Deep Blue Silver Diamond Summer Night Nails

You know exactly what this is about bby 😍🌹 This is an official request for you to write about the rosy lotion, Steve and his immaculate skincare routine, his loving relationship with his mother, and the goddamn hunt for the exact brand she uses 🌹💕 -CockAsInTheBird

My sweet muse. I hope you’re ready for this. I didn’t go so much into his whole routine, because we all know it would be long and involve many, many products. Either way, I hope this will surfice.

Routine

Steve was six, at least he remembers being that young, when it first happened. He would always take a bath and sit on his parents’ bed in clean pajamas, watching his mother apply this stuff to her face. It was thick and white and came in a deep blue tub, about the size of her hand. It looked like a plastic gemstone. It wasn’t the only tub, but it was the one that stood out of the most on her vanity table. The one Steve wanted to touch the most and see what was inside. This particular night he rolled off his spot at the foot of the bed and walked over to for a closer look, a young mind inquisitive and wanting to know everything it could about all kinds of things in the world.

His mother smiled at his face in the mirror, fingers on her cheeks, rubbing in this white stuff that smelt of fresh cut roses she would sometimes bring home and place in big vases in the hall. Steve loved that smell.

“Everything okay my piccolo girasole?” She asked, her native accent coming forward with Steve’s pet name that made him blush slightly. She only used it when it was just them, made it more special. His father, for some reason, didn’t like to hear all the Italian words she knew, but Steve loved it. Loved being called his special name that no one else in the world was called.

He didn’t answer and reached straight for the tub, which was quickly moved away with a light chuckle.

“Ah ah, we ask before we touch Stevie,” she said kindly. “Remember?”

“Sorry mamma,” he apologised, but still kept wide eyes on the tub and what it contained. Like it held a million secrets. Or gold and diamonds. Or ghosts. A set of matching eyes followed his gaze and a warm smile followed.

“You want to try some?”

Steve couldn’t stop his head nodding vigorously even if he wanted it to.

He watched his mother put a small amount on her fingers, manicured and perfect, and gently it was rubbed into his cheek. Immediately his whole head was enveloped in the wonderful smell of roses, but he couldn’t help but giggle because it was cold. Almost shockingly so. He always giggled at a little shock. As if he couldn’t be scared if it was funny.

“It’s mamma’s special cream. Makes her skin all nice and smooth,” his mother explained, talking soft but smiling at her son’s happiness. Steve stayed still and let her rub the cream into the rest of his face, closed his eyes and just focused on how nice it smelled.

“Will it make me pretty like you?” He opened his eyes when he felt her fingers leave his chin.

At the time he didn’t register it, he was far too young to know what to look for, but remembering it there was a strange sad look in her eye. Almost as if she could see the future somehow. 

“Of course it will girasole, but you must never tell your father. It can be our little secret. You can come here every night and you’ll grow up to be the most handsome ragazzo.”

Steve put his finger over his mouth and nodded. Their little secret. 

---

The first time his parents left Steve alone, his mother gave him his own tub of face cream. He was old enough to read it now, in truth he’d been old enough to read it for years. It felt like the most precious gift, silver lettering embossed in the lid that just said Night Cream. He sat cross legged on his floor, back up against the edge of his bed, and followed the same trail his mother made across his face. Cheek, forehead, cheek, under eyes, nose, chin. It was calming. He let the smell of roses fill his head and for a small moment he wasn’t alone. His mother was still around, not following his father across the world in her wifely obligations because they were both too stubborn and old fashioned to get a divorce. She was still at home to call him pet names even though he was almost twelve now, someone to talk to after school who would want to help him with homework instead of his father’s constant cold shoulder.

He didn’t feel like a failure in his mother’s loving eyes. Never.

The first time became many, many more. To the point where Steve just expected to come home and be alone. He had tonnes of friends and people to hang out with, but they all had curfews, parents who loved them enough to want them home at sensible times. Steve tried not to let it bother him, at least on the outside. Inside it cut like a knife. A once daily phone call becoming weekly at best. Disappointment after disappointment. Sorry, we won’t be back next week, your father has a client in Washington he has to have a meeting with. It’s quite important. Good luck in your game. Remember you’ll always be my piccolo girasole. 

Every night Steve would sit in the exact same spot, go through the exact same routine. Let his room and head be filled with the smell of roses and remind himself that he was loved. He wasn’t alone, even though he was. His mamma still loved him. She was out there somewhere. It wasn’t her fault.

The night cream was a lifeline before Steve even realised it. When he ran out, the tub completely dry of any small amount even in the rim of the lid, he went to the only place in town that would possibly sell more. He could easily say it was for his mom. He knew this place sold it, he’d bought some here before. But the spot where it should have been on the shelf was empty. All the way to the wall. Totally empty. Steve stared at his own hand shaking, didn’t register he was breathing faster until the world shrunk to that single empty spot on a shelf full of other night creams that probably had all the same properties. They weren’t the same though. He’d tried that trick before in a tight spot, probably looked completely insane uncapping each individual pot of cream and just smelling them. Nothing was like the deep blue gemstone. Everything else smelt too chemically, too dewy, not rosy enough, was the wrong colour, didn’t feel right on his fingers. 

It had to be the same. It had to be. 

Before he’d been lucky, they had a bit more out back just waiting to be put out. But not this time. And there wouldn’t be a delivery until Friday. He was welcome to come back then. Steve nodded shakily and left the store, sat silently in his car behind the wheel and tried not to feel overwhelmed. His parents had been gone almost five months at this point. They’d never been gone that long before. It was nearly the holidays and everyone at school was talking about what they’d be doing, where they’d be going. Oh my third cousins are coming over, it's gonna be a total drag.

Steve never wanted to admit he missed his parents. He was a teenager, he could drive, he smoked sometimes and drank a lot at house parties. He didn’t ever want to say that sometimes all he wanted was a hug from his mom. For her to pet his head, call him dolce bambino and ask how his day was, how was basketball practice, is he doing okay for finals.

But he missed her. He missed her so much it made him crazy. She was a good mother growing up, she’d tried to be there as much as she could. That night cream was all that was stringing them together across the world. And Steve had run out and there was no more in the store until Friday. 

He felt like crying. He did. Silently. Just let tears fall at the thought of being even more alone than he already was. It was nearly the holidays and he had no idea when they would be back. He didn’t have third cousins. So he drove to the next town over. And then the next. Didn’t stop until it was dark and he was two hours away from home, tired and sore all over from driving and so desperate it was pathetic. But he needed this. It made him feel good, it made him feel not so alone. It made him feel that somewhere out there he was still loved and thought after, even if it was just sometimes. That he wasn’t just forgotten because he wasn’t the best at school.

Steve already knew he was a disappointment to his father, he was never shy in saying so over another subpar report card. A Harrington does better than C- Steven.

The last store he tried had one last tub. Sat alone on the shelf like a miracle. Like it was waiting just for him. He snatched it up, paid, didn’t bother collecting the change and locked himself in his car, trying to contain shakes as he ripped the top open and let himself be instantly calmed by the smell alone. Roses in the hall. Bright summer days by their pool. Listening to his mother speak Italian in a big floppy hat as he splashed around in water wings. Called him her felice delfino. Sitting at her vanity table. Playing with bottles of perfume, and colourful nail polish, and a big white puff that made him sneeze when he dabbed it over his nose to see what it was. Hearing his mother laugh somewhere behind him from the closet.

Hearing her voice say ti amo piccolo girasole.

He put a blob of cream on his cheek, way too much than what he would normally use, but the coolness of it was soothing more than his skin. He wasn’t shaking anymore. He at least felt good enough after a little breathing to drive home.

Ti amo mamma. Wherever you are...

Death n’ Diamonds: Gruvia Oneshot

This was inspired by @allie-and-her-fandoms amazing mafia Au and I decided to write a little some some for it!

Pairing: Gruvia

———-

He laughed as the last man went down, blood oozing out of the bullet wound, a pretty sight to Gray.

A quick sweep through the dead guys pocket and a hundred dollars richer. He kicked the body to the side and left the trail of twenty men behind him.

It used to be harsh and scary doing these runs. Trying to not get killed when you infiltrate the lair of a mob boss doesn’t suit well with a twenty-some year old kid but after years of firing the trigger, it became good fun for the mafia runner.

“Ahh there it is.” Gray hummed. The hallway he painted red had his prize at the end of way. A black door with a platinum handle held what he wanted.

Throwing his foot onto the door, it opened with ease, almost like someone had wanted him to do just that.

He marched in, gun in hand and handsome as ever. A familiar scent filled the room as he knew the aroma of vanilla and rose belong to one person.

“Ya know most people just knock.” A sweet voice said.

Sitting upon the heavy black desk was a dangerous creature. One that many feared and bowed too. She was the closest thing to a goddess and was treated and feared like a queen.

Juvia Loxar, one of the leading Mafia boss in all of Fiore. She built her family’s name into a mob capital and no one dared to test her. She had been a rival of Grays leader, Lyon ever since she denied his proposal and Gray had been sent to kill her many times.

She was blood thirsty, money craving and a heart throb all mixed into a smoking hot and cunning vixen.

The waves of blue hair flipped to the side as she revealed her face. Gorgeous and breathtaking with dark blue eyes that were like sweet poison. Death in disguise.

She blew the smoke from her lips and offer a sinister smile to Gray. Her diamond necklace shined brightly and she blew a kiss towards him.

“Hello handsome.” She winked and hopped of the desk, adoring her long legs and plopped the end of the butt into the crystal ash try.

He gripped his gun tighter and she giggled. He was always cautious around her. She was like a viper, swift and quick and if you made the wrong move, consider yourself dead.

“Oh playing hard to get today?” She circled him like a bird going for it’s prey, sweeping her fingers on his shoulders and making his spine tingle. “I can play too.” She whispered in his ear.

He grunted when he was thrown to the ground and head picked by the grip of her sharp nails. He tried to break free but her heels dug into his leg and the familiar sound of a knife leaving her side tickled his ears. He felt the cool metal press against his neck and knew that knives were her favorite.

“The best you can do?” He choked out and her leg came over his shoulder before she thrusted him to the ground and straddled him.

The sharp knife was still held to his freshly shaved neck. “How about now?” She smirked and pressed deeper almost cutting skin. She had thrown his gun to the side and pinned one of his arms above his head.

“Guess it will do.” He smirked and she only scoffed.

“You know I keep having to get new men each time you bust in here, lives might be easy to spare but I’m breaking a pretty penny for them.” She pouted her deep red lips.

“Then maybe you should hire men who can actually do their job.” He shot back and she took another knife from inside her dress and pinned the sleeve of his suit to the carpet.

“Well since men can’t do the job right then I’ll have to do it for them. Any last words love?” She batted her eyelashes.

“Just a few.” He gulped and he knew she was gonna leave a scar with that blade. “Dinner at 6?” He smirked.

He could feel the vibration from her giggle as she let her grip on the knife loosen. “Mmm sounds like a date.” She winked and Gray smiled. She dragged the knife on his face, carefully pointing the blade away.

“Ya know everytime we do this, I end up with more scars and bruises.” Gray said and Juvia only smiled.

“I’m too pretty for those, plus.” She leaned down and pressed herself against him. “I don’t think my love could handle seeing me all dented up.” She whispered and he let out a groan which she swallowed up with a deep kiss.

There was a slight pop as her lips removed themselves from them. “There’s about twenty thousand in the safe, ya know, so your boss doesn’t get mad.” Juvia said and finally picked herself up off Gray. “And would it kill him to stop sending you to kill me?” She rolled her eyes.

He stood and dusted his jacket off before opening the unlocked safe and taking the small burlap bag. “Better me than someone else who will actually kill you.”

“I can handle my self.”

He turned to see her back on the desk, lipstick in hand and fluffing her hair.

“Well it’s been fun babe.” He said as he placed a kiss to her sharply manicured hand. The one where her giant diamond wedding ring sat.

Rolling her eyes playfully, she wrap his tie between her fingers and pulled him close. Their noses brushed each other and she loved feeling the warmth of his skin of her face.

“Hmm already?” She pouted. “Dinner and dessert aaaand.” She sang. “You stay the night.”

He let out of huff and pressed his forehead against hers. “You know I-“

“Don’t care what your boss says. Say your wife is mad. He doesn’t know it’s me. Plus,” she said running her finger down his shirt. “You look simply delicious darling.”

Gray nodded. “Well I have to look good for my love. Okay, dinner, dessert and I stay.” He gave in and she kissed him on the lips softly.

“Good. You’ve been away too long and I’ve missed you.” He could hear the longingness in her voice and knew that she was genuine.

If there was one thing no one knew about the intimidating Ms. Loxar, is that she was a total lovebug for her husband. She was soft and sweet, kind and cuddly. A complete opposite of her mob tycoon lifestyle.

As for Gray Fullbuster, his extreme rough and cold hearted personality had been twisted into nothing but a sea of love for his wife. A secret only they share.

“I’ve missed you more than you know Raindrop. I’ll see you at dinner tonight.” He kissed her one last time.

“See ya handsome. Oh and tell your boss that I hate him.”

“No problem love.”

“Oh one last thing!” She clapped her hands and dug into her expensive purse. “Silver has been dying to give you this but he hasn’t had the time.”

She handed him a box and inside was a card.

“Happy Father’s Day.” -Silver

He smiled and pulled the red paper off. A black frame with a picture of him, Silver and Juvia.

“He was sad he couldn’t give it to you but when he gets back from summer camp, he can show you his fighting skills.” She smiled.

“Weird to think we sent out seven year old to a camp for fighting and dodging bullets.”

“Well we aren’t normal people.” She said.

Gray tucked the box under his arm and kissed his wife one last time.

“Sorry about the mess out in the hall babe.”

“Eh it’s fine, they were a bunch of duds anyways.”

They walked out of her office and she locked the door. Her heels clacked against the floor as they made their way out of the secret base. Climbing the stairs, they caught up with their lives and laughed a little.

Finally reaching the main entrance, a small pain ran through Juvia.

Gray walked to his car and went to open the door when she caught his arm.

“Juv?”

“Ya know when Silver comes home, maybe we could go somewhere, like a family vacation.” She said quietly. “I know this is our life but I want him to have the option to have a normal childhood, unlike us.”

“Yeah, that sounds good. When he gets back.” He repeated.

He closed the gap and pulled her close. His lips found hers and although she wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of time with him, he pulled away and got into the car.

“See you at dinner.”

“Bye.” She gave a small smile and walked back to her mansion, a separate entrance than to her base.

“Gajeel.” She stated and her right hand man carrying a massive gun walked into the room.

“Yeah boss?”

“Invite Lyon to dinner next week.” She smirked. “It’s time for him to die.”

Gajeel let out a low laugh. “Been waiting for this day boss, no problem. Ya gonna kill him yourself or do I get the honors?”

“I think it would be a nice treat for Gray, after all, his blood is still boiling after the proposal.”

“Plans will be made boss. In the mean time is it alright if I take the day off tomorrow I’ve-“

“Yes you can go see Levy. No need to beat around the bush. She’s welcome here anytime, I adore her. Now if you will excuse me, I have a dinner to get ready for.”

Gajeel stepped to the side and Juvia disappeared upstairs into her massive closet.

She hummed a simple tune as she picked out her dress and prepared for a normal dinner date with her mob husband.

——

I hoped you all enjoyed!!!

The Birth of a Star

Yay, Jonerys A Dream of Spring Week! @jonerysdreamspring2018

Coronation day dawned under the enameled blue of a cloudless sky. Golden sunlight crept across the tiles and caught the gauzy white canopy overhead, creating a soft halo of honeyed light. Daenerys floundered from silken sheets and the soft weight of the featherbed to stretch. The air still held the cold bite of winter, cool and sweet against her naked skin, but the sun lingered longer each day. A pleasant lassitude filled her, both from a long night’s sleep and Jon’s loving. He delighted in the changes pregnancy had wrought and spent considerable time showing her so. It gave him a certain piquant delight to mar her skin with love bites before their coronation. Jon had absconded from their bed in the grey predawn hours, saying with a grin it would be bad luck to stay.

A soft knock interrupted her reverie. Daenerys swathed herself in the drape of deep purple wool dressing gown, the sash barely long enough to knot around the swell of her belly. She was approaching her time, by the maester’s reckoning, due to deliver with the next month or so. She cupped her belly, feeling the lazy stirrings of the occupant within. There was still such trepidation, such awe and wonder.

Daenerys flicked open the lock. The door creaked open to admit Missandei and her ladies.

“Happy coronation day, Your Grace,” Missandei said, her wild hair bound in a silver net at her nape.

“Thank you, my friend,” Daenerys said, embracing her. Her smile felt relaxed and easy in a way she hadn’t felt in months, since before . . . she shied away from the painful memory. Not today. Today was for new beginnings. Joy. Renewal. Springtime.

“Come, there is much to be done. I wish to shine brighter than the sun today,” Daenerys said. She walked barefoot amongst the flock of her women, liking the image of a penitent it invoked. She had begun her journey to the throne with nothing, after all.

Missandei led the way to the bathhouse, where the Stark women waited. Her languor evaporated in irritation. The youngest Stark looked fearsome in her Queensguard armor. Not in Westerosi plate, it hampered her speed. Instead Arya bowed to Daenerys’ insistence of armor with a simple hauberk of Valyrian steel rings, muted by a velvet surcoat in subdued colors. She stood flipping her Valyrian dagger in deceptively lazy flicks.

“Ladies Stark, you needn’t wait upon me. This a day of celebration--”

“We are cousins-by-law, Your Grace. It is our honor to attend you today,” Sansa said with a broad smile. There was genuine warmth in that smile, Daenerys thought, and she was grateful for it. There was a part of her that craved female companionship, a longing she saw reflected in Sansa. Daenerys’ gaze flickered to Lady Stark, finding a similarly relaxed mien. Knowing what she did about Jon’s treatment under the other woman’s care, Daenerys would never be bosom companions with Catelyn Stark. But bonds of family and alliance meant they would continue to cross paths. Daenerys held her gaze for a long, silent moment. I’ve the measure of you, and find you wanting.  

“Very well,” she said.

Missandei led the way to a steaming bath. Torches sat in heavy iron sconces, hissing in stream-wreathed air. Daenerys breathed deep, allowing the moist heat to fill her lungs, along with the musk of wet stone and the perfume of rose oil, her favorite. Missandei’s soft hands plucked at the sash of her gown, guiding her up the steps into the bath. The dressing gown pooled on the floor, gooseflesh stippled her skin at the chill.  

“I ask that you forgive any slights to your sensibilities. My husband is most voracious in his appetites,” she said with a pointed glance at the gathered assembly of women. Love bites peppered her breasts and shoulders. Arya seemed to be fighting a smile. Lady Stark looked as if she’d bitten a lemon. Daenerys waded into the deep pool, biting back a half-pained moan at the intense heat of the water. Sweat broke out in a fine dew on her skin.

With the skill of long practice, Missandei draped the loose drape of her waist-length silver hair over the lip of the bath. A separate jug of hot water dampened her hair. A wet, smacking sound as her hands scooped sweet-smelling soap from a jar and began kneading it into a lather in Daenerys’ hair. Her voice, softly accented and precise, guided the highborn ladies in assisting her. Lady Stark lit a brace of candles, fetching and carrying, Rosalin took her left hand to file and oil her nails. Another of her ladies plied her with bread, soft cheese, dried, sugared plums and watered sweetwine.

“Sansa, please play for me. Anything. Your favorite song,” Daenerys asked with a slit-eyed smile. Sansa nodded, moving to the harp on a stool. The soft strains of her music eased Daenerys deeper into relaxation. A snort of laughter escaped. The song was “Six Maidens in a Pool.”

“How apt,” she drawled with a sly glance at Sansa. The candlelight set Sansa’s auburn hair afire, along with her rosy cheeks.

Daenerys wallowed in the water, feeling much like a pampered whale. The babe stirred, pressing a foot against her belly. Tenderness flooded her and she pressed against the spot, reassuring their child she knew he was there. Tears always hovered close and she allowed several to fall, lost in the steam. Missandei rinsed her hair, then wound it in a towel to dry. Reluctantly, Daenerys stirred herself to wash, scrubbing her skin pink from head to toe.

“Arya,” Daenerys said, summoning her with a lazy gesture.

“Your Grace,” she said, “before you ask, I can’t sing.”

That made the hollow room ring with soft feminine laughter. Despite that, Arya’s smile did not quite reach those long grey eyes. There were shadows in them no light could penetrate, and sometimes the contemplation of them sent a chill through her. Daenerys grasped gently her wrist, feeling wiry strength and energy hum.

“I daren’t ask for a song,” Daenerys said, “instead will you go to Jon? I want to know how he is faring.”

“He hates being fussed over,” Arya said with a measured nod. It was a calculated move, both to see to Jon and to remove Arya from a situation she disliked. The process cut too close to countless occasions where she did not measure up to a lady’s standard.

“I don’t want him drunk or in a foul mood today,” Daenerys said. The low murmur of the harp paused.

“I imagine he’ll say the same for you,” Sansa said, in a jesting tone.

“True enough,” Daenerys said, setting aside her chalice, “water, for now please.”

Now clean, Daenerys was rousted from her bath. Missandei fetched silk slippers, along with a heavier woolen dressing gown to ward off the chill from her skin. They retraced their steps to the king’s chambers, dogged by the ever-watchful Rakharo and Grey Worm. A tall slender woman with the warm brown skin of a Summer Islander waited with her hands folded, gowned in shimmering gold silk.

“Chataya, thank you for coming,” Daenerys said, greeting her with a kiss of peace on the cheek.

“A pleasure to serve, Your Grace. The king shall be most pleased with our labors,” her voice held the melody of an Islander accent. Missandei’s had been schooled to a trace, but Chataya had not lost the music of it in her years in Westeros.

“I would be happy to assist you with styling your hair, Your Grace,” Missandei said, her face creased in a frown. There a trace of hurt in her face. Daenerys grasped her hand to soothe it. She bit the inside of her lip to quell her smile.

“Chataya assists in removing hair as opposed to styling it, dear one. Ladies, perhaps I will summon you later once it is time to dress?” Lady Stark’s face flamed, along with Rosalin’s. Sansa blinked in half-baffled fascination.

“O—Of course, Your Grace. We wait at your pleasure. Come, Sansa,” Lady Stark said, ushering her women out as if her skirts were on fire.

Chataya’s work with warm wax and strips of linen was quick, though no less painful for its brevity. Daenerys stifled a cry at another yank. The worst was over, though. Her cunt was bare and throbbing. She fought down a rush of arousal at the thought of Jon’s reaction. It would drive him mad with lust. Missandei bustled about the apartments, gathering her tools to groom Daenerys’ hair.

“I should hope your king puts forth equal effort, Your Grace,” Chataya said, gold-amber eyes amused. Daenerys chuffed out a harsh laugh.

“Wouldn’t that be a sight? His lovely white skin plucked bald? No, I’m quite fond of his hair.”

“The king is a very comely man,” Chataya said, smearing wax thick and sticky as honey on her inner thigh.

“Yes,” Daenerys said with possessive pride. The thought buoyed her through the last of Chataya’s well-intentioned torture.

Once the Summer Islander took her leave, Daenerys set about directing the stewards and seamstresses and painters. The painter fawned over her features, exclaiming at the color of her eyes, the fullness of her lips. The painter was a tubby woman, sway-backed and gap-toothed, though her face was round and pleasant. Skin thin and throbbing, pained by the babe kicking hard, Daenerys found her patience wear thin.

“I am not toothless or poxied, why must I endure paint and powder like a prostitute?” she snarled.

“No, no, Your Grace, you misunderstand! I only enhance your beauty, like polishing a diamond’s faucets,” the woman squeaked, painting brush poised like calligrapher’s.

“Go on, then,” Daenerys said with an impatient gesture. I will wash it off if it displeases me.

The older woman had a light and dexterous touch, urging her to tilt her head this way and that as Missandei combed and braided her hair. Three braids from each side joined at her nape, woven with pearls and rubies. Tendrils fell in spirals to frame her face, the under layers falling in a soft wave to her waist.

“There, Your Grace,” the painter murmured. Her hands shook as she held up the gilt hand mirror.

Daenerys blinked at her reflection. A thin upward sweep of black along her upper lids made her eyes look larger, deeper. As she tilted her chin to catch the light, a subtle golden shimmer glittered on her lids and temples. A rich red rogue made her lips look ripe and set off her white, even teeth.

“Are—are you pleased, Your Grace?”

“Yes. Yes, I am,” she said, dismissing the woman with warm thanks.

At last, time to dress. Missandei rose and ushered in the Stark women. Their awestruck expressions told her what she wanted to know as to the effect of the paint and Missandei’s patient work with her hair. Daenerys preened.

“Do you think my lord husband will be pleased?” The Stark women dazzled despite their somber house colors.

“Yes and no, Your Grace,” Arya said from the rear of the group. A faint smirk curled her long vulpine mouth.

“I think he will be drooling out of his head when he catches sight of you . . . but then every other man in the room will be too,” she said. Daenerys laughed, echoed by her women.

“That is a good reaction, then!”

Daenerys urged them into her chambers with a gesture.

“How is he?” Daenerys asked Arya in a low voice. Arya looked relaxed, as relaxed as one of her skills and experience could be, her smile easy.

“He and Robb are arguing baby names of all things. All is well, Your Grace,” she said. Daenerys cut a glance to Rosalin, the swell of her belly slight against the rustling finery of her grey silk dress.

“Yes, all is well,” Daenerys said.  

Sansa and Missandei helped her into linen smallclothes. Stays were tightened loosely. Her seamstress despaired at the gown’s silhouette being ruined by the bulge of her belly. One fire-hot glare from Daenerys was enough to stifle any further grumbling.

The gown itself was gorgeous thing of iridescent scarlet silk embroidered with black dragons in exquisite detail, edged with silver. The dress fastened at each shoulder with blued-silver dragon brooches. The neckline plunged over her breasts, gathered at a high waist. Crimson and ebony beading decorated the waist line and cupped her hips in curls to mimic fire. Cloth of silver and red brocade formed a drape down either side, crimped skirts of crimson silk beneath. Heeled doeskin slippers gave her a slight elevation. Blued silver torqs in the shape of sinuous dragons snaked up both bare arms. A choker of pearls and rubies rested at her throat. The Stark ring shone on her thumb, a lone sapphire sparkle amidst the colors of her house.

Lady Stark laid her resplendent cloak about her shoulders. It was a coronation, not a wedding, so she wore a cloak of houses Stark and Targaryen to match Jon’s. The garment was heavy and hot; its trailing edge would make movement ponderous.

“Ready at last,” Daenerys said, a sidelong glance finding her women fluttery and misty-eyed.

Daenerys swallowed a knot of emotion the rose in her throat. Today was a realization of a lifetime of dreaming. Daenerys blinked away tears, afraid to smudge her paint. She released a shaking breath, gathering her composure. Outside the bells began their ponderous toll, a loud, mournful pealing.

“The throne room, ladies,” Daenerys said. At last. At last, it was time.

The throne room of the Red Keep was decorated for the occasion. Crowded with lords and ladies, redolent with the scents of perfume, glittering with sunlight and gold. The windows were thrown open to allow in the cool morning air. It was a hint of relief, the weight of her cloak and the press of so many bodies made sweat slick her body.

The columns were decorated with the swords of her fallen enemies, an echo to her ancestors Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys. The dull roar of talk quieted at her entrance, men and women jostling for the best place along the flower-strewn aisle. White and blue rose petals, each step releasing their crushed perfume. Daenerys met the gaze of each of her allies and soldiers present, in recognition and respect. Ahead loomed the Iron Throne, that yearned-for seat of her fathers, seated in its glittering, barbarous glory.

More beautiful than that sight—than any other—was Jon. He stood somber and regal in his black and grey. Black boots polished to a mirror shine, fitted black suede trousers, a square-shouldered fitted grey tunic. On the right breast, a white wolf snarled outward, on the left a white dragon, trimmed in silver. She liked the image of the wolf and dragon back to back, partners and equals. Her mouth also watered at how crisp and fitted the clothing lay against his taut body. A trailing cloak, a twin to the one she wore draped his broad shoulders. Beneath the drape of his cloak, she glimpsed his own stamped leather sword belt and Longclaw at his side. His beard was trimmed neat, the upper layers of his unruly hair tied away from his face.

Gods, her bones turned to water. Heat slipped into her blood. She yearned to be alone in their chambers. Sable eyes met hers and she saw her awe and desire reflected. Daenerys remembered her mincing, measured stride when she wanted to gallop up the aisle to him. At last, she joined him on the dais. The touch of his hand was a hot, sweet jolt. How far they had come from would-be conqueror and captive. My Jon, my love. Jon’s thumb stroked her knuckles, his eyes swimming with emotion.

“Greetings and welcome, lords and ladies of Westeros!” Her Hand’s voice rang through the hall. Tyrion’s scarred face bore a blinding smile.

“War has torn our country asunder for too many years. So much lost in blood and madness. It is with a light heart that I greet this day. For today, we crown a new queen and king of Westeros. Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, and her husband, King Jon, born Jaehaerys, of Houses Stark and Targaryen.”

Jon caught her eye and gave his version of a wink, both eyes closing in a focused blink. The heart-melting sight never failed to make her smile. She bit the inside of her cheek hard to keep her appropriately solemn expression. She squeezed his hand, fighting the urge to pull a face at him to make him laugh.

The soft murmur of chanting swelled, a procession of the Seven’s faithful, septons, septas and silent sisters marched down the aisle, swinging incense censers. Soft clouds of blue, gauzy smoke wreathed around them. At their heels were hermits and wood witches waving weirwood staffs and fresh blood-red weirwood leaves. Brandon Stark wheeled down the aisle in his chair amongst them, expression smooth and blue eyes as deep as the ocean. He met her gaze, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck rose. Such weariness and wisdom in those eyes.

Representatives from both great religions of Westeros gathered on either side of the dais. The High Septon and senior hermit approached bearing a weirwood platter holding their crowns. The Usurper had destroyed or remade the crowns of her forefathers, so the two of them had commissioned new ones forged. Jon’s was a black iron band stamped with runes of the First Men crowned with three iron spikes, curled at the base of each spike was rose of blued silver. Daenerys was almost its twin, a thinner band of blued silver, crowned with three spikes of black iron, white gold, and aged copper. Her roses were of black iron. Each leader took the lower step of the dais and addressed the crowd with speeches of hope and glory.    

In planning their coronation, she and Jon had consulted dozens of historians, maesters, and religious leaders regarding the ceremony. Theirs would be unique amongst the kings and queens of their dynasty. No septon, Hand, or maester would crown them.

A hush fell over the room, save for the occasional shuffle or cough. Two children tottled down the aisle hand in hand with their nurse. The boy—Aaryn—was a farmer’s son from the North, blue eyes wide and pink-cheeked. The girl—Alys—was a minor baron’s daughter from the Dornish Marches, dark of hair and eye. Highborn and low, north and south, youth and the hope of the future.

Facing the gathered assembly with the Iron Throne at her back, Daenerys bent to one knee. The stone was achingly cold through the thin layer of her dress. Aaryn, his lip fixed between his teeth, carried her crown with frowning concentration. As he approached, Daenerys offered a sly wink. That coaxed a wobbly smile and he set the crown on her head with exaggerated care. It was a cold, heavy press around her head. A purposeful choice. Designed to remind her of what the crown had cost her, what it meant. May it never rest easily.

Jon knelt at her side, reaching for her hand hidden beneath the drape of their cloaks. Alys took up Jon’s crown and stepped carefully towards them. Her tiny hands shook as she set the crown on his head, a bit crooked. Knowing what store men put in coronation omens, Jon righted the crown with a subtle tilt of his head. Jon mouthed the words: ‘Well done’ to Alys. The girl offered a bashful smile and skittered back to her nurse.

As one, she and Jon rose, hands linked. In the same moment, every man and woman in the room fell to their knees.

“Hail Daenerys Stormborn, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains!” Tyrion said in a ringing voice.

“Hail Daenerys!”

“Hail Jon, First of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, the White Wolf!”

“Hail Jon!”

The cries reverberated throughout the hall, ringing in her ears. I must remember this. Until her dying day, she mustn’t forget. Essosi and Westerosi alike, united in peace. The scent of roses, and spring sunshine, Jon’s shining sable eyes and the warm grip of his hand. Daenerys looked into Jon’s eyes as her heart brimmed and overflowed.

Emily is the shade under a tree, she's the clinking of a porcelain cup lowered onto its plate. Emily is shadows in the night and muffled laughter, she's winter clothes, the pleasant chill of the lake water in the summer, the sound of footsteps on dead leaves. Emily is feet on the table, sleepless restless nights, the flapping of a hummingbird's wings, yellow daisies in tall vases, she is soft fur rugs and cold hands, knowing looks and good grades. She is the misty grey moment right before dawn, she's armchairs and colorful socks, she's bare feet on cold tiles and the smell of toast for breakfast. She is starry nights and even breaths, fantasy books, warm tears, a raised eyebrow, thick scarves, too many thoughts and dark memories best left alone. She's clean sheets, shivering with cold, concentrated frowns, the feeble rays of sun on a winter morning. Emily is smooth pebbles, the last day of school before the holidays, chocolate-chip cookies, orange juice, kept secrets, she's warm showers with bad singing, secret smiles, the patter of rain on the window pane, sitting by the fireplace with an old book, she's pressed flowers and cozy pijamas, startled screams and accidental naps, she is the smell of rain before a thunderstorm, hot chocolate and burnt tongues.

Pansy is cutting remarks, a lipstick stain on a napkin, tiny diamonds, she's the unforgiving sun on the hottest day of the summer. She's manicured nails and shrill laughter, disapproving looks and sharp smirks. She's brunch-time gossip and tight dresses, the sound of champagne being uncorked and the bubbles simmering in the glasses. Pansy is brushing tears away, fixing makeup and going out with head held high, sleeping masks and the sound of heels on marble stairs, she's the echo of a single voice in the drifty entrance hall of a manor. She is a fake taste for classical music, she is eyerolls, shiny counters and ornate mirrors, unlit cigars and parisian streets, silent family dinners, letters in fancy handwriting, dainty cats and red roses. Pansy is smiles and excuses for not doing her homework, tightly pressed lips, a heady scent of floral perfume, fashion magazines and detective stories. She is challenges, the deep purple of antique sofas, going a bit too far, a bit too fast. She is sarcastic pet names and iced-over ponds in the winter. She is big sunglasses, family secrets inherited like heirlooms, tarot cards and yellowing postals, burning glares and chilly silences. She is white butterflies and fluffy clouds, the feeling of doning on a winter coat just retrieved from an old trunk. She is venomous snakes, licking cream off your fingers, weaponized seduction, pearl necklaces and the smell of morning coffee. She is lace panties and no bra, sushi at a wedding, perfect eyeliner, will kill a man if provoked and her hands will only shake slightly afterwards, she is the feeling of sharing an invented secret language with your best friend. Pansy is the clear water of a lake in spring, she is a pretty pink book kept hidden in plain sight containing poison recipes, she is manipulation and creating one's own luck, she is protecting younger girls from assholes at parties, she is the unfortunate knowledge that comes from first-hand experiences, she is cute picnics on a hill and strawberries, she is sharing rape-escape techniques and sharp hexes with younger girls, she is spoilers and broken hearts, dangerous smiles and fierce friendship.

Draco is blue sweaters, red noses, perfectly brewed tea and the first snowfall of the winter. He is the smell of mint and sweets, he is lying on the floor and dramatic storytelling, icy stares and childish tantrums, new quills and unconditional love for parents. He is the woosh of an arrow piercing through the air, clawfoot bathtubs, snowy owls, silver rings and tailored suits. He is hunger for knowledge and perfection, big leather-bound books, hidden things at the bottom of suitcases. He is the feeling of being at the wedding of people you don't care about, he is the sound of footsteps on gravel driveways and coughs in the silent dormroom at night. He is waltz dancing and shiny shoes, top grades and the crippling need to please, he is raised chins and soft hair, unsure words and the need for reassurance. He is mixed signals and self-esteem issues, he is the sound of the frogs singing by the pond during summer evenings. Draco is string music and fog on windows, he is bubble baths and slippery floors. He is the texture of old oak furniture and clean feathers. He is the taste of chocolate, the taste of an ice cube, he is long trainrides and sidelong glances. Draco is christmas carols and premeditated decisions, he is petty arguments and dark circles under the eyes. He is the sea the day after a stormy night, relaying secrets and resting heads on laps.

Blaise is easy grins, slow strolls with light chatter, he is the smell of freshly-cut grass, he is washing ink from fingers, the texture of the foam floating on the sea waves. He is passing without studying and flirting without trying, he is searching eyes and understanding the unspoken. Blaise is the soft candlelight at night, careless beauty, practiced confidence. He is crimson red silk and the feeling of standing on the cusp of a mountain, of sitting on dry parched earth, he is the cutting winter wind, he is a vague fear of the dark, polished pianos, taking advantage of rumors. Blaise is secrets better left unknown, he is guarded heart and free laughs in the safety of the girls' dorm during sleepovers. He is layered sentences and poorly disguised distaste. He is interior-design magazines and bold choices, he is the feeling of watching fish swimming at the aquarium, hummed songs and Byron poems.

Daphne is scattered white flowers in the soft spring grass, she is pretty dresses, she is always knowing the latest gossip and lots of friends. She is multitasking and giving good advice, the soft smell of shampoo, cute hairstyles, big dogs, protective-older-sister spirit. She is softness mistaken for naivety, kindness mistaken for foolishness, embraced beauty mistaken for vanity. She is icecream and the refusal to feel ashamed for having good sex, she is ten ongoing conversations with ten different people about ten very different topics at the same time. She is summer holidays and family nights, she is a strange and unwarranted loneliness that creeps into the chest around midnight, she is the texture of flower petals, of new parchment, she is braiding friends' hair and talking about boys and keeping the conversation going. She is insecurities whispered only to the closest of friends while curled up in bed together, she is the sound of shouted guesses during charades, the sound of bare feet on wooden floors, dancing with her sister in their nightgowns. Daphne is bedtime stories and lullabies, romance novels and horror movies. She is soft cheek kisses, sun-freckled noses, loyalty, the feeling of waking up in a good mood. She is stargazing on a clear night. She is small details and fitting in effortlessly, she is laughing until your stomach hurts and crying at emotional scenes.

Millie is sturdy trees during a storm, the reliable sound of the clock ticking, she is hard-earned thick skin and learnt self-love. She is the sound of pebbles sinking into a calm lake, a curious lioness prowling around her domains. Millie is unapologetic truths and suffering no fools, she is peaceful autumn nights and warm breeze. She is listening with an open heart and saying harsh truths, she is adventure books and reading in bed, a good head on broad shoulders to cry upon, quiet laughter and hard-to-earn trust. Millie is solid arguments and paint-stained hands, shrewd looks and resilience. She is fresh snow and fulfilled bucket-lists. She is all the colors of autumn, white roses, drawing on fogged mirrors and the smell of freshly sharpened pencils.

Tracey is restless fingers and smudged glasses, she is rainy days and cuddling under a pile of blankets in the winter. She is deep green and bright blue, adhd, dog-eared books and spooning with her boyfriend. She is swirls in the water, soap bubbles, borrowed too-big sweaters and motivational quotes, ink-stained essays, anxiety, permanently cold feet and lip gloss. Tracey is watching condensation drops race each other on the car window, close circle of friends, whispered i love yous, forgetting to have breakfast, cult films, fried eggs and coffee. She is the sound of pacing on the carpet, soft drizzle, quiet huffs of laughter and a flock taking flight.

Talon

“To Belong” Writing Contest Entry Written by: Beth A.

Evening had settled over the city, bathing slated rooftops in a warm, honeyed glow. A cool breeze with the scent of rain on its breath trickled through the gutters like a sigh. The purple swell of rainclouds had all but dissipated, leaving spatters of dark, bruise-like hues in the sky. Squirming in the residue, Mennah perched on the sill of a three storey balcony, squinting into the light through the amber tint of her goggles, absorbing each brush stroke of colour in the sky shimmering in the petrol puddles below. 

The small tuft of her tail flicked back and forth in a ‘come-hither’ motion as she balanced on the ledge by the tips of her toes, fingers curling into the strap of an oversized satchel slung over her shoulder like a rucksack. The wind, to prove it still had some breath left in its body, sought a hold on the marmoset’s tiny form, threading wispy fingers through her mane in a vain attempt to buffet her from her perch. 

Even with the warmth of seeping, amber rays tracing through her fur, the cool, lingering touch of the rain made her shiver. Mennah’s pelt fluffed as the zephyr whisked by. Stricken with the urge to just do, she stretched her hand out, spreading it to catch the wind only to feel it slip through her fingers. The cool touch was substantially better than that stifling café. Her fingers twitched and curled. A purse on her lips, she adjusted the strap of her satchel and peered down, eying the drop. The row of terraces cast grey shadows to the sodden street below. Across the road, she could see the lights of ‘The Tablespoon’ flicker off. Fired. Again. She chittered despondently, steering herself over to the railings and perching on the edge. Coiling low, she sprung forward taking off like a bolt from a crossbow, vaulting across impromptu walkways and skittering along slated tiles. The world blurs by her, messy and incomprehensible. 

Streetlights, wet pavements, flashes of passing cars. She blears through it all. Up here, she couldn’t be touched by the scolding tongues of scathing remarks and pompous consumers her ex-establishment had to offer. Up here, she was flying. The warmth in her arms and legs spread to the tips of her fingers, making them tingle every time she rebounded off something. Her abdomen twisted pleasantly, warming at the sweet way it stretched and coiled under the strain. However, the slow burn had grown into a persistent ache niggling on the edge of her senses. With a leap that carried her from a telephone pole to a parapet, the ache screamed. Water sloshed up her legs as she skidded to a halt. The avenues had transformed into wrapper strewn, gurgling alleys and the tiled roofs into flat, concrete balustrades. Gritting her teeth, Mennah reclined on her haunches, her tiny heart like thunder in her ears. 

With a chittering groan, she pulled the satchel’s strap from around her neck and dropped it on the ground beside her. A low trill of pain filtered between the fissures of her teeth as her arm throbbed. Nimble fingers brushed through the dusty gold of her course fur, soothing the wrought muscle beneath. She needed a break. Pealing her goggles from her face with her good arm and setting them beside her, she felt her body warm. A faint trickle began to buzz through her flesh like the conjuring of a lightning bolt. Just as her skin started to sear, white engulfed her vision. With a pulse of light her limbs elongated, gold fur receded into bronzed flesh, and Mennah stepped out of her sprightly marmoset skin and into her willowy human one. She stood, stretching the soreness out of her biceps, arching her back to pull at the taut knots between her shoulders. Her hair brushed against her bare shoulders, swathes of bottle-green bleeding into black from the bottom up. Her toes curled as they squished together in the grime and dirt. 

The swell of pollution and grime engorged itself on the previous trickle of rain, bloating, distending and bursting from the rooftops to trickle and pool in sludge-like puddles in the streets below. Mennah felt her nose wrinkle. With no bus pass or the money for a taxi and the only options being winding through alleys and risking her ass leaping through the voids between buildings, she was much happier taking the longer route home than trudging through the muck, thank you very much. The aftertaste of ozone in the air curled her tongue to her palate. She hated being outside after a wet spell. Scintillating, neon-blue lights pulsed above shiny, wet cobbled streets, mingling with the yellow vapour bulbs of the streetlamps. Fiddling with the bottle green ends of her hair, twisting and threading it around her fingers, Mennah watched as the evening sun swelled and casted a copper-pink glow, bathing the land in a swash of light and colour. She was silent, gaze locked on the brushstrokes of embers sweeping over the parapets and concrete rooftops. 

She stayed that way as the evening quickly began to bleed a dusky blue. Sequestered under the titillating glint of the stars above, Mennah huffed, shuffling through her satchel and shucking out her hoodie to retain some remnants of warmth. There was something ravenous about the shift of summer to autumn. Despite the warm colours and the drizzled, honeyed evenings, emptiness ran through the howling winds. She used to love the autumn, but nowadays it left a bitter edge on raw nerves. The image of that bloated, pus-pile of a boss floated in her mind. Her nails began to leave crescent welts in the flesh of her palms. Fired, rejected, swatted away like a bluebottle fly. Maybe she did bite a little too hard into that old toad, but nobody had the right to insinuate her life or her intelligence because of her damn hair. Besides, her nose did look like an overripe bell pepper. And like that, she was thrown out; uniform left crumpled in the gutter ‘round the back. Her stomach gnawed on itself, tiny pinpricks beginning to sting at the corners of her eyes, and quite suddenly, she began to grow angry. 

What the hell was she doing? She was stuck in a financial rut with nothing but a couple hundred pounds and a shitty foldup couch to her name, and she was sitting here slouching on someone else’s parapet wallowing. She fought the tears back, swiping them away with the back of her hand. With grim resolution she stood, squaring her shoulders from the weighted slouch they pulled themselves into. She was tired of crying, tired of feeling inadequate and alone, of being afraid. By all accounts, she should be fearless; she had persevered against the odds and faced the aspect of destitution many times with icy calm poise. Swallowing around the lump that’d crawled up her throat, Mennah found herself threading her fingers through her hair. Roots to ends. Black to green. The familiar motions soothed her frazzled nerves. There will be other jobs, she told herself, quelling the snake-like whispers in her head. You have enough for next week’s rent and more than enough time to find another job. Just breathe. Sucking up a sharp breath, Mennah tilted her head back, wincing as the bones grated and popped at the base of her skull. 

She had no idea how long she sat there musing, but by the time she surfaced from the broiling torrent that was her mind, night had fully transcended and the moon hung like a lonely bone in the sky, stars scintillating like diamond shards trapped in bubbling tar. Holding it until her lungs began to cinder and her skin itched, she released the breath with a loud ‘pbbbbbbblt’, stepping back into the familiar itch that was her golden marmoset. Her hoodie slumped around her shoulders, swallowing her whole. Hopping through the neck, she balled it up, shunting the thing back into her satchel and hooked the strap around her shoulder once more. The soft cotton felt nice on her calloused fingers, and as she thumbed the tender blisters, she grimaced at the thought of swinging the rest of the way home. Come on you big baby, a familiar tenor echoed snidely in her head, it’s not that far. Pulling at the strap with a huff, she prepared herself to spring from the parapet when a great gust of wind rifled through the small tuft of green fur at the nape of her head. 

She squeaked, head swivelling up to catch a glimpse of whatever oversized pigeon decided to fly in her space. All she managed to catch was a spray of white. She blinked a slow languid motion. An osprey. Not an unusual sight, but not a sight she was used to. Head tilted, Mennah caught herself gawking; the white flight feathers and the black speckles on the underside of their wings reminded her of the eyes of silver birches. Sharp black talons tucked by their tail feathers, curled and relaxed almost harmlessly. The air rumbled with the power of a blustering sea-tempest from a mere beat of their wings. Wings tilted down, and with it went the bird, twisting mid-air until its feet touched the adjoining parapet. The light undersides were tucked away, revealing cold brown flight feathers the colour of petrified wood. From the angle of their head, the osprey had to have known that she was there, but was simply content to fluff up and began preening those gossamer wings. 

She was entranced, watching that powerful, slate grey beak glide through the primers and carefully work its way across to the secondary remiges. Picking at the last tufts, they suddenly paused, making a show of noticing her. Tilting their head and regarding the little marmoset with a raptor-like gaze. Drizzled yellow eyes met her pebble black ones and all at once, Mennah was held captive. There was something foreboding about those eyes. Enticing and dangerous; like honey traps rippling with the twitching limbs of hornets submerged. The backs of her ears began to tingle. Something deep in her reptilian brain told her to run, yet her limbs felt warm and heavy. For as tense as the air was, the silence was calming. Tranquil. Blinking out of her stupor, Mennah realised that the osprey was still watching her. They seemed to be waiting. Brow pursing, Mennah settled onto her haunches, regarding the raptor to see if they would reciprocate the gesture. 

The osprey however, made no such move, their head swivelling to glare over the parapet. Their chest feathers puffed out like the hackles of a cat, and Mennah watched in awe as their wings splayed the span of her arms from fingertip to fingertip. She briefly wondered what those dark feathers would feel like. The next moment, with a powerful swoop of those wings, they were gone, diving over the edge and disappearing from sight. Trapped in a daze, she scooted over to the other parapet, curiosity pulling at her like marionette strings. Reaching the edge, she peered over. The prickle behind her ears spread to the back of her head. In the corner of a brown alley, an eclectic group of humans and animals had gathered in a semi-circle around a scruffy looking cat with a mangled ear and bristled fur. They had it surrounded. She felt her gut lurch. Trappers. Monsters that shucked the pelts off other animals and sold them on the black-market. Oh no … nononono she shouldn’t be here. She needed to leave. A rustle of movement caught her eye. 

The osprey glared on from a podium, perched above the scene like a dour gargoyle. The little menagerie seemed to be talking to each other, their hushed words lost to her from the vantage point, but from the sounds of their oily timbres, it was anything but good. She wanted to look away, leave and pretend she didn’t see the way they pushed in around the poor person snared in their net, but she couldn’t. The situation was beginning to leave a nasty taste in her mouth. Her whole head was buzzing now, from the tip of her nose to the jut of her chin, her heart like thunder in her throat. Without warning, one of the men took a purposeful step forward, a walking skyscraper bound in coils of muscle, boxing the creature in. The cat tried to dart between his legs, but was a fraction too slow. His tail made a sickening crunch beneath the heel of the man’s boot. The yowl was curdling, a hollow cry of pain. Mennah’s gut lurched. A wild, livid glare flitted through her pebble black eyes. Her throat clenched, swallowing the black shriek crawling up her windpipe like a prowling panther. 

This went beyond words. All that passed through her mind was rage. Her teeth bared, focus funnelled onto the dark pillar of a man like he was the focal point of a hurricane. Never in her entire life had she felt such anger coursing through her veins. Somewhere deep inside, she realised later, it fuelled her … and that terrified her. She didn’t think, only reacted. She threw herself off the ledge, honing in on the shaggy mane of chestnut hair. She landed like a brick on water but she quickly scrabbled for purchase. She grabbed at anything she could hold onto, hair, clothes, skin, and pulled as hard as she could, nails biting. She could hear screaming, shouts of surprise at the sudden appearance of a flying ochre furball, but she was deaf to them, working as much damage as she could before bolting the hell out of there. In her peripheral she caught a glance of a matted grey slinking around the corner. Her grip slipped. Strong hands ensnared her, fingers sinking into her ribs before being wrenched from the man’s scalp and flung away like a like a ragdoll. For a brief, weightless moment, Mennah panicked, the image of her small body breaking under the impact of such a throw flitting through her mind like a zoetrope. 

Her skin blistered and the next moment her feet hit the ground, her momentum tangling them around each other. Her bare back smacked against the wall and her lungs stuttered, body crumpling to the ground. The slick of grime coated her arms and knees and smeared all down her front. The edges of her vision blurred and darkened, and slowly enclosed around her sight. Her mind felt slow, crammed with cotton. Figures fluttered by as her world swam in and out of focus. A flare of white with black speckles. Osprey wings. Her mind returned to the sensation of claws at her shoulders. And teeth at her nape. Terror filled her lungs like a heady gas and she lashed out, knuckles scraping against a hard jawline. The weight fell off her back with a yelp, but hands quickly replaced them, fisting in her hair, knotting the dark tendrils and gripping her face tightly. As calloused fingers dug into the soft swell of her cheeks, Mennah felt her lips peel back, unsheathing slick teeth, and she bit down hard. The giant screamed, hand slipping from her hair to wrench the other from her mouth, but she followed, a crazed light glinting in her eyes. 

Her teeth were locked and set. She wasn’t letting go without taking a chunk of him with her. A spill of copper tang spattered over her tongue. In response, something cracked across her cheek, sparking a flash of white across her vision. She drew back, but the hands followed, grabbing her shoulders like bike handles, thumbs digging into the meat around her clavicles, and threw her body onto the ground. She hit the dirt heavily, a gust of air rushing from her lungs. Her head cracked against the cement, teeth rattling as black spots popped behind her eyes for a brief second. Equilibrium whirling, she attempted to sit up, too stunned to notice the figure looming over her until his thick hand slithered around her neck and forced her back down. Head bouncing on the floor, her airways tightened, constricted, she fought to remove the grip on her throat. But it wouldn’t budge. 

She howled and writhed, putting up as much of a fight as she could, but she was tired. The familiar flair in her arm was beginning to rile up and spread to her shoulder. Chest heaving, she fell limp. The man snickered, smirk pulling at his mouth and stretching a silvery scar etched under his bottom lip. “That all you got?” Mennah’s head ached and throbbed, making it hard to pull up much of a coherent thought, but she sucked on her tongue, pulling up as much moisture as she could and spat directly at the bastard’s face. “Go to hell,” she hissed as he reared back with a guttural growl. Hands tightened, crushing her windpipe. “You little -”

“Enough.” The air stilled. Through the watery film of her eyes, Mennah craned her head to see a woman, skin like cattails and rippling yellow eyes, observing the scene with a blasé demeanour. Her voice didn’t raise, words never wavered, but the clipped edge of her tone spoke of a woman who commanded attention. A pause. Fingers around her throat twitching. The man released his white knuckled grip. Back turned, Mennah took her chance and sat up, arms shaking as she braced and locked both elbows. She felt herself pale. The dull thrumming in her ears became a roar. She swallowed. Her throat was in agony. Her breath rattled in her chest in painful spasms, squeezing her insides to near-breaking points. The group around her spilled back, widening the circumference they set around her. A spasm of pain pinched her face. Her whole body strummed like taut elastic. Pouring over the throb of her body, she didn’t notice until the shadow spilled over her that the woman had edged closer. All she could do was swallow thickly as she leaned in, hot breath trickling over her face. Her lips tilted up invitingly; sharp, yellow eyes flitting softly over Mennah’s soft features like the light brush of a feather. 

“Well, aren’t you the little hero?” she intoned, a soft, lilting croon like a mother coddling her sulking child. At once she’d bristled, livid. Who the hell did she think she was? This woman sat back and watched as someone’s tail was crushed, watched this monstrous and debilitating thing happen without as much as a bat of an eyelid. Hell, she probably instigated it with the way the group surrounding her torqued at her command. She was about to hash as much when before she could comprehend what was happening, hot lips were pressed against her own. Mennah’s eyes widened as she felt the woman’s mouth part, tongue probing at her bottom lip. As quickly as it started, the woman pulled away. Mennah sat there, ridged. She could still feel the heat of her breath linger in her. The woman’s lips pealed back into a grin and she leaned in, ever closer. 

“I’ll be seeing you again.” Hot breath curled around the shell of her ear. She didn’t move, not even when she beckoned the group on with a click of her fingers. Not even when the bear-like man shot her a pernicious glare, one with a violent promise tied to its tail. She could only watch as the woman sprung to the air with a flash of light. As she left, she left her with a taste of smoke and iron on her tongue. She stayed there, aching on the ground, for several minutes until the sound of sirens crawled up the hill. She managed to clamber onto her feet, transform and scale the building and reclaim her satchel, dazed. She had a text on her phone; hey BB, wanna come over? can’t eat this jalapeno pizza by myself She didn’t reply. 

As the morning rolled by, she woke to a choker of mottled bruises around her throat like giant, swollen amethysts and remembered that she left her goggles on the parapet. She spent the rest of the day curled on her beaten up loveseat, stomach folding itself over and over again. She felt as though she’d been tranquilised. Everything seemed to process a lot slower, and she felt numb to everything. All she could focus on was keeping the floor from buckling beneath her. She has Trappers on her tail. They were going to come for her. They were going to come for her and gods knew what they’d do? Mennah doubled over herself, wrapping her arms around her legs and pressing her forehead into her knees. Black rings were beginning to encompass her vision. She could still feel the talons shifting beneath her skin.

Fleeting Moments

Before you read: This short story contains some tough subject matter regarding LGBTQ+ and suicide. Suicide is never the answer there is always something to look forward to, if you are feeling suicidal or that you have thoughts of ending your life please call the Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-8255,

There are moments in our lives that shine like beacons in the dark mist of our pasts. The brightest beacons aren’t usually happy moments we like to recount, but they always tend to pop-up when we least expect them. When I was younger my parents would warn me about ‘monsters’ that hunt at night and that I should never venture out in the dark. Yet, I found solace standing under a full moon at its peak while the cool air wrapped around, gently caressing me and erasing all my woes. I always felt most alive in those fleeting moments, I even thought that maybe I was a monster too. ~~~~ The first time I ever felt free and that the cruel senseless world that I was in couldn’t capture me was when I set eyes on Her in middle school. I didn’t realize at the time what I felt was so wrong. I saw Her in the hallway of Eastern Middle. The packed hallways were filled with anxious sweaty prepubescent teens rushing to fifth period. The buzz of chatter filled the dank florescent lit halls as bustling bodies blurred and all I could see was her covered in a halo of light. Her dark auburn-chestnut hair, her fair ivory skin kissed with light freckles, all seemed to standout in the crowd. Time seemed to slow as I drew closer to Her. I could see the rosy flush on her cheeks, the faint pink on her plush lips. She turned pushing her wavy hair behind her diamond pierced ears. Our eyes met and her crystal blue eyes took my breath away, they looked like gems that could see through my soul. She tilted her head and faintly smiled sideways embarrassingly. The smile that reached her eyes twinkled from under her heavy mascara coated lashes. We passed by each other and when I turned around she had vanished into the sea of people. I stood still, the waves parted around me as I grasped at my chest, heart racing; I dared not move in case it would explode. I’d never felt such sensation before in the twelve years that I had been alive. I took a deep breath and continued towards class not thinking about anything else but her beautiful oval face. It was later in the week that I saw her again in the cafeteria sitting at a table by herself. I took a deep breath and hoped I wouldn’t faint. I looked around and noticed that we were of a few kids in the cafeteria, most of the other lunch-goers were outside eating and talking away. I got to the long gray rectangular table and took another deep breath and somehow managed to say “Hi…um…Can I sit with you?” “Sure.” She looked up surprised but smiled and gestured to the seat across from her. I noticed her nails which had small panda faces on them and giggled to myself. Gosh I loved pandas. I sat down across and smiled at her. “Why are you laughing?” she asked. “Oh! Sorry…um I really like pandas and seeing your nails I just got really happy.” I blushed and pulled my tray closer to me on the table. “Oh thanks. My older sister did it. I like pandas too. They are my favorite animal. Oh um, by the way I’m Ellie, well my name is Elisabeth but I feel that it’s an old person’s name so I prefer Ellie. What’s your name?” She happily chimed as she put out her hand for me to shake. “I’m Kat. Just…just Kat nothing pretty like Elisabeth,” I shyly shook her hand “sorry if I am bugging you I just saw you a few days ago and thought you were beautiful and wanted to talk to you.” I looked up from her hand and blood rushed to my face I didn’t mean to say all that. Her face matched mine and we both looked away giggling embarrassingly to escape the awkwardness. “I am so sorry. I will go.” As I grabbed my untouched tray to leave with my tail between my legs. She grabbed my tray. “It’s okay. I thought you were pretty too when we passed by in the hallway a few days ago. I’m even happier that you came to sit with me.” She tilted her head and smiled just like the first time I ever saw her. I learned what love was in that moment. Looking back at that time I realize how carefree we were. We didn’t know what bisexual or lesbian or even gay meant. We started spending more time together and would meet up after school. We would even have sleepovers and just talk about our families and our siblings and even about what was on the news. She was the middle child and had one older sister and a younger brother. Her mom was dating this highly religious guy that she met at church. She loved animals and reading Victorian novels like those from Bronte and Jane Austin. She even told me one night when I was over at her house that she wanted to be an English teacher overseas. She loved the idea of traveling. Weeks to months and then to years went by and we were inseparable. We dated guys and things never worked out and always broke up after a little while because things just didn’t ‘work’, it wasn’t that we weren’t attracted to guys it was more like we didn’t want to be separated. ~ The summer before our Freshman year of High school we were sitting on her back porch basking in the hot early-July sun next to her pool. She had on a two-piece swimsuit that was a wave of pastels and that had large silver hoop in the middle that showcased the hollow between her breasts. I noticed that over the last two and a half years that our bodies had both really changed. We both became more woman-like, Ellie however, had a slim waist that expanded out to wide curvy hips and toned thighs that touched ever so slightly as she laid on the beach towel. Her breasts were smaller than mine but were still larger than some of the other girls we had last seen before middle school graduation. Her skin wasn’t a fair ivory anymore it had become a golden light brown from us laying out in the sun every day, mine however was still pale and was a light pink from all the sun. I looked down at my swimsuit which were swimming shorts and a tank top-like swimming suit; I didn’t have the smooth thin body like Ellie. I had become slightly chubby, my hips got wider, my chest bigger and bigger than everyone’s. Yet, she told me it would be a shame to wear boy swim trunks and a baggy t-shirt when it was just us. “You know what! I’m going for swim.” She jumped up suddenly and caused me to flinch back and act like I wasn’t stealing glances at her. She sashayed towards the stairs and slowly but elegantly stepped down without causing any huge waves in the water. Once she got to the four-foot depth she turned around and leaned back and pushed off and floated on the water, her hair which came down to the middle of her back looked almost black in the faint blue of the water. She looked like a nymph floating in the water. “Kat! Come in its at that temperature where you don’t have to jump right in and freeze it’s at the perfect temp!” She swam towards the edge closest to me and splashed water at me trying to get me wet but it didn’t quite reach. Her hair stuck to her face and clung to her chest as she pushed herself up on the ledge begging me to join her. “Ugh fine. I guess I might as swim since tanning is impossible for unlike someone.” I turned and jokingly glared at her as I slowly walking towards the stairs, and joined her in the middle of the pool. As I waded towards her she smiled and splashed me giggling “Took ya long enough.” I rolled my eyes laughing. I dove into the water and swam past her yanking on her feet pulling her under the water. As we both came up, we busted out laughing, hair in our faces, splashing each other and goofing off. We spent the next hour just playing and finally decided to sit on the bottom step and shoulders bumping into each other, sitting quietly until she broke the silence. “Did you see the news last night? The part about Vermont recognizing gay couples as a legal union?” She matter-of-factly mentioned. She stared up at the sky which was clear and unclouded like her eyes. “Kind of, my mom turned off the TV before I could finish listening to. She started yelling at the TV saying, ‘Fags all burn in hell. They’re monsters who deserve the death penalty. ’ She’s extreme.” I stared upward towards the sky hoping to see whatever had caught her attention. “That’s a little more than extreme, Kat.” She turned towards me and there was this sadness in her eyes that may have been directed towards me. “It is. I just let her rant. I don’t believe that God is that maleficent towards people that are different but I can’t mention that to my mom or she’d probably hit me and disown me. I think people should be able to love whoever they happen to fall for. Hell, we all need love in this crazy world.” I half-heartedly smiled at her and continued “Like if it doesn’t directly harm or affect you why would it matter? You’ve met my mom, she’s sweet around guests but is different with me especially since dad is never around or too drunk to care. How did your family react?” “Less dramatic as yours but they were still upset. ‘Hate the sin not the sinner’ they said and then snuffed and talked about how the world is ending and blah, blah, blah.” Ellie didn’t seem to want to continue but she seemed sad almost. “Welcome to the Bible belt.” I sneered. I looked up again at the sky and the sun had started to creep towards the West and the sky was changing colors. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered, “I have something to mention.” She was fiddling with her fingers and then looked up at me eyes wide and curious. “I like you.” I kept looking up at the sky watching planes streaking the sky. She was quiet. “I like you too.” She softly added looking at the sky with me. I sighed, I didn’t think she understood. “No, like,” I couldn’t form the right words, “I think I’m what they call bisexual and I’ve been in love with you since sixth grade. I probably wouldn’t have said anything but you mentioned what happened in Vermont and I guess I felt I could mention it even if it would make you hate me.” I rambled on and closed my eyes, took a depth breath and looked at her opening myself to her, waiting. “Well…this is awkward.” Ellie lightly but awkwardly laughed and ran her fingers through her hair. “Sorry…I’ll um… leave.” I hastily got up and when to turn to walk up the stair and she grabbed my arm yanking me back. I slipped on the edge of the stair and fell into the water, I sat on my knees after coming up coughing, pushing my hair out of my face. Suddenly, I felt her water-wrinkled hands against my cheeks and before I could open my eyes to try and see through my blurred vision her lips were on mine. Our teeth clashed at first but she didn’t let go. I felt a tingle in my gut and instinctively leaned in and grabbed at her waist and tried to pull her closer. She opened her mouth, I opened mine and our tongues clumsily explored each other. After what felt like a life time she leaned her head against mine and we both sighed. “Stupid.” She whispered. I couldn’t help it and busted out laughing. “Well then, I didn’t expect that.” Laughing I stated matter-of-factly. ~ We moved from just friends to secretly dating, even though we knew that what we were doing was wrong. We started spending more time at each other’s houses and thankfully, our parents couldn’t tell that anything had changed. We were normal during the day but became ‘monsters’ at night when we were alone. There were even times when we would sneak out at night and just walk to the central park that was only a mile away from her house and about two miles from mine. We would climb to the top of the swirling slide and hide between the green plastic walls that shielded up from any passersby. We could finally stop hiding when we were there, it was like we were small children with our own fort, we didn’t have to pretend and could be a couple under the protective moon. When it was still warm we would make-out and explore each other while hidden away in the dead of night, yet, once it got cold we had to be more careful and stay indoors. The moments with her were the brightest beacons in my dark life. I had multiple sketches of her face and body hidden away under my bed that I dared not show to anyone but her. Yet, the more time I spent with her, intimately, the more of a monster I felt. Mom had gotten worse in her anti-gay preaches that she spewed once she got home from her job, she would yell and go off on tangents about how if her own child was a fag she would kill it because she wouldn’t be known to have brought an atrocious ‘Fag’ into this world. When Ellie wasn’t with me, I would lay on my bed listening to Train or Pink looking at my ceiling contemplating whether I was truly a monster or not. As time passed it got harder and harder to stand my own reflection. Every time I looked in the mirror and saw my wavy strawberry blonde hair and hazel eyes, all I saw was an abomination that shouldn’t exist. Yet, I loved her and I couldn’t change that. I didn’t want to change that because being with her felt right. However, I had this gut feeling that something bad was going to happen, I didn’t know if it was my anxiety or depression but I was always uneasy someone would find out. ~ After a year of dating Ellie and I got comfortable with staying over at each other’s houses and had gotten good at hiding our relationship, no one suspected anything. Ellie was over at my house and we ate dinner and told my mom that we were going to my room. “Sure sweety, have fun you two.” Mom smiled a creepy fake smile and turned back around to finish the dishes. I could tell she wanted to go off on Dad about him drinking heavily with a guest in the house or it could’ve been about the trash not being taken out but she held it end so the company wouldn’t know how she felt or about her fits of rage. We walked out of the open part-kitchen part-dining room and turned around the corner to held towards my room at the end of the all. Ignoring the empty walls void of any photos we came to my white door which didn’t seem to lead anywhere but once opened it gave way to what seemed like an art gallery. My painting and sketches covered all of three walls while one wall had only book cover posters. There wasn’t an inch of wall that was visible, expect the wall behind the headboard of my bed which was pushed into the corner across from the door. As Ellie came into the room, I closed the door and jumped on my bed landing on my stomach. “Ugh, I’m so tired.” I spoke softly incase my mom was listening. “Not too tired I hope?” Ellie climbed onto bed next to me propping up on her elbow. She reached over and pushed my hair behind my ear. I leaned into her hand and closed my eyes and sighed. “I’m not physically tired, just emotionally. Maybe someone can make me feel better?” I grinned at her and pushed myself up to lean over and lightly kiss her soft gloss covered lips. “Feeling better already.” I turned towards her and propping on my elbow, like her, waiting to see what she would do next. “Geez, you’re so smooth. Where did this sly Kat come from!?” Ellie huffed but smiled back at me. “Oh! Music.” She climbed over me and off the bed to turn on my mini boombox that sat on my dresser facing us. She turned it on and put on a Pink CD that I had sitting next to the box and hit play. She then turned towards me and with a sly smile on her face she slowly walked towards me and pushed me onto my back and climbed on top of me. I was taken back by how bold she was being, it was usually me that was the aggressor when it came to things like this. We kissed and became entangled in each other, Ellie sat up suddenly and yanked her pink hoodie off over her head and threw it on the floor. She yanked at my baggy t-shirt and when I sat up a little she yanked that off as well. We became enamored with each other’s bodies and were caught up in the moment because nothing matter than becoming closer to each other. We didn’t realize that my mom had come into the until we heard the shatter of glass. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING!” Mom’s face was mortified and seething with rage. Horrified Ellie and I couldn’t say anything. I snapped out of the shock and sat of straight pushing Ellie behind me and as clear as I could, although I was shaking, I said “Mom. We are dating, we’ve been dating for a little over a year now. I love Ellie.” Mom was dumbstruck and couldn’t form any thought for a second so I grabbed Ellie’s hoodie and my shirt and we quickly put them back on. Mom walked out of my room not saying anything. “Well I guess it could’ve been worse. We could’ve been completely naked.” Ellie light joked although she was shaking. I don’t know why but I grabbed her stuff and handed it to her. I turned off the boombox and looked at Ellie. “I need you to leave now. I’ve got a bed feeling. Please.” I grabbed her and kissed her once again on the lips. As I pushed her towards my window that was nestled behind my dresser, I heard mom rustling through drawers in her room a door down frantically yelling “Where is it!?” It got quiet and I ran to the window and threw it open and whispered to Ellie to “Go!” She ran to the window and as she started to climb out Mom came rushing back pointing a gun at us. “I said that I would kill any child of mine if they were a filthy fag! How! How could I give birth to such a disgusting demon!? YOU AREN’T MY DAUGHTER!!” Her voice got louder until she was screaming and she raised the gun and fired. I pushed Ellie out the window and tried to block the view from her, so she could get away. My mom, tears streaming down her face held the gun in her shaking hands. She looked like feral, her body tensed and her eyes were budging. “Mom. Please, I’m still your daughter. I’m the same person.” I put my hands out gesturing to her to put the gun down. “Please mom, put the gun down.” She started to lower the gun and looked around my room. “I’m going to call Ellie’s mom and tell her what I saw. But, I don’t have a daughter anymore. I want you gone. If only you died instead of your brother.” After the last sentence, she turned around and walked out, I collapsed onto the floor sobbing and clutching my chest. I don’t know if it was from almost being killed or the what she said last but I didn’t want to live anymore after that. ~~~ A month had gone by since Kat was kicked out and Ellie had been forced to leave. Kat had hitched some rides to different cities but she didn’t have a destination in mind, just anywhere was fine. She had gotten better at figuring out who was good for a ride and who wasn’t. She had already learned of the true monsters at night, they had made her do things she didn’t want to do but she felt that it was retribution for her sins. She just zoned out and looked at the beacons in the darkness which were what got her through the nights. She no longer found solace under the moon and the night sky but felt trapped and lonely. The cool air that once caressed her now strangled her with its iciness. She had gotten a ride from an older man one night to a shelter in the town she was in but instead of the shelter he just had his way with her and then threw her out on some curb when he was done; not caring at all that he raped and beat some young girl, he just tossed some cash out at her and sped off. She didn’t care anymore about what happened to her, her body was no longer hers. She grabbed the money and started walking. Kat came to a seven-eleven and searched for anything to end her misery. She grabbed a water bottle, three small bottles of Excedrin that were in the strongest dose she could find and walked to the check out. The cashier who had a sunken in face with oily olive toned skin and a buzzed haircut just stared at her. “Is that all?” He asked uncaringly. “Yeah.” Kat whispered. “That’s a lot of Excedrin.” He pointed out in a matter of fact tone. “And?” Kat looked him in the eyes, her eyes seemed so dead that the cashier didn’t bother to mention anything else about what she was buying. He placed all the items in a bag and handed it to her. She didn’t bother to get her change and just walked out after paying. She walked into an alleyway and sat down. She opened her water bottle and the bottles of medicine and swallowed a handful at a time until there was nothing left for her to take. She then laid down curled into a ball and went to sleep. She didn’t feel any pain but as she ventured into sleep she saw a light in the distance and began to slowly walk towards it. It was warm and she felt at peace looking at the light. As she got closer she could see the outline of a girl just slightly shorter than her, who was thin but had curvy hips and long dark hair. She started to speed up to figure out who that girl was and once she stepped into the light she was back in Ellie’s room. Ellie laying next to her and just smiling. “I’ve missed you.” She whispered. Kat couldn’t help but start crying and grabbed Ellie’s face and kiss her. “I missed you too” Kat said softly.

 The End