night to descend before nudging open the window again and following the bird’s invisible path through the skies above Ooo. The countryside below is dark except for the occasional flicker and flare of firelight, but Marceline pays it little heed; her attention is fixed on the growing silhouette of Bonnibel’s castle, pockmarked like the rolling hills with bursts of light.

Skipping all façade of manners, the vampire floats through one of the princess’s bedroom windows, sprawled on her back with her fingers laced behind her head. She’s irritated to be summoned like this—she’s irritated that she still canbe summoned like this, that she can’t possibly refuse to come when Bonnibel calls—and she is sure to let that emotion leak into her voice.

“What doth you desire, O Great and Chewy One? What could be so lumping important that you’ve deigned to break a century of silence?” she sneers, her eyes stubbornly, disrespectfully shut.

She opens them, though, when Bonnibel replies.

“Marceline,” she says, and her own voice is small. Very small.

The vampire peers at her, her irritation ebbing in the face of vaguely annoyed confusion and more than a modicum of concern. The princess is just standing in the center of her bedchamber, looking as small as she sounds. “What?” Marceline barks, harsher than she intends, but her nerves are starting to fray.

Bonnibel winces, though it’s not clear if her pain derives from Marceline’s tone or something else entirely. Either way, she approaches the vampire and, to her scalding surprise, takes hold of her hand.  “There’s something you need to know. It would be easiest just to show you.” She wavers, gnawing on her lip. “It would also be fastest if you flew us there.”

The other girl stares at her for a calculating moment, and then she exhales a sigh through her nose and hefts Bonnibel into her arms, the motion as effortless as it ever was. “Point the way, Princess,” she says, soft and somehow tired.

Bonnibel does, sweeping an arm out like a compass needle, and together, they venture into the night; the moonlight ripples iridescence across Marceline’s hair, and Bonnibel’s body leaks warmth into the vampire’s cold, empty chest. Neither of them tries to breathe too deeply, because Marceline smells like everything her shirt no longer holds—the tang of metal from her bass strings, the crispness of fallen leaves, the cloying salty rasp of blood—and Bonnibel smells less like sugarcubes and more like purest syrup, something startlingly clear and only halfway sweet.

It’s easy for the vampire not to breathe, but the princess has less of a choice. She has to keep loosening her hands from their nostalgic death-grip in the other girl’s tank top as the scent and the memories nearly overpower her.

Marceline doesn’t need Bonnibel’s indicating finger to realize they’ve reached their destination; she started descending towards the snow as soon as she saw the white gleaming in the summer night. She lands lightly on the edge of it, not certain if she should set the princess down or not. As she hesitates, though, Bonnibel lowers herself and slides a pace away, seeking the return of her compromised composure.

The vampire tries not to be offended by that distancing, telling herself it doesn’t matter anyway, and valiantly refocuses. “So,” she remarks. “Snow in summer.”

There’s not really a question in her voice, but Bonnibel nevertheless provides an answer. “Yes. Simon has come to Ooo.” She pauses, glancing at her former friend to determine her reaction.

Marceline just stands there, though, stands there and stares across the unnatural ice. She seems stiff, her jaw tighter and her shoulders straighter than usual, and she bows her head in something like an acknowledging nod.

Bonnibel swallows. “He calls himself Ice King now. From what my reports have gathered, he doesn’t remember the past at all. Not you, not me, not himself.”

The vampire digs a small divot in the snow with the toe of her boot. “Reports, huh,” she murmurs, staring into the frozen blue shadow by her foot. “You’re spying on him?” Before Bonnibel can defend herself, Marceline shakes her head. “No, I get it,” she dismisses. “I would, too, if I were you. You have more reason to be cautious of him than anyone.” Her lips pull taut, causing the points of her fangs to flash in the starlight. “What’re you gonna do?”

“Nothing,” Bonnibel replies, and Marceline looks at her so sharply her neck cracks. “Seriously,” the princess insists. “His crown may have deranged him, but I can’t imprison a man who’s already imprisoned in his own head. That would just be cruel.”

A spiderweb of hairline fractures spread across the vampire’s countenance, giving the impression that the slightest touch will shatter her completely. “So what’re you gonna do?” she echoes, as hoarse as an asthmatic in a cigar club. “Just leave him to his own devices?”

She nods. “Unless he proves himself a deadly threat, I see no reason to act. I certainly see no reason to act preemptively.”

Marceline is unwilling to let this lie, though, and she picks at it masochistically. “But before…I mean, shit, Bonni, he tried to—”

“Yes, he did,” the princess interrupts, some of her own ice creeping across her words. “You don’t have to remind me. I haven’t forgotten. But.” She shifts her weight, braces her arms on her chest. “That was almost a thousand years ago. Not that there’s a statute of limitations on that crime, but…well, I have guards now. And walls. I’ll be safe.”

The vampire looks away. “Yeah. Safer than when all you had was me.”

“That’s not what I—”

Marceline holds up a hand, and Bonnibel submits to that. “It’s fine,” she whispers. “It’s true.”

No, it’s not, the princess almost blurts, but she catches the words halfway up her throat and tucks them back away. Instead, she remarks, “My reports also seem to indicate that in his advanced senility, he has in fact become ratherless of a threat. I think, perhaps, he is truly harmless once more. Potentially annoying, but harmless. Like…like allergies.”

The vampire bobs her head, over and over and over again, as if it’s loose on her neck. “Okay,” she breathes, and at last, she looks up, sweeping her gaze across the wind-sculpted snow drifts. “Maybe I’ll drop in on him one day.” Her eyes flicker to Bonnibel’s, and there’s a warmth in their depths that has nothing to do with bloodfire. “See if he wants to share some chicken soup.”

The princess almost tears up at that, almost flings her arms around Marceline’s neck and sobs every last truth into her collar. Like I miss you and I still love you and I’m so damn sorry that I hurt you and You’re so much better than I deserve, don’t you see, that’s why I can’t have you. She almost says it all.

But only almost.

“I’m sure he’d like that,” she declares, bright and brittle, and she sniffs—just from the cold, just from the cold. “We should be getting back, though.”

Marceline nods, still so preoccupied, and gently scoops her up again.

This time, Bonnibel doesn’t play at pretenses. She snarls her fingers in the shirt and tilts her face into the vampire’s chest, making sure each breath is thickly infused with her scent and pretending that the wind whipping in her ears is a heartbeat.

If Marceline notices, she doesn’t say a thing.

.

One day, a human boy comes to the Candy Kingdom, and he’s noble and brave and pure of heart. Bonnibel recognizes this, much as she is initially loathe to, and she dangles the Enchiridion in front of him. He claims it like a hero, and he does Ooo proud. He’ll do her proud, too, eventually—and not just because he’ll do anything to make her proud, but because her heart’s not quite as hard as it seems. Not anymore.

She never tells him, though, that she’s always a little bit disappointed that he’s not Marceline.

She really, really thought that, in the end, her hero would be Marceline.

(i am the sand in the bottom half of the hourglass)

.

The thing about mortals is that they die.

Finn lives a long and rich life. His deeds are the stuff of legend, his victories guaranteed to earn him a seat of honor amongst the gods—or so the tales promise. But in the end, he succumbs to the ravages of time, that temporal storm that has never done more than brush fruitlessly at Marceline and Bonnibel, and Ooo loses its greatest hero.

They bury him as he requested: rocketing him upwards into the stars with his collection of swords and his silly, now-threadbare hat and the bones of his faithful canine companion—Jake had passed decades earlier—so that he could have one last grand adventure, sailing eternal across the cosmos.

Afterwards, Marceline burns the treefort to the ground. She can’t imagine ever living there again; it hasn’t been her house in decades, and it was Finn’s home like it never was hers. She respects that. She lets it die with him.

Bonnibel sits with her while it burns, and they watch as it chars itself to ash, as the beams pop and split, as the fire gutters and spikes. Somewhere in the middle, when the smoke is beginning to irritate their eyes, Marceline takes up her bass and composes their friend a tribute, the kind of epic poem that exalted the heroes of old. Tears flow freely down her pale gray cheeks before she makes it through the first verse, and Bonnibel is already crying the moment Marceline picks up the instrument, before she even strikes the opening chord.

The only thing they save from the pyre is the Enchiridion, but it wasn’t really Finn’s. He was just its caretaker for a while, even if it can never hope to have a better one.

When the first light of dawn sees the last wisps of smoke dancing away on the breeze, Marceline shifts her bass onto her back. Her fingertips are bleeding stolen blood from the long, mournful hours of quiet song, but she seems unaware of that, and picks up the hefty book.

“Guess it’s back to the temple for this,” she remarks, glancing sidelong at Bonnibel to make sure.

The princess nods and scrubs the tearstains from her face. “To await its next champion.”

Marceline doesn’t ask what happens if there isn’t one; it doesn’t occur to her. Even if it had, Bonnibel gives her no time to ask, as she’s reaching over and pulling on the strap of the bass. “What’re you doing?” the vampire hisses, glancing swiftly towards the sunrise. “I’ve gotta get going, babe.”

In response, Bonnibel just shrugs out of her long coat and drapes it ungracefully over the other girl’s head like it’s a lampshade. “I know this is terrible timing,” she says, her hand coiling around the instrument’s strap again, anchoring in place. “And not just because of the dawn, but because we just lost Finn. He did more than protect Ooo, though; he gave us common ground once more over the years, and with it, the chance to renew our friendship.” She pauses, deliberating. “We’re almost there. I just need to apologize.”

Marceline forces her lips to smirk. “Then grovel away, Princess.”

“No,” Bonnibel insists, and she tugs on the bass. “I’ve been working on this for a long time. I’m afraid I’m not quite the wordsmith that you are,” she admits ruefully, and the vampire finally permits her to take her guitar. The strings are stained with stolen ichor, and it transfers redly to the princess’s fingers as she runs them up and down the instrument’s neck; she doesn’t care.

“You’re gonna play?” the vampire wonders, genuine surprise in her tone. “Dude, when did you learn?”

She slants her a glance that has a shade of reproach. “I’ve been watching you play for a thousand years,” she drawls, eyebrow tilting up, “and I didn’t write the melody. I borrowed it from you.” She chews on her lower lip. “It seemed most fitting that way.”

Marceline adjusts the other girl’s coat, making certain it’s shielding her from the sun. “Go ahead then,” she teases, and she tugs on the gray points peeking through her hair. “I’m all ears.”

A measure of weary sorrow shadows Bonnibel’s eyes, though, and she does not remark on that attempt at humor. She simply begins to play, and it’s a very familiar melody to Marceline, indeed. What’s worse, it’s a very familiar apology, reminiscent of one she received ages and ages ago.

“La da da da-da, I’m getting buried under my crown

La da da da-da, yeah, it’s pushin’ me so far down

I know I wiped the smile from your pretty gray face

I know I lost the one thing that I just can’t replace but I’m

Sorry I didn’t treat you with compassion or even courtesy

Sorry my ambition drove you so far, so far away from me

It was jacked up, what I was doing, but it felt necessary

I don’t know if ends justify, so I’m sorry for my means

Turn’s out that, I am the problem

Yeah, I am the problem

It’s true, I’m not very perfect, am I

I’m just your problem

And I-I-I-I am getting buried under my crown, and

I-I-I-I am freakin’ scared I’m gonna drown

You’ve gotta stay this time and save me, Marcy, please

I promise this time I won’t do lump to make you leave

’Cause I know I’m just your problem

And know what? You’re still my problem

But maybe together, we could solve ’em

(How ’bout it now?)

Let’s try to solve ’em…”

The last deep notes fade buzzing from the bass, and Bonnibel glances up at Marceline. There are fresh tears tracking down the vampire’s face, silent and as resigned to this fate as the princess appears to be herself.

“You, too, huh,” she croaks, her gaze dragging to the golden circle, as hateful as Simon’s crown ever was. “You said we could solve it, though. Do you know how to fix it?”

The real question, unasked: Is it already too late?

Bonnibel runs her fingers lightly along the strings, causing quiet little shrieks. “There’s always research,” she provides with the smallest shrug. “It’s always worth a try.”

“And if it fails?”

She shrugs again, a more exaggerated and far less casual ripple of her shoulders. That’s answer enough.

Marceline feels she ought to say something, even though at this point, everything’s inadequate. “I’m sorry,” she manages.

Bonnibel smiles, wobbly and wet. “I’m sorry, too.”

.

Not much happens in Ooo after that. Finn had lived at the end of an era, and now, a new age of stability and peace stretches out before them, long and summer-bright as it trails after the sun. Simon’s madness progresses to the point where he doesn’t remember desiring princesses at all, the phantom of his fiancée finally lost beneath a millennium of snow. He calms, and fades, and Marceline plays checkers with him on the weekends and always, always brings chicken soup.

It’s his favorite. He re-discovers this each time, and he’s always surprised that this young vampire would like to spend time with him, but she never corrects him, and she never tries to explain. She just smiles and passes him a steaming bowl and wipes her tears away as surreptitiously as possible.

(Tentative and uninvited, Bonnibel dropped by on Marceline’s first visit, borne aloft on a descendent of Lady Rainicorn and Jake, but she didn’t intrude on their private moment. She just waited outside the ice mountain, gently buffeted by turbulence until Marceline emerged with her empty can and her checkerboard. Neither of them spoke; they just shared a look, and then the vampire hugged her so tightly that she could barely breathe.

Marceline held on for a long while, long enough that the rainicorn started expressing his awkwardness in apologetic Korean. She pulled away, but the shadow of her touch remained, and the bond begun in Bonnibel’s song solidified and sealed, becoming something real and true and unbreakable.)

Almost unbreakable.

Bonnibel’s research, extensive as it is, has unearthed nothing.

.

They fall into a rhythm then, as they’ve fallen into one before. While Marceline haunts the ceilings like the world’s most musical ghost—at least, when she’s not touring Ooo with her latest crop of songs—Bonnibel spends her time ruling. But she delegates more these days, shaping trusted lieutenants into leaders in their own right, and begins hypothesizing about the inclusion of a senate or parliament into the Candy Kingdom’s constitution.

“It worked for both the Roman and British Empires,” she points out with a shrug. “It would balance the power and allow for expansion.”

“Aw, geez, Bon,” Marceline drawls. “Now you want an empire?”

But she’s smirking as she says it, and Bonnibel knows better than to take her seriously when her eyes glitter like that. Some of the humor is lost on her, even so, and she leans more of her weight on her elbow so she can cradle her head in that hand. It feels thick and full of lead, the crown’s slow poison seeping in.

The vampire sits up straighter where she’s reclining in the air. “You okay?” she asks, worry humming a counterpoint to her nonchalance.

“I’m fine,” the princess dismisses. “I was just disgusted by your joke, that’s all. Honestly, Marcy, I want lessresponsibility, not more. One day, I’ll be nothing but a figurehead, and one day, I won’t even be that.”

Marceline’s eyes hover anxiously on her friend’s crown. “What’s less than a lumping figurehead?” she says, the humor creaking and betraying her. “All they do is smile and wave and—and—and raise little dogs in freakishly large numbers.”

Bonnibel narrows her eyes, furrows her forehead, concentrates hard. Nothing is as easy as it was before she traded away her beloved shirt for Hambo; that garment truly was a talisman, and while she hoped that their revived friendship would prove to be an equally potent charm, it’s not so tangible. It doesn’t armor her while she sleeps. Things slip through the cracks…

But Marceline herself can’t save her, so an old t-shirt of hers, no matter how drenched it is in memories, can hope to do the same.

“I…I don’t know what’s less than a figurehead,” she finally mutters.

The vampire’s knuckles bleach as she strangles her bass; it chunners metallically in protest. “That thing you said earlier, babe? Whatever it was? I’d get on that. Like now. The sooner, the better and all. Chop chop.”

Blinking, as if she needs to reorient herself, Bonnibel gives a hesitant nod. “Yeah. I’ll draft a proposal today. I’ll convene the other monarchs in a few days to go over it, and then I can…issue the edicts and begin the process of…appointing magistrates.” She massages her forehead, an action Marceline has seen her mime far too often recently.

Slinging her guitar onto her back, the vampire floats down to the desk and plucks the pen from her friend’s limp hand. “You talk, I write. Saves time. Time’s a-wastin’. Don’t got no time to waste.”

The princess slants her a bemused look, and while Marceline is relieved to see the clarity refreshed, Bonnibel’s words are no reassurance. “What’re you talking about? Despite the fact that both of us have died at least once, we seem pretty indestructible. We have all the time in the world to waste.”

But Marceline just thinks of Simon, who can’t remember breakfast once he’s finished it, and now of Bonnibel, who doesn’t know what’s less than a figurehead.

“There are worse fates than dying,” she declares flatly. “There are worse curses than vampirism.”

It would’ve been better if Bonnibel argued that, but she doesn’t.

She already understands.

.

Time, time, time, Marceline panics, draining the red from everything she can reach. Simon’s crown had three Stones of Power. Bonni’s only has one. And she’s stronger than he was. She’s so strong. Plus, she’s held it off this long already. She can hold it off a little longer.

And she thinks of the Enchiridion, how it kept the Stones out of corruptible hands—and maybe not corruptible like evil, but like rust, how it bites into metal and eats it and rots it and takes away all its shine.

She can’t stop thinking about the book. She gave it up, twice, but she hadn’t earned it either time. It didn’t mean anything to hold it then. But now the stupid book is locked behind a maze of trials designed to prove its bearer worthy.

Anyone can earn the Enchiridion.

Well, anyone who is strong and brave and pure of heart.

She wonders if it still counts even if that heart forgot how to beat a thousand years before.

.

“Maybe it’s just the price we have to pay,” Bonnibel murmurs later that week, once her proposals are drafted and her councils have convened. She strokes her fingers idly through Marceline’s hair where the long strands stray across her own arm, not really aware of the action; her eyes are shut, and she’s half-asleep.

The vampire bows her tightly closed lips to her friend’s shoulder. It’s not a kiss, but it’s close. They’re not what they used to be, but they’re close.

At length, Marceline prompts, “Price we have to pay…?”

“To save people,” the princess clarifies, her fingers slowing, faltering. “Maybe people who aren’t heroes…maybe when they try to be them, they have to sacrifice more. Simon wanted to save you, and his crown took him. You wanted to save me, and now you’re a vampire. I wanted to save Ooo, and my crown’s taking me. We get what we want, but…but maybe our sanity’s the price. Lost in our own heads for all eternity.”

“Speak for yourself,” Marceline shoots back reflexively. “I’m not off my rocker and I don’t plan on falling off ever. My bloodlust is quite under control, thank you very much for asking, I’m touched by your concern.”

Bonnibel chuckles, little more than a humorous exhale, and her lips curl at just the corners. “Oh, Marcy,” she laments, “you’re such a dingus. But I guess that’s why I love you.”

The vampire stiffens. It’s probably not true. She’s probably just forgetting intervening time, like Simon forgot it. She probably thinks they’re still together, that this is five centuries earlier, or even earlier still. She probably won’t remember a lick of this conversation when the sun rises.

It makes Marceline want to scream.

Instead, she kisses Bonnibel’s pale pink neck, right under her ear, and whispers back, “I love you, too.”

.

In the morning, Marceline attempts the Hero’s Trials in a desperate bid to claim the Enchiridion.

She fails.

But she’s known for a millennium that she’s not a hero.

She’s also known for a millennium that she’ll do whatever she has to do in a pinch, like come back from the dead as a vampire to save the life of her only friend. So she hikes a middle finger at the universe and flies over the obstacles that she couldn’t defeat, and when the guardians squabble and protest, she kicks the living daylights out of them.

“I’m Marceline the Vampire Queen,” she growls as she grinds the last one’s face into the dust beneath the heel of her boot. “I don’t play nice, and I don’t play by the freakin’ rules.”

“But the Enchiridion…it must judge you as worthy,” he protests feebly.

“It’s a lumping book,” she snaps with a razor-edged scowl. “What the flip does it know?”

He doesn’t seem to know what to make of that. “Er…everything it contains…?”

“Shut up,” she snarls, and she kicks him hard for good measure and swivels her glare to the ancient tome. “You’re just a book,” she repeats, as if she’s trying to convince it, or trying to convince herself. “You have no right to judge me. Ideem myself worthy, and you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

The Enchiridion doesn’t burst into flames or howls or anything when she lifts it from its rest. That might not indicate that it’s her by right, but it is hers for the taking, and so she takes it, takes it and flies around Ooo as fast as she can. She explains to the other rulers about the threat inherent in their crowns, but none of them believe her, none of them seem to have suffered any ill effects. For a moment, she wonders if Bonnibel’s delirious musings were right—if only people who aren’t heroes yet try to play the role are corruptible by the Stones.

The Enchiridion is known as the hero’s handbook. Maybe those who forget that fact are doomed to forget everything, and maybe heroes aren’t such wonderful people, after all. Maybe they’re as spiteful and vindictive and possessive as anyone, because who else would lay such a trap and cast such a curse?

Marceline doesn’t know if that’s true or right or anything more than a flight of fancy, but she takes the Stones just as she took the book itself—by force if she has to. Nobody has to like her after this. Nobody has to like her ever again. They can all lump off in parliamentary bliss for all she cares.

Once she collects the Stones, even the three in Simon’s crown that have been missing from the book from the start, she flies the completed set and the book it resides within to the edge of the world. It takes her a long time to reach the jagged cliffs, and she almost goes feral more than once from the strain she puts on herself. She manages somehow, though, and when she gets there and gazes down at the seething heart of the planet, she is convinced that she’s doing the right thing.

There are extremes of power that people should not be allowed to have—the Mushroom Wars proved that.

Hovering out over the planet’s mortal wound, Marceline holds onto the Enchiridion until she’s above the molten mantle; it swirls sluggishly miles below.

Without preamble or any fitting, final words, she lets it go.

It might splash. It might incinerate long before it strikes. She can’t tell.

All she knows is that it’s gone, good freaking riddance, and that this action, while pleasingly rebellious and undoubtedly beneficial to future generations, doesn’t change anything for her friends. She was too late when she began this quest, and too late even before that. Taking away the Stones of Power will do nothing for Bonnibel. It’s been made amply clear via the example of Simon, and via the princess’s own futile research, that the corrupting effects are irreversible.

That grates against Marceline, flays her alive. She knew she was doomed before she started, and she can picture the future facing them all: lost in their own heads for all eternity. Except for her, that is—like she said, her vampirism isn’t that terrible, and even when she goes feral, she can recover. It’s not like how it will be for Bonnibel and Simon. It’s not the same at all.

Still, she doesn’t know where that leaves her.

.

It takes a few more decades for the sickness to set in entirely, a few decades of stumbling pauses and a love so belatedly rekindled, but even their love, which has conquered so much, can’t conquer all.

Eventually, Bonnibel forgets Marceline.

It’s subtle in the end. There’s just a loss of recognition in the depths of those familiar lavender eyes, the suffusion of a terrible blankness that has been erasing in from the edges for too long.

The vampire clasps their hands together—hers are shaking so badly—and she brushes her lips against the princess’s forehead.

Bonnibel looks up at her, only mild curiosity in her gaze, and she reaches out to catch a teardrop on her finger. The saline melts into her sugared skin.

“Yeah, you’ll wanna be careful with that,” Marceline chokes out, her serrated teeth gleaming in a watery smile.

“Okay,” she accepts, and her brow pinches slightly. “Why are you crying?”

Marceline considers that for a sticking second. “I just lost the love of my life.”

“That’s terrible,” Bonnibel murmurs, and despite the consequences, she wipes away another tear. “What happened?”

Her mouth curves, subtle and slow, and she shrugs. “She went away.”

The princess’s confusion deepens as she wonders, “And you can’t follow her?”

Marceline thought her heart had died a thousand years ago, but as it turns out, it was merely comatose all the while, because now…now it dies. She nearly suffocates from the mess it leaves behind in her chest, but she perseveres with grim determination—she’s always been able to subvert death for Bonnibel. “No,” she says through the gravel in her throat. “Not where she’s gone.”

“Oh,” she realizes, but there’s no real comprehension in her eyes. Just sympathy for a stranger. “I’m so sorry.”

Marceline nods halfway, chin tucked to her chest, and just looks at her, as if she hasn’t memorized everything about her centuries before. She’s still so stupidly pink. And she’s still so stupidly beautiful.

“Take care of yourself, Bonni,” she says, as lightly as she’s able, “and always be nice to little girls lost and hungry in the snow.”

Bonnibel looks at her politely and doesn’t understand.

(Sometimes, later, she notices the photograph taped on the inside of her closet door, and she wonders who this black-haired, sharp-toothed girl is, and whether or not they were friends. She likes to think they would be. And some preferences are carved in the bones, so whenever she hears rock music, Bonnibel really likes it, and her favorite color is red.

The candy folk take care of her, as she once so diligently cared for them.

And she is at peace.)

.

Unable to summon the strength to fly with this strangled concrete filling her limbs and the riven husk of her heart, Marceline trudges out of the room and unloops the princess’s crown from her belt. Without its Stone of Power, it’s just a fragile circle of gold, and she has strength enough to snap it in half. She drops the mangled metal on the floor and adjusts the ride of her bass’s strap for a snugger fit, fishing in her pocket afterwards for a piece of chalk. Deftly, she draws a magic circle on the castle wall and smears bug milk across it.

Once she speaks the incantation, the portal to the Nightosphere yawns wide, an eternal inferno plagued with chaos. It doesn’t look like home, but that’s because Marceline’s home is behind her, draped in a violet blanket and gazing contentedly out the window at the fading autumn sun.

She slips her pack off her shoulders and roots through its meager contents. Resting underneath the disintegrating form of Hambo, there’s a lock of Bonnibel’s bubblegum hair; tears prick her eyes anew when she thinks that it’s really more of a wad. A sentient wad, maybe, that has a name and enough love in her heart to last a thousand years.

She likes to think that it smiles at her, as it had smiled at her before: a perfect semicircle. While she knows that isn’t true—it’s wishful thinking at its finest—she indulges the delusion. It’s not like she has long to pretend.

She’ll be forgetting herself soon enough.

Raw heat blasts across her face, whipping her hair back like the tail of the darkest comet as she steps through the portal and enters the Nightosphere. Its volcanic landscape stretches out to indeterminate horizons in every direction, and she floats above the burning madness, not paying it much attention. She’s seen it all before, and she’ll be seeing it until the end of time.

Her vampirism never was going to drive her insane, but it wasn’t the first thing to grant her eternity, either—her demonic heritage did that.

And that which giveth, taketh away.

.

When she arrives in a familiar craggy mountain, her father leaps to his feet, thrilled to see her. “Marceline! What brings you all the way to hell, eh?”

“Hey, Daddy,” she replies, none of her usual lilt in her tone. She gestures vaguely at the amulet resting against his chest. “I’m…here to take up the family business.”

“Oh, happy day!” he cheers, oblivious of her agony, and he joyfully rips his amulet from his neck. “My little monster’s ready to embrace her destiny!”

Marceline hates him for that speech, but she hates other things far more, so she accepts the burden of her birthright without comment.

As she weighs the amulet in her hand, her mind wanders back to the beginning, reviewing more than ten centuries years of life and desperately searching for a loophole, for all the good it will do her now. She wonders if they could’ve done things differently somehow, if they could’ve subverted this fate, if she and Bonnibel and Simon could’ve lived out their undying days happily and together.

But if they saved themselves, then they couldn’t save the world.

And they wouldn’t be heroes.

“Huh,” she murmurs to herself with a cluck of her tongue. “Not bad for a sentimental old man, a brainy bubblegum girl, and a scrawny teenaged half-demon. Yeah. Not too bad at all.”

Marceline smiles one last time, real and heartfelt and true, and then she slips the amulet over her head and lets the chaos carry her away.

.

Elsewhere, the broken, healing world spins gently towards tomorrow.

.

(we could be immortals)

.

.

.

[snapchattingnct]

hey can i get a ship with nct all units :,) i’m 5’5 and have a pretty athletic build (i play sports). i speak german and english and some russian and i love horror movies even though i’m so scared of them. i’m really random and i act dumb but i’m actually really smart lol! i love learning (unless it’s math..) i love children but i’m terrified of animals :,) forgot to mention, i have dark green eyes and dark brown hair. i’m really a mood maker in my friend group despite being kinda savage lol!

Hey there!

In NCT U, I ship you with Doyoung! Doyoung here is literally daddy material. He’s so great around kids. He loves them and they love him. It’s just super adorable. Also, we love a financially stable man (Lmao the Weekly Idol Preview). Like those two facts together and he just makes a great dad. And he’s a good looking one too. But enough of that lmao. This poor bunny literally hates horror movies and haunted houses. Doyoung seems like someone who would at all tough and be like “I’ll protect you” but in reality he’ll probably be screaming his head off with you. When it comes to animals though, he’ll definitely protect you from those for sure lol. Doyoung is also pretty sassy. Like his sass level is one that is rivaling with the Dreamies. 

In NCT 127, I ship you with Jaehyun! Jaehyun is another member that just screams daddy material aside from the fact that he literally looks so good it’s sinful. But he loves children and he’s great around them too as seen with all the Hit the States vlogs. Speaking of athletic build, you already know that Jaehyun’s physique is A++++. When ever you’re training up, he would love to tag along and hit the gym with you. Apparently he doesn’t believe in ghosts so Jaehyun would be the one to shield you from all those scary scenes in those horror movies. He’ll pull you into his arms and cover your ears whenever a scary scene pops and will make fun of you being scared to distract you too. 

In NCT Dream, I ship you with Chenle! Ever since his nephew was born, Chenle loves to show him off every chance he gets. I think his love for children has grown a lot since then. Even though he’s literally still a kid himself lol. Not to mention with his playful personality, kids would love to be around him too. Speaking of his personality, we all know that Chenle is a lowkey savage. He’s always roasting the other members with Jisung. Oh, these younger kids lol no respect for the elder. Because he is one of the younger members, he can be really random at times. By now, I’m sure that you know how much Chenle loves “Simon Says.” He just burst out singing it out of nowhere a lot these days. 

In WayV, I ship you with Yangyang! As I’m sure that we already know, Yangyang is actually from Germany (Born in Taiwan but his childhood is mostly spent in Germany). So I think having the chance to converse with someone else that can speak German would make his heart feel so full. Since he is the youngest in WayV, this baby has a lot of energy. He’s constantly running around or dancing and just being silly. There would never be a dull moment when you’re with him. You’ll be having the time of your life within his presence. 

- K 🌱

#anon #nct ships #nct u #nct 127 #nct dream #wayv #nct #wayv ships #kpop ships #doyoung #jaehyun #chenle #yangyang #admin K 🌱 #ships

[robin-bring-the-snow]

should I do?

(masterlist)

Parting: Simon x reader (human), Connor (machine)

Summary: You take part to the deviants revolution, but your partner Connor is disagreed.

Warning: Bad ending.

A/N: Neutral gender reader.

~~

11th November 2038, 10:48 pm

You walked to the Hart plaza in Downtown Detroit at the southern end of Woodward Ave. You wanted to help Markus with the revolution, you were read agitated for what was about to happen, the whole world would hear the message of Jericho.

However you didn’t really know what you would do because you are a simple human, nothing more. When you left the department with your gun and a rifle, which you would assemble once you were safe from bullets and more, nobody noticed you walked away with that except Connor that he just watched you go.

You did not wonder where Hank was or where it was, but as soon as it was all over, you would surely have offered him a coffee or a holiday. Always if you survive this uprising.

-Positive thoughts, you can’t think that it will always go bad.-you tried to convince yourself.

Before to climb over the trench, you took your cell phone and call your parents.

“Dad?”you asked when you heard a breath, instead from the other end of the phone you didn’t hear anything that breath.

“I know that you were angry but I should to do...I must to do.”you explained the tears running on your cheeks, he didn’t answer.

“Dad I’m scared.”you declared drying your tears, at a certain point you felt an interference coming from the phone, confused you looked at the screen and then put the phone back to your ear.

“Dad?”

“Oh..innocent Y/N”a familiar voice said sarcastically, you immediately became serious, while you were seeing josh walking towards you.

“Connor..didn’t I give you an order?”you spoke with an arrogant smile, saw that Josh was close to you, you made a sign to stay quite because you were on the phone with Connor, he remained quite but next to you.

“I’m so sorry for disturbing your phone line, but you know, you're thorn in the side. So tell me where you are and I promise you to.."you didn't give him the time to finish that you've close the communication, after that you turned off the phone and broke it by throwing it to the ground. 

Josh escorted you to the other side of the barricade, when you arrived North and Markus were talking and Simon was watching the humans beyond.

There were more androids that were near to the fire barrels, the other were looking curiously and scared the other way, you approached you too and saw the trucks of the riot squad, along with the FBI position for the fight. Meanwhile, Markus had fixed the ollographic poster, with peaceful words.

“You are here.”Simon said walking near to you.

“Yep.”you mumbled turning your head to him. He was a little worried for you, you could see from his face.

“You know that are you a human being?”he spoke confused when he saw you calm and were loosen up. 

Maybe he did not believe that I was really here or maybe he did not think it was right that I was there, with them fighting his own species. He closed his eyes, turning his head to one of the incredulous bins, of everything that was happening.

"Notice markus and North you're here." He said, turning to Markus and starting to walk, you stopped him by taking his wrist and looked at him seriously and determinedly: "I want to do it, because in the end I will pass to the right side. for an act of rebellion and more because I care for you, for others but above all for the cause."he looked you and as he approached, he put his lips on your own, you didn’t block him or reject him, because you knew that insede you, you wanted it too.

"Oh my sweet Y/N, I see you joined the band," North appointed sarcastically approaching you and Simon, he broke away and went to talk to Markus, you watched him go away a little sorry while North followed your own look.

"So when do you think to tell him?" She asked, looking at you with a smile, you looked at her, and shook her head, laughing.

"Do you notice much?" I asked her, touching her shoulder in a friendly way.

“Ehm...yes.”she answered laughing, you smiled at her after what had happened to her, it was good to laugh. Immediately she returned serious looking at the trucks, you followed his gaze.

"I know the FBI assault team is very well equipped, but I have a rifle if I find a sure point, I can kill half of it, more Connor."you explained looking at Perkins who was coming down from the FBI truck.

"Y/N."you heard a call from a familiar voice, or rather Markus’ voice, he watching you and North, while you were studying the possible moves.

Before I went to him, North gave you a device to put in the middle of his chest: "For any eventuality" she got rid of you without explaining what to do with it.

“What are you doing here?”he asked slightly angry. You looked at Simon, who was serious and with his arms crossed, but Josh was looking at you from behind Markus.

"Give a hand, of course."you answered quiet and observing you around.

Markus obviously did not drink it and remained silent expecting an explanation or a better excuse.

"I can not leave you, you can not fight them alone." you explained looking at your feet and biting your lip.

"You can not stay with us." Markus began, electing all the dangers and things that could happen to you, while Simon looked at you in silence. You looked up and instead of looking at Markus, you looked at Simon.

After an hour where Markus was scolding you, you could not bear it anymore all is worry and so bursting.

"Okay, okay I'm a human being, but I want to help you and I can not do it on the other side of the world or the barricade, I want to help you because I do not want to be drawn from history books like the one that could do something I wanted to fight, because before me there were others who fought for my rights and above all ... "screamed in the face of him, while he stood in silence to observe you.

"... I want to fight for who I love." you added but whispered, while Simon was leaving.

After the fight with Markus, you were allowed to stay as long as you were in the safest places, meanwhile Markus had gone to talk to Perkins to look for a diplomatic way.

“You should stay at home.”Simon observed looking you while you were assembling the rifle.

“Simon, you can help me like this, you know it?”you declared looking at you, he snorted and after giving you a kiss on the head he left.

After a few minutes, the onslaught of humans began, you tried to kill as many as you could. In a short time they surrounded the androids and pushed you to join them, Simon looked at you and widened his eyes as soon as he saw you come out and ran from them, but I was stopped by a shot behind you.

"Hands up, Lieutenant Y/S." a voice ordered behind you, you turned frightened and fearing who it might be, when you saw Connor lowered your hands.

"I gave you an order, stay out of it." you shouted walking towards him, but he continued to aim at you and did not move.

His look was  always serious and cold, as always because as Hank says: "He is a machine, he does not try anything."

"I told you that you did not have to reach Jericho alone."he spoke looking at you.

"I do not take orders from you."you said arrogantly and smiling, he gave a similar smile and looked beyond you.

"Simon, do not you want me to get hurt?" He teased you when he saw you back serious as soon as he mentioned his name.

"Lower the Connor weapon, it's an order!" You ordered closer and closer to him, he smiled arrogantly to provoke you even more: "Should I do?" He said before you hurled at him.

You started fighting, while Simon from a distance watched. You did not want to kill Connor, but if you had not left your choice you would have done everything to stop it, but you still felt sorry for him because it was designed to accomplish the mission. After disarming him, I fired a warning shot in his leg, he smiled and ran at you, landing and taking the gun from his hand.

"Surrender?" He asked with a smile. You looked at him while blood dripped from his forehead.

"Never" you answered fierce and throwing a kick to drop it, you put on him trying to remove the pump from his chest, your hand trembled symptom that your body was almost exhausted with the energies, meanwhile tried not to get the gun . You could hardly take it off, you got up from him, you threw his pump that stained your hands with his blue blood, rotten like that of an oppressor.

You did not notice that in the meantime Connor had got up, you saw Simon rushing to you to save you but instead you were smiling walking towards him. When you noticed his worried face, you looked at him in confusion and the moment you turned to Connor, a bullet hit Simon's head, instead of yours. 

He’s gone

You looked terrified as Simon's body fell to the ground, while Markus and North ran towards you, while you had knelt down and took Simon's body in your hands and held him close to you. Starting to scream in pain and despair, for losing the only person you ever loved, while Markus stood next to you and North hugged you from behind, you looked up and saw  another Connor go away.

You jumped up and ran to him with your gun, he didn’t have time to turn around that you shot him a cold bullet on the head.

"This is being a machine? I think it's like being human," you cried, looking at the android's body and throwing the gun away.

You walked next to Simon, you walked like an automaton, your face was full of tears while the snow fell on your hair, you never thought it would end like that. You never thought about losing Simon, you hadn’t thought about losing the love of your life in this way: fighting for his rights.

A/N: Connor didn’t respect the first law because he hurt you even if not physically, the law applies equally because he has hurt you emotionally. The law should be applied in both areas: physical and psychological.  Meanwhile Simon didn’t broke any law, I put him in it because I never wrote anything about him.

#detroit become human #detroit become human rk800 #detroit become human fanfic #detroit become human x reader #detroit become human x oc #dbh rk800 #dbh simon #simon x reader #simon x oc #dbh x reader #dbh x oc #dbh fanfic #dbh oneshot #machine connor #dbh machine connor #m x m #m x f

[thezodiaczone]

June Forecast for Taurus

Start turning those dreams into reality, Taurus. This is a month for buckling down and building, as the Sun sprints through Gemini until June 21, activating your stabilizing second house. You can make “practical magic” happen by sticking to a simple plan and prioritizing. And since Taurus is the natural ruler of the zodiac’s second house, you should be pretty comfortable doing that.

Of course, not all the planets will cooperate with your efforts to make life more predictable and profitable. June is the first full month of a MAJOR cosmic chapter that started on May 15, when disruptor Uranus moved into Taurus for the first time since 1942. This eight-year cycle, which only happens every 84 years, will be a once-in-a-lifetime visit for many Bulls—one that could send you on a massive reinvention tour. Hosting the planet of innovation, radical change and freedom isn’t exactly a lighthearted experience, and between now and 2026, you could change everything from your appearance to your lifestyle to your career path. Resistance to progress is futile, so you might as well embrace the philosopher Heraclitus’ principle, “the only constant is change.”

It doesn’t have to happen all at once, though, and it wouldn’t hurt to use the rest of Gemini season to drop a few anchors where you can. You’ll return to those safety zones between Uranian voyages into the unknown and unfamiliar. Lock in some security on June 13, when the year’s only Gemini new moon brings a lunar lift to your second house or work, money and daily routines. You might apply for a promotion or a new gig, start a healthy routine or use this burst of energy to clarify and tweak your goals.

Father’s Day falls on June 17, and if you’re celebrating, the nostalgic vibes could flow. The moon is in showy Leo and your emotional, domestic fourth house. Gather with loved ones and your favorite father figures, keeping the festivities intimate. A home-cooked meal, a handwritten card and a meaningful gift will give you all the warm-fuzzies.

If things are a little tense on the home front (and hey, even if they aren’t), avoid controversial topics like politics—a hot-button issue in so many families today. With peaceful Venus and combative Mars facing off in your communication sectors, one caustic comment could ignite an unnecessary firestorm. While we don’t recommend stuffing down your true feelings or avoiding tough discussions, see if you can all agree to take a day off. And hey, you might want to read these tips in advance just to be prepared.

Once the Sun moves into Cancer on June 21, you’ll have an easier time talking about any subject, since el Sol will heat up your third house of communication and local culture. Get out and mingle in your neighborhood, catch up with friends you haven’t seen in a while, devour a few books and podcasts. Your mind is hungry for great conversation and new ideas—you might decide to sign up for a short class or attend a workshop.

The pace could slow down during the latter part of June, as dreamy Neptune and ambitious Mars turn retrograde, bringing the total retrograde planet count to five. Jupiter, Saturn and Pluto are already in their slowed-down cycles, giving summer a more reflective tone.

Hazy Neptune is the first to start its backspin, on June 18, reversing through your eleventh house of teamwork and technology until November 24. Neptune turns retrograde during approximately the same time each year, and in some ways, the foggy planet’s U-turn can actually help you see things with MORE clarity. If you’ve been on the fence about a friendship or collaboration, take a step back. Codependent or “user-friendly” relationships will hold less appeal once you get a look at this person’s true colors. Remembering that their actions reflect on YOU might make you think twice about being associated with them.

Protect your tech and strengthen your passwords: With shady Neptune going awry in your digital domain, you could be susceptible to identity theft or phishing scams. Take extra precautions with all things virtual, and post conscientiously. Make sure your online presence reflects the best version of you. Strengthen the privacy settings on those raucous vacation photos (or maybe take ’em down) and stay off unsecured networks. That “free open-source Wi-Fi hotspot” could cost you a lot more than you bargained for.

Your career has been hurtling along at warp speed since May 16, when go-getter Mars blazed into Aquarius and your tenth house of professional success—a sizzling transit that only happens every two years. While work could be demanding, with long hours and short deadlines, the right strategic moves could pay off handsomely. Prepare to feel the blast of your office’s air conditioners or the sweltering summer sun on your back as you make those money moves all summer.

Be discerning: The red planet is here for an extended stay (until August 12), but on June 26 turns retrograde and won’t correct course until August 27. This could bring a few setbacks or extra demands you didn’t see coming. Not ALL hard work was created equal. In fact, with stressful Mars in your prestigious tenth house, you could feel full-on tension with a boss, client or authority figure. Since this zodiac sector rules fathers, some old “dad issues” could rear up (all the more reason to wave that white flag wildly on Father’s Day).

Have you gotten obsessed with status or the end goal, and lost sight of the journey? Check out Simon Sinek’s Start with Why —it could be the perfect audiobook to listen to during a long commute or while you tackle a laborious job, like moving your office or cleaning out a cluttered supply room.

Even the relentless Bull needs a vacation, and the perfect pack-your-bags day arrives on June 28, when the Capricorn full moon beams into your ninth house of travel, expansion and new perspectives. Broaden your horizons by taking a bucket-list trip—or at least making serious plans for one! With stern Saturn hovering one mere degree away from the moon, you might have to keep it short and sweet. But even a night away—or heck, a day trip out of city limits if that’s all you can manage—can give you enough of a reboot to keep on keepin’ on.

The ninth house rules personal growth and higher education, and you could be inspired to return to school or do some self-discovery work. From the Myers-Briggs test to the Clifton Strengths Finder to getting your astrology chart read and learn what makes you tick (besides the obvious Taurus list of beautiful things, great food and plentiful sex) and let that guide your next moves. There’s metaphysical magic in the air today. Look beyond what’s right in front of your nose and open up to inspiring new ideas, friendships and teachings that you might otherwise miss.

Love & Romance

Amiable, amorous Venus is sailing through Cancer and your social third house until June 13, putting you in high spirits and fine flirting form. You’ll enjoy nights out with your posse, perhaps going on double dates or meeting friends of their friends with serious dating potential. Don’t overthink how you engage. Being friendly, authentic and outgoing will win you admirers!

During that two-week uptick, the love planet makes some “direct hits” with weighty planets, which could trigger interesting events in your romantic life. On June 1, she forms a harmonious trine to expansive Jupiter in Scorpio and your house of committed relationships. You could fall head over heels for someone within minutes of meeting them, but tug on the reins so you don’t go galloping off into the sunset—yet. Couples may do something to deepen their bond, like put a ring on it, renew their vows or talk about growing their family.

The next day, Venus forms a second trine to dreamy Neptune in quixotic Pisces and your communal eleventh house. A formerly platonic friend may suddenly have a certain glow about them, or you might introduce your love interest to members of your inner circle.

One day to stay on your guard is June 5, when vixen Venus forms its annual opposition to shadowy Pluto and your spontaneous, adventurous ninth house. You could feel abruptly stifled in your partnership or like your mate is playing mind games. In the dating world, a budding connection could fizzle, or you could be ghosted with zero warning. Try not to take it personally; while painful, this is a classic Pluto move.

Meanwhile, the other cosmic lovebird, Mars, is in Aquarius and your goal-driven tenth house all month, which could siphon off a bit of your romantic energy as you focus on work demands and lofty plans for the future. Mars will turn retrograde for two months starting on June 26 (until August 27), making its passionate, powerful energy even harder to get a handle on. Take a time-out from trying to force things to go one way or another this summer and let things develop at a more natural pace.

When Venus enters Leo and your emotional fourth house on June 13 (until July 9), it will oppose Mars (their exact faceoff is on June 21), which might lead to some disagreements on the home front or with a new love interest. Try to keep a head-heart balance—though that can be tricky under this influence. Stay mindful: You could easily get roped into a squabble that you hardly have the appetite for!

Key Dates

June 14: Venus-Uranus Square Fickle much? You’re feeling sentimental and even clingy one minute then detached the next, thanks to sensitive Venus in your touchy-feely fourth house squaring indie Uranus in your sign. Watch for emotional outbursts, especially when someone close to you pushes your buttons.

Money & Career

And…you’re off! This month you’re in serious-business mode as the Sun journeys through Gemini and your productive, profit-minded second house until June 21. With go-getter Mars in Aquarius and your tenth house of career from May 16 to August 27, your influence and ambition could be off the charts. Wooing decision makers, courting contacts with clout—your pitches will be hard to resist, especially with silver-tongued Mercury in Gemini and your money house until June 12.

The Gemini new moon on June 13 sets off a six-month cycle of abundance. Set some intentions for where you’d like to be by the corresponding Gemini full moon on November 23, then map out an action plan for how you’ll get there. Look at your budget and set a few monetary milestones. If you’re job hunting, this is a favorable day to start a search. Step by careful step—in other words, the methodical Taurus way—is how you’ll reach those goals.

Grand plans could hit a summer slowdown on June 26, when Mars turns retrograde until August 27—a backspin that happens once every two years. As Mars reverses through your career zone, you might reevaluate your professional trajectory, cut ties with a difficult client or just have to put in some extra hours of hustle to get through a demanding project. Have you rushed into a big undertaking without the proper structure or long-term plan? Use this two-month U-turn to tweak and revise so you’re ready to go full steam ahead this fall.

The end of the month gets tricky. On June 27, the confident Sun in your communication house will lock into its annual opposition with skeptical Saturn, causing you to second-guess your ideas. Reschedule any pitches or big meetings today, as you’ll be met with resistance and cautious conservatism rather than a warm reception. If you need to take a hard look at your plans and scale back a bit, the Sun-Saturn opposition can help you face any cold, hard facts you’ve been avoiding. But beware the hefty dose of pessimism that this aspect can bring. You may see the glass as barely filled, as the stars cast an overly bleak picture of what’s really going on. A gentle reality check is fine, but don’t lose your perspective! Talk to a friend, colleague or mentor who can help you regain your balance. The June 28 Capricorn full moon in your optimistic ninth house arrives just in time, helping you regain some hopefulness again.

Key Dates

June 7: Sun-Neptune Square Unreliable or downright flaky colleagues could make Team Taurus feel shaky. If you don’t want all your hard work to unravel, call them out on this. By the same token, you might need to work harder to keep your own focus on the project at hand. Close those social media apps and stay off the shopping sites during this distracting influence.

Love Days: 19, 23 Money Days: 13, 4 Luck Days: 11, 29 Off Days: 8, 21, 26

#taurus #Monthly Forecast #astrology #horoscope #zodiac #taurus monthly

[arituzz]

Famous Last Words 4

-SNOWBAZ-

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10]

Summary: When your family was a wreck and your perfect girlfriend just left you for your irritating classmate, the only way to carry on was to make a truce with the enemy, right?

OR

High school AU in which Simon and Baz pretend to be boyfriends to save Simon’s love life.

Chapter word count: 4.3k

Rating: T

Tags: High School AU, fake boyfriends, mutual pining, fluff, a little bit of angst (later on), music, theater, rock band

Also on AO3

Thank you @velvetnoodle for being my amazing beta :)

Simon loved music.

Growing up with his father didn’t allow him to enjoy music properly, so when he started at Watford High, the Drama Club was one of the things—if not the thing—that made Simon fall in love with the place. Joining the Drama Club and performing musical scenes made him put a name to that strange sensation he had when he was around flowers, or when he remembered something about his mother. It made him feel home.

Simon didn’t love music because he was good at it—which he inexplicably was—or because it was entertaining. Simon loved music the same way the leatherback turtle loved travelling through the oceans. Or the same way a wizard loved magic.

He loved being surrounded by music. Casual, ambient music: People singing in the corridor, someone spontaneously dancing between classes… When Simon sang or danced in a theatre representation, it made him a part of something bigger. No one loved music like Simon did, he was sure about that.

Simon’s music sense wasn’t like Penelope’s. When Simon had asked her how she managed to dance like she did—Penny danced like no one else—she’d described it as having a bottomless well inside her; the energy, the rhythm, the steps, all of that was deep down inside that well; and buckets and buckets of it would draw up for her — as much as she needed, as long as she stayed focused.

Agatha liked music, too. She did ballet and was on the school chorus. But Simon wasn’t sure that she loved it. He knew she liked the Café better than any class at Watford. Simon was under the impression that music sounded less like a passion and more like an obligation to Agatha.

And then there was Baz. Obviously, he was a brilliant musician—he just had to excel at everything he tried. Simon had always known Baz was bloody good at the violin. He used to sneak on him during his violin lessons. “Light a match inside your heart,” he’d heard Baz say to one of his classmates, who was having difficulty. “Then blow on the tinder.” Simon remembered thinking how oddly charming it sounded, coming from Baz. It worked for that student, but it never did for Simon.

For Simon, music was nothing like that. Going onto the stage felt exactly like exploding. Or going nova. Simon didn’t understand the basics of dancing, nor did he use any voice-warming techniques. He just needed to go up there and let himself go off.

Mitali Bunce—Penny’s mum—was the Drama professor, and, every year, she made them perform a different play for the school’s Leavers’ Party. This year it was Grease. Simon had the leading role, along with Philippa Stainton. It was also a tradition to keep it a secret until the day of the play. No, seriously, last year, they were playing Simon’s favourite musical, Oliver!, and Simon got the main character’s role. When Penny’s mother discovered he’d told her about it, she’d made Simon play Fagin. Professor Bunce was dramatic like that. (He never told her that, in the end, he actually enjoyed doing Fagin’s role.)

Penelope hated drama as much as her mum loved it, Simon knew that. But, for some reason, Penny had taken pity on him in first year and, since then, she always helped Simon memorise his lines. He didn’t know how he’d survive this year without her.

Normally, rehearsal coincided with the last hour of football practice—Simon was only able to see half the training session from the school roof. This year, though, they had to start rehearsals one hour later so that Niall, who was also on the football team, could join the Drama Club.

Baz had football practice on Mondays and Wednesdays, and violin lessons on Tuesdays and Thursdays until 6 pm. Simon spent the time with Penny in the library while Baz was in violin class. (Or rather, Penelope forced him to sit for two hours straight while she helped him with homework.) On Mondays and Wednesdays, Penny had dance lessons—thank music—so Simon watched Baz play football until it was time for rehearsal. Then, Baz would drive him home.

Since he’d come back to school, Baz had been trying to hide the fact that he was limping on his left foot. (His best leg, Simon appreciated, thanks to all the years he’d been watching Baz play football.) This year, Baz opted for training his right foot, but, even from the roof, Simon could see him wincing. Simon wondered if Baz’s injury had anything to do with him being in prison. Did he have a fight with another inmate? If he was half as insufferable as a cellmate as he was a deskmate, Simon was certain the answer was ‘yes’. Or maybe it had more to do with the reason he was in jail in the first place. Baz would have to tell him eventually, right? After all, they were boyfriends now, and boyfriends tell each other things like that. Of course they weren’t really going out together but Simon still had the right to know. Otherwise how was he supposed to help him? But Baz was like that; when Simon thought he knew absolutely everything about him, the next day he came and did something that completely threw Simon off. Simon was sure he did it on purpose.

Since first year, Simon liked to draw Baz while he was on the pitch. Except he wasn’t playing football in Simon’s drawings: In one of them, he was running from a chimera; in another, Baz was a magician who could make fire appear in the palm of his hand. He had a whole sketchbook just for Baz.

Penny had told him many times he was obsessed with Baz, Simon had argued he just liked to keep his enemies close. “That doesn’t mean you have to carry them in your school bag,” she’d said.

Simon was curious about what Baz did while he was in rehearsal. Did he just wait in the library? No, Premal—the librarian, and Penelope’s brother—had told him he wasn’t there, when Simon had asked him. Then what? Did he spend the hour smoking on the roof? Yeah, that was most likely it, Simon thought. Of course Premal could also be lying to him, since he was Davy’s pet. But it didn’t matter; whatever Baz did, he always came for Simon when rehearsal ended and then he’d drive him home.

xxx

One Tuesday, Baz’s violin class was cancelled, so he drove Simon home two hours earlier.

Simon’s grades kind of directly depended on those Penelope-imposed “study” sessions, but he couldn’t ask Baz to wait two hours and then drive him home.

“What is it, Snow?” Baz asked, parking the car before the house.

“What?”

Baz stopped the engine and turned to look at Simon. “You’ve been quiet the entire ride.”

Simon shrugged. “I always am.”

“I meant more than usual,” Baz said, pursing his lips. He reclined his elbow on the windowsill of the car and turned his head so that his chin rested on his hand. “Whatever. I’m not interested, anyway.” Baz made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. “Just get out.”

Simon ignored Baz’s last words. “It’s my homework.”

“What about it?”

“Penny always helps me,” Simon said. “But it’s okay. I guess I’ll manage.”

Baz abandoned the window to face Simon again. “No, you won’t,” he said with a sneer. Simon tried to mimic Penny’s patented scowling face, but failed. Because, he knew it. Baz was right. Baz turned his attention towards the steering wheel, grasping it with both his hands, even though the ignition was still turned off—even though he only used one hand to steer it while driving. “I can help you,” Baz murmured.

Simon masked his surprise, his fingers toying with the laces of his hoodie. “Cool.”

After exiting the car, Simon opened the door to his home, hoping his dad wasn’t there. Baz looked hesitantly from the doorstep.

“Are you… afraid of my house or something?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Snow,” Baz growled. “You haven’t invited me in.”

Simon chuckled. “What are you, a vampire?” It would make sense, Simon thought. Even though his skin was dark, Baz was unnaturally pale. And his canine teeth were longer than average, so Simon couldn’t be one hundred percent sure they weren’t vampire fangs. Simon imagined himself drawing Baz as a vampire and tried to save that mental image for later.

Baz rolled his eyes. “I’m being fucking polite,” he snapped. “That might also sound like fantasy to you.”

“Alright,” Simon said, holding the door for him. “Please, do come in, milord Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” he parodied, exaggerating a reverence.

“Fuck you, Snow,” Baz said as he walked through the door. “Don’t ever call me Tyrannus again.” He sent a death glare towards Simon’s direction.

Simon burst out laughing until he had to stop to catch his breath.

After that day, Baz ended up at Simon’s every day after school. Except on Fridays, in which Simon helped Ebb with the flower shop and Baz was occupied with band practice.

At first, Baz had enough patience to help Simon with his homework. But Simon had mastered the art of procrastination years ago and their study afternoons soon devolved into drawing afternoons for Simon and violin practice for Baz. (Luckily for Simon’s grades, he still had the study sessions with Penny.)

Listening to Baz playing the violin in his room was like travelling back in time to fifth year. It felt like he was sneaking on him again, as if Simon was witnessing something that wasn’t meant for him. At first, he was awestruck. Simon would pretend to draw while he looked at him stupefied. (He’d also save the mental image of Baz playing the violin so he could draw it later.) Further on, Baz’s music inspired Simon to draw. (Castles, dragons, magical creatures…)

After Baz was long gone, Simon liked to go over all the drawings again before falling asleep, like a lullaby. It was the only way he could actually sleep.

xxx

It was a Sunday morning—or it should have been, but time worked differently for Simon on Sundays, so it was probably past noon—when Simon found himself compiling a mix CD. (Which was unusual for him, as he used his computer to listen to music at home.)

It started as an experiment. He created a new playlist on iTunes and put his favourite songs there. At first there were only songs from Halsey, Troye Sivan and Twenty One Pilots. After that, he added some of the songs from his favourite musicals, plus the songs he had to perform for the school play. He took a blank CD and inserted it into his computer to record it.

Simon paused before clicking the button.

He had another playlist he’d recently made. One named ‘Baz’s songs’. Simon considered mixing both playlists into one CD. But he discarded the idea and pressed ‘burn’.

While the computer did its work, Simon went downstairs to prepare himself a couple of sandwiches for breakfast-lunch-dinner. When he got back to the room, the CD was ready.

Simon picked it. He took a sharpie and named it ‘SIMON’S MIXTAPE’. Then, he put it aside and recorded another one. This time with both Simon’s and Baz’s playlists.

When it was ready, he named it and proceeded to listen to it while he drew.

When he woke up the next day, Simon realised he’d fallen asleep with the mixtape on. That meant Davy hadn't come back home the night before, either. It wasn't unusual—he used to stay away for extended periods of time when Simon was younger. But Simon kind of had hoped those days were long past. Even though Simon knew it was foolish, there was a part of him that missed his father, that still wanted to do father-son things with Davy. But the facts were there: Simon barely knew him; he saw him more like a distant relative than a father figure. And, it was kind of too late to change that now.

Yeah, Simon couldn’t help thinking how things could have gone differently, but that was pointless now. Plus, he had other people he cared about. Like Ebb and Penny; or Rhys and Gareth; even Trixie. Also, Agatha.

And yes, maybe Baz too.

xxx

On Friday, Simon overslept. He’d been drawing for hours the night before and he didn’t hear the first two alarms going off. He wasn't running late—Simon was never late to school—but he wasn't as early as usual, and Simon feared he might miss breakfast. So, when he realised it was raining outside, he didn't bother to go back for an umbrella and just began to walk fast.

"Snow." Simon turned around to see Baz's car stopped in front of the traffic lights. "Don't you have an umbrella?" Baz's window was zipped down and the rain soaked his leather jacket.

Simon ran a hand through his wet hair. "Yeah... At home."

"Of fucking course," Baz said, massaging his temples. "Get in."  

"It's okay, I..." Simon started, raising his hood and putting it over his head.

The traffic lights had turned green, but Baz was still stopped. "Just get in, Snow."

A few of the cars behind Baz's started honking at him. Baz gave them the finger.

"Okay," Simon said, hopping onto the car.

Baz murmured something Simon couldn't hear and rolled the window up. He slotted the gear into drive and, with the delicacy of a nine-toed troll, he hit the accelerator and drove all the way to school without saying another word.

xxx

Breakfast was the second best thing about Watford. Simon had to thank Baz for driving him to school that Friday, otherwise he would’ve probably missed it. And a day without morning scones was bound to be a terrible one.

Simon's life at school hadn't changed much since he’d started dating Baz. Sure, people posed a lot of questions at the beginning, but the novelty soon died out and they were left alone. (Baz's sneers might have had something to do with it, too.)

“Simon, your hoodie is soaking wet,” Penny pointed out from beside him.

“Right,” said Simon, finishing his scone. He yanked at his hoodie and pulled it off. The shirt he was wearing below moved up, as it always did, exposing the skin over Simon’s hips. He jerked it down and resumed eating the buttered scones.

Baz swallowed, looking weirdly at him. Simon assumed it was because of his messy hair, so he tried—unsuccessfully—to flatten it.

Penny had the ghost of a smile on her face, like she was remembering a joke she’d been told a long time ago.

The rest of the school day went rather smoothly and it was soon time to go to the flower shop.

xxx

“Snow,” Baz called, tossing his cig onto the—already dry—ground of the parking lot. “Where’s your hoodie?”

Simon noticed it was the first time he’d seen Baz smoking that day. He didn’t like him smoking at all, but he had to admit that was progress. Big progress, in fact. “Uhm…” Simon paused, stopping before the Jaguar. “It was so wet that I left it in the locker,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “And then I sort of forgot about it.”

“How could you forget it? It’s fucking December,” Baz spat, as he searched for the car keys inside the pockets of his dark jeans. “We can go back.”

Simon lifted his shoulders into a shrug. “I’m always warm,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

Baz opened the door but didn’t get inside. “You walk home after work, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yeah…” Simon replied, from the other side of the car. He leaned against the Jaguar and folded his arms on the roof, resting his chin on them. Even though Simon knew Baz had band practice until late in the night, it looked as though he was going to offer driving him home after work.

Instead, Baz said, “For fuck’s sake, you’re shivering.”

“I’m not...” Simon wanted to protest but he realised it was true. “I—”

Baz took off his jacket. “Here,” he said, casually tossing it to Simon. “Take my jacket.”

Simon knew it was only a jacket—only three words: take my jacket—but it felt like so much more. Baz never lent his jacket to anyone. Not even Niall.

Simon put it on, less because he was cold and more because he wanted to know how it felt, and got into the car. “Thanks.”

Maybe it was because of this whole cold vibe Baz gave off, or maybe because he hadn’t noticed until then that the jacket was wool-lined on the inside, but Simon had expected it to feel cold. It didn’t. At all.

Simon zipped it all the way up, slyly breathing in that familiar smell of cedar and bergamot. He looked at Baz while he drove, taking in his black T-shirt and the way the muscles in his arms rippled as he steered.

Baz was fucking fit. He’d always been. And, Simon had to admit, he did look cool. But, even though driving his father’s Jaguar made him look bloody attractive, Simon still prefered him on the bike.

Shoving that thought away, Simon turned the music volume down and questioned Baz about something that had been bugging him since Baz had come back: “Why are you limping?”

“None of your business,” Baz spat, sparing him a quick glance.

“Is that why you don’t ride your bike anymore?” Simon asked.

“I told you, it’s being repaired.”

“So long?”

“Yes, Snow,” Baz said, irritated. “I hate to burst your stupid little bubble, but things take fucking time.”

“Can you just—”

“No, I can’t,” Baz cut him.

“Can you stop being mean for just one second?”

“Then stop giving me reasons.”

Simon sighed in frustration and kept silent for the rest of the ride.

It wasn't until Baz had the car parked in front of the flower shop that Simon remembered the mixtape. He'd put it into his schoolbag on Monday before leaving for school, and had forgotten about it.

“I made this,” he said, taking it out and passing it to Baz. “So we can listen to it in your car.”

“No way,” Baz said, but took it anyway. “Simon and Baz’s mixtape?” he read. “What the fuck?”

Simon shrugged. “My favourite songs… and yours… mixed.”

“We’re not a couple, Snow.”

“But we are a couple. Technically.”

Baz discarded the mixtape in the glove compartment, with the rest of his CD’s. “Only in front of others,” he said.

Simon was playing with the zip of the jacket. “Imagine Agatha gets in your car.”

“Why would Wellbelove get on my father’s car?”

“I don’t know.” Simon shrugged again. “To take her to her ballet classes?”

“You know that will never happen.”

“But it could happen,” insisted Simon.

“I said no bloody way, Snow. I don’t want to hear your stupid music,” Baz growled, and looked away into the traffic.

“Fine,” Simon said, walking out of the car.

It wasn’t until he entered the flower shop that Simon realised he’d left the mixtape in the car. He turned around to see if Baz was still there but he was already gone.

xxx

“Nice jacket,” Ebb welcomed him as he entered the flower shop. “Is that your boyfriend’s?”

Simon nodded, feeling the heat of a blush tinge his cheeks. “Yeah.”

“You remind me of him.”

“Of Baz?”

“No,” Ebb said, absentmindedly. “Nico.”

“Nico?” Simon asked, confused.

“My brother.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you had a brother.”

Ebb’s eyes were teary. “He left a long time ago.”

“Left? Like, to another country?”

“No, no. He just left to another place.”

“Can you visit him?”

Ebb nodded. “Once a year.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes… Well, let’s not talk about sad things, yeah?” Ebb said, wiping her eyes. “Look at you, you look gorgeous. Fi will love it when I tell her.”

It was remarkably easy for Simon to forget that Ebb was married to a Pitch. She was just too good to be part of that family.

Simon gave her a smile.

Ebb didn’t talk anymore about her wife nor her brother that day.

They worked on Baz’s gift: A pot with basil and rose seeds planted in a way that, given time and proper care, would grow to form a heart shape. Since the pot was made of chalkboard, Ebb asked Simon to write something nice for Baz.

“Like what?” Simon asked. He grabbed a chalk and wrote the first thing that came to mind: Flowers grow here.

“Try writing something from your heart,” Ebb said, patting Simon’s shoulder. “It doesn’t need to be now, you can always change it later.”

Simon couldn’t tell her it was all fake. That there was really no valid reason for them to make that gift for Baz. Although Simon supposed he could give it to him as a thank you present for being his fake boyfriend.

xxx

Eventually, Simon took off the jacket. As he arrived home, he considered the best place to keep it. It should meet two conditions: a) Easy access. (For he was going to use it frequently.) b) Hidden from—Baz’s—sight. (For he was never going to return it.)

The wardrobe would do, he decided.

Simon began the bad habit of wearing the jacket all the time when he was home. Davy didn’t ask him about it, he probably didn’t even notice. But that wasn’t new. The strangest thing was that Baz hadn’t asked Simon to give it back.

Simon was practicing one of the scenes he had to do for the school play, when the doorbell rang, indicating that Baz had arrived. It was four in the afternoon, like every Saturday.

When Simon got to the door, Baz greeted him with a snort.

“What?” Simon asked.

“You’re a terrible Danny Zuko,” Baz scoffed.

Simon wondered if Baz had heard him practicing but he knew he couldn’t be heard from the street. Unless he had like, super-hearing powers or something. Then it dawned on him he was wearing the jacket and that might be the reason behind Baz’s conclusion. Shit, he mentally cursed.

“Wait,” Simon said when they were already upstairs, before entering his room. “How do you know?”

“How do I know what?”

“The play.”

Baz stopped on his tracks and swallowed. “Because you told me, obviously.” He looked at the wall.

No, Simon hadn’t told him. He hadn’t even told Penny. (He wouldn’t risk a repeat of last year.) It had to be someone else who’d told Baz. Was it Niall? What if Baz was flirting with Philippa and she’d accidentally revealed it? Should Simon be jealous about that?

Simon decided that yes, he should be jealous if Baz was flirting around with other people. They were supposed to be boyfriends.

Baz settled on Simon’s bed and started silently doing homework. Since Baz already knew about the play, Simon sat on his desk and continued practicing his lines, hoping he wouldn’t mind.

xxx

“That’s cool baby, you know…” Simon paused, failing to remember what came next. “You know…”

“You know how it is, rockin’ and rollin’ and whatnot,” Baz finished for him, exasperation creeping into his voice. “You’ve gone over this line ten times now.”

“Yeah, sorry…” Simon apologised, scratching the back of his neck.

“How can you have the leading role with such poor memory?”

“Guess I’m good,” Simon shrugged. “I’m better when someone helps, though.”

“No,” Baz said, dryly. “I’m not— No,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Just, no.”

“It’s fine. You don’t have to,” said Simon, and resumed working on the scene.

After ten minutes of Simon struggling with that same line, Baz gave up. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said, standing up and abandoning his homework. “Fine, I’ll fucking help you.”

When they were done with Simon’s lines, Baz resumed working on his homework. Simon took his sketchbook—his regular one—and started drawing.

It was easier for him to draw while Baz was playing the violin, he discovered it inspired him greatly. But Baz hadn’t brought the violin today.

Simon started his computer and opened iTunes and put the playlist he’d used for the mixtape. “Do you mind?” he asked Baz.

Baz sighed. “Whatever.”

Simon started drawing a little boy playing with a red ball. As he progressed with the drawing he realised it was himself when he was younger. He didn’t like it. Not finding any more inspiration, Simon closed the sketchbook and put it away.

When he looked back at Baz, Simon almost fell off his chair: Baz was lying on Simon’s bed, his face was half buried in his textbook, his hair hanging loose. His stomach rose and fell in a soft rhythm. He was sleeping. Cherry and Scone were one at each side of him.

Cute, Simon thought. And then, without thinking it, he took out his other sketchbook—the one with drawings of Baz—and began drawing the scene before him.

After some minutes, Baz made a soft sound and Simon jumped, fearing he would wake up and catch him drawing him. (Simon was certain that if that happened, Baz would finally fulfill his threat of giving Simon a Viking’s funeral.)

Baz didn’t wake up, but Simon hid the sketchbook anyway. He grabbed his phone and, very quietly, took a photo of Baz and the cats. For later.

Simon tried without success to do some homework before Baz woke up.

“Snow,” Baz said, rubbing his eyes. He was visibly angry. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I tried,” Simon lied.

“Fuck, I have to go,” Baz cursed, gathering his things in a rush.

“Where?” Simon asked.

Baz cocked an eyebrow at him. “Home?”

“Right,” said Simon. “I’ll see you on Monday, then.”

“Bye, Snow.”

After Baz left, Simon resumed the drawing of him and the cats until he fell asleep.

-TBC-

(snowbaz fic masterlist)

#snowbaz #carry on fanfiction #snowbaz fic #thanks for reading

[unkindnessofone]

S.O.S

An anon suggested Daphne x Connor drabble and this came to mind. I was listening to Abba when I was editing this, hence the title.

Out of the corner of his eye, as one of his parents' closest friends was peppering him with questions, Connor saw Daphne creep up to the front door. She was a small, but speedy mess of hair and skintight knit sweater in different shades of blue. Connor held up a finger to excuse himself and slip away. His parents had thrown together a going away party for him since he was hitting the road in two days for his first tour, opening for a musician he deeply admired. Connor loved the attention and could talk about music all day with anyone, but the party fell flat to him since Penelope was already gone to Paris. Molly was supposed to come in, but her flight was delayed and now she wasn't arriving until tomorrow. He felt a little cheated. 

"Hey, thanks for coming." Raised to always mind his manners by his forever posh mother, Connor said to his pseudo little sister as soon as his head poked around the corner. He could hear his Uncle Calum howling with laughter in the kitchen, listening close to an anecdote of his dad's, but assumed they came separately. “You got to run?”

"Oh." Eyes wide, surprised by Connor, she stared up at him from her knees and dropped her phone into her pocket as she jumped up. "I'm not going. I was just checking my phone. I left it in my shoes, but - "

"Trying not to check it every two seconds?" Connor smiled all-knowingly. He was glued to his device and had been bad for looking at constantly, checking if Penny posted anything new or if she had texted. He always had a huge crush on the eldest Hemmings kid, but it had grown ten fold since they kissed at the airport. 

"Basically." 

"Expecting somebody?" Connor leaned into the wall to ask, watching as Daphne's eyes moved to look at her sock covered feet with mild sadness. It only occurred to him then and there that she had retreated some since she and March broke up. Penny's brother had forced her to burst like bonfire flames out of her shell, but now that they were no longer together, Daphne was hiding again. 

"No, not really." Her phone vibrated far less since she and March broke up. She didn't know he was hiding away in his room. She assumed that he was out with Raquel Coin or had already moved on to some new girl that was prettier than she found herself. "It's just a habit." Daphne stumbled backward and took a seat on the bottom wooden step of the staircase, resting her arms lazily on both knees. 

"You doing okay?" Out of instinct, he joined her in the stairs.

  "I'm fine." Daphne was just like her mother. It didn't matter if she was in pain, if anyone ever asked she always told them that she was fine. It was as if she thought to be anything else would be an inconvenience to the rest of the world. “Have you heard from Penny?” Daphne figured while she had his attention that she would take advantage of it.

“Yeah. She's good.” Connor stopped himself from babbling on and on about her. “I think she's getting settled in France, looking forward to her Dad leaving.” He chuckled, thinking back to her latest text which was just a series of photos of Luke looking at her sternly in different locations. “You know, Penny stuff...”

“She isn't talking to me right now. I think she's mad that I broke up with March.” With her fingers hooking onto one another and fidgeting around, Daphne admitted with bashful shame.

“He is her brother.” Connor nudged Daphne and whispered as if it was a secret. He shook out his blond fluffy hair and then gripped his fingers through it. “I don't know Penelope to hold a grudge, honestly. I think she's probably just busy.” She was getting settled in a brand new place after all and preparing for school. “You'll hear from her soon.” Connor's voice promised Daphne, feeling confident in what he was saying. Still, he made a mental note to talk to Penny about it and see what was actually going on.

“Everybody's busy now. Molly is in university, Emmeline is modelling in the States, you're going on tour...” Daphne felt as if her world was shrinking in and she was going to be alone with only her guinea pig. It sometimes made her regret dumping March, but she knew that it was important for her to cut ties and have some time to herself. While everyone else seemed to have friends at school or other parts of their life, Daphne felt isolated. She wasn't a natural social butterfly like Emmeline or Connor and people were not drawn to her like they were to the Hemmings children. She wished she could be like Molly who seemed to be prefer to be left to her own devices, who enjoyed being in her own head, but Daphne did enjoy when March introduced her to new people or when he would invite her out to join one of his many groups. She wasn't even like Iden who chose to pull away from people, Daphne just felt like she was totally by herself.

Connor watched Daphne for a moment, thinking she looked something like a real life Thumbelina on the bottom step and then threw his perpetually sunkissed arm around her. He was lucky to have a big sister his whole life who looked out for him. He tapped into his inner Molly and pulled Daphne close, forcing her to bow her head of thick brown hair onto his warm shoulder.

“I'm not good at anything like any of you...” She continued speaking before Connor could offer her an open invitation to text him anytime. The only reason the two of them didn't interact much was because one of them was almost always with Penelope before, so it was unspoken that they would be hanging out through her. “I’m stuck here.”

Daphne couldn’t help, but feel anxious. It was easy to follow behind March and trust that everything would work out. He was popular and rarely let on that he was just flying by the seat of his pants. Now, that she was truly alone, without her boyfriend, and her favorite people away, Daphne had no idea what she was going to do. Everyone else had a path or some dream to follow, but she felt blank and empty.

“That's not true.” Connor shook his head and moved back so he could feel look her over. “You just don't believe in yourself.” He always saw that as the main difference between the people in Daphne's life and herself. They all had confidence in themselves. Nobody told Connor he could write songs, he just wanted to and did. Penelope had been instructed to never surf again, so she channeled her energy into cooking despite how many sloppy desserts and burnt meals she put together. Emmeline was born thinking she could take on the world and, therefore, she did. Daphne might have liked to dance, but she always felt like she was bad at it. It never mattered what any instructor or choreographer told her.

“You sound like your dad.” Daphne laughed and knocked her head against the wall, away from Connor.

“No, I sound like your dad.” Connor joked back, playfully nudging her in the ribs again. “Are you hungry? I want to get more shrimp.” His mom had the party catered and, without his Uncle Luke around, that meant there was plenty of opportunities to nab some sambuca fried prawns. Connor jumped up first and offered Daphne his hand, but she picked herself up on her own and followed him to the kitchen where Ashton and Simone loudly celebrated their arrival.