#the ten sleep cemetery

[bellaxgiornata]

List of Installments for Falling For the Devil

Warnings/tags: 18+; series contains lots of smut, fluff, angst, humor

Summary: This is a very long series/collection of one-shots about a nervous/awkward journalist Reader meeting, falling for, and dating Matt Murdock. Meant to feel like a realistic look into dating Matthew Murdock and all the sweet, vulnerable, sexy, and dark sides that come with him. Reader also gradually gains more confidence in and out of the bedroom as the relationship progresses.

List of Installments

Part One: "The Night You Met"

Part Two: "The One-Sided Pining"

Part Three: "The Time Daredevil Saved You"

Part Four: "The Night You Almost Kissed"

Part Five: "The Wedding Day"

Part Six: "The Wedding Night"

Part Seven: "The Post-Wedding Brunch"

Part Eight: "The First Date"

Part Nine: "The Pool Game"

Part Ten: "The Growing Insecurity"

Part Eleven: "The Night Together"

Part Twelve: "The Week You Tried to Avoid Matt"

Part Thirteen: "The First Time He Walked You Home"

Part Fourteen: "The Time Matt Got Jealous"

Part Fifteen: "The Vulnerable Side of Matt"

Part Sixteen: "The Time You Saved Daredevil"

Part Seventeen: "The Revelation in the Rain"

Part Eighteen: "The Visit to Fogwell's"

Part Nineteen: "The Time You Almost Told Him"

Part Twenty: "The 'I Told You So'"

Part Twenty-One: "The Time You Did Tell Him"

Part Twenty-Two: "The Night You Couldn't Sleep"

Part Twenty-Three: "The Day of Phone Tag"

Part Twenty-Four: "The Devil and the Baker"

Part Twenty-Five: "The Leather Couch"

Part Twenty-Six: "The Big Win"

Part Twenty-Seven: "The Grocery Run"

Part Twenty-Eight: "The Early Morning Wake Up"

Part Twenty-Nine: "The Questions Over Coffee"

Part Thirty: "The Introduction at Clinton Church"

Part Thirty-One: "The Flight to Chicago"

Part Thirty-Two: "The Night He Couldn't Sleep"

Part Thirty-Three: "The Thanksgiving Dinner"

Part Thirty-Four: "The Ex Encounter"

Part Thirty-Five: "The Very Bad Day"

Part Thirty-Six: "The Cozy Night In"

Part Thirty-Seven: "The Bad Dream"

Part Thirty-Eight: "The Black Suit"

Part Thirty-Nine: "The Secret Santa"

Party Forty: "The Secrets in Your Suitcase"

Party Forty-One: "The First Half of the Trip"

Part Forty-Two: "The Argument in the Hotel Room"

Part Forty-Three: "The End of the Trip"

Part Forty-Four: "The Christmas Eve Party"

Party Forty-Five: "The Christmas Dinner"

Part Forty-Six: "The Night of Christmas"

Part Forty-Seven: "The Devil in Need"

Part Forty-Eight: "The Perfume"

Part Forty-Nine: "The Cemetery Visit"

Part Fifty: "The Interview"

Part Fifty-One: "The Devil's Wrath"

Part Fifty-Two: "The Breaking Point"

Party Fifty-Three: "The Downward Spiral"

Part Fifty-Four: "The Impossible Friendship"

Part Fifty-Five: "The Disheartening Valentine's Day"

Part Fifty-Six: "The Nightmare"

Part Fifty-Seven: "The Rough Conversation"

Part Fifty-Eight: "The Aftermath"

Part Fifty-Nine: "The Necessary Conversation"

Part Sixty: "The Long Awaited Kiss"

Part Sixty-One: "The Things You Didn't Know"

Part Sixty-Two: "The Pinky Promise"

Part Sixty-Three: "The Dinner Party"

Part Sixty-Four: "The Lesson at Fogwell's"

Part Sixty-Five: "The Shower"

Part Sixty-Six: "The Night Out"

Part Sixty-Seven: "The Morning in Bed"

Part Sixty-Eight: "The Sleepover"

Part Sixty-Nine: "The Lunch Date Delay"

Part Seventy: "The Thoughts About the Future"

Part Seventy-One: "The Sleepwalking"

Part Seventy-Two: "The Belated Valentine's"

Part Seventy-Three: "The Easter Sunday"

Part Seventy-Four: "The Boy's Night at Josie's"

Part Seventy-Five: "The Hangover"

Part Seventy-Six: "The Request"

Party Seventy-Seven: "The Very Frustrating Day"

Part Seventy-Eight: "The Night You Cooked Together"

Part Seventy-Nine: "The Hell Day"

Part Eighty: "The Revisitation of Moving In"

Part Eighty-One: "The Nighttime Visit"

Party Eighty-Two: "The Overload"

Part Eighty-Three: "The Really Bad Idea"

Part Eighty-Four: "The Late Night Snack Hunt"

Part Eighty-Five: "The Romantic Voicemails"

Part Eighty-Six: "The Moving Day"

Part Eighty-Seven: "The Week of Distractions"

Part Eighty-Eight: "The Birthday Brunch"

Part Eighty-Nine: "The Stray"

Part Ninety: "The Ring"

Part Ninety-One: "The Helping Hand"

Part Ninety-Two: "The Recurring Nightmare"

Part Ninety-Three: "The Unexpected Introduction"

Part Ninety-Four: "The Offer"

Part Ninety-Five: "The Evening of Insecurity"

Part Ninety-Six: "The Quiet Morning at Home" {Coming Soon}

Part Ninety-Seven: "The Rooftop"

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x fem reader #matt murdock series #matt murdock fic #daredevil x female reader #daredevil x reader #fftd #daredevil

[janeaustenbrandysmuggler]

That comma

Or, connections my brain makes when I don't sleep well for over a week because of a cold - read at your own risk :)

"I went to one meeting ten years ago. They were wittering on about the Christmas lights and passed a resolution condemning the improper use of apostrophes on signs in windows." (Mr. Arnold, s2e5)

This line always makes me laugh because I get super twitchy about certain grammar and punctuation errors. But errors happen, and you can usually tell what someone meant vs. what they wrote, so you correct it in your mind based on what you presume they meant and move on because there are bigger things to worry about in the world. Right?

Maybe we shouldn't always be so quick to presume and move on, though. Sometimes, things are supposed to be written a certain way for a reason. That reason is important, so we're taught the right way to write that thing. We all learn how to do it, and it's generally not something we screw up because there are consequences for doing it wrong. Like an address, for example. Addresses tell something or someone where to go. Maybe to a pub called The Resurrectionist - that one's at 66 Goat Gate in Edinburgh, right? It said so on the record that Maggie gave Aziraphale:

The Resurrectionist

66, Goat Gate

Edinburgh

Except - there's this annoying little comma in there that I've been ignoring for months. Right after the 66. Exactly where it shouldn't be - not if you're writing a street address. So I'm going to stop ignoring it and ask a question.

Is this actually a street address? I'm not questioning that the pub is in Edinburgh - that's well-established. It's that middle line - 66, Goat Gate - that I'm not sure of anymore. I'm having trouble making excuses for that comma.

If it isn't a street address, then what is it? I'm not sure, and I don't know if we have all the information to figure it out. My sleep-deprived brain has come up with a couple of crazy questions and ideas though. Starting with - what if the Clue is actually multiple Clues? What if we've just been thinking about the pub, but that second line contains a separate clue or clues about Edinburgh, so that Aziraphale Knows Where [He's] Going? (see what I did there?)

These ideas do require an assumption that we shouldn't just take season 2 at face value, but they aren't tied to any specific theories like time loops, dreams, etc.

This post from onceuponathyme about references to the number 66 in the show and promo posters, and gallup24's comment that the press pass in Newspaperman!Aziraphale's hat also has the number 66 on it got me thinking about whether the "address" and the hat are meant to be connected. The references to the number 66 could be an easter egg - the Book of Revelations is the 66th book of the Bible. But is it an in-show clue, too? Is the 66 on Everyday single telling Aziraphale to wear it on his hat, maybe as a signal to someone? ("The clarinet, it makes beautiful music.")

Moving on to Goat Gate. It could still be the name of a road. I have two other ideas though:

We've already seen goats turned into crows. Gate is an old term that can mean road or street. Goat Gate = Crow Road? (I don't know that I love this, but I'll put it out there anyway.)

There's also the symbolism of goats tied to Hell, Satan, and Crowley in particular - drconstellation has a lovely meta about sheep vs goats, so I'm not going to go any farther into that. But I do want to stay on Crowley, and the second place we see Aziraphale - the cemetery.

Not quite this, but I can find a gif for just about every other part of the scene except for the line I'm looking for. The one where after a bunch of hilarious noises, he says, "Do I sound like a goat?"

And then, a short while later...

The ground opens up (a gate to Hell?), and Crowley disappears, pulled down to Hell. And then we get one continuous shot of Aziraphale turning around in that spot that starts in 1827 and ends in present day.

We still don't know exactly why Aziraphale went to the cemetery. Maybe "Goat Gate" is the clue that sent him there?

One final thing I noticed in that episode that feels a little off to me now - Crowley's reaction when Aziraphale calls and asks him if he remembers Mr. Dalrymple. "Oh yeah, not a doctor, a mister! Whatever happened to him?" It's surprisingly normal and relaxed, considering what happened at the end of the night, isn't it?

#sleep-deprived meta-ing #good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #good omens clues #good omens analysis #good omens 1827 #the resurrectionists #aziraphale #crowley

[eufezco]

VECNA'S CURSE || STEVE HARRINGTON X FEM!HARGROVE!READER

REQUEST: hi can u please do an imagine based off of the ‘dear billy’ episode where the reader is billy’s biological sister? (same age as max)

A/N: I've omitted the reader being the same age as Max because I needed to do this about Steve. Hope you don't mind. 🫶🏻 english isn't my first language

Steve was anxious. He hadn't left your side since you discovered that you were cursed by Vecna. Sleeping with you, driving you around, lying on your bed while you studied. Always having an eye on you. There wasn't a moment in the day when you were alone. And now there he was, just watching you from the distance. You were sitting in front of the grave of your brother and Steve felt powerless, like he couldn't do anything for you from his car. Somehow you convinced him to drive you across the town. The convincing thing being you threatening him that if he didn't do it, you'd get a lawyer and accuse him of kidnapping. One of his hands was on the car window, his fingers tapping nervously and his other one inside the pocket of his jacket, crumpling up the letter you gave him. Steve thought about why you gave him that letter. As much as you tried to hide it, he noticed the sadness and fear in your eyes when you handed him the letter as if you were saying goodbye to him. He couldn't take it anymore.

"All right, it's been long enough." Steve opened the door of his car and got out. Dustin, Max and Lucas looking at each other. "Steve, just give her some time."

"I have, alright? I'm calling it. She wants to get a lawyer, she can." Steve walked to you, his feet moving quickly across the cemetery lawns as he approached you. You were sitting with your legs crossed, holding another letter in your hands. Your eyes scanning the text and reading it out loud. "Okay, it's been enough, y/n, we're leaving now." Steve stood behind you, being able to read from there on the paper the words 'Dear Billy'. He was sorry to interrupt this moment, but he would be even more sorry if something happened to you.

"Please, Steve." You stopped reading, annoyed. "We're leaving." He repeated, making you roll your eyes. You didn't need to turn around to know that they weren't leaving, that it'd been Steve's nerves that walked him to you. "It's not even ten minutes since we-"

"It's been long enough."

You didn't show him any sign of annoyance, your body was tense but it wasn't something he could notice, neither your eyes closed and your jaw clenched. You just wanted to finish reading the letter you wrote for your brother and you'd go back to Steve. You weren't asking for anything else. "Steve, please. I'm just sitting here. I'm not doing anything else. I'm just sitting and I can feel your eyes on me from your car. I'm sure you can spend another five minutes of your life doing that."

Steve took a deep breath. Of course he could do that, he could be watching you for the rest of his days. "You've been glued to my ass anyways for the past few days, five more minutes is nothing." Glued to your ass? That's what you thought he'd been doing? Just following you around?

"Glued to your ass?"

"Come on, you don't even leave me alone to talk to my dead brother—"

"Yeah, precisely because I don't want you to end up like him!" None of you said anything for a couple of seconds. You playing with the letter and Steve waiting for you to say something else or to just stand up and get into the car. You did none of that, thinking about what Steve just said, not upset anymore. Thinking about the day that Billy died, and the way Steve held you strongly between his arms when you saw your brother dying in front of your eyes. Your screams and cries still buzzing in his ears as you tried to escape his grip and run to Billy. He didn't let you go. Max was there that day too, the girl completely paralyzed, not being able to do anything for you as she couldn't keep her eyes off Billy. She still feels guilty. "Just give me— five minutes. It's all I'm asking for. Please." Your head was down, your fingers still holding the paper. One of Steve's hands rested on his hips while he ran the other one over his face. "Five minutes, y/n."

He went back to his car shaking his head, not knowing why he agreed. You seemed not to realize the danger you were in. He leaned against the vehicle. "Five minutes." Steve stated before Lucas, Max and Dustin could ask. Max huffed and shared a look with Steve, him showing her a grimace that let her know that he did everything he could, but you were so stubborn, they both knew that. They waited in silence, Steve's eyes moving from his watch to you and vice versa. When the watch hands read five minutes, he started walking towards you again. Max was ready to come for you if Steve would've let one more second pass. Dustin had never seen his friend like this, so paranoid. Not even when they almost died in the Russian base. And it was all because of you, Steve didn't care about himself, he cared about nobody else when it came to you.

"Okay, y/n. Five minutes. We're leaving." He got no response from you. Steve kneeled, his heart almost stopped beating.

"Y/n?" Your eyes were white, almost rolling to the back of your head, Steve shook your paralyzed body. "Hey, y/n, wake up." He called your name again, louder this time putting Max, Lucas and Dustin on alert. "Y/n, wake up!" Steve clapped his hands in front of your face in complete desperation. They ran to you when they saw Steve fall to his knees, shaking your shoulders and calling your name unstopping. They kneeled at both sides of Steve, yelling things like 'You gotta get outta there!' and "Can you hear me?" Steve twisted one of his fists in Dustin's t-shirt while he used his other hand to point at his car. "Call Nancy and Robin! Go get them! Call Nancy and Robin!" You couldn't feel Steve shaking your body and you couldn't hear his voice calling you either. You were lost and scared, you were walking backwards as Billy got closer to you every time, blood dripping from his mouth and chest. You shook your head at his words, his cold thumb stroking your cheek.

"You know, I think there's a part of you, buried somewhere deep, that wanted me to die that day. That was even relieved. Happy."

"Billy, no, that's not true."

"That's why you let Harrington stop you. It's okay, you can admit it now." Billy then started reading you like a book, as if he was there at nights when you couldn't sleep thinking about him, about how he died. If you had arrived earlier at Start Court, you could've stopped him. Tears started rolling down Billy's cheeks, every step he took forwards you was filled with rage. "And why late at night, you have sometimes wished to follow me. Follow me into death. That's why I'm here y/n. To end your suffering, once and for all." You kept walking backwards until you fell on your back from the platform where his grave was. When you looked over at Billy again he wasn't there anymore.

Dustin took your walkman and all your tapes that Steve had in his car and ran to where you were, falling to the ground and so the tapes in his hands. "What's her favorite song?" Dustin looked at Max and Steve whose hands were again on your cheeks. "What?! What is this?!"

"Robin said if she listens- It's too much to explain now! What's her favorite song?!" Dustin asked again.

Steve thought about it for a couple of seconds. Music was basically your life, in your room none of the four walls could be seen because of all your posters. Madonna, Blondie, David Bowie, The Beatles... He could remember you dancing around your room, taking his hands and dragging him to dance with you to the sound of...

"Take On Me! It's Take On Me by A-ha!" All of them started looking for that tape with shaking hands, Dustin being the one who found it, and immediately handed it to Max so Lucas could put it inside the walkman.

Steve placed the headphones in your ears and played your favorite song. "Come on, y/n. Come on, baby." Steve analyzed your face, looking at any sign that you were back. He cupped both of your cheeks, your eyes still white giving him goosebumps but he was far from letting you go. You needed to come back. You were running as fast as you could, trying to escape the monster your brother turned into but all of a sudden you were trapped by his long vines and almost choking as one of them wrapped strongly around your throat, your arms tied up too. Chrissy was there and Nancy's friends too.

The melody in your ears opened a gate, you could see Steve completely desperate, his hands on both sides of your face, a scared expression on Max's as she fought the urge to cry. Dustin was by his side, the same look on his face and Lucas was pacing around with his hands behind his head. Vecna could see them too.

"They can't help you, y/n." The vine around your neck tightened up, making you gasp for air. Vecna held up one of his hands, the long fingers aiming at your face. Steve, Max, Dustin, and Lucas fell backwards when your body started to levitate above their heads. Their eyes were wide open looking at you, they were frozen. Steve was the first one to react, standing on his feet and calling your name again. Lucas, Max and Dustin were quick to react after Steve. Steve's hands flew to the back of his head. It was his fault, he shouldn't have left you alone, much less there. Your eyes closed as Vecna's hands got closer to your face.

Fuck, you needed to do this for them. You remembered two years ago going trick-or-treating with your Max's new friends, Dustin, Lucas, Will, and Mike, they were so small and their ghostbusters' costumes were so cute. Max looking so badass with the Michael Myers costume you bought for her. You remembered being in the bleachers a few days ago rooting for Lucas when he scored the deciding point. You remembered Dustin asking you and Steve to help him to get ready for the Snow Ball, you remembered Steve leaning to kiss your lips for the first time that night too, and how flustered he looked afterwards. You remembered helping Max to fix her hair for the Ball and to choose an outfit too. Billy stood behind you two for a couple of seconds as you did, a peaceful look on his face that surprised both Max and you. He never liked Max, and he liked even less that you liked her. He never understood why you were so protective of her, but you knew your brother, you knew how bad he could be. You remembered a little Max behind you as you fought your brother for treating her that way, her tiny fists squeezing your long skirt between them. Her big blue eyes looked up at you as you defended her, shouting at Billy and him shouting back at you, Max realizing for the first time that you were her sister, not just the daughter of her mom's boyfriend. She was so scared of Billy, but she grew up and learned how to face him in the best way possible, ignoring him as much as she could. You remembered Max's face when you bought for her birthday her first skate.

After Billy's death, you stayed with Max and her mom in Hawkins. Your dad couldn't stand being there without Billy and he started to drink and get into bad fights with Max's mom so he left. You thanked he didn't drag you with him because you didn't think you could've survived him without Billy.

Max, Lucas, Dustin, Steve. As much as you thought you deserved to die, you couldn't do that to them.

Vecna's long fingers were brushing your face, but you couldn't give up, not yet. You managed to free one of your hands from his vines, you grabbed a hold of the ones going up his neck and pulled them out. The monster trembling on his feet and grunting as you fell to the ground. You ran to your friends as fast as you could, avoiding the objects falling from the sky straight to you, and you were so close to the gate, so close to Steve, you could now hear his voice calling your name.

You gasped and your eyes went back to their natural color, your body falling to the cemetery ground. At first, you tried to escape the hands that tried to hold you, scared and looking around anxiously. Your breathing was shakingly, your lungs trying to take the oxygen they needed all at once and making you feel dizzy.

"It's me, y/n. It's Steve. You're okay, you're okay." You hid in his body when you could feel the warmth of his hands on you, reassuring you that it was truly him. Steve hugged you against his chest. He squeezed you against him, he needed to feel that you were alive. Your body was cold yet Steve could feel your chest going up and down at a fast pace which reassured him that you were alive. Your breathing was still heavy and fast, just like his. Steve caressed your hair trying to calm you while Dustin had one of his hands on your shoulder, to prove himself that you were okay and Lucas had his head resting on his knees, still thinking about how they almost lost you. Max rested her head on your legs, her tears finally coming out and wetting your jeans. Steve's lips kissed your temple, still mumbling words of comfort. Once again you found yourself in between his arms. Like the day that Billy died.

#stranger things #stranger things fluff #stranger things angst #stranger things smut #stranger things headcanons #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #steve harrington #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington angst #steve harrington smut #steve harrington headcanon #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #billy hargrove #billy hargrove fluff #billy hargrove angst #billy hargrove smut #billy hargrove headcanon #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove imagine

[disillusioneddanny]

Okay okay DPXDC idea!!!

Danny has been acting strange for weeks. Damian, being the attentive and loving boyfriend that he is has decided that it’s up to him to find out what’s wrong with the half ghost. For weeks he spends his time stalking his boyfriend, taking him as best as he can when he can. When he isn’t following Danny behind his back, Damian is doing everything to spoil his boyfriend and make sure that he’s happy.

It’s not working tho! He doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong. Usually he’s an amazing boyfriend but no matter what he does, it just seems as though the ghost king is restless. Danny isn’t sleeping, he’s floating through the halls of their house at all hours of the night. It’s as though the halfa is looking for something. But what? What the hell is Danny looking for? Why isn’t he happy?

One night on patrol, Damian mentions it to his brothers, not sure what else he could do to take care of his boyfriend. He’s usually so good at this. Why isn’t it working?

“His death day is coming up, right?” Todd questions.

“Yes. It will have been ten years since his accident. We have already made plans for what we are going to do to commemorate the event. Why?”

“When it’s my death day I always like to go to my gravestone. I know I’m not there anymore. But it soothes the pits and I dunno the weeks before my death day I get restless.”

“We’ve been together for five years now, Todd. He has never behaved like this in his death day before.”

“I don’t fucking know dude. Maybe since it’s the ten year anniversary it’s striking something in him. Does he have a grave he can visit?”

“No. He never fully died. And he was never buried.”

“Why don’t we hold him a funeral and give him a grave?”

So that’s what the BatFam does! They decide to hold a funeral on Danny’s death day. It’s really more like a memorial service and it’s pretty morbid. But the grin on Danny’s face as his friends and family all take the time to tell their favorite Danny stories makes Damian feel as though he’s the best boyfriend in the world. Manson and Foley both give tear jerking speeches about the day Danny died and how it had hurt them. But that they had also were so proud of the halfa and how far he had come since then.

After the eulogies Damian’s brothers all decide to throw Danny into a casket and bury him, just so the guy can get the full experience. Danny finds it absolutely hilarious and also cathartic as hell. Danny floats out of the casket to find a headstone with his birthday and death day on it. He immediately bursts into tears and pulled Damian into his arms.

“I didn’t realize how empty I felt for so long,” he whispered, face pressed against Damian’s chest. “As fucked up and morbid as this was, it was what I needed. No one ever grieved my death except me. My parents didn’t even grieve, they just wanted to experiment on me.”

“Danny, I grieve your death every single day,” Damian said, running fingers through his beloveds hair. “Every day I think about what you missed out on in life, I grieve the childhood that you lost. I grieve the parents who disowned you. I know for a fact that Manson and Foley grieved, you heard their speeches. Watching you die did a number on them and is something that still effects them. Just remember, though, you are still here and with us.”

Danny pulled back and kisses Damian, effectively embarrassing his boyfriend in front of his friends and family. The vigilante absolutely hated any kind of public displays of affection. “Thank you.”

Every death day after that, Danny and Damian find themselves in the cemetery in front of his gravestone. After a few years, Danny finally finds the courage to tell Damian the full story of how he died. Damian had a rough idea but no one had ever mentioned the full story as to how it happened. It may be fucked up and morbid, but the peace that Danny feels is more important to Damian than any kind of discomfort that he would ever feel.

#Damian Wayne x Danny Fenton #Damian Wayne #danny fenton #danny phantom #batfam #batpham #batman #dc x dp au #dp x dc crossover #Popswriting #popwrites #dis writes #diswrites #pop writes

[zombiequeenblog]

When the Cardinal got the call about the attack on Mouse and the sibling, do you think he reacted sharply over the phone to whomever he spoke with, or cooly responded and waited until he hung up to go ballistic? I’m curious about his initial reaction to the news. 🫢

The Cardinal sat there, alone in an unfamiliar office, and thought about the changes so close at hand. It had been a long time coming, he supposed; the steadily ticking clock on the wall kept his toiling years in the forefront of his mind. All the bustle and the striving, the whole dogged pursuit of his own dark papacy, might actually be soon behind him. Copia relaxed back in his chair for a moment, admittedly irritated at the gentle ticking, but grateful nonetheless for this brief respite. The Ministry could be a tumultuous place, but for now, all was quiet, and he was ready. 

His door was open, and an assistant poked her head in. “My apologies, Your Eminence.. you have a phone call,” she said, gesturing towards the phone upon his current desk. He noticed a light blinking there. “Sister Imperator.”

Giving the girl a nod before she left, shutting the door behind her, he reached out for the receiver. “Pronto, eh… Hello?”

Sister’s voice a bit tinny over the antiquated line. “Cardinal. I trust you’re well?”

“Yes, Your Dark Excellency.” Imperator wouldn’t have called without a reason. “What’s this about?”

“I’m calling about the girl you’ve been tutoring.” The leather of his glove tightened more firmly around the receiver with an audible sound.

“What about her?” Imperator didn’t answer right away, and Copia felt a surge of something like a panic forming deep in his chest. “Sister—”

“Oh, she’s quite all right, Cardinal. Don’t worry, honestly.” Don’t worry…

“What—”

“She…” Her voice sounded pained, and he heard her take a little breath. “There was a fair bit of trouble up in the old cemetery today. Some kind of a transient was… bothering her and another girl. They’re a bit rattled, naturally… fought him off and ran. Nothing beyond a mere scuffle happened, they assured me, but…”

“I’ll be there shortly.” He could feel the blood rushing in his head, and he fought to remain calm.

“Your Eminence, you do understand what you’re meant to accomplish over there?”

“I do, Sister.” He let the weight of his decision hang for a moment. “I should be able to manage arriving back at the abbey… tomorrow at the latest.”

“The girl is perfectly fine here; a few abrasions… I only thought you’d like to know as a courtesy. Considering the time you’ve spent together.”

A few… abrasions. “Please expect me tomorrow, Sister. Thank you.”

“Cardinal.”

“Yes?” The word came out heavy with concealed rage.

“She is perhaps not perfectly fine. If I’m being honest with you.”

He hung up the receiver without another word, and he watched his hand shake, threatening to splinter the plastic. Taking a steely breath, he extricated his fingers from the thing, and then he methodically began to pack up his desk. As he worked, measured and silent beneath it, the soft and steady ticking of the clock on the wall threatened to drive him insane; a horrible reminder of how far he was from her. This was hell, truly; right here in the passionlessly beating heart of the Satanic Ministry. Copia gulped, fighting the hot fury rising inside him, the urge to retch out the pit of ice settling in his stomach. He wouldn't waste any time; he would not give in to his inner torment here. How was she faring with her own?

When he was done, he reached out for the phone again, his hand now steady.

“I want a car waiting for me downstairs. Ten minutes.”

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

On his way down the hall to her room he bumped into Terzo, exiting his papal chambers.

“How is Mouse?” Copia queried, without thinking.

“Who?”

“The girl!” he snapped, ready to lose it.

“Shhh…” Terzo was carefully shutting his door, “Sophie’s still sleeping…”

“The other girl! I hear she’s injured? Why aren’t you with her?”

“I only have one dick, Cardinal.”

Copia pondered on how exactly his life would change if he snapped Terzo’s neck right there in the hall. 

Terzo chuckled for a second at his seething expression, before getting serious again. “She’s got a nasty scrape on her head, poor thing. I tucked her in earlier, no fucking involved, Cardinal… She’s resting, says she’s fine, but…” Terzo frowned further. “She’s quite shaken up, I believe, contrary to what she’ll tell you.”

Not bothering to converse any further, Copia continued on down the hall. When he finally reached the door to her dear little room he paused for a second, gathering his scattered thoughts. 

It was darkening inside, and he let his eyes adjust for a moment, though it was hardly needed. He knew the room well; how many times had he let himself in here, just to look upon her? How many times had he done much more than look? 

She lay on the bed, curled up in a fretful slumber, and the icy rage he had carried all the way here to lay at her feet began to melt at the piteous sight of her. His poor sweet Mouse! 

Reaching out, he arranged her blanket a bit more snugly around her, and he noticed then what she was clutching in her fingers; a swathe of red that left his swelling heart bleeding. He lay down beside her. 

He wanted to hold her close, desperately, but he would not yet allow himself that gift. She needed to sleep; she needed to be safe. She needed to be loved. And for all the ways he had failed her, he could at least do that, effortlessly and beyond severe. He would love her beyond his last breath, he thought, watching over her precious ones, her fragile chest rising and falling softly.

After some time, he noticed her begin to stir, and eventually she reached out for her light. 

“Dolce,” he said, gently. She whirled around, and the look in her dewy eyes at the sight of him made him want to weep. 

Finally, he held her. 

link to ao3

#ask box #anon ask #thank you dear anon #sadglo #sadglo: none could compare #sadglo part 16 chapter 4 #I hope you enjoy

[redbird-tf]

Graveyard pickup

nightwing x (platonic) reader

Summary: Dick's simple school pickup mission takes a twist when he finds himself searching for you in a graveyard.

Notes: really tried to capture his caring and brother characteristics from the comics (fluff)

Word count: 804

Warning: talk of death

“MaStEr DicK i NeEd A faVoR” dick mocked as he stood against his car in the empty park lot. Alfred had asked dick to pick you up from school as he was running late from picking up Damien and Bruce was on one of his many “missions”

You were the newest addition to the batfamily, you had only been around for two months. he had met you a few times in uniform and maybe twice at the manor. That being said he was a little reluctant to take the favor, but hell, he had been through this more than 3 times, and if Alfred asked anything dick would do it.

The task was simple enough; class gets out at 5:30, stand next to the pull to the left hand side of the school, you’ll come out five to ten minutes after. Simple. 5:30 rolled around and groups of students filled out, dicks eyes shot around trying to spot you but no site of you just yet. After 10 minutes most kids had left and you were still no where in sight and at 15 minutes he was the only one standing outside. “you told her id be here, right?” Dick questioned holding hjs phone to his ear “yes master dick” “and you said left hand side correct?” He smiled through his words “master dick is something wrong?” Alfred asked. “Noo, i think shes walking out right now, gotta go” he said quickly hanging up.

He sighed as he leaned against his car, dialing another number “Hey Babs, you wouldn’t have already put a tracker on your phone would you?” He asked nervously. “I have” she replied, “could you ping me her last location?” He asked in his nicest tone “Sure…may I ask why?” She asked with a little worry “i was supposed to pick her up from school but shes nowhere to be seen, i just want to check things out before making a big deal out of it.” Dick explained “you don't want to tell Batman you lost his kid” Babs stated. “Can't a man want two things?” He remarked making Babs laugh. “Ok, her last location was Gotham cemetery” The tone immediately changed. “I'll go check it out, thank you, Babs”

It didnt take dick long to arrive as the cemetery was only a few roads down. Stepping into the cemetery was completely silent, the only sound being the autumn leaves cracking under his feet. He walked down the graveyard looking for anything out of place. It wasn’t until he got to the back did he see you laying beside a grave, he sighed in relief.

He made his way to your sleeping figure and knelt examining the grave, he didn’t receive the first name but knew the last name was also yours. Dick thought he knew about your family tragedy, but not well enough. His gaze came back to you, he gently placed his hand on your shoulder, your eyes shot open, “hey” he greeted “Hey” you replied groggily. “I was supposed to pick you up from school, kind of difficult if you’re not there” he half-joked. “I'm sorry” you apologized sitting up. Silence fell between you two and dick felt he had to be the one to break it “So, who is this?” He asked trying to be as sensitive as possible. “My sibling” you stated blankly “i didn't know you had any siblings” dick replied “They passed before… before everything else happened” you explained standing up. “I'm sorry i left without telling you” you apologized as you both started walking to his car.

“Don't worry about it,” he said with a small smile. your gaze was set on the ground and dick hoped he wasn't overstepping “you know, you think after losing someone it gets easier the next time around, but i never dos. Each loss affects us differently” Silence fell again and dick was sure he messed up. “Do you think Bruce knows about my sibling?” You asked quietly “The greatest detective in the world? I'm sure he does but he's not much of a talker.” Dick chuckled. “Does he have to know about today?” You asked looking up at him “And know what? That i lost his kid? No way” That made you laugh which made him smile.

“Thank you dick,” you said with a smile “I'm an older brother of 3, i do this all the time” he chanted. “Really?” “Really,” he replied opening the car door for you. “What I'm trying to say y/n, is that if you ever need anything I'm here for you.” He said with a soft smile “Thank you dick, really” you say as tears edge your eyes “Every time, i know what it's like living with the bat. Now let's get you some food, I'm starving”

#nightwing x y/n #nightwing x you #nightwing x reader #nightwing fanfic #nightwing fanfiction #nightwing #dick grayson x female!reader #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson #nightwing platonic #nightwing x batsis #dick grayson x batsis

[biffhofosho]

Le Cirque du Fantasme | Part One

Fandom: Monsta X

Genre: Smut, natch

Word Count: 12.2k

Pairing: Jooheon/Changkyun/Minhyuk x OC

Synopsis: Step right up! Step right up! Come one, come all to a celebration of the macabre, the daring, the enticing, and the beautiful. Inside this tent is another world—one that will challenge your senses as much as your soul. Nowhere else on Earth can you experience such an awakening. Just take caution—once you are awake, you’ll find it hard to ever go back to sleep.

The Vibe: Third person (as always), fall fog, small town, lost and found, night circus, inhumans, the seen and the unseen (heh), everything fantastical and provoking, wonderstruck OC, questioning reality, copious amounts of worldbuilding leads to copious amounts of smut, foursome, suspension, light bondage/shibari-adjacent, temperature play like woah, sexual oneupsmanship lol, acrobatic sex yw

A/N: Literally the second the opening bars hit on “Daydream,” I knew I was going to write an October fic to it. Not only that, I knew exactly what it called for.

I had originally intended to publish multiple October fics, same as last year, but since I boned myself over with my earlier writing hiatus, the least I can do is give you a twoshot. This is my love song to my readers who love worldbuilding as much as I do. I didn’t try to rein in the muse this time, so hopefully you disappear into another reality entirely with me. Also—  

Since it’s October, when we do get to the smut, I, um, went slightly more deviant than usual ahahaha. .-.

Cvr | 01 | 02 | 03

“Oh, no.”

Mariam is aware that, all things considered, she is under-reacting.

She is lost when there is no reason for her to be lost.

Only minutes ago, she was walking home from her late shift at the diner, and now she is wandering through fog as thick as stuffing and woods where there should be sidewalk. It’s nighttime, but it’s doubtful that even in daylight things would change. Even with the pale moon, she can neither see where she has come from nor where she is headed.

The fog has muffled every sound like a pair of noise-canceling headphones. She can hear only the crunch of dry leaves under her boots. And, yeah, it’s late, but where’s the traffic? She always passes a few cars on the road. She realizes that is exceptionally weird, but there’s nothing to do but move forward. Carmel isn’t very big; she’s bound to wander into one of the old cemeteries any moment, and then she’ll know she’s close to her apartment.

Still, the woods are a little concerning. Town might be tiny, but if she’s somehow wandered into the woods around Ninham Mountain, Mariam could be lost for hours. The state forest is huge and full of lakes, and she is definitely not on any sort of trail at the moment.

Slowly, her usual cavalier attitude wears thin. It’s getting cold. The chill of autumn bites at her through her flannel, and she withdraws her fingers into her sleeves before they can chap. The further she walks into the fog without a guidepost, the more nervous she gets.

“Idiot!” she curses at herself.

Suddenly, it dawns on Mariam to check her phone. She fishes it out of her bag to find she’s been walking for ten minutes, which is her usual walk home, but she can’t see a single building let alone a sidewalk. Foolish as it is, she decides to map her route, but something much more alarming happens.

No signal.

She cannot call. She cannot text. She cannot even access her GPS.

The little marker on the map has her floating in a blob of gray, which is ironic considering she is unmoored in a cottony swab of nothingness.

“Oh, no.”

This time, at least, Mariam is painfully aware that her reaction is right on point.

She keeps her phone in hand now in the hope of catching a wisp of signal. She doesn’t feel like she’s walking up hill—she doesn’t feel like she’s moving at all—but in the hopes that she is, maybe she’ll pick up the cell tower. Realistically, she can’t have gotten that lost in ten minutes.

Her ears perk. She hears something other than her own feet, and she stops to make sure she isn’t hallucinating it.

Nope, that’s music all right. It’s just really, really weird music. Like someone’s playing organ music, but it’s definitely not from the Baptist church. It’s too… whimsical?

Mariam cocks her head. It reminds her of something. She can’t remember what, but something from her childhood, she’s sure.

With no other options, she walks toward it. At least she’ll find one other human out here who can give her some directions.

She turns on her flashlight, but it just rebounds off the fog and blinds her. Mariam stumbles against a tree and waits for the flood of brilliance to wash from behind her eyes. When she opens them again, the fog has miraculously thinned.

She’s definitely in the woods, not one of the little town parks or someone’s backyard but somewhere wild and unmanicured. The trees are spindly but thick, almost claustrophobic. There’s still no sign of a trail, and yet it seems like she’s on one. In fact, she can see it laid out before her, free of brambles and thickets and fallen trees. The fog is thinner there, too, though all along the sides of her, it’s as dense as cinder block.

The only thing that makes sense is following it, so Mariam does, and as she walks, the music gets louder. It also becomes more familiar. Maybe it’s because she’s lost, but something about it is so inviting. If notes can be colorful, these are positively flamboyant. She finds herself smiling in the fog.

The trail-not-trail bends and when she rounds a big boulder, she sees it.

There, in a glade cloistered by a lush canopy of fiery red maples, squats an enormous circus tent replete with a black flag snapping in a breeze that she can’t feel. The tent is striped white and black, high contrast even in the dark. There’s a long entrance tunnel, and at its maw is a ticket window lined with warm white lights. It glows like a lighthouse, and Mariam finds herself drawn into its harbors.

There’s a man in the window. He’s the most intense blend of handsome and cute she has ever seen. If she looks at him from one side, his eyes are thin and sharp, and they cut through her like razors, but if she looks at him from the other, his dimples cup his playful mouth as though they can barely contain his inner vibrance. His hair is darker than the night itself, making his skin look white as starlight by comparison, but the booth lighting frames his head like a halo. He’s an impossible mix of everything all at once, and she has never seen his equal.

Mariam steps to the window with an overwhelming sense of intimidation.

“Welcome, fair lady,” he says. His voice is potent. He says each word with a confidence that she has never felt in her whole life even at her best, and she finds herself captivated in the span of five syllables. His eyes dance as he studies her. “You’re just in time.”

“For what?” she asks.

“Showtime, of course. I was just about to close the ticket window, but lucky for us, I didn’t.”

It’s kind of a weird thing to say, Mariam thinks, but his unswerving confidence makes her reconsider.

“Actually, I was just looking for directions?” she says with more of a question than she intended.

“It seems to me you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

Again, his conviction makes her question hers.

“I wasn’t planning on going to a show tonight.” She fishes through her bag and finds the small roll of ones and fives from her shift. Tuesday shifts were notoriously poor payouts, but a traveling outfit this elaborate has to cost a pretty penny considering how exclusive it must be out here in the middle of nowhere. “How much? I don't have much cash on me. You take cards?”

“Those little plastic rectangles?” he replies with a flippant smile. “Pointless.”

Mariam frowns. “Then I don’t think I can afford it.”

He leans across the counter, almost through the window itself, into her personal space. Her hands fly to her chocolate locks and gather them to one side, twisting and twisting it as tightly as she feels her stomach twisting.

“Oh, admission is very reasonable,” he assures. This time when he smiles, it feels like he’s keeping a secret. He presents a golden ticket, the glossy paper winking as it turns between his well-manicured fingers. “Admission is only a dream.”

“A dream?” Mariam says skeptically.

“Just that, miss. In exchange for the best dream you’ve ever had, we will provide you with a new one. Seems like a fair trade, yes?”

“It would be if I knew what you were talking about.”

“I promise you’ll never experience anything else like this.”

Her brow furrows as she glances up at the big top. “I don’t even know what this is.”

The ticket-taker pouts, and his lush lips fatten to sumptuous thickness. “I’m afraid the show must start, miss. Do we have a deal?”

Mariam considers. This isn’t why she came—no, wait, she didn’t intend to come here at all—but she is here now, and this charming ticket monger is next to impossible to resist. What’s the harm in telling him one single dream? He doesn’t need to know about that particular dream.

And, anyway, it’s not like he’s conning her out of any money. In essence, it’s some free, entertaining shelter from a foggy night. She weighs her options and makes her decision.

“Am I supposed to, like, write it down or something?” she asks.

“Just lean in,” he instructs.

Hesitantly, Mariam tips forward over the counter, and for a brief second, his plump lips ghost along hers.

She should jerk back. She should slap him. But she does nothing but let him kiss her like the night mist. She is frozen as a current of muddy feelings spill like water from her lips. The back of her brain tickles a bit, but it’s overruled by the more pleasant tickle of his lips dusting over hers.

When he’s done, he licks his lips, which have curled into a tiger’s grin. His eyes are lively, and he’s panting lightly. He clears his throat and adjusts his hips in his pants somewhere behind the counter.

“How delicious,” he practically purrs. “I may have to keep that one for myself. I almost feel bad for taking it from you, but I promise the replacement will exceed it.”

He presents the golden ticket, and Mariam takes it. She expects it to feel like paper or maybe metal, but instead, it feels gauzy, and she can't stop rubbing her thumb over it.

“Straight through there, fair lady,” he says. “The show is about to start, and a whole new dream awaits you.”

The ticket monger holds open the black curtain, and she enters the tunnel. The moment the curtain shuts behind her, it is blacker than an abyss. The only thing she can see is a thin, shimmering line of light at the far end.

Outside, she hears the snap of the ticket booth closing, and she knows she is alone. The music is louder now, drawing her forward more powerfully than ever, and she realizes why she recognized it in the first place. It rises and falls and scampers and twirls, almost as though she can see the notes surrounding her, teasing and laughing at her. It is the song of childhood, of delight and fantasy.

It is the song of the circus.

There are smells here, too, familiar and unfamiliar. There is the buttery warmth of popcorn and, beneath it, something much more unctuous, a bit like when the cooks at the diner render the lard for the pie crusts. There's a hint of something acrid too, and it reminds her of the smell of her father's rifles.

Mariam follows the tunnel to its end, where she parts the drape only to be assaulted by the brilliant spotlights surrounding a huge red ring. There are seats seven layers high around three sides terminating at a ring entrance shuttered by another heavy curtain, but this one is three times as tall and wide as the entrance she just came through. Just surrounding the ring are four enormous tent poles soaring to the canvas above, where wires zig and zag across the arena and café lights accent each black and white stripe, softening the harsh spotlights.

The ticket-taker is there to greet her as though he has never seen her before. He beams at her, those dimples creasing his plump cheeks. Mariam approaches with her ethereal ticket in hand and starlight in her eyes.

“What’s this? A golden ticket?” says the man with a sharp eyebrow raised. “We have ourselves a VIP tonight it seems. You’re in for a truly mesmerizing experience, miss. Follow me. I will show you to your seat.”

He does not take the ticket from her after all but, instead, leads her across the ring itself toward a pair of empty seats in a box on the floor.

“VIP?” she says as she struggles to keep up with his commanding steps. His thick black boots thunk across the floor and resound under the big top. “But I didn't pay you anything for it!”

“But you did,” he insists. “The most tantalizing dream gets the VIP treatment. After all, we have to work harder to replace what we have taken.”

Mariam tries to remember the dream she’d thought about before she entered, but where her brain searches for the memory, it finds only the lingering taste of his lips, which she savors like berries ripened by the moon until they’re ready to burst. It’s a bit of a silly thought, yet dark, sweet juice coats her mouth and whets her appetite for something even darker.

They stop outside the box seats, and the dimpled man holds open the door with a question on his face. “You want VIP, don’t you?”

“I do,” she finds herself answering.

This broadens the man’s shoulders, and now he smiles so widely that those thin eyes shut under the powerful force of his bright cheeks. “Your private seats then, my fair lady.”

Mariam sits on one of the velvet-padded seats as he closes the door and offers her a sweeping bow like the showman he is. The ticket-monger-turned-usher disappears now behind the backstage curtain, and she has little doubt she will see him in the show, most likely as a clown judging from his over-the-top antics.

As she tries to relax into her seat, Mariam spares some time to look beyond the open stage and see what other lost souls have stumbled into this weird circus. She wonders if she’ll see any of her friends or coworkers in the stands.

She does not. What she finds is far more unnerving.

There are only a dozen or so other spectators in the stands. None of them sit anywhere near each other. They are spread throughout the whole tent, high and low, mostly in shadow because the spotlights are fixed downward in the ring. At first, she thinks they are strays like her, but as they wait for the show to start, Mariam begins to doubt they are even human. If she looks at any one of them head on, they look like normal people, mostly men but a few women, too, but from her periphery, she swears she sees the jaws of a wolf or the skin of a lizard or even a pair of antlers when she turns her head. Most have eyes of glinting gold exactly like those she’s seen along the road when her high beams catch just so.

And there are fangs. Fangs everywhere, some long and thin, some fat or even serrated.

One of them, a thin, hunched man with mottled scales in patches all over his body, is eating from a black and white striped carton which might usually house popcorn, but it definitely isn’t, and he isn’t eating whatever it is with his hand but with quick snaps of a lightning-fast tongue.

Mariam is growing uncomfortable again. She had thought this place might get her back home, but it has taken her somewhere far more foreign, and she’s feeling more alone than ever. She has felt different a lot in her life but never like an actual alien.

She should probably be more scared than anything, but none of these people—creatures—are looking at her. They are all looking toward the ring. Nobody speaks although she swears she hears a snort from one side of the arena that someone echoes on the other side with a series of strange clicks.

She wishes the berry-lipped man would come back and take the seat beside her. She can’t be sure he’s human now either, but she trusts his smile and his dimples, even if she shouldn’t.

Just when Mariam is ready to dart to the exit, music swells anew. It is far more powerful than the spirited diddy that lured her here. Under the big top, the organ booms and the drums thunder, and everything feels like it’s spinning like a carousel.

“Strangers! Friends! Denizens of the dark and light dwellers alike!” comes a voice of unquestionable power from somewhere backstage. As far as Mariam can tell, there is no sound system. It's just the voice of a true entertainer filling the canvas wall-to-wall. “The time has come to revel in the greatest spectacle the night has ever seen. Pretense, common sense, even the very laws of nature itself, have no place under this canopy. What you will experience tonight will challenge your very perception of reality. Nothing you have seen before tonight can prepare you for what you are about to see. At times, you may think you have wandered into a dream, but I assure you, what you are about to witness is so much more. Welcome—”

The backstage curtains sail wide with a snap and a flutter, and a man bursts through, his arms wide and his dimples shining in the spotlights.

“—to Le Cirque du Fantasme!”

The audience applauds, rather lackluster Mariam thinks for the passion of such a lofty introduction, so she tries to clap just a little louder than everyone else. After all, she is getting the VIP treatment, so she should return the favor.

The man rises from a bow that completely folds him in half, and she shakes her head in awe. She had expected—hoped—to see him again, but she is not prepared for the striking figure the former usher cuts in his crimson crushed velvet coat. The tails swish at the back of his knees as he laps the ring. Diamond buttons splinter in the light as does the sweat already beading at his brow.

“I am Jooheon, your ringmaster, but I am also your guide. For every wonder you experience tonight, I will be by your side to remind you that what you are witnessing is indeed real. Together, we will discover there is magic left in the world if you know just where to look.”

He stops in front of the VIP box and tips his head with a smile just for Mariam, and then he is gone.

Back in the center of the ring, Jooheon enumerates the many wonders on their horizon, impossible, tantalizing things that cannot be real, yet the more he promises, the more she believes him. Thanks to this man’s unprecedented versatility, she is also starting to believe this is a one-man circus. Maybe he will perform all of the spectacular acts he’s teasing.

But Jooheon confounds her again. With a dramatic swoop of his hand, he draws the audience’s eyes to the massive curtains at the rear of the tent, and slowly, the heavy fabric parts by unseen hands.

Mariam’s seat trembles. At first, she thinks she’s imagining it, caught up in the ringmaster’s passion, but then it trembles again and again, and she realizes they’re tremors.

No. Footfalls.

The arena is dead silent.

Thwomp. Thwomp. Thwomp.

The face appears first in shadow—a great black snout snuffling so strongly that the curtains puff. Even through the veil of backstage, the eyes are clear and bright, an otherworldly metallic green that flash the same sort of gold that some of the audience members possess.

Another footfall, and the muzzle appears, ornamented with thick black lips fringed by snow white and overhung by two bone-shattering fangs as long as her hand.

Since Mariam sits off to the side, the eyes do not seem to perceive her, yet she tucks her legs up against herself and ducks her head to peer from behind her knees as the rest of the creature emerges to fill the ring.

It’s a wolf—if one can call it that. It’s nearly twice the height of a horse and just as broad. Its fur is white all over save for the silver tips to each hair that make it sparkle in the spotlight. Its chunky claws click on the ring floor as it shuffles into position.

Mariam relaxes now. Maybe it’s because Jooheon is standing there unbothered by its haunches or maybe it’s because its face is rather doglike despite its other ferocious features or maybe it’s the fact that its tail is wagging, but most likely, it’s because a man sits astride its great shoulders, scratching its fluffy ears.

“Friends, behold!” trumpets Jooheon. “Our Amorak and our beastmaster, Shownu! Together, they will take us on a journey through the world of creatures long considered too elusive or vicious to be tamed. Many have been laughed at for believing the campfire tales or legends of our ancestors, but for Shownu, these legends are not legends at all but friends and allies, and now, they will be yours, too.”

The Amorak sits down, and Shownu releases its mane to slide down its back like a child on a playground. The beastmaster lands easily and pats the great wolf’s backside. With a snap of the man’s fingers, the Amorak stands and side-steps as delicately as a pony so that even a man as imposing and broad-chested as the beastmaster stands beneath the animal, the man’s head at its elbow.

From the shadows beneath, Shownu whistles, and the wolf spins so its back legs face the audience. Another whistle, this one like a see-saw, and the creature wags its tail in huge, careful strokes that send its long fur sweeping the faces of the audience members brave enough to sit in the first couple rows. Laughter rings out. Mariam finds she is laughing, too, and perhaps even a little envious.

As if he knows this, Jooheon saunters over to the VIP box and says, “Fair lady, would you please stand?”

“What?” she whispers hoarsely.

“Now is better,” he teases with his dimples.

The Amorak shifts, and now there is no doubt it perceives her. The beastmaster steps out from the belly of the beast and walks toward her. Mariam shoots up from her seat, less out of fear of the creature than out of respect for its master.

Shownu stands opposite Jooheon at the box and centers his attention on the VIP. There is a gentleness in his face that she could never have anticipated considering his ominous moniker, but Shownu smiles at her very differently than Jooheon ever has. His lips do not part but, instead, sit neatly atop each other in a way that raises his cheeks like two little fresh-baked rolls.

“Hold out your hand, palm up,” the beastmaster instructs in a gruff but inviting voice.

Mariam does so hesitantly, and when her arm is fully extended, the Amorak raises its paw, too, and places it light as a feather in hers. It’s so huge that only a portion of a single blazing paw pad fills her palm. Its long feathery fur tickles her skin, and she finds herself giggling. The two men exchange smiles, and the Amorak lowers its head. It snorts once, and her long hair sails behind her. She laughs harder now, and the beast and the beastmaster withdraw to the heart of the ring again, her body vibrating both from the experience and the tremors of footfalls.

Mariam sits back down, cradling her hand to her chest with a slack-jawed smile on her face.

The duo performs a few other stunts—the Amorak stands on his back legs and wobbles in the circle, as does Shownu, which has the audience cackling, and then it howls, nearly blowing the roof off the circus tent, which sends the audience cowering—before the wolf takes a seat and Shownu takes a post at the curtain.

Another man, this one even broader and more muscular than Shownu, comes out just long enough to shepherd in two sweet-faced animals before he disappears into the back. At first, Mariam thinks they are fawns, but then she sees the tawny wings folded at their backs.

Jooheon introduces these as perytons, not that that means anything to her, but the antlered person she’d caught sight of earlier in the stands cheers and stamps so enthusiastically that the ringmaster practically glows with the praise.

Shownu gets the energetic little critters to perform a choregraphed dance, which would be cute enough, but then they take to the sky, and whimsy becomes awe. The perytons glide and weave just like birds though they snort and snuffle like deer. Mariam is so lost in the spectacle that she barely catches Jooheon’s note that their sweet faces conceal true power, and no sooner does he say this then one of the little deer-birds divebombs the spectator with the popcorn container and, with taloned back legs instead of its hooved front ones, grabs a hunk of what looks like entrails and lobs it back like a baseball to its friend. The other peryton snaps it out of mid-air to devour it, and the sight of a sweet little fawn face gobbling intestines is not something Mariam imagines she will ever forget. The Amorak growls, and the two mischievous babies promptly land, bleating like kids laughing at their father.

After that, Shownu spreads his arms out wide and lifts his powerful chest, and the perytons follow suit, their hawk-like wings fanned out, every feather articulated. There’s no denying the stir in Mariam’s belly as she studies the beastmaster commanding his beasts, for they follow his every command unquestioningly.

The perytons perform a few more aerial tricks of agility with a ball and a ribbon, and when they are done, the buff shepherd from earlier fetches them to the back and then returns, this time dropping a trail of meat into the ring.

From the back inches a gigantic pink blob. The front end is nothing but a gaping maw lined with hundreds of wicked teeth, and… that’s it—it’s nothing but pinkness and horrifying teeth. Again, Mariam finds herself tucking her feet up onto her chair as though she’s afraid it will break into the box and mow her clean off at the knees.

Jooheon explains this is a Mongolian Death Worm, eyeless and earless but hardly helpless. The crowd is instructed to keep quiet since it hunts by vibration, but Mariam quickly sees that is only partly true when the worm reaches Shownu, and the beastmaster stoops down to pat the top of its head while two big nostrils open for a long sniff.

The creature is longer than her father's car and the color of exposed muscle. Its segments undulate when it moves as well as when it eats, which is an awful lot like Taz from the Looney Tunes, she thinks. It should be grotesque, but Mariam can't help but find it adorable as the monster looks up at its master and seems to smile even without eyes and lips.

Through a series of stamps and claps of his hands against the floor, Shownu communicates with the beast. It rolls up and lunges on command, jawless mouth snapping. It roars with the power and ferocity of a sandstorm, and her blood curdles. Then, as if to rub its stubby pink nose in the face of its moniker, the worm curls into a ball that Shownu scoops up in his sturdy hands and lobs straight into the air for his Amorak to catch in its mouth. Finally, the big wolf drops it to the ground, and the giant wad of chewed bubble gum unspools and jiggles itself dry to the squeal of the few audience members who sat too close to the action and got sprayed with giant dog saliva.

As the laughter dies down, however, the ringmaster reminds everyone not so subtly that this is a death worm. To prove that point, Shownu brings out a giant rod with a metal ball on the end and taps the top of the worm's head. It growls—a sound that trembles in the bones more than in the ears, a bit like a building earthquake or an oncoming train—and rears up, and when it does, it puffs out almost twice its width. Fantastic crackles of lightning discharge from its head and arc into the ball at the end of the rod. They snap and pop and sizzle in yellow so brilliant, Mariam has to close her eyes most of the way so she doesn’t go blind.

When at last the worm deflates, panting in the ring, the beastmaster touches the tip of the rod to the metal pole supporting the tent, and a sonic boom shivers the canvas on its rails. The residual electricity stands up every hair on Mariam's arms and, unfortunately, most of her head, too, which she is quick to smooth down. Shownu pats the worm on the head again, and the chubby blob slinks off behind the buff shepherd, rather satisfied for a death worm, she thinks.

After a hearty round of applause, the beastmaster and the Amorak both bow to the audience, and Shownu takes the opportunity to leap between the giant wolf’s shoulder blades. When it rises again, the man sits astride with a nod for the crowd and one specifically for Mariam, and he looks as much like a cowboy on a horse as he does a man on a mythological creature.

Jooheon takes center stage again, and she is struck by just how much the man seems to belong in the spotlight. With a toothy grin, he says, “Shownu, everyone! Please let him hear how much you loved his menagerie of talented friends.”

Applause and cheers ring out, and Mariam joins in extra loudly since she’s still feeling electrified by the death worm.

“For our next act, I invite you to feast your eyes on a man with the strength of a beast, the body of a god, and the face of an angel. But it isn’t just strength he brings to the table, no, no, no, but agility. Straight from the realm of the Fair Folk, prepare to delight in the beautiful brute force and precision artistry of our resident fae, Wonho!”

The ringmaster steps to the edge of the ring as the former shepherd returns to center stage, padding out in bare feet unaccompanied. He is massive, with enormous shoulders corded with muscle protruding from his tank top. Mariam wonders how it doesn’t burst at the seams considering how the rest of his chest bulges against the fabric, but maybe that’s just another part of the circus magic or it’s simply painted on. It's not much different with his pants. The way the fabric stretches around his tree trunk thighs is perhaps even more magical, and she knows she should probably look away, but how can she when it seems as though the man was made specifically to ogle.

His white hair has the faintest hint of lilac, and like the Amorak fur, there’s a metallic glint to it, but it’s nothing to the glint in his emerald eyes. Even from ringside, they are piercing, so green that they seem lit by some internal flame, and when they fall to her, Mariam exhales so sharply that she realizes she’s been holding her breath since he strolled in.

He is carrying something in his enormous hands. It looks like a giant crystal cube, and it warps and shatters the light like a disco ball.

Wonho smiles. It’s as dazzling as Jooheon’s, all teeth but no dimples, and it accentuates just how delicate he is despite his big body. His ears stick out like little butterfly wings, but just before she can be spirited away by such cuteness, he shucks the tank top over his head, and it’s not just the intimidating display of muscle that catches her off-guard—it’s the actual set of wings at his back.

They unfurl, thin and translucent as stained glass, framed in by silver rims as fragile as the mint green panes inside. She thinks there's no way that something so ethereal could possibly be functional, but, as if to prove her wrong, Wonho alights before her eyes toward a crow's nest just above the ring. The wings make a rustling sound, like a stack of papers blown apart at an open window. They beat nearly as fast as a bumblebee’s, and when he pivots in the air, the breeze they make ruffles Mariam’s hair.

He lands on the platform there and puts down the block in his hand. He wipes his hands on his pants and then rubs them together before waving at each group of the audience. To Mariam, he adds a bow.

When he's ready, he takes several deep breaths, that gargantuan chest ballooning with every one. He picks up the block and splays his hands on either side of it, and then she hears the cracking. It sounds like ice when she pours soda over it at the diner, pops and crackles and pings.

His biceps strain and his forearms flex, and the cracking gets louder and louder and louder. Huge fissures zigzag across the cube until there's an explosion. The cube is powder now, piles in his hands and at his feet. Before anyone even has a chance to applaud, the strongman pivots and flaps his wings, and now, it's snowing under the tent. Like an oscillating fan, he swivels from side to side, and Mariam feels the kiss of snowflakes on her cheeks and lashes. It melts instantly, but its dewy memory sends a smile of pure marvel to her face.

Instead of flying down from his perch, Wonho leaps and lands on his feet with a thud so fast that the snow is still falling like glitter on his fair skin. He doesn't bother to brush it off but lets it melt to a sparkly finish that turns him into living art.

He spends a few minutes lifting impossibly heavy objects and then taking to the air with them as though they are beach balls and not anvils and boulders and other ridiculous things. With his hands, he twists pipes into shapes like balloon animals and ties a knot—out of rebar—with his feet.

Another man emerges from the back then, this one long and thin like taffy freshly pulled, but when he steps into the ruthless lighting, she sees his fair skin is covered in delicate iridescent scales. He brings a stool, a mirror, a bow and arrow, and a bullseye. The tall man configures everything carefully while Wonho makes faces at his coworker in the mirror, and Mariam realizes the strongman is just as much a clown as anything.

When everything is ready, the tall man steps back. Wonho does a handstand on the stool, his back to the bullseye and his eyes on the mirror opposite it.

There’s something about the way his muscles lengthen as he contorts that has Mariam licking her lips. The twitches in his forearms as he adjusts, the flare of his ribs under that dewy skin, that illicit bulge urging against the constraints of his lycra pants—Wonho is truly an astonishing sight, and there’s a pang in her heart when she realizes how much of the world will never know his beauty and grace.

When he’s balanced just so, muscles trembling and abdominals squeezing with breath and stability, the other man situates the bow with the arrow already nocked between Wonho’s nimble feet.

The strongman shuffles his hands on the stool seat and achingly slowly bends his legs, arching his chest as a counterbalance. When the bow and arrow are lined up with the bullseye, Wonho grips the bowstring and pulls it taut.

Mariam holds her breath.

Wonho holds his.

The arrow flies.

Straight into the red bullseye.

The small crowd breaks out into uproarious applause, and she finds herself standing as she claps. Wonho bows to them all as the tall man clears out the equipment, and just as the strongman finishes his rounds, the Amorak comes bounding back in.

The audience recoils at the sudden thunderous intrusion, especially since the great beast is growling, but Wonho is unbothered, and only then does Mariam realize there’s a humongous rope lodged in its great teeth. The strongman pats the wolf’s head before he snatches the free end of the rope and shakes the Amorak back and forth. The growling turns to snarls.

Wonho takes to the air, yanking and pulling, those fragile wings beating more ferociously than the snarls sound. The Amorak digs in its claws and tries to pull back, but with a cheeky wave to the crowd, the white-haired fae drags the wolf back through the curtain as though the creature ten times his size is nothing but a tiny terrier.

The room is speechless, which Jooheon is only too happy to discover.

The ringmaster slides right back into the spotlight and trumpets, “Don’t forget to let Wonho hear it if you were impressed.”

Of course, the small crowd erupts, Mariam chief among them. She can’t escape the image of those pretty wings contrasting rock-hard muscle, the kiss of ice crystals melting on ivory skin.

It’s impossible. It’s unbelievable. She is shaken to her very core.

“We’re not done yet, folks,” Jooheon promises as he cuts through her existential crisis. “Our next performer is just as sure to wow you as much with his incredible dexterity as his unparalleled visuals. I personally guarantee you have never before seen anything like his act let alone the performer himself. He has come up from the darkest depths of the sea to dazzle and delight you with wonderous abilities only a one-of-a-kind hybrid like himself can conjure.

“During portions of the show, you may feel tempted to enter the ring. For your safety as well as the safety of our performer, I ask that you please use the seatbelts provided at your seat before we begin.”

Mariam looks down and finds that there is indeed a belt dangling from her chair, which seems utterly ridiculous at first, but as she recalls the incredible things she’s just witnessed, she secures it around her waist. Only a moment later, as the click of buckles ding around the tent, Jooheon walks by with a gentle smile, though his eyes are on her secured seatbelt.

He does the same throughout the rest of the crowd while two new men, one with red hair and one with blue, emerge with Wonho from the back and lift a large wooden cover from the center of the ring to reveal a shallow pool of water. They roll the cover off to the side into a metal corral and then linger at the lip of the ring along with Shownu and the man with the scales, who takes up his station closest to Mariam’s booth. Each man turns his back to the stage to watch the crowd instead, and when the man with the scales catches her gaze, the iridescence shimmers to the sweetest pink before it goes white as a sheet.

She has only a moment to reflect on the tall man’s otherworldly elegance before Jooheon clears his throat.

“Introducing: the one, the only, the luminescent Kihyun!”

The lights dim and the gentle circus music that always swells between acts dies entirely. Each of the last two performances had music, but now, it is so quiet, all she can hear is the lapping of the pool.

It is almost pitch black, though there is just enough light to see a figure emerge from behind the curtain.

He is compact and wiry. His bare feet pad across the ring and dip into the pool with the gentlest of splashes. He wades into the center, the water rising no higher than mid-shin, and then he opens his eyes.

Mariam had assumed it was just too dark to see his eyes, but now that they are open, she understands. He’s special.

They shimmer with the same eerie softness of a glow-in-the-dark toy. They don’t have the sharpness of oncoming headlights which force the eyes away, but instead, they draw her in. They beckon. She imagines seeing them looking down at her in the dark of a bedchamber, but she shakes the thoughts away.

He stoops and rifles beneath the water and soon comes up with a handful of rings. One by one, he squeezes them, and suddenly, they glow, too. He drops four chartreuse rings back below the water to glow at his feet but holds on to five others, though each of those are different colors.

Slowly, Mariam realizes it’s not just Kihyun’s eyes or the rings that glow. Pinpricks of light stud his body like a runway, and she can see now that, though he has arms and legs like a man, he is different—he is more. His skin is also unique. Though she can’t be sure of the exact colors, his front is definitely lighter than his back.

He wears a skintight outfit, something streamlined like a full-body swimsuit though its hard to be sure in the wan light, but now, she can clearly see the outline of sharp, articulated fins both on his forearms and his back.

Kihyun divides the rings in his hands and begins to toss them in the air until a rainbow of light streaks through the darkness. He builds speed until it seems that he’s not just juggling rings but bending light all together.

Once he’s captivated the crowd, he begins to sing. It’s not like anything Mariam has ever heard. Her heart slows. Her mind muddles. She forgets things beyond the show of light and the swirl of the melody around her. Kihyun bend a series of “oohs” and “ahs” of varying textures and power and lengths just as he bends the light—masterfully.

He spins. He pivots. He catches behind his back. Through it all, he sings.

Mariam realizes vaguely that her hips hurt where something presses unfairly against her. It’s keeping her from the ring. It’s keeping her from Kihyun. If she could tear her eyes from him, she could figure it out, but she can’t risk a second away from his incandescent frame.

The music stops, and Mariam stops, too, waiting for the next dulcet note. Abruptly, the juggler gathers all but one the rainbow rings in one hand and crouches down to the water.

He rubs the pink ring along the surface in a figure eight, and when he lifts it, it is dripping loudly in the stone silent room. He brings it up to his face, and Mariam can finally see his features clearly—his angular jaw, his strong cheekbones, his sharp eyebrows. Even the bow on his elegant lips is pointed.

He puckers those dangerous lips and blows into the center of the ring. Just like a kid’s wand, a bubble appears, but Kihyun does not easily run out of breath and the bubble stays flexible. By the time he is done, the bubble is almost as tall as he is. With a swift motion, he flicks the ring inside the bubble, and it seals behind it. The surface warbles with the pink light within, and with another gust from his lips, it sails to the ceiling above Jooheon and hangs obediently like a balloon tied off. He repeats the process with the remaining four rings until there is a watery chandelier illuminating the whole room. Mariam catches a glimpse of shimmering aqua on her own skin, hears the burble of the impossibly churning water sphere overhead, but she can't bring herself to look up—only ahead.

Kihyun stoops and scoops a cupful of water, which he then pours into his mouth. At first, she assumes it’s just a necessary part of being whatever it is he is, but then he spits a thin jet of the water into the air, only when he does, it’s colored with the same eerie blue-white light that dots his body. The stream wanes, but he replenishes it with another long draft from the cup, this time arcing the glowing water like a hula hoop as he spins. On the last drink, he blows a trio of bubbles, these ones as small as his fist but infused with the otherworldly luster. He does not pop them but casts them gingerly just above his head where they hang like a halo.

Finally, he fishes back through the water again, and this time, he brings up five already-glowing balls. These, like the rings, are clearly a prop, though half of Mariam wonders if they’re actually shimmering deep sea pearls.

Kihyun starts juggling these the same way he did the rings, establishing a familiar rhythm before picking up speed until he adds a new layer. He closes those firefly eyes and trusts in whatever senses he has left to keep the balls aloft.

Above him, the little bubble crown illuminates his wet black hair, which undulates back from his face as though caught in an unseen current. It is as mesmerizing as the blender-like rhythm the balls seem to be caught in between his dexterous hands.

Sing.

Please sing.

Please.

Mariam thinks she’s said that in her head, but the whispers hit her ear, and she realizes she hasn’t.

The man with the scales encroaches at the edge of her vision, and it’s a crude reminder that there are others in the room beside the luminescent Kihyun.

As though he’s heard her, the juggler opens that exceptional mouth, and more notes pour out, and though there’s no eerie blue light to accompany them, they’re brilliant all the same. Kihyun has a way of singing that sounds as though they’re all underwater.

None of the balls waver even for a second. His unswerving confidence that he will never let them drop is almost as mesmerizing as his unearthly voice.

Again, Mariam feels that pressure across her hips, and it’s becoming more insistent by the second.

She should be in the ring by now. She needs to be. She might go insane if she’s not.

A whistle pierces the air, and Kihyun stops singing. The balls fall together in a discordant splash, and quick as the death worm’s lightning, the juggler raises his arm, forearms out and fins in a full mast. From the tips of those articulations, he shoots something too small to see in the dim light though Mariam hears the little pew-pew-pew-pew-pew as he spins in the pool.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Each massive glowing bubble explodes overhead while the rings inside fall into the hands of his fellow performers and the water rains in a much-needed cold shower over the audience. Mariam lets out a squeal as she is drenched and gulping for air against the wet chill. Goosebumps dimple her from head to toe, and she folds her arms over her chest to generate fresh heat.

The crowd is too stunned to applaud, but Kihyun doesn’t wait for it either. He exits the pool, bows to the stands, and then pads off to the back while the other performers begin the cleanup. Meanwhile, Wonho takes to the sky to buzz over the handful of audience members one by one, spinning around so his wings beat like a fan over them. He reaches Mariam last, and when he blasts her with air, she yelps and shivers, but in short order, she is dry and happy again in her flannel. He tips his impish head to her and buzzes back to help the others with the last of the preparation, and soon the ring is back as it was.

Now dry and sober, the audience remembers itself, and together, they erupt into riotous applause. Mariam tries to stand for an ovation, but then she remembers the seatbelt, and as soon as she unbuckles it, it’s like a weight is off her lap, and suddenly, it doesn’t seem so silly.

“Let him know, let him know!” cheers Jooheon as he takes center stage again. “You’ll never see another one like Kihyun, folks.”

Of that, Mariam is certain. She claps fiercer than ever even as her cheeks color at the memory of his voice.

“I’m sorry to tell you we have but two acts to go,” Jooheon laments, and Mariam laments with him. She feels the dread even before he says it. But he brightens immediately and surges forth in a sweeping circle around the room. “But the good news is they will both delight, confound, and astound you.

“First up, from far across the seas, on an untamed mountain, comes a beautiful and elusive man who both defies your notice but also demands it. Don’t let the sweet face fool you, he is wild and unpredictable and harbors a true hunger for adventure. Prepare to thrill as he risks life and limb to take you to the edge like never before! I present to you… Hyungwon!”

The spotlight centers in the ring, but no one is there and no one emerges from the back either.

“Hyungwon!” Jooheon repeats just as dramatically, but no one appears. Eyes start darting around the room, so, too, do whispers break out. The man in the crimson coat looks back to the entrance. “Hyungwon?”

The ringmaster looks a little nervous, those robust lips pulled tight as he paces the ring edge. He clears his throat.

“My apologies, esteemed guests. Hyungwon is supposed to be nocturnal, but sometimes he drifts off. Just a minute, and we'll get on with the show.”

Mariam sees Wonho darting back behind the curtains while, in the deep shadows at the edge of the ring, she spies the mysterious Kihyun with his arms stacked over his chest as he shakes his head. It's just starting to get uncomfortable, and they're all at the edge of their seats.

“Where is he?” Mariam whispers.

“Boo,” comes a totally different whisper along with a puff of hot breath beside her ear.

Mariam yells and instantly clamps her hand over her mouth as she jukes to the side in time to catch the luminous round face of the man with the scales.

All eyes as well as a spotlight turn to the VIP box to find Hyungwon with this face beside hers, flaunting a toothy grin and cheeks like doorbells begging to be pressed. His laugh is airy and infectious, childlike even, and though he has startled a year of her life from her, Mariam is laughing, too, even as her hand clutches her heart in hopes of slowing it.

How long had he been there without her knowing?

As her pulse slows, she closes her eyes, and when she opens them, he is nowhere to be seen.

Mariam swivels around like a dope, but the new performer has vanished. A few other crowd members laugh, but the patchy lizard man with the long tongue is outright cackling and applauding louder than anyone as though he understands the joke better than the rest of them can.

Jooheon, Wonho, and Kihyun are all laughing, too, so Mariam has to assume this is all part of the man's grand entrance.

And grand it is! Now when the spotlight centers in the ring, Hyungwon strolls into it. He is sporting a pair of leather pants but nothing else, not even shoes, and she can see it's not just his hands and neck and face covered in those scales but his whole body. Like the rest of his features, they are delicate and captivating, almost like glitter sewn directly onto his skin. He throws his arms wide, and she is dazzled by more than just his unique features. He is lean and sinewy with a tiny waist and shoulders as broad as a door.

Colors and shapes dance across his scales in seemingly impossible patterns; even his hair shifts like fiber optics. She recognizes many of the patterns: the tent stripes or the ring floor or the Amorak’s fur; for a moment, he even glows like Kihyun’s strange luminescence. His visual display morphs into a splash of crimson in the exact shape and design of the ringmaster’s coat, which makes Jooheon beam and clap enthusiastically. Hyungwon concludes with the most shocking display of all—he nearly disappears from plain sight by copying the patterns of the backgrounds on all sides.

But then something occurs to Mariam. Hyungwon is almost totally invisible thanks to his camouflage, but the leather cannot follow suit so it looks like a pair of pants floating in the middle of the ring. When he’d been right beside her though, there’d been nothing—not even pants. Shock and more than a little embarrassment grip her body, and she swears the performer knows because he turns to her right then with a very troublesome smile.

Mariam has been so busy being awestruck by their performances that it hasn’t occurred to her to consider how much of them is human when so many parts of them clearly are not. But now the rabbit is out of the hat and she's chasing helplessly after it, wondering what kind of lovers such spectacular beings would be. That's not a thing she should be thinking about looking at a chameleon man, especially because she is a conservative person—she has been her whole life. But sometimes she has thoughts… fantasies. Sometimes she has unusual dreams. There was one in particular she’s often thought of since, in her moments of weakness, but what was it again?

She's so far gone in the illicit thoughts that she nearly falls out of her seat when a motorcycle above her roars. She looks up, and there is Hyungwon at the peak of tent on a platform much higher than the one Wonho had risked. She doesn’t remember the motorcycle there, but it must have been. It sits anchored at the edge of the platform. It has no tires, just rims resting on top of a wire, and though there is a ring securing the machine to the wire, it won’t keep it upright. Beneath it is a perch as a counterbalance, and, of all things, one of the perytons sits on it. Its clawed back feet cling like a bird on a wire.

Hyungwon sits astride the motorcycle, now clad in a black leather vest and a pair of boots. As a whimsical note, some of the scales across his face have blackened into a sunglasses shape. He isn’t tethered to anything, and Mariam can see between his slight twitches and the peryton’s, they are working together to keep themselves upright on the wire.

The engine revs again, and Jooheon raises his hands to incite the crowd. Everyone whoops and cheers, including Mariam, and then Hyungwon zooms ahead.

The bike zips up the slight incline to the other end, where he lets off the gas, and the unlikely pair drifts backwards smooth as a sled riding down a snowy hill. Once they’re back at the bottom, Hyungwon surges ahead again, but he slows when they reach the middle of the line. He cuts the engine, and instead, the room fills with the ping-ping of the wire bobbing under the weight.

Below, the peryton wobbles and tips backwards, clinging to the rail with its claws as it hangs upside down and spreads its wings. Once it’s at full breadth, Hyungwon stands on the footpegs and slowly—tremulously, steps both feet onto the seat before propping one on the handlebars. He, too, spreads his muscled arms, and as the motorcycle glides backward down the slope, little bursts of yellow, like tiny supernovas, fire across his skin. Feathers whisper in the breeze before the crowd roars with the showcase.

Mariam’s heart is in her throat, so big she practically chokes on it. Her skin pebbles with fresh goosebumps because the pair isn’t slowing. In fact, the motorcycle is picking up speed as it glides.

Before they can crash back into the platform, Hyungwon slides back onto the seat and revs the engine again. The peryton swings back upright, and the rider tosses down some dark and messy treat to his passenger.

Mariam assumes it’s over, but then the bike sails even faster up to the peak, and this time when they brake at the top, the peryton rocks side-to-side, and just like that, the motorcycle loops like a propeller around and around the wire.

She screams. So does someone else. Both rider and passenger are completely unbothered.

They whirl backwards down the wire, and it almost makes Mariam sick to watch the spinning. Even worse, as has been happening all night, she thinks again on things she shouldn’t. She thinks on how strong his thighs have to be to hold onto that bike, and she finds herself clenching hers just as hard.

Just as they get to the platform, the peryton startles and takes flight, which immediately flips the motorcycle. Hyungwon plunges from his seat several stories above the floor. Screams ring out all around the canopy.

But not Mariam. She can’t scream. This time, she’s too paralyzed with terror.

This is it. This is going to be the show where something goes horribly, terribly wrong, and as much as she had already been changed by tonight’s performances, this will ruin her.

She feels sick.

Hyungwon’s halfway to his surefire death when the winged creature swoops down casual as can be and grabs his outstretched wrist with its back claw. He drifts like Alice falling down the rabbit hole to Wonderland onto yet another motorcycle that Mariam never even saw waiting for him in the ring.

Relief washes through her, and she realizes that over the course of however long she’s been sitting here, she has formed some kind of unnatural bond with the performers. She thinks of them not just as acrobats or athletes but as friends—or, maybe, more disturbingly, something more. Just the notion of them getting hurt tightens every muscle in her body like a winch.

But no one else seems nearly as bothered by the daring risks they’ve just witnessed. As the crowd leaps to its feet, Hyungwon waves and circles the ring on the bike a few times. With a rev of his engine and one final wheelie, he speeds to the back with the peryton in tow.

Jooheon makes his way to ring center as usual, and he’s cheering just as much as the audience. That infectious smile of his stirs the crowd as much as it stirs Mariam’s heart with gratitude.

“How about that, dear guests? I think I can boast with total confidence that that was yet another act such as you have never seen! Another round of applause for Hyungwon and Dyani. Let them hear you.”

The audience doesn’t disappoint. With each act, they’ve gotten more and more comfortable and more and more awestruck. It’s beginning to feel like an impossible ask to ever leave this big top. Yet, Jooheon’s next words send a chill through Mariam’s bones.

“As always, we close our show with the most dynamic performance of all. As you have learned by now, nothing about Le Cirque du Fantasme is traditional, so it must hold true that neither are our clowns. Not only will they take to the skies tonight, but they will take you to new heights with them. Be dazzled as fire and ice harmonize in ways you never thought possible, and, above all, expect the unexpected. Presenting The Flying Fools, Minhyuk and Changkyun!”

The ringmaster steps to the side as the final two performers enter the room.

They move in perfect unison, but that’s where the similarities end. The taller one, with hair like candle flames, presents in vivid detail. His face is shaped like a flame, too, with all the same flickering dimension and undulating contours. His skin is bright and brilliant like his smile only with a sheen to it, and when he spins in the lights, Mariam realizes it’s like a cast of gold dust upon him. She’s not sure if that’s stage makeup or if that’s just part of who he is, but considering his counterpart, it seems like the latter.

The shorter one has hair like snowflake filaments, each strand almost crystalline yet without being actually frozen. Even the cool way he strolls feels like a breeze across damp skin. Though his lines are sharp, borderline cutting, when he steps in the light, Mariam swears she can see through him. He’s sleek when he moves; every line and twitch has a purpose. It’s as though he is untethered and untouchable by everything. It’s almost as though his feet aren’t even touching the floor. She might think he’s a ghost if everyone else weren’t seeing the same thing.

With a pair of synchronized bows, the performers greet their audience silently just as the others did, saving all the talking for their ringmaster. Instead, they start their act with a series of incredible one-upsmanship. The redhead conjures fire in his palm, which the blue-haired man snuffs with a flick of his wrist. In retaliation, he then creates three snowballs of varying sizes into a very sweet but very humble snowman, and the redhead returns the favor by lobbing a fireball under his knee with the unforgiving precision of a meteor. The poor snowman explodes and melts into a puddle while the crowd chuckles.

They make faces at one another as they hurry to build their next assault. One constructs a basketball-sized snowball to the other’s fireball, and with a war cry like two brothers squaring up, they throw at each other. If either is off-target, Mariam will be buried in snow and the other side of the ring will be engulfed in flame, but their aim is true, and the two balls collide with a hiss like punching a hill of sand.

As they mock-squabble, a bar lowers from the ceiling, one side featuring a ring dangling from a chain and the other side featuring willowy baby blue ribbons fluttering as they descend. The two performers continue silently bickering as the redhead climbs into his ring and takes a seat and the blue-haired man winds his foot intricately through one ribbon while he scales the silks.

Once their eyelines are even, the bar raises, and now, the two men soar over center stage a few stories up. Closer to the spotlights, the redhead glitters like a disco ball while, at precisely the right moment, the light pierces the blue-haired man, like sun through a blanket of clouds, and shines down on the ringmaster’s grin.

As the pair reach their pinnacle, they play—not just off of the instruments but each other. It’s organized chaos. The man in the ring rocks like a monkey on a swing, his feet kicking and lifting. At first, it’s art, but then it’s clear his true intent is to toy with his friend. He drops. He swings. He pushes off of his friend’s back like a swimmer off the pool wall.

While the man in the ring flips and threads through his hoop, the man in the straps flies beside him. Thanks to the push, physics draws them back together until they’re rebounding off each other like a Newton’s cradle. Both of them are light and slender, but their sinew flexes with each choreographed move.

Watching them somehow makes Mariam feel strangely feminine, which isn’t something she usually thinks much about. Between work and TV and sleep, she doesn’t spend much time on herself. Carmel is a hamlet, too far removed from the City for the Big Apple to tempt her and too insular to attract outsiders except for the accidental stranger passing through. She doesn’t have to doll herself up because there’s no one in town left to impress, but as the dexterous duo wheels above to a chorus of ruffling silk and clanking chains, she feels soft, pliable even. She wishes she’d had time to change out of her shift clothes or apply some lip gloss. Watching them perform makes her yearn to impress them the way they’ve all impressed her.

Her eyelids droop.

They’re so beautiful. They sail as though the ribbons and chains are merely there for decoration, as though the sky would be their playground with or without them. They might be aiming to make everyone laugh, but Mariam sees beyond that. It’s their artistry she’s swept up in—the way they flick not just their wrists but echo the motion straight through to their fingertips, the way they use every part of their body to sell a complete experience, the way their no doubt countless hours of rehearsal ensures their whimsy looks as effortless as it does unstudied.

The blue-haired man chokes up on one silk as he releases the other and wraps his foot in the chiffon. He spins. He twirls. He sails by his wrist. The ribbon fans like a cape beneath him.

But when he swings too close to his fellow performer, the redhead shoves him playfully out into space to send the blue-haired man arcing over the audience to a chorus of “oohs” and “ahs”. Seeking his revenge, the aerialist slips down the fabric to angle himself like a bullet with an aim for his fellow performer.

At the last moment, the man in the ring latches on to his friend’s wrist, and together, ring and ribbon twine through the air. They circle together before they push apart and rotate like two bodies caught in each other’s orbit. It’s beautiful. It’s hypnotic.

Mariam can’t get them out of her head. Of all the things she’s seen tonight, they ensorcel her every sense. They’re two fools bickering like brothers, but without the bounds of gravity, their playfulness becomes aerial ballet. She wants to be part of the fun.

The redhead climbs on top of his hoop, legs splayed around the supporting chain, and reaches for the chiffon. While he goes high, the blue-haired man goes low, grasping the ring. He looks up at his brother-in-air and pokes his tongue wickedly at the corner of his mouth.

The next thing Mariam knows, the hoop is white with frost, and with a yank, the blue-haired aerialist shatters the ring beneath the redhead’s legs. Frozen metal tinkles to the floor. The redhead grips his chain tighter now, but there’s vengeance in those calculating eyes, and he spins so fast, he looks like a tornado of fire.

His hand lashes out.

He grabs the ribbon supporting his friend’s foot.

Flame marches up and down the chiffon, and the blue-haired man barely has time to unwind his foot and leap to the second silk before the other ribbon is engulfed. It untethers at the loop above and drifts to the floor like a snake made of fire to coil messily beside the shattered hoop.

Both men hang by one hand. The set piece begins to lower, but their rivalry does not slow. Their feet bicycle as they kick each other like toddler brothers, and the room reverberates with laughter. They collide only to push off each other’s thighs, and when they swing back, their arms are outstretched—not for each other but for their opponent’s supports.

The pair stills in the air.

The redhead grips the silk above his friend’s hand, who also has hold of the chain now.

They look each other in the eyes, each confident they have the upper hand.

Chain crackles like a sheet of ice. Fire ignites like a burner.

Their eyes widen. Their cocky grins falter.

They fall.

The pair thunders to the floor, each landing on his own feet thanks to their cleverly choreographed descent. And then they descend into a playground slap fight like the fools they’re promoted to be, which sends Jooheon skittering to center ring to break it up.

The tent is shaking with the crowd’s laughter and applause. Mariam is already on her feet and whooping at the top of her lungs like she’s never done before.

Jooheon raises the redhead’s arm by the wrist and champions, “Minhyuk!”

He does the same to the blue-haired man next as he yells, “Changkyun!”

The crowd somehow gets louder.

“One more time, my friends, for all our distinguished performers!”

Out of the back comes the rest of the circus, including the Amorak and the perytons but thankfully no death worm. Together, everyone fills the ring, the ringmaster front and center. They bow in unison, even the animals, and when they rise, Mariam thinks it’s simultaneously the most ridiculous and most wonderful family she’s ever seen.

The crowd doesn’t seem to take a breath in its cheers. The stands might not be anywhere near packed, but no one would be able to tell because the heartfelt screams—and a couple of animalistic roars, she notes—fill the canvas to the brim.

Jooheon couldn’t look prouder. His dimples have never been deeper. His eyes are little arches. His pearly teeth glimmer. He glows not from the spotlights but from the praise.

“Thank you all for coming! From all of us at Le Cirque du Fantasme, you’ve been a terrific audience, and should our paths chance to meet again someday, we hope you’ll return for another round of unparalleled fantasies. Get home safely, everyone!”

The cheering continues even as the performers head backstage, and once they’re all gone, the guests begin to filter out, each murmuring to the other strangers. It’s clearer now that the lights have come up that the denizens of the big top couldn’t be more different. As far as Mariam can tell, she’s the only obvious human.

She lingers in the VIP box. She’s probably supposed to leave—it’s clear from Jooheon’s well-wishes that they’re all supposed to—and while she’s not afraid of the strange folk after such a show, she just doesn’t want to go.

She’s changed.

She’s not the same Mariam she was when she walked through those striped flaps. How can she go back to her boring, conservative, empty life knowing all that truly surrounds her? It’s like discovering that the world she always thought was flat has a third dimension.

The big top is empty now except for spilled cartons and other litter. Humongous paw prints dapple the dusty ring floor. Motes of dust drift through the beams of light, past the gently swaying extra cache of rings, ropes, and ribbons above.

With a deep, shaking sigh, Mariam resigns herself to her fate. Just as her hand lands on the swinging door to the box seats, the backstage curtains fling open, and the redhead, Minhyuk, and his blue-haired partner, Changkyun, enter.

“Finally!” exclaims Minhyuk in an exuberant voice. “Showtime is always the hardest when you can't open your mouth.”

“I think you’re the only one who suffers on that point,” Changkyun retorts in a much gravellier tone.

The pair take to sweeping up their torched and shattered mess as though they don't even realize they still have an audience, the redhead gabbing away to make up for lost time.

Mariam doesn’t say anything. She’s sure she’s not supposed to be here, and she worries they’ll ban her from ever coming back—not that she’s sure exactly where she is or how she got here. She ducks down a little before she catches herself in her own stupidity. There’s nowhere to hide.

Should she apologize? Hurry out? She could just tell them that their rhythmic aerial battling has stirred things in her that she never thought she’d feel, but that’s probably stupider than trying to hide.

The last act is still emblazoned in her mind when the ringmaster abruptly appears from the back. While the other two men work around the tent, he heads directly toward Mariam as though he never expected her to leave in the first place.

“Well, my dear, what did you think of the show?”

His lips look even fuller and juicier somehow. She’s drunk just on the way they purse and pucker.

“Unbelievable,” she breathes. “I don’t even know what to say about it.”

“And how has VIP been so far?”

Mariam cocks her head to the side. “So far?”

“Did you think your experience ended with the show?”

“Well, yeah.”

Jooheon chuckles. “For the pretty maid in the front row, I offer a truly once-in-a-lifetime upgrade free of charge.”

“What kind of upgrade?”

“Only the most exclusive kind. We’re going to custom build you a dream, my dear.”

Mariam squints. “I thought the circus was the new dream?”

“Well, thank you, but you forget that we took your best dream ever.”

“Oh, yeah,” she says with a blush and a scuff of her boot on the floor. She's getting a strange feeling from his burrowing gaze that she's missing something more important than she’s realized. “But since I don't remember what it is, how do I know you haven't already exceeded it? Tonight was amazing.”

“Trust me, we haven't traded in fair yet. We can do better because… it’s important to me that you remember tonight—and me—forever.” Jooheon smiles at her then, but it’s different than those other flamboyant smiles. This one is gentle and sincere.

“There’s no way I could forget,” she admits shyly.

He looks dubious, but he nods and offers his hand as he opens the VIP box door, too. “Let me see to it then.”

The moment Mariam’s hand slips into his, the ringmaster’s demeanor changes. He’s been the consummate showman all night, but he’s narrowed that influence of his tremendous power to her and her alone. The big top hasn’t changed, but as he leads her to the center of the ring, it’s all much more intimate now.

Jooheon squares up to her and smiles, this time with the faintest hint of a lip bite. His thumbs rub reassuringly over the back of her hands as he takes one step closer.

“We're going to make you the star of our show.”

#monsta x smut #le cirque du fantasme #october vibes #jooheon smut #minhyuk smut #changkyun smut #third person #trilogy

[ms-nesbit]

Good jay hunting (chapter three of empire records)

Chapter one and two found here (x) (x)

Rating: 18+ (say it with me: minors, fuck off!)

Summary: y/n and jason go on a date at the gotham cemetery, where jason tells y/n about his tenure as robin. Her feelings for him deepens, so much that he receives a surprise when the date is over.

Trigger warning! This chapter dives into Jason Todd’s history, which includes: d0mestic vi0lence, r@pe, pr0stitution, substance @buse, child @abuse, and neglect. PLEASE be advised.

ao3

Note: I fucking loved writing this chapter. I will take a break though because it hit a little too close to home for me. I hope you all enjoy and, as always, reblog and refrain from being a dickhead and reposting my work elsewhere. Thank you!

A cold front ushered into Gotham quicker than the summer heat could pay its sorrowful respects, Gothamites struggling to acclimate to the drastic change in temperature. On the Gotham News Network, gas leaks and lawsuits were reported, detailing the inhumane treatment landlords provide for the elderly; it was nothing new to the godless city, each sin managing to top another.

Jason was desensitized to it, too. He recalled his time in an apartment on the upper East side of Gotham, near Murphy Ave. - his biological father stumbled through the door, fury steaming from his lips in the scent of bourbon, as he picked which target to his unfathomable wrath; Jason’s mother sacrificed herself when Jason’s motor skills were still developing, and skull fusing together from his ripe birth; yet, when Jason began reading, gaining ideas that inspired him to do good, he stood before his mother, fists balled and chest puffed, a zeal of a thirty year-old in a nine year-old’s body.

His father was why Jason’s mother dipped her toes into medication - he injured her so severely, she visited the doctor, who abruptly prescribed her narcotics without questioning the source of her injuries, and sent her on her way. Each tablet was a sense of bliss to her, something she missed so dearly, it enveloped her in endless bliss when she re-experienced it, so she became erratic for more, bargaining with the local shadows to entice her, indulge her, give her what she needed.

And Jason was learning from this. He blinked his deer eyes as he saw his mother dive into the pill bottle face first, and how his father’s silhouette looked carved in chalk. I’m okay, he told his teachers when they noticed his missing assignments, or unexcused absences from school. I was just sick. I forgot.

Never could he step down from his position as son, mother, and father - he was all a nuclear family to himself, and couldn’t afford to jeopardize his position. With his father dead, he was man of the house at ten, and grew three sizes to accommodate; with his mother paralyzed by chemically-induced numbness and familiarity in the shape of ovular bliss, Jason adapted rapidly, cooking meals for himself and his mother. And without the income, he stole what he could; after being arrested a few times, he feared not his own record becoming tarnished with demerits, but the judicial attention being shifted to his mother, whom he dearly loved and missed, and instead sold his soul to the streets, begging to give whatever he could so he could feed his mother, care for his mother, rear his mother as she needed.

After that dreadful night, though, when he visited his friends after school instead of checking on his mother, he re-entered the apartment, dirtied and covered in neglect. The air was thick with news he believed he had the power to prevent, the poor boy, his last light of innocence taken from him with her final breath before she lay lifeless on the bathroom tile floor, becoming one with the grime and mildew that accumulated.

He shed no tears that night. He cradled her, listened to her in lament, but remained a soldier for the mother he wished he knew. Jason held her as he rocked her to sleep, hoping the embrace could restore her soul to eternal happiness in the afterlife. With her, a piece of his soul died, too, and his smiles were in vain, voice seeming a bit tainted with a poison others in his life couldn’t quite identify.

It was quite ironic that he loved the theatre tenderly, as he became an actor at a young age, playing the role of a century. He performed at Apollo Theater as Lady McBeth, his mourning in tow each day he spoke of his mother and her life, as if she wasn’t a ghost haunting his mind post-sunset. His tongue was burning and heart lonesome as he performed exquisitely, so well that even he was convinced that his mother would be at home, waiting upon his arrival.

One night, after escaping from the hands of his disparaging foster parents, Jason picked up his equipment used to steal - or boost, if you will - automotive parts for cash. He used the pieces as relics to restore value to himself, whether it be in form of wrinkled, used money, or bartering for shelter, transportation, or a favor; that night, however, proved to be different in many ways: the moon entered its final phase, the quarter presenting itself behind passing clouds, Jason’s best friend had been missing for days, only to have his body recovered from the lake that day (another day of grief for Jason, no doubt, although he was anesthetized to death).

Jason found an abnormally shaped vehicle in Crime Alley, and he snickered to himself when he approached the profile, it was…the Batmobile. He kneeled and began his workmanship, spinning the car jack to loosen the lug nuts. Before he could finish, though, a presence bestowed itself behind him, the Fool, and it was the caped crusader himself.

The following months were a quick haze for the pre-teen - the vigilante revealed his identity as Bruce Wayne, and Jason, although ecstatic to belong in a home once again, didn’t shake his misfortune, the baggage worn around his neck like a lagahoo. If it wasn’t in his days as anxiety attacks and hoarding, anticipating the next loss, then it was carried through in his subconscious, the most unsuspecting of all in forms of nightmares and shapeshifting creatures lurking with a liquor bottle and belt.

Screams and pleas entered the halls of Wayne Manor, carrying all the way to Bruce’s chambers, and sometimes, on the most unforgiving nights, into the Batcave. It brought heartbreak to the home, especially to Bruce’s butler, Alfred, who served Jason much closer than Bruce could. Although Jason’s older adoptive brother, Dick, was polite and respectful of Alfred, Jason saw Pennyworth eye-to-eye, restoring some youth into the mature man when Jason assisted him in the kitchen, or with chores, with such glee (and it was a delightful task for Jason to partake in! He longed for mundane tasks that other children took for granted, gruelled about, resented their parents for, and Jason smiled with each load of laundry completed, or dinner prepped with Alfred.).

“We must do something, Bruce.” Alfred begged Bruce with broken eyes. “Not that cloak.” he spoke vehemently, with such disgust that the man could ever dare coerce Jason back into danger, this time with less protection and a daring purpose.

Yet his concerns were dismissed by Bruce’s concoction of arrogance and stubbornness, a deadly duo that ultimately led Jason to his demise by the clown prince of crime. His lifeless body lay on the concrete, and Bruce was taken aback by the woeful fate of the boy, despite the stern admonishments made by his aid at home. He vowed never to risk another boy’s life after this, to allow Jason to rest after sixteen years of distress.

The truth unfolded after the detective unmasked details of his son’s death: the clown had tempted him with the unveiling of his mother’s existence, his true mother. The pictures the clown’s unhinged partner took, which were messily glued to Todd’s tombstone, left little to Bruce’s imagination: the torture his son endured at the hands of a criminal, the look of terror in the boy’s eyes in one photo, with a shadow of a man’s arm in the air, crowbar in hand…

It was the first time since Martha and Thomas’s deaths that Bruce wept, shoulders slumped as he hiccuped. The boy died in vain. For nothing. There was no rest for his tortured soul, no restitution, requisition for the last breaths laborly drawn.

And when Jason arose from the dead, vindication sharp on his tongue, and life stolen from his green eyes, it only instigated heavier burden on Bruce’s aching bones, remorse deep in his voice when he faced the revived Jason returning back to Wayne Manor, distraught from uncovering that shortly after his death, Bruce replaced him.

—

“So…you were Robin?” y/n asked.

Jason nodded sadly, face pointed at the starry sky. “Yeah.”

Silence cursed them again, the night drawn out from Jason’s confession. Y/n didn’t expect it to be this tragic, although she appreciated it quietly. “Do you miss her?”

The words caught Jason off guard. He was used to y/n’s surprising angle on conversations, scoping out a person differently than the status quo. No small talk, no pleasantries, just rawness. “I talked with Bruce’s shrink about it - he said she could help or some shit,” his face warped in disapproval. “But I don’t. I romanticized the idea of her, but to be honest, she chose drugs over me. It hurts sometimes to think about, but that’s that. It was easier for me to think of my dad as a piece of shit, because he basically hit me more than he talked to me.”

“Makes sense. Guys are often stupid pieces of shit. No offense.” y/n raised a hand.

Jason shrugged. “None taken, we’re sacks of fucks.” he scoffed at his own comment. “I still kinda resent Bruce for wanting me to be Robin, I mean…why did he think that was any bit okay to do?”

“Maybe because that was the only way he could handle grief?” y/n offered.

Propping himself on his arms, palms flat behind him, he breathed deeply. Y/n had a point, though: when Bruce introduced the idea to Dick, Dick felt the same type of grief Bruce had; however, when the mantle was passed to Jason, the mourning was different, if at all: both Bruce and Dick had someone to lose, whereas Jason hadn’t.

And it showed when Jason worked the role. He showed sympathy to petty criminals, sometimes aiding and abiding them, to Bruce’s disapprobation; his demeanor soured as intel regarding trafficking rings and abusers surfaced, knuckles bruised and teeth clenched as perpetrators’ blood spurted onto the Robin costume, tainting its bright colors into a deeper, richer tone.

It was worse when Bruce pushed Jason to attend the Wayne galas. The upper class flocked their wealth and acquitted crimes, which burned Jason’s ears as he heard someone’s misfortune reduced into a witty anecdote paired with hor d'oeuvres and sparkling champagne.

Jason knew of the children who were taken by the boogeymen and women in the dark. He knew of their lives and tales that were once short, stout, and sweet. The attendees spoke of their deaths apathetically, muttering insults under their breath as they attempted to justify their ill motives. Almost as if these were the boogeymen and women, simply dressed up in thousand-dollar gowns and heirlooms that cleverly disguised their sharp talons and venomous taste for the vulnerable, their souls containing all moral onus were snatched from their now-empty vessels. He argued with them at the galas about the children, urging them ferociously about their contributions, as if nobody dare exist outside of them.

How could they? A life so lavish, how could they know of any decision made out of self-preservation and greed rather than sympathy and the greater good? They were the one-percent, top of the socioeconomic chain, the bourgeoisie glaring down from their terrace views at the filthy proletariats below them - and while one could argue that the view from up high could be so grand that even the diamonds in the filth could be mistaken for fool’s gold, the wounded mistaken for the parasite that would consume the rich had they attempted to so much as inspect the streets, why would they then take measures to ensure their own safety, stuff more money into their pockets, knowing what they’ve seen?

The pasta salad Jason was poking at lost its flavor. A shame. “I know that Bruce couldn’t understand, but…Dick? I mean, you said he was Robin, too, right? And it wasn’t like he came from a wealthy background.” Y/n spoke between munches of lettuce that hung out of her mouth.

“Dick traveled a lot, and his family didn’t have a ton, but they were…a family.” Jason’s words were a sad string playing into the cemetery. 

It was the truth. Jason was a true reflection of the city in which he was raised: impoverished and tattered, the result of a godless, greedy, unfiltered city full of beasts whose sins remained unpunished, unanswered for. His heart pumped true - as that of Dick and Bruce - but in deep red, different than the blue blood that his adoptive elder brother and father carried in themselves; they could never understand him, really, their path vastly disparate than Jason’s living tragedy.

All y/n could think to do was kiss the man beside him, spilling his life before her atop the delectable array of desserts he prepared for her. She cupped his cheek with her hand and pulled him toward her, their lips clashing into a deep but slow kiss. As y/n’s lips moved to hold Jason’s, she felt a tear on her thumb, the one on Jason’s cheek, and she inched her body closer to his, to ensure that she wasn’t another chapter in his story, either.

She hadn’t disclosed her sobstory - the one filled with angst, betrayal, and the anguish of abuse and torment year after year from those closest to her; she was just as tired as he, and finally felt a bond, vulnerable with someone besides the weeping albums she listened to when her nightmares resurfaced.

When they broke their kiss, only the faintness of the ghosts from their graves divided Jason and y/n. They held their hands, fingers interlocked, as they stayed close. Y/n hummed when Jason wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and Jason smiled (for the first time in hours) when y/n reached up to kiss the white patch of his hair, now knowing its origin.

Instead of parting ways after their food finished, they laid down, hip to hip, and counted the stars as they relished in the caress of each other’s skin. It was the first time Jason saw y/n so disarmed, which was jarring compared to her all-plaid, studded outfit. He liked her anyway, a bit too much for his liking, afraid that he was diving too deep.

And before y/n drifted to sleep in Jason’s arms, she felt the same fear subside, until it quieted to nothing but a puny whisper.

—-

Jason’s administrative account was open on his laptop when he arrived back at his home, securing each lock before he removed his leather jacket and set down his biking helmet.

He glanced at a notification on his phone, which was from y/n. He was glad she wasn’t insecure and reached out to him first. The innocent grin on his face quickly turned amorous as he opened the notification, which brought him to a video y/n sent of herself. 

Naked.

Masturbating.

Determined, Jason shuffled to his armchair, unbuckling his jeans and wriggling his cock free from them as he sat and watched the video. Y/n ran a hand up and down her body suggestively, showing Jason what he was missing; then, after brief teasing, she opened her legs, sitting up as she revealed her wet cunt on full display for the camera. Jason’s cock twitched when he saw her swollen clit aching to be touched, and the thought of his head between her legs, thigh on either side of his shoulders, almost made Jason explode there.

Instead, he took the fuel and set up his webcam and account, enabling bluetooth on his phone and connecting his wireless headphones to privately hear y/n’s noises. He pressed a key on his laptop, beginning the livestream.

On one hand, he held the phone, the content away from the webcam’s view; his other hand stroked his cock, quickly, as he followed y/n’s every word.

“Put your cock in me, Jay.”

“Fuck! Yes, eat me out just like that.”

The phrases were too much for Jason to handle, who was moaning incoherently, fitting in garbled, “So hot” and “Gonna make you come.” His hand moved rapidly on his cock, and he was getting close, noises crescendoing. “Y/n, y/n, so good.”

It wasn’t until y/n exploded, dildo inside of her and fingers circling her clit, that Jason’s orgasm was ripped from him, his body tensing as he nearly screamed, eyes squeezing shut as he rocked his hips into his hand. “God, fuck.” he yelped, sucking a breath in as he felt his body tense up again after he thought his climax was over.

He had forgotten he was live. He didn’t know he said her name aloud in the dazed state. Nor did he know that he continued to say her name, over and over, as cum shot from his cock.

“I’ve been seeing someone. Hope none of you are jealous.” he admitted, blushing. “I’ll see you all later. Till then, take care.” he ended the livestream abruptly, finally taking a breath after logging out of his administrative account.

He closed his laptop and set it on the end table beside the wingchair, heading to the bathroom to shower and masturbate again to y/n.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd/reader #jason todd x plus size reader #plus size reader #smut #fluff #TW abuse #TW substance abuse #TW rape #red hood #robin #dick grayson #bruce wayne #batman #nightwing #ao3 #my post #mine

[alloftheimaginesblog]

merry christmas {p.p}

plot: christmas is peter's least favourite time of the year

character: peter parker (tasm) x reader

warning: angst, sad, death

He could hear the stifled giggles coming from beside him as you crawled into bed beside him. He rolled over, reaching out to tug you close to him, "Merry Christmas, Pete," you whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head, "Santa's been!"

Had Peter had his eyes open they would've been rolling. Christmas was your favourite time of year. You'd decorated the small New York apartment to the high heavens to the point it was almost difficult to walk around without bumping into a five foot inflatable snowman or inflatable candy cane. You got so excited over Christmas, you'd never lost the childlike excitement of the day. Peter thought it was adorable. He didn't really like Christmas, not after losing his parents, but Uncle Ben and Aunt May always tried to make it happy and exciting for him. Some years were better than others but you made him love it, you made him excited for it. You made Christmas.

"Santa, huh?" He asked with a laugh, pulling you closer.

"Yes now let's go! we've got gifts to open!"

Peter let out a frustrated groan as he rolled over, hands rubbing tiredly at his face almost as though trying to rub the memories away. He hated Christmas. He hated it. His plans of sleeping the day away had been rudely interrupted by the memories and the pounding headache that the bottle of whiskey Aunt May had gifted him for his birthday had brought on. He'd tried to drown out the sadness, wash away the memories with Jack Daniels but if anything, it made them worse and the hangover left him vulnerable with his defences down.

He forced himself up and out of bed but this time there were no decorations around the apartment. Instead it was cold and dark and... lifeless.

"You didn't have to get me anything," he said, "I told you that my money's tight just now and I-"

"Pete," you said as you placed a kind hand on his, "It's okay, I promise... besides I didn't get you anything, it was all Santa."

He rolled his eyes, laughing at you, "Yeah, right."

He raised his head to look at his reflection. God, I look awful. Red eyes - red from crying so much, from the hangover or from the pitiful sleep? All three probably. His hair was unkempt and his face unshaven. He looked as bad as he felt. He didn't really give a crap though and instead left the bathroom to grab a hoodie. He pulled on his shoes and left the apartment.

Aunt May knew how hard a day it was for herself without her husband and she knew how hard it was for Peter without his parents, without his uncle and now without you. She'd been calling him all morning but to no avail. Aunt May knew where he would be; she always seemed to know. She knew that he would be trying to push her away, block everyone out and that way it doesn't hurt, right? Wrong. She picked up her umbrella and walked the short distance to the place she knew he visited when he was upset. It didn't take her long to walk, ten minutes and she was standing at the cemetery gates.

When she'd lost Ben, she had a routine like this too. First thing in the morning, she'd head to the cemetery and talk to him, cry to him, sob and wail and beg him to come back. It was torture and therapy all simultaneously.

She walked the familiar path to where she knew Peter would be and she found him, drenched and sobbing, in front of the grave with your name on it. Her heart broke for him. Mid twenties but in this state, knees pressed to his chest and sobbing his heart out, she saw that young boy who lost his parents far too early.

He looked up only when Aunt May shielded his body from the rain. She had to be strong for him today so she smiled, nodded and sat down on the gravel beside him. It was wet and cold but she had to be here for him. She had to do this for him; for you. "Hi, (y/n)," she said loudly over the sound of the rain. Peter began to cry harder, head on Aunt May's shoulder, sobbing into the crook of her neck like he used to do when he'd skin his knees after falling off his skateboard as a kid, "Merry Christmas. I know you always loved the holidays-" her voice cracked, "Ben did too. Always made such a fuss over them, didn't he honey?"

Peter half laughed, half sobbed, "Yeah," he whispered.

It took him a while to peel himself off of Aunt May. When he did, they were soaked to the bone and shivering. He wiped the tears away and cleared his throat, "Merry Christmas, (y/n)."

He looked to Aunt May who smiled back at him with watery eyes. Her expression said so many things to Peter that he understood immediately.

I love you.

I'm so sorry.

You'll be okay.

I miss them all too.

Aunt May squeezed his hand and together, they stood up and began to walk back home.

"(y/n), what the hell? This is so expensive, you shouldn't have!"

You were grinning at him, wide and happy, "But I wanted to see you smile, Pete! Can you blame me for wanting to see that goddamn pretty smile?!"

Peter laughed, "Oh but I thought Santa got me it, not you."

Your eyes widened, "Oh no, I've been found out!" The smile pulled up the corners of your lips as you leaned in to his ear, "I am Santa."

Peter's laughter grew louder and louder as he pulled you in close, "Yeah?" He asked, "Well, thank you, Santa." His lips pressed against yours, warm and soft. He pulled back too soon, pressing his forehead to yours, "Merry Christmas, (y/n)."

#one shot #prompt #long prompt #os #peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter parker/reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker x you #peter parker one shot #peter parker reader insert #reader insert #amazing spiderman #tasm #spider-man #spiderman imagnie #spiderman #marvel #andrew garfield #tasm!peter parker fanfiction #tasm!peter parker fic #tasm!spiderman x you #tasm!peter imagine

[thenightfolknetwork]

So I know you don’t answer many questions from- across the pond, as it were, but I don’t need any legal advice, and I’m at my wit’s end. I’m hoping you can help.

So my genus is very small. In point of fact it’s just my family, as far as I know, and it’s only ever one creature active at a time- bunch of sapios doing sapio things, then the previous Creature dies or sees the Signs and boom! One of us Wakes and hey look at that, new Hierophant! And as the current Hierophant I Speak and Am Heard- part of the reason I’m writing to you.

A part of my genus is acting as the mouthpiece for a portent of the apocalypse. That's not a secret- hell, its why the town has the name it does and why the family name's on the radio station. Predictably, I am the foremost DJ on 226.5, the Voice of Birch.

It’s not a bad gig, per say. I go to work and between the traffic reports and the local top forty I give an update on the eventual Coming of The Burned Birch. It never lasts long and my local community really likes it. The Birch sort of became a touristy thing, you see- awesome in the autumn, all its leaves yellow and glowing with ghostfire.

Well, so they tell me. I can't actually LOOK at the Birch-if I do, I'll go by way of great uncle Milton and turn into salt. Thank goodness pictures and art don't count or we'd have to move the station and the whole family into the old mica mine.

The Birch likes being appreciated and turned into post cards and calanders, though. It’s a bit of a show off, really. I guess I’d be showing off if I were a tree that could move around at will.

The problem is that lately, the Birch has been sending me updates at the most inconvenient times. It's generally a twice a day thing, but now I’ll be brushing my teeth at five AM and the whole town hears me ominously spouting coordinates and warning of the cracking of the earth and rising of the dead. The Birch can’t even make the dead rise, there’s been wards on the local cemetery for a century!

Or I’ll be making an order at my coffee shop and suddenly I’m telling poor Taylor the barista that the trees come down the mountain to open their fiery branches to the burnished sky.  

The worst of it is at ten or eleven at night when I’m trying to settle into bed. My hometown is very small and quiet, so most folks are in bed early unless they’re nocturnal like the coven that runs the night shift at the bakery. I’ll be drowsing, mind floating off to dreamland, and all of a sudden I’m bolt upright in bed declaring that West Street’s pavement is going to shatter with the feet of elder gods, flee the Burned Birch, flee! People are losing sleep.

It's getting out of hand. I’m not in danger of losing my job or anything (not even sure I can be fired, to be honest) but when you live in a town with less than two thousand people and everyone knows you’re the Hierophant of the Burned Birch, well. That's me avoiding the next St. Mary's rummage sale.

I know you always say communication is key and I’ve tried, believe me. All the old methods- blood rituals under the full moon, a cracked labradorite under my pillow, whispering to the moths- it hasn’t worked.

There's nothing in the family archives about the Burned Birch acting like this and frankly, I’m worried. Is there something wrong? Some rot or fungus that infects only apocalyptic omen trees? Is it trying to reach out to me for help? I can't go look at it and my friends tell me it looks fine. They show me pictures and my omen looks fine! How do I tell if it’s being needy or if it’s being obnoxious? and how do I hang on to my declarations without a three hour nosebleed?

Literally anything you've got will help, at this point. Thanks in advance!

-Fat Ricki, The Voice Of Birch

First of all, may I say how lovely it is to hear from another radio professional? Liminal broadcasting is a topic close to my heart, and it's always nice to hear from others in the field.

To your question, I think your first job is to absolutely rule out the possibility of any physical or magical ailment your tree might be suffering.

You said you've had friends inspect the tree, and have looked at photos to assess the situation yourself. But tree diseases are not always easy to spot with the naked eye, especially to the untrained. This is doubly true for thaumaturgically active trees, which may be susceptible to infections, infestations and diseases on several planes of reality.

I recommend investing in the services of a trained arboreal arcanist. In the United Kingdom, customers can find specialists through the Arcane Arboricultural Society, whose members must meet the societies standards of professionalism and training. If such an organisation exists in your area, all to the good.

If not, take some time to read up on professional qualifications available to tradespeople in your state. You want someone qualified in thaumaturgic horticulture, and preferably with the ability to perceive reality on at least three additional planes, if not more.

There are several pests and diseases that might be causing your tree's distress, from spectral bacteria to ether flux. Better to invest a little time and money in ruling those out than risk leaving them untreated.

I think it's safe to say your tree is trying to get your attention for some reason. Once you've ruled out disease or discomfort as the possible reason, consider what else might have changed since this behaviour began. Has it been receiving fewer visitors than usual, or perhaps been the subject of a less-than-flattering news article?

Many apocalyptic trees, shrubs and bushes have a tendency to fussiness and egotism. It's very possible that your tree wants nothing more than to be the subject of a bit of ego-stroking fuss. You might try drumming up a few more visitors and acolytes, or performing a ritual of appeasement that recognises its great and terrible power.

The phrase “attention-seeking” carries with it a host of negative connotations. Instead, think of this as “support-seeking” behaviour. There is a need your tree feels is unmet, and as its Hierophant, it's up to you to meet it. With a bit of reassurance and attention, I think your tree should settle down into its usual ways in no time.

#answered #the nightfolk network #monstrous agonies

[chihirolovebot]

wrap me up (take me home).

featuring. jotaro kujo/reader, implied jotakak/reader (past)

word count. 1.04k

synopsis. ten years after cairo, you pay a visit to a gravesite. thankfully, you aren't alone.

content. implied jotakak/reader, major sdc spoilers, mentions of death, gender-neutral reader, cemeteries, fluff, minor angst

merry ficmas masterlist.

You dream of Cairo one night.

You all sleep under the stars. The deserts get unspeakably cold during the nights, but you and Kakyoin make a sleepy cuddle-pile with Jotaro sandwiched between all of you, and though he grumbles and laments his lack of personal space, he doesn't push at either of you with anything near his full strength. Even at just seventeen he could've pummelled you both into chum. But he didn't, and he doesn't, so Kakyoin nuzzles into his side and you wrap yourself around one toned arm and start to point out constellations above you.

"How strange is it," Kakyoin says softly. "We're looking at the same sky as our parents back in Japan. They can all see the same stars as us."

Jotaro casts him a flat look from under the dark hair that tumbles over his forehead. "Don't get all sentimental when I'm trying to sleep."

"Sorry, sorry," Kakoyin relents with a breathy laugh as you tut and elbow Jotaro in the ribs for his crudeness. "I just... do you suppose we'll be home, soon?"

You bite your lip. You taste stray grains of sand and the kushari you'd eaten for dinner. "Dio can't hide forever," is what you conjure up when it becomes clear Jotaro won't answer. The boy in the middle stares up at the shimmering sky, blue eyes contemplative, softer than you usually see them.

You go to sleep seventeen years old and whole.

You wake twenty-eight, and it's cold.

Not the same sort of cold you'd find in an Egyptian desert at night. This one is clinical and smells of lemongrass air refresher; the air conditioning of your fancy hotel bleaches the oxygen in the room and makes your hair stand on end, and you irritably get out of bed to switch it off. Japan gets cold enough in January as it is, you don't need it and it's a total waste of resources, anyway.

At least you're only here for a couple of days.

You find Jotaro in the bathroom, skin gleaming, fresh-washed. He's dressed already, white suit luminescent against his skin, but for all his care to look put together you can see the circles stretching under his dull eyes, dark and deep.

"Morning," you conjure up. He nods.

"You slept okay?"

"Not really." You hoist yourself up onto the bathroom counter with a sigh. "I dreamed of Cairo."

Jotaro's shoulders stiffen. For a moment, you think he won't answer—but then he drops his eyes and mutters, "Me, too."

"Stars?"

"...Yeah."

You let the silence ruminate for a moment before hopping back to your feet with a deep sigh. "Come on, then. I'm freezing, I want a shower."

You wash and dress in simple black clothes. It feels appropriate for the day—it is one of mourning and respect, after all. And you've always sort of liked dressing in a polar opposite way to Jotaro. It calls attention to the both of you, draws eyes in the street, reminds you that you're still here, alive, still together and in love. You didn't die a thousand miles away from home.

Not like him.

Kakyoin's hometown is small and modest, and the same goes for the cemetery. You don't have to look for his headstone—you two come here every year on January sixteenth, after all. You pick your way across the grass silently, and you stoop down to press hydrangeas against the slab of marble.

And it's as it always is. You kneel, Jotaro stands. You both pray for his spirit, though you muse that if he hasn't found peace after eleven years he's probably shit out of luck by now. He's probably keeping himself around out of spite. Smug bastard.

You miss him so, so badly.

You feel his absence every time you wake at Jotaro's side, every time you take his hand and he has one left over, dangling emptily at his side. The age at which Kakyoin died has begun to feel younger and younger as the two of you grow older—and it's not all melancholy. You're married, after all. You're in love, unconditionally. But there is a gap there, too, always has been since that night against Dio eleven years ago.

You stand just as the hard earth is beginning to bite at you, hands shaking. Jotaro notices, because of course he does.

"Cold?" he asks, probably mostly to spare your feelings. You nod, and he grumbles under his breath as he envelopes your hand in one of his huge ones and tucks them deftly into his pocket. Jotaro always runs so, so warm—he was like your personal heater, travelling through planes of desert in winter at night all those years ago.

"You're warm," you tell him fondly. Jotaro casts a sideways look at you as you begin to leave the cemetery, as though trying to gauge if you're making fun of him. But you're not, of course. You're grateful.

After a moment of blank-faced scrutinisation, Jotaro's face softens ever so slightly, the way it sometimes did back in 1989 when he looked over you and Kakyoin, the way it seems to do so much more often these days as he sheds his teenage rage and sullenness.

"Yeah, it's freezing," he grunts, fingers squeezing yours gently. He's always so very gentle with you, always terrified of hurting you. He never could, which is something he has still yet to truly internalise. He's used to breaking things, your Jotaro. If only he knew how fast he'd held the three of you together. "We can catch a flight back to Tokyo tonight."

"Sounds good," you murmur. "We should spend Christmas here one year, you think? Kakyoin always talked about how nice this place was at Christmas."

Jotaro hums. "Not a bad idea. Erm... his mother did say we were always welcome. I dunno."

"I think he would've liked that," you murmur. "Hey. Thanks."

He blinks at you, expression just a touch bewildered. "What for?"

"Warming me up." Your hand squeezes his, lovingly, and Jotaro flushes and turns away, muttering profanity under his breath. You beam as you walk; in some ways, he really hasn't changed at all.

In some ways, neither have you. You're still dreaming of Cairo, staring up at the stars.

#🎄.ficmas #jjba x reader #jojo x reader #jotaro x reader #jotaro kujo #jotaro kujo x reader #jjba #jojos bizarre adventure #kujo jotaro #🗞; writing tag. #jjba headcanons #jotaro headcanons #kujo jotaro x reader #kujo jotaro headcanons

[candied-boys]

Luke's POV x F! Reader - Part 8

Warning: Dark Content!

Including but not limited to references to prostitution, child neglect and abuse, war and death, PTSD, flashbacks, nightmares, suicidal ideation, and historically accurate ages for relations. The dark content is almost entirely drawn from/same as Luke's route.

Themes: protection, hurt and comfort, mutual healing, learning to trust, letting yourself feel, and eventually giving into love. Everything is written from Luke's POV.

Part 7

You shouldn’t have let Honey drag you into bed with her that night at the inn. She hasn't taken no for an answer since. Though the cold winter nights are well past, you ran out of excuses long ago — both to sleep alone and to send her on her way.

Every time you pulled up the covers and tucked her in next to you, you swore it was only until spring, only until it wasn't so bitter outside, only until…

You couldn't let go anymore…

“I think Leyla's bears are lonely staying here by themselves… Maybe the little bear you made me can keep them company until you come again next time…”

You visited the cemetery at Hope together that day and found the graves of her mother and grandmother. Once a rose was laid out for each, you brought her to the little house you rebuilt yourself. There she left the tiny bear you had made out of the same yellow wool as her dress the morning after you brought her home from the brothel. Now she clings to her newly sewn bear where she lies curled up asleep in your arms.

“Surprise! Happy birthday, Leyla!”

“Wow! A bear! It's so cute!!”

“Glad y’ like it. Why’d y’ want a bear anyway?”

“Because it reminds me of my big brother!”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you're like the bear in my story book that helps the little girl who got lost in the forest! You're always looking after me and playing with me, so I wanted a bear like you to play with while you're at work.”

The next town over. About an hour's walk. That's where you were when the invasion happened. Work.

“And there's still so much work left to do before…”

A rap at the door pulls you from the darkness beginning to cloud the rays of April sunshine seeping through the shutters. Careful not to wake Honey, you sneak out from the bed and over to the threshold to peer through the spy glass. On the other side stands a man dressed in black silk robes that make it clear he is, by no means, one of the townsfolk. Upon opening the door the devilish looking man greets you by proclaiming to be a palace minister and declaring that you are the long lost eighth prince.

Shaking your head and crossing your arms, all you can think is that bullshit like this should stay in fairy tales where it belongs. Worst of all is that if what he says were somehow true, it would be a sick twist in your already gruesome fate. When the word ‘prince’ echoes in your ears again so do the horrors of that day ten years ago.

“See you later, Big Brother!”

Though your blood curdles at the mere recollection, you realize you don't care whether he's got the wrong guy or you are some lost prince. Taking up residence at the palace as per his request would cut your work by years, so you agree — on one condition.

“Prince Luke, you must understand that this is a strictly confidential matter. Not just anyone can be permitted to stay at the castle…”

“I'm not leaving her here alone,” you counter as you shut the door and step out to keep Honey from overhearing.

“The castle is a den of beasts. It is certainly not safer for her there. However, I promise you our best knights can be made available to see to her here in town.”

“I don't give a damn if y’ promise the whole army. I'm not leaving her by herself.”

With an exasperated sigh the slender man scowls up at you, “Prince Luke, you are oddly protective of someone who is neither your sister nor your lover.”

For a split second you reach to grab him by the collar and give him what for, but you catch yourself just in time and ask through grit teeth, “What of it?”

“You must understand that by insisting she joins you, you are condemning either yourself to lying or her to secrecy. Should the details of what we will discuss at the palace be known, it would mean treason.”

“If y’ already know enough about her to know who she is to me, y’ should know enough to understand she don't have no one to tell nothin’ to.”

“This includes even the palace staff. If you do not wish to lose what you cherish twice, Prince Luke, I advise you to choose carefully.”

This time you snap.

“Just who the fuck are y’, anyway?”

Prying your grip off his robes he answers calmly, “I shall explain in due course. Pack whatever is most important to you. The rest will be furnished to you upon arrival at the castle. A carriage will be here to pick you up in an hour.”

Without another word he disappears, leaving you to hide the chaos of emotions roiling within because you can tell from the shadow under the door that she's awake and waiting on the other side. Running a heavy hand through your hair you turn the knob and find her standing there, clutching her bear tight with anxiety.

“How much did y’ hear?” you sigh.

“Nothing really…” she mumbles after a moment of glancing around warily. “I just woke up because you sounded um… upset…”

She hasn't seen you get riled up like this since the night you brought her here, but you know there's still a deep-rooted fear of the violence that accompanied anger in her family.

“I'm sorry I scared you, Honey. Everything's okay. C’mere,” you coax with open arms.

Her hesitation soon lifts and she scurries into your arms, nuzzling her face into your chest. When her shoulders give up their tension, you pick her up and sit her on your knee at the table.

“Do y’ remember I told y’ I've been workin’ to become a knight in the king's army? Well, I got an offer to go to live and work at the castle.”

Instantly she stiffens, eyes wide and brimming with panic.

“Hey, hey, nothin’ to be scared of. I'm not gonna leave y’ here all alone,” you shush with a hand on her cheek.

“But Luke… I can't go with you. I don't belong in a place like that… and I'm already a burden on you as it is… and I don't want to hold you back more… and…”

“Shh, none o’ that,” you press a finger to her trembling pout. “Y’re a good girl. Don't go thinkin’ otherwise. Now if y’ wanna stay here I can make sure y’re taken care of. We'll get y’ set up with a job like we talked about and y’ can keep livin’ here in this room if y’ like.”

Little hand fisting your t-shirt, she chokes, “and if I don't?”

“Y’ can come with me. Nothin’ll change except where we sleep at night. I'll still look after y’ and keep y’ safe.”

Her eyes scan yours for a minute longer than you expect and you quirk a brow to draw out her question.

“But what do you want, Luke?”

You always tell yourself she needs you, that you can't leave her on her own yet, that she isn't safe without you around. But you know that's barely half the truth. If you lie to yourself and say you don't care, you'll leave her deeply wounded. And yet if you let yourself be honest, you might just fall apart.

A dozen answers dance on your tongue, but all you can manage is to pull her closer and drop your head onto her shoulder, hoping your grip on her waist is enough to tell her what you can't bring yourself to say.

Part 9

#ikemen prince #ikepri #ikemen luke #ikemen prince luke randolph #luke randolph #ikemen prince luke #ikepri luke #ikepri fanfiction #fanfiction #ikemen prince fanfiction #ikepri fanfic

[coffeebanana]

Opening Line Patterns

Thanks for the tag @ladyofthenoodle!! First lines are so fun to me...even if i sometimes have to rewrite them 10 billion times LOL. Let's see what we've got here...

Rules: List the first line of your last 10 posted fics and see if there's a pattern.

One More Dance

The smile that spread across Ladybug's cheeks was akin to stretching a glutinous mound of dough; pulled upon with too much force, it collapsed quickly in the middle.

everything i know (brings me back to us

For the third night that week, Ladybug was watching Adrien’s window.

Villains That Live In My Head

It felt eerily familiar, kneeling ghost-like beneath a vermillion sky. 

This Fire Won't Sleep Through The Night

The final embers of daylight dwindled in the winter sky, and Alya knew she was in trouble.

A Swing and a Miss (and a Kiss)

Akumas notwithstanding, normally there were no life-or-death stakes to ping-pong.

Worthwhile Distractions

The uncharacteristic silence of the locker room was normally something Kagami would enjoy.

A Body Was Never Found

The ground beneath Chat Noir’s feet is half-frozen as he wanders through the cemetery, but the cold has little to do with why he feels so numb. 

Practice Kissing

Before she pulls away, Ladybug smiles against Chat Noir’s lips. 

There's Something About A Tragedy

The city is loud when Chat Noir’s world has just fallen apart.

Entangled

Having run out of reasonable excuses, the stifling summer heat was the last thing standing in Ladybug’s way. 

(I feel like this is sort of inaccurate because it's not like my last ten updates but I was too lazy to go thtough separate chapters. Also I skipped my remix fic because even though that's a FABULOUS opening line, I did not write it LOL)

I don't really know that there's a pattern... I guess let me know if you see any ahaha.

Not sure who all has been tagged, but if you haven't and you want to play, please consider this your invitation!!

#tag game #miraculous ladybug #coffeebanana writes

[breelandwalker]

Hello Mrs Bree! 👋

I wanted to ask if there are some etiquette tips when dealing with spirits?

I might be getting a job as a groundskeeper at a cemetery and just want to be respectful, even if those burried there follow a very different path than my own.

I've always had spirits visiting me and my mom since we were both young. (The universe likes to send me those who are dead and/or dying, it seems.) So spirits following me don't bother me too much, but I don't want to outright offend any either or bring them home to my partner.

No rush on a response!

May your week be filled with all that you need and love that warms like a hearth on a chilly autumn morning!

I don't do very much spirit work. Actually, I tend to avoid it like the plague. But generally speaking, I think everyday manners are a good place to start.

If you're working in a cemetery, you're more likely to encounter human spirits than anything else (statistically speaking), so just treat them the way you'd treat the living - with care and respect and kindness. Don't talk to them like brainless children (unless of course they ARE children, in which case just be extra patient and resist the urge to babytalk) and don't automatically jump to Possible Threat like the ghost hunting shows always seem to. Just be polite, set boundaries where you need to, respect their space, and mind your manners.

And speaking from personal experience working in a mildly haunted environment, try to have a sense of humor about it. Nine times out of ten, even the most mischievous happenings are just dead people being bored. Like, "Oh that's the third time this month the coffee tray in the break room has moved to the other side of the counter. Very funny, Matilda."

And if something feels grouchy or mean or just plain Leave Me Alone, try to just avoid them where possible and don't panic. The human dead are perfectly capable of being assholes without any need to conjure demons where none exist.

All this being said, burial grounds tend to be less haunted than you might think. Most of the residents are sleeping or have moved on. Other people's grief and regret can sometimes hang in the air, so make sure you take that into account if you're especially sympathetic. (Yes, sympathetic. Not empathic. Different beast.) And of course, a little personal protection in the form of a charm or talisman is always worth the investment.

Good luck with your new job and I hope this helps!

#texasschainsawohmomma #witch community #spirit work #dealing with dead people #Bree answers your inquiries #Also you're the first person to call me Mrs. Bree and I kind of love it 😊

[a-queer-crip-writes]

There were four brothers in the Great War. Now there are four white headstones in Brynhill Cemetery.

Gareth was the eldest brother. 17 when he joined up, before the draft; heroism on his mind. The drums of war beating his steps as he marched away from the mines and the coal dust in his smart new uniform. And yet it was a mine that took his life; not ten days after he arrived. A careless step in Flanders’ fields; a swift and sudden ending in terrible light and sound.

Rhys was the second; the quiet boy, not his mother’s favourite, as Gareth had been with his bright blond curls. The eldest brother now. He had gone down into the darkness in the coal mines to do a man’s job at 14; but not alone. Always following Gareth. Now he was alone.

He stayed at home to look after his mother, coughing her life away on ruined lungs in a damp bedroom; to look after his little brothers; bright boys, growing like weeds.

Until in 1916 the draft came and took him; not ten days after his mother’s funeral. Took him to those fields sodden with his brother’s blood and those of a million other men.

He kept his head down. Survived. He had promised Gareth he would look after them, you see.

And, one by one, his brothers joined him. Thomas came to his regiment; he was glad of that, at least. He could look out for him there.

Dafydd was a bright boy, now, the brightest of all of them. Got a job as a driver, ferrying the higher-ups about. They were so glad for him. Better food; sleeping warm, but most of all, no trenches. A safe bed for their little brother.

Rhys and Thomas, though, they were on the Western Front. In shellfire and bayonet and gas. Time and again the cry went up and they and all their mates pulled those heavy canvas hoods over their heads like divers and stood like their own ghosts, watching the waves of yellow and green passing over the trenches like the ghosts of the waves.

Until one day when the waves passed over and Thomas began to choke and cough.

Rhys was good with machines and devices; had worked them below the ground since he was a boy. He thought something must have come loose; fumbled with the filter, gentle words to keep his brother from panic as he tried to fix it. And then, in the end, he pulled the hood from his own head and forced it over his brother’s.

There was talk of court-martial and of commendations and medals in the hospital; he gave not one fig for either. He only cared that he had not been fast enough; Thomas grasped at his hand as he drowned on dry land in the next hospital bed. His eyes already burned white.

It was still with his sight - though with a wracking cough that never left him - that he was sent back to his unit; a medal too, little as he cared. The letters from Dafydd kept him afloat over the next year; he was less and less at the front and back in hospital more and more, as the damp dragged at his ruined lungs. Dafydd, that sweet boy, sent him something every day in hospital - sketches and postcards and tins of chocolate from the Brass’ mess.

That was probably how the telegram found its way to him so fast. A day of silence and fear, and then that buff envelope in the nurse’s hand.

And the end of everything.

The guns went off for the Armistice not a week later and he turned his face to the wall.

He hung on a little longer - even an empty life is a hard habit to break, and the nurse was a little thing with big sweet eyes who had seen too much. He just…couldn’t bring himself to die on her. She went home on leave, finally, and he smiled goodbye to her and shut his eyes, and just…stopped.

The peace at the end of all things. And four white stones in Brynhill Cemetery, where Winter waits.

#four headstones #where winter waits #ww1 #the grear war #a queer crip writes #remembrance #remembrance day

[thecrystalquill]

The Curious Misadventures of (Y/N) Addams

A/N: So!! I hope you read the intros because they’re very important!!!!!!!

I’ve been waiting to write this for, like, two years now, and I’m so excited! Get ready for something a little darker - y’know, creepy, kooky, mysterious, and spooky. You know how it is...

Masterlist     Series Masterlist     Series Intro     First Years’ Intro Letter

Chapter One ~ The Letter

“Good morning, (Y/N). How did you sleep?”

     (Y/N) took her usual place at their breakfast table just as Grandmama finished the cooking: scrambled lizard eggs and toast. “Like the dead,” she replied, rubbing her eye before starting to eat.

     “Just as always,” her father laughed, taking a rather large sip from his strong black coffee and then a few puffs of his cigar. “Pugsley, put that away my boy, not at the breakfast table.”

     The boy smirked a little, before putting the meat cleaver down on the table with a grin. “Now, Pugsley,” said Morticia, “you know better than that – toys are not allowed at the table.”  

     It was mid-July – the fifteenth to be exact – two days after (Y/N)’s eleventh birthday. It was a lovely damp, grey morning outside, which was odd for July, but far better than the blistering heat they had on the thirteenth. But that hadn’t mattered too much, (Y/N)’s party had been held indoors anyway. She wondered if they would be doing anything today, to make the most of the weather. “The mail’s here,” her little sister, Wednesday, announced in a rather dull voice as she entered, carrying a few parcels and letters. She placed them on a place-mat between their parents, then took her seat next to her sister (who was sat at the other end of the table) and found that her breakfast was already waiting for her.

     Gomez started to open a parcel, pulling out some strange contraption with shark teeth. “Thank you, Wednesday,” said Morticia, having finished her plate and flicking through some of the numerous letters that Gomez didn’t pick up. “Now, children, don’t forget that today is the Dark Arts and Crafts event that Aunt Trivia is hosting. I’d like you all to be ready by ten, we wouldn’t want to be late now, would we?”

     There were a few nods and ‘yes mother’s mumbled between chews. (Y/N) had her head stuck in a book that she’d found a few days ago in a local bookshop; and Pugsley had started to use his meat cleaver to cut his toast, getting the scrambled lizard eggs everywhere and earning a kick from Wednesday sitting opposite him. She was about to throw an insult his way when she was cut off by her father.

     “My word…” he had muttered, sounding rather astounded.

     Morticia looked at him with concern – his eyes were the size of saucers and his moustache looked as if it had stuck up in shock like a frightened cat’s tail, his eyebrows were about to jump from his face too, not to mention that his mouth was slowly falling to the wooden floor. “What is it, Gomez? Is something wrong?” She asked worriedly, placing a pale hand on his arm.

     The room had gone completely silent, all attention focused on him. The man soon recovered from his initial shock enough to find his voice. “Wrong? No no, nothing’s… nothing’s wrong, Tish.” He cleared his throat a little, looking to her. “In fact, it’s quite the opposite really.” Suddenly, his face broke out into a very large smile, as did Morticia as she recognised what was in his hands. “(Y/N),” he beamed, beckoning her over, “you have a letter.”

     Frowning in confusion, the girl stood up and made her way over. She didn’t get letters very often, but when she did her parents never acted like this; this was strange – even for them. Once she was in reach, the (y/h/c) girl took the letter, admiring the neat green handwriting, and read the address:

Miss (Y/N) Addams, Third Floor East Wing Bedroom, 0001 Cemetery Lane, Whitby, York

     Strange, whenever she got a letter it never specified her bedroom on the address, especially when it was clearly from no one she knew. Glancing up to her smiling parents and then over to her siblings, who were – judging by the looks on their faces – just as confused as she was, she turned the letter over to view the wax seal as Grandmama took a seat. Everyone watching in anticipation. She studied the strange crest that had been stamped into the red wax, it was a shield, it had four sections on it with a different animal on each, though she couldn’t quite make them out. Then, sucking in a breath, she unsealed it and took out the letter.

     “What does it say?” Pugsley asked curiously, “Read it out!”

     “Er… okay…” She responded, fiddling with the corner of the page, only thinking of what a strange letter this was. Then she read it out loud to her family:

“Dear Miss Addams,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Students shall be required to report to the Chamber of Reception upon arrival, the dates for which shall be duly advised.

Please ensure that the utmost attention be made to the list of requirements attached herewith.

We very much look forward to receiving you as part of the new generation of Hogwarts’ heritage.

Yours sincerely,

Professor McGonagall. (Deputy Headmistress)”

     There was a pause again as everyone processed the information, before Gomez broke it. “This is wonderful!” He bellowed, standing to his feet and opening up his arms rather dramatically. “Absolutely, positively wonde—”

     “—Sorry but… what does all that mean? What’s Hogwarts? What’s all this about?” (Y/N) demanded, possibly even more confused than before.

     Grandmama let out a cackle, her bushy hair moving about with her head. “It is what it says! Hogwarts, the finest school of magic there is!”

     “Don’t you see, my girl?” Gomez grinned, clasping his hands on her shoulders firmly. “You’re a witch! My daughter – a witch! Oh, I never thought this day would come, not ever. A real witch, just like Montgomery!”

     “Who?”

     “Montgomery?” Wednesday commented, clearly knowing more about the subject; she was very curious in their family history and heritage, always snooping through the family books in their library. She was good at that kind of thing – for an eight year old, that is. “Our great-great Grandfather?”

     Morticia shook her head and gracefully swept some hair out of her face with a shiny nail. “No no, darling, your great-great-great Grandfather.” She placed a hand over Pugsley’s shoulder proudly, presenting a kind smile. “He was a wizard – the last wizard in our family.”

     Pugsley gasped excitedly, “A real wizard?”

     “Well of course!” Their Father confirmed. “All squibs after him, though. Born without magic, the lot of us – that is, until now!” His eyes sparkled with delight as he looked towards their eldest, who still looked mildly confused. “(Y/N)! You, mi cucarachita, are the first witch in the family after generations!”

     Shock ran through her body as she finally understood, having absolutely no idea what to say. “Oh…” She let the information settle with her for a moment, before letting herself smile shyly, not able to bring herself to entirely believe what was happening. Still, with their family, stranger things have happened. “So… what now?”

     “Now?” Gomez repeated, “Now we go shopping for your supplies! There’s a list, is there not? We must go to a very special place for this, where is that Grandmama? I recall you mentioning it once or twice.”

     Grandmama clapped her hands. “Oh I know, it’s in London – have to get there through a pub – the back end of The Leaky Cauldron.”

     “What a lovely name…” Morticia commented wistfully, “you shall have to go there very soon. Get all of your things. We have plenty of Galleons and Sickles, and Knuts in the Vault.”

     “The Vault!” Mr Addams exclaimed, “I’ll go there immediately and gather plenty of money! Now (Y/N), go get ready, then we’ll take the car to London and get your things---”

     “But, Gomez,” Morticia interrupted, moving away from Pugsley and toward her husband, “what about the Dark Arts and Crafts event? We already told Aunt Trivia that we would go, and the children were so looking forward to it.”

     “No worries, Tish. You go with the children, and I’ll take (Y/N).” He responded excitedly. “We can make a day of it, some father/daughter bonding, it’s been a while hasn’t it (Y/N/N)? Then you can arrange a party to celebrate. Oh, we must celebrate! Invite everyone! Spread the news! As many guests as we can!”

     “That sounds great!” Pugsley exclaimed, his meat cleaver long forgotten as he made his way around, “We can get ready now.”

     Wednesday nodded, standing up neatly. “Yes,” she agreed in a monotonous voice, “if we get there early we can leave sooner. Then prepare a party.”

     “Well alright,” Mrs Addams smiled, feeling the excitement with everyone else, “go get ready, then when we get back you can help. Wednesday, how would you like to be in charge of invitations?”

     “Okay. Do we have to invite cousin Lumpy?”

     “Yes.”

     She sighed and made her way out with her brother, “Fine.”

     Gomez, who was practically jumping with joy, beamed at his wife. “Well then, Tish, you take them to the fair. And say ‘hello’ to Aunt Trivia for us. I'll get Lurch to get the car ready. (Y/N), go get yourself ready and then make your way to the car!”

     “Okay.” She responded quickly, running off to her room to make herself look presentable - after all, Addams’ may be quirky but they still have a reputation for class. (Y/N) was really quite excited to go shopping for her things, to find out what it was like in the Wizarding Community, what it was like for her Grandfather.

     “Lurch!” Called Gomez, the butler appearing at the doorway behind him almost immediately and letting out a low gurgling sound of acknowledgement. “Ah! Lurch, go prepare the car, would you? We are going to Diagonal Ally! Isn't it brilliant?”

     Another groan was his answer, leaving to prepare their car. It was a very old car, a classic Packard v-12 from 1933. Bought new by the family the day it was released. Kept in perfect condition. Lurch was very proud.

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