#today I discovered that I hate curling ribbons

[ocala-is-calling]

Happy 6 months of life, sweet girl ❤ I'm so glad you came into my life. You make me happy every single day with your goofy self and I look forward to many many more days with you 💗💗💗

#today I discovered that I hate curling ribbons #and puffing out tissue paper balls #and hanging up party decorations #and I'm also bad at all of that #I'm just not a crafty person #but I tried #dogblr #snootblr #silken windhound #Ocala #26 weeks #6 months #I love you so much baby girl

[zackcollins]

speechless || bo bichette

masterlist

Author’s Note: Hello! Everyone gets a treat of a second fic today because I was in a mood to write. Hope that’s okay. Idk man. When you’re in the mood to write, you write. And sometimes, you just wanna post right away because you’re too impatient to wait. Ya know? Anyways. GIF credit to glasnow!

Warnings: An anxiety attack. That’s probably it??? I don’t think there’s anything else. Feel free to let me know otherwise and I’ll fix this warnings section for you.

Word Count: 1.9k+

Title: Speechless by Dan + Shay

Additional: The reader should be gender neutral again! I don’t think I used any identifying language or pronouns or anything. If I did, it was accidental because I was hella distracted watching my dog while my grandparents went grocery shopping. As always, let me know how I did because constructive criticism is always welcomed!

Tagging: @whimsical-daydreams​ @donttelltheelf-x​

You had suffered from severe anxiety; it had been a part of your life for as long as you could remember. At this point, it had totally consumed you. You could hardly do anything anymore without your anxiety trying to take over in some form or another. It was the worst feeling in the world.

That's why it was like all your prayers had been answered when Bo waltzed into your life. For the first time in your life, you were able to open up about your anxiety with someone. There was just something about Bo that made you feel safe, secure, and like nothing would ever hurt you again.

You had been dating for about two and a half years before your relationship changed. It changed on what had otherwise been a quiet day in the middle of February. Snow was falling outside of your house, blowing around peacefully in the evening breeze. You were sitting on the window seat of the living room window, staring out onto the street while idly sipping on a mug of hot chocolate.

Somewhere outside, you heard a dog distantly barking. You found it odd because to the best of your knowledge, nobody in the housing community you and Bo lived in had a dog. Most of them had cats because they were easier for their housekeepers to look after when they were away on business trips or vacation. You quickly shook it out of your mind, though, thinking it only to be a dog that had wandered in from somewhere nearby. It wasn't entirely unlikely for that to happen because some of the people in the housing communities on either side had been known to let their dogs roam freely from time to time.

A couple of minutes later, you heard the front door to the house open. That snapped you out of thinking about the barking dog because you needed to know who walked in. Turning around, you heaved a relieved sign when you saw Bo standing in the entryway. You felt a little anxious, however, when you saw that he had placed a rather large box at his feet. Placing your hot chocolate on the windowsill, you walked over to Bo.

"What's this, sweetie?" You asked, walking all the way around the box. You wanted to see if it had some sort of label or marking on it that would hint at what was inside; it did not. All it had was a pink ribbon embossed with white hearts tied around it.

Bo smiled as he was undressing from his winter apparel. He tossed his hat into the closet. He unzipped his coat and carefully placed it on one of the coat hooks beside the door. Lastly came his boots. He slipped out of those and tossed them haphazardly onto the plastic boot mat you had bought specifically for the winter so snow wouldn’t be tracked all over your house. He ended up bowling over your boots and a spare pair of boots you kept in case of emergencies. You glared at him, crossing your arms over your chest. Bo raised his arms in surrender as he stepped forward and gave you a quick kiss. You relaxed, kissing him back as you wrapped your arms around his back. When you pulled apart, Bo stepped aside and motioned to the box.

 "If you wanna know what’s inside,” Bo produced a pocket knife seemingly out of nowhere because you didn’t know him to carry one. He handed it to you and motioned to the box a second time. “All you have to do is open it.” 

You walked forward and leaned over, carefully cutting the ribbon a couple of times so that it was easier to untangle from the box. Once you had all of the ribbon untangled and balled up, you placed it along with the knife on the console table next to you. When you looked back at Bo, he gave you an encouraging nod and a soft smile. You bit your lip nervously as you carefully lifted the lid off of the box. What was inside made you blink in surprise. Staring back at you was a beagle puppy. You had to blink a couple of more times, just to make sure that truly weren't imagining this. When you surmised that this was, in fact, a real dog sitting in the box, you lifted them out, cradling them in your arms. They even kissed you on the chin a couple of times. That was also all it took for you to be absolutely smitten with this puppy.

Just as you went to put the puppy down, the light from the chandelier made something on their collar glisten. At first, you thought it was name tags or the city registration tags. But, when you examined it, you discovered that it was an engagement ring. You turned to ask Bo about it. Much to your surprise, he was down on one knee, holding his hands out. You handed him the dog (who you could now see was a boy), thinking that was what he wanted. Bo chuckled as he scritched the dog behind the ears. The dog sighed, jackrabbitting his back foot in satisfaction. You huffed an amused breath, rolling your eyes and chuckling.

Bo carefully put the dog down and took the ring off of his collar. He gave him a few more ear scritches which made the dog flop on the floor and curl in a ball. Bo rolled his eyes before he looked up at you, holding the ring in your direction.

"Since I know I'm the best thing to happen to you and you're the best thing to happen to me," Bo paused, wiping tears out of the corners of his eyes, "I was wondering if you'd marry me?"

You clammed up. You felt your anxiety wash over you like a giant wave crashing into the surf. You fell to the floor, chanting a bunch of incoherent nonsense as you curled into a ball and clutched your knees tightly to your chest. You rocked back and forth, tears streaming down your face as you continued to death-grip your knees. It was then that you felt Bo wrap you in his arms. He cradled you, rocking you in time with how you were rocking yourself. Only, he was doing it softer, gentler. He was also mumbling some of his stats from last season, the stats from the hockey game you watched yesterday. Hell, he even started mumbling what you needed to buy when you went grocery shopping the next time. Anything mundane and boring because he knew that was what generally helped you out of anxiety episodes. The more boring the better. It gave a sense of normalcy and order that helped your brain to focus on the everyday parts of life as opposed to the falsehoods of meaningless compliments that people only said to you when you were in the middle of an anxiety episode.

Hearing about baseball and hockey stats as well as what groceries you needed to buy helped remarkably well. You calmed down relatively quickly given how badly this attack had started. You tilted your head, looking Bo in the eyes. Your eyes were full of a question that didn’t need to be asked but probably should be anyways. Bo, knowing how to read you by now, simply nodded. He met you halfway as you connected your lips. You shared a brief, albeit meaningful kiss. 

When you broke your lips apart, you held your hand out. "Of course I'll marry you."

You smiled, though it was a little awkward because you were still recovering from your anxiety attack, as Bo placed the ring on your finger. You moved your hand around, looking at the ring from every angle. It was a gorgeous ring. It was also simple and not very flashy. Which is something you had told Bo you wanted when the time came for him to finally propose. You weren’t a flashy or extravagant person so there was no need to have a flashy or extravagant ring. The thought of having an expensive or flashy ring made you really anxious. You were afraid that somebody would break in and steal it from you. And you didn’t want to live the entire rest of your life in fear that someone was going to break into your house to steal something from you. You had told Bo that that was no way to live. That’s why you were content with a small, simple ring. You didn’t have to live in a constant state of anxiety that some schmuck off the street was going to get the wise idea to break in one night and rob you of it. And the ring Bo had picked was exactly the ring you had been eyeing the last time you were in a jewellery store. So, it worked out even better.

Bo snapped you out of your thought by grabbing you by the chin with his thumb and forefinger. He tilted your face up so that you were looking at each other directly. Bo’s eyes flitted down to your lips and then quickly back up to look at you. You nodded as best you could with Bo holding onto your chin, a soft smile breaking out across your lips. Bo smiled back, dropping his hand away from your chin. He, instead, grabbed your hand and interlaced your fingers. You huffed softly before you leaned forward and connected your lips with Bo’s. Bo smirked into the kiss, bringing his other hand up and resting it against your shoulder. The kiss was far more passionate than the first and you swore it could’ve gone on forever and ever. The only reason you stopped was because the puppy weaseled his way in between you and licked both of your noses. Bo laughed and booped the puppy on his nose. You made an amused noise and scritched the puppy's chest.

Bo turned back to you after you both spent a few moments playing with the puppy. "Sorry for surprising you. I know how you hate surprises."

"It's alright, Bo. It would've defeated the whole purpose if you told me," you responded, moving in closer to Bo.

At that moment, the puppy plopped himself down in between the two of you. You both scratched him behind either ear. He made a soft groan of appreciation, before falling fast asleep. He was snoring softly after a few moments which made both you and Bo chuckle bemusedly.

"What do we name him?" Bo asked, picking him up and placing him in your lap.

"Biscuit!" You replied with excitement. The dog responded to that, briefly opening his eyes and snuffling before he went back to sleep. "See! He likes that name." 

Your smile grew wider as your leaned down and gave Biscuit a kiss on the head. He snuffled again, his tail wagging against your knee. You lit up significantly, almost forgetting that you had had an anxiety attack a few minutes ago.

“Scratch that,” you said, a smile beaming on your face. “He loves that name.”

Bo just shook his head, chuckled, and waved a dismissive hand at you. "You're such a huge dork. You know that, right?"

"But I’m your huge dork," you replied, pointing to the ring on your finger as proof of that claim.

"Yes, yes you are."

#bo bichette #bo bichette/reader #bo bichette x reader #bo bichette fic #bo bichette imagine #toronto blue jays #toronto blue jays fic #toronto blue jays imagine #baseball fic #baseball #baseball imagine #mlb fic #mlb #mlb imagine #not hockey #robin writes #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #gender neutral reader #tw anxiety #tw anxiety attack #imagine #self insert

[redwinterroses]

hey so here's an idea for a "two best friends but one turned evil and asked the other to kill him before he went too far gone" trope (you know exactly what i'm referring to)

the first character, looking into his friends eyes, stabs him in the heart. then they both fall down and the first character is left on his knees, head down, holding onto the sword embedded into his friend's chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

he doesn't touch the sword again and instead ties a ribbon around it in memory of the one he lost

you're welcome :)

- anon fierri

Not that this has been on my brain all day or anything, but... well. Okay. It has been. And then @/3lsmp posted that stuff about a zombie AU and-- well. This happened.

Yay for my first shulker box fic! (1,728 words, with mirrored/connected first and last lines)

Zombie stories don't have happy endings so... neither does this. Be warned.

.

.

.

Jimmy’s waiting when Scott gets back home.

He stands in front of the door to the house they’ve been living out of, with none of his gear or weapons on him. He’s leaning against the old oak that grows next to the sidewalk, one foot perched on a root that ripples out of the ground and cracks through the old concrete. The sun is setting behind him, but the twilight shadows don’t quite hide the bloody stain that spreads from his right shoulder.

Scott’s feet come to a stop of their own accord, and he very specifically does not move his hand to the hilt of his sword. He shifts his satchel— filled with goodies he managed to find today; he discovered an entire village that hadn’t been raided yet— on his arm, its weight heavy after an afternoon of walking. He hates the wary tone in his words when he calls out:

“Jimmy?”

Jimmy, looking up to see him, gives a shrug. “Told ya this would happen,” he says, and there’s a quirk to his smile that could break other hearts.

((hard to break what’s already shattering.))

Scott swallows. “Show me.”

Jimmy pulls the collar of his shirt to the side, and Scott winces at the bloody mess that is his mangled shoulder.

“Skizz got me,” Jimmy says. “It was stupid— I should’a been faster, but… I mean, it was Skizz, ya know? He still kinda looked like himself, and I thought… I dunno what I thought. But by the time I realized he was already gone, he’d got my shoulder in his teeth and…”

((the earth is crumbling away beneath him. this is a nightmare. time to wake up now.))

((please wake up now.))

“Hey, don’t worry.” Jimmy covers the wound back up. “It doesn’t hurt or anything.”

“It doesn’t— No, Jimmy that’s not the way to make me feel better.” Scott takes another step forward, his arms aching to reach out and his gut telling him to get away get away get away— He can feel his throat closing, swallowing emotions he refuses to feel.

“Look— ” Jimmy takes a step forward and Scott backpedals, half-unsheathing the blade at his hip. He hates himself for it instantly, but the instinct—

The instinct is what keeps him alive.

Jimmy just puts his hands up placatingly. “Hey, hey— I’m not that far gone yet.”

“You’re fine.” Scott tries to sound scornful, and nearly succeeds. “We’ll get you patched up and you’ll be good as new in a few days. Don’t be such a drama queen.”

With a laugh, Jimmy shakes his head. “Nice daydream,” he says. “That would be cool.”

They stand there, in a silence that shouldn’t have been awkward, for a long moment. Then, at the same time:

“Scott, you know— ”

“So I picked up a— ”

Pause.

“You go first,” Jimmy says.

((Jimmy always puts others first.))

Scott grits his teeth and forces his voice to be light and cheerful. Nothing is wrong. They’re fine. “I found canned soup!” he says. “Five cans— one’s a little rusty, but I’m sure it’s fine.”

“That’s… um. That’s good.”

Scott steps around Jimmy—

((not too close. don't get too close— no. damn you, coward, get as close as you want, there’s nothing wrong— ))

— and moves toward the house. “So…” he says, “I’ll just… start up the fire? Get dinner going? I think we’ve still got some— ”

“Scott.”

Jimmy’s voice stops him, and Scott winces. He drops his head, unable to look Jimmy in the eye.

“Don’t make me do this,” he says. His voice struggles, and his free hand goes to his throat, as if he can pull the plea from his chest. “You… you can’t make me do this. You can’t.”

((i can’t, i can’t, i can’t— ))

“You gotta.”

((too close!!))

Scott’s head snaps up, and one hand flails behind him, catching against the siding of the house. Jimmy is right there—

((danger! danger!))

But other than the tell-tale red gleam in his eye and the bloody stain on the shoulder of his shirt, Jimmy looks the same. Same golden hair, same dimple as he quirks half a sad smile, same gentle hands spread wide. Unarmed, though that won’t matter soon. He stands close enough that Scott could reach out and touch him— punch him, maybe, for being such an idiot… or wrap him in an embrace that will never let go.

“Skizz got me an hour ago,” Jimmy says, and his voice is as low as a secret. “I’ve got… what. Maybe twenty minutes? Another hour if we’re insanely lucky?”

“You’re fine,” Scott says again. But this time it comes out as a plea and not a statement.

“I’m not.” Jimmy shakes his head. His eyes shift to the side. “I… to be honest, I’m already feeling it.”

“Feeling— feeling what?” Why was he asking. What a stupid question.

And yet… yet he had to know.

Jimmy drops his hands to his sides, and they clench and unclench. Scott watches, mesmerized, his heartbeat fluttering in time with Jimmy’s hands curling into white-knuckled fists and uncurling into trembling claws.

“I can’t— I can’t describe it. It’s like I’m on fire. Only I’m drowning at the same time. Or something. And I— ” he takes a deep breath, and meets Scott’s gaze. A low growl comes into his voice, and the hands squeeze tight into hard twists of bone. “I look at you, and all I can see is how easy you’d be to kill right now.”

Scott’s sword is drawn before his denial can catch up.

((instinct keeps you alive))

Jimmy looks down at the shining blade, and finally his façade of cheerful nonchalance wavers. There’s a crack in his voice as he says, “There we go. That’s… that’s the way it’s gotta be.”

((i can’t, i can’t, i can’t— ))

And then, as if he can hear Scott’s internal scream: “I don’t— I don’t want to become like one of them. I don’t want… you to see me like that.”

Like one of them. Scott’s memories skip over images of white-eyed creatures, people he used to know, monsters with mindless hunger driving them to rip, to shred, to devour—

Jimmy wakes up crying some nights. He tries to be quiet, Scott knows, but in the single room they’ve barricaded against the darkness, every sound is magnified— and Scott's always been a light sleeper. He knows Jimmy dreams of them, dreams of blood and gore and of being left alone— or worse, of being the one to do the shredding.

He knows because he’s dreamed it too.

“I won’t let that happen,” he says, his voice firm. But there’s a tremble in the sword between them.

“You didn’t let it happen. It just… it just did, dude. That’s life.” Jimmy takes a deep breath, and with a far too gentle hand, takes hold of the sword blade and guides it to rest over his heart. “Anyway, you promised.”

.

.

.

“Right so, if I get bit, you have to take me out before I can hurt anyone.”

“Ew. What a horribly morbid things to say.”

“I’m serious! I couldn’t deal with it if I turned into one of those things and came after you or any of the others— ”

“It’s not gonna happen, so don’t be stupid about it.”

“Come on— just say it. Promise me that if I start to turn, you’ll… ya know. Kill me.”

“Jimmy— ”

“Promise me, Scott.”

“…Fine. But only if you promise the same.”

((it won’t happen. it'll be fine. they’ll be fine.))

“Of course, dude. I promise.”

.

.

.

“You promised.”

Scott’s face is wet with hot tears that he can’t feel himself crying, and he wants to drop the sword— wants to fling it away from both of them and let fate do its worst. Who cares if he dies too?

((jimmy cares. If you let him destroy you, it’ll destroy him first.))

“Damn you,” Scott whispers.

Jimmy smiles.

The sword enters his body too easily.

It slides between the ribs, the only sound the soft catch in Jimmy’s throat as the blade bites into his heart.

For a frozen instant, they both stand there, outside the house they’d claimed— the home they’d defended. Jimmy looks down at the weapon in his chest, one hand reaching toward Scott—

And he falls

((he falls and falls and falls and Scott is falling too and the sword clatters to the ground and he’s clutching at Jimmy’s face and bundling the body to himself and pawing the hair away from his eyes and Jimmy’s hand is on his and— ))

There are no final words. No poignant goodbyes, no tearful proclamations or whispered last regrets.

There is only an ending.

There is only Scott, silent and dry-eyed, kneeling on the ground under the oak with Jimmy’s lifeless hand clasped to his chest.

.

.

.

He doesn’t move, even as night falls around him—

((them))

— and the cicadas start their mournful chorus. Doesn’t stir until something rattles down the street and he dimly realizes that Jimmy would murder him if after all this, Scott went and got himself shredded by a zombie anyway.

Jimmy’s body is heavier than he expected, and yet somehow lighter than it ought to be. As if it’s missing everything that made it Jimmy. He drags it—

((him))

— inside the house and wonders what exactly he’s supposed to do now. Dig a grave, he supposes, but— where? In the yard? It seems so… anticlimactic.

((death is anticlimactic. life is the climax. death is… an afterthought.))

He leaves the sword where it fell. He can’t… he can’t bear to touch it now. Scott doesn’t believe in curses—

((yes you do yes you do you’re cursed this place is cursed and that sword is cursed and the ground where it lays is cursed and— ))

— and yet he can’t bring himself to fetch it. Someone else can find it.

He’ll dig the grave tomorrow.

Tonight… tonight he sits. Keeps watch. Hopes beyond hope that Jimmy will stir— knowing that if he does, it won’t be for any good reason. Knowing that if he does, he won’t be able to kill him a second time.

Tomorrow he’ll leave. Find a new place— far away. Sometime, maybe sooner, maybe later… he’ll find the end of his road too.

He hopes Jimmy will be waiting there, when he finally gets back home.

#i played with the prompt a little bit near the end #but... yeah. that's a thing i wrote today. #redwinterwrites #redwinteranswers #3L zombie au #why are we so mean to scott and jimmy in these fics honestly #someone write some good skizz angst or etho or somebody #they get left out lol

[foramomentonly]

Stoner Malex Ficlet--12.13

Author’s Note: So, this is a series now, I guess lol. I’ll be writing little ficlets within the Stoner Malex AU, each one based on a promo photo from Vlambase IG. The title of each ficlet will be the date the picture that inspired it was posted, plus I’ll include a link. Hope you enjoy!

 Inspo photo

Read on AO3

The wheel of the lighter snicks three times as Michael flicks it, but no flame ignites. He tsks softly and shakes it, tries again, but his fingers feel thick and clumsy; no go. He glances over at Alex beside him on the couch, flipping with little interest through one of Mrs. Evans's magazines, but he doesn't look up, tired and a little dazed from his shift at the Crashdown. He's still in his cuffed, white work pants, but he pulled on one of Michael's countless hoodies the moment he walked into Michael's room, hating the garish turquoise and crisp white collar of his work shirt. Michael's cheeks flush at the sight of Alex Manes in an item of his own clothing, and he vows never to tell Alex that he actually loves the contrast of his uniform's bright blue against the warm tone of Alex's skin. Assuming Alex would even be interested in that kind of information. Michael intends to find out today.

Three weeks. It's been three weeks since Alex slid into his lap, shotgunned a hit of the truly awful shit Michael had bought off Wyatt Long in a pinch, and fulfilled a deeply erotic fantasy Michael had only recently admitted to harbouring. He'd expected it to be a one off; an itch Alex conveniently and safely scratched born of circumstance and boredom. But a few days later, Michael discovered Rosa in Iz’s room, painting his sister's toenails and smirking at him with her twinkling, mischievous eyes, and when Michael returned to the refuge of his patio, Alex was sitting in his chair.

"I brought you the good stuff, Guerin," he said with a sly smile, holding up a baggie with two joints and a Bic lighter as Michael stood uselessly beside him with his mouth open. Alex bit his lip and gestured to his own lap. "Your turn this time."

Even since that day, Alex shows up with Rosa, and always he seeks Michael out on his dingy patio like the smell of skunk weed and sunlight is a beacon calling him home. Sometimes Alex drops into the lawn chair Michael dug out of storage in the Evans's garage for him after Alex's third visit and they talk, or get high, or even do homework. Other times, Alex comes up behind him and runs his fingers through Michael's curls, blunt nails dragging down his scalp, and Michael stands, follows Alex back into his own bedroom, and spends the next few hours pressed against him, grasping and bucking, Alex's panted breathes hot and wet against Michael's mouth. 

But they don’t talk about what they’re doing, what they are to each other. They don’t make plans for next time, although at this point Michael is almost always certain it will come. Alex exists almost as a mirage; a beautiful, nearly tangible fantasy that feels so real in the moment, but after the fact has the effect of a dream, lucid and lingering on the tip of his tongue. Michael isn't even sure how much either Rosa or Isobel knows until they bust in on him one afternoon, sucking Alex down like his dick is a popsicle. It's awkward in the moment, but ultimately they're supportive.

Since then, Michael and Alex have expanded the radius of their relationship to the Evans’s family room, a multipurpose space at the back of the house, cluttered and well-used, but still meticulously decorated. It’s where they are this Sunday afternoon, packed close together despite the empty expanse of the couch, Alex lounging in the corner, bare feet on the cushion and legs splayed wide, and Michael beside him, leaning forward with a candle in one hand and the finicky lighter in the other. Rosa and Isobel are tucked on the love seat together, Isobel’s nose still wrinkled in distaste.

“Light a damn candle,” she’d complained when they’d shuffled into the room, “you smell like a Radiohead concert.”

Michael isn't sure if it's his nerves or the cheap, gas station lighter that's to blame, but it takes him five rounds of flicking and shaking before the thing finally sparks a small flame, and he can tip the nearly spent candle in his hand horizontal, holding the wick to the flame until it catches alight. He sets the candle on the low coffee table in front of him and wipes his palms on his black jeans, fingers snagging in the tears of the worn denim. He wonders hysterically if raggedly jeans and an oversized, novelty tee-shirt really send strong date me vibes, but pushes the thought aside and takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Alex,” Michael says softly, and Alex hums questioningly in response.

“You wanna come with me tonight?”

“Where’re you going?” Alex asks distantly, not quite disengaging from the magazine on his knee.

Michael shrugs, faking casual, and licks his lips.

“Restaurant. Movie theatre.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively and smirks when Alex looks up at him, his full attention finally won. “Bed of my truck, maybe.”

From the opposite corner of the room, Rosa snorts.

“You sure know how to woo a guy,” she laughs, and Isobel chuckles, runs her fingers through Rosa’s hair and chides gently, “Go easy on him. It’s his first real crush.”

"I don't remember inviting you or your commentary into this," Michael snaps, but there's no heat to his words. He turns back to Alex and finds himself the subject of Alex's inscrutable stare, his dark eyes like wide, bottomless pools.

"Like a date," Alex states. "You want to date me."

Michael tries to ignore Isobel and Rosa gawking openly at them, their gazes hot on the back of his neck. 

"Yeah, I do, man," Michael replies, looks up at Alex from under his lashes and lets a curl fall into his eyes for good measure; he knows his own strengths, knows by now what makes Alex's breath come quicker, or not at all.

Alex smiles wide, sets the tip of his tongue between his bared teeth.

"Okay," he says simply, then leans forward to whisper low in Michael's ear, "You think I walk around in just anyone's sweatshirt?"

Michael's lips stretch into what he's sure is a deeply stupid grin as Alex settles back against the arm of the couch with a smirk and returns to his magazine, though he's clearly not reading a word. Isobel and Rosa snicker and coo, and Michael pretends not to hear them.

"Candle's out again," Alex says lightly, and Michael looks down at the table, where the wick is, in fact, dead, exhaling a thin, trickly ribbon of black smoke.

"Shit," Michael murmurs, and reaches again for the lighter, jar already in hand.

#cw: weed #malex #stoner malex au #teen malex #roswell new mexico #malex fic #alex manes #michael guerin #rosa ortecho #isobel evans #background rosabel #roswell nm fic

[shes-an-oddbird]

Sunflowers, Snapdragons, Roses and Daisies

Dousy Week Day 2 - Prompt : AU - A Flower Shop and Fake Dating AU in one

Actually a little Multichapter AU fic I’ve been working on for awhile. Enjoy :)

Summary: While covering a shift at Jemma’s flowers shop, Daisy must help a customer with an unusual request. When they discover flowers may not be the right thing to solve Daniel’s problem, they work out a new solution.

AO3

The custom of bringing flowers to a date, while once a staple, has become an outdated practice and is regarded as an old-fashion tradition, now considered unnecessary outside of special occasions. To avoid social faux pas these occasions should be limited to anniversaries, holidays and birthdays; never first dates where the gesture may come off as creepy or overstepping.

Seriously, Daisy thought. Of all the creepy things men do, bringing flowers to their date hardly qualified. Why did Jemma even have her reading this book? That was that kind of mentality that was going to put her little flower shop out of business.

“Excuse me miss, I could use some help, when you have a chance.”

Daisy nearly falls off her stool. She looks up to see a handsome man standing on the other side of the counter looking around uncertainly. How long had he been standing there? She hadn’t even heard the door open. She wants to swear, mostly because she’s already messed up but also because she really doesn’t want to help anyone. Despite what her name might imply, she knows next to nothing about flowers. She was only supposed to cover the desk and phones while Bobbi was out today.

She falters, trying to assess the situation quickly. She could do this, it was just flowers. She looks the customer over, thinks again that he’s a good-looking guy, wearing a nice, if a little stuffy, suit. He probably just needs flowers for his wife or girlfriend. She glances at his hand. Girlfriend then.

“Of course, I’m sorry, I was just caught up in my book.” She closes the book, giving the impression of her full attention. “What’s the occasion, anniversary?” She hopes it is. You give roses on an anniversary, even she knew that. It’s funny, she thinks in the back of her mind, at another time, when she wasn’t trying to save Jemma’s shop from a horrible review, she might realize it was odd to wish for the good-looking guy with the polite smile to be taken but Bobbi has already warned her about that. All the decent guys who come in are already spoken for.

“I’m afraid it’s not quite so simple.” He answers sheepishly.

“Ok, well, let’s hear it, I’m sure we can find the right thing.” Her fingers curl around the edge of the book. Where was Jemma? She was supposed to be back from the greenhouse by now.

He seems to consider his answer carefully before replying. “It’s more of a congratulations.”

“That’s not so bad,” she flips the book back open, prepared to check the index. “What are we celebrating?”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s probably not in your book.”

Daisy shakes her head. “This book comes with the Dr. Jemma Simmons stamp of approval, if it can be said with flowers, it’s in this book.” Or so she’s been told.

“My ex-girlfriend is getting married.”

Oh.

“That’s – well that’s, kind of passive aggressive, but some of these flowers do have pretty cruel meanings, I’m sure we can get the point across.” It makes him laugh which is great because that’s what she’d been going for. He was right, that wasn’t an easy one and she didn’t have a clue where to start. “OH! We have some great discount bouquets!”

“No, no, um, I’m happy for her, for them, really.” His shoulders are still shaking from laughing and she notices his eyes crinkle a bit at the corners, but after a moment of quiet he does let out a heavy sigh. He still needed something.

She gives him back a sympathetic smile. “My friend, she’s the owner, she should be back soon, if anyone can figure it out, she can.”

“No more faith in your book?”

“Umm.” Daisy flips the book to the list of flowers and their meanings. It was an insane amount of information, most of which was irrelevant according to Jemma. Customers who didn’t have much to spend asked for something pretty and simple. Customers with money to spare asked for something different. Nine times out of ten they didn’t care what the flowers meant, they either wanted a deal or to make a statement. She assumed in this guy’s case it was less about saying the right thing and more about not saying the wrong thing. He certainly couldn’t send roses to his ex to congratulate her on her wedding. But maybe some flowers with no romantic connotations. She could probably manage that. “You know what, I think we can put something together.”

He smiles back at her gratefully and follows her to the worktable set up in the middle of shop. Strewn across the table are rolls of red and blue ribbon from where she and Jemma had been finishing up some wedding flowers earlier that morning. She pushes it all aside into a messy pile and can hear her friend’s scolding tone about a neat workspace being a happy workspace.

“Does she have a favorite flower?” Daisy asks as lays out some paper the same way she has seen Jemma do.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay, no problem.” Daisy looks around the shop. “Okay, what about – yellow!”

“I’m sorry?” He asks, not understanding her outburst.

“Yellow flowers, there are usually no romantic undertones associated with them.” She recalls as she grabs bins of yellow sunflowers, carnations, and daffodils, deposits them on the table and goes back around for the daisies, roses, and tulips. Eventually the table is full and Daisy returns her attention to the book.

By this point the customer has taken a seat at one of the stools by the worktable. He’s watched her shuffle around the store with amusement written across his face and now as she settles down to sort out his request he finally speaks again.

“Have you ever done this before?”

She looks up.

“Even once?”

“No.” She answers truthfully. She’s been caught, no point in lying about it. “But I’ve watched Jemma do this a million times, it’s not that hard.”

She expects him to stand and leave. Find a flower shop with a competent salesperson and a shelf dedicated to flowers for awkward occasions. Instead he remains seated. “Alright, where do we start?” With a surge of confidence, she continues.

She looks at the flowers. “Which do you like?”

 “Damn.”

“Still no good.”

“Disappointment and rejection, probably not going to work.” Daisy sets aside the yellow carnations. “I thought for sure, I mean we sell a ton of these.” So far, they have had to discard the marigolds, the roses, the chrysanthemums and nearly everything else she’s familiar with. The sole survivors are the daisies, the tulips and the sunflowers, and even those were on the fence.

They’d been at this for nearly an hour now. Daniel, he had eventually introduced himself, had made himself comfortable, removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. He was happy to fetch and return whatever she requested. Daisy, twice, had to stop to help other customers and each time he apologized for taking up too much of her time and insisted he could come back later.

She refused. They would figure it out even if it took all day.

“Who even decides these things,” Daisy groans as she rearranges the flowers in front of her. “Dark thoughts, false riches, who looks at bright yellow flowers and thinks that?”

“Sounds like someone with a broken heart.” Daniel replies.

“Maybe.” It was the best explanation she could think of. She scoops up the flowers and drops them into a vase so she can see them standing up. They flop lifelessly. She grabs up some of the filler greens to support them, but it still looks a mess. “This would be so much easier if you just hated your ex like a normal person.”

“She’s not the problem, if I could just go to the wedding I wouldn’t need the flowers at all, I could just bring a toaster oven or a blender or booze, like they registered for.”

Daisy sighs and shoves the vase away. “Why can’t you go to the wedding?” He must have been invited it he has the gift registry.

“I can, I want to,” he pauses, “you don’t think it’s weird, to go to your ex’s wedding.”

She shrugs. “Not if you were invited and as long as your happy for them, and you know, you’re not still in love her with her or anything like that.” Now she takes a moment to pause. “You’re not still in love with her, are you?”

Daniel’s expression turns soft and his tone is nothing but genuine when he answers. “No, I care about her, truly, she’s one of my closest friends, but I am happy for them.”

“So go, I see no reason why not.” She encourages. “Please go, because this is a disaster.” She gestures to the flowers.

“I don’t know, its growing on me.” He pulls the vase towards him and adjusts some of the flowers. Daisy immediately realizes he’s avoiding the ‘why not’ and while its not her place to pry, she’s curious now.

“What is the real reason you don’t want to go?”

“It’s that obvious?” She nods. “It’s really not them, it’s everyone else who will be there, we all work together and they know that when things ended between me and her it was really more on her and I was the one left with a broken heart, if I go, I just know I’m going to get that look, that poor pitiful Daniel look, all night long and I already get that enough of that as it is.”

“Why is that?”

“Hmm, oh.” Daniel stops fussing with the flowers. He turns on the stool and tugs up his pant leg to reveal a metal prosthetic.

“Oh well that will do it.” Her surprise gets the better of her and she doesn’t realize till after the words are out how they may have sounded. “Sorry, that was rude.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, “No, it’s okay, I rather people didn’t make a big deal of it.”

She understands. Not what it was like to have a prosthetic leg of course but to have attention for something connected with less than pleasant memories.

The bell above the door jingles, pulling Daisy out of her thoughts. She looks up to greet the customer and instead see Jemma entering the store, a slight squishing sound following her as she trudges to the counter and dumps her bag and keys across it.

“You will not believe – “

“It rained?” Daisy interrupts.

“No, it did not rain,” Jemma runs her fingers through her damp hair trying to make it presentable. “The sprinkler system in the greenhouse went berserk, drenched my phone so I couldn’t call out, I had to run to get Fitz and drag him back there to fix it, I’ll be lucky if everything isn’t ruined.”

“That’s sounds terrible.” Daniel’s sympathetic reply catches Jemma off guard. She spins around with a look of horror on her face that fades just a bit when she sees them.

“Oh! I didn’t realize, Daniel Sousa – ” She surges forward, hand outstretched and a wide grin on her face. Daniel jumps up from his seat to meet her halfway and shake her hand in hello.

Daisy looks back and forth between them. “You two know each other?”

“Daniel is a regular customer.”

“Flower shops have regulars?”

Jemma rolls her eyes. “It’s so lovely to see you again, its been a bit since you’ve been in – “ She trails off, her eyes going wide as she spots her pristine workspace in perfect disarray. Daisy stands and attempts to position herself in front of the table to hide the mess. “What brings you in today?” She asks distractedly.

“It’s a long story.” Daisy is forced to move aside as Jemma steps forward to examine the bouquet Daisy had only moments ago deemed a disaster.

“Oh, I think I’d like to hear it if it somehow ends with this.”

“It’s my fault really, I wanted to send flowers to Peggy and her fiancé, as a sort of apology for not attending their wedding, Daisy was trying to help me put together something that would properly express that without sending the wrong message.”

“I see.” Jemma collects the last bins of flowers and returns them to their homes.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Daisy whispers to him.

“I feel like I just got you in trouble with the principal.”

Jemma returns to the table and inspects the bouquet again. “Well I can see where you were coming from here Daisy, but I told you, most people don’t read much into the meanings behind the flowers.”

“You’re the one that gave me the book!”

“Yes, and in that book, it also tells you that it’s not customary to send flowers for a wedding.” Daisy frowned. She hadn’t gotten to that part. “That said, I’m afraid flowers aren’t going to solve your problem Daniel.”

“That’s okay, it’s probably a sign that I just need to suck it up and go, let everyone whisper over their cake about poor single heartbroken Daniel a little bit longer.”

“That does sound truly awful.” Jemma says gently.

It does, but in that moment Daisy is struck by an idea. “Hey wait, why don’t you just bring a date?”

Daniel looks sheepishly at the ground. “I, I haven’t got anyone to bring.”

“Perhaps you could go out and meet someone new.” Jemma suggests.

“I don’t usually connect with people that fast and the wedding is this weekend.”

“Well it’s not like she has to be the love of your life or anything.”

“Daisy makes a very good point, you could always invite a friend.” Jemma suggests but Daisy already knows that won’t work either, a friend won’t eliminate the look of pity from his colleagues faces. She has only known Daniel for an hour but she’s already on his side. She wants him to have it all, to attend the wedding for his friends and to give a proper screw you to his coworkers. “What you need is a fake date, someone who you can pretend to be invested in just enough that they know you’re over your ex but not enough that the next time they see you they think to ask about her.”

“OH! You should take Daisy!” Jemma looks absolutely giddy, as if her sudden exclamation is a stroke of genius and hasn’t caught her best friend completely off guard.

“Wait what?”

“Well why not, she’d be the perfect fake date, no one will know her, you two clearly don’t mind spending a bit of time together, unless you made this mess all in five minutes,” she gestures again at her worktable. “And I promise under this apron she’s a total babe, no one would look at you and feel sorry for you, I promise.”

Daisy does notice that she is not the only one embarrassed by this proposition; Daniel looks flustered and unsure how to handle having a date just tossed at him. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“She wouldn’t mind, she really needs to get out more anyways.” Daisy slaps Jemma’s arm.

“I get out.”

Daniel shifts uncertainly. “Still, this wedding is kind of a high profile event.”

“She cleans up really well.”

Daniel’s eyes go wide. “Oh no, that’s not what I meant,” He looks frantically back and forth between them, “I’m sure you do, it’s just there is going to be a lot of people there and possibly media.” He shakes his head as if he can’t believe how ridiculous the notion is and again Daisy finds herself wondering who exactly this woman is. In fact, it has gotten to the point where she kind of wants to meet these people.

“Actually, it might be kind of cool.”

“What?”

Daisy considers for a moment longer before confirming her answer. “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind, besides I feel like I’ve got to see this through to the end now, since the flowers were kind of a bust.”

It takes him a full minute to catch up. “Um, the wedding is Saturday, if you’re free?”

She nods.

“Okay.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “You’re really sure?”

“Yeah, it’ll be great, we can give those gossipy coworkers of your something to really talk about.”

“Alright, great.” He looks at their flower project and turns to Jemma “Can I still buy these?”

“You don’t have to – “

Daisy cuts Jemma off. “Oh my god no, this is, it’s really my problem, you can take the cost out of my pay Jemma.”

“No really, I actually kind of like it.” Daisy doesn’t believe that for a moment, but she also can’t think of any other reason why he’d want to keep the sad little bouquet.

Maybe Jemma does though? She smiles happily and scoops up the vase, “let me wrap them for you.”

#dousy #aos fic #dousyweek #Daisy Johnson #daniel sousa #my fic

[dracomalfoy-youlittleshit]

So this has taken a lot of thinking and I finally want to share my novel with the world of Tumblr!

Thanks to @rockmarina I grew some balls to do this. I’m about 7 chapters in right now, but with everything that’s been going on in my life, I lost all writing motivation so I’m hoping to share my work and getting constructive feedback from people I’ll actually get back into it?

Well, Let’s see how it goes.

Here’s the prologue and Chapter One, If people like it I’ll share more I guess?

(I made the cover myself too!)

Prologue:

London, 1887.

                    The last of the carriages lined the dark, stoned streets. Small flickering candles shone through the narrow windows of terraced houses. The light patter of rain hitting the ground could be heard, and the taste of thunder lingered in the air. The lampposts were slowly being lit, emanating a low, dim light to the streets below allowing Shadows to creep from the cold, dark alleys concealing the secrets and terrors lurking within them.

Men, women and children returning from their poorly paid jobs and arriving home to almost no food. A young beggar girl was sitting alone on the street, her pale face caved in, her body thin with the hungry passing of days. Women were forced to sell their bodies just to get their next meal, never knowing the dangers they were in. Everyday, working class people suffered as the high class lived in luxury. Their tables filled with uneaten and wasted food, their wardrobes brimming with garments of the finest quality and their homes warm and comfortable. These dreadful people only cared for themselves, oblivious to the fight some people must endure daily… 

Wiley Walker and Celia Roberts have never been like the rest of their kind. They would always spare a shilling or two, sometimes some bread and water, to the young beggar girl. The two were kind and had both aspired to make a difference in the world in their own ways. Celia was a strong woman with straight brown hair, soft eyes to match and piercing rose red lips, She believed that women were not objects or prizes to be claimed by man, that all women had a voice and needed to be heard. She wished deeply to become a respected businessman like her father, knowing that would take a lot of work, yet she was ready for it. Firstly, she wishes to start small and state her right to not marry, not wanting her life defined by any man, even if she could decide his identity. 

Wiley was the opposite of Celia. He was a quiet and reserved boy with lengthy ginger hair tied back from his pale, freckled face. His emerald green eyes contrasted his image. They shone with confidence and even power when his demeanor suggested otherwise. He was quite reserved in the presence of his family, giving into every one of their demands to keep the peace and to divert all of their attention away from him. 

Wiley and Celia, although polar opposites, were best friends and had been from the age of 4. They confided in eachother about all aspects of their life, even if doing so was dangerous… Wiley had a secret, a rather large secret that he could never tell his family or anybody close. Celia was aware of this, of his forbidden homosexuality. No longer punishable by death, Celia had thought much less of this than Wiley himself. He detested this part of himself, as many others would if they discovered it. He had managed to keep it concealed for years yet, the truth would soon come out as he is soon to be married… 

Chapter One:

The Roberts’ manor was an old and run-down place. Vines and ivy covered the chipped grey bricks that were barely holding together. The dark winter sky gave the house an ominous look. The leafless trees seemed to curl around the building as if to scare off any passers-by. The dark bayed windows glowed with soft candlelight as dinner was being served inside. The interior of the home was much more cozy and comfortable than the exterior. The dining table was being filled with food as maids plumped the velvet seat cushions and the butler set down the silver. 

Around the back of the house was a rather large garden, the brightly coloured flowers looked out of place against the deep green grass and cracked stone paving. Under a canopy, to escape the lightly falling rain, sat Celia and Wiley. 

Celia’s soft brown hair blew in the wind as she tucked a stray piece behind her ear. “Stop worrying,” Wiley said with a small smile. His fingers found a small silver ring on his thumb and began turning it, “you will be fine.”

Celia didn’t reply. She continued to look out into the garden, her hazel eyes in a vacant stare. They both stayed silent, listening to the wind through the trees, wishing that they could stay like this forever. “You know what’s going to happen,” Celia breathed, as if she didn’t want to admit it to herself, even though she knew it was inevitable. 

“Celia-” Before he could continue, Celia threw her head back and pulled out the loose bun at the top of her head, catching him off guard. She discarded the long red ribbon to the floor and ran her long fingers through her hair with a sigh. “Please, don’t say anything.” She sat forward, pushing her hair from her face. “I just want five moments peace before the chaos.”

Wiley bent down, plucking the ribbon from the floor and running it through his boney fingers. “Here, let me fix your hair.” he held out the ribbon in his hand and Celia smiled in response. “Fine,” she said before wiley had began to make his way over to her. “You always have been good at these things.” “Doing your hair?” “Making me feel better,” Celia muttered, earning a toothy grin from Wiley. “It will all be okay, you do know that, right?” “Wiles… They’re going to marry me off to some egotistical bigot with a big, fancy job. He’s going to expect me to have his children, I don’t want anybody’s children.” Celia’s face flushed with rage as she massaged her temples. Wiley brushed his fingers through Celia’s hair, tying it into a neat bun using her ribbon. A few stray strands poked out around her head that Wiley had tried to tuck in. “There.” He took a seat, crossing his legs and twirling his ring once again. “Do you remember Nicholas?”

Celia’s lip twitched before breaking into a large smile. “Gosh, that seems like so long ago,” she laughed. “We were both crazy about him, well, you were. I just wanted a friend.” “It was at least 5 years ago now. He went off to marry, didn’t he?” Celia leant back over again, turning a loose hair strand between her fingers, her previous smile fading. “That’s where everybody goes, Wiles. It’s where I’m going and it’s where you’ll be going when your family finds you a suitable woman.” “I reluctantly await the day a woman wants to marry me.” He fiddled with his fingers on his lap. “How about Douglas, remember him?” Wiley asked,Celia didn’t reply. She leant back in her chair, closing her eyes in thought. She knew it was a touchy topic for Wiley and didn’t want to encourage him to talk about it when she knew he didn’t want to. “Where did he go? After your father chased him out, I mean?” “I don’t know, that was the last I ever saw of him.” She replied quickly to move the topic on, sitting forward again and pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t want to get married, Wiles. I know that’s what’s going to happen today. They’ve been acting strange for weeks, I know they’ve found somebody for me.” A tear escaped her eye and Wiley quickly wiped it away with a handkerchief. “You don’t know that for sure. I hate seeing you like this, Ci-Ci.” “I’m going to miss this. Just us.” “You don’t have to miss it, you know you’ll see me again. Whatever happens at this dinner.” Wiley stood, taking the smaller trembling girl in his arms with a deep breath. Wiley caught sight of a small, middle-aged woman waiting in the doorway. She had large bags beneath her eyes and her hair was a curled mess around her head. Her uniform was crumpled and covered in stained patches. She didn’t speak until Wiley looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “Mr Wiley, Miss Celia. I apologize, I don’t mean to interrupt. Your parents require your presence in the dining room, your dinner is served.” 

“Very well. Thank you, Sylvia,” Celia muttered. “Well, let’s go.” 

They hastily entered the dining room and wordlessly took their seats at the polished table as the footmen served drinks. Both had tried to move unnoticed as their parents sat at the end of the table, yet they knew the silence wouldn’t last long. “What have you two been doing all day?” Ralph Walker, Wiley’s father, was the first to acknowledge them. He looked much older than he was, with deep sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones. He was a very pointed man with a small but rough beard on his pale chin. “We haven’t seen you both since we arrived.” 

“Apologies, Father, we were in the gardens.” Wiley flushed slightly and started fiddling with the ring once again.

“I don’t know what you expected, Ralph. Those two have never been apart.” Oscar Roberts, Celia’s father, was a very short and plump man with a round face and a balding head. He had very nervous-looking, brown eyes and didn’t like to speak up in conversations. Ralph and Oscar had known eachother since they were children and, like Wiley and Celia, they were inseparable. They had even started a business, Roberts & Walker, sticking together even after marriage. Wiley silently wished for a bond with Celia as strong as their fathers’, yet he knew that couldn’t happen. 

Just as the footmen came out of the kitchens once again with their food, Celia’s elder brother walked into the room with a girl on his arm. 

“Ahh, here he is!” A large grin spread across Oscar’s face as Celia’s eyes narrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line. Wiley noticed the look on her face and gave a small smile of reassurance.  The two new arrivals took their seats at the long table, opposite from Wiley and Celia. Celia’s brother, Benjamin, was a very tall man for his age. His neatly kept brown hair was pulled out of his eyes smoothly and his face was clean-shaven. His wife, Eliza, was a petite woman with lots of tight blonde curls neatly sitting atop her head, tied together with a long pink ribbon. Celia had instantly disliked her from their first meeting. Her dresses were much too frilly and she wore too much makeup. 

“Some whiskey, Benjamin?” “Of course, Father.” Benjamin gave a smile and a footman appeared to fill his glass quickly. Celia looked down into her drink, twirling it around the glass.

“And wine for the lady?” the footman asked. “I’m afraid I must decline,” Eliza answered quietly with a large smile on her red lips, “just water, please.” Oscar looked knowingly over to his son and Ralph smiled towards the couple. 

“I’m assuming you have some news for us, dear?” Mrs Roberts asked cheerfully. “Ahh, yes.” Benjamin stood, catching the attention of Wiley and Celia. “I am very pleased to announce that we are expecting a baby.”

The table uproared with cheers and congratulations from both families. Celia had taken no happiness in the news, she sat quietly, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers.

“So, what are you hoping for?” Mrs. Walker asked happily.

“A boy, of course!” Benjamin bawled and Eliza rolled her eyes. 

“I want a girl.” She smiled, taking a sip of her drink. 

“Well, any names?” Mrs Roberts asked with a smile, “What will I be calling my future grandchild?”

“Well Mother, we were thinking Oscar for a boy,” Benjamin glanced over at his father who grinned, his large cheeks slightly flushed. “And maybe Alexandra for a girl.” 

“Oh, beautiful!” Mrs Walker chucked. Mrs Roberts laughed along with her happily. 

“Let us raise a toast.” Ralph stood, tapping his class with a spoon. “To the happy couple!” 

“To the happy couple!” They all cheered in unison - Wiley and Celia much less enthusiastic as everybody else. 

After everybody had calmed down, the conversation turned to Celia. “You’ve been quiet all evening.” Oscar eyed her harshly. “Any words of congratulations for your brother?”

Celia muttered a hum of reply before turning her attention to her food. She had completely removed herself from the conversation and soon it turned to the topic of marriage. She only began to tune in when Wiley was brought into it. 

“Any ladies in your sights, Wiley?” Benjamin asked with a grin. Wiley’s face paled and his hands dropped to his lap. “Uh, a few, I suppose,” he responded carefully, trying to hide the obvious shake in his voice. “Too many to choose from?” Ralph joined the conversation with stern eyes before they almost instantly filled with amusement. “That’s my boy!” 

“Well choose soon Wiley, dear. We expect many grandchildren,” his mother said sweetly. Wiley only smiled in reply, the kind of smile that only Celia could see straight through. He moved his hands from his lap and hesitantly picked up his cutlery, yet only managing to push  a small pile of vegetables on his plate. Celia repeated Wiley’s actions yet as she ate, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the dinner was going unnaturally well. 

The conversation had fallen quite silent before Ralph broke it with a clink of a glass. He stood tall, pointing his chin in the air with his chest puffed out. “Now that we are all comfortable and have eaten, I, we,” He gestured to Oscar, “would like to reveal the real reason we held this dinner.” His eyes seemed to omit light as he spoke. “Our families have been joined since we were young. We have a bond much stronger than many, and so do our children.” Wiley gave a small smile to his father and Celia filled with dread. “We know you both are coming of age and that you have your own ideas of who to marry, but Oscar and I both agree that our families deserve a stronger bond. Our company would stay within the confines of us; and what better way to do this than to join our families through marriage?” Wiley and Celia’s faces drained. “Father—” “Celia,” Oscar cut her off with a grin, “Wiley is the man you shall marry.”

Without another word, Celia rushed out of the room, tears filling her eyes. Wiley wished he could follow her…

“What do you say, Wiley?” Ralph asked, his eyes lit as if staring directly into Wiley’s soul. He knew he couldn’t refuse, but he didn’t want to agree, so he just nodded, keeping his eyes locked on the floor. “May I—, can I—” He took a deep breath and stood from the table. “Allow me to talk to her,” he said, his voice shaking. “Sit, Wiley,” Ralph ordered. harshly Wiley instantly sat back down. “You can’t seriously be against this.” 

Thump.

“You two make such a delightful couple.” 

Thump.

“I was convinced you would like this idea.”

 Thump.

“She likes you, I’m sure of it.”

Wiley’s heart was pounding in his chest and he felt like the walls were closing in. His mouth went dry and it suddenly felt difficult to breathe. His legs had lost all feeling, as though he was turning to mush. He wanted to run, to escape this situation, but he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t disappoint his father. But he also knew that he couldn’t marry Celia. He couldn’t be the one to ruin her life.

————————————————————————————————

So that’s it!

I’d like to thanks @piertotumlocomotherfucker for Alphaing a lot of this stuff for me even though we haven’t spoken a lot recently and I’ve been too much of a mess to write…

Gonna tag to signal boost too!

@justawynaut @secretlycrazyhummingbird @bellerixe @mushyperalta @do-your-thingg @gamerfreddie Ahh I don’t talk to anyone else so signal boost if you can guys, If not just ignore me.

Please let me know if you like it, I’d love to post the rest of what I have if you do! Likes and reblogs greatly appreciated!!

#Original Fiction #LGBT fiction #Fantasy fiction #Novel #Original Novel #Elliott writes and wants to cry #Miasma #Victorian Literature #It gets gayer I promise

[gottawriteanegoortwo]

Dark - Intrusive Thoughts

An event that has T.homas San.ders and M.ark Fis.chbach in the same room leads to an encounter that could be dangerous. As a reluctant guardian that is struggling to keep out of character, Dark finds himself facing someone who may be more of a threat than he initially thought.

Word Count: 2,642

Tw: Remus Sanders, Intrusive Thoughts, Suggestions of murder and other acts of violence, mention of sexual interest through flirting.

-

A big event was taking place in the city. Various do-gooders from across the country were invited for the weekend. Naturally, Mark was invited, but Dark was wary of it. After all, an event as large as that could draw the Actor like a moth to a flame, and then what?

“If you're so worried, then come with me and Amy. You can hide in the shadows and make sure nothing happens.”

That was what Mark had told him, and that was why Dark was hiding in the other's shadow. He hated resorting to this, but he had to be sure no one else got tangled up in this twisted 'story’.

The formal night was a drain on Dark. Even if Mark and Amy were lucky enough to sit beside a bright young man called Thomas, it didn't do much to distract him. Instead, the thoughts began to whisper again within ten minutes of the group sitting down to look at the menus.

You're only doing this out of guilt.

It would be so easy to just take Mark's body now and get it over with.

Come on, what are you waiting for! He's right there! You don’t want the Actor to get him, so why not take what’s yours?

“- but then Chica bounded over and -” Both Amy and Thomas threw Mark worried looks as a heavy shiver ran down his spine. He felt two taps on his right shoulder - Dark's sign of briefly dismissing himself. Mark glanced behind him to see something ripple across the floor, but insisted to the others that he was fine.

-

In a small room just off the corridor to the function room, Dark stumbled against a table. The thoughts were getting louder and he needed to leave the main area before he submitted and acted on them. He knew he would, and that was the part that scared whatever scrap of humanity he had left. There was proof of him acting out, showing that he was truly the ‘villain’ in the story when he didn’t want to be. It wasn’t fair! He didn’t want these thoughts in his head, not when he was so stressed and frustrated that they actually sounded like good ideas. He had sworn to keep Mark out of trouble, and lashing out at an event like this would do the exact opposite of that.

“Well now, this is a surprise, Thomas. Didn’t think you were one to call for a dark side~ Weird set-up you got this time.” 

A voice pulled Dark back to the present, and he sharply turned his head to look at the intruder.

It was a man of average height and build. He was dressed in black royal garments, with a sash and details in lime-green. A morningstar was being dragged casually behind him as he examined the surroundings of the tiny room. His hair was haphazard, like he rolled out of bed, with some large silver streaks on the upturned fringe. His eyes were wide and sunken in, their erratic implication emphasised by how they darted around. He even had a brown moustache that wanted to curl at the tips. In a way, that reminded Dark of Wilford, which meant this could likely anger him further.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you have the wrong person.” Dark made sure to respond in a slow manner to hopefully disguise his current mood. “I would appreciate it if you left me alone.” At last, the wild prince twirled around on one foot to face him. He tilted his head to the right with a squint, then to the left with a scrunched-up expression; before finally straightening it with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re looking a little peculiar today, Thomas. Hallowe’en already?”

“I’m not Thomas.”

That immediate counter made the stranger squint again. At last, the pieces clicked into place as his face relaxed into a smile. He took a step forward. Dark took a step back. This was noted by the other.

“Well now, this is certainly a strange and exciting experience. I thought the only ones I could talk to were Thomas and the other Sides. But you… Well, you’re quite the handsome devil, aren’t you? You’re a lucky man. I’m rather attracted to men in suits. Makes them look even hotter than anything else… Aside from their birthday suit, of course!” The stranger twirled the morningstar like it was a baton as he giggled with a knowing smirk. “So, who are you and why did you call me up? I’m sure I can stick around for a little while~”

“I didn’t ‘call’ you.” Dark was starting to feel uncomfortable. Not only was this man acting in such a crude manner, those thoughts in his mind were moving to the forefront. Whoever this was, he wasn’t helping. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

“Hey, I asked those questions first, cutie.” The stranger gave a childish pout, complete with hands on his hips. “Friends call me the Duke, but you can call me Remus. I’m afraid I don’t quite know why I’m here yet. I’ve never had the chance to meet such a dashing stranger that doesn’t have the same face as me.”

“Same face…” Dark repeated the words in a murmur, before realisation hit. “I didn’t know Thomas had Egos.”

“Oh, no no no. We’re ‘Sides’. If you were to take a giant hammer and smash his head open like a coconut all the Sides would come flying out like itty bitty jigsaw pieces! We make Thomas, well, Thomas!” The comparison wasn’t exactly a comforting thought to Dark, but Remus didn’t seem to notice. “So what can I call you? I’d be happy to call you ‘Sir’, or ‘Cutie with the Booty’, or even ‘Handsome Stranger I Would Fuc-”

“Dark. You can call me Dark.” Cutting over the other only served to add to his sour mood. Somehow, this imbecile was worse than Wilford. “I am not in the mood for company right now, so I would like you to leave before you make me do something I may regret.” Remus blinked several times in response to this. His expression quickly shifted to curiosity as he approached with a tip-toe that was almost cartoonish. Once close enough - but not too close - the Side stared deep into the entity’s eyes in a way that was quite unnerving. Was the other trying to read his mind, or simply trying to test Dark’s patience?

Before Dark could question it, Remus spoke in an unnaturally calm tone.

“Your mind is clouded, isn’t it? I can see it from the way you shift your eyes. There’s something troubling that pretty head of yours. It’s so bad, you reached out silently for help, but you didn’t call the ‘light’ Sides. Why would you call me over them, since they’re the ones Thomas favours…?” With a slow blink, Remus let his free hand brush across his lips in thought. As a darker side, Remus was never given the opportunity to help examine and solve a problem Thomas had - at least, not since the days before he and Roman were ‘born’, but those days were far too fuzzy and distant. So what could be the issue?

Wait.

“You’ve had thoughts, haven’t you?” It was asked in a low purr as Remus moved a little closer. “Is that why you’re in this little room instead of out at the party? Your mind started wandering and reminded you of thoughts you’ve tried so very hard to ignore?” He paused, a grin spreading as he noticed the hint of surprise Dark tried to hide. “Ooh, I’m right. I love when that happens! Now, I wonder what such a handsome devil as yourself would be thinking about. This is so much harder when you aren’t Thomas.”

“Can you step back? You’re in my personal space.” The close proximity of the pair was not helping Dark at all, especially when Remus was correct.

“Shhh, let me have this moment.” Ignoring the other’s request, Remus lifted the morningstar and gently pressed it against Dark’s chest. It was used to gradually push the entity back until he was sitting in a chair. “Remember I said I was a piece of Thomas? I’m his creativity. I share the job with my twin brother. But I get to work with all the juicy stuff, and I think you’re keeping a part of yourself locked away. Why does everyone do that? It makes everything so boring!” There was another huff from the Duke as he carefully tapped Dark with his beloved weapon.

“So let’s see, what sort of thoughts would you be hiding away? I bet they’re really neat ones too. Like… Kidnapping one of your friends and toppling that bookcase on them. Or taking advantage of a quiet moment to steal the final breath out of a stranger.” Another pause. Remus noticed the way Dark’s eyes dropped. “You’ve done that. You’ve actually killed someone. Why aren’t I in your head? You’d actually listen to me~”

“I don’t want to listen to those thoughts! I don’t want to be the monster that everyone imagines me to be!” Before Remus could counter, Dark’s lights flared up. “And no, I am not that. I never was. I am someone who is being turned into something I never was because they decided it. What you’re trying to discover are things that have infected my mind and are trying to corrupt me.”

“Oh, don’t say that, you’ll hurt my feelings. My ideas are just as valid as anyone else’s!” Remus did indeed sound hurt at that, but Dark wasn’t in the mood to care.

“Your ideas are outlandish and ridiculous. They’re improper and purely impulsive. What I have to deal with is far more serious than anything you could consider. If I were to listen to what I’m hearing right now I would -”

“Use the decorative ribbon on the back of Thomas’ chair to strangle him.” Dark’s eyes widened as Remus joined in to finish the sentence in unison. “Oh, I know how all this works, cutie. While I won’t allow you to hurt Thomas, I can encourage you to embrace that side of yourself. It’s much more freeing being able to get those pent-up frustrations out in the open, you know. If you keep locking them away, you’re going to explode, and that won’t do anyone good at all.” He was about to continue, but he found himself stumbling back after a hefty shove. Dark rose to his feet with a snarl.

“I refuse. I play the role of a villain but that is not what I am. I have dealt with these thoughts for years, I think I can manage just fine.”

“By what? Pushing them deep deep down and forgetting they exist? Don’t fool yourself! Corruption can be fought off with enough struggle and good will. You’re fighting a losing battle if you’ve acted on them before. Just try it! Let me show you how rewarding it can be!” Remus’ weapon was raised in self-defense, but he knew he was in control of the situation. There wasn’t anyone here to try and talk boring logic into the setting, and Dark had already taken the ideas and performed them. That was more than Thomas! With this knowledge in mind, he swung the morningstar at Dark.

His plan worked as the entity immediately countered by grabbing his wrist and pulling the weapon out of his hands. Instead of hitting him, Dark acted as predicted and aimed his aggression at the bookshelf with an angry cry. One book was lifted and thrown at Remus, hitting the Side square in the forehead. The injury would quickly disappear on someone who didn’t actually exist, so it was ignored in favour of watching Dark’s lights sharply blink around him as a shelf was entirely reduced to scrap wood.

That’s it! Let it out! Show them what you’re capable of!

Breaking things into tiny pieces is so satisfying, isn’t it?

Now, wood is fine. Imagine how much better a skull could feel cracking under the pressure. The sound would be music in the air and paint the floor and the walls so nicely. It would be -

“Dark!” A voice snapped Dark to the present. The morningstar was gone, but the bookshelf was virtually destroyed. He wheeled around to the source of the voice.

Mark had entered the room, while Amy and Thomas peered in through the doorway in fright. Remus wasn’t there. Had he ever been there?

“Dark… What’s going on? Are you okay? Shit… What happened?” Mark quickly examined the room, noting the broken bookshelf and books scattered across the room. He’d need to pay for a replacement, but he had to help Dark first. Dark was hunched over slightly, breathing heavy as he looked at Mark with vacant eyes. He was completely out of it, lost in whatever was going on in his mind. Mark knew the other had talked about struggling to not ‘play the villain’, but never did he think he’d see it. It was almost like Dark was a stranger, struggling to hold himself back.

“Dark, it’s me, Mark. Look, you’re okay, it’s just me.” Gingerly, a hand was extended as he spoke. When nothing happened, he took a slow breath and began to cautiously approach. With every step, he was ready to quickly retreat should the touch-aversive entity feel threatened by another presence. Yet, through some miracle, he managed to lightly place his hand on Dark’s shoulder.

Dark blinked once, twice, three times before some sort of life returned to his eyes. Registering Mark before him, Dark took in the sight of the wrecked shelf with alarm.

“Mark, I swear I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s okay. No one was hurt. What happened? I heard your shouting over the music.” That caught Dark by surprise. They had only just decided which options on the menu they wanted when he left. How could he have been gone for that long? He dropped his head in guilt, ashamed to have to confess.

“I was trying to… Ignore thoughts in my head. Someone arrived and starting goading me into it. Next thing I know, you’re standing here and he’s gone.”

“He? Who’s ‘he’?” Mark looked decisively worried. Very few knew Dark actually existed as more than a fictional character. When there was no response at first, Mark repeated the question. At last, he got an answer.

“He said his name was Remus, or the ‘Duke’.”

“W-what?” Now it was Thomas’ turn to be thrown into a state of shock. Everyone turned to look at him with confusion. “He… I don’t know how that would work since… Remus doesn’t actually exist. He’s a character from a series I do called ‘Sanders Sides’. I have a bunch of characters that are personifications of different parts of an alternate me, and they address various mental health issues or topics that might be difficult for younger viewers to understand alone. But he… Doesn’t exist.”

The room fell silent. Dark knew what he saw, what he had experienced. Remus was physically there. He had pushed the Duke away, and snatched his morningstar. 

“Unless… Dark was a fictional character too, or so I thought. What if that connection meant that he broke that fourth wall to briefly exist in our reality?” Mark knew it sounded absurd, but it wasn’t as though anyone else had any bright ideas.

“If he knows what is best, he won’t return.” Dark growled, hands clasped tight behind his back. He needed to work harder to prevent himself from slipping into character. More effort would be needed to trap those thoughts in the far depths of his mind. They had vanished now, and that was that.

But is assuming an intrusive thought is gone really a wise decision?

#writersofmark #darkiplier #remus sanders #anti-hero dark #tw intrusive thoughts #tw remus #tw implied violence #tw implied murder #Cracked Mirror (Dark) #(remus tbt) #(... please go easy on me. I've never written Remus or Thomas before) #(... I really hope this all makes sense) #personal fave

[spookyblackwidow]

Nat x Reader request

Author’s note: this is my first ever attempt at writing a reader insert, but I did my best to keep the character as neutral as possible! Enjoy some fluff at a party with the team <3

Luminous

1622 words

“Ready to go?” You smile at Nat, her blue minidress sparkling in the bathroom lights. She sighs, sets down her lipstick, and flashes you a coy grin.

“What if we stayed here instead?”

“Hmm,” you arch an eyebrow as you take in her final look—the long legs, plunging neckline, and loose curls, “tempting, but you look far too good not to be seen.”

“But it’s just a stupid party,” she pouts, batting her eyes in that ridiculously over the top way you claim to hate, although it usually worked.

“Not this time, Nat. Clint insisted that we at least make an appearance, and I have a feeling my life will be much easier if your best friend doesn’t hate me.”

“Fine,” she groans, “but if anyone even mentions bringing out the karaoke machine, we’re leaving.”

“What, not in the mood to watch Tony attempt some classic rock while absolutely plastered?” you laugh.

“Ugh, I saw enough at his 40th to last a lifetime.” Natasha shudders but fails to hide a slight smirk. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen her pretend she didn’t care for Tony, but this was her worst bluff yet. You wonder if she’d cracked open the vodka without you in preparation for this event; unfortunately, she holds her liquor well and rarely shows definitive signs of intoxication, so there was no way to tell how many drinks she’d had.

In order to protect his safehouse from inevitable damage, Clint had called everyone to the Avengers compound under the guise of team bonding, not that they necessarily needed it. He’d tasked you with luring Nat there, as she isn’t particularly keen on socializing, especially not with people outside her immediate circle of friends.

She grumbles all the way from the car into the compound. Most of it’s in Russian, but you don’t need to ask what’s upsetting her.

“Welcome! You’re only,” Clint glances at his watch, “32 minutes late! That might be a new record, Nat!”

“You’re lucky I’m here at all. But now that we’ve arrived, I can leave at any time and not feel a shred of guilt, so keep it up, I dare you.” Natasha winks at him and heads for the bar, where she ushers the bartender away and starts mixing her own drink.

“How much has she already had?” Clint drops his voice to a whisper as he hugs you.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” you shrug. “But hey, at least she’s here. Wouldn’t want her to miss the celebration.”

You make your way around the room, politely greeting the rest of the guests before settling in on a barstool next to Nat and Maria.

“Now, this may just be a rumor, but I heard he has an issue with toast being cut diagonally,” Maria laughs.

“Think that applies to other types of bread? I’m tired of losing my lunch to all these boys.”

“It may only discourage Nick, but it’s worth a shot, right?”

“Busy conspiring against the boss?” you ask.

“Always!” Nat winks. “Maria, if you’ll excuse us a moment.” She leads you away from the others, down a dim hallway and into a training room. The lights flicker on in rows, revealing an arsenal of weapons. You’re finally close enough to smell the vodka seeping from her pores, to see the faint glaze in her eyes, and you start to panic, knowing she’s gone too far.

“Nat, love, let’s go back to the party, maybe get some water?”

“Shh, it’s fine. I’ve had way more than this and survived, it’s kind of an annual tradition. Besides, if Clint didn’t want me to get drunk tonight, he wouldn’t have stocked the bar with my favorites.” She reaches out to intertwine your fingers, tugging you even closer. With her other hand she smooths the worry lines across your forehead. “I’m fine, I promise.”

She kisses you gently, slowly, and pulls away, leaving you desperate for more. With a teasing wink, she slips through the doors, leaving you in the middle of the nearly empty room. You regain your composure and follow, back to the bright lights and animated chatter of the party.

Thor is in the corner daring Tony to lift Mjolnir, egging him on to see if the suit will help. Curled up on a couch nearby are Pepper and Rhodey, deep in discussion, but each keeping a close eye on their best friend and the Asgardian. Bursts of laughter draw your attention to the bar, where Maria, Sam, Clint, and Bucky are loudly cracking jokes with an increasingly embarrassed Steve. Nick and Bruce appear to be discussing schematics for new tech at a table across the room, which would seem odd if it were anyone else, but in the time that you’d known them, you’d never really seen those two loosen up.

You scan the room again, certain you’d somehow missed her, but discover that Nat’s nowhere to be found.

“She’ll come back, when she’s ready.” Clint sidles up beside you and hands you a glass of champagne. “You know this is a big deal for her, even being here today. Give her space to sober up a bit and calm down.”

“She didn’t seem mad,” you shake your head, “just suspicious that I know.”

“As long as they don’t,” Clint nods toward the other guests, “she’ll be fine.”

You make the rounds again, doing your best to bond with these wonderful people you hope will be in your life forever. Pepper and Rhodey commiserate with you over dealing with a loved one being a stubborn ass at times, although you have to acknowledge that they have it worse; Natasha could be completely unwilling to compromise, but she was much less likely to behave recklessly.

As you rise from the couch, Thor calls you over and tries to goad you into lifting Mjolnir, but, much like your girlfriend, you aren’t sure that’s something you want to know. Instead, you smile at Tony, his repulsors on full blast, the magical hammer refusing to budge whatsoever.            

“The physics of it don’t make any sense!” he yells, releasing his grip and finally quieting the hands of his suit.

“That’s because you’re relying on such primitive knowledge!” Thor laughs. “See, what you consider magic is quite simply science so advanced, your realm likely won’t understand it for another thousand years or so, at the rate you’re going. You may be smart on Earth, but the genius of Asgardians—”

Fearing an incredibly technical argument above your pay grade, you slink away to join the group at the bar.

“—and he looked at her, eyes wide, like a fucking deer in the headlights, completely silent, until she gave up and asked someone else to dance!” Bucky claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder and throws his head back, practically cackling.

“Okay, Buck, I think that’s enough about pre-serum me.” Steve smiles weakly, his cheeks tinged red.

“Pre-serum?” Sam chuckles. “Man, he could’ve said that was last week and I would’ve believed him!”

“Making fun of Steve again?” Nat’s voice, low and rough, startles you, but months of her intentionally sneaking up on you has taught you not to jump. She wraps her arms around your waist, her head resting between your shoulder blades.

“Welcome back to the party, Nat.” Clint grins. “Got any stories you’d like to share?”

“Well,” without relinquishing contact, she slips around you to stand at your side, “there was this one time in New York…”

The details of her stories would seem exaggerated if you didn’t know the realities of their abilities and jobs. You spend the next hour or so laughing along with the others, blissfully unaware your time together is quickly drawing to a close.

“Hey, anyone want to break out the kar—” Tony yells, but Natasha is dragging you outside before he can finish his ill-fated question. Clint comes running after you, his tie flipping up over his shoulder as he jogs.

“Wait!”

To your surprise, Natasha actually stops and lets go of your arm, even starts walking back toward the building as if this all was anticipated. They embrace and whisper a few words to each other in a language you can’t hear well enough to identify. Clint smiles at you before heading back inside at a leisurely pace.

Nat’s quiet as you climb into the car, the toll of so much social interaction weighing on both of you, although you know the night’s not over yet. What comes next scares you more than it should, but you will your heart to slow, beg your voice to stay steady.

“Nat? Would you grab something out of the glovebox for me?”

“What could you possibly need—”

“Please?”

She sighs heavily and opens the compartment to discover a flat black box tied with a red satin ribbon. She shoots you a quizzical look as she loosens the bow. Inside sits a dainty silver chain with a single round charm, five small diamonds set at the points of an engraved design.

“It’s the constellation Delphinus,” you start to explain.

“Named after the dolphin Poseidon sent out to find Amphitrite,” she finishes the thought and traces the engraving with the tip of her finger. When she looks up at you, she’s smiling softly, her eyes brimming with tears. “How did you…?”

“Clint told me because he knew you wouldn’t.”

“Of course,” she laughs, wiping at her eyes. “How many other secrets has he shared?”

“Just the one, I promise.” You reach over and give her hand a reassuring squeeze. She gently kisses you, the bracelet slipping from her free hand as she moves to hold the back of your neck.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“Happy birthday, Nat.”

...

Tag list: @romanoff--natasha @clintashaotp @baker151910 @unholyromanoff @unsociable-hobbit @thexploress

#natasha romanoff #fanfic #fanfic request #black widow #reader insert #avengers #marvel #fanfiction #join my tag list! #I'm distraught I couldn't fit Wanda into this #I was struggling enough with the characters I had #and I couldn't figure out where to place her in the groups #so I didn't want to throw her in randomly just to have her silently in the background #like I had to do with some of the others #fluff #tbh there's always a little angst with Nat #but the point of this is the fluff #clint barton #maria hill #tony stark #pepper potts #james rhodes #steve rogers #bucky barnes #sam wilson #bruce banner #nicky fury #you know I had to reference my headcanon #Nat's a tease #I accidentally posted this on the wrong blog first because I'm an idiot

[gigiree]

From Rouge to Noir

A/n: errr anyone up for a neighbors/soul mates/pen pals au?

Ch 1: Greetings

It's been a long time since she's felt any sort of expectation. Her circumstances have always been vaguely defined things. Nothing set in stone or with clear direction.

In her career. In her love life. In her friendships. There are very few things that can cling onto Marinette when she drifts as aimlessly as the fallen orange leaves do in the puddles that form in the street below. Even the little bit of wonder the world has blessed her with...a Soulmate’s first words...are vague. The letters curl in a messy scrawl across her slim wrist. Annoyingly lacking in detail. (At least they’re easy to hide underneath the red ribbon she always wears.)

The word “Hi” has nearly given her a heart attack on more than one occasion. So she's learned to stop hoping and has accepted that her Blessing, as the old ladies in her knitting club like to call it, is nothing to be excited about.

She also learned to approach life with that same level of expectation. She's learned to find contentment in routine. In the everyday humdrum.

So a change in said routine causes more discomfort than she would like to admit. Said change is brought about today with the arrival of a noisy white moving truck.

“Oh god. There goes my peaceful existence.” She says, rubbing absently at her mark. She stares out of her window, a little peeved as she watches the movers slowly empty the back of the truck.

She's keenly observed that so far, there's been a nice set of leather couches. A very Spartan bed frame in black wood. A really, really nice flat screen TV. And then assorted cleanly structured tables and lamps being carried up.

The day has devolved into a light drizzle, and she knows with certainty that all those nice things will be kept safe and dry in the apartment to the left of hers.

She can already hear the loud trudging up the stairs. (The elevator has a tendency to shudder horrifically when loaded up with furniture.) She laments that her blessed quiet existence is going to be interrupted, because her gut feeling is that this new neighbor is going to be a lot of ruckus.

So with her curiosity quenched for now, she heaves a sigh and plops herself back onto her little bed that is littered with fabric samples and torn out sketches of designs that don't quite please her artistic senses.

By the time the sun has begun to set, and she can see the pearly gray clouds tinged pink and orange against Paris, the moving-in noises have stopped. But it’s not their absence that gets her attention. It's the scrabbling noise at her window, the window set behind the old rusty fire escape.

The rain is still going and there's a woeful meow as a black cat begs to be let in.

And despite her better judgement, she lets him in.

The poor thing is wet and stares at her with wide, pretty green eyes.

It's now stretched out in front of her mini heater, purring loudly as she keeps working on her ideas.

“Shh. You're not allowed here...so please be quiet.” She says absently, but the cat keeps purring.

“You're going out in the morning. You're not even supposed to be in the building.” She says matter of factly, and the cat merely leaps up onto her bed, settling itself on all the fabric samples and rubbing it's head against her gray sweats.

“I'm not changing my mind.” She says quietly, wondering if this cat belongs to the new neighbor.

And her slight ire at the inconvenience is made worse by the suddenly loud bass that shakes her shared wall and the muffled strains of club music cross over into her little apartment.

“Great. Probably some rich entitled university students with a penchant for parties.” She mutters.

She rises with a growl, her lazy Sunday now ruined by her new neighbor and a cat.

Here's the thing about Marinette. She's a little passive aggressive. Entirely a sweet person to those who are considerate. She hates confrontation, and has been burned in the past by her share of horrible neighbors. In fact, she’d had to move to this complex after her noise complaints about her neighbor had gone unaddressed and it was discovered that the man had been hoarding pigeons in the apartment.

The resulting argument had lead to a few peckings by his feathery friends and a premature termination of her lease.

So she reserves her arguments for the written word.

Her letter is riddled with holes from where her pen had accidently punched through with the vigor and speed of her writing.

To whom it may concern

She shakes her head and scratches that out. Too professional.

Hey assh-

Too mean, even if his etiquette is lacking, doesn't mean hers should be. So she scratches that out and writes again on the same paper.

“Hello new neighbor,

Welcome to the building. In an effort to start off on the right note, I've decided to warn you about several things.

Mdme. Renaud takes complaints seriously. So I would advise lowering the volume on your music.

Pets aren't allowed in the building. I'm not going to say anything, but you'd be advised to take care.

The walls are thin, and I'm pretty sure your bedroom shares a wall with mine. I don't want to make assumptions, but please keep your volume, regardless of activities, low

Just a few tips, but I hope we can be good neighbors and that you find living here to be as peaceful as I do.

Sincerely,

Your new neighbor.”

She quietly shuffles out in her rabbit slippers into the empty hallway. By the time she's gathered the necessary amounts of annoyance and piled it into something vaguely shaped like motivation, the apartment is eerily silent.

She stifles a sigh of frustration, before taping her note onto the door.

Her eyes narrow a bit at the number in golden numbers that hangs just above the peephole

“413. So unlucky.” She shakes her head, and shuffles tiredly back into her apartment.

She decides to call it a night. Its not as if her work has any tangible deadline. Just the one that she sets in her own mind, the one that she keeps moving out of reach because she's not ready yet. Never ready.

The cat seems to understand her frustration, and while it butts it's head against her hand, it doesn't curl up next to her on the bed as she sleeps.

It simply stretches out near the quietly humming heater, that and the falling rain against her window are the only sounds she can hear now.

She doesn't know if she's grateful for that or just lonely.

---

The morning is a blur of activity. She'd gotten up a little late, on the third alarm to be exact.

She spends few minutes trying to shoo out the cat through the window and onto the fire escape. The day is sunny, save for a few clouds and that alleviates some of the guilt she feels when it finally steps out sedately, giving her an accusatory look.

“It's not my fault. It's in the contract.” Marinette explains, only to be met with a cynical green gaze as the cat finally traipses off onto the fire escape and makes its way down the stairs with indifference.

She rolls her eyes and finally sticks her head back inside, idly brushing off the lingering black cat hairs that had stuck to her sweats.

She gives one last melancholy look at the fabric samples and sketches now piled on her night stand, before dressing for the day.

She skips a wholesome breakfast, instead letting half a croissant dangle from her mouth as she ties off the black ribbon on the collar of her red blouse.

Red is her good luck color, and while she's still waiting on the courage to make her dreams a reality, she thinks a little luck can't hurt.

Still, her luck doesn't seem to be panning out much when she opens her door, and the annoying flapping of a paper catches her attention.

There's a note taped to her door, written in black permanent marker that bleeds so terribly through the page.

“Hi. Thanks new neighbor.”

There's a small, indistinguishable doodle on the bottom that she guesses is supposed to be a happy caricature of the author of said note. Unfortunately, the ink has spread and the messy splotches all over the page make this all an eyesore.

She flips over the paper just to make sure there's nothing else to read and gives a cry of dismay when she sees that the ink has gone through and stained the door. She can see the stupid little winking figure printed boldly onto the pale wood.

There's no way she's getting her deposit back in full.

#adrienette #miraculous ladybug #from rouge to noir

[hmhteen]

HMH Teen Teaser: YOUR ONE AND ONLY by Adrianne Finlay!

 It’s time for another teaser from us at HMH Teen! This one’s super fun: well, if you find dystopian societies where humans are extinct and society is now ruled by nine types of clones...fun. Even more fun? You can take our quiz to see which kind of clone you are by clicking here! 

YOUR ONE AND ONLY by Adrianne Finlay is a debut with something for everyone: it has a bit of sci-fi, romance, action, and even thriller! We have the first two chapters for you below, so scroll down to learn more.

Chapter One

ALTHEA

Althea-310 waited for class to begin, sitting in a neat row with her nine sisters. They’d spent the morning on their

floor of the Althea dorm twisting bright ribbons into their hair, and all ten of them had a different color winding through oth- erwise identical dark curls. Althea-310 had chosen lavender. Al- thea-316 had wanted lavender, so they’d agreed to draw sticks, but Althea-316 still scowled three seats away with her blue rib- bon, even though it had all been fair and she didn’t have any reason to sulk like that. As the sisters casually communed while waiting for class to start and their emotions mingled together, Althea-316’s resentment threaded through them all like a far- away hum. A Gen-290 Althea had admonished them for invit- ing the conflict into their group, but Althea-310 overheard the older woman comment a few moments later how she’d secretly laughed about it all.

“They should use white, like our generation did,” she’d said. “It’d be so much simpler. I guess it’s something Altheas have to learn on their own. I just thought the Gen-310s would have it figured out by the time they were fifteen. We certainly knew better.”

Althea-310 didn’t care what Altheas were supposed to learn. She liked the way the silky colors fell down her sisters’ backs, a rainbow in an otherwise boring classroom. Anyway, she felt pretty. Lavender really was nicer than blue.

The sisters’ nine faces all turned in Althea’s direction as they sensed the pride coming from her, and Althea-311 gave a small shake of her head, a silent warning. Althea clasped her hands to- gether and focused on tamping the feeling down. It would only make things worse with Althea-316, and there were other things to worry about today besides ribbons.

Vispera’s town council had told the class there would be a test. They were to expect a visitor, someone who was part of a new research experiment that would make the three commu- nities better. Though Althea had a hard time imagining that Vispera, or even the other two communities, could be any better than they were now.

A Gen-290 Samuel walked in brusquely and put his books on the desk up front. It was Samuel-299, who wasn’t actually a teacher, but a Council member and also a doctor at the clinic. So the experiment to make the community better was something medical. That was odd, however, since genetic modification meant that, in three hundred years, no one in Vispera had ever had so much as a cold.

The Samuel’s gaze passed quickly over the ten Carson broth- ers in the back, their feet spread lazily in front of them, taking up as much room as possible. The younger versions of himself, the Gen-310 Samuels, filled the middle row. Then he took in the front row of Altheas, their posture straight and hands folded on their desks. He shook his head at the different colored ribbons in their hair, smiling absently.

“You Altheas,” he said. “Always up to something.” He fiddled with his books, acting strangely nervous for a Samuel. “I know the Council talked to you some about what we’re doing today,” he said, perching on the edge of the desk. “You need to meet someone. He’s going to be part of our class from now on, part of our community, and if things go well, you’ll see a lot more of him. Now, understand, you’ll find him . . . different. But I expect you all to behave and be polite.”

Althea had no idea who the Samuel would want them to meet. And what about the test? Althea had spent last night with her friend Nyla-313 quizzing each other on history, so a medical test would be a disaster.

Althea liked working with Nyla-313. Nyla was learning in the labs how to engineer clever little oranges spliced with wild seeds so they tasted of cinnamon, and she would bring her experi- ments to Althea for their study sessions. Also, the Nylas never teased Althea about the scar on her wrist, and Nyla-313 often told her she shouldn’t bother hiding it. But while Althea enjoyed the colored ribbons, she didn’t like her scar. When it wasn’t cov- ered, the eyes of those in the community landed on the smooth line of white skin circling her wrist, and she hated how they’d inevitably say, “Oh, Althea-310,” as if all they needed to know about her was that she was the sister born with the defect, the one who’d needed a replacement hand grown separately in a limb tank. She used to wonder why she hadn’t been eliminated once it was discovered. It must have been apparent while she floated in the tanks, months before she was born. But it would have shown up too late to start creating another Althea. It had happened before, usually through accidental death, that a mod- el’s generation had only nine people instead of ten, but it caused a lot of discontent, even some disruption. That must have been the reason she hadn’t been eliminated.

Now all the studying they’d done would be for nothing. This was all very unusual; they never strayed from the curriculum. Maybe Samuel-299 had brought in someone from one of the other communities, maybe from Copan or even all the way from Crooked Falls. Maybe even an Althea. Althea had always won- dered how the Altheas in Crooked Falls might be different. Was their penmanship as elegant as the Vispera Altheas’? Did they cut their hair shoulder-length, like the Altheas in Copan? Maybe there was another Althea out there who was born with a defec- tive right hand and also had a scar like the one around her wrist.

But it couldn’t be an Althea from Crooked Falls, of course. The Samuel had said him. It was probably just another Samuel, then. Althea sighed, realizing the ribbons were probably going to be the only real excitement of the day.

Samuel-299 paused at the door before stepping out, his brow creased, his voice plaintive. “Remember, just . . . be kind.”

When Samuel-299 returned, a boy entered behind him. On seeing him, the row of Samuels collectively sucked in a breath. A Carson huffed an incredulous laugh. Every Althea reached a trembling hand for the hand of the sister next to her until their fingers wove together in an unbroken sequence. Althea com- muned with them, feeling their emotions as she felt her own. Every sister and brother communed in small, subtle ways all the time when they were close together, as did everyone in Vispera, but in moments of stress or fear, it was important to seek a strengthened connection through touch. Her sisters’ collective effort to calm one another coursed through her like liquid. It was warm, seeming to fill her limbs. She exhaled as, little by little, the shared anxiety eased.

The boy fidgeted miserably. He ran his fingers through his hair, then pushed his hands into his pockets. Althea tried to fig- ure out his age. She thought he was probably fifteen, like the rest of them. He looked scared, but no one stroked him or tried to comfort him, no one held his hand to commune, not like the brothers and sisters did for one another.

His eyes glanced from student to student, quick and nervous. He looked like he might be somewhat intelligent, but it was hard to tell. Even if he is, she thought, he’s still so strange. He’s not one of us. Not at all. He was like no one else.

Althea had seen so many faces. She’d seen all the nine faces of the nine models of Homo factus, at all different ages. She’d seen these faces in Vispera as well as on a school trip to Copan. They were the same faces she’d see in Crooked Falls as well. There was nothing beyond the walls of the communities but an empty, overgrown wasteland left by a long gone civilization. The faces in the three communities were the only faces that existed anywhere in the whole world, the only ones that had existed for over three hundred years.

The picture on the wall on the far side of the classroom showed these nine faces in a painting an early Inga had rendered based on a photo of the Original Nine. They were the human scientists who’d founded Vispera, using their genes to create the nine models. They stood on the steps of what was now Remem- brance Hall in two rows, serious and self-assured. Their hands rested on one another’s shoulders, and they gazed out at the students in the classroom as if glimpsing the future, hopeful and confident about the new world they were building. The same painting hung in every classroom, and the very first version re- sided in Remembrance Hall.

There were the Samuels, with their dark skin, even darker eyes, and their sharp, angular jaws. They radiated compassion in their thoughtful expressions, which helped when they treated a scraped knee or broken bone. Every model had a specified set of skills and a role within the community, and the Samuels were the doctors, nurses, and caretakers. The Altheas were historians, of course, which meant they kept records and preserved the history of Vispera.

The Nylas, the scientists, had eyes as dark as the Samuels’, but with a life and humor in them that the Samuels didn’t have. The Nylas’ eyes reminded Althea of a black stone on the shore, still wet from salt water and shining with hidden colors. The Ingas, the community’s artists, were tall and broad shouldered, as im- posing as statues, but with light, creamy brown hair that would start turning white in their fortieth year, at about the same age the Carsons’ faces softened and widened, right along with their waists. Not like they were now, in class. As young men the Car- sons were sleek and flat-stomached. Though whatever age the Carsons were, they always strode through the town Commons like it belonged to them. They were the engineers, and they thought that made them more important than the other models.

The Hassans, the ecologists, carried themselves gracefully, like leaves floating over rippling river water, and their small, agile fingers could tinker with a threshing machine so adeptly you’d think they were talking to it and telling it in which direction to move. The Hassans were the complete opposite of the Viktors with their brooding foreheads and hulking shoulders. The Viktors were the philosophers, which meant they were always ready to lay a thick hand on the arm of anyone who broke even the smallest rule. They kept the community safe and regulated.

The Meis and the Kates were a study in contrast, too. Althea admired the Meis’ sense of style, which went far beyond colored ribbons. As theologians, they loved the rituals of the community and always knew how to put the final touches on a ceremony, something that would keep it familiar and comforting, while still offering a new element, like when they hung a glittering chandelier from a balsa tree. They had delicate limbs, and al- ways dressed with careful thought and precision, never forget- ting to include something shiny in their matching dresses. If they wore a ribbon in their perfectly straight hair, it would always be something shimmering. The mathematician Kates, on the other hand, shunned anything sparkly, preferring instead their serious, demure outfits that went along with their turned-down mouths and sloped brown eyes that always made them look somehow disapproving. Or at least that’s how they often looked at the Altheas, who were too unpredictable to ever please the Kates, especially the older ones.

These were the faces Althea knew. She’d known them her en- tire life, and knew them at every age, and in every mood. Sure, sometimes an accident or slight genetic nuance would alter a familiar face — the tiny freckle on Inga-313’s ear, or the little indentation on Viktor-318’s collarbone from when he broke it in a wrestling match. And of course, Althea’s own scarred wrist. These faces were her whole world. They were the whole world.

She’d never seen a face like this boy’s.

And his eyes. Something was wrong with them. The eyes of the nine models were all brown, though they varied in the range of shades. This boy’s were almost colorless, watery and cold, an odd bluish-gray. How could eyes be gray?

Althea shook herself, shivering at the ghostly translucent color, but at the same time realizing it was not simply what he looked like that was disturbing. She also felt nothing from him. It certainly looked as though he was nervous in front of the class, but the only indications of fear were what she could see — his shuffling feet and shaky hands, the way he blinked nervously. Emotions that strong should have been radiating off him like a fever, infecting the whole class. Instead, he was isolated, a soli- tary figment as cold as the stone wall that surrounded the town.

Everyone in class was rustling and shifting in their chairs. They felt the bone-chilling detachment from the boy as well.

“What’s wrong with its face?” Carson-315 asked.

Althea had wondered the same thing, but couldn’t imagine asking the question herself. The boy’s ears brightened red, which meant he had heard and understood Carson-315.

“Nothing’s wrong with his face,” Samuel-299 said. “He’s sim- ply different.”

“Different from what?” a Samuel asked, Samuel-317.

“From the nine models.” Samuel-299 nodded to the painting on the wall. “He’s human, like they were.”

“So he’s not Homo factus,” a Carson said, grimacing. “No. Like I said, he’s human — Homo sapiens.” “Where are his brothers?” Althea-316 asked.

“He has no brothers — he’s alone.”

Alone. The word struck Althea’s ears, its awful power tight- ening her chest. She leaned back, trying to put distance between herself and the strangeness of this boy.

“Why would we bother making a human? What good is it?” Carson-317 said.

Samuel-299  rubbed  his  mouth as if realizing this situation— whatever it was — should be going better. He took a breath. “The Council has been conducting an experiment. Humans were a great people. It’s because of them that life continued through us.”

Althea noticed that the Samuel hadn’t actually answered the question. He hadn’t said what the Council’s experiment was for. He was hiding something.

“They couldn’t have been that great,” Samuel-314 said. “I mean, they’re dead.”

The Carsons cracked up at that. Carson-310 slapped Sam- uel-310 on the shoulder, and then all the Carsons copied the same action nine more times, right down the row of Samuels. Samuel-299 watched them mimic each other, one by one, a strange look on his face.

“They’re extinct,” Samuel-299 finally said. “Humans repro- duced genetic lines that shouldn’t have been allowed to con- tinue. Their mistakes are what caused the Slow Plague.”

It was hard to imagine what it was like when humans covered the planet. Althea pictured a world overrun by an unrestrained population, reproducing like animals, their genes mingling un- predictably and disastrously. The communities now were en- tirely regulated and controlled. Her people maintained the same three communities with populations that never rose above nine hundred. There were ten generations of each of the nine models, and a new generation born every decade. But before Vispera, every face was unique, and there were millions of them. To Althea, it sounded horrible, like thousands of insects crawling in a thousand directions.

A Carson nodded his chin at the boy. “So is he going to get sick and die like they did?”

The strange boy looked up at Samuel-299 as if waiting for him to say something that would make the others stop looking at him with suspicious glints in their eyes, like they didn’t know whether they should laugh at him or actually be angry that he was contaminating their classroom. The Samuel rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, “He’s healthy so far. His lack of abnormality is one of the reasons we chose his genetic material from the Sample Room.”

The boy’s shoulders turned in, deflating under the Samuel’s hand. Althea thought perhaps he wasn’t happy with the way the Samuel was talking about him.

“All of you,” Samuel-299 said, “come from the Originals who lived here back when the humans called it Costa Rica. Our ge- netic lines are refined and perfected. Where humans relied on natural selection, we have technology and science. That’s what makes us fundamentally singular from humans. We have no mu- tations, no genetic outliers, no mistakes or abnormalities. We all work together, communing and cooperating. Jack, on the other hand . . . genetically, his cells were never altered. He’s an exact copy of a human boy who lived in the twenty-first century. And that makes him different. But while he may be different in some ways, in many other ways he’s just like you.”

“Does it talk?” Carson-312 said.

“Yes.” Samuel-299 pierced Carson-312 with a stare. “He talks.” Samuel-299 turned to the boy, hovering over him, his body rigid and impatient. “Go ahead, say hello. Introduce your- self.”

They waited while the boy shuffled his feet.

“My name . . . my name is . . .” He spoke uncertainly, but then stopped as if making a decision. He straightened his shoul- ders to stand with more assurance. “I’m Jack.”

One of Althea’s sisters giggled. “Jack?” she said. “That’s not a name. There’s not even a number after it. What generation is he supposed to be?”

“Maybe he’s Jack Zero,” a Samuel said, and everyone laughed. “Hey, Jack!” one of the boys called. Almost immediately a chorus of calls followed, with the name being shouted by ev- eryone in the classroom. They shouted as if testing the name out, though the more it was said, the more they took delight in jeering at the boy. His name did sound strange, Althea had to admit. Foreign and unfamiliar. Her fingers slid unconsciously to her wrist. She didn’t join in the shouting.

“Please, everyone,” Samuel-299 said. “That’s enough.” Jack’s chest rose and fell, and then rose again.

“Sam,” the boy said, which was odd, because he was talking to Samuel-299. Nobody called any of the Samuels Sam. It seemed disrespectful, though Althea couldn’t say why exactly.

Samuel-299 looked at him sharply. “Jack? Are you all right?” Jack wiped his nose with the back of his hand. His breath wheezed. Carson-318 snorted laughter, repeating the name Jack, mimicking the concerned way Samuel-299 had said it, though

the man was too focused to hear. “Is it an attack?”

The boy nodded. Althea couldn’t figure out what the problem was. He seemed to be having trouble breathing. Sensing some- thing wrong, the class went silent until the only sound in the room was the whistle of air being sucked into the boy’s lungs. As she watched him struggle to breathe, the seconds moved so slowly that Althea imagined for a moment she could see them shimmering the air like heat.

Jack fumbled in his pocket, producing a plastic tube gripped in his palm. Samuel-299 touched his back.

“It’s okay,” he said to Jack. “Calm down.”

Jack put the tube in his mouth, pressed down, and sucked in. It looked like something he’d done many times before. A tension seemed to release from Samuel-299 as Jack’s breathing eased.

“What was that?” a younger Samuel asked.

 Samuel-299’s eyes closed briefly before he looked up, reluc- tant to talk about what had just happened. “He uses that device, an inhaler, for a condition called asthma. It makes it hard for him to breathe sometimes, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Carson-317 said, distaste showing on his face. “He’s sick. What if we catch it?”

“You can’t catch it.”

“You said he wasn’t abnormal. That looked pretty abnormal to me,” Carson-314 said.

“He’s not abnormal. He’s human, and in humans a certain amount of abnormality is, well . . . normal.”

The Carsons looked disgusted at the Samuel’s response. Samuel-299 braced his hands on the desk and seemed to come to a decision. “You know, let’s continue this after lunch, shall we?”

“It’s too early for lunch,” someone said.

“Nevertheless, we’ll have a break,” Samuel-299 said dryly.

“Everyone should go outside. Maybe you can all get to know Jack a little better.”

As Althea stood with the others, her pencil bag fell from her desk, spilling its contents. Her sisters were already at the door, so she quickly bent to gather her things. She found herself at eye level with the top of her desk, and there was Jack right in front of her, holding out one of her pencils. She froze, and then real- ized it was rude to stare at him. Still he waited, his hand steady and patient. She reached to take the pencil, and her sleeve rode up to reveal the scar.

One of the Carsons strode past. “Need a hand?” he snickered, as if proud of a joke she’d heard a million times before.

Althea grabbed the pencil and tugged her sleeve down. Her eyes met Jack’s, and his head tilted questioningly. Up close, his eyes startled her yet again with their pale gray.

Altheas were an observant model, so even though Jack seemed unable to commune, Althea could see in his face that he was cu- rious, and also lonely. The other eight models relied exclusively on communing to understand the emotions of others. They would never notice the way his eyes dipped down to her hand holding the pencil, or the way he sucked his lip against his teeth.

He gave her a tentative smile. Two of his bottom teeth over- lapped just a tiny bit, a distracting imperfection none of her own people had. A carved bead hung at the base of his neck on a leather string. As with everything else about the boy, this was strange too. None of the four boys in the community wore neck- laces.

“Thank you,” she murmured, clutching the pencil and allow- ing herself to smile back.

A remaining Carson bumped into her, and then a sister returned to grab her arm and hurry her along with the rest of them. When she glanced back, she saw Jack still watching her.

Outside, the students milled about the schoolyard, unsure of what to do. The brick school was on the edge of town, bor- dered on one side by the stone wall that surrounded Vispera, safeguarding it from the jungle outside, the wild animals and poisonous plants. Jack leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. Everyone else had clustered as far from him as possible, their feet kicking up dust from the rust-colored gravel of the yard.

The usual games and sports didn’t feel right. Activities were supposed to happen after lunch, and Jack was making everyone nervous. Althea saw her own worry mirrored in the faces of her sisters. They huddled together, their hands lightly touching hair and arms and backs. The Carsons and Samuels were in their own clusters, and then the Carsons all laughed simultaneously. They passed the Altheas and sauntered toward Jack, who pushed himself away from the wall as they came near.

Carson-312 smirked. “That’s Samuel-299 who brought you, isn’t it? He’s on the Council.” He looked Jack up and down. “What’d the Council do, make a hairless monkey? Isn’t that all a human is, a bald monkey?”

“You’re humans, too,” Jack said. “You’re clones of the Origi- nals, and they were human.”

The Samuels crowded Althea and her sisters as they gathered to watch while keeping a safe distance from Jack.

Carson-312 smirked, then casually picked up a handful of gravel from the ground, jostling it in his palm as he moved closer to Jack. “He’s not very smart, is he? He just called us clones.”

Jack licked his lips uncertainly. “Isn’t that what you are?” 

A young Samuel came forward. “Don’t you know anything? We don’t say clone. We’re Homo factus.” He straightened as if proud of the title. “We’re the self-made man.”

“You,” Carson-317 said, looking Jack up and down, “you’re just some defective experiment of the Council. You’re an acci- dent.”

The boy couldn’t be an accident. The Council didn’t make mistakes.

“I’m not an accident,” Jack said, clearly wishing he could of- fer more of a rationale for his existence.

“Yeah?” said another Carson. “So you want to tell us what we need a monkey-boy for, then?”

Althea could tell that Jack was trying. He wanted the other boys, and the Altheas too, to accept him. The Carsons especially were being mean, but Jack looked hopeful, as if somehow things would still be okay. Althea kept quiet. The Altheas weren’t in- volved in this, and there was something wrong with the boy, something much worse than a replaced hand. Whatever asthma really was, it was obviously a disease her people had spent gen- erations eradicating. Her people didn’t suffer from disease. That Jack had a thing like asthma was terrifying. Despite what the Samuel said, human illness was contagious. It was what had killed them all. It was better to keep her distance, as the rest of her sisters were doing.

Jack’s eyes flickered between the  Carsons. He looked to the Samuels for help, searching for a friendly face. While they wouldn’t join in with the Carsons, not with an elder Samuel right inside, they also wouldn’t try to stop them. A few of Al- thea’s sisters chewed their nails.

Carson-312 flicked a pebble at Jack’s  shoulder.  “Well, monkey-boy?” he said. “If you’re not an accident, what the hell are you?”

“I . . . I don’t . . .” Jack struggled, not knowing what answer to give.

“You’re not one of us,” Carson-311 said. 

Carson-312 flicked another pebble, hitting Jack’s arm. “You don’t belong here.”

A third pebble immediately followed, this one striking his shoulder again. Jack backed away, his tongue pressing his teeth. The boys sniggered, and now the Samuels joined in. More of the Carsons took up handfuls of gravel.

Jack closed his eyes and pulled an unsteady breath into his chest. “Stop it,” he said, his voice thin and strained. His fingers reached into his pocket, seeking the inhaler he’d used inside. It was the asthma again. The Samuel had called it an attack, as if the boy’s own body were assaulting him just as much as the Car- sons seemed ready to do. Althea shuddered. Jack finally got the inhaler out but then dropped it in the dirt. He fell to his knees, his hands scrambling for it frantically, panic etched on his face.

All ten Carsons grinned at once.

Althea’s sisters stood like her, watching. They were feeling what she was — fear, and also disgust. Carsons were confronta- tional. They were engineers, but also leaders. They liked being in charge, even in Vispera, where the only hierarchy was age and decisions were made by consensus. Still, the community celebrated the Carsons’ sense of leadership as much as it did the Nylas’ work in the labs or the Ingas’ paintings. The com- munity taught the young people that they should think of the differences in the models as the various organs of the body, each with its own role, but working together for the good of the whole.

This, however, was the bad side of the Carsons.

As much as Althea didn’t like what the Carsons and Samuels were doing, it was painfully clear to everyone that Jack wasn’t Homo factus. He did mostly look like all of them, but that only made the blankness they felt from him more terrible. Everyone’s emotions were so strong. In one moment of communing, Al- thea could most palpably feel her sisters’ sick fear. Under that, she sensed the uneasy, excited tension of the Samuels, and then the current of gleeful anger emanating from the Carsons. Like everyone else, she felt nothing from the boy. As if he were an animal. As if he were dead.

Jack’s shoulders hunched forward. Another Carson threw a pebble at his forehead. The pebbles weren’t large enough to cause more than a brief sting, but Jack’s eyes darted from face to face as if he feared what might come next.

Althea peered toward the window of their classroom. Where was the Samuel? And then she saw him. He was watching the students through a window. He was frowning and taking notes. Why didn’t he do something?

It occurred to her then that this was the test the Council had planned. It wasn’t on history or science, or anything they’d stud- ied for. The test was how they acted today, with this boy the Council had thrust upon them. And perhaps they were watching Jack as well, to see how he would fit in. But surely Samuel-299 wouldn’t let things go too far. Althea didn’t like the sneers grow- ing on the Carsons’ faces.

“Look at you,” Carson-312 said, taking a step forward. “You think you’re not an accident? You’re so defective you can’t even breathe  right.”

Jack flinched as another pebble hit him. He clutched the re- trieved inhaler close to his chest, and the students closed in.

Althea didn’t know what to do. Her sisters didn’t know what to do. They met each other’s eyes, silently communing with the same feeling. This had to stop.

Althea-313 said, far too softly, “Quit it, you guys.”

It was as if she’d said nothing. The boys paid no attention. The Carsons continued throwing the pebbles while Car-

son-318 tore a narrow switch from a nearby patch of brush and handed it to Carson-312, who whipped it back and forth, testing its heft. It hissed as it cut the air. Standing over Jack, Carson-312 snapped it against Jack’s arm, leaving a thin welt. The brothers continued to jeer and gather more pebbles. Carson-312 swung again, striking Jack’s back.

Althea couldn’t see Jack’s face, but his limbs tightened with each snap of the switch, and she saw his shivering, barely con- tained control. There was a rigidity in his muscles, like his entire body was a spring straining for release.

He was using all his will to hold himself back. He was still hoping they’d stop.

It was too much to watch. Althea broke away from her sisters and grabbed Carson-312’s arm as it rose up again. His elbow hit her eye, and she fell to the ground. Her sisters ran to her, closing her in their protective circle, touching her face.

Althea cupped her aching eye. Her sisters held their own eyes, feeling the burgeoning pain themselves. Carson-312 hadn’t even paused, had probably hardly noticed her near him. The whip slashed across Jack’s back until specks of red dotted the fabric of his shirt like a string of beads. Carson-312 licked his lips and aimed for those lines of red, a glint in his eye. He’s enjoy- ing it, Althea thought. Seeing Jack recoil at the targeted strikes, Carson-312 quickened his swings. Breathless with exertion, he muttered, “Go back to whatever lab they’ve been keeping you in, human. You don’t belong here.”

As the switch came down once again, Jack’s hand shot out and caught it. It sliced into the flesh of his palm as he yanked it from Carson-312. He launched himself off the wall, a yell wrenched from his throat, and flew at Carson-312 faster than Althea thought possible. Jack tackled him to the ground and straddled his chest, striking him over and over. The other Car- sons didn’t dare touch him, even to protect their own brother. They’d never seen such fury.

Jack slammed his fist into Carson-312’s face, and blood poured from his nose. Jack’s wild hits landed again and again. The Carson brothers began to collapse on the ground, moan- ing and clutching their heads, the sound and pain of the blows echoing in their own skulls. One of Althea’s sisters clutched her stomach, and at the same time, Althea felt sick too, all the Alth- eas did.

The class looked on in horror as Jack pummeled Carson-312 until his face was swollen and bloody. Only a few moments had passed, but to Althea it felt like an eternity before Samuel-299 finally ran outside. He hauled Jack off Carson-312. Jack fought, heedless and wild, as Samuel-299 dragged him across the yard and through the school doors.

The class stood silent and motionless, like a held breath, the only sound in the yard Carson-312’s wet, snuffling moans. Al- thea felt everyone’s anger and alarm slowly recede like a tide.

The Carsons gathered around Carson-312, ghosts of his pain stirring in their own bodies.

A couple of them pressed their white shirts to Carson-312’s face, and the cotton bloomed red. Eventually, the Samuels came and took Carson-312 away to the clinic. By the time the stu- dents filed back into the school, Jack was nowhere to be seen, and a Hassan was at the front of the room.

Once more the faces in the painting of the Original Nine stared down at Althea and the rest of the class, their expressions as placid and confident as ever, as if nothing at all had happened. 

Chapter Two

JACK

 Two Years Later

Jack sat in the grass on the steep side of the hill, knocking a ball against the side of the white-boarded cottage. He heard Sam’s heavy breathing from climbing the steep rise, and he didn’t need to turn around to know he’d find the man standing over him, wearing his white lab coat and disapproving frown. “You shouldn’t be here,” Sam finally said.

“I should be dead,” Jack said. Although if he thought about it, that wasn’t really true. It wasn’t that he should be dead, but that he should never have been born. He should be extinct, like all the other humans.

High on the slope, Jack could see the entire wall encircling the town, six feet high and broad enough to walk on; a dou- ble-winged gate of wrought iron faced Blue River. Within, the school sat on one end, where the Gen-320 children played in the gravel-covered yard, the same one where, two years  ago, he’d attacked the Carson; next to that was the cluster of labs where the clones conducted their experiments and grew the new Gens in their tanks. On the other end stood the stout line of nine dorms, one building for every model, a separate room inside for every Gen, each with its own row of ten beds. In the middle of the dorms was the dining hall, a circular, two-story building of limestone quarried from the distant cliffs. All the clones gath- ered there for meals at wooden banquet tables, at least when they weren’t outside celebrating one of their seemingly incessant rituals. In the center of everything stood Remembrance Hall and the Commons, an expanse of lawn around a large kapok tree where the clones held their ceremonies and parties. Sometimes Jack watched at night from a distance while they danced and lights twinkled in the lanky branches of the huge tree.

Beyond the wall at the foot of the cottage’s hill, the lawn dipped down to the banks of Blue River, which flowed north until it disappeared, swallowed by dense jungle. On the far side, fields of corn, barley, and wild rice, dotted by the lingering shadow of summer clouds, stretched all the way to the Novo- mundo Mountains. Novomundo, the New World Mountains. They’d been named by scientists, years before Jack was born, and the world they’d made was no longer new.

Jack had spent his whole life isolated from the clones his own age, and when he’d finally been allowed to join them, it’d been a disaster. The Council never let him go back to school. Now he spent his days living in the tiny bedroom they’d built for him in the labs, occasionally performing some task in the clinic for Sam, like rolling bandages or folding linens. They would never let him forget what had happened, or that it had all been his fault.

Jack hadn’t spoken for several moments, so Sam sighed and sat next to him in the grass. He watched Jack throw the ball. Again and again, he caught and threw, and Sam waited.

If that’s how Sam wanted this to go, that was fine. Jack plucked the ball out of the air once more.

For some reason, Sam couldn’t catch a ball if his life depended on it. Jack had tried to figure out why Sam had such a hard time. He simply couldn’t get the rhythms down, and he missed every throw. Inga-296 had given Jack the ball when he was little. Jack couldn’t remember exactly when, but he must have been about five years old.

“It’s called a baseball,” she’d said. “Young people from your time, they played with it.” She held it out, smiling. “Who knows, maybe your original did.”

Jack had looked up a description of baseball in one of the books that filled the little cottage he and Sam and Inga-296 had shared back then, before Sam brought Jack to live in the labs in town. Before she died. The book said you needed nine people to make a team, so now he just tossed the ball at the side of the house. If the clones ever wanted to play, even with their lousy coordination, they already had their nine models. They wouldn’t include him.

Sam stopped watching the ball. He frowned at Jack while Jack ignored him, each trying to outlast the other. Sam finally heaved a breath and gave in.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said. “It’s not safe outside the wall. You need to come home.”

“This is my home.” Jack felt familiar resentment welling in his veins.

“This hasn’t been your home for years. Your home is in Vispera.”

Jack tossed the ball. “You should have told me.” “My brother told you.”

“You should have told me. You act like you’re all the same person, but you’re not. You’re different from them.”

Sam bristled. “I’m not different from them. They’re Samuels, and I’m a Samuel.”

“They’re Samuels. You’re Sam. Don’t send them to me thinking I can’t tell the difference. They don’t care about me. They wouldn’t care if I died.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

Jack knew Sam didn’t really believe they’d care, but he let the man lie to him.

“I’m sorry, Jack. The Council won’t budge.” “You’re on the Council. Did you even try?” “Of course I did.”

“It’s that fat Carson, isn’t it? He thinks I’m a freak, and the others listen to him.”

“It’s all of them. They think it’d be disruptive.”

It wasn’t fair. He was turning seventeen, just like the Gen- 310s, and he should be in the Declaration with them. He’d had as much of an education sitting in the labs as they had at school. More, he’d guess. It was just like last year, when they wouldn’t let him participate in the Gen’s first Pairing Ceremony. He’d wanted to, desperately, but the Council had said no, citing that disastrous day at the school.

That night, when everyone had Paired for the first time except him, he’d watched their celebration hidden in the branches of a tall tree. They’d danced and eaten colorful foods he’d never seen before. The girls wore gauzy dresses, and the boys wore the cer- emonial robes tied with leather belts, and in the evening they’d all chosen their partner for the first Pairing and then spent the rest of the evening laughing together and talking. Jack wasn’t even allowed to sit at the table with the Gens in the Commons for their meal. Sam would bring him potatoes and carrots from the dining halls, or rice and lentils, and sometimes Sam would stay and eat with him, but mostly he was alone. For Jack, those nights were the worst. And it would all happen again tonight after the Declaration. They would eat and dance and laugh, they would Declare and let the community know what apprentice- ship they’d chosen, and then they’d Pair in the evening.

The laughter of the children in the schoolyard carried up the hill on a breeze. Usually they romped on climbing ropes, swings, and slides that the Ingas had made for them, but today they played a game. The children stood in a row with their fisted hands extended, while a single girl walked down the line and cupped their hands in her own one by one. Jack had seen this game before. Sam had told him it was called Button. One child would hold a button in his hand, and the rest would pretend they also had a button. The finder had to guess who actually had it. When Jack had first seen it, he’d thought the point of the game was to keep the secret of having the button, but he’d been wrong. He slowly figured out that the child wanted to be found out. If they played the game well, everyone would know where the button was. It was a way for them to practice communing, not just with their siblings, which seemed to come easily to them, but with the other children in their Gen.

The laughter stopped as abruptly as it’d started, and even from a distance Jack could tell that smiles had spread across their faces as if they’d all heard the same joke at the same time, though nothing had been said. There were no words in this game. Another eruption of laughter ran through the group in eerie unison.

Sam had once tried to describe communing to Jack. He’d had difficulty finding the right words, like describing colors to some- one who’d never seen them. He said communing was like a mur- muring, a sort of whisper of emotions passing from one clone to another when they touched or were close. They didn’t know each other’s thoughts, but they sensed each other’s feelings.

Jack couldn’t commune, of course. He could never play their strange, silent games, and maybe they’d never let him participate in their rituals and ceremonies. But why shouldn’t he be in the Declaration? It only happened once, and then they could send him back to his room in the labs and forget again that he ever existed. What harm would it do to let him be part of the com- munity in this small way? He hadn’t asked to exist. He’d heard the Council talk. They called him an experiment, like one of their genetically modified cows. They called him a de-extinction project, and maybe they called him an accident, but they had created him.

Earlier that morning, the jagged cliffs in the distance had been covered in gray mist, now burned away. They’d looked like pre- historic beasts hiding under the earth. Jack wondered, as he al- ways did, what lay beyond those hills.

“I could leave,” Jack said. “Grab supplies, go to the jungle. Nobody would care anyway.”

“You can’t leave.” “Why not?”

“Because,” Sam said, puffing out his cheeks, “you would die in the jungle. You can’t survive out there alone. I’ve kept you safe here because Inga-296 asked me to. I’m not going to stop now. She said we needed you.”

“That’s a joke, Sam. No one here needs me.”

 Sam’s eyes lingered on the baseball that had fallen idle in Jack’s hands. “I know you come here because of the Inga. I know you miss her.”

Jack touched the bead around his neck. He was surprised Sam had mentioned her. Inga-296 had called herself Jack’s mother, even though mothers didn’t exist in Vispera. Jack hadn’t cried about her in years, not since he was little, because early on he’d sensed too keenly Sam’s discomfort with Jack’s emotions at losing her. It was one of the many things that kept Jack apart from everyone else. The clones didn’t miss anyone. They saw themselves as the countless iterations that they were. A part of a whole. Replaceable. But Inga, his mother, had been different from anyone else in Vispera. She’d been different from the other Ingas. She had loved him.

“Of course I miss her. She was my mother.”

“Yes, your mother.” Jack noticed how the word mother rolled in Sam’s mouth, foreign and strange. Not unpleasant, just some- thing to work his tongue around, like a sour candy. “I didn’t agree with her using that term, but she’d taken charge of the ex- periment, so I didn’t argue. Now I think perhaps I should have.” Sam spoke more to himself than to Jack. “And maybe it was a mistake for her to give you all those books.”

Sam was talking about the human books. The ones Sam never read. Jack had learned about humans by reading those books, and one of the things he’d learned was how, even though the humans couldn’t commune, they still cared about each other.

Maybe it would never be enough to tell Sam how he felt and Sam was capable of caring about someone only if emotions em- anated from them like a cloud of reeking smoke.

Deep down, even Jack sometimes wished his mother hadn’t given him the books. According to Sam, she’d been the one who wanted to raise him in the cottage on the edge of the jungle, outside the walls of Vispera. She’d wanted to raise him the way his original might have been, the way a human boy would have been raised in human times — with a home, parents, with human books and games and his own bedroom instead of a line of beds in a dorm. She’d raised him to give him some sense of who he was as a human, when really all he wanted was to be like every- one else and have friends his own age. Sometimes he resented all the ways his mother had made him different. And then, in the process, she’d made herself different too, and that had ended in the worst possible way.

“I’m sorry you won’t be part of the ceremony, Jack. But listen, I do have good news. The Council has agreed to let you have an apprenticeship. We’ll meet with you after the ceremony, and they’ll let you Declare.”

“Declare an apprenticeship?” Jack hadn’t considered this possibility that they might let him have a job in town, serve some useful purpose. He stood. “I’ll show them my music,” he said, thinking of the instrument Sam had given him years ago that was tucked away in the lab.

It’s a guitar, Sam had said back then. At least, that’s what the catalogue in the Tunnels called it. As a child, Jack had built a crude wooden box with strings pulled across the top, trying to mimic the sound of the human recordings his mother had given him. Once Sam had figured out what he was trying to do, he’d brought Jack the guitar from the Tunnels. From the beginning, Jack had been entranced.

“I can tell them how it works,” Jack said. “I’ll explain the history and play for them.”

“That’s a bad idea,” Sam said, eyeing him worriedly. “They won’t understand. I don’t even understand it, and I’ve been lis- tening to you play for years.”

Jack had learned a long time ago that the guitar mystified the clones. He played it sometimes in his room during the day as the lab workers outside the door peered into their micro- scopes. They’d cast him sideways glances, grumbling under their breaths, but the resonant sounds and the strings under his fin- gers soothed him. Sometimes playing his guitar was the only thing that made him feel sane, the only thing that made him feel like he could keep trying for another day.

In the beginning, watching Sam’s reaction to the sound, it had taken a while before Jack understood. The clones actually couldn’t hear the music. No, that wasn’t right. They could hear it, but they couldn’t hear it. They called it noise and compared it to the drone of insects outside in the forest. Once or twice, as if they felt like they should research the question, the clones in the lab had asked him why he sat on his bed for hours, making that racket on a hollow piece of wood. How could he explain that, from the first time he’d held an instrument and strummed his fingers over it, he’d felt the pulse of the strings like it was his own beating heart?

When Jack realized the clones couldn’t hear music, he’d grasped for the first time how different he was from them. He’d always known they communed with each other and he couldn’t, but somehow, their inability to hear music made him feel even more of an outsider. He’d put the guitar away then. But now, with an apprenticeship, it could be different.

“Don’t you see?” Jack said. “I’ll teach them, really help them understand. I’ll show the Council what I can contribute to the community.”

“No, I’ve already thought about this. You’ll Declare an ap- prenticeship in the clinic, work with me. You’ll learn medicine, something useful.”

“The clinic?” Jack said.

“Of course.” Sam stood, done with the conversation. “Just be ready. You’ll talk to the Council tomorrow, after the ceremony’s done.”

Jack chewed the inside of his lip, thinking.

“Don’t look so worried. This is a good thing. And I’ll be there to help. It’ll all be fine.”

Sam walked down the hill, back toward town. Jack’s gaze followed the man’s path until he reached the school, where something had happened in the children’s game. They’d clus- tered together, their hands resting on each other’s shoulders, and seemed to collectively sigh into each other as if they were one body. Then, just like that, they broke apart and ran across the field, as sudden and synchronized as a flight of birds.

The next day, Jack sat in the chairs facing the outdoor stage in the Commons, waiting for the ceremony to end so he could make his presentation to the Council.

The Gen-310s had each Declared already. The Meis would apprentice in the kitchens, working on the menus for the din- ing hall and telling the Hassans, who had Declared as live- stock managers and field planners, what food they would need and what to cook. The Viktors, as always, were order keepers. They’d never Declared anything else. The Carsons would work with the Kates and Nylas in the labs, monitoring the tanks, re- searching genetics, and preparing for the next Gen to be born in three years. The Samuels, as always, Declared as doctors. The Ingas would be designers, keeping the open spaces in town man- icured and beautiful, and the dorms comfortable and clean. The Altheas Declared as record keepers.

They carried on with the ceremony as if everyone didn’t al- ready know what the models would Declare, as if the commu- nity hadn’t gone through the exact same motions of the Decla- ration every ten years. Samuels never worked in the kitchens, as far as Jack knew. But it didn’t matter. Every ten years, they played out the ritual.

With the Declaration over, the Gen was performing the dance now. Jack would speak with the Council when it was done. His guitar lay next to him on the ground, and he tapped his foot nervously. He’d thought about making graphs and charts, but had decided in the end to just play for them, and talk to them about the history of music, about how it was a vestige of human history. For some reason, it had been forgotten, but they could get it back again. Jack would help. He had a skill, an ability, and it wasn’t new or strange. It was old, had been around for millennia. It was simply waiting to be picked up and dusted off.

Sam still thought he was going to Declare to work in the clinic. He wouldn’t be happy about this, but Jack didn’t want to work in the clinic. He had to show them that they didn’t need to be afraid or repulsed, or think he was strange for offering some- thing like music to them. It could make them better. He could make them better by giving them back something they’d lost.

Jack wiped damp hands across his pants. He felt the inhaler tucked in his pocket and took a deep breath in and out, search- ing for any telltale signs that his lungs were going to betray him. He watched the dance. The Gen-310s traded partners and moved silently across the stage, their performance punctuated only by the sound of their tapping, shuffling feet and the birds in the distant trees.

The clones had many dances. The Pairing dance, for one, and the dances for the Binding Ceremony, or the Yielding Ceremony. The one being performed now wasn’t particular for the Decla- ration, it was simply a dance of contentment, meant to express a kind of pleasure or happiness that things were as they should be, and as the Original Nine intended. The Carsons grasped the Altheas and moved in quick, sure steps, holding the girls’ hands with a certain confident authority.

Jack pushed down his dislike for the Carsons. He had to learn. He had to get along with them if the Council was finally going to allow him to have a real purpose in the community. He’d made a mistake when he was fifteen, fighting with the Car- son-312, and the Carsons had spent the past two years making sure he didn’t forget it. They taunted him, tripped him on his way through town, or acted as if he was invisible, knocking into him as they walked past.

They weren’t all like that, though.

Jack searched through the ten Altheas, looking for the 310. The Altheas were graceful as they danced. They moved with a fluid ease that left their dresses flowing behind their legs like birds’ wings. They were pretty, with their long dark hair and smooth limbs. He liked the way their mouths turned down in a flat, serious line when they were thinking hard about something.

He always remembered Althea-310 from that day at school. She’d been the only clone that whole day who’d looked at him and smiled. He’d search for her anytime he walked through town. He’d see her, sometimes with one of the Nylas, or he’d pick her out from her group of sisters by searching for the scar on her wrist. She never spoke to him. He’d tried a few times to talk to her, but she always scurried off or was pulled away by her sisters. There were times, though, he was sure of it, when he caught her staring at him, and there was something in her eyes. It wasn’t pity. It was something else, something better. Like maybe she understood him.

The Altheas’ long sleeves covered their arms and the scar that would be on her wrist, and as they swirled together in the dance, it was impossible to tell which one was her.

Jack kept watching, though, and as he did, his foot tapped to their movements. It was a struggle for them, learning these dances. It reminded Jack of Sam trying to figure out the rhythm of catching and throwing a baseball. None of it came naturally to them, and their only hope of learning the intricate moves was through rote practice, memorization, or careful counting in their heads. Dances for the clones were an exercise in mathematics as much as anything. Jack never let on how different it was for him, the way he could hear music in his head pulsing steadily in time to the steps.

He picked up his guitar, getting ready for the end of the dance and to speak to the Council. He was second-guessing whether he should actually play for them. They wouldn’t enjoy the music, after all. Maybe he would just show them the instrument and introduce the concept. He would Declare as a teacher, perhaps, rather than a musician, but he would teach them music.

His fingers brushed the strings absently as his eyes lingered on the dark hair of the Altheas all spinning with the other clones. The pad of his palm thumped lightly against the wood, and he strummed the strings again. Slowly, he picked up the movement of the dance, and without thinking about it at all, he plucked the strings in time until a soft melody only he could hear synced with the dance.

It was several moments before he realized a hush had spread across the crowd, and the dance he’d been lost in came to a confused, disjointed halt. A Mei bumped into a Carson, who had stopped suddenly. They all stared at him. Not just the Gen- 310s onstage, but the entire audience of all the other Gens in Vispera. The 290s, 280s, the old 240s at the food table, even the little 320s. And the line of Council members, seated in the front row, who’d twisted around to see what was going on. And they weren’t just staring. They were glaring, their eyes cold and resentful. The last reverberations of the guitar faded away as his fingers stilled, and the echo was loud enough for him to un- derstand that he’d been playing much louder than he intended. They’d heard him. He hadn’t meant to play at all. He’d assaulted their ears with a noise that to them sounded like no more than wasps droning in the roof of a barn, and he’d done it without thinking. He’d just ruined everything.

It was such a stupid mistake.

Jack saw Sam in the line of Council members. The man met Jack’s gaze, and the only thing Jack could see in his eyes was disappointment. Jack’s throat burned.

They could hear it if they tried.

The rebellious thought crept its way into his mind, and he forced it away. That kind of thinking wasn’t going to help.

His mother, at the end, had heard it. Her eyes had shone with the understanding. It was right before she’d run away, taking him with her, that she’d first heard it.

Carson-312 jumped down from the stage, a furious crease be- tween his eyebrows. Jack could tell it was the 312 by the patch in his eyebrow where the hair had never grown back after Jack’s fist had split his skin. Before Jack could stop him, he’d wrenched the guitar away.

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you even here?” Carson said, raising the instrument out of Jack’s reach.

It stung that Carson’s questions were the same ones Jack asked himself every day.

“Give it back,” Jack said.

Adrenaline pulsed through him, but he tamped it down. The Council, and Sam, were watching. Jack refused to give them a reason to punish him. After that day in school, they’d locked him in the labs for a long time. He wouldn’t let them lock him away again. He knew they’d spent days back then discussing whether they were going to let their experiment continue. Jack had been too scared to ask Sam what terminating their de-extinction proj- ect would mean for him. He clenched his fists against his side and stayed seated, waiting.

“Give it back,” Jack repeated.

Carson’s eyebrows rose with Jack’s words, and Jack realized he’d made yet another mistake. He shouldn’t have let Carson see how much the guitar meant to him. Carson grinned and moved closer. Jack stood and backed away until his legs hit the chairs behind him. Maybe if he played nice, Carson would quit squeez- ing the neck of his guitar, knocking the strings out of tune.

The Declaration was in disarray. Most of the remaining Gen-310s were still onstage, though the dance had ended. The audi- ence had begun to disperse, not really clear on what was hap- pening and confused by the interruption caused by Jack. A small cluster nearby still watched the two boys, including the Council members. Jack was on display. They wanted to see how this con- frontation would play out, and Jack would bear the brunt of anything that went wrong.

“Are they letting you Declare, monkey-boy?” Carson said, bumping the guitar against his hand. “What are you Declaring as, town freak?”

“I’m Declaring as a teacher,” Jack said, his gaze flicking from Carson to the guitar.

Carson pulled at one of the strings. It gave a sharp twang. “What’s that got to do with this thing? I mean, does it do some- thing?”

“Give it back, and I’ll show you.”

“Why, so you can attack me with it? We all know you’re vio- lent. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

Carson tilted his head, that cool grin widening. In the corner of his eye, Jack saw Sam stand from his seat, but the man didn’t move forward or speak.

Jack shook his head. He was clearly the stupid one, insulting a Carson in front of everybody. Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut?

“Listen,” he said, taking a breath, his voice low. “It’s nothing. It plays music, that’s all. Just . . . give it back, okay?”

“Okay,” Carson said. “Come get it.”

The onlookers murmured when Jack reached for the guitar and Carson brusquely pulled it away. He drew Jack close, and Jack felt the other boy’s breath as he snarled, “You want to hit me, don’t you?”

Jack pressed his lips together, stifling the desire to do just that. It was exactly what Carson wanted, for Jack to lose control in front of everyone.

“It’s okay,” Carson said, pushing Jack back and suddenly feigning friendliness. “I’ll give it back, for real this time. But lis- ten, tell me what it’s called first.”

“Why?” 

“Don’t be so suspicious. I really want to know.” “It’s a guitar,” Jack said curtly. “It’s called a guitar.”

Jack watched Carson while, as if in slow motion, he dropped the guitar on the ground at Jack’s feet.

“You shouldn’t have ruined our dance, monkey-boy. Say goodbye to your guitar.” And with that, Carson smashed his foot into the base of the instrument, splintering the wood into frag- ments. Jack yelled incoherently as Carson crushed the remnants with the heel of his shoe.

The Council was watching. Sam was watching. The Altheas’ brown eyes were on him, too. The Meis, the Hassans, all of them were watching now. None of that mattered as the anger exploded in Jack’s chest. He rushed at Carson. Immediately, two Viktors and a Hassan grabbed his arms. They must have been behind him the whole time, waiting for him to do exactly this. Before he had a chance to connect with Carson or even realize what was happening, he was on his back, the breath knocked out of him. They pinned his hands, then hauled him up again. His limbs shook with unreleased energy.

“Good job, teacher,” Carson said, his mouth twitching up. “I think we learned everything we need to know from you.”

One of the Viktors twisted Jack’s arm, steering him away from the snickering Carson and the stage.

“Sam!” Jack called into the crowd. “Sam, where are you?” Jack searched across the Commons. Countless dark heads

mingled in the crowd, at least twenty different Samuels, any of which could have been Sam. It was impossible to tell. Sam had abandoned him. Again.

The Viktors escorted him back to his room in the labs, locking the door behind them. The usual punishment for bad behavior.

Jack had grown a lot in the past two years. He was taller than the Viktors, taller in fact than all the models. He was stron- ger than them, too. There were times Jack would look at them and be struck by how delicate the clones were. Thin and nar- row-chested. It didn’t matter, however. They controlled every situation, every move he made.

When Sam came by that night and unlocked the door, Jack wanted to scream at him, tackle him to the ground and hit him the way he’d wanted to hit Carson, hit him until that desolate expression left his face. Instead he said, “You left,” and hated the sorry plea in his voice. “You just left.”

Sam sat in a chair, crossing his ankle over his knee. Jack’s room in the labs was nothing like his room in the cottage. It was a small, sectioned-off corner of the building, with linoleum floors and white-tiled walls. It was as sterile as the larger sec- tions, where banks of fluorescent lights swung over rows of marble-topped desks fitted with gas spigots and sinks. He had a narrow bed, a small chair and desk, and a doored-off bathroom. The lab workers could see him through the small window in the door that led out into the hall. They didn’t bother him much. He sometimes watched them working in the daytime, and then at night the bright lights were turned off, and everything was silent and dark.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said with a heavy sigh.

 “They locked me in. You told me after last time they wouldn’t do that again.”

“Not everything is in my control.”

“You’re afraid of them. You’re afraid of the Council.”

“I’m on the Council. I have to consider the needs of the com- munity. I can’t just worry about one boy.”

“What am I even doing here? I can’t figure out the point of your experiment. Why the hell was I born, Sam?”

“You have so much potential, Jack, but you certainly weren’t born so you could disrupt the entire community.”

Jack’s heart sank even as pinpricks of anger pierced him. “My mother, she used to call you my father.”

“The Inga wanted to give you something human. Fathers are something humans had. I never had one — none of us do. I’ve done the best I could.”

Sam used to read to him, before Inga died. Not from the nov- els that Jack liked, the ones Sam called human, but from the histories, his physiology books, and the books that had taught him to be a doctor. The clones didn’t get sick, but he’d read to Jack about setting a limb and treating a concussion or infected wound. When they’d all lived in the cottage, Jack remembered Sam sitting in the creased leather chair studying textbooks and psych manuals, discussing with Inga how humans lived their day-to-day lives. Occasionally Sam would see something in the books and then abruptly declare some new activity, like reading aloud together or throwing a ball outside. Jack still remembered Sam dressed in his lab coat and black shoes, chasing after the balls Jack threw.

“It must have been tough, pretending to care for the sake of your experiment.” Jack heard the venom in his own voice. “Act- ing human, like some kind of animal.”

“I care about you, Jack. More . . . more than I should. It has been difficult. My brothers don’t understand. It’s put distance between us, and you don’t know how hard that’s been.”

“So what now?” 

“The Council will meet about what happened. I don’t know what their decision will be for your apprenticeship. Why did you have to bring the guitar, Jack? What were you thinking?”

“You’re not even going to stick up for me, are you? You’ll abandon me like always. Like you did today.”

“I have to do what’s best for Vispera.”

“So go, Sam. Go away and leave me alone.” “Please, listen —”

Jack didn’t want to be mad anymore. Instead his voice was almost gentle when he said, “You can stop trying to be a father. You’re not very good at it, and I don’t need one anymore.”

Jack thought he saw something in Sam’s eyes, but he turned away too quickly to see what it was. He looked up only when the lab door closed and the sound of the latch, this time un- locked, rang through the room.

Later that night, Jack lay sleepless on his bed in the dark, his eyes sore and his head aching. Light from flickering lanterns out- side shone through the tiny window above the bed, mottling the floor of his room. Distant voices floated in with the pattering of rain over the wide jungle trees.

With the Declaration over, the Gen would be holding their monthly Pairing Ceremony now. He could picture the girls in the circle of the Commons, each choosing her partner. In his mind he saw a girl with dark curls walking down the path to the Pairing tents, teasing and playful, hand in hand with a boy who couldn’t possibly grasp how much it meant for her to take him in her arms, their bodies lost in a pile of quilts and tapestries.

Jack curled into himself, burying his head under a pillow in an effort to block out the soft laughter of the strolling couples outside.

***

A mysterious ending! But it doesn’t have to be the end...you can pre-order YOUR ONE AND ONLY today at any of the links below, and also remember to take our Clone Quiz here to see where you would fit in to the world of Vispera!

Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-a-MillionHudson IndieBound Powell’s

#excerpt #excerpts #books #book #booklr #amreading #am reading #YA lit #YAlit #bookstagram #book quote #dystopian #dystopia #hmhteen #hmh teen #your one & only #yourone&only

[visanimus]

Missing You VI

Chapter: Innocence

Bright emerald eyes starred back up into a matching pair. Curly hair, matching the exact shade of her eyes, bounced around in the soft wind. In her hand the pastel green bunny was clutched, looking almost exactly the same as when it was left in her room that night when she was younger. Her shirt tunic was a teal pigment with a black bow that ran across the middle, black tights and teal green flats that sparkled underneath the sunlight.

He wore black slacks, a matching vest, and gloves with a crisp, lighter green collared shirt. A red tie was wrapped around his neck. His shoes matched the redness of the tie. The man dressed much too formal to be a children’s playground. He towered over the small little girl who had barely turned 4 a few days ago.

Izuku watched the little girl gaped at him with wide eyes akin to a deer caught in headlights, before he squatted down to her level on his haunches. His head tilted to the side with a light smile forming on his lips in an effort to appear more harmless than what his outfit suggested. “It’s so nice to meet you little one. I’m so happy that you have taken care of the bunny I’ve given you.” He spoke with such a light tone that it almost instantly calmed the young girl down before her gaze filled with skepticism for a brief moment.

She looked around for her mommy, before meeting the man’s eyes with her own curious stare. Part of her regretted running out of her mother’s, and fellow parent’s sight to the more secluded area because she wanted to catch minnows in the stream. All she wanted was to play in the water and bring home a few fish. Her grip tighten on her bunny and brought it closer to her chest in a act of meek protection. “You gave me my bunny?” Her tone held the curiosity of a child not yet accustomed to the cruelty of reality.

This was his daughter.

He would not allow anyone to her expose her to such darkness. Only when she was older, then he would he the one to show her what she can do with her power. Maybe, one day she would work by his side with her mother standing there as support.

Wishful thinking wouldn’t lessen their hold on his mind it seems. They played around with such an idea; creating an alternate life for him and for you.

Izuku needed to focus.

Continuing with his act, he kept smiling and reverted back to his middle school self. ‘How was I back then? Naive, helpless, too helpful but most of all pitiful.’ his mind whispered lowly as transparent claws wrapped a veil of darkness over him. Izuku remembered the endless taunts and jeers aimed at him with the physical bulling of those who thought they were better because of mutation, and how no one ever aimed to help him. His eyes glazed over before he remembered where he was.

Izuku’s eyes went back to their doe like shape, their natural form - from before the hate coursed through him like his own blood -, and his face lost all those years of torment. His face looked so innocent and normal that it started to leave the little girl feeling more secure around him. She wasn’t clutching her bunny to the point her small fingers dug into the soft, fluffy material.

“Yes, I gave you your bunny when you were younger. Didn’t your mommy tell you where you got it?“ Izuku wanted to know how much you told his daughter about him; how much you shared with her, or others, and how much you’re willing to reveal. He needed to know what you are doing with your life now.

A flurry of green curls flayed about in the wind as she nodded her head no and frowned at Izuku. Her eyes had harden into a steel like glare and her lips were set into a thin line, her cheeks puffing just a bit before she spoke her disbelief, “Mommy said not to talk to strangers.” She quickly turned away from him before starring a quick pace away from Izuku.

A smile carved itself on his lips, his daughter was very much like her mother; stubborn and defensive to a degree when encountering something unknown.

He would have to resort to a small childlike game with his little one. She came to this clearing that sloped slowly down to this river for a reason. He knew that she wanted to catch a few fishy friends that her mother would inevitably say no to her keeping.

“I know your bunny, Nagi, said that you wanted to catch a few fishies.” Izuku noticed her stop walking to turn to him with wide eyes that mirrored his own when he was a naive child.

She was ready to turn away and run.

“Nagi came in the middle of the night. He waited for you to wake up before he could give you all the love you wanted, don’t you remember Kana-chan?” She faced him completely. She had stopped walking away from him.

Tilting her head, “How do you know that?” She wanted to know where she got Nagi. Her mommy said that she got it for her when she was younger, but mommy didn’t look at her when she said that. Mommy always looked her in the eyes when she have Kana a gift. Mommy always looked her in the eyes and smiled.

Izuku closed his eyes as he gave a airy laugh that made him smile, “Silly Kana-chan, Nagi told me remember.” She was slowly starting to trust him. Izuku couldn’t identify this rapid pulse of his heart as Kana made her way to Izuku - in arms reach.

“Are you my angel?”

A grin overtook his smile.

“Yes, I am. I am your angel Kana-chan. Call me……. Deku.” A dark felling swelled up within his being as he recalled the nickname. It was best for short notice. It didn’t matter what meaning that demeaning name held when his little girl said it

This would be so easy now.

“If you’re my angel, will you help me catch minnows?” She asked so innocently with a large smile on her face. A small pink color colored her cheeks as she was filled with happiness. Energy could’ve burst from her being, but she tried to keep herself from running into the shallow side of river.

Was his smile like that, back then? He didn’t recognize it. It has been so long since he could smile genuinely.

“Yes Kana-chan. I’ll always be there to help you, no matter what.” He answered so easily, words slipping from his tongue with the weight of his promise keeping them from being carried off by the wind, as he reached out to hold her small offered hand in his own.

Kana’s hand was so small, so soft, and so fragile in his big, strong, and scar littered hand. She was the complete opposite of him. She trusted him, and he couldn’t wait to see what life would shape her to become as when she grew older in this world of grey.

But today, Izuku would help his little girl catch a few fish that he would no doubt leave in her room, along with a fish tank, for her to discover - much to the chagrin of her mother. The look of shock that would be quickly masked with another emotion to not startle his daughter. The fear that would race up the staircase of your spine would be enough to satiate his sadism.

Kana started a small mindless chatter about Nagi, you, and what her daycare teacher was like. Her smile would get bigger as those moments passed of Izuku teaching her to catch these little fish. There would small laughs and childlike jokes shared before your voice called out for Kana to race back to you.

Kana would wave back at Izuku before she completely left the clearing, a small baggy of minnows in her hand as Nagi was fastened under the ribbon across her stomach. She gave him that innocent smile.

Izuku couldn’t wait to spend more time with his little Kana-chan.

#boku no hero academia #bnha imagines #midoriya izuku #bnha: missing you #villain deku

[smochiis]

dress me up, buttercup I one

✩pairing: hoseok x reader

✩ genre: idol+stylist!au, drama, humor, slight angst

✩ warning: sexual themes and smut in future chapters

✩ word count: 4k

✩ summary: There are nearly 1,000 reasons why mixing work and romance is a terrible idea. Unfortunately, Jung Hoseok makes it very hard for you to resist. 

✩ chapters: one | two | three | four

✩ a/n: my thirst for hobi was unreal and this is the result...

As a child, when someone asked you, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” you never once said a wardrobe stylist. Actually, you remember the first thing you wanted to be was an astronaut. Then you wanted to be a musician, a veterinarian, and a dolphin trainer -- in that order.

 But then you discovered your extreme motion sickness, that the clarinet was basically just a squeak machine, how weird a sheep’s brain looked, and that you were terrible at swimming.

 It seemed everyone else knew what they wanted to do or be pretty early on.

 You didn't find your calling until much later, realizing your love for fashion in high school while doing your damndest to make those boring uniforms look somewhat stylish. They were honestly so ugly it hurt -- bright purple and plaid never belonged together. A ribbon here, a sash there, some beads… Something about it had ignited a passion inside you, which is how you find yourself here and now.

 Backstage, with one of the world’s most notorious boy-band members as you double check his wire. Your plan definitely hadn't been to become one of BTS’s stylists, much less Hoseok’s personal wardrobe stylist. This position came to you by luck -- and with the help of an old friend.

 Fresh from college, you were broke and looking for a job. But with no prior experience it was almost impossible. How could you start working if every company required a minimum of three years of experience?

 With every rejection, your hopes sank further and further until you were convinced that you'd never get a job. Which is why when a senior of yours from school contacted you, asking if you were interested in taking over her position, you jumped at the opportunity without thinking twice. She was going away on maternity leave and, since she knew you were desperately searching for a job, she recommended you to her boss.

 And two weeks after that, you had your first official paycheck.

 You were so proud of it, grinning all day long, that Hoseok noticed. “Noona, you look happy today,” he said with a smile.

 Which confused you at first, you admit. Because you're actually younger than him. But being too caught up in the unequivocal joy and relief of having money to pay your rent, you didn't bother to correct him.

 “I got my paycheck today,” you told him instead.

 And what started as a temporary position eventually became permanent. When your friend’s six months of leave were almost up, she called to let you and management both know that she was extending her leave, permanently. She wanted to focus on her growing family, which suited you just fine.

 It would give you time to build up your experience and funds, allow you to eventually search for a job you can earn with your own skill.

 But in the meantime, you flourish and put your all into your work because you like your current job. More specifically, you like working backstage and pulling outfits and watching with pride as people of all ages swoon and fawn over your handy work. Your portfolio -- or look book -- gets larger every day. And then, of course, there's Hoseok.

 You like him too. But of course you do, because you're pretty sure it's physically impossible to hate him.

 There's just something about his dimpled-grin and sunshine personality that makes everyone around him feel comfortable. The first time you met him, in fact, he blinded you with a smile and happily introduced himself as “your hope, your angel”. You weren’t expecting such an enthusiastic welcome, too stunned to properly reply, so you just stuttered out a greeting and shook his hand.

 That energy made him fun to work with though. Well, most of the time, you think as he once again shuffles while you're trying to smooth a wrinkle in his collar.

 “Stop squirming,” you huff.

 He stills automatically, a grin in his voice. “Sorry, noona.” You brush your hands over the material of his maroon silk shirt and he suddenly asks, “Why do you do that?”

 You glance up at him before going back to inspecting his shirt for snags and tears. Last-minute prep, your kit in your hands. “Do what?”

 “Every time I call you noona, you make a face,” he says and you scrunch your nose in protest. “Just like that.” He points.

 Sighing, you move on and slip behind him to check his earpiece. “Maybe it's because I'm not your noona,” you admit.

 Hoseok makes a surprised noise, turning fully around to look at you. And moving his earpiece with him. “Wait, you're not?”

 You blow out a breath, walking back around to continue checking his earpiece. One of the only downsides of being Hoseok’s stylist is that it's impossible to get him to stand still for more than two seconds.

 “Why didn't you ever tell me?” he whines, and you have to hide your smile, remind yourself that you're working. “I've been calling you noona since you first came here and you never said a word.”

 “Because it doesn’t really matter what you call me so long as I do my job,” you say, finishing your inspection.

 Before he can respond, he's being ushered onto the stage with the rest of the boys. He looks over his shoulder at you, perplexed, but he quickly turns back around and adopts his stage-persona. The screams of his fans echo in your ears as you return to the dressing room to begin prepping his next outfit.

 For a little while, neither of you bring it up. To be honest, you mostly forget about it until he starts calling you by your name. He stops calling you noona altogether and you don’t know if anyone else notices the difference, but you do.

 And you’re confused because a little part of you misses it -- or maybe just the way he would say it.

 It isn’t until nearly a week later, when you’re double-pinning his belt, that he brings it back up. An almost absentminded remark.

 “So since you’re younger than me, shouldn’t you be calling me oppa?”

 Your fingers stop, hovering over his golden and embroidered belt-buckle, and you look up at him. “You’re right that I’m younger than you but that doesn’t mean I have to call you oppa,” you say. Standing up, you begin fiddling with the lapels of his Saint Laurent jacket even though you know they’re just fine.

 “Why, because you don’t think we’re close enough?” he asks and before you can respond, he continues. “I’ve always thought of you as a friend.”

 All you do is blink, startled by his declaration. And confused.

 To be honest, you didn’t think that the two of you were particularly close at all. He’s an idol and you’re his stylist. That is essentially the extent of your relationship.

 Of course you talk to him frequently, get up close and person all the time -- it’s a requirement and something you can’t avoid. And he speaks to you openly about pretty much everything, but that’s just his nature. You know it’s all just considered the perks of your job; you’re supposed to be a friendly and relaxing presence.

 Knowing that Hoseok thinks of you as a friend, however, makes your heart dance. Which comes to a very quick halt when you realize that you probably can’t return that friendship.

 A part of you longs to be genuine friends with him. But you just can’t.

 Instead of telling him all this, you mumble, “None of the other stylists call you guys oppa.”

 Hoseok just grins, corners of his lips curling. “That’s because none of the other stylists are younger than us. You’re the only one.”

 The rebuttal is already forming on your tongue but then he’s grinning and walking away, leaving you to stew with that knowledge. You watch him meander around the stage from the curtains, watch as he dances and raps and has a genuinely good time with his friends and fans.

 He’s right -- you are the only stylist that’s younger than them. Or well, most of them. The only one you’re older than is Jungkook and it isn’t by much.

 Your eyes track Hoseok as he dances around the stage. Hip-thrusting, body-rolling, tongue-flicking, putting your outfit on display in the best ways. You’ve always liked Hoseok. From your very first meeting, when he flapped those imaginary wings and declared himself your hope and angel, you knew you’d like him. And it’s mostly due to that infectiously-positive personality of his, how he always makes you smile.

 How good he looks when you dress him up.

 You can’t deny that you’d like to be closer to him. He draws people into him like a beacon -- or a whirlpool, you’re not exactly sure which. And as you watch him perform, you tell yourself that just being friends with him won't interfere with your professional responsibilities.

 Right?

 So when he comes backstage while the set is changing and you’re wiping down his sweat-shiny neck, you casually ask, “Oppa, do you need some water?”

 His eyes widen and he pauses for a moment. But then he's grinning at you. “Oppa would love some.”

 It’s small and silly, you admit, but it makes you want to laugh. And over the next few weeks you discover that you don’t mind being his friend as much as you feared. The only true fear you have is that the other staff members would notice the change but if they do, they don’t say anything.

 So you and Hoseok settle into this new routine, wholeheartedly embracing your friendship. Every time you call him oppa, he beams like you’ve given him a gift.

 “Say it cutely,” he demands one day while you’re pinning his sleeve.

 The t-shirt he’s wearing is 100 percent polyester, great for stretch and wrinkle resistance, not so much for breathability. He’ll likely fill a swimming pool with his sweat after the concert but your team leader is more concerned about durability due to the recent budget cut. You, personally, don’t really like the synthetic feel but Hoseok doesn’t seem to mind.

 Rolling your eyes, you step back to admire your work. “I already call you oppa against my better judgement. Don’t be greedy,” you tell him, though you’re smiling.

 “Please?” He pouts, all sad eyes and puffy cheeks. A look he knows you can’t resist -- even when it clashes with the graphic design on his shirt.

 “Oppa…” you exhale in response, mirroring his expression.

 It feels strange on your face -- you haven’t openly pouted since you were a child trying to convince your mother to feed you cookies for dinner. And for a moment you feel a little silly. But then you see his face pull back into a grin and hear his laughter, your stomach somersaulting.

 “So cute,” he says and pinches your cheeks. Then he’s gone, off to perform.

 It’s almost five minutes later, in his dressing room, when you notice the huge smile on your face and your slightly unsteady heartbeat. Oh no. You stop, fingers curling into the garment sleeve as you force yourself to compose. Your smile fades and you clear your throat, but your heart takes much longer to calm.

 And that’s when you know that it, whatever you have with Hoseok, has to stop.

  The super-friendly interactions between you and Hoseok come to a trickle; all of them. You make a conscious effort to avoid personal discussions, remind yourself that this is your job. You might be able to afford friendship, but anything more than that? You can’t. You cannot afford to get yourself personally invested in your client.

 You revert back to calling him by his name; Hoseok or Hobi, depending on the mood. The first time you do it, he raises his brows curiously but doesn’t comment otherwise.

 And though you try to put some professional distance between the two of you, Hoseok makes it very difficult.

 He takes full advantage of the fact that you’re always so close to him. Touching the top of your head, putting his hand on the small of your back, draping his arm over your shoulders. Calling you “angel”.

 The first time he does it, your heart almost stops. When you fling a shocked look his way, he’s not even looking at you anymore, talking to one of the other boys. You think maybe it’s a fluke, but when he keeps doing it you’re not sure what to think anymore.

 But none of the other staff members seem to notice or care, so maybe he calls lots of people angel.

 As if that isn’t enough, Hoseok starts making sweet comments like, “Oh? The perfume you’re wearing is nice,” or, “Are those new earrings? They’re pretty!”

 Combined with his smile, warm eyes, and the vanilla scent clinging to his skin...

 It’s driving you crazy. Part of you thinks that he’s doing it on purpose, as if he’s noticed that you’re trying to pull away from him. Putting him off sucks more than you thought it would -- because now, more than ever, you want to laugh at his jokes and call him oppa and see his heart-shaped smile -- but you have to do it.

 For the sake of your job. You suffered too much, cried too many times, to jeopardize it in any way.

 At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

 But, as you learn, the heart wants what it wants. And sometimes, your brain isn’t fast enough to stop it.

 You brush imaginary lint from Hoseok’s shoulders as he shuffles from foot to foot, admiring how good he looks. A soft gray tank top beneath the velvety maroon Dries Van Noten jacket paired with simple black, form-sitting slacks. His hair is newly-dyed, a bold, rusty color that most people can’t pull off but somehow he makes it work.

 He looks so perfect that you know you have to get a picture of him for your book. Though there is one thing that catches your eye and makes you worry.

 “Be careful,” you tell him. You push his jacket to the side and touch the strap of the gray tank top. “The seam here is a little weak so try not to pull on it too hard while you’re dancing, oppa.”

 It slips out by accident.

 Your eyes widen and you take a step back, barely refraining from cursing under your breath. You were doing so well… But Hoseok is just beaming, so genuinely happy that your heart stutters.

 “I will if you say that again,” he bargains.

 “Hobi…”

 He holds up a finger, makes a pleading face as if to say: just once! And you sigh. You’re such a sucker.

 “Oppa, be careful,” you huff.

 His laughter is all teeth and smiling eyes. “Anything for you, angel.”

 You have to hide your own laughter with your hand as he leaves the dressing room for the stage. You suppose it’s a little worrying that he can get you to do pretty much anything with that pouty look of his, but you shrug it off. It’s not like you’re the only one weak to Hoseok’s charms -- the entire staff and the other boys are too.

 You bite your lip when you think of the boys out on stage. It’s been a while since you watched one of their performances. You’ve been mostly hiding out in the dressing rooms lately to keep a little space between you and Hoseok.

 But you see the outfit in your head -- your favorite in the year and a half since you joined BTS’s staff -- and you want to see it on stage. You want to see it shine in the spotlight.

 And so you make your way backstage and watch from just beyond the curtains. You arrive just in time for Hoseok and Jimin’s dance, a powerful and graceful and wordless story that leaves goosebumps along the skin and awe in the heart. The audience is absolutely mesmerized by the flawless marriage of lighting and smoke and you can’t help but fill with pride.

 Hoseok looks amazing. He’s in his element and just like the audience, your heart is swayed.

 You’re so invested in the show that it takes you a moment to notice something isn’t quite right. Hoseok’s undershirt, the gray tank top, is sitting oddly on his frame. You squint, trying to see better, and you realize what’s about to happen seconds before it does -- the seams of the tank top’s shoulders burst.

 Your stomach sinks to your toes while Hoseok’s undershirt pools around his waist.

 His whole upper body is left exposed to the chilly night air beneath his jacket but he doesn’t even flinch. In fact, he continues the performance as if the debacle was planned. On the jumbo-screen, his face is smug and he continues to dance, drinking in the surprised screams of the audience.

 And though he handles it well, you’re cringing so hard that your teeth start to hurt. Your perfect, favorite outfit malfunctioning on stage…

 Shit.

 You can practically smell the disciplinary meeting coming but that isn’t what upsets you. What upsets you most is that you’ve left Hoseok in a vulnerable position. No doubt there will be countless articles and coverage on this, putting him in an uncomfortable spotlight.

 As his personal wardrobe stylist, you’re supposed to bolster his image. Not damage it.

 Thankfully, Hoseok and Jimin’s dance ends fairly quickly after that. When they push through the curtains backstage, Hoseok is immediately swarmed with staff members. They fling questions at him left and right, try to help him out of his ruined shirt though he declines, and shove water in his face but he just smiles and keeps walking.

 Anxious, you shoulder your way to him though you feel like you shouldn’t. You apologize as soon as he’s within hearing distance. “I’m so sorry, Hobi. Are you okay?”

 Your hands are automatically pulling off the Dries Van Noten and helping him shuck off the soft gray shirt underneath. You want to grab the stupid thing and wring it with your bare hands but now is not the time.

 “I’m fine,” Hoseok laughs. “The fans really liked it. Maybe I should wear shirts with loose seams more often.” Though he says that, you can see his shivering and the prickling skin along his bare chest.

 You don’t allow yourself to admire how toned he is, handing him a replacement shirt. One that’s sturdier.

 “For my sake, let’s hope not,” you mumble as he shrugs it on.

 You’d be fired in a blink due to the expenses of having to constantly buy him new shirts. Management would happily use you as the scapegoat.

 The concert barely comes to a close when you’re summoned by one of the managers. The tiny hairstylist, Jisu, looks nervous as she tells you and you know that you’re about to be scolded. Likely by the head manager, Yoonjae, because he’s typically the one who handles the “hard stuff” as Hoseok has told you.

 Your suspicions are confirmed when you quietly enter the small break room and you see him standing behind the table with his arms crossed, frown lines so deep they look chiseled into his face. As soon as the door shuts behind you, he demands to know what happened.

 “His shirt had loose seams along the shoulders because that was the intended style,” you tell him as calmly as you can manage. You’re nervous, finding it hard not to shift anxiously. “I warned him beforehand about it and told him to avoid pulling on them as much as possible.”

 Which is true.

 But this does not placate the head manager. He huffs angrily at you, face growing pink. “You know that he’s going to pull on the seams, they all are. Their choreography is complicated and powerful and as one of their stylists, you should be taking that into consideration.”

 You can’t deny that he’s right. It is part of your job. But it’s also not like you, alone, have the power to decide what Hoseok wears. The whole team works together under the guidance of your team leader in order to coordinate and pull the outfits. Ultimately, you can make suggestions but you cannot make decisions without the leader’s approval. So, really, he should be scolding you and Soojung.

 However, you refrain from pointing that out.

 Just as you’re about to bow your head and apologize for the umpteenth time, the door opens and Hoseok bursts into the break room. He’s changed into his street-wear, his hair and neck damp with sweat. His chest heaves like he’s been running.

 “Hyung, please don’t yell at her. It’s not her fault,” he rasps.

 You can only stand there and gawk, shocked that he’s come to your aid. Against one of his managers, no less.

 Yoonjae’s face softens as he sighs. “It’s part of her job, Hoseok. She needs to think of stuff like this beforehand so that we can avoid accidents like that on stage. It’s what we pay her to do,” he says with a noticeably fonder tone, yet Hoseok’s expression is still tight. “But because she can’t seem to do it properly, then I’m going to suggest her pay be cut for this month. That shirt was expensive and someone needs to pay for it.”

 You flinch. That would make your budget a little tight.

 “That’s totally unreasonable!” Hoseok blurts in a loud voice that takes you by surprise. You’re even more surprised by his scowl. “I’m the one who ripped the stupid shirt. If you want to be compensated, take it out of my paycheck. Not hers.”

 Before you can respond or even react, he’s grabbing your hand and tugging you out of the break room, the manager’s protests echoing behind you. You’re too stunned to protest. You’ve never seen Hoseok so openly frustrated, especially not with one of his managers.

 Why?

 The question pings around inside your head. Too busy trying to figure it out, you let him tug you along. He guides you around backstage and it’s thankfully devoid of people.

 “Don’t worry,” he says after a minute. “I’ll make sure they don’t dock your pay.”

 You blink. “No, Hobi, it’s okay. He’s right, actually,” you sigh, shuffling after him. “My job is to keep things like that from happening so I should pay the consequences. Besides, if you let them take part of your paycheck, people will start to think you’re favoring me,” you joke with a half-laugh.

 “That’s because I am.”

 “What?” You stop, digging your heels into the ground.

 Hoseok is forced to stop with you, still holding your hand, and he looks over his shoulder. “You didn’t know?” he asks, brows pinching. “I didn’t think I was being subtle about it.”

 Your head is practically spinning from what he’s trying to tell you, everything that it implies. Some part of you scoffs at the shock because, deep down, you knew that he didn’t treat you like most clients treat their stylists. Because there’s friendly, and then there’s imploring your wardrobe stylist to call you oppa and pinching her cheeks. Calling her “angel” to see her blush.

 You’ve suspected for a while, but not wanted to believe it. Because it’s easier that way.

 All of the sudden, your mouth is dry and you can hear your own heartbeat. “I don’t understand. Why?”

 You need to hear him say it.

 Hoseok finally lets go of your hand and turns around to look at you, a puzzled expression on his face. It’s like he’s surprised that you don’t understand. He licks his lips. And in the darkness of the backstage, where no one can see, he murmurs something you never thought you’d hear from him.

 “Isn't it obvious? I like you, Y/N.”

#bts scenario #bts smut #hoseok scenario #jung hoseok #j hope #aaaaaa i love hobi sm ;3; #this was just supposed to be a lil smth but it got to be over 30k and......well..... #B)) #this first part is more of a prologue setting up for everything else #so stay tuned for pt 2!

[daebakinc]

We Make the Kingdom - Pt.7

Image by silverdagger865

Pairing: Yongguk x OC Genre: Fantasy, with Angst and Smut to come Summary:  After a vampire attack leaves you almost dead, you are rescued by a group of werelions, powers long thought to be extinct. Upon discovering the same power flows in your blood, you join their fight against encroaching vampires and another, very human monster, to save the kingdom. Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 ,  8, 9(M), 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16(M), 17, 18 ,  Final  

With your mastering of shifting and subsequent additional training with Daehyun and Himchan, you forget all about returning to the village. Three more months pass, marked by three more visits from werebears. Each time, you scurry to hide the instant you hear or smell their approach and mask your scent with the horse blanket and Youngjae's herb mixture. Every visit brings a different man, though each has the same look of trained composure and meets the same cool reception from the lions.

Long after the third bear, Minhyuk, rides out, and after it becomes too hot to work in the sun, you all walk back to the keep.

It's then that you finally ask, “Why can we not trust the bears? If the king subjected them to the same brutalities as you and the wolves, should they not hate him as much?”

Daehyun scoffs. Dust covers his hair and clothes from helping you practice incapacitating foes as a lion. “They are directly under his thumb. They stay in safe in the palace as his bodyguards while we risk our hides. He bought their loyalty a long time ago with soft living. Anything we say or do will be whispered in his ear the same day.”

“I don't care what they say. Yifan would never have been caught unless they told the king.” Youngjae tosses a dagger into one of the unused shed's door with a grim expression. “They betrayed us.”

“The king can use their families against them more effectively,” Himchan points out, though it looks like speaking on their behalf pains him greatly. “We cannot say we would not do the same if our places were exchanged.”

“I almost wish a vampire would finish him for us,” Junhong mutters. “Then we could just take care of them without sneaking around and rule the kingdom ourselves. Yongguk would make a much better king.”

“Careful. You speak of treason,” Jongup jests, drawing a light chuckle among the men.

Treason it may be, but you must agree with Junhong. Many of your conversations with Yongguk come around to his dearest wish in life: to improve the lives of anyone and everyone within his vicinity. He was studying to be a lawyer to defend the common people before he was summoned by the king, he had told you. Passion saturates his voice when he speaks of different plans and laws he would implement if only he had the power. If Yongguk was king, you have no doubt the kingdom would only benefit.

“Speaking of Yongguk,” Youngjae says, turning to you as he recovers his dagger, “did you ever ask him about going back to your village?”

Startled, you question how you had ever forgotten. “No, I haven't.”

“I don't believe it's more than a two or three hour ride. It is still early; you could go and return before the sun sets today.”

“Do you still wish to go?” Himchan eyes you carefully. Of all of them, he worries the most about everyone. You can tell he still has concerns about what will happen if you go and come back with only disappointments.

“Yes.” It is better to try and be foiled than let the fear of what you may find control you.

The need to leave all of a sudden overwhelms you. Leaving the others behind, you run into the keep. Yongguk had spent the morning inside, pouring over a new manuscript Minhyuk had delivered. You burst through the doors into the great hall. The manuscript and Yongguk's book of notes sit alone on the table.

“Yongguk? Yongguk?” You run into the den. Spotting his head poking out of the blankets, you pounce on the bed and crawl over to him. About to call his name again, it never becomes realized.

Eyes still blind with sleep, his hair a mussed mess, Yongguk rolls to his side to blink up at you. While his mind attempts to awaken, you cannot help but stare.

The alpha is conspicuously naked from the waist up. Like the giant cat that is his second skin, Yongguk had been enjoying a nap in the sun. His tanned skin, stretched across the lean muscles of his slender torso, begs your fingers to feel its absorbed warmth.

Even more surprising are the black lines that intricately dance across his chest and arms. Tattoos, though not common, are not so rare what with their use with protection or luck spells. But you cannot recall any as elaborate as these. Barbed edges brush silken ribbons. Bold blacks fade in and out of elusive grays, twisting back and forward around each other. More golden skin peeking out from beneath. You wonder if you could follow the tattoos with your eyes closed, guided only by the ink's raised borders under your fingerpads.

Your eyes flit up to Yongguk's before you give in to the temptation to find out.

His gaze fixing on yours, he suddenly realizes his state of undress. “Oh.” With that single word, the spell is broken and you both jump back. Yongguk snaps up a blanket, pressing it to his chest.

You tumble off the bed, keeping your eyes on the ground. You've certainly seen men shirtless before, but you cannot remember one ever affecting you so. The redness in his cheeks only makes yours feel hotter. “I'm sorry. I'll wait outside. I'm sorry.”

Yongguk's voice stops you before you can flee. “Stay. It will only take a moment.” After some rustling, you hear Yongguk get to his feet. “I'm sorry, I only meant to lie down for a minute. Is something wrong?”

Hesitantly, you turn back around. His shirt is crumpled and not properly buttoned at the neck so part of his chest tattoo still shows. Forcing your eyes back to his, you lick your lips and remind yourself of your purpose. “No, nothing. I only wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

The words come out in a rush because of the mixture of embarrassment and eagerness swirling in your chest. “Can I go to where you found me? Daehyun and Youngjae believe it may help me regain some of my memories. Daehyun said you keep a map of where it was and Youngjae said it's less than a quarter of a day's ride there and back so I would be back before night falls. I can take someone if you think it's too dangerous because I know I'm not ready be out after dark on my own but please say I can go.”

Yongguk looks back at you as he processes your onslaught of words. You pray he will allow you to go, even if it is with an escort. You're already forming your counter argument when he nods.

“The idea has merit but you are right. You cannot go alone. I will accompany you. I meant to go myself after I recovered, but other things took priority.” Yongguk moves to put on his boots. “I assume you are ready to set out soon?”

“Yes! I'll go get the horses.” You spin to do just that, but Yongguk grabs your elbow. Your head jerks back to his face, confused.

“You know as much chance as you have of regaining something, you may very well gain nothing?”

Sobered, you nod. You have no choice but to come to terms with that possibility. “I do. I will not be devastated if this venture does not succeed. I only wish for some kind of closure. And maybe to see what I must fight for.”

Hours later, your heart thuds against your chest when you crest a hill and spy the cluster of buildings nestled against a towering, sheer cliff. You search your heart for a feeling of homecoming, that swell of anticipation and happiness upon returning to the well-known. Yet this place is as foreign to you as the distant capitol.

Yongguk waits beside you without a word. Noir restlessly paws the ground, but Yongguk only pats his neck until he settles down. When you meet his eyes, you do not see judgment at your hesitation. Only a calm that reassures you, one way or another, it will be alright. He will make sure it is.

Knowing he is with you gives you the push to knee Rose forward. The grass parts and spreads as he walks down the hill. To someone passing by, nothing about the village would seem amiss, only quiet. Sleepy. Homes and shops stand erect, their plastered walls smooth and fresh. The main road into the village is almost free of grass. Fenced gardens blossom and birds sing from the distant fields.

Although the view looks as perfect as a carefully constructed painting, that is exactly the problem: there is no life within. All is still. No people or livestock move among the buildings, filling the streets with everyday chatter and commonplace noise. A wagon sits on the road just past the first house, horseless. Its load of vegetables sits rotten and crawling with buzzing flies.

Your feeling of disquiet grows the closer you get. You pass the first house and crane your neck to take every corner of the village. Searching for just one thing to spark a feeling of familiarity. Anything.

Instead, only the feeling of wrongness deepens. Doors and windows, ripped from their hinges, lay where they were tossed. Broken dishes, snapped farming tools, and torn clothing litter the street, evidence of countless struggles for survival that were inevitably lost. The carnage only worsens the farther into the village you ride.

When you reach the village square, a wide, open place meant to be the hub of village life, you pull Rose up short. In the center, remnants of charred logs lie on a large circle of blackened earth. White petals of ash cling here and there to the wood. Most are gone, washed or blown away by nature's sweeping hand. But hints of burned flesh and old blood linger like phantoms. The smell makes bile rise in the back of your throat.

“We burn them all? Every time?” you ask softly. You try to ignore the acid taste now stuck on your tongue. Your knuckles strain against the skin of your fingers as you curl them on the reins. The leather bites your palms.

Yongguk stops Noir beside you. “Yes. As you've read, we don't precisely know how a human becomes a vampire. It is better to burn the corpses of the victims than have them rise again as our enemies.” His voice struggles to be detached, but you can tell this is something that disturbs him too. “The vampires as well, to be sure they are dead.”

You nod to let you know you heard. As your eyes rove the square, they fall on a tall pole standing by the untouched temple. A large metal bell, painted dusty red by time and weather, sits on the ground by its feet like a fallen sentry.

Its toll echoes faintly the longer you gaze at it. Dismounting, you draw closer and crouch down. Yongguk calls your name, but his voice is so faint you barely hear him. You reach out and night swoops over the sun like a bird of prey.

Quiet moonlight paints the world in soft grays, but you cannot appreciate the beauty as you run through the fields. The tall grass whips your legs and hands, goading you to run faster. Run faster towards the unearthly screams, crashes and howls that come from the village.

Coming to an alleyway between two houses on the edge of town, you press your back against the wall. In the streets, shadows of your neighbors fall to monsters blacker than the night. Some fight. Some try to flee. Others are dragged from their homes. Your heart pounds, your mind racing to come up with a plan only to circle around one thought: you must find your family.

Your hand finds a staff leaning against the wall beside you. Armed, you inch towards the mouth of the alley. As you ready yourself to run, something knocks into your back and sends you sprawling. The ringing bell crashes beside your head.

A light in the temple urgently beckons. Sanctuary. You will be safe there. You try to push yourself up to run, but something heavy strikes at you again. It clings to you as you both roll, clawed fingers digging into your shoulders and chilling teeth snapping at your neck. You land on your back, thrashing, kicking, pushing at the thing above you.

It resembles a decayed body, saggy, wrinkled gray flesh stretched across a skull. Ragged clothes covered with dirt, grime, and holes are barely in a better state than its hair, thin clumps of greasy tendrils. Yet its sunken, red eyes and fangs that protrude past its red stained lips are anything but human. A rabid hunger sharpens its features as it fights with you for possession of your life.

With each wild dive of its head, its gnashing mouth gets closer and closer to your throat. Although your arms and legs are tough from years of work, the monster is stronger and wearing at your strength. Worse yet, it seems able to almost predict your every move.

As you swing your fist to strike it in the side of the head, it catches your wrist and slams it to the ground. You cry out as the fragile bones there snap. Your other hand soon joins it. The creature throws back its head and lets out a bloodcurdling crow. It looks down at you with an evil smirk before it swoops down towards your throat. You screw your eyes shut, bracing for the end.

“Wait.” The female voice is light and so out of place, but the thing on top of you stops just before its teeth sink into your skin. You can feel the cold radiating off its mouth. “Step aside.”

The monster whines like a kicked dog, but does as the woman says. She comes into view as you risk a look. For a second, you feel only confusion.

She is beautiful. Hair blacker than the depths of a lake and pale skin the peachy white of late spring snow at dusk, she is perfect, statuesque. A golden tiara inlaid with jade rests delicately on her carefully coiffed hair, and her dress, a rich plum purple, look antique but of the highest quality.

But when she leans closer, you understand. Her eyes are the same as the monster who was ready to slaughter you. She is beautiful, but it is the same deadly beauty as a hooded snake. As when caught by the hypnotic gaze of the serpent, you are unable to move to save yourself for fear she will strike.

“A beast child,” the woman purrs, somehow sounding both displeased and delighted. “Pity. I had hoped you all had died out. But then this would be all too easy.”

Her icy fingers grip your chin, lifting the upper half of your body from the ground. Eyes the crimson of freshly drawn blood rove your face. You want to struggle, every instinct screaming to escape, to run as fast as a rabbit flees the fox. But this fox already has you firmly in her paws.

“Ah, you do not know of your powers, do you, child?” She pushes a lock of hair from your face almost tenderly. “No, you do not. You would have fled long before we caught you. Unless your blood is so diluted it is only enough for one as experienced as I to sense it. I wonder what I should do with you...”

“My Queen,” comes a strangled voice from behind her. The monster who had first tackled you to the ground is on its knees, wringing its hands. Its eyes flick back and forth between the woman's face and your throat. Sniveling, it says“Please, I am I starving, Your Majesty. I caught this one. She is mine.”

Your head is thrown back so hard your vision swims from the impact. Although the two are reduced to dark blurs, their voices are unmercifully clear.

“You dare speak to me in such a way, cur?” Her restrained rage is made all the terrifying by  the softness in which it is spoken. “You live because of me. You should be grateful for every drop of blood that slips down your damned throat. If I decide to claim your prey, you will be ecstatic that I so favor you!”

“But-” The monster's words are cut off with a pained yelp.

“Get out of my sight before I stake you myself,” the woman hisses. “There are plenty of other blood-slaves to feed on.”

All dissension gone from its voice, it replies “Yes, my Queen.” Footsteps hurriedly shuffle away, enveloped by the chaos still surrounding you.

“Now,” she squats beside your again, your labored breathing becoming more erratic in your frozen panic, “where was I?”

You try to scramble away, but your fingers only manage to feebly scratch at the dirt. She straddles your hips and lays her hands over yours. Caressing the back of them, she tuts, “No, no, my pet. You are not going anywhere. You and I, we are going to conduct a little experiment. Let us see just how strong your were-blood is.”

“I don't know what you mean,” you manage to choke out. Your voice trembles, but there is nothing you can do to stop it. Nor does it concern you. “I don't have magic.”

“If only that were true, dear. Then I would just kill you instead of having a little entertainment.” She lowers her body over yours, sliding against you sensuously. You tremble in revulsion, but you cannot move. You are at her complete mercy. And you already know she has not one drop of it in her black heart.

The woman smiles and whispers in your ear, “You see, I do not think you have enough to save you. Maybe you will become one of mine and, oh, what a treat that would be. You will be so strong, like me, but under my command. Or, maybe your blood will reject me, and you will die. Either way, I cannot lose.”

“One of your what?” You shudder when she glances pointedly beyond the two of you. “One of them?” Her grin confirms it.

“Ah, do not cry.” She wipes away the tears now streaming down your face. With a wicked smile that exposes fangs of her own, she says, “It will be over soon, one way or another. Consider it an honor you are being bitten by Queen Lamia herself. Few mortals can boast of such a thing.” She laughs suddenly. “Not that you shall be mortal if you survive.”

Amusement still glitters in her eyes as she lunges forward, teeth plunging into your neck.

“No!”you cry, falling backwards.

Solid arms catch you before you hit the ground. You struggle in a blind panic for the split second before you realize bright sunlight is bearing down on your face instead of cold night air. The fight drains from your body, leaving you limp as you open your eyes.

Yongguk adjusts his grip around your shoulders, his face inches from yours. His eyes rove over you in concern. “Are you alright?”

You nod, then immediately shake your head. The newfound memory of the night you lost your life has your head throbbing. If you had had any expectations of what you would find, this was not it.

“You did not find good memories, I'm guessing.” Yongguk keeps his voice low and soft as if speaking to a spooked horse. When you open your mouth but nothing comes out, he adds, “Take your time. We have plenty of sunlight hours left.”

Your fingers tighten on the sleeves of his shirt. Yongguk eases his knees out from under him where he had been kneeling beside you and pulls you into his lap. Your head rests in the crook of his shoulder. He smells of the sunshine he had bathed in earlier, wholesome and fresh and alive.

The scent helps steady your breath and collect yourself. You sit up and slide off Yongguk's lap, but when he tries to remove his arm around you, you catch it with your hand. You need that simple touch, an unspoken support and comfort, even as you need to stand on your own feet.

“I remembered the night of the attack.” Your thumb rubs the back of Yongguk's hand, your head falling to his shoulder again. It feels like it was made for you to rest against. To soak in Yongguk's solid strength as you continue. “They struck just after dusk when everyone was home. I was late returning from the fields when- when there was a great sound, like lightening hitting the mountain. I ran, but I heard the cries too late...”

The rest of  what you'd seen spills out. You try to tell him everything, some aspects still blurrier than others. Still, even a small detail may prove invaluable. When you cannot recall any more, you lean more heavily against Yongguk, emotionally spent.

“You did not remember more about yourself?” he asks gently.

“No.” To be honest, you had little hope this morning you would remember anything. You are glad to have gained that small glimpse, even if it proved a nightmare.

“More will come with time.”

You glance around the small square, imagining it full of innocent people going about their day. Each with their own stories, their own hopeful futures. Now they are only ashes, forgotten. Robbed both of their potential and legacies. Massacred without hope or chance. The mindless waste of life makes your heart ache. Your eyes burn as if with tears, but you are too empty to produce even a single one.

“Why didn't the village protection spells work? We had to have them. ” You press your face into Yongguk's chest. You will not cry, you tell yourself. You will not. “They should warned us. We weren't prepared.”

“Vampires are as immune to magic as we are. The spells could not have held them back. Any magic to detect them would have faded years ago if it was ever in place. Even if you had a warning, there is very little chance anyone but weres could have stopped what happened.” Yongguk's hand comes to the nape of your neck. He hesitates before slowly stroking your hair in long, steady sweeps.

“I could have fought them,” you say, desperately wanting to believe you could have changed your village's fate. “If I'd shifted-”

“No.” Yongguk's answer is firm as the hand that stills on your neck until you look at him. “Even if you had known you were a were, you had no training. She would have made sure she killed you beyond certainty.”

“I should-”

“No. Do not chastise yourself for the past, especially outcomes you could not have changed no matter the choice you made. It only creates self-doubt and loathing that spirals until you wish you were dead rather than deal with the pain.” He pauses before adding quietly, “I know what it is like. It is not a place I would wish on anyone.”

You instantly know he speaks of his twin and sister. The guilt that came with shifting only in time to save his life and not theirs. In comparison, you were granted a small mercy. Your loss is faceless while Yongguk must look at his every time he sees his own reflection. Yet you never see him despair, never hear him utter words that expose the grief haunting his heart.    

“What do you do?” you ask, shifting closer. Your hand wraps around his that rests closed in a tight fist on his thigh. “How do you overcome it?”

Yongguk's eyes fall to your hand. His fingers loosen to slowly interlock with yours. “You live. You learn and train as much as you can bear to become stronger and wiser. You force yourself to rise from bed every day and laugh and smile until it becomes natural again. Some days, conquering the demons in your head exhausts you more than battling the tangible ones. But you fight on, because you discover new reasons to keep yourself alive.”

“What are your reasons?”

“Because even if I had not been forced to, I know I would have fought to protect our people because it is what is right. To prevent anyone else from suffering so. To see my family again. To stand with the new family all this brought to me.” Yongguk glances down at you, half of a smile curving his lips. “We can never underestimate the strength we can acquire from our friends. I have lost count of how many times they have saved my life, even when they were unaware of it.”

Gazing back at him, the enormity of his courage and fortitude washes over you. On top of leading the pride and researching endlessly, Yongguk fights with himself to be better, all without complaint. How many others have such bravery to drive out fear and hatred from their souls instead of succumbing in order to preserve the light of goodness.

You release his hand on your shoulder. Your hand slides up his jaw and you stretch up to kiss his temple before you truly realize what you're doing. Yongguk's arm tightens around you. You worry your small gesture of admiration and support upset him.

When you lower your chin, his eyes capture yours. Before you can apologize, Yongguk's lips push against yours. Soft, sincere, and simple, the kiss still steals your breath and any ability to feel or hear anything except his skin, his breath, his scent heavy in the air. A warmth to rival the sun's blossoms in your lips.

As your hand slips to his neck to draw him closer, Yongguk pulls away. A conflicted frown is settled on his face. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-”

You press a finger to his lips.  “Do not say you shouldn't have kissed me.” If he thinks it was a mistake, you do not want to hear his regret and have it ruin what just happened. “I am a clear-headed woman capable of deciding what I want and will allow for myself. It was a fleeting, beautiful moment. Shouldn't we take advantage of those when we can?”

Hurrying to stand so he cannot reply and your face cannot betray your hurt, you reach your hand down to help him up. You wish you didn't feel a shock when his hand closes around yours. Yongguk looks like he wants to say something, but you turn away to look for your horse. The sooner you leave, the better.

Rose snorts his disapproval when you cut his snacking on a nearby garden short. You smile and pat his nose. “We're going home, boy. Plenty to eat there.”

Yongguk is already on Thorn's back when you wheel Rose around to face the way you had come. He's staring at the bell, where the two of you had been sitting only moments ago.

“Yongguk?”

His frown deepens. “You said the vampire who bit you called herself Queen Lamia?”

“Yes.”

“I have seen that name before. I don't know where, but I do not think it bodes well.” He looks up at the sky. “We should leave now. Come.”

Letting Yongguk and Noir stride ahead, you give Rose his head to follow them. As you climb the hill, you look over your shoulder at the shell of a village. You almost feel guilty for being so eager to leave it behind, but the keep you are returning to is now more home to you than this place. Shrugging it off, you return your eyes to Yongguk's back. Another part of your heart still stings. You wish the new face of an enemy could push the thought of the kiss from your mind as easily as it had Yongguk's. Instead, it is all you find yourself thinking of.

Previous Chapter, Next Chapter

Kingdom Map, The Keep Map, Weres scale, Were Guide

#yongguk #bap #yongguk scenarios #bap scenarios #kpop scenarios #b.a.p #b.a.p scenarios #kpop au #bap au #b.a.p au

[ariellynn14]

The Unexpected Love: Katsugeki Touken Ranbu Au Chapter 1

Started 7/5/17 Finished 7/6/17 -------- Four Kingdoms, three princes and one princess. The fate of the kingdoms relied upon the marriage of the princess marrying the chosen prince of her father's choice, but will she fall in love with his choice or will she end up hating him instead? -------- “Kashuu!! Hurry!! We can't get caught like we almost did last night!!!” I screamed quiet enough for the guards not to hear. “Ora Ora Ora, I'm coming, I'm coming. Don't rush me. We won't get caught as long as your hood is up. Remember, your hood is what always keeps you and your secret identity safe.” He responded as he walked out of his small cottage just outside of the castle's gates. “Besides…….how'd you make it out of the castle with your hood down?? That doesn't make any sense.” He questioned as he put his favorite black and holden embellished coat on and started to walk next to me as I put my navy blue hood up on my head to cover my mid back length hair. “It was quite easy actually. I was outside before the guards came out for the nights duty. It isn't that hard to get past the guards anyways during the day as long as I say I'm going to town for the day.” I smiled at him as we both walked into town for the first time that night. “Ah I see. You are a very clever I see. Where to tonight, Princess Horikawa?” Kashuu asked me as I blushed a little. “Don't call me princess! When in public like this! It's Hijikata so I don't get discovered as a girl let alone the princess! And formalities aren't needed! When at the castle Horikawa is just fine!” I shouted at him as he laughed. “Ah the refreshing spirit of a young princess. How does it feel to sneak out every night like this and experience what my everyday life is like?” He asked as I put a finger to my chin and began to think out loud so we could both hear my thoughts. “Hmm……..it's very interesting to say the least. You have it so easy compared to me. Farming and marketing seems so much easier than being royalty but then again there's slow seasons and slow times during the day so I can only imagine how hard it must be.” I answered truthfully as he put an arm around my shoulders. “And that's why I work for you and not with my grandfather. Not that I wouldn't mind farming, but it's a pain on the back and other parts of the body that I don't want to manage with. If only it was legal for a commoner to marry a royal. Then I'd have it so easy.” He looked at me with the same glisten in his eyes like he always has when he wants something from me. “No!! You know the consequences of even falling in love with me! Not that I mind at all since my dad said I could marry whom I please if I don't like any of the three princes I'll meet tomorrow but, I wouldn't want you to get killed over you having a love that's more than family to me. I consider you my brother, not my boyfriend or even my love interest. Just remember that you nut case.” I played as he jumped in front of me and smiled. “And if I would get killed what would you do then? Steal my brother from the eastern prince? He's nothing like me you know. Always to kind and never thinks of himself. He's a weird one.” Kashuu stated as I giggled a little. “And that's why I prefer to see you not dead. I don't think I'd be able to stand Yanatonokami at all. I wouldn't be used to hearing such a soft and non naggy voice all of the time.” I laughed as Kashuu pouts at me and started speed walking the other way until he is out of my sight. As I continued to walk ahead I noticed that Kashuu had fallen to the ground and someone was helping him up. I couldn’t help but speed up to see what was going on. “Kashuu are you alright?!?” I asked him as he turned around and smiled. “Funny thing. We were just talking about Yamato weren't we??” He laughed as I noticed a boy with big blue eyes and a thick, yet fluffy ponytail tied in his hair, stick his head out from behind Kashuu. “O-oh…...Yasusada-kun?? What brings you here??” I asked in the manliest voice I could manage. “Ah my friend wanted to vist the north country before his family vacationed here. Nothing really special however.” He responded as Kashuu walked over to the other man I hadn't noticed yet. “You…..you look so familiar……. Yamato don't you have a job with the royal staff in the Eastern kingdom?” Kashuu asked as I looked at his brother with a confused look on my face. “Um……..yeah, but my friend’s just another normal servant of the prince, nothing special about him. This is just my friend Izumi. He wanted to visit here like I said. We don't mean any harm.” Kashuu’s brother responded as I smiled at him in an understanding way this time. A few hours had past as we talked and got to know the boys from the eastern kingdom and all was well until we all realized it would soon be morning and that I would potentially get caught if I wasn't home in time for the ceremony. “Ah it was nice meeting you both but its time me and Kashuu head home. I'm sure he's just as tired as I am.” I stated as I got up from my seat in the bar and walked out with Kashuu not getting a goodbye from the other boys. “Quick save, huh? You knew we had to leave soon and we might make it in just enough time thanks to your clever thinking once again princess.” Kashuu stated as we both ran back to his cottage and he dressed appropriately for his title of “Princess Bodyguard and Attendant”. “Hurry!!!! I'll be late if you take any longer!!! I don't want to get caught!!” I screamed as he ran from his room, picked me up bridal style and ran to the vine that lead to my bedroom window. “Climb as quick as you can. I'll be up in a few minutes to help you get dressed. Hide your clothing and get your under clothing on if I'm not up by then.” We both agreed to his plan as I started climbing and he went in the kitchen entry to the castle. As soon as I made it up to my room and safely inside I started to undress and do what me and Kashuu had planned. That's when I heard a knock on my door. “Sweetie, it me your mother. Can we talk for a few minutes?” I heard through the door as I frantically changed into my under clothing and ran to the door. “Um, sure. Just if my maid comes up please leave like normal.” I stared as I opened the door and kicked my men's clothing to the far corner behind my door. As soon as I had did that I realized my mom was already sitting on my bed and examining the coat that I failed to hide. “Sweetheart, where'd you get this?” She asked me as I sat next to her. “Um…..my maid was wearing it yesterday and left it here by accident. It is her brothers coat.” I lied through my teeth as my mom bought it. “Ah i see…..well no matter. Today's a special day you know. Its the day you meet you new fiancé. Your father wanted me to tell you that he's a fine man coming from the eastern kingdom and will make a wonderful husband for you.” She smiled at me as I blankly stared at her and waited anxiously for Kashuu to arrive to save me. That's when I heard an all to familiar knock on my door and started rejoicing inside. “Mom please.” I motioned to the door as she got up and left. As soon as I knew she was gone I let my “maid” in and rushed to pick the dress that I had chosen and not the one my dad wanted me to wear. “You know….you really should tell your parents that I'm a boy and not a girl. Wearing this dress over my normal clothing gets to be bothersome sometimes.” Kashuu stated as he took the ankle length maid dress he was wearing on top of his normal attire off and helped me into my hoop skirt. “Why a western styled princess dress and not a Japanese one if you don't mind me asking.” Kashuu questioned as he tied the corset tight around my already small waist. “Because. I want to be different. I don't want to be like every princess and queen before me. The jewels and sparkles interest me way more than a twelve layered kimono ever would.” I explained as the dress was slipped over my my head and I walked over to my mirror. “You look more stunning in a western dress anyways. The jewels you could wear with this are endless.” Kashuu stated as I turned around and faced him. “Coming from the one that sewed the whole thing together for me from scrap dresses you never finished. Its absolutely gorgeous. Thank you.” I hugged him as he hooked a choker filled with navy blue, red, and white jewels on it to match the dress I was wearing. The dress was your typical princess dress, but on the left side of the waist lay a satin red bow with the royal family crest on it and the top was decked out in various navy blue, red, and white jewels. The bottom of the dress, all satin layers, lay at the floor effortlessly and the shoes were only from the finest shoe maker in the village. Decked out in the same jewels that matched my dress it made me feel more like a princess that the outfit that my dad had chosen. As for my hair it was curled and pulled half up making my hair appear much prettier than I normally liked it. Then a small crown placed on my head and various other pieces such as a layered necklace, bracelets, my favorite earrings, and rings placed all beautifully on my white skin. Then all that was left was the minimal makeup that was placed on my eyes, lips, cheeks, and face. It gave an even more radiant glow to my skin and eyes that I had never seen before. When I stood and looked at Kashuu once more he gave me another hug, but this hug had more love in it than the past one. “So so so stunning. Everything radiates so beautifully off of your skin. Don't be scared if your father hates it. He will see the beauty of you in it rather than the other dress.” Kashuu stated as i walked away from him and he took his ragged coat off. Under the coat he wore a satin ribbon tied around his neck under his white collar and pair of his nicest pants. He looked more like a prince at that point than a servant and it had made me remember the story I was told of the previous south kingdoms royalty. How everyone was murdered and only one survivor was recorded. However I never believed it as I found it childish but something made me think that may be the story was real. “Now, are you ready to meet your true prince?” he asked me as i nodded my head yes in response. Finally the time had came when I was to meet my prince and I was excited but not that excited. Sure i felt like a true princess but I wasn't ready for marriage yet. I'm sure my prince will feel the same. As I made my way to the top of the staircase I could see my father and mother standing there waiting for me with a young and handsome male standing between them. He looked so familiar however. As I got closer and closer to the bottom of the stair case I realized that it was the male that I had met last night. But he is a prince? I then walked to my parents and the male and curtseyed to show my politeness. “That dress is much more stunning than the one I had chosen. How ever did you find it?” My father complimented as I fixed my posture. “Ah, my good friend made it. But don't tell.” I winked as he smiled at me and gently reached out for my left hand. “Horikawa I'd like you to meet Izuminokami Kanesada. He is the second prince of the eastern kingdom and you are to wed him whenever you are comfortable.” My dad walked me to the male and I couldn't help but think he was the male that I had met last night. I thanked my father and mother and asked to be excused for some time to get to know him. As we walked to the tea room I couldn't help buy stare at his face. He had to be the man from last night….. “You never said you were a princess, Hijikata-san.” He winked at me and I blushed. He knew the whole time. “Y-you were Izumi??? The Izumi I met last night???” I stuttered as we walked into the tea room and sat down. “Well why wouldn't I be. Your mighty fine at hiding your true self princess. Such a beauty. Its a shame that you sneak out like that, but then again I can't say any better for myself.” He smiled as I took a sip of the green tea that lay in front of me. “I do it because my parents don't want me out at night. That's when all the fin happens and I never get to experience it, even with my best friend….” I trailed off as he picked my chin up and my eyes met with his sly yet gentle looking aqua blue eyes. “Kashuu I take it? Yamatonokami speaks of him also. Always saying how he envies his beauty and how lucky he is to serve such a beautiful princess as you. Buy he can't be the source of this beauty that is presented to me today...or is he??” Izuminokami stared into my eyes as i shared back at his. “Actually…...he's the full culprit. I'd never be able to pull anything off like this if it wasn't for him, Izuminokami.” I stated as he laughed at my answer. “Kane-san is just fine. As for what I'll call you…...Kunihiro has a male tone to it. It sounds fitting for the tomboy you really are.” He laughed as I blushed. “H-hey!! Don't go and give me names I don't want to be called!!” I defended as he laughed more. “Maybe marrying a woman like you wont be as bad as I thought!” he stated loudly as I blushed even more. “And maybe marrying a man like you won't be so bad either…” I replied. After that the night was filled with laughter and happiness as we got to know each other more and laughed at each others puns. -------- So….how was chapter one?? I will make this more chapters so look out for those in the future!! All inspiration comes from @touken-danshi original au theory found on their page. Please check it out!!

#katsugeki touken ranbu #katsugeki touken ranbu au #horikawa kunihiro #izuminokami kanesada #kane-san #kashuu kiyomitsu #yamatonokami yasusada #touken ranbu #touranbu #tkrb #au #fanfiction #fanfic #hijikatagumi #love story #royal au #story #genderbend #princess #prince

[allyinthekeyofx]

GENESIS - Chapters 1 & 2

Let’s do another one 😜

Summary:

They thought that as long as they had each other they would survive. But what happens when reality begins to blur and their worlds turn upside down?

Notes:

This comprises 32 chapters and was one of the longest fics I ever wrote. It was also the most difficult. My angst-o-meter was set to high but you can never have too much angst, right?

Chapter 1

Mulder hated days like this. Days where they had no new cases to investigate. Nowhere to hide and nowhere to run.

A day spent sorting through the seemingly never ending pile of ‘visiting’ case files sent to them from various field offices around the country in the hope that just one out of the pile would amount to something substantial enough to warrant his and Scully’s involvement.

But out of the twenty-five or so that had found their way here, dumped unceremoniously on the desk, Mulder was smart enough to realise that the chance of actually finding a genuine X-File amongst them was slim at best. So far today all he had seen, as he meticulously read the type written words, were sloppy investigative procedures. No mystery. No surprises. Not a single enigma to be found anywhere.

With a little care and attention the majority of these cases could be solved. But by their opening Agents - not by Mulder and Scully. As a professional courtesy, Mulder would offer advice pertaining to alternative avenues of investigation which he knew wouldn’t be acted upon, and then he would simply pack the files up and send them back from whence they came.

It was, he admitted, a little disheartening to recognise that tomorrow would in all probability herald more of the same.

“Why don’t you call it a day,” he suggested. “I can finish up here.”

She looked back at him, narrowing her eyes as she did so and typically, refused to back down gracefully. She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the files.

“I can’t leave you to wade through these by yourself.”

Mulder grinned. “Yeah, you can. I don’t imagine there’s much in them to find anyway. No point the two of us wasting our time right? Besides…” he spread his arms wide to take in the whole office “This is my life remember? This what I live for. My guiding light, my reason for being, the yin to my yang…”

Scully held up her hand to him, palm up. “Mulder, stop. I get the message.” She began to rise up out of her chair, stretching the kinks out of her back as she did so.

“You’re sure? I can stay if you want.”

Mulder shook his head.

“Nahhhh, you go. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He watched as his partner headed for the door, pausing by the coat rack to grab her jacket which she slung casually over her shoulder and just for a moment he regretted letting her go. The office always seemed empty somehow without her working beside him. Too many years together had developed a bond - a closeness he had never felt towards any other human being that had ever entered his life. It was difficult sometimes to fathom and he tried not to think about it too much. Tried not to admit to himself that what he felt for her went way beyond a professional friendship. He would willingly die for her. He had proved it in the past, had risked his life without even a second thought just as she had returned the favor many times over. Theirs was a complicated relationship. Sometimes difficult, often tempestuous. But always rewarding.

She turned briefly towards him and flashed him one of those dazzling smiles that she seemed to reserve just for him and just looking at her caused Mulder’s throat to tighten. It was a smile that lit up her whole face and reached right in to the depths of her sparkling blue eyes, making the years fall away from her, transporting him back to a time when they stood together by an empty grave in Oregon as the rain poured down. So young back then. So trusting. But not anymore. They had seen too much to ever hope to regain that innocence.

“Night, Mulder. See you in the morning.”

Mulder returned her smile, thanking God for the thousandth time for sending her to him.

“In the morning.” He finally managed before dropping his gaze back to the paperwork in front of him.

He listened to the sound of her footsteps receding in to the distance before finally reaching for the next file, attempting to concentrate on the words in front of him. It wasn’t easy.

For the next half hour or so he read report after report that contained nothing more paranormal than a bunch of proverbial brick walls. He had come across this kind of thing too many times during his time on the X-Files and it was beginning to get rather tiring. His reputation for the unusual had spread like wildfire and an unfortunate consequence of that was the knowledge that he and Scully were fast becoming a dumping ground for every unresolved case that happened to find the Agents-in-charge scratching their heads. When in doubt, good 'ole Spooky Mulder would get the job done.

And reading the files in front of him, Mulder had no doubts whatsoever that he and Scully could indeed give insight in to these cases. But not of a paranormal nature. There was nothing in these that good, solid investigative procedure wouldn’t cure. It was laziness, pure and simple, and Mulder knew that he had quite enough of his own unsolved cases without shouldering the burden of someone else’s. So far today, he had found nothing in any of these files that actually warranted his and Scully’s involvement and certainly nothing to suggest they needed more than the most cursory once over.

To send him this kind of case was a waste of everyone’s time and energy. Not to mention the fact that there was the potential to waste valuable time that would be better employed in actually trying to catch the sometimes violent perpetrators.

He eyed the stack of yellow Post-it notes atop his desk, fingers literally itching to attach a scathing note to the file he held in his hand before he slipped it back into its manila envelope for dispatch back to the opening Agent. But he didn’t. He knew it would do no good whatsoever. That tomorrow another stack would be waiting for them when they came in to work.

He glanced down at the remaining files that stared accusingly back at him from where they lay. Fifteen down, three to go. Another half hour at the most and he would be able to put them to bed for night and head home. It had been a long day.

Sighing softly, Mulder picked up the topmost file and eased it out of it’s envelope, his eyes scanning the information attached to it’s front.

*Alleged kidnapping of a minor.*

He raised his eyebrows, interest piqued. It was rare they were ever asked to get involved in kidnappings. Disappearances yes. He had hundreds of case files pertaining to just that, but kidnappings were rare. Of course, during his time in the Violent Crimes Section he had profiled a few cases but had rarely been involved in the hands-on investigation.

He opened the cover, perusing the first page which contained the data pertaining to the case. Scanning the information rapidly, he leaned forwards slightly. An unconscious gesture as he became ever more interested.

*Charlotte Bethany Stevens (Minor) age three years ten months. Disappeared from her home on August 10th 1999. Mother Christine Stevens discovered by immediate neighbour in state of extreme agitation. Defensive injuries to upper extremities. Signs of struggle in house. No ransom note as yet forthcoming. Forensics report inconclusive. (Enclosed) Local interviews have turned up no witnesses to date. All potential suspects eliminated from enquiry at this time. Unable to thoroughly question Christine Stevens due to hospitalisation. Allegations made re Governmental conspiracy relating to her missing daughter. No evidence to substantiate these claims at this time. All avenues of investigation exhausted.*

At the base of the page a small, yellow post-it note was stuck crookedly, it’s edges curling over where it had been confined to the envelope. Mulder peeled it off, a grin spreading across his face as he read the familiar scrawl.

*Mulder - Saw the words 'Government’ and 'Conspiracy’ and couldn’t help thinking of you and that fiery partner of yours! Give it the once over and let me know what you think. It’s yours if you want it - we’re going nowhere with it. Give me a call. John Wickham*

Wickham had been Mulders classmate during his time in Quantico, and had gone on to become one of the bureau’s most respected criminal profilers. He had risen up the ranks to Special Agent In Charge, and Mulder had frequently seen his name appearing in the national newspapers. He was one of the few people Mulder held a genuine respect toward, and he suspected that, if Wickham was calling in the cavalry, the case must be playing on his mind. It was unusual at the extreme for him to admit defeat.

Mulder balled up the note and tossed it toward the direction of the waste bin, grimacing in disgust as it bounced off the rim and landed on the floor. He turned his attention back to the folder and flipped over the page. Paper clipped to the top edge a photograph stared back at him.

Obviously taken at a professional studio it showed the image of a blonde haired, blue eyed little girl, smiling happily for the camera. In her hands she held a stuffed plushy toy rabbit, clutching it possessively to her chest. Her hair was long, but two ribboned barrettes held it back from her face. A face which Mulder would have known anywhere. The shape of the eyes, the lips, the nose were all too familiar to him.

He let the file fall from his fingers and his eyes shifted involuntarily across to Scully’s desk, the implications for her all too obvious. He resisted the urge to simply put the file back in its envelope and mail it back to San Diego, knowing that in doing so he would be compromising both his life’s work and the trust of his partner. A trust which, should she discover what he had held in his hands, could never hope to be recovered.

He forced himself to eye the photograph once again, whilst all the time fighting an internal battle within himself. Groaning softly, he dropped his head in his hands, blocking out both the image of his partner and that of the child in front of him. Shaking his head numbly at what could not be denied.

“Jesus Christ.” He muttered shakily.

He sat, locked in the same position for a considerable length of time, knowing that by sitting there he was only putting off the inevitable. Eventually though, he rose from his desk and picked up the file. Barely even conscious of doing so, he left the office, locking the door behind him out of habit. But if he were asked later he wouldn’t be able to remember doing it. Vaguely he was aware of his footsteps reverberating around the concrete corridor that led to the parking garage, his mind whirling as the implications began to sink in.

The file felt heavy in his hands. A thin bundle of paper and metal that weighted down his soul and stole his voice from him. A collection of words and pictures that he knew had the ability to send his partner rocketing backwards to that terrifying time when he had almost lost her. When she had turned tortured eyes on him and silently begged him to make everything okay again.

The endless nights when he had been awoken to the sound of her screaming her dead daughter’s name, holding her, shuddering and terrified against him as he soothed her back to sleep before returning to her couch to lie wide awake for the remainder of the night.

For weeks and weeks it had carried on, eventually tapering off and eventually disappearing altogether as Scully had somehow found peace within herself again.

A peace he was about to shatter.

XXXXX

Chapter 2

Georgetown. Washington D.C. 7:06p.m.

Mulder found himself to be so preoccupied with his thoughts, that on opening the double doors which led in to Scully’s apartment building, he failed to see the female who, at the exact same moment, was exiting. They collided heavily, and he suddenly found himself looking directly in to the angry blue eyes of his partner. Judging by her tense expression she had been about to give him a piece of her mind, but on realising who he was, her mouth closed abruptly.

“Mulder? … what are you doing here? I thought you’d gone home.”

Mulder waved the file at her.

“I need to show you something.”

Scully groaned as she identified the tagged brown cover of a 'visiting’ case file.

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’m kind of in a hurry right now.”

“A date?” Mulder asked irrelevantly, trying to delay the moment for as long as possible.

Scully smirked at him and folded her arms across her chest.

“Yeah, a date. With my mother. Which…” she checked her watch, “I’m currently running twenty three minutes behind for, and if you don’t get out of my way I’m going to miss out on entirely.”

Mulder made no move to allow her past, and as she looked intently at him, Scully felt the first impressions that something was wrong, nervous tension caused butterflies to break out inside of her, fluttering within her as her expression became guarded.

“Mulder, what is it?”

Her unease only intensified as her partner failed to respond, just stared down at her, the dilemma written clearly across his face. He spoke only when the tension between them became such that Scully could almost hear both of their heartbeats.

“Not here.”

He turned the corner which led to Scully’s apartment, and waited impatiently as she withdrew the keys for the door from her pocket, noticing how her hand shook as she fitted the key in to the lock. After what seemed like hours, she swung the door open and gestured him inside, following him in and slamming it shut behind her. Mulder flinched at the sound. Scully faced him accusingly.

“Whatever this is about Mulder, it had better be good,” she warned.

Mulder crossed the room and picked up the telephone. He handed it to her.

“Call your mother,” he advised. “Tell her you can’t make it.”

“What?…..Why?”

The exasperation was evident in her voice, and Mulder held up his hand to silence her, a conciliatory gesture which indicated to Scully that he was aware that he was making a mess of things.

Sighing heavily, she backed down and accepted the proffered phone from him, watching him out of the corner of her eye as she waited for the call to connect.

As she greeted her Mother, Mulder used the time to get himself under control, wishing he felt more confident that he was indeed doing the right thing, that in coming here he was serving her best interests. He glanced around the familiar surroundings, recalling the time he had spent here in the past. He had always felt comfortable here, the open space and layout of the rooms a direct contrast to his own cramped apartment.

Scully took great care of her home and Mulder had never come here to find it anything other than neat and organised.

Tonight was no exception. The setting sun’s rays danced brightly on the white walls, lending everything a bright, rosy glow. It was a place to relax in, to unwind after a hard day. It represented all that was positive about his partner, gave him valuable insight as to what she was like underneath the professional, tough facade she wore like a suit of armour. Her femininity manifested itself here more than anywhere else both in the decor and the layout.

He had been surprised when he had first had cause to come here, beginning to recognise her not merely as his partner, a scientist, but as a woman in her own right, living a life outside of work which he knew nothing about. Somehow, it made what he was about to relate to her all the more difficult.

“So are you going to tell me what’s so important I had to cancel my evening or do I have to guess?”

Scully sat down opposite him and clasped her hands in front of her, crossing her legs as she regarded him quizzically.

Mulder took a deep breath, uttering a silent prayer as he did so.

“I came across an unsolved case amongst the batch that arrived today. It involves the disappearance of a small child out of San Diego. An old colleague of mine sent it out to me in the hope we could add some insight on to what may have happened to her.”

He paused, trying to find the right words.

“Her mother has alleged that it may be kidnapping, although there’s no evidence of that being the case.”

Scully raised an eyebrow, the confusion evident on her face.

“A kidnapping? You’re not interested in kidnappings, Mulder.”

“I’m interested in this one. I’m pretty sure you will be too.”

He reached forward and handed the file to her.

“Here. See for yourself.”

Scully frowned as she turned over the first page, eyes moving rapidly across the text as she absorbed the words. The bewilderment all too patently displayed across her features as she struggled to comprehend why Mulder had singled out this case amongst the thousands of children who disappeared every year. She could see nothing in this which would warrant their involvement.

She advanced a page forwards and froze, mouth dropping open as she slowly lifted her head to gaze uncomprehending at her partner. The colour had all but drained from her face, so rapidly had the transformation taken place, that Mulder had been almost able to see it happen.

“Emily …” Scully whispered in a voice which was barely audible.

Mulder quickly got up and joined her on the couch, gently prying the folder away from her fingers which were locked on to it rigidly. He placed it behind him and turned back to Scully.

“No,” he corrected carefully. “Not Emily. You know that can never be.”

Scully focused on his face, responding to the compassion that was evident in his tone as she struggled with the emotion raging inside of her.

“Then who …” She trailed off as Mulder laid his hand over hers.

“You know who she is. Just as you know who Emily was, and how she came to be.”

He watched her attentively as she digested the information. He had never expected that this day would come, had never foreseen that more children equivalent to Emily had been born. He should have accepted that this was at best a futile hope, that someday more evidence of what had transpired would come to the fore. He had prayed that the day would come later rather than sooner, but it was here, and he couldn’t disregard the consequences any longer.

Scully shook her head numbly, and she pulled her hand away from Mulder, rising from her seated position suddenly. Her eyes appeared alarmingly blank as she spun around, away from Mulder, heading for the kitchen.

“Shit.” He muttered, heading after her.

He discovered her at the table, shoulders shaking as she cradled her head in her hands.

“Scully …” he ventured uncertainly.

She did not acknowledge him, and Mulder ran his hand through his hair, questioning himself over how to react to her. He understood her pain, but was equally aware that her reaction would only serve to precipitate that pain. He crossed the floor and came to a halt in front of the cabinet. Reaching down he removed a bottle of Brandy and a glass, then as an afterthought added another one, opening the bottle and pouring liberal amounts of the liquor in to each. He picked them up and set one on the table in front of his partner, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite her.

“Scully.”

No response.

He extended his hand and carefully drew her hands away from her face. With the other he pushed the brandy towards her.

“Drink some of this.”

She eyed the glass’s contents warily.

“Do it, Scully. It’ll help,” he advised.

Slowly, Scully wrapped her shaking hands around the glass, but was unable to still the trembling sufficiently to bring the glass to her lips.

Mulder recognised that in this situation at least, he had to take charge. Removing the glass from her, he set it down on the table before walking around the table and hunkering down beside her. Raising his own drink to her lips he inclined the glass just adequately enough so that she was able to take some of the liquid.

She swallowed heavily and the action brought about a storm of coughing as the unaccustomed alcohol burned her throat. When the sound abated however, Mulder was at least gratified to observe that she appeared to be more in control, that the shock to her system was lessening.

“I’m sorry, Mulder …”

“Ssshhh. It’s OK. I half expected this. You don’t need to apologise to me, you know that.”

Scully gazed in to his face, and not for the first time realised how lucky she was to have him for a partner … and as a friend. She squeezed his hand.

“Thanks.”

He smiled up at her.

“No problem.”

Scully took a deep breath.

“So where do we go from here?” she asked shakily.

Mulder got to his feet.

“I’m flying out to San Diego tonight. I’ll call you when I get there.”

“What do you mean you’ll call me?”

Mulder shook his head.

“I don’t think that it’s such a good idea for you to come with me right now. Not until I have a better idea as to what’s happening out there …”

“No way,” Scully said vehemently.

Then, she let her voice soften slightly.

“I know why you’re doing this, that you’re trying to protect me. But I need to go there, Mulder, I have to. I owe it to myself … and I owe it to Emily. Please understand that.”

Mulder let his gaze settle on the window, watching his own refection as he struggled to find the right words to make her understand.

“I just … I don’t want to see you get hurt all over again, and I’m afraid that if you come down there with me, it will become inevitable. I don’t think you’re ready for that. Not after everything you’ve been through.”

Scully rubbed her fist across her eyes, grinding the last residue of tears from them. She recognised and appreciated Mulders concerns, but this was the one time when her feelings towards her partner were not going to get in the way.

“I’m fine. I’ll *be* fine. And I am going to San Diego. With or without you”

Her eyes challenged him to argue further, and Mulder knew that he was beaten. That she would follow her own path regardless of his reasoning to the contrary, and if she so chose, she was more than capable of doing it without him by her side. He wasn’t prepared to let that happen.

“I’ll book you a seat.” He conceded wearily.

Continued chapter 3

#genesis #my fic #loose myth arc

[goldenmose-blog]

Golden Goose Sale length

If the drawstring used is the shoelace type, you can purchase the same at craft stores, these are usually sold at a per yard measurement. Likewise, the Golden Goose Sale length should be about ten to 12 inches longer. You can also use the shoelace type string to replace cloth-like string of your sweatpants. Just choose a color that matches the color of the legs.

The trend today is people think of tactical gear as fashion items, and though a new release or a new launch of a tactical gear does not meet with the same kind of frenzy as the launch of a Provogue item or a Lee Cooper jean, the trend of tactical gears dominating the fashion sense of a lot of people can be seen. While you might have thought that only cops can buy tactical gears, be prepared to stand corrected, because even people like you and me can look at buying a tactical gear for ourselves.

For as long as Elisabeth Hasselbeck has been on The View, fans have been interested in her sexy footwear. Whether she is pregnant or simply a sexy mom of three, she always seems to sport creative and funky footwear. Her clever taste in footwear probably stems from her past career as part of the Puma shoe design team. Since she is associated with the Republican party, many fans love to see her sexy, trendy style since it shows the world that people with a conservative worldview needn't be staid and unstylish.

Source. Where you buy your diabetic socks will also matter. There are some shops that sell diabetic socks at a cheaper price such as Wal-Mart. These socks, although technically diabetic socks, will not have the same quality as socks that are purchased from orthopedics or from shops that specialize in diabetic socks such as Foot Solutions. If you are not comfortable with the quality http://www.goldengoosestar.com/ of socks that are sold in your area, check out the socks that are sold in the Internet. As long as you choose your sellers carefully, you should be able to get good socks even from the web.

4. Last August I wanted to straighten my hair to see how it feels. I looked on the internet to see what is possible and so on. That is when I discovered Extenso and how much women hates their curly hair! And why : just because L'oreal tells us what is pretty and not. Sad is that, don't you think? What I waned to tell after all above is this. it seems to me that it very much depends on which culture you live in will you feel beautiful or not with your crazy curls.

So with many of these looks coming out of the 50s will hair and make-up trends from the 50s follow? Designers say yes, but with a contemporary twist. Stylists are seeing the bright red lips and liquid eyeliner used to produce creative shapes such as for instance fishtail flicks on women. As for the hair, one is seeing the classic bun with a twist. The bun can have a fishtail plait. Some are adding ribbon headbands and silk scarfs for an even more authentic 50s look. Leather ribbons are also becoming trendier.

#Golden Goose