rest for the weary | kamisato ayato x reader

summary: kamisato ayato, though a man of many talents, hardly knew the meaning of the word ‘relax’. you, on the other hand, really wished he did. pairing: kamisato ayato x reader word count: 2.1k notes: happy ayato day!!! it's not much but at least it's something.

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As twilight blanketed itself over the horizons that surrounded the confines of the Kamisato Estate, so, too, had the celebration held within the guarded walls of the property ceased.

It had hardly been a stuffy, bejeweled social gathering beheld in a decked-out estate like many of the commissioner’s birthdays of the past, no. It was a simplistic and warm gathering with his closest friends and family members, and felt much like an embrace. Much like a temporary safe haven away from life’s ceaseless trials. Much like how such an occasion ought to be commemorated.

There was, perhaps a part of you was afraid that the current party would be too dull for Ayato's tastes—your beloved was the clan head, after all, and he only deserved a party as sophisticated as his wide expanse of titles, didn't he?—but the small, genuine smile he wore the moment he saw you, Ayaka, and Thoma huddled around a small feast table had soon eased your concerns.

And, perhaps, at his reaction, something within you urged you to ponder if this was the kind of celebration he preferred after all.

But now that the humble festivities of the evening had concluded, and Ayato had excused himself away from the scene, it became ever apparent that his intention was to immediately throw himself back into the rhythm of what he deemed as normalcy, as if the very concept of relaxation was foreign to the well-versed commissioner.

And as you leaned against the doorframe of his study, you frowned at the familiar sight of your beloved sorting through his moderately cluttered desk, fervent in his search of the next stack of documents to work on, with his back slightly hunched and his shoulders tensed from the weariness that found an unwelcome home within his bones.

It took him a moment to recognize your presence, but his countenance had brightened once he finally met your gaze, as if your mere existence was much like a healing balm for his tired soul. Still, his brows quirked upright at the sight of you, as if his aforementioned healing balm had no reason to be standing before him at the hour that it was.

“Hm? My love, why are you not in bed yet?”

Even if the expression upon his face was courteous, you could still recognize the exhaustion that plagued him deep beneath his pretty violet eyes.

“I could ask you the same question, couldn't I?” you replied as you approached him and his desk, frowning further at the scattered leaflets that were splayed across its wooden surface. “Why are you working?”

“I’m simply catching up on the work I skipped earlier this afternoon. Another all-nighter is in the books, I suppose...”

His admission caught you off guard, and you stared at him, baffled.

“You were meant to relax today, weren't you? Something regarding, oh, goodness, I don’t know, your birthday?”

“Oh, please, you really need not remind me,” he began with a sigh. “Much as one would expect, the flow of my tasks and duties won’t simply put itself on hold just because its master happened to make it yet another cycle around the sun...”

“I understand, but you haven’t had a break in quite some time...”

Guilt had added a new splash of psychological color to accompany the fatigue that was already distinctly painted across his features, but his hands still remained ever busy with his paperwork.

“If the imminent needs of the clan cannot cease for one day, then neither shall I, I fear.”

His counterpoint was logical, you supposed, but his utter refusal to even consider himself at all caused your heart to ache. Though you knew far better than to engage in attempting to explain anything to someone so stubborn, much less someone whose job, more or less, was to debate and persuade others to agree with his stances, you persisted.

“You still can always just simply... attempt to rest?”

A brief flash of surprise flickered in his eyes at the abruptness of your response, but he simply hummed in response, waiting patiently for your explanation.

“One of your concerns is keeping your loved ones safe, isn’t it? But were we not all there, happily celebrating alongside you? Was it not lively with nearby retainers, all hoping to do something to serve you? Is that not proof that we're all safe and secure within the walls of the estate you oversee?”

“I... suppose, yes, but I fail to see how that's relevant to the argument against me dealing with late night paperwork?”

“It means that you succeeded in at least one of the goals that I know you must surely think of when you sit at this desk. And if you succeeded in that, then... shouldn't that be enough for you to put up the paperwork for at least tonight?”

“Mm. I do appreciate the insight, dear, but it's hardly ever that simple, and I’m sure you, of everyone, would know that to be so.”

Quickly, you realized your claim was losing its validity, but you, fortunately, were as persistent as he was.

“I know, but it should be enough to prove that the members of the clan aren't at risk of any sudden disaster...” your voice trailed off as you took a moment to reach for his free hand, gently grasping it in your own. “The world shall not end, nor shall the Kamisato Clan crash and burn to the ground, if you happen to take a night's respite, I think.”

At the sudden contact between your hand and Ayato’s, though his black leather glove blocked most of the sensation, he breathed in sharply. As a quick-thinking means to distract himself from whatever seemed to stir his troubled soul, he focused on readjusting his grip on the calligraphy pen that he held firmly between his other hand’s index finger and thumb.

“Hmph, tell that to the other commissioners, then, my love...”

“The other commissioners are not here to perceive nor judge your actions, my love ,” you replied, then paused to make a humorous production out of warily glancing around for ‘eavesdroppers’ before you whispered. “...nor do I quite care what they think, regardless. They're hardly the ones who must bear the weight of knowing the exhaustion you strive to conceal.”

Your honesty made Ayato chuckle, but your confession still caused his eyebrows to furrow.

“I cannot tell if it's from the charm of your words or from the weariness you claim I possess, but I suppose you're quite right,” he mused aloud before his eyes reclaimed their familiar, charming glimmer. “Though, I suppose if we wake up tomorrow to, say, a burnt down kitchen, I'll at least have someone to blame for lulling me into a false sense of security, hm?”

“Now, why would the kitchen burn down? You'd be absolutely nowhere near it.” you quickly retorted, unable to suppress the small giggle that snuck past the stoic front you had built and forged with concern.

Ayato let out a soft hum of amusement at your witty remark, tapping the stack of papers against his desk to even them out before laying them to rest. Moments later, he arose from his chair and drew you in closer with a gentle tug at your arms, the playful grin from moments prior still plastered on his face.

“Oh, has the silver melted off your tongue now that you believe you finally persuaded me?”

“Huh? It's hardly like that!” you protested.

You swore the cheeky bastard had smiled at the flash of panic in your eyes, before leaning down to briefly press his lips to your forehead.

“I know, dear, don't fret.”

Much like a switch had been suddenly flipped, the lighthearted atmosphere that lingered in the room allowed itself to be reformed into a far more serene state, aided by the ambience provided by both the steady raindrops that pattered against the shoji windows, and the flames that frolicked off of the wick of the burning candle that rested atop Ayato’s desk.

In response to his affectionate gesture, you took a step closer to wrap your arms around Ayato in return, reaching your one hand up to thread your fingers through his silky, pale blue hair, and leaving the other to rest against his cheek, all of which elicited a soft hum of contentment from Ayato’s lips.

“So, does this all really mean you’ll rest?”

“Oh dear... if that’s truly what you’ve concluded from this, I fear you’re sorely mistaken.” Ayato said as he leaned his cheek further into the palm of your hand, smiling at you tiredly.

You sighed at his response, feeling slightly disarmed by the charming sight he put on display.

“I’m sorry for being so persistent, it’s just that after all that you do for the clan, for... everyone, I just wish you'd consider yourself more often.”

“Ah, if I considered what I truly wanted more often, I fear we'd both be out of commission for at least a small while...”

As your face scrunched together in thought, your mind still too exhausted from the weight of your concern to decipher any potential meaning beneath his words, Ayato chuckled at the profound confusion his words had implanted within you, and he shook his head.

“Mm, nevermind that. Now, come here, dear.”

Without further notice, Ayato wrapped his lithe arms around you and enveloped you ever closer. The sudden force he used in pulling your body so abruptly flush to his own nearly caused you to stumble backwards, but quickly, he steadied you before you could make acquaintances with the floor by placing his palms against your hips.

At the sight of the surprise in your eyes, his hands immediately retreated out of fear he had breached any sort of boundary—oh , you had nearly asked him to put them back—and he simply let a hand idly rest upon the small of your back, holding you close to him as if you were made of a fragile glass that was all too eager to shatter.

“I really do hope you enjoyed today.” you murmured suddenly against the fabric of his lavender kimono, reaching your hand out so that it might rejoin with his, interlocking your fingers between the webbings of his own the very moment they reunited.

“As far as I'm aware, every day is enjoyable whenever I get to spend it with you.”

With your fondness growing ever intensified by the unspoken intimacy of the moment, your chest ached pleasantly at the tenderness that shone in his eyes as he lifted your intwined hands up to his lips, brushing them against the bumps of your knuckles ever so briefly.

Wordlessly, with an idea in mind to reciprocate, you reached behind yourself and gently pried his gloved hand away from your lower back.

While Ayato was deeply engrossed by your actions, at least enough to analyze your expressions with a curious gaze, he hadn't realized you had managed to cautiously slide his glove off his hand until the moment he felt your touch brush upon skin that he knew should've been covered by leather.

His breathing audibly faltered the moment your warm fingertips grazed against his surprisingly cold palm, unable to catch himself in time.

“My darling, I..." Ayato fought to speak coherently through a breathy whisper. Quickly, he cleared his throat and forced himself away from the tempting arms of the pleasant stupor your touch had thrown him into. “If this is the means you choose to convince me to relax, then... I suppose that we ought to retire to bed now, after all.”

“You mean your work can wait?”

“Perhaps it can, perhaps it cannot, but I must confess that at this very moment, any matters regarding paperwork are truly the furthest things from my mind...” Ayato admitted quietly, burying his forehead comfortably against the crossing that joined your neck and shoulder together.

“Then... what is on your mind?” you asked, still holding him close, still holding his freezing cold hand within your grasp. It really was hardly any wonder why he wore gloves all the time, it seemed.

“Merely the thought of being able to rest within the comfort of my beloved’s embrace for as long as the night shall allow us, if I’ll be so kindly permitted...”

As he lifted his head up from your shoulder, his gaze meeting yours, his weary eyes yearning for you to please at the very least answer his inquiry, you cracked a small smile at the rare sight of the vulnerability he usually kept under highly secured wraps.

“I think it would be my honor to kindly oblige.”

After all, only the heavens knew how strongly you longed for that, too.

Chapter One

“Elmsbury-Gallows Welcomes Responsible Drivers!”

***

              Elmsbury-Gallows was a brown town. Each leafless tree as you drove in on Elmsbury Town Way was a particular shade of coffin-mahogany brown; as you turned into Main Street, each of the once colourfully-painted shopfronts that lined either side were now peeling to reveal the eaten-at browning wood beneath, littered with pockmarks in small clusters like lotus seed pods; the pavement, if you could see it through the constant layer of fog, was constructed from large concrete squares- once intended to be reminiscent of limestone but now weathered to the same colour as the shell of an old computer, and littered over with squashed chewing gum and orange cigarette filters. Each house down on Mansfield Estate through to Abbey Way through to Forest Estate through to Church Street could have been tranquil, perhaps even quaint, late Tudor era buildings, but had been eaten alive by the council’s insistence on updating the architecture instead of preserving it: rows of brown brick houses with brown brick rooves and brown brick driveways. On the opposite side of Main Street sat Hopkins Village, a miniature conurbation growing like a benign tumour out of the trees like some vintage painted plasticine toy village, quaint and perfect and smug. Whether it be Eastbound or King James’s, the small local parks all looked the same in the end: the grass pack-hardened by frost in the winter, and burned dry and crisp by the summer heat: there was never really any sun in Elmsbury-Gallows. 

The town sat somewhere between Leicester and Derby, tucked away into one of the secret compartments of conservative brush and shrub present in the urban fells of North-West Leicestershire. No major, or working, train lines ran through or nearby, and all four roads that led up into Elmsbury were winding, thin B-roads, engulfed by a canopy of bended, ancient trees acting as walls to the forest that the town had been apparently built on top of. A road-sign was the only thing announcing its existence, though that had been pulled deep into the bushes around it, halfway down a ditch until the once sweet and quaint design of a ripe, green wych elm was now three-quarters obscured and peeling like sunburn. It was the kind of town you could only find if you looked for it, or if you put the postcode into your SAT-NAV.

At its founding, it had been a safe haven for Catholics during the dissolution of the monasteries, being named after the great wych elm tree that stood a little way out from the original settlement. Then, when Henry VIII’s soldiers found the town, they massacred its peoples: anybody who would not turn to Anglicanism was hanged from the branches of that tree; that was when it was renamed to ‘Elmsbury-Gallows’: a sort of morbid joke that the soldiers would tell one another in taverns and alleys. Matthew Hopkins’s witch hunt would find it next, after the construction of a fortified manor in the forest surrounding for Royalist soldiers, and once again the great elm tree served as the execution spot of twenty-or-so women. That’s what it said on the pamphlets in the local library anyways.

After the passing of centuries, that very same tree with its crooked and wrinkled branches curling upward to the clouds, was ripped from its roots to build a coal mine in 1980, alongside the construction of Elmsbury Common, the little mining community- which Mr Spencer was told was separate from Elmsbury Town, that had stood for damn near four-hundred and fifty years beforehand. However, both Elmsbury Town and Elmsbury Common came together as Elmsbury-Gallows; it all appeared very important to the patrons of the King Henry he had talked to that lunchtime. The wych elm had stood for an eternity before any of the little towns that came together as one big town even acknowledged its existence. And then it was gone- plucked from the ground as easily and painfully as a single hair from beneath the nose of a scowling lady.

Only five years later, the mine had collapsed due to a tragic underground flash flood, killing all forty workers who had been sent down there- and now on this present, humid August evening, they were opening it back up.

“Here to watch the big reveal?”

Mr Spencer looked up from the pamphlet he was reading, his eyes met by a man of medium-height and middle-age, with a short crop of receding brown-turning-grey hair spiralling atop his head; he peered a little downward at Mr Spencer, a shorter than average man himself, through his pair of tiny round spectacles propped up on the bridge of a pig-like nose, the lenses of which magnified his eyes into two great beady pits in the midst of his otherwise very ordinary face. He smiled, placing one hand in the pocket of his black overcoat and using the other to absently scratch his priest’s collar. Altogether, he had the forgettable face of a good man.

“Reverend Fairfax?”

“Please, call me Jim, everyone does.” The man smiled, showing rows of square, eggshell-white teeth.

Jim the Vicar. That’s what he had heard the locals refer to him as anyways: nobody here seemed to be all that caught up in formalities. Mr Spencer laughed nervously, “Ah- yes, yes, very sorry Revere— Jim.” The supervisor felt his mouth dry up a little. It was probably the heat- the town got particularly hot this time of year, according to Mr-Graham-Sparrow-to-you-sir from the King Henry, which Spencer found bemusing since he hadn’t really seen the sun all day- as if the whole town were dough left to prove under a tea towel.

“So you’re here for the big reveal?” Jim the Vicar asked again.

“Oh! Yes, yes I’m, uh, I’m the supervisor of the whole… operation, so—”

“Ahh, of course- we had to get in you sophisticated lot to do it this time.”

Mr Spencer didn’t quite know what he meant. Jim continued, “See back in ’94 we got a bunch of our local lot to try this whole operation,” he chuckled, gesturing with a wiggle of his fingers in the direction of the workmen around the old mine,“which didn’t go over quite as well as we’d have liked, see, it weren’t safe for ‘em and all.”

The other man nodded, his eyes flitting over to the adit bandaged in yellow caution tape, “I see…” 

“Though,” Jim continued, “this’d be the first time actually getting the thing open since the collapse.”

“Oh?”

“Aye, indeed, I was a young man here when it happened,” Jim rocked back and forth on his feet, looking up as he recalled the story, “only about eighteen, maybe nineteen since I’d been sworn into the Church already,” he redirected his gaze back to the supervisor’s pallid face, “was lucky my brother weren’t down there that day, eh?”

He said it far more lightheartedly than Spencer would’ve liked- as if it were a day at work where his brother had missed a fire drill, not having escaped a slow suffocation under a hundred tonnes of dirt and rubble, deep inside the belly of the town. Again, he found himself glancing at the mine, “yes, well,” he looked back to his new companion, “we’re just renovating it so they can put the museum in.”

“That you are- and I know you are,” Jim said kindly, his black eyes wet from the haggard, muggy air, “I am the deputy head of the Parish Council, you know.”

“Of course, sorry, ah, I- I didn’t mean to sound all—” he waved his hands around as if that would conjure up the right words like some form of vocabulary magician, “—well, all that.”

“I think they’re opening it up now,” Jim started off towards the caution tape barricading the workers from the onlookers, taking strides across the uneven ground that somehow didn’t stop him from keeping to his constant height. Spencer followed him- it looked like it was going to rain.

***

              The black umbrellas bloomed open into a mushroom-like cluster around the edge of the tape, the small crowd creating their own tent to which they were the poles. The drizzle had become heavier, pattering down onto the open parasols creating silver nebulas and shooting stars which each rolled off as another raindrop came; the sky had darkened to a navy blue- had there been a sunset? Mr Spencer wondered to himself, he probably had just not noticed it whilst talking to Jim. He was stood beside the Reverend, the only person there who was not wearing a Stabilo-yellow safety vest- apparently they had just neglected to give him one, and he had neglected to ask. A group of four or so workers gathered at the adit- drills in hand- ready to pry out the screws from the rusted, brittle iron bars that had kept it closed since 1994.

Huh, odd, Mr Spencer thought, the bars were rusted far beyond the apparent age of the screws, which appeared to be silver, oddly shiny. It must be the light; each workman had on a head-torch, which illuminated tubes of rain as they panned around: it must be that the rain had wet the screws making them appear to be shiny and new when the light fell on them. Mr Spencer suspected that in reality, they were just as decrepit as the bars. Which they had been that morning when he inspected them- hadn’t they? Honestly for the life of him he couldn’t quite remember. They probably were.

The whirring of the drills wrenched Mr Spencer from the inside of his head as they pulled the little metal rods loose like blackheads from pores out of the rotted, softened wood of the adit. The rain was like a drumroll before the big reveal, and with a groan from the four men surrounding it, the bars were finally off.

Cold hit Mr Spencer from the mine- not hard or fast, rather it crept up him, starting at his knees before ending on the tip of his nose and in the corners of his eyes. It was the cold of something ancient- the kind of cold you only really feel inside a basement you forgot you had: a cold you could smell; a cold you could taste. A dusty antiquity seemed to spice it, and he twitched the feeling away involuntarily, realizing that before now, the inside of that mine appeared to be the only place in Elmsbury-Gallows the fog had not reached. It was eager to now, though, the white mist from around his ankles swirled inwards through the haggard opening- without it, Mr Spencer could have been convinced that they had opened the adit onto a solid wall of rock, even though the collapse had happened some miles down deep into the earth beneath the town; but the fog seeped downwards like worms into a blackbird’s mouth, confirming that this was the undisturbed entrance they had spent the past three days looking for.

Down, down, down, down.

He stared at that darkness- who knows for how long- watching as his eyes adjusted and he slowly became convinced that he saw movement. The blackness oozed and mixed like blood in milk, swirling around, making it difficult to notice, but obvious if you looked: if you really looked.

A familiar yet distant sensation overcame him, and though it took him a moment to pinpoint what it was, he managed to get close enough to an articulate description: it was the feeling he had when walking from his bedroom to his kitchen at night as a child. Not a fear of the dark, and not a fear of being caught by whatever his seven-year-old mind imagined was in the dark, but something else. He always made it back to his bedroom- without fail- and yet every time he stood at the top of the stairs looking down into the hallway, the light from the bathroom behind him that he always turned on so he wasn’t in complete darkness never quite reached past the fourth step down. And yet, he would descend the stairs, hand tight on the bannister, mustering up every last iota of courage that his little boy heart could manage- he knew he always survived: whatever was down there never caught him- heck, it never even chasedhim, he hadn’t even seen it.

But he wasn’t in his bedroom anymore, and he wasn’t in the kitchen yet.

A creeping anxiety made its way from the hollow of his throat to the middle of it, lodging there, wriggling and stuck as he just stared into that familiar blackness that stopped not four steps down from the opening of the mine, before the rocks closed in to an even smaller aperture only a few inches tall and wide. A prickling came at the back of his neck, as if something had its nose just above the hairs on his skin, stirring them like blades of grass with each inhale, exhale: smelling him. Spencer absent-mindedly scratched his clammy nape, his hair sticking to it from where his jacket and umbrella couldn’t shield and as soon as it had started, the feeling had gone. He was just being stupid. Staring into darkness like that, he was bound to see something. It was human to want to see something. Darkness just tends to move.

Outside him, the crowd was clapping, triumphant at the successful opening of this part of their history. The museum would bring in money to the town- at least that was the premise, and of course the goal- and they could use it to bring in tourists interested in the local history and seeing the sights of a proper English town, so long as they stayed out of the estates around Mansfield Estate and Elmsbury-Common; additionally, it would serve as reparations to the families who lost their grandfathers, fathers, brothers, cousins, and friends in the collapse. They never found the bodies- perhaps their stories would become immortalized in the museum instead: no longer forgotten.

“Done a blummin’ good job there then haven’t you!”

A thick hand clapped down on Mr Spencer’s back; he pretended not to buckle slightly. Jim the Vicar was grinning in his face, showing his tiny teeth again, telling the supervisor that he was proud the town had managed to gather up enough money for the museum, and that hopefully the town history would be remembered forever now that it was in place. Maybe they would even be able to fund the Preservational National Park and restore the manor on its grounds.

“They drink where you’re from?” Jim had started to walk, intangibly pulling Mr Spencer along with him.

“I didn’t think you were allowed to drink.” He felt the need to look back through the crowd- just to check the mine one more time. Jim let out a hearty laugh, interrupting him, and threw his head back, “That soft, eh?”

“No! No, it’s just,” Spencer corrected himself, “not me— you! You’re a priest.”

“Reverend.” Jim smiled, “and God forgives.”

***

              Purple lightning cracked across the sky like the forked tongue of a great snake, illuminating the clouds as a roll of old thunder followed. Another summer storm with no rain had befallen Elmsbury-Gallows, and had turned the drizzle from the day into steam now rising up from the pavements and mingling with that impermeable fog. From her window across the street, Bellamy Cokes watched as a thin bolt of lightning broke free of the thick layer of clouds, striking the cast iron crucifix from the spire of the old Church. It was sent careening downward onto the gravel pavement. A crow cackled at this symbolic beheading. Amy revelled in how gothic this whole scenario was.

She was a tall girl, needing to fold herself up like a deck-chair to fit in her sitting spot at her window, and was composed entirely of rectangles and ridges. Her bones poked out from underneath her pale skin, and her eyes sat wide and smudged in the centre of her face like an owl’s. Her hair was dyed a box-dye jet black, and would be backcombed to the high heavens every morning into a matted bats nest. Bellamy felt that she was quite a standoffish kind of person, not really wanting to get in the way of trouble if she could help it, and used to cry when teachers scolded her. Which is what made it so ironic that her and her two friends’ favourite activity was trespassing. They preferred the term ‘ghost hunting’, but really trespassing was what it was. Her anorak hung loosely from her shoulders as she peered down into the street wondering again to herself where Kat and Trent were.

Tap!

Finally.

Bellamy nudged open her window, smiling down at the two of them on the driveway. They were holding up the makeshift window-opener to her, aiming to use it to hook her bag down before she got down. Obliging this routine, she sent down the small satchel that held her polaroid and hand mirror. She swung her feet over the window ledge, being careful not to slip on the wooden awning over the front door before slowly lowering herself as far as she could off the edge of it. Bellamy let go of the guttering and fell onto the driveway, her well-practised landing finishing with a flourish.

“Graveyard?”

Trent nodded, “Yup, got a photo and everything.”

“Who from?”

“Mike Gregory,” Kat interjected as they started to lead the group towards the Church across the road. Bellamy turned up her nose.

“He thinks it’s gonna be funny to freak us all out,” Trent started to lead the group to the other side of the street, “he forged a photo and everything.”

He held out his hand, crumpled in it was a small polaroid square; Bellamy took it, squinting in the orange glow of the streetlamps overhead.

“It’s terrible quality.”

“Really, Amy? But Mike Gregory is so well known for his impeccable artistic prowess!” Kat laughed to themself. Amy made a face at her friend before re-examining the photo, “I can’t see anything, it’s just the… the crypt, I think?”

“You have to really look, Amy.” Trent remarked from in front.

“I am looking— you look— you show me then.” She thrust the photo back toward him, and he stopped still and jabbed a chipped black fingernail to the middle of the photo, “There.”

“The crypt?”

“Yes—“

“Okay, let’s maybe not stop in the middle of the road,” Kat took their arms and guided them to the pavement outside the Church.

“There’s nothing there, Trent.” Amy squinted.

“Bro— look, Amy.”

She looked, and as her eyes readjusted to the horribly taken photo, she made it out. The photo was of the graveyard, specifically the lower level of the graveyard where the crypt for the body of Matilda the Witch sat. A yellow pool of torchlight was smeared over the front of the stone, causing an unintelligible glare to be cast over the scene. It appeared to be raining, or have been raining, and the sky was that dark twilight blue of dusk. Amy angled it up in her hand, catching it in the orange of a streetlamp. Oh, there.

From behind the crypt, wrapped around the stone were three thin, long, pale fingers, all about the same length. It wasn’t apparent at all to Amy if the fingers were disappearing behind the crypt, or emerging from it.

“Eugh,” she put the photo in her pocket reflexively.

“I know, creepy innit?!” Kat chided.

“If it’s an effect he’s actually gone and put some effort into making it.” Amy glanced into the graveyard over the gate where the three were now stood, the crypt not visible at all in the nighttime, and the glow of the streetlamps only reaching about three or four steps down into the lower level of the graveyard, “I’m kind of flattered,” she said jokingly,  “But, I dunno, it just doesn’t seem like something Mike Gregory would do.”

“He’s obsessed enough.” Trent muttered.

“Yeah, it’s just…” Amy trailed off, knowing what she wanted to say but not wanting to be cruel.

“He’s not smart enough to do something like that, at least not to do it well.” Kat said it for her, “not to be rude or anything.” They added.

“So are we going in or not?” Amy asked, “I don’t really fancy running into a weird hand creature any time soon.”

“Me neither, but I do fancy smacking Mike Gregory over the head with my torch,” Trent punctuated his statement with the click of the ‘on’ switch on said torch, and pointed it into the graveyard, illuminating the crypt in a sickly pale spotlight.

***

              Hopping the gate was a piece of cake, Amy always wondered why Jim the Vicar hadn’t thought to make it taller if he didn’t want any trespassers, as indicated by the laminated A4 paper with red comic sans text reading “NO ENTRY BETWEEN 7PM-7AM” gracefully tied to the bars with zip ties. The three of them made their way slowly down the path toward the crypt, the headstones around them seeming taller and more jagged in the dark, jutting upward like the legs of dead hikers from snow; the shadows cast by the torchlight ran up the trunks of trees and down the stone steps to the lower level. Amy was snapping photos, the bright white flash of the polaroid quietly illuminating the graveyard all at once, before just as quickly plunging it back into darkness; she had gotten very good at aiming the flash away from the little backdoor window of Jim the Vicar’s house on the grounds, as to not alert him to their presence. Trent was scanning the torch back and forth simultaneous with the rhythm of his walk, and Kat was darting about the edges of the place picking flowers to put on the graves that were photographed, their bright orange hair bobbing in and out of view behind the headstones. The three descended the steps, and made headway toward the crypt.

The crypt itself was not old at all, built in the 90’s with that very of-the-time gothic flare that was once thought of as ‘classical’ but was really just tacky in hindsight. Amy had always liked the campiness of it though, as it looked like something straight out of Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula. It was, however, extremely tawdry.

The little circular structure was built to house the bones of Matilda the Witch, Matilda Borthwick to call her by her real name, who was one of twenty women killed in the witch hunts that came to the town in the 1600s. Her body had been dug up by accident by the small renovation team for the old mine in 1994, to Amy’s recollection, and thus housed in the old Church’s graveyard a little out of respect, but mostly as a tourist attraction. Amy had never liked that very much, they had already left her body on display hanged from the old wych elm for days before it disappeared, probably stolen. It didn’t need to be made a spectacle again, even if you couldn’t actually see her bones.

Amy came across her favourite grave, it felt a little weird to call it that, but she didn’t see too much of a problem with it to give up the title completely: a small stone angel carrying a crucifix on its shoulder with one hand, holding a wilted rose in the other. This, she had always thought, this was far classier than whatever Matilda Borthwick was holed up inside. The statue was intricate, though weathered, and the thin folds of the angel’s dress that the sculptor had pulled from the rock were just so delicate she couldn’t help but imagine it flowing gently in a breeze. Adding to it was the message on the headstone underneath:

Beloved daughter, taken so violently that heaven will be nothing but the soft embrace of your mother’s arms.

1848-1854

Amy had always liked that. It was so peaceful. The name above the phrase was too obscured by ivy and overgrowth to read properly, all she knew was that it started with “Ch…”. She snapped a quick photo of the grave, before running off towards the crypt to join her friends, her boots leaving imprints in the soft dirt.

“Where’s Kat?”

“Uhhm, over there, I think, putting flowers on that one grave you like.”

Amy looked over to see her friend lightly jogging towards them, their eyes cast in deep black shadows by the torchlight leaving only the white of their teeth glowing in the darkness around them, “any sign of Mike Gregory?”

“He in’t behind the crypt, probably inside or under a bush somewhere,” Trent shrugged, “you wanna have a quick scan for him?”

“Nah,” Kat took off their hoodie and tied it around their waist as their hair started pasting itself to their forehead from the humidity of the summer night, “I think he’s probably run off, got bored of waiting.”

“It is pretty late,” Amy looked up, “I mean we all met up at like midnight…” she glanced between her friends, “…wanna do a hunt whilst we’re here?”

Kat reached into the pocket of their cargos and protruded a small spirit box plastered with numerous brightly-coloured stickers, “good job I left the ol’ screeching radio in my pocket from last time.” And they took the arms of Amy and Trent, pulling them through the archway and into the crypt.

***

              The small square window on Jim the Vicar’s back door was only just visible through the arch into the crypt, and Amy had to duck round behind the wall to stop herself from anxiously glancing over to it. They had only been caught in the graveyard once, on one of their earliest hunts when they didn’t really know where else to go where ghosts might be. Ever since, Amy couldn’t shake the image of the black silhouette of Jim the Vicar through that small square, the light behind his head swinging gently back and forth, methodically illuminating then casting into darkness his expressionless face. The only part of him that had remained at all visible were the reflections of the light in the lenses of his glasses. She hadn’t seen him come out of the house, as she alerted Kat and Trent before he could’ve gotten the door open, and the three had sprinted out of the graveyard as fast as they could. It was just the way he had stood there, unmoving, like he had been watching them since they got in. Every time they came back, she had not been afraid of what he would do if he were to catch them, but of why he wouldn’t do anything at all.

Kat sat down cross-legged in the crypt, their back to the other archway on the opposite side to where the three had entered, making sure not to sit on the engraved part of the floor that marked where Matilda’s body lay. Trent had placed his torch face-up in the corner, the white glow spilling upwards illuminating the space. Outside, the storm began to bubble again.

The barking noise of the spirit box was far too loud for Amy’s liking, making her jump as it cut through the hazy background noise of the night. Kat started to flick through the various frequencies before setting the radio down on the floor and closing their eyes: they took communing with the dead very seriously. Trent rolled his eyes and smiled, turning his attention to the information plaque on the wall as he did whenever they came in and tried to talk to Matilda the Witch. The harsh, gravelly sound of the spirit box scratched at the stone walls, and Kat had to raise their voice a little too loudly over the top of it, “Spirits of Elmsbury-Gallows, those who rest and those who do not: hear us now call out to you from our plane to talk.” The infernal box continued its chattering uninterrupted.

“Go on Nancy Downes really give it some.” Trent teased. Kat opened one eye and shot him a pointed look, mouthing: Don’t interrupt.

“Ask about Matilda.” Amy leaned back against the wall, feeling the tension in her shoulders loosen slightly.

“Oh, yeah, uhm, Matilda!” Kat called out into the night, the fog from outside curled around Amy and Trent’s feet, almost engulfing Kat completely up to their waist, “Matilda Borthwick, we call out to you- we know you have been, uh, reluctant to speak with us, but we mean you no harm.”

The rhythm of the radio static echoed about the stone walls, abrasive and grating like skidding tyres on gravel. Kat glanced around before hesitantly adding, “We, uh, we want to let you know it’s safe to talk- uh- we just want to talk.”

“I think she gets that we want to talk.” Trent muttered.

The little radio chittered and chirped in the darkness, its noise uninterrupted by any real speech, though Kat was stretching to derive some words from the various syllables that it spat out every so often. Thunder from above groaned, followed by small purple fizzes which absently drew Amy’s attention to the illuminated, white, expressionless face floating behind Kat.

“What are you three doing here?”

Kat shot up off the floor, immediately crushing the spirit box in their hand and desperately fumbling for the off-switch. They and Trent scooted over to where Amy was stood, now forming a line to face Jim the Vicar, who was standing very calmly just outside in the centre of the archway, his black overcoat blending him into the night around him, leaving only his pale face illuminated by the small fizzles of lightning and the glow of Trent’s torch reflecting upwards onto his features. Amy swallowed dryly: he looked like a pickled head floating in a jar.

“I’m waiting for an answer…”

“Jim! I— uh… we’re, we’re just—” Trent’s eyes flickered wildly as he tried his best to improvise. Jim raised his eyebrows, nodding at Trent to continue his excuse. Trent let out a short breath, “How long were you stood there?”

“Oh! Oh I’d just gotten here,” Jim said with a kind smile, his voice carried a similar wavelength to the quiet of the night: measured, soft, local, and constant. The Reverend extended a booted foot and lightly stepped over the threshold, his black overcoat sweeping in around his ankles like a magician’s cloak, “I thought I’d seen movement out in the graveyard- which I now know I was right about- but t’was only you three,” he had positioned himself now in the centre of the crypt; Amy glanced downward, noticing that the tip of her boot was a good few inches from the hem of his coat, though it felt as if he were pressed right up against her. A strange ozone scent flowed off of him, like the smell of clothes that have been left damp for hours. Jim idly removed his glasses, wiping the condensation from the lenses as he continued, “I had panicked, and thought it was an intruder, or worse: a grave robber!” He was clearly humouring them. Kat and Trent let out a nervous laugh, which Amy subconsciously joined in with. Jim smiled again, “I do not mind you coming in and exploring, you know?”

The three nodded.

“Just—” he sighed with fake empathy, “I’d just rather you’d do it in the daytime, alright?”

They nodded again, more guiltily. Amy looked up at him, but glanced away as he smiled when he caught her eye.

“Bellamy, does your mother know you’re out here?”

“Wh— oh? M-mine?” he pulled her gaze back to meet his, she hated his unblinking demeanour. Jim softened his eyelids, though his black irises still glimmered through those now half-crescents, “I believe she’s yours, yes.”  

Amy stuttered, which seemingly answered Jim’s question on her behalf.

“You probably want us to leave.” Kat had put the spirit box in their pocket.

Jim nodded, “Yes, yes that would be good, thank you.” His eyes slid across the three of them, “you ought to find a more orthodox way of learning local history- maybe you could pop down the mine when it opens up to the public?”

“Yes sir.” Trent had placed a firm grip on Amy’s arm, squeezing. A thin drizzle finally managed to pitter down in spite of the dry, hot storm above as they turned and fled the crypt.

“Now, keep safe on y’walks home!” Jim called after them, as the three made their way up the steps and out of the graveyard- their pace becoming gradually faster the further they got from where Jim the Vicar was still stood on the threshold of the crypt, the light of Trent’s torch still illuminating it, casting him in black shadow. The only part of him that was visible were the reflective ovals of his glasses over his eyes.

***

              “Ah, piss.” Amy craned her head up to her window, trying to trick herself into thinking that it hadn’t been left open.

“Your door was locked though, right?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

Kat emerged from the small bush on Amy’s drive, tossing the makeshift window-opener back to its hiding place, muttering about how it probably wouldn’t be needed, “He won’t have got out then.”

“I know, it’s the fact that the rain’s probably got in.”

“Ooh, that sucks dude.”

Amy sighed, yep.

She started to scale the wall anyway- a route she had become so accustomed to that it felt no harder than walking up the stairs. She wriggled in through her window, falling onto her bed with a wet thunk, about eighty-percent sure she heard Kat laughing at her from the street. Trent had gone straight home, not only spooked by their run-in with Jim the Vicar, but also because he lived all the way in Elmsbury-Common, which was a considerable distance from Church Street Estate and Forest Estate where Amy and Kat both lived respectively.

“Maybe it’s not so bad?” Kat’s voice curled in through the window. Amy stuck her head out, “It’s bad, Kat,” she said it in a tone far harsher than she intended, “sorry, it’s just—it’s like 1am.”

“Damn, it’s that late? I didn’t think we’d been out too long.” Their gaze drifted behind them, flitting briefly over the church on the other side of the street. The amber glow of the streetlamps glinted in their eyes.

“Kat… no.” Amy knew what her friend was thinking, “do not go back there- we all promised we wouldn’t do hunts on our own.”

“I won’t, I won’t…” Kat smiled up reassuringly, “you just get your shit cleaned up- I’m gonna go back home.”

“Don’t go back to the graveyard.” Amy repeated, she didn’t feel that reassured.

Kat mouthed an irritated “okay Mum.” to their friend, before laughing to themself and waving goodbye, setting off back down the street. As Amy closed the window, the rain turned from drizzle to downpour.

Kat was right, the damage done to Amy’s room really wasn’t that bad. All she needed to do was change her sheets, since her bed seemed to have soaked up most of the fog and rain, though it still took her to half past one in the morning to get everything cleaned and rearranged. She slumped down in her bed, kicking her boots off across the room, wincing at the loud thuds they made on the carpet, now growing suddenly conscious that her mother was also in the house and very much asleep.

“Mrrp?!”

A small chitter came from under her bed. Amy smiled and swung her face over the edge, dangling off to look underneath, greeted by a pair of round green eyes that quickly barreled towards her in a zoom of black and white fur and the jingle of a small golden bell, “Argh! Sir Pounce!” she yelped as her small tuxedo cat collided with her. She scooped him up, kissing his fluffy head, talking over his indignant meows about how he could’ve escaped and how he should be downstairs in his bed, not under hers. She stretched to the satchel hanging off one of the posts, reaching in and taking out the small plastic pocket where she stored her photos before putting them away, “wanna see the photos, Sir Pounce?” The cat rubbed the side of his face against the folder as Amy brought them up to her eyeline, taking the photos out and showing them to Sir Pounce, very curious as to what he had to say about all this, “okay, okay pouncey.” She giggled.

Amy flicked through the photos one by one, some of them just blurred shots of Trent and Kat’s backs as they walked down into the graveyard. Others were illuminated perfectly by the flash of the camera, and looked delightfully spooky, especially in the colour of the developed film. The one of the angel grave came up, and Sir Pounce purred in approval. Amy scratched him behind his ears, “I know you like those ones too,” she placed it neatly in a separate pile to the others next to her on the bed, to put in the specific collection of photos of that grave she had amassed over the years. She got to the second to last photo and Sir Pounce hissed quietly. She made soothing noises as he wriggled in her arms, jumping off the bed and jetting towards the door. Amy followed, a little disheartened, and let him out of the room. She watched his bobtail dash down the stairs into the dark house, and before she could get her bedroom door shut she gave into the temptation to look at the photo more closely.

Illuminated by the dim light in her bedroom, Amy stood in the threshold of her door facing the darkness of her hallway. The photo was a little blurred, one she took on a whim as Kat had called her name to have it taken. They were crouched by a bush, throwing up double middle fingers and their face was stretched into a joking smile as the light of the flash bounced off their white teeth, reflecting red in their eyes. They had a small bunch of begonias clutched in their left hand, and the photo would have looked completely normal if it weren’t for what Amy saw next. By Kat’s left foot, just obscured by the lower branches of the bush was a small tuft of light brown and white fur. Flashes of pink glistened where it seemed to peel back, Amy guessed it was some sort of rabbit or rat. Folded around it, further into the bush, were three long, pale fingers.

***

              ��The sound of the window rolling down and thunking against its wooden frame cued Kat to looked behind themself as they made their way down the street towards Forest Estate. They only got a little way away before they felt their feet slowing beneath them, the constant background noise of the rain falling harder onto the tarmac crowding their ears. Their eyes guided their head to slowly move their focus to the looming shape of the Church, obscured slightly by the branches of the sycamore tree that had begun to shake with the impact of the raindrops. The fog swirled in the thick, muggy air, creating a clear path from the tips of Kat’s toes to the wrought iron of the little gate. The rain pasted their hair to their face and forehead. Kat blushed at the invitation.

It became almost physically painful to heed their friend’s warning not to go back: they had the spirit box in their pocket, it was everything they needed really, aside from a light source since Trent was the only one with a torch on this hunt. Rain fell in cones where the light from the streetlamps cascaded, creating a surrounding illumination of autumnal, amber glow. The Church looked very close, even though Kat was stood nearly rounding a corner about a hundred metres away from it. The green of the ivy that crept up the stone bricks was deep and sea-like, and a humid breeze picked up like a hot sigh, hitting the water on Kat’s face and hair and subverting their bracing for a shock of cold all over. Almost karmically, they gasped out loud into the muggy silence as a heavy raindrop rolled down their spine, having fallen into the crook of their collar, and they inadvertently pressed their palm to their mouth, as if they were afraid they’d be heard. Taking the hint, Kat hurried down the street and back towards home, leaving the church and graveyard stood up behind them.

The rain fell harder, chipping away at Kat’s already soaking sweater, their leather gloves sticking to their palms- half with sweat and half with rain. They ducked their head down even more, their chin nearly touching their sternum as they waded through the pale brown streets of town, the only thing they could see was their boots kicking out under them, glistening and wet in the orange glow of the streetlights. Kat rubbed the back of their neck, almost subconsciously, the hairs seemingly creeping upward on end, bristling their fingertips as they combed them down again. It was like someone had passed a single hot breath on the back of their neck, and they twitched their head in an attempt to shake the feeling, scrunching their eyes shut and keeping their head down. Trickles of rain oozed and flowed over their hand, half squeezed from their hair and half falling onto them from above, causing Kat to retract in reaction to the nasty sensation.

Just keep walking.

Their house was only five minutes from Amy’s, basically a dead straight line down the road except for the turn they made at the end of Church Street going into North-to-Church; they must be nearly there, mustn’t they?

All the cobbles looked the same in the dark; all the front drives and brickwork of the houses seemingly duplicated a million times: the white of the windowframes smooth and plastic, and the black of the wooden awnings lumpy from decades of layers of paint; every cigarette filter crammed into the pavement sat crumpled at the exact same angle; every rooftop peaked at the same height, and troughed to the same dip; even the gates to the church still remained politely shut, sheltered from the rain by the tree above them with the laminated sign flapping gently in the stormy breeze.

Kat stopped walking and looked down to the gate in front of them, specifically at their hand: it was hovering just above the gate, ready to prop them up to hop back over it like they had done earlier. They pulled back sharply like they had been burned.

What?

Kat craned their head up, soft droplets of rain pattering their skin as they had seemingly found themself seeking shelter under the shaking sycamore that sat just on the other side of the low stone wall.

If you were to look from opposite them, from the other side of the gate, the streetlights made Kat into an auburn-haloed silhouette, staring abjectly into the black. Even more so than before, the light was lost past the threshold, seemingly unwilling to stretch any further, in spite of it illuminating the whole town behind them.

Kat had lived in Elmsbury since they were born, they had memorised nearly every street, every alley, every shortcut by the age of fourteen.

Their house was barely a five minute walk from Amy’s, in a dead, straight line.

They had started to sweat by this point from walking so vigorously in apparently no direction at all, yet Kat saw between their eyes that their heavy breaths were coming out in white plumes. The sounds of the storm became low background noise, the rain lukewarm in the summer heat, and they felt all of a sudden a wave of calm sleepiness. A good sleepiness, like they had been working all day and could finally sink into bed. That was it, surely they were just tired. Yes, just tired and had zoned out not looking where they were walking. That made sense, didn’t it? Kat wanted to move away from the gate and go back home. It was dry at home, and warm; they were just tired. So tired. Complacent.

Dull thudding echoed from their heart to their skull and they squinted into the darkness, the faint smell of ozone and damp filling their nose and hitting the base of their tongue. The black in front of them swam like deep water, or as if a solid wall were there instead of thin air; it obscured their view of the graveyard past even the tip of their nose, now. The rain soaked them head to toe, they no longer felt the need to tuck in their head to their chest as some feeble form of protection. They stood at their full height, their shoulders relaxed, staring out into the black.

Eventually Kat mustered enough energy to move their eyeline down, and they watched the fog closest to them as it gently swirled outward, clearing the path up to the gate.

Like an electric shock had been pumped straight into their muscles, they jolted hurriedly away, the feeling of utter exhaustion exorcising from their body as they were sure they had seen something move in there. The flat sole of their foot came down hard on something soft and squishy. Looking down, Kat saw the lifeless body of a small brown rabbit, its guts spilled out onto the cobblestones, the black beads of its eyes pearlescent like frosted glass. They didn’t notice it then, but in spite of the gore, there wasn’t a single drop of blood anywhere on or around the animal, like a diagram in a biology textbook.

Awake, Kat frantically wiped their foot on the stones and sprinted through the rain in a dead straight line.

***

              Neil Holly didn’t like to stare, he found it unbecoming. Throughout the thirty-seven years of his existence, he had slowly come to accept that he was, in fact, an introvert; he was misconstrued by many as a recluse or a misanthrope, but Neil knew that deep down he would simply rather be alone. Which is why he didn’t like to stare: it brought unnecessary attention to himself; even worse, it made people think he was initiating a conversation with them. He had friends, sure, but none he would be comfortable allowing into his home, especially since, well… he didn’t like to think about Lou very much.

Over the bush, he could see the new mine renovations, the battered yellow steel of the various sets of machinery a bright and ugly blemish on the usually deep greens and browns of the fields on the south end of Elmsbury-Gallows. He squinted at the workers, reminding himself to get his prescription changed, before hearing the rumbling sound of tyres on tarmac approaching and deciding that now would probably be the best time to step out of the middle of the road.

From the renovations, he could hear the bustling conversations of the out-of-town workmen, the acoustics just so that he could make out them saying something about needing to bring over equipment from whatever base of operations they had been summoned from. They were, apparently, finding it hard to widen the hole on the inmost part of the adit- Neil remembered it being only about eight inches tall and wide. This was never going to be a good idea, he had thought since the renovation efforts had been announced in the Elmsbury Weekly, and with every scrape and crumble of the rocks around the adit this feeling became more and more apparent. He absently scratched the back of his neck with his free hand, then swapping his bag of groceries to said hand so that the other could rest in his jacket pocket.

“Couldn’t make it to the grand opening, I take it?”

Neil felt his stomach sink at the familiar voice, turning to see that Jim the Vicar had neatly placed himself next to him on the side of the road, his black cassock making him look like a crow. Neil inwardly groaned, “No, Jim, unfortunately not.”

Jim laughed, showing those pleasantly small teeth that made Neil’s jaw tighten: it wasn’t that he hated the man, hell, he had done a lot for the town since becoming head of it’s Parish Council, but it had made him just so… smug? He had always been a little smug, mind you, and their own personal history really didn’t help Neil’s distaste of the man. That was the closest articulation he could land on before Jim started talking again: “I didn’t think you would.” Neil shot him a glance, met with that same tiny-teethed smile. He had always wondered if the reverend got hot in his seemingly unchanging attire, or if he had a wardrobe chock-full of the same outfit, like a cartoon character, and now he was coming close to confronting the man about it.

“I didn’t see the point, in all honesty,” Neil tried his most courteous smile, “and the weather wasn’t good that night- it’s quite a walk out.”

“Right, of course,” Jim nodded, “you’re at Johnson’s Farm now?”

Neil raised his eyebrows quickly, not saying anything. He didn’t like that Jim knew where he lived: he had moved to the farm in an active attempt to avoid that.  

“It’s very picturesque up there,” the reverend continued, “nice and secluded.”

Neil looked up at the clouds, hoping for some sign that it would rain soon so he could make his departure. The sky was bright and white with no hint of grey or black. Neil thought he could even see sunrays. Damn.  

“It is a lovely day, isn’t it?” Jim looked up as well, smiling.

“Quite.” Neil muttered. Jim the Vicar seemed to sense his unease, “What’s wrong, Neil? You seem so…” he pretended to think, “…unsure about the whole thing.”

Neil sighed, “Well if you must know, I don’t like that it’s being reopened,” he looked the other man in the eyes, “some things should stay buried.”

It was a very pointed thing for him to say, and he hated how confrontational he had come across, despite the comment being very intentionally so. He hated reminding them both of their somewhat strained history. What he hated the most, however, was that it made Jim smile: a curling smile that stretched up to the corners of his eyes: wide and unpleasant and gleeful. The reverend had clocked who the statement was directed at and laughed a little too long and little too hard, “for a history teacher you sure don’t like the preservation of the past.”

“That’s not what I mean, Jim.”

“Then what do you mean, Neil?”

Neil said nothing. The sky above them both had turned a queasy grey, “Oh would you look at that,” Jim gazed up to the clouds again, “seems like rain to me,” he shrugged at Neil, “British weather.”

When he looked back from where his eyes had landed on the renovation site, Jim the Vicar was already rounding the corner and off down the road. Neil waited a few minutes before following in that direction, just so he was sure that Jim was far away from him. For peace of mind, of course.

***

              “Eugh!” Kat obtrusively threw the little polaroid away from themself and at Amy, who was sat on the other side of her bed, “that is creepy, innit?”

“Definitely,” Amy felt herself wanting to glance out of her window; she definitely-not-on-purposefully knocked the polaroid onto the floor, leaning down to pick it up before getting off her bed altogether to sit in the spot where it had landed, “I nearly shit myself when I saw it,” she grinned shyly, “Absolutely not something you want to see when your bedroom door is still open at night.”

“I bet,” Kat leaned forward with their elbows on their knees, “have you told Trent about it yet?”

“I phoned him this morning, he said he’d be over when you were- after lunch.” She glanced at the little red digital alarm clock on her bedside table: 13:01.

Three spritely knocks sounded from the front door, right on cue. Amy said that she’d run and get it, leaving Kat behind her as she rushed downstairs, hearing faintly the sound of them trying to coax Sir Pouncelot out from wherever he had hidden himself.

Amy swung herself around the end of the bannister and stood on her tiptoes to peer into the peephole, just out of habit, expecting to see Trent on the other side. She recoiled when she was met by the acne-speckled pink face of Mike Gregory, who had obviously seen her eye on the other side of the peephole and was now pressing his face up against it, cooing to her, “Oi! Cokes, let us in will you?!”

Amy put the door on the latch, before opening it just a crack, “go away, Mike.”

He leaned up against the doorframe, pressing his nose in through the little gap, “C’mon just let me in, man,” he laughed pig-headedly, “I wanna see the ghoooouls!” he guffawed in her face; Amy was tempted to slam his nose in the door then and there. He looked her in the eyes, wisps of his ashy blonde hair curling in over his forehead, “hey, is Kat in there with you? What about Liz?”

“His name’s Trent.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Mike stepped back a little, though he stilled leaned into the gap. He put his hands in the pockets of his joggers, “still getting used to it.”

How kind of you to get Trent’s name right before you go and bully him, Amy thought to herself, but she didn’t say it out loud. Mike Gregory stuck three fingers through the gap, now trying to tug the chain on the latch loose, “let us in already, Cokes.”

Amy ripped her hand away from the door as it slammed shut, Mike Gregory’s digits making an awful squish-crack sound as the thick wooden door crushed them in an ooze of red. Amy spun around, covering her mouth as a yelp escaped it, looking at Kat stood behind her; all of their usual unserious pretentions had drained from their face, replaced with an uncharacteristic look of abject and pure hatred. Sir Pounce lounged back in their arms, purring as they absent-mindedly scratched him behind his ears. Kat looked at Amy as Mike Gregory’s muffled screams still pounded from behind the now closed door and called him a word not worth the risk of repeating.

***

              “Eugh! That’s freaky!” Trent pulled the little polaroid closer to his face, half burying his nose in it, “oh, I don’t like that at all, ew.”

“Weird innit?” Kat sat cross legged on Amy’s bed, Sir Pounce curled up in their lap.

Trent furrowed his brow, “You sure it in’t just like… the prop chucked in the bush or anything?”

Amy shrugged, “I dunno, it definitely looks like it’s grabbing the, uh, whatever it is under there.”

Kat murmured something quietly, Trent asked them what it was. They sighed deeply, and looked up from the cat in their lap, “It’s a rabbit, I think anyway.”

“Why do you think that?”

They paused, their mouth making the half shapes of syllables as they avoided eye contact with both of their friends, “just— just a feeling, I have— like based on size and stuff.”

Amy raised her eyebrow, hopefully not noticeably.

“We should go back tonight.” Trent’s eyes were wide, “I’m low-key invested,” he laughed nervously.

“That sounds good to me, I could get some more film from Cery’s today, only thing is we do have to go back to school on Monday,” Amy shifted a little, “so like, I might wanna actually sleep this weekend,” she turned to Kat, who had gone quiet on the bed, “you good?”

Kat shifted a little, but mustered up their usual grin, “yeah, yeah of course, I’ll go along, I can’t wait to actually catch Mike Gregory this time.”

“I think you’ve done enough to him today.” It was a half-joke, Amy was scared that it came off too harsh. Kat laughed, “yeah, well, he deserved it.”

“Oh my God what did you do this time?” Trent leaned forward to his friend.

“Slammed his bloody fingers in my door,” Amy answered for Kat, who was too preoccupied with the grin of pure mischief that had bloomed on their face. Trent’s mouth fell open, “You did not.”

Kat pulled a mock-coy face, making their friend’s mouth hang even wider, “Kat.”

“He did deserve it.”

“We are so cooked.”

“Shut up dude,” Kat laughed, “eye for an eye, first of all, second: he was literally trying to like, break into the house.”

Trent looked to Amy for a more honest clarification. She told him that yeah, he kinda was.

“Bro his best mate’s dad is like a cop or something you’re gonna catch a case.” It was another half-joke from Trent.

“Well since I’m already a fugitive, we might as well do a little trespassing tonight,” they redirected the conversation back to the graveyard, “we’ll be fine don’t even worry. What’re they gonna do? Imprison me for being a fucking legend?”

***

              That next morning, Amy found herself stood at the gates to the graveyard, her polaroid slung over her shoulder in its bag. This time, they needn’t have hopped the gate, the Sunday service was being held that morning, and besides it was between opening and closing hours of the graveyard for once. She hadn’t gone with her friends that night, despite their unofficial pact not to leave each other out of hunts, but Trent had reassured her that they were just across the road if anything truly awful happened. She felt a little guilty over how covetous she had been of her camera, but they had resolved to tell her about anything she could photograph that they would go back to see in the morning.

Amy mused out loud that they probably saw the place in darkness more than they did in light, though was wary of her volume since a few metres away from her, she could see Jim the Vicar welcoming in the congregation, his pale hands floating on the backdrop of his black clothing. He was smiling plainly to those walking through the great wooden doors and seemingly sensed a pair of eyes on him as he looked up from the small crowd and waved at Amy from where he was stood. Feeling compelled to, she waved back shyly, consciously moving her satchel from her left side to her right.

“Amy?”

She turned to face Kat, who was already halfway down the steps into the bottom level of the graveyard, “C’mon, we need your expert photography skills for this.”

Amy hurried after her friend, hearing the Church doors close as she did so and a few moments later the organ started to play. She nearly slipped down one of the steps in her rush, it was slick with the rain from the past nights and obscured by a thin trail of fog that progressively got thicker as Amy descended: like deep water lapping at a dock. She skipped on down the path between the headstones, approaching Kat who was stood with their back to her, hands waving her towards them, looking to where Amy assumed Trent was stood behind the crypt. A small, pointless breeze tousled their bright orange hair, making it curl at the bottom of their neck. As Amy got to her friend’s side, she heard that they were muttering to themself, over and over the same phrase: “they were right here.”

The faint tune of The Lord Is My Shepherd drifted on organ-song from the stony shell of the Church up behind them.

“What— what was?” A half-laugh escaped her, “Kat, you’re freaking me out.”

Trent was moving around sporadically, kicking the air as if to scare the fog away from a small, almost invisible, indent in the grass behind the crypt; he was muttering the same thing Kat was, over and over and over. Amy asked Kat again what they were talking about, and was met by their dark green eyes in a confused stare. They smiled a little, involuntarily, almost bemused at the apparent absurdity of a situation which Amy was an outsider to: “the rabbits,” they gently put a hand on Amy’s arm, steadying themself, “the rabbits— there was a pile of them—”

“—there.” Trent pointed to the space he had been wafting, “literally right there, we both saw them, they were there.” He motioned a hand level to his hips, “it was this tall, Amy, they were…” he trailed off, “…I mean, they were torn to pieces.”  

Amy’s throat slowly started to dry, “If you’re trying to freak me out it won’t work ‘cause, like, if they were so torn up and everything there would be blood all over the place.” She felt like she was trying to convince herself more than she was her friends, and a certain look had overcome Kat’s eyes: one that seemed less and less easy to fake, “Trent.”

“I don’t know Amy! I don’t—” he looked around wildly, “—I don’t know, alright?”

“Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to take a picture.”

Trent sighed, “No, no it’s fine just— you’ve gotta believe me dude it was there and it was… well it was pretty big.”

“Well, where could it’ve gone?” Kat offered the question , it was a stupid question and all three knew it.

“Wh— bro I dunno! Where do you hide, like, a hundred dead rabbits? How do you even carry them without someone noticing it?”

A horrible inkling pushed its way through the front of Amy’s mind and out of her mouth, “Mike… Mike Gregory he— he wouldn’t kill something to freak us out, would he?”

The question floated between the three, Kat had gone icy pale, almost green, “we’ve gotta tell someone.”

“Who are we gonna tell, Kat?” Trent said, exasperatedly, “he’s probably already gone and told someone about his fingers, I mean he’d have to it’s not exactly an injury you can hide very well- if anything they’d say we were making it all up to get back at him, hell, they’d probably say wekilled those rabbits or something.” He was sweating by this point, the humidity of the summer biting and buzzing around him as his chest rose and fell shallowly and quickly. Kat buckled a little into Amy, who had long since decided this was enough, “okay, I think we should go back to mine and talk about this,” she looped her arm around Kat’s, eyes locked on the spot behind the crypt that Trent was so focused on, “if we relax we can think more clearly.”

They walked back away from the crypt, their flight played out by the methodical, simple sound of Father, I Adore You as they hurried over the road and back to Amy’s house. She closed the front door, watching as the congregation left the Church, bidding goodbye to Jim in his thick black robe: a shadow against the white summer day.

She managed to get the door shut before he could look up at her again and wave.

I’m having a lot of trouble gathering my thoughts on this but this is just my heartfelt plea to those of you who are not Jewish to please stand up for us and protect us. I’ve spent a lot of time over the last few years and the last few months and especially the last few weeks telling myself that I’m being alarmist and things actually aren’t that bad, but I don’t think it’s alarmist anymore. antisemitism is everywhere and it’s getting worse. and it exists in many forms.

it exists in the form of someone who wants to put a gun to my head and pull the trigger simply because I am Jewish. it exists in the form of teenagers who will beat a kid up and yell slurs across the cafeteria just because they think it’s funny. it exists in the form of people who will paint swastikas on a synagogue, or on a Jewish cemetery, or on the sidewalk in front of a Jewish persons house. it exists loudly and it exists quietly. it exists in the form of people who “don’t agree with Kanye but can see where he’s coming from.” it exists in the form of people who “aren’t antisemitic” but will harass or ostracize or blame or hate their Jewish neighbor in an American suburb because of what the Israeli government does to Palestinians oceans away.

it exists in ultra-conservative circles and ultra-liberal circles.

and yeah, you might not really hate Jews, but the article you share about how a prominent figure who happens to be Jewish is doing something you disagree with will make its way to your relative who will share it in qanon circles as proof that the Jews are controlling the world and trying to take over our lives, and someone in that group will tell their friend who will discuss it at the dinner table with their children who will then go to school and bully the Jewish kid because their parent said it was okay, and another kid at that school might witness it and agree and fall down the wrong rabbit holes on the internet and weeks months or years later walk into a synagogue with an assault rifle.

maybe my synagogue. maybe your best friend’s synagogue. maybe the synagogue where your child is attending a classmate’s bar mitzvah. maybe the synagogue where your spouse is volunteering at a food drive. maybe the synagogue where your parent is picking up the neighbor’s child from preschool. and that sounds like a gross exaggeration and I would think it is too except it isn’t.

this is how antisemitism works. it is extreme and it is silent. it’s everywhere. I’m begging you to examine your thoughts and rhetoric and see if maybe there’s some underlying context that is rooted in antisemitism. your well-intentioned post about how a few rich men shouldn’t be able to accumulate obscene amounts of money WILL be found by someone who thinks that all those people are Jews, and the dominos fall. that’s not to say we shouldn’t criticize billionaires on here, god knows I do. but when the antisemitic comments start to pop up, you have to squash them. shut it down. your posts are not to be safe havens for those who use your valid talking points as a puzzle piece for their hate.

antisemitism is insidious in its subtlety. hell, I’ve probably reblogged posts that have antisemitic dog whistles I didn’t identify because I don’t know them, and I’m Jewish. I cannot stress enough how it is everywhere. in your textbooks, on your news channels, in the funny conspiracy theory you saw, in the tweet from your favorite celebrity.

be vigilant and fearful of quiet antisemitism. and please, please, be aggressive against the loud kind. because it’s getting louder. don’t shrug off what Kanye said as stupid celebrity discourse, because people who agree with him sure didn’t shrug it off, they took it as fuel. and shit is getting scarier and scarier.

my parents have plans for which countries they will move to if things get worse. and they’ll take me with them. me, an adult with an apartment and a job. they will take the whole family out of the country if things continue on this path.

because the last time things “weren’t actually that bad” and “couldn’t actually escalate that much so quickly” we lost six million.

and just because you’re not jewish doesn’t mean you’re exempt from the harm antisemitism causes. the nazis killed 5 million non-Jews as well. they murdered Romani people, gay people, disabled people, and so many more. but guess what, the driving force behind hitler’s rise to power was antisemitism. he campaigned on a platform of blaming Jews, and that enabled him to round up the Jews, and round up millions of others, even though they weren’t Jewish, because hate enables hate.

this has become long and rambling and nonsensical, because I’m getting scared. I’m not sure how scared I should be getting, and later tonight I’ll probably tell myself I’m being stupid and delete this post. but then tomorrow a synagogue may get attacked. white supremacists might hang more banners off of highways. my little brother might get attacked on his way to class from his college dorm. I might be shopping for groceries when someone sees my hamsah necklace and decides to follow me out of the store and make damn sure I don’t make it home.

when does it get to be too much? when it’s already too late.

All in all the hunger games films did a really decent job of taking extremely brutal books and adapting them into films the target age group can actually go see. I do however think that they took away most of the bullshit 13 pulls throughout the books which was a mistake.

In the books it's very clearly outlined the fascist tendencies and the no friend here vibe of Coin, so that when the explosion at the end and the new hunger games get proposed it's much more of an "ah of course you're no better." Whereas the films pretty much stripped away all the issues of 13. The reveal of Coin's bullshit feels much more Plot Twist™ and loses those key moments where Katniss and the other District 12 refugees truly realize that District 13 is no safe haven despite its offer of respite.

Also that ending scene sucks. Like sure the point is kind of there I guess, with Katnisses final dialogue, but the whole thing is shot like some idealistic oil painting and offers none of the underlying bitterweetness that the novels conclude on. While it takes the same concept, as the books it offers some stock happy ending where everyone is happy and all is well. As opposed to the books which offers a hard won and scarred victory. It's not a "we get to be happy now. It's all over" vibe. It's an "I fought hard to be here. And even still it haunts me." They were so close to that with the film and just whizzed the slightest bit past it.

repost and rate your muse's traits out of 10 in each category !   -> Jack Edition

COMPASSION: 5/10. It is more active choice than natural empathy; he understands, he doesn't borrow feelings. He helps when he can but his crew come first and get a majority of his energy in this regard. His lines on when he can't help are iron. He will not help if doing so brings undue risk to his family.

BITTERNESS: 4/10. Carrying around a handful of grudges. Don't worry about it.

HAPPINESS: 8/10. Would love not to be living in a burned-out husk of a world and wants people to stop trying to fight/kill his kids (<- his literal son but also Tech and the Haven crew, those are his kids) but those are more or less his only complaints, at this point. He has what he has and he is happy. Honestly the homestead living, build-the-fences, harvest-the-plants, drive-to-town-to-trade thing kind of suits him. He was bored in the city.

POLITENESS: 6/10. Generally well mannered, if a little distant and seemingly unenthused. Capable of being bluntly honest, which isn't (usually) supposed to function as insult but sometimes offers it anyway. He will also tell you to fuck off if he gets sick of you, though.

MORALITY: 5/10. Um. Life has inherent value and he's plenty happy to live and let live. But if you in any way threaten his family, his crew, you're dust. And he really.. won't lose sleep over it.

PRIDE: ?/10. Broadly saves his pride for being proud of his kids. But he's not actively self-hating, either. It's really kind of an enigma to me.

HONESTY: 9/10. A bit of a light bluffer, now and then, when the situation calls for it, but mostly straightforward. He decided some time ago he'd had enough of the lies and masks; it took a lot of work and effort to get rid of them, to stop being what had been imposed on him and be a person instead. He doesn't want to go back.

BRAVERY: 7/10. (Surprisingly?) more hesitant in the face of things that frighten him than Tech is. First you gotta find something that frightens him, though. It's not a long list. And even then its tipable into, like.. when the thing is so scary to imagine you go into a blind rage to prevent it. Which is very fucked up and frightening.

RECKLESSNESS: 2/10. Not at all what anyone would call a reckless man. Sometimes you have to go on instinct or you miss your windows, it's true, but even that's a measured instinct. (Went through a reckless (and also angry) phase but has outgrown it.)

AMBITION: 6/10. After some meandering we've arrived at a perfectly reasonable "keep my family safe and well", except that its a barren world with scant, fought-over resources and all of them are, technically, being hunted by the city. So this is actually Quite A Task when one considers the size of his crew + other allies.

LOYALTY: ?/10. So here's the thing. He is frighteningly devoted to his sister. He is dedicated to his crew. He doesn't play people as a matter of habit and, as mentioned in the honesty section, he's generally pretty straightforward. And then also he betrayed all his friends and the company he worked for, including killing a significant number of people who trusted him. ... But then we circle back to the part where he did that for his sister. I'm honestly unclear on.... if something like that could happen again. Because make no mistake those people really were his friends, he grew up with a lot of them, he was going to keep living in the city even though he knew it was flawed. The city had his loyalty until they took his sister. This paints such a negative light- he's trustworthy. I just... I'm very unclear, at the moment, on his trolley problem stance if his sister's on one side of the tracks and his crew's on the other. He is a Puzzle, sometimes. Hypotheticals are hard with him, I often don't know where he'll land until the situation is literal.

LOVE: 8/10. Softer than you think.

SENSE OF FAMILY: 8/10. On the one hand, so so high so very high. On the other, kind of an off-the-wall definition. His sister has always far outweighed everyone else. Now it's her and his son who are the heavy hitters, and his crew close after. His mother falls no where on this measure, good riddance.

ATTRACTIVENESS: I can't answer this objectively I'm so biased to Be.n's face. Things other than that I think other people would consider attractive include: good strong laugh and a nice singing voice, when you can get him to; he's a little bit of that broody type, keeps journals, plays guitar, tall and strong and has the darkest eyes imaginable; excellent listener, good at picking up the meaning in stuff even if its not worded well; this is more divisive but single father who is soooo good and gentle with his boy.

AGILITY: 7/10. Quicker than he looks -the stillness throws people off- but the height does slow him down a bit. Lethal with a gun in his hands, fast and accurate, and absolutely horrifying with a knife. (And beyond all of that he hits like a sledgehammer, too. He's not fun to fight. Low key he's really scary, actually. There's a chance –as in I'm not sure I'm completely committed to it but I am thinking really hard about it and have been– BL/ind meddled with his health when he was young, poking at making stronger, faster soldiers. Not pushed all the way into super-soldier stuff, but just sort of... nudged. Whether or not he's aware of this is up for debate.)

SEX DRIVE: 4/10? I don't know. Something average-ish, with the note that he doesn't currently leave himself a lot of room to pursue much in this area. He had a partner for a few years, Dusty (the mother of his son), and though she's been out of the picture for awhile, he never really got closure on their separation. She just disappeared. I wouldn't say he's still carrying a torch, exactly, and he's probably had a little bit in the way of casual encounters since then, but not much. All of this is relevant because his romantic and sexual interest are deeply tied btw, it's really really rare for him to have sexual interest in someone he's not romantically attracted to.

Cameron x Fabian P2

The streets were almost empty as about everyone was still watching the now disappearing eclipse. She walked besides the giant fox, nervously looking around. "So........Which one is your house?," she asked. "That one there," he said lifting a paw to point at a small white house on the end of the street. "Oh...it looks lovely." He chuckled." Then you'll enjoy the inside." He lead the rest of the way down the street, and through his yard. Stopping at the door, he opened it and stepped aside to let her pass. "Please...ladies first." "Uh...thanks." She smiled nervously before walking in."....Oh, wow." It was....cozy. Which really surprised her since this was Fabian she was dealing with. All the furniture looked old, and the walls were painted a simple light blue. She looked behind her when she heard the door close. "Please, make yourself at home while I get the tea." He pointed towards a room. " The parlor is through there." "Oh...ok." She watched as he walked away before walking into said parlor. It was like the rest of the house except for the couches and the clock ticking away over a fireplace. She decided to sit on the left couch, closest to the fireplace. She looked around curiously until something caught. A small picture frame on the coffee table. Curious, she reached over to carefully pick it up. It held a picture of a grey anthropomorphic fox surrounded by five children. Four were other smaller foxes, while one was human. "I see you found my family photo." She looked up and saw Fabian standing there, expertly balancing a tray with tea ware on his head. He walked over and carefully tipped his head, making the tray slide onto the table with ease, before sitting on the couch across from her. "Who are they?" "That is my little girl, Clarissa, and her little ones." "You're a GRANDFATHER?!" "Looks can be deceiving. My kind ages slower than humans, so it's no big deal. But, I guess it would be shocking to someone like you." He picked up a cup. " Do you take sugar or honey?" "Sugar's fine." She carefully set the picture back down. "Would you like milk or lemon?" "No thank you. Just sugar." After mixing it a bit, he handed her a cup. "Thanks......Mmm. Smells good." "Its my own bland, so I cant guarantee the flavor." She hesitated before taking a sip. It tasted like apples with a slightly sour strawberry tang. Over all, it wasn't bad. "Wow. It's delicious." "Then you're lucky. Anyways...tell me. What is the human world like?" "Well...it's a lot like Safe Haven, except for the magical creatures and talking animals." "Really? How so?" They went into a deep conversation about the outside world, sipping their tea, and Fabian asking the occasional question. He grimaced when she told him about fox hunts and fur coats. Which she quickly changed the subject the education system and how she earned a degree in counseling. "Well congratulations. I bet your family was very proud of you," he stated politely. "Well....I wouldn't know really." She looked down at her cup. "Oh?....Why would that be?," he asked genuinely curious. "I.....never really knew my dad. And my mom got sick. Like....really....REALLY sick when I was little. I never experienced a happy family graduation." "I'm .....sorry. I wouldn't have said anything if I had known." "I-It's ok. You didn't know." She flinched when a paw touched her shoulder, and looked up to see Fabian's sympathetic expression. "....I can tell this troubles you, and you have my deepest apologies. If it's any comfort, you're not the only one with missing family at a young age." "....." She slowly smiled. "Thanks Fabian." He returned the smile before pulling his paw away. " You are most welcome........Although, there is one thing I've been wanting to ask. But, I'm starting to have second thoughts on asking it." "W-What is it?" "It's sort of personal." "I don't mind. I already told you some personal stuff." He hesitated.".......Alright, but you don't have to answer if you're not comfortable with it." She nodded. He drew a breath. "Why are you so afraid of us?"

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Words to Claim

I admit it: I am a woman of a pride.

He calls me a wordsmith, and so I look back upon every sentence these hands have ever crafted: the personal safe havens in which I can truly be myself, the weapons I use to fight back against oppressors, and the bridges I've built over miscommunication so that my feelings and a listening audience may finally meet in the middle.

Words are a building material that anyone may use, and thus a person cannot call the words themselves their own. However, a person may lay claim to whatever they have built with those words. For some time now, I have been trying to build a way to say "I love you" that no one else may take credit for. After all, "I love you" belongs to everyone. "I love you" is a short thread weaved into the creative cloth of every love story known to man.

I admit it: I, a writer with pride, need to say "I love you" to him in a way that's mine and only mine.

And I have finally finished building after two years of drafting a blueprint. This construction is in a class by itself. Every piece of its architecture—every board and slate, brick and stone, nook and cranny—has been scrutinized until the 750-word whole could be translated from Obnoxious Poet into English as, "I really, really love somebody and want to be super loud about it, so here I am."

He is the only kind of magic that I believe to be real. I find that everything else in life has a scientific explanation including "real" magic. If I can't find one, it's simply that there is something that I don't understand well enough. I know that every trick has a secret. Every magician's show relies on pulling your attention away from where that secret would be revealed. Such is but a marvelous distraction; the art of misdirection.

Yet even after all this scrutiny, I cannot find a trapdoor behind his curtains. There are no magnets in his sleeves, and no smoke nor mirrors in his bedroom. It's just... him; this work of art that I could admire forever, and even then, he isn't "just" anything. He is beauty and humor. Intellect and wit. Passion and selflessness.

I lose myself in the wonder his presence creates and am always left inspired. Oh, to fill a blank canvas with his image. Sketch the lines of his silhouette, trace my brush along his jawline, and dot the cherry glow of his cigarette in the evening dark... But, my art mediums would surely fail to do him justice. Paint chips, ink bleeds, and charcoal fades—he doesn't. He grows, clutches, and stains—painting a better picture than I ever could on my own. Every avenue of my life today has been tinged by him somehow, and I hope to never need to wash any of it away.

Sometimes, it feels like this was the forbidden timeline. The one I wanted but not the one destiny would decide I needed. The one I'd fantasize about, but not the one that could actually come true. Opposites attract, but we are the lodestones that said, “fuck the rules.” We are the similar alloys that will change what man knows about electromagnetism. With locked hands, we will flip the planet’s poles into reverse alignment.

Every kiss we share feels like a kiss on New Year's Day: celebratory with a little fizzle and a bang. With each one, we will shake the crust of the Earth. Make it crack and crumble as we meld our lips together. We will melt the mantle with the heat we exchange—our bodies brushing over one another with the friction that could light a match or ten. We will ricochet into a storm to test the waters of the ocean we both happened to fly over. We will change the world just like we changed each other, hence why gratitude is the most repetitive song I have to sing for him.

I admit it: I am a lover with pride. Always is our destination, and like summer skin to sundress, I will cling to him tightly, as long as the sky over our heads is still bright. When evening comes, I won't thank the stars, because they were not the ones to align—we did, he and I.

Maybe we weren't meant to be, but I never loved being in love until it was with him specifically. So I will hold onto this for as long as he will let me.

These words are my "I love you," and just like him, they are mine and only mine.

my brain is fked up after watching a few video essays about psychological horror movies bUT THats ok

Saph I hope you feel better! I really liked the VM Snow White you just posted, but could you also please do the same prompt but with M9 boys including Molly? If you’re not feeling up to it that’s fine too!

Thank you! The meds are beginning to do their job luckily. I'm glad you liked the last one. I blinked, my hand slipped and now it's here. Prepare for some angst. Hope you enjoy! 😘

(Caleb)

Caleb had always known his past would come to haunt him. He was prepared for it. Prepared to take the hit, take responsibility for everything and he’d face his past be that with or without the people he loves. Part of him, once he got used to having these fools around, having you around, wanted it to be on his own, to protect them and protect you. To not have any more lives lost in the grand scheme. The people he loves becoming collateral would be unacceptable. But you had become collateral in the grand scheme of things.

When it became clear to his enemies he was a bit more attached to you than the others, they took this weakness and exploited it. They pushed his buttons before, using you as a tool, verbal bait even, but he never fell for it. His reluctancy to act on his feelings, to keep them to himself instead, were the very thing he hoped would keep those loose ends from latching onto you. His love is a curse, the objects of his desire always to be torn away from him no matter how hard he tries to prevent it. He’s lost you to that same curse. Not lost. Almost lost.

You’ve been cursed, your conscious mind separated from your unconscious body. Simple healing spells wouldn’t do the trick here. This curse holds no roots in the divine. He’s spent days researching and that much he could confirm. This curse would take an arcane approach. Something he prides himself in to be his specialty. Lucky you. Lucky him. He had the others bring all books, ancient scrolls and other sources of knowledge brought to him, along with a wide variety of components once he’d made a significant dent in the research matter, assuring him this would have the greatest chances of success.

It’s not the soft canopy bed with the plush pillows from the fairytales you’re placed on. Instead you lay on a wooden table, inscribed with all sorts of arcane sigils. Nor do you look like some angelic peaceful being. Your brow is furrowed in discomfort, your hands balled into fists at your sides. Caleb moves a brush against areas of exposed skin, painting symbols to match with precision and care, afraid to even make a single mistake, triple checking every mark. He speaks the incantations while incorporating the components varying from precious gems crushed and whole, herbs and incense. And then he waits. He doesn’t expect the effects to be immediate, often with these magics it is not and he knows that but that doesn’t get rid of the impatience and fear.

“How I long to hear your voice again. I know this will work but that doesn’t ease away the sliver of doubt. What if… What if… That’s what I keep asking myself. I know it’s stupid.” Caleb wipes an hand over his brow as he pulls up a chair and sits at your side, elbows leaning on the table careful to avoid any sigils just in case.

“It also faced me with the harsh reality that I held off telling you how I feel. It looks so stupid now in hindsight because what good did it do anyone. In the end you still ended up paying for my mistakes. I was stupid to push you away, try to convince you your own feelings were unreciprocated. I know I didn’t have you fooled in the slightest but to know I could have loved you, it makes me feel like I am to blame for wasting that opportunity and possibly shortening our time together. The thought of losing you before having given you my love will forever be my greatest regret.”

Caleb watches the muscle of your hand unclench and relax. He hears a deep intake of breath and staring at your face he’s met with your smile, one filled with love as he helps you sit up. All is good once more.

(Fjord)

Fjord’s drenched to the bone, out of breath, anger running through him like he’s never experienced. Still he’s unsure if his anger is directed at the one responsible for your eternal slumber or at himself for making a ballsy move that didn’t pay off in the slightest and in fact backfired in a worse way he could have ever imagined. He played a game of chicken with Uk’otoa and lost. He’d have been fine by letting someone else pay the price for him. Why should he care about some stranger becoming victim to the leviathan? The one who paid the price, became the victim to his actions didn’t end up being a stranger. It had to be you of all people hadn’t it?

Uk’otoa must have been watching his dreams, even his waking actions if that were possible and have seen his infatuation with you. When the leviathan threatened Fjord in another briny dream of his mentioning your name he had called bullshit. The snake had never been able to reach out to anyone it didn’t already have some kind of grasp on. Little did he know Uk’otoa had just that. Just enough of a sliver through him, and the Cloven Crystal to get to you.

So there Fjord sits at your bedside. You’re just as drenched as he is, hair dripping, skin glowing in the candle light of the room reflected off the water particles. Your lips are tinted blue, a redness around your eyes, your skin is cold. The sleep you’re in is a state of perpetual drowning and Fjord knows what it feels like, to drown. He can only hope you’re spared that pain. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to forgive himself if you are tortured like so because of his actions. Clasping your hand between both of his he runs his fingers over your knuckles. He bows his head. It still feels so wrong to not have you respond to his touch. So wrong.

“I want you to know that I am to blame for your fate. I’m about to do a very stupid thing to make it right. I know you’d tell me not to but I can’t sit by and watch you suffer like this. I’ve tried everything. I’ve begged and bargained. I’ve shouted at the skies but I got no reply. Everything comes up empty and I see no other choice than to do this. It might sound stupid but I came to ask for your forgiveness.” Fjord pauses. Usually he would have gotten a reply. He would sell his soul for just having you tell him everything will be alright. It’s a good thing he’s about to sell it for so much more than that. It’s worth it. It’s worth having you alive and well.

“I won’t ask for forgiveness for what I’m about to do because I will never regret it. I ask only you may one day forgive me for what I might become. I need you to know I love you and did, will do all of this out of love. That’s why I hope you’ll never see me again after I give myself to Uk’otoa. I can’t bare to watch that affection in your eyes being replaced by hatred, but most of all disappointment. I hoped to be worthy of your love and I will always regret never having truly experienced it.” Fjord’s voice cracks slightly. He studies your face, as if to ingrain every detail into his memory, as if he thinks he might never see it again.

“I’m afraid. I’m so deadly afraid.” Fjord whimpers pressing a kiss to the back of your hand before he lets go. He checks his supplies, taking out the Cloven Crystal, glaring at the orb intensely cursing the thing to oblivion. Coughs pull him out of his staring match with the crystal. Your body moves, leaning over the edge of the bed vomiting up brine. Fjord drops the orb and his belongings running over to you and helping you gather your bearings until you’re no longer chocking on sea water.

“You better not do what I think you’re planning with that orb or so help me Storm Lord, I will drown you myself.” Fjord can’t do anything but laugh despite the very real threat on his life as you pull him into your embrace.

(Caduceus)

Caduceus isn’t bothered by death. Death is part of life as much as living is. It’s inevitable. Every soul will move on, leaving its vessel for the earth, the fire or the wild things to bring forth something new. What does very much bother him are perversions of death, those who try to cheat death, upset the natural balance, maim and manipulate that what is and should be. He hates it with a passion and seeks to rectify it, return the world to that balance when faced with it. That’s where you come in. You much like him have a respect and understanding of life and death similar to his own. Very few people understand that. Very few people do not fear the end when they see it coming. You’re one of those very few people.

You understand Caduceus on a different level, in his sentiment and mannerisms while others may think him strange. Not that he cares if people do, you’ve been his filter in the big shiny new world past the borders of his grove. You’ve been his safety net, his grounding force, his safe haven when the world seems against him and he thinks his senses might be wrong. The Wild Mother must have gently blown her winds to bring you together.

That’s why it seems so wrong you’re affected by this darkness having taken hold over your body, leaving you in a state of not entirely alive nor dead. Resurrection has been futile as much as draining your life and allowing you to move to the care of the Wild Mother herself. You’re trapped and that’s why Caduceus fears what would happen should you die. He’s seen what this perversion of life and death has done to his home, the forests surrounding it and the creatures living in it. He’ll do everything in his power to prevent that from happening to you.

Caduceus has put your body through the typical burial rites and rituals, preserving what he can by using wards and the divine blessings granted to him by his goddess, sending her prayers of your recovery but you appear to be even beyond her reach now. He moves a damp cloth across your arms and face, brushing aside your hair, humming to himself until he’s done, moving on to clean the room around you, getting rid of the dust, placing things back where they belong and replacing the decayed flowers with fresh ones. Caduceus gathers his tea, preparing a cup for himself as he watches you.

“Can you show me how they’re doing?” The wind grows cold. He knew that would be the answer but still he could hope maybe that answer could change.

“Are they in pain?” The wind grows warm but then cold again. You were, but not anymore. It seems that the new wards he’s put up are doing their job. That’s good.

“Is there a cure?” The gentle breeze disappears. She doesn’t know then. This goes even beyond the goddess herself but it doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Caduceus will keep hope, though it is dwindling fast, for your sake he’ll have hope. He’s always spoken to the dead before and while you’re not really dead, there’s a strange comfort to something that feels so final.

“Hey. I’d ask you how you’re doing but that’s not gonna work now, is it? Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine. I know you are. You’ve managed to keep me alive with the others for much longer than I’ve been taking care of you like this. I think we’re going to be fine. I know you’re here but I still miss you. Calliope makes for terrible company watching things unfurl between the others. She’s too much of a hopeless romantic. You forgot to tell me the recipe to that special brew of yours. I’ve been trying to recreate it but I haven’t been able to. I think what I’m trying to say is, I could really do with having my best friend back. That’d be nice.”

Caduceus sips his tea, face devoid of his usual dopy smile. A sudden breeze hits through the window, blowing it open. A few lighter weight and loose items go flying but the thud of a heavier one is clear to hear. Caduceus closes the window and feels something solid hit his boot. It’s a crystal from the ones surrounding the grove. He picks it up, feeling the warmth run through it. The breeze directs towards you and he feels himself walking over to your body. The crystal calls to you and when it touches you your body runs with energy, pulsing, like you’ve been forcibly pulled back to this world. You look around eyes wide breathing heavy.

“Hey.” Caduceus smiles. “I made tea.”

(Mollymauk)

Maybe pretending you and him were some high born assholes was a questionable decision. Taking on an invite directed at the said people you were impersonating even more so, and stealing, sorry, borrowing without asking, some things from their summer cottage to swim in luxuries, an out right terrible idea when these people happen to be very well connected.

So when these fancy folk came back to the cottage earlier than expected, the two of you had grabbed what you could before making your grand escape, chased by their private guards until you lost them. A safe distance away you set up camp. Time to inspect your findings before returning to the carnival. Your eye for valuables had always been much more keen than Molly’s and your appraisals usually spot on. It was only natural he would let you do your thing but he’d still help you.

Particularly proud of getting some ornate jewellery box Molly had pried it open and revealed the jackpot. But of course you couldn’t just sell recognisable jewellery as is and you couldn’t keep such a thing on you very long. So of course you went to work, prying the stones from their settings. A particular necklace was giving you trouble, not even your tools being able to pry it out, you even broke one so you left that one for last.

The two of you had argued, eventually setting on just smashing the stone with the pommel of Molly’s scimitar, the broken gem still providing plenty of pay and not being as recognisable in peaces. So you held the necklace across a stone while he smashed it. When it did a spark hit, next thing he knew you were on the ground, your hands burned where you held the precious metal. At first he thought you were simply knocked out but when you didn't wake up he grew worried. Splashing water in your face, shaking you, lifting your legs, nothing got you to wake up so instead he carried you and the jewellery back to the carnival. Two days and still you didn’t wake up. It became clear this bloody gem was cursed when dark veins started crawling up your skin as the days passed.

Since this was technically on him, Molly took care of you. He makes quite a doting nurse when he wants to be but never without an inappropriate comment or two. It was quite strange to not hear you laugh at or scold him for these comments. Nevertheless he’d fluff up the pillow beneath your head, provide you an extra blanket when the night was cold, tell you stories, or simply the events of the day, the people who came to the carnival, some things he lifted from people’s pockets and so on. Molly has to say he’s ashamed to admit he’d got frustrated with your unresponsiveness or rather the fact you still hadn’t woken up and there was nothing the others could do for you. A healer would still be a week or so out.

“You know, while I’ve really begun getting used to these little one-sided conversations and your lack of judgement at some of my more terrible decisions I really prefer sharing them with you in the moment. I’ve gotten caught by the guards twice now and without you, Gustav is getting a bit sick of bailing me out. I miss our little flirtations. I miss your sometimes wrong opinions, though you’d say they’re proven facts. I miss your company. I think our time apart has given me time to reflect how much you truly mean to me and how much I need you in my life.” Molly leans on his elbow as he studies your face unmoving. You look so peaceful and asleep but he’d much rather get lost in your eyes when you’re awake.

“I laughed at you when you told me the most valuable thing in the world anyone could ever give another is their heart but I think I know what that means now. I’ll offer you mine if you will have it. So please, come back and make sure my head doesn’t get up too high into the clouds or I might just float away.” Molly leans back looking at the ceiling of the tent with a sigh. He’s pulled out of his mind by a snicker.

“A dramatic confession of love to the unconscious target of your affections? And you call me cliche.” Molly looks at your face, eyes still closed but smug grin clear on your face. He pokes your side making you jump.

“You are insufferable.”

dates with natty - natasha romanoff x reader

word count; 1,017

warnings; none, this is just pure fluff!

a/n; this is me just writing the dates i wish i could go on.. alas i do not have my own natasha to bring out on cute dates.. finally had the motivation to finish this, especially since i’m watching black widow in about 18 hours and i’m more than ready for my heart to both broken and mended all at once😫 anyways!hope y’all enjoy your date with natty!:] feedback is always appreciated and requests are open<3

you typed in the coordinates of your chosen destination for today’s date into the gps, giving natasha a wide smile once you were done. your gaze stays fixed on her face as she read the location you had picked, your heart skipping a beat when you saw the way her eyes widened and turned to you with a hint of shock in them.

“we’re going to the aquarium?” natasha asked, her hand reaching out for yours. a couple nights ago, the redhead had mentioned how she never visited many places of interest for fun, most of the time she was there for some kind of undercover spy mission. the two of you had been going out for a couple months now, but because of your busy schedules and way too many alien attacks on new york, most of your dates were confined to the compound or a nearby restaurant. this was the first time both of you had some time off - courtesy of natasha angrily bargaining with nick fury after you had almost hurt yourself when you quite literally collapsed from exhaustion after a particularly gruelling mission. if natasha hadn’t been waiting for you at the elevator that day, she dreaded to think about what could’ve happened if she didn’t catch you just in time.

“yes natty we’re going to the aquarium,” you giggle softly at the way natasha’s eyes seem to sparkle, your heart absolutely melting when the red head leans over to press a soft kiss to your lips with a soft “thank you baby.” with one hand safely tucked in yours, natasha starts to drive the car out of the compound following the gps to the aquarium. it was a little bit further out but it was one of the biggest and best ones - natasha only deserved the best.

once you were inside the aquarium, you allowed yourself to pulled along by natasha as she wandered around, stopping by whichever tank that caught her eye. as she stood in front of the shark tank, you quietly slipped your phone out of your back pocket and opened your camera app. making sure the flash was off you snapped a few pictures of natasha, smiling to yourself as you swiped through them.

“baby?” you jumped slightly, realising natasha was standing right in front of you, her gaze flickering between your phone screen and your face.

“just wanted some more pictures of my natty,” you smile cheekily at her as you pocket your phone, kissing your girlfriend softly. you felt the grip on your hand tighten as her other hand found a place on your waist. you could never get tired of kissing natasha, it felt so overwhelming soft and warm. when you pulled away, the soft look natasha had in her eyes made you swoon, knowing that you were quite literally the only person she looked at like that.. yeah you were definitely in love with natasha though that didn’t surprise you in the slightest. as you followed her again, allowing her to quite literally drag you around, you knew that there was nowhere you rather be.

after natasha had visited every exhibit in the aquarium at least twice and the two of you bought some souvenirs from the gift shop, natasha drove the two of you to your favourite diner for a late lunch. settling down quickly in your usual booth, you ordered your usuals and as the waiter went off to send your orders to the kitchen as well as prepare your drinks you took the opportunity to snuggle into natasha’s side. you much preferred sitting next to the redhead as opposed to sitting opposite her for this very reason- being able to wrap your arms around her waist and sit as close to her as possible, she felt like a safe haven. natasha simply put her arm around you as she pulled out her phone, looking through the few pictures she took at the aquarium, before settling on a picture she liked the most to set as her new wallpaper. you heart instantly swelled at the sight of the two of you on her phone screen and you looked up at your favourite avenger to see her already staring at you. you smiled softly at the redhead before moving in to plant a soft kiss on her lips, marveling at how that simple act caused a huge smile to grow on natasha’s face.

by the time you two were done eating, it was almost sunset. when natasha deviated from the route back to the compound, you knew exactly where she was taking you. it was a small park, rarely visited by others but it had a beautiful little hill with the perfect spot to watch the sunset. natasha had found the place by complete accident one day, it became one of her favourite places it visit when she needed some alone time and when you became her favourite person- it only felt right to bring you there. your first date ended at the hill, the date where natasha asked you to be officially hers also ended at the hill (she did it there too, which made the place and the memory all the more special to the redhead.)

as the two of you settled down next to each other, fingers intertwined and natasha’s head on your shoulder, you sat in a peaceful silence watching the sun make its descent, beautiful colors painting the sky. eventually your attention shifted from the view in front of you to the one beside you. natasha seemed to glow in the light of the sunset and when her green eyes met yours, it was as if the world around you ceased to exist.

“i love you natty, so so much.” you whispered, as if speaking any louder would break the tranquility surrounding the two of you.

“i love you too y/n, with all of me.” came the whispered reply, before natasha connected your lips in a sweet kiss.

dates with your natty was always the best, there really was no one else you’d rather be with.

The Sacrifice Part 2 - The Maze Runner Minho Imagine

Request from @elizabeth-brown: hey when your requests will be open can you do 'the maze runner' one with minho. where one day when new greenie was coming up he had letter with him. on it there was written that if they sacrificed y/n they would let everyone out. so keepers decided to vote. most of them voted 'yes' so without any emotions Alby kick y/n into the maze. then minho realized his feelings. y/n survived the maze and WCKED took her. after one year she escaped WCKED and ran into the scorch. Minho missed her miserably. y/n searched the safe heaven. and when Group A searched safe heaven they saw y/n and she was so mad. you can end it however you want either she forgives them or not. and please tag me

Masterlist

Part 1

Author’s Note: Thank you guys so much for the kind words! I really appreciate all of it! :)

Word Count: 3.8k

The sun was rising. You stared up at it as you walked, your cracked lips parted, mouth dry beyond belief. The cloth you’d wrapped around your head was already growing warm. Beneath your long-sleeved shirt and jeans, your body was scarred with sunburns. Your backpack hung heavy on your shoulders and scraped against your back painfully. Still, you kept walking through the sand.

Crumbling buildings lined the barren street. At the end, next to an intersection, you saw one that still had an intact roof. You willed yourself to move faster, but your steps continued in the same plodding manner as before. The sun beat down heavier.

A dry wind whispered past, bringing swirls of sand to flight. They looked beautiful in the golden rays of the morning but cut like glass as they whipped past your cheeks. With a grimace, you reached a weathered hand up and pulled some loose cloth farther over your face, squinting your eyes for protection. The sound of your heavy breathing filled your ears.

How familiar that was. How familiar exertion was. Before you could stop yourself from thinking, from remembering, you saw his face. He was by your side, smiling, goading you to run faster. He was betting you that he could reach the doors first.

“If I win, you owe me half your dinner,” came his playful tease, so vividly that you almost thought it was real. If you let your gaze wander, you could barely make out a mirage of him jogging ahead of you.

What was it you’d said, back in that other life, where you ran the Maze and lived in the Glade and weren’t as alone? You smacked your lips together now, looking for any moisture, and croaked, in a hoarse voice, “What do I get if I win?” The effort made you cough. Stopping in your tracks, you doubled over hacking. You expected to see the worn stone of the Maze beneath your feet, but there was only sand. Knives scraped your throat. You tasted blood.

“You can have anything you want,” Minho responded. You lifted your head, hoping for a glimpse of his face and seeing only sand.

Tears filled your eyes. You wanted Minho with you, right now. You wanted to not be alone. You wanted to not be here, to not have made any of these choices, to not have to keep going and keep trying and keep surviving all because of one promise. You wanted to reach the doors -- no, not the Maze doors, never the Maze doors again, the doors to a crumbling building in a crumbling town in the sun-baked, sand-ridden, abandoned Scorch.

Straightening up, you started for the building again. You reached it in a few long, purposeful strides. The door hung half off its hinges. You slipped inside, shutting it as best you could behind you, hoping that would keep at least some sand out. The inside was blessedly dark. The front room seemed kind of like a cafeteria, with a few tables and chairs and a long counter at the back. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you remembered the last cafeteria you’d been in. You wanted to spit on this place as payback.

Instead, you walked behind the counter, sunk to your knees, shrugged off your backpack, and curled into a ball. Your head pounded. You squeezed your eyes closed, pressed your palms to your temples, tried to hold back any more tears. The memory of Minho floated to the front of your mind again.

“No need to cry,” you could hear him saying. You could almost feel him tuck a finger under your chin, like he’d done before, and raise your head. “I’m still here.” And then you opened your eyes, hoping to see that cocky grin that would make the whole world would seem a little better.

But Minho wasn’t there. You weren’t in the Glade anymore. You weren’t even with WICKED anymore. You were somewhere in the middle of the Scorch, alone and trying to survive and failing.

With trembling fingers, you unzipped your backpack and pulled out your last bottle of water. It was half-empty. You stared at it numbly. How far could half a bottle of water take you? When you used to run the Maze, a lifetime ago, you never went in without at least one canteen full. Minho had teased you during your first run for taking three. You wondered what he would say now.

“We’ll figure it out together. We’ll get out together.” That’s what he would say. That’s what he had said, right before you went into the Maze for the last time.

I tried, Minho. You wanted to scream it out to the Scorch, let every damn Crank within a hundred miles of you hear it. Maybe Minho would hear it too, back at the WICKED compound, back in the Glade. He said he would find you. You’d repeated his words so many times in your head that they were practically imprinted in your brain. They were like a touchstone, something you remembered for luck and courage.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he’d said.

You’d never said it back. You wished you’d said it back.

You forced yourself to stop remembering and took a sip of water. It was like ice filtering through magma cracks, soothing, soothing, soothing, and then gone, evaporating and leaving behind seething bubbles of lava. You wanted more. You wanted so much more for yourself.

You twisted the cap back on and shoved your water into your bag before you did something you’d regret. Leaning against the counter, you let your eyes close. Fatigue made your limbs heavy, and the warm air settled over you like a blanket. You hoped the sun would be gone when you woke up. Then you would walk, as you had for countless nights, with no real directions in mind, only the understanding that you needed to keep moving or else you would die. Somewhere out there, there was a safe haven.

But in your dreams, there was darkness, and in the darkness, there were Grievers. The Maze walls, dripping with ivy, closed in around you as you ran. Your breaths came short and fast, more from fear than effort. You had no bag, no weapons, just the shoes on your feet and a little bit of hope in your chest. But the Grievers were closing in.

Mechanical limbs whirred, slamming against the Maze floor so forcefully the ground seemed to shake. You whipped your head around, caught a glimpse of them, turned back and ran faster, looked again and saw them even closer. Metal clanged together, the sound of razor-sharp fangs gnashing, slick with slime. A rush of wind sliced past your arm. You tried to move faster, just a little faster, just enough to keep narrowly avoiding the Griever’s claws, just enough, please, just enough to make it to sunrise--

A wave of fire burned a line across your back. The pain was white-hot, so bad you couldn’t keep your eyes open, you were stumbling and faltering and barely moving and the Griever was going to get you, only with your next step you felt nothing but open space and then you were falling and falling and falling.

You hit the ground so hard the air went out of you, and only then did you realize you’d been screaming. A moment of shock passed. Then you shrieked again. Your back burned with pain, but it wasn’t fire, not like you’d thought at first, it was a cut, huge and sprawling and parting the flesh of your back. Blood drenched your shirt. You screamed, blind with pain and fear, waiting for the Griever to finish you off or sting you and send you into a spiral of even greater misery.

Something grabbed your arms, hoisted you up, strapped you down. The Grievers have me, they’ve got me, they’re going to kill me, you thought, even as you felt human hands and heard human voices and saw human faces.

“No!” You caught a glimpse of one of them holding a syringe, a Griever in disguise. Twisting away, trying to avoid it, you let out a scream so loud you thought your vocal cords would be torn to shreds, just like your back, just like the ravaged mess that was left of your back. The needle pierced your skin.

Immediately, your yells dropped off. The people or the Grievers or the Grievers masquerading as people laid you face down on a stretcher. You couldn’t move your neck, or your arms, or your feet, but every step they took as they carried you sent bolts of lightning through your body. Your face was wet with tears, with blood. The jostling stopped. Every nerve in your body rebelled in pain, and then there was a cold hand on your cheek, forcing your chin up. Grinning down at you was the face of the devil.

You woke now with a start, a cool sheen of sweat coating your body, phantom pains chilling your back. Your heart thundered wildly. Acting on pure instinct, you shot to your feet, looking frantically around the room. She would be there, you were sure of it. The devil, with her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, her lips painted red with the blood of her victims.

But the room was dark and empty and you were alone.

You untensed with a long, slow exhalation. Tiny daggers still ran up and down your spine, dancing along the scars the WICKED doctors had said they couldn’t fix.

“An unfortunate variable,” the devil had said about the Grievers, “but necessary.”

Necessary.

You spat on the floor, wishing it was her pristine white cafeteria, half-hoping you’d look up and see her standing there so you could strangle her. But that thought was fleeting and your head shot back up in fear, scanning the room again and again to reassure yourself that Dr. Paige was nowhere to be seen.

When you were sure there was no one lurking in the night-shadowed corners, you hefted your backpack onto your shoulders and made for the door. Outside, the desert air was chill and dry. The occasional wind stirred the sand as you walked, footsteps making quiet whispers along the dusty sidewalk. Moonlight paved the way forward.

Goosebumps covered your arms as you replayed your dream, your memories, over again. Yes, the Grievers had gotten you, but not the ones in the Maze. It was the hidden Grievers, the ones who said they were good, and that they were going to save the world, and that you were helping.

“Thank you for participating, Y/N,” Dr. Paige had said. “I’m sure it wasn’t a pleasant experience. The data we gathered on the group’s response to a requested sacrifice will prove very useful, I assure you.” And she’d smiled at you. She’d actually smiled, pointy, predatory canines on full display behind her parted red lips. “The data from your response will also be very beneficial. Thank you once more for your participation.”

You were too shocked. You were in too much pain. The synapses in your brain weren’t firing correctly, still stuck trying to piece together that the sacrifice was some kind of test. An unfortunate variable. “What...what happens next?”

Dr. Paige had already left. Someone lower in the chain of command gave you a nonanswer about your role in Phase One being complete.

“But what happens in Phase Two?”

There was no answer to that question, no matter how many times you asked. You asked when you were stable enough to be moved to your own room, when you were compliant enough to walk the halls of the facility with a chaperone, when you were obedient enough to eat in the cafeteria among the staff members.

“WICKED is good,” they’d say. And then they would smile at you.

You shuffled through the sand. Reaching a hand, which you pretended wasn’t trembling, into the side pocket of your bag, you pulled out a meal replacement pouch with WICKED emblazoned on its side. Even as you ate, you worried. The dream loomed over you like a heavy cloud, and your food supply was dwindling. You wished for a sip of water, just a taste, a small trickle to wet your lips, something to help the powdery bar go down.

You wished you’d started hoarding food at WICKED earlier. It was only when you noticed that change was coming, that the air was electric and the people were alive, that you started to slip items from the cafeteria into your bag. The doctors had stopped ordering you in for blood tests and scans, which they had pretended were for your back, and then they stopped sending you a chaperone. It was almost like freedom.

“Code Green. I repeat, Code Green. All personnel begin preparations for Phase Two. I repeat…” The message came over the speakers while you were in your room, a barebones cell with a cot and a desk. In a flash, you were on your feet, pouncing on the opportunity. You slung your WICKED bag over your shoulders, ignoring the discomfort as it pressed into your bandaged back. Peering through the crack in your door, you couldn’t see anyone in the hall. The lights were flashing in time with the announcement, strobes of green slicing across the walls. Holding your breath in anticipation, you tried the door handle. Unlocked.

Heart fluttering, you pulled it open a crack and slipped through, shutting it gently behind you. No chaperone sitting outside. No guards patrolling. No people at all. You bolted down the hall.

Thinking about it now, as you finished your second to last meal replacement, the perishable food long since gone, you wondered why it was so easy.

Phase One. Phase Two. Thank you for your participation. An unfortunate variable. Unfortunate unfortunate unfortunate thank you for participating thank you for the data thank you for trying thank you for dying. Phase Two, I should have raided the cafeteria will you be in the cafeteria, Minho are you in the kitchen? Where are you where am I why is this happening what is--

Welcome to Phase Two.

You crumpled the meal replacement package in your hand and threw it into the air, letting it fly with the wind.

Minho’s voice was in your head. “I’ll raid the kitchen, the Med-jack Hut, bring us weapons.”

You shook your head and it faded. “I would have done it if you were there,” you said. Your voice was a croak. You cleared your throat and tried, “I would have…” The words floated away. I would have tried harder to survive.

“I tried so hard, Minho.” You thought of your bottle of water, only a few sips left. “I tried to wait for you in the Maze, but WICKED took me.” Grievers and white-clothed doctors and searing pain. “I tried to wait for you at WICKED, but...I think they let me escape.” An unlocked door, no patrolling guards. The vast expanse of the Scorch beyond, and a snippet of an overheard conversation about a safe haven at the end. “I tried to reach the end. But I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” Sand. So much sand. Lightning storms and a burning, vengeful sun, and a throat so dry it hurt. “I can’t do this anymore.”

And still, you walked. Because there was nothing else to do. Because you were a Runner and Runners never stopped. Because you thought this might be another test, another phase, and you wanted to reach the end. Because the mirage of Minho was nearby, talking.

“We’re almost there,” he said. You rubbed your sand-crusted eyes and tried to find him. “We have to keep going.”

Other voices chimed in, pitched low and hard to hear. You hoped you could hallucinate Newt, too, and maybe Zart and Frypan, who had tried to help, had tried, just like you tried. You moved faster, feet cleaving through drifts of sand.

“There it is!”

You missed the sound of an excited Minho. You remembered the first time he’d had a little too much to drink at a bonfire, and he’d picked you up and twirled you around. You’d never smiled so much.

The memory used to be good, then it turned painful, and now you were just numb.

You kept walking. Around you, the city was fading into sand. Ahead stood a tall dune. You wanted to stop and stare and convince yourself to turn around. But you kept walking. Behind the dune, you’d see Minho and Newt and Zart and Frypan and maybe even Alby, and maybe you would forgive Alby, or maybe not, but you would still see him because everyone would be there.

You boot punched a hole into the sand dune, sending streams of gritty yellow dust cascading down the slope. Stepping forward again, you sunk into sand up to your mid-calf. Again and again, and then you stumbled and fell in up to your elbows, and still, you crawled.

“We can do this,” Minho said, from somewhere above or behind or by your side. He was climbing with you, barely out of sight. His playful grin was audible.

“Bet I can beat you to the top,” you said before he could.

“What do I get if I win?” he asked.

You smiled and there were tears in your eyes and sand on your cheeks. “You can have anything you want.” And you climbed higher.

“I want you to say it back. Please say it back, Y/N. Please.” His voice was fading. You were leaving him behind as you neared the top.

Sand burrowed into the lines of your face, past the seams of your clothes, finding every nook and cranny of your body to hide in. It was in your mouth, your ears, your eyes. You struggled to breathe. Your head felt as light as a cloud. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you finally promised as you reached the empty crest. Still on hands and knees, you peered over the other side of the dune. The slope was empty. Everything was empty.

You rolled onto your back, eyes shut against the fading night sky. Your arm bumped against something stiff. Reaching a hand out blindly, groping for it, you came back with a stick. You looked at it through squinted eyes. Atop the stick was a flag, and on the flag in big, thick letters, the same font WICKED used for everything, were the words, “Safe Haven.”

You laughed. The bitter chuckle was alone in the Scorch. Overhead, the sky was lightening, and soon you would be alone in the daylight of the Scorch, alone in the Safe Haven.

Shrugging your backpack off, you reached inside for your water and the last of your food. The bottle was empty. You didn’t remember finishing it, but you figured you must have. You chucked it to the side, listening as it rolled down the sand dune. You wouldn’t need that anymore. The air grew warmer as dawn approached and you opened your last meal replacement. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could hear voices. You wondered if you were going crazy, decided you didn’t care because you had tried Minho I really tried I’m sorry please promise me I’ll see you tomorrow please don’t let it end like this please.

You took a bite of the crumbling meal replacement bar and immediately spit it back out. It had soaked up the last bit of moisture in your mouth. You tossed the package to the side, where you’d abandoned your water and your will.

The sky grew pink and orange and yellow, and, finally, there was the sun, high in the sky, and you had no idea how much time had passed while you stared, and you didn’t care. There was no further destination in mind. This was it. And with the sun up there and you down here, you hoped that maybe this wouldn’t count as dying alone.

“There it is!” Minho again. Funny how he kept saying that. And then the voices of the other Gladers chimed in again. You wondered if you would keep replaying that moment until you finally passed. You wondered how it would feel. You wondered if there was water on the other side.

The sand rushed down the sides of the dune in waterfalls. You could hear it, even if you didn’t have the energy to look. It sounded like a whisper. Beneath the whisper was the panting of a group of people.

Runners, you thought. All of the Runners before and all of the Runners after, coming to take me away. Would Minho be among them? Was he dead, like you and like those sad souls who’d been killed by the Grievers (An unfortunate variable, but necessary) and all of the people who’d gotten the Flare, which you barely understood because no one had answered any of your questions?

Why is this happening and where am I going and what do I do and how did I get here and when can I go home, please bring me home, I want to go home and I want to see Minho one last time because I never promised him back and I should have.

“Y/N?”

Minho. You didn’t have the energy to speak or even open your eyes to see the hallucination.

“Y/N!” Feet pounding against sand, then hands on your arms, looping around your back, pulling you close and shielding you from the sun. “Wake up, Y/N. Clint!”

No, Clint wasn’t supposed to be here. Clint had voted for you to be sent into the Maze. You were pretty sure you used to hate him for that, but hate took so much energy, and you just wanted to pretend Minho was holding you until you didn’t have to think anymore.

The people nearby talked unintelligibly, oscillating between murmurs and gleeful shouts. There was cotton in your ears and a blindfold over your eyes and strong hands on your back, propping you up. Then there was a splash of water on your face and the world opened up again.

There was Minho. Better than in your memories, because he was here, in full color, so perfect you needed to squint. He was on his knees and holding you. Above, Clint was pouring water over your head. All around you were Gladers.

“Minho?” you croaked, although there was no question who it was. Dark brown eyes, now filled with tears. Full lips curved up in a smile. Scatters of freckles across his cheeks. Minho.

Minho nodded and pulled you into a hug. “I thought…” he trailed off. Then he laughed, a sound so bright and so happy that the water on your skin felt a touch cooler, the sun on your shoulders a shade dimmer. “I should’ve known you’d survive.”

“There’s no safe haven,” you said, the words bitter on your tongue.

Minho shook his head, still buried in your neck. “We’ll figure it out together.”

Smiling, you pressed a hand to his cheek, coaxing him to look at you. When he did, you leaned in and finally felt at home.

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Author's Note: I wanted to put a longer, more serious note at the end instead of the beginning so I wouldn't deter any newcomers from reading. I just wanted to say thanks to everyone for letting me try out this style! I'm not very happy with how this turned out but it was good practice. Hopefully, I can use this experience and write better pieces in the future. Thanks again for letting me experiment and for the encouragement. And my requests are always open :)

Tag List: @officialfictionalwreck @elizabeth-brown @newtsgirl-hehe @jjjmaybank @adoregin

THE BEAUTY OF DOMINANCE

Owning a submissive, can be one of the most beautiful things a woman can ever own.  There is so much potential in owning a submissive male.  I say own, within the context of love being the foundation. It’s not a forced ownership, since he wants to be owned, but make no mistake, the true power really does lie in her capable hands. Once a submissive goes down the road of being owned, he feels like he belongs to her. She feels like he is her personal property.  This is a bond between them, that only deepens in time.

It really does get to a point where, a submissive male wouldn’t want to be anywhere else than under her complete control. He trusts and loves her so completely, that he surrenders to her in love. He knows any other way to be in life, pales in comparison compared to being totally devoted to her. He dares not disobey, even if disobedience is easy, or even if, he can get away with it without her noticing. A true submissive, will obey for the sake of obeying her. He will have no second thoughts about it, his ego is completely hers to mold. He has become loyal to her authority, and her as a person.

This is why it’s so incredibly important that she understands her power, and does not use it to abuse him. Because she can, easily, abuse him, and many submissive’s will take that abuse for a while, when they should be standing up and saying no. The fault always lies with the abuser, it is her responsibility, and a submissive, should know, that it’s always okay to stand up and say no, when he feels abused. She needs to respect that for the sake of a healthy relationship. She also needs to respect that for the sake of her loving submissive, and to always have an optimal level of willing submission from him at all times. The sheer level of submission that can come from his is on par with bliss.

Once in control, all trust issues disappear, she never has to worry about what he thinks of her, and most importantly, he is always desiring her. She never has to have body insecurity issues, because his tongue is eager to be used at all times of the day, any time she wants to use it.  Any where she wants to use. For as long as she wants to use it.   This eliminates any kind of guilt she has ever had about sex.  It helps her establish her own sexual desire, and to always please herself when she feels the urge.  It’s total freedom of female sexuality and expression. 

She gets to wear anything she wants, around the house, or out of the house, often, acting single, while keeping her submissive as her owned monogamous pet. She can choose monogamy too, the choice is hers. She understands that he gets no say in her sex life, ever, unless she gives him a say. But, she gets total say in his sex life. He may never even get an erection without her permission. He may never touch his penis ever again without her permission. Or he may be tied down any time the cage comes off, if it comes off. 

His ass is hers to smack, spank, or enjoy with a strap-on, anytime. He gets no say in that either. His body is her amusement park, and the sheer joy that she can have exploring his body, even with just her hands and nails, while he squirms can be a delight few women have ever known. She also gets to dress him however she wants to dress him.  Many women love feminizing a male because it turns him into one of her accessories, in the same way she once played with dolls. It’s incredibly fun to dress a submissive up and put her personal touch on him, and always have him wearing what she wants. He is hers to own, and he will look owned by her. He gets no say in that, except in vanilla situations that may call for a more masculine look. 

But the most interesting part about it, is that vanilla life becomes the play, it is no longer the serious formal identity it used to be, for either of you. You are dominant and submissive, that’s who you really are, and even in the vanilla world, there is that knowing of who owns who. Her ownership of him will always be the forefront of his world, and it will always be her expectation, that he is at her feet on demand, at any time.

The beauty of dominance is that expectation. The expectation that he will endure any and all kinds of sexual tease, that he will give up all sexual rights of his body, and be hers entirely. He accepts her as the authority and as the key to his sex life, and may remain without sexual release for weeks or months or years. His sacrifice is never ignored by her, but accepted with love, and enforced with her power and dominance. She will make sure that he always honors his submission to her by remaining strict. 

The beauty of dominance means she never has a worry, fear or doubt about him ever again. This will cause a huge surge in her own confidence as a woman, if she hasn’t discovered her dominance before. Once she has that confidence, she is geared to live the best life she can possibly live, with her submissive loyally at her side, supportive of her decisions, and always helping her succeed. In return, she is his structure in life, she is the missing piece of the puzzle he has always needed, the purpose he has always longed for. That’s the beauty of dominance.

Teach Him!

One very interesting aspect of a FLR, and in particular, of submissive males, is that they are eager to please. Submissive males want to please, it makes them feel good to give pleasure.  Especially sexual pleasure, but it doesn’t have to be sexual. They will happily clean the bathroom just to be told they’re a good boy, and win approval or brownie points toward a possible release from chastity. However, most submissives males, while eager to please, are quite clueless on how to go about it. They want to please her their way, in any way they know how. A smart submissive understands he must not only be eager to please, but also, eager to learn. 

Lets face it, most males in general, are terrible at eating pussy. If she isn’t on her back shuddering, and grabbing his hair and pulling him closer, moaning while she does it, he’s not doing a good enough job. As his dominant, never be afraid to speak up about it from the get go. Tell him exactly how you want him to improve, tell him what techniques work and also tell him to be creative.  When you don’t know what’s coming, sometimes that can bring very intense orgasms. So a sudden change in tongue pattern, or a finger at the right time can make all the difference in the world.

Remember that his orgasms depend upon the quality of your orgasms, so he has every incentive to please you the right way. Give him lots of opportunities to practice, that’s the beauty of having a submissive in the first place, he’s always ready and eager for you. You can quickly teach him to be an oral expert, even if it was an awkward road to getting there, submissives learn quickly if you’re dedicated to teaching them. Before long all you will have to do is lay back and relax while he goes to town, and that’s how it should be. Your pleasure should always be his only focus, that’s just the nature of the relationship. 

Don’t just stop at oral though, and especially not at just eating pussy. Keep him chaste long enough, and any inhibitions he ever had about eating ass will disappear like they never existed in the first place. Of course, be healthy about it, but not shy!  Teach him how to best perform oral on both areas simultaneously, so that when you’re in the midst of cumming, your back door is being pleasured as well, sending you to new heights of orgasmic bliss. Then you can have him orally service you anywhere, any time you please, and be an expert at it. 

But don’t just stop there, teach him so much more, teach him, how to give you massages, feet, back, sensual, soft, with / without oil... Whatever it is you prefer. With tongue, without tongue. Hands only, or tongue only... You get to customize how  and what he learns. Teach him to pamper you. Teach him what lotions do, moisturizers, and creams. Teach him to shave you, paint your nails, give you a pedicure. Teach him that your femininity is his priority. And don’t let him ever avoid your period, show him everything about it, teach him how to use a tampon, show him the blood. Get him so comfortable with your period that he never shys away when you talk about it. So that, he can provide you emotional and physical support when you tell him you’re on it. Even to the point where, he knows your cycle as good as you do, and anticipates the little things before it even starts. Teach him everything about you, he’s your submissive, you are his priority, so don’t ever let him get away with slacking off, or avoiding one thing but not another. Teach him so much, that, he is your rock, your confidant, your safe haven, your support, your security, your trust, and your love. Then be all those things for him, because you value his submission to you, and cherish the gift that it is.

The Strap On

One of the biggest kinks in a FLR is the strap on. There are many reasons why they’re so common and popular. They benefit both partners equally in different ways making it the perfect sex toy to have in your kinky collection.  However it goes beyond simply being a sex toy, as a strap on can have huge psychological effects as well as physical.  It can really enhance the D/s dynamic because its the perfect tool for role reversal. 

When a strap on is combined with chastity, some real magic can happen between partners.  The longer he is chaste, the more likely he is to crave some sort of anal play, as his prostate gets bigger and more sensitive, craving any kind of stimulation. Even if he doesn’t crave anal play, it is actually healthy for him to have the prostate stimulated, during long lock ups, so it’s for his own good anyway!  This is why a strap on can be so much fun.  He either craves it, or it is humiliating to him, or both!  

This is perfect for a domme as well, as she gets to discover the power of having a penis between her legs, and his moans of pleasure or discomfort, as she begins to thrust into him. This alone, can be an extremely high level of power exchange and very erotic for her. She can take him with her strap on until he is whimpering horny and deep in sub space. There are no concerns about him cumming from the strap on, because this generally requires a lot of time and concentrated effort and technique to achieve. It is possible, if that is what she wants, but she has full control over that. Leaving him horny, makes for an eager tongue after she is finished taking him with the strap on. A tongue in which, she is equally eager for!

The strap on is much more fun than simply just bending him over, there are many ways in which a strap on can be used, which can make it a symbol of her dominance over him.  Often, a strap on is bigger than his penis, and she can tease him about that, saying her cock is bigger than his, while taking him with it.  Or for even more fun, she could allow him to wear it over his cage, and allow him to have intercourse with her using it. Since its bigger than his own penis, she can tease and say how much better it feels.

She could even go so far as to name her cock, and have her sub respect it, by cleaning it after use. Or sucking it to lube it up. Just looking down into his eyes can give both partners a power exchange rush that creates a strong erotic charge.  She can also make him practice his sucking techniques, if she plans on bringing other males into the relationship at some point. Once she has named her strap on, her submissive will have to worship it in the same way he worships her body, because it’s her cock. The psychological effects this can have, can send him deep into subspace, and she can keep him there. 

The strap on can also come in very handy as a punishment. Sometimes a submissive just needs a good hard strap on session, ordering him to get the strap on, and bend over on command, can be a powerful technique. Taking him with it often, even when he’s not in the mood, will help him adjust his behavior to understand, it’s not his bum, it’s hers. His resistance to it, will soon drop away, and the strap on will become a symbol of her power. 

Perhaps eventually, it may be the only way he is allowed to cum.  This can be common if she likes to feminize him, he can literally become the female in the relationship, and cum from anal only, while still caged. There’s so many possibilities with the strap on, including attachments that can provide her stimulation while using it making it even more fun.  It’s just one more tool in the femdom box, that she can use to completely dominate and own her submissive in all the ways she’s always wanted.  It is all about her, after all.

Concern in Painting

· Tommy Shelby snaps at his wife´s concern ·

Warnings: A bit of angst. 

The sound of the car pulling up the driveway and the lights that shone through the window at such an unholy hour at night indicated his arrival. She hadn’t meant to stay awake so late, but her concern for him had been on the rise and it chased her sleep away. A few moments later she heard the sound of his footsteps making their way his study shortly after the sound of the main door closing shut. Y/n sighed deeply. Business was booming and it took a toll on him. Y/n painfully watched as he deteriorated without daring to interfere, knowing that Tommy needed to keep his mind busy as much as he needed to breathe. Nevertheless, she thought enough was enough, she couldn’t just stand by leaving him to deal with everything on his own. She put away her paint and brushes and gave one last look (for the night) at the painting she had started at the dawn that night´s insomnia. She then went downstairs to the kitchen to get some biscuits, knowing that it was more than likely that he hadn’t eaten all day.  She silently walked to his study and allowed herself in without pausing to knock. 

“Hi” she softly said, not wanting to commit sacrilege by disrupting the peaceful silence that filled the room. 

He looked up to see her for just a second and then resumed writing what y/n assumed were letters, merely muttering a “hello” of his own.

Y/n made her way to the side of his desk and placed the plate of biscuits next to the glass of whiskey that was always a staple wherever he was, before perching herself on the desk.

“You need to eat something, love. The maids baked these earlier today” 

“Thanks” he said, eyes still glued to his writings, not really paying attention to anything she had said. 

She quickly eyed what he was writing, not because she was nosy, but because it had been so long since Tommy had last shared any details about what he did for most of the day. Her eyes widened a bit to see that he was indeed writing letters and that the one he was writing at that very moment was addressed to Winston Churchill. 

“Whatever are you writing a letter to Churchill for?” She couldn’t help but to ask. 

“Business” was his short answer. 

“What kind of business?” She pressed.

“Just business”  he replied in a somehow annoyed tone that he had never used before on her. 

She tried not to let his tone sting, to no avail. Silence filled the room for a few moments as thoughts about what to say next filled Y/n´s head. Years of knowing the man had taught her that it was best to leave him be when he wanted to be alone, but her concern for his well being prevented her from doing just that. 

“Tommy” she warned in a rare softness laced with worry and the tiniest  amount of hurt. 

He didn’t acknowledge it though, he just kept writing. Y/n sighed and put her hand on top of his, the one that was resting atop of the letter to Churchill, not the one writing it. 

“Thomas” she tried again, rubbing her thumb on the back of his hand 

The use of his name made him look up at her. She wished he hadn’t, for the look on his face was that of annoyance. 

“What?” 

She didn’t want to be annoying, but his state worried her more than the worry of being annoying did. “Why don’t you come to bed? Its late.” 

He sighed and turned his attention back to the letter. “Im busy.” 

“I´m sure you can write that tomorrow.” she hesitantly reassured him.

He didn’t reply, so she went on. “I´m worried about you Tom. You barely sleep, you barely eat, you don’t even talk to me anymore, not really anyhow and…”

“Look Y/n” he interrupted, turning his full attention to her, in a less than caring tone  “I have a business to run, if you don’t like it then leave.” 

She could have never anticipated his answer and it hit her like a ton of bricks. Her eyes watered and her lips parted a bit in unpleasant surprise at both his tone and harsh words. Tommy saw it, but still he did nothing and went back to writing. She then decided not to push him any further and left the room. She walked upstairs and into one of the many spare rooms, being too distraught to sleep in the bed Tommy and she shared despite knowing very well the prospect of him visiting the room was more than unlikely. 

She knew how important his business was and understood the priority, but for a while ( ever since marrying Tommy to be precise) she had allowed herself to believe she mattered as much to him as business. Tommy’s small acts of love backing up her beliefs in days that seemed long gone; all replaced now with indifference towards her that left her with a profound uncertainty about everything and anything. For the past few months he had started pushing her away, allowing her less and less to be involved in anything related to business, making her feel like a total stranger. Still, the deep concern she felt for the man she loved overpowered the betrayal she felt at his words and she couldn’t help it but to mentally forgive him before falling asleep. 

She woke up the next morning feeling alienated of the events from the previous night. Had it all really happened, Or had it been it just a dream? Her mental questions were instantly answered when she realized she awoke in one of the spare rooms. Still not fully awake, She started thinking about the day ahead of her, how very dull it seemed. She avoided Tommy (who oddly enough was still at home ) all morning, not knowing for sure how she should act around him anymore. 

After breakfast, she found safe haven in the library where her unfinished painting from the previous night awaited her with open arms. With each stroke of the brush against the canvas she felt herself floating away and, entering in some sort of peaceful trance which was only broken with the sound of the library door opening a few moments later.  

Y/n knew it was him, but she didn’t dare to look at him. She heard his footsteps coming closer till he was standing behind her and her stool. 

“Looks beautiful”  came his voice. 

“Thanks”  

She then stood up and decided to turn around to look at him, knowing the only reason he was home during the day was that he wanted to talk. When her eyes met his tired ones, he felt a pang of guilt. He could see concern and sadness painted on her face and he knew he had to make it right. 

“I didn’t mean to snap last night” he confessed. 

“I know” she said, barely a whisper.  

“I¨m sorry” he sighed, holding her hands in his. 

“You don’t have to take care of everything on your own, you know?”  She stated  before wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head on his chest. She sighed happily as she felt his arms wrapping around her, making her feel at home for the fist time in wha thad seemed for ever. “I hate what you’re doing to yourself, it’s killing me to see you fade away.” 

“I´ll take care” he promised.

“Let me help” she pleaded. 

He pulled away to look at her eyes before kissing her softly, hoping with all his might that he never would regret letting her back in by endangering her “Alright Mrs. Shelby” 

The Artist and Her Deadly Muse

One Shot Mini Series: Natasha Romanoff x  Fisk Reader. 

Word Count: 3000 approx 

A/n: I have WIP for Wanda and reader its taking more time than I thought, but for now this. I kind of got little carried away with this I hope you guys like it. There will be a second part. See you soon! 

Part 2

New York, your home… Your safe haven. You're sitting on the subway when you see her. You’ve always liked New York for this very reason there are people everywhere. Your hands are fidgeting, anxious to begin their work. There is just something about her the way she handles herself, how her head is steady on her shoulders, no apparent worry crossing her mind. Your hand begins to move on the paper making her rough outline. Your eyes shift between her and your book for a couple of stops. 

Stepping out of the subway and taking that first breath of fresh air… It was just like the first time. There was something about walking through masses of people every day, knowing that you will pass them again and again, and they won't even notice. However, you do notice and you pride yourself in that. Three years living in this marvelous city and it has not ceased to amaze you. You have New York down to a “T”. That's not to say that it was all good, you were detail oriented almost to a pathological degree. Which is why you noticed her and her marvelous red hair. Also the small fact that she was definitely following you. 

You weave through crowds, take unexpected turns, yet still you see her keeping her distance. It was almost funny how she's not noticed that you were leading her on a wild goose chase. You duck into your favorite sandwich shop, and take a seat. You can't help, but feel a little disappointed at the fact that she didn't bother to follow you in. You take your time, catching your breath. When you feel safe you decide to walk out the back door. Suddenly you’re being pinned against a wall, by a very familiar redhead. 

“I usually don't do this before the third date.” You quip a smirk on your face. “Although looking at you now, I might make an exception.” She doesn't seem to like your compliments as she snatched your satchel. “Who do you work for?” she asked impatiently, pressing you harder against the wall. “I’d have to ask you the same question, because I swear if my father sent you…” The confusion written on her face makes you stop your rant. “And you don’t work for my… father” You emphasize the last part. Regretting having opened your mouth.  

You clear your throat and shift your view to her hold on your arms raising your brow. She lets go a little embarrassed. “So… What's up with the staring?” She asks confused. “Well, It's simple really. You stick out like a sore thumb.” You say chuckling at the slightly offended look she flashes you with. You take your satchel back and look through it to make sure everything is good. “Care to explain?” she asked with an amused look in her eyes. You narrow your eyes and she continues. “Your sore thumb statement… What's your evidence.” You shift off the wall, and clean yourself off. “Well, to your credit most people don't pay attention… but I’m not most people.” 

You take your sketchbook out of your satchel and flip to her page showing it to her. “I’ve never seen you around… If I had I’d remember.” You say walking away, and her smile makes your stomach flip. Natasha made her way back to the compound where the team was waiting for her. “What took you so long?” Asked Tony as soon as he saw her walk through the elevator doors. “I took the Subway” Is all she says too preoccupied to notice Tony grimace and the sheer look of disgust in his face. She hears him mutter something about disinfecting everything she touches… She's not completely listening, still thinking about you.  

“Now where have you gone off to Romanoff.” Tony asks teasingly as he waves his hand in her face, which she promptly swats away. “I met an interesting character on the Subway.” She states, still faraway. Tony hums. “I’m sure you did, you’ll always find some interesting characters on the subways.” She shakes her head and agrees. It had been mere hours after meeting you and she could tell she was hooked. The next day she went to the same subway in hopes of finding you but no such luck. She didn't give up though she showed up every day for weeks... She was on the verge of giving up when she saw you. Getting off an armored black car your head bowed as you made your way to an apartment building nearby. For someone you had clocked her… you were incredibly off your game.  You didn't even turn when she walked into the building after you.

“Let me guess you’re about to ask me to paint you like one of my French girls.” You say not bothering to look back a smirk on your face as you turn to face that redhead. You chuckle at her baffled face as you turn around. “Will you paint me like one of your French girls?” She asks, it’s her turn to bask in your reaction. Your laugh fills the room making her laugh with you. “We’ve really got to stop meeting like this… I don't even know your name” You point out making her clear her throat just as she's about to say her name you interrupt her. “Let me guess… Patricia?”  She shakes her head in denial stifling a laugh. “Natalie Rushman” You nod. “Yeah that was going to be my next guess.” You play it off making her laugh. “My name is Y/n Fisk it's nice to officially meet you Natalie.” You say as you give her your hand to shake. “Would you like to come upstairs.” You ask politely and she hesitates, but ultimately gives in. You make your way up to your apartment which is a complete understatement. “Well you seem awfully humble for this place.” She states. 

“And for that matter it’s twice now that you’ve clocked me how?” You sigh putting your keys down on the table. “Yes, well my father always had a way of showing me he cared.” She nods intrigued. “My turn… Why were you looking for me?” You were direct and firm, yet not confrontational. “Well you made an impression Y/n.” You hum pouring her and yourself a glass of wine. You take the first sip and she follows shortly after. “I wanted to see how that sketch turned out Y/n… you know because you used my likeness and all. Want to make sure it doesn't end up in the wrong hands.” She says smirking, but there's a seriousness in her voice. And you nod. “Well you'd be relieved to know that the artist is out of commission till further notice.” 

This takes Natalie by surprise, you see it in her eyes she wants to ask why but can't bring herself to actually do it so you tell her. “Another gift from my father… the family company. That is currently on the brink of financial devastation.” You say as you finish off the rest of your wine in one gulp, pouring yourself another glass you offer Natalie one as well. “So no more art and sitting on the subway for hours on end.” You chuckle humorlessly. “When you put it like that…” You try to make light of the situation, but fail. “No more art… No more sitting on the subway for hours on end… No more doing what I love.” Your thoughts racing, almost forgetting you're in a room with an otherwise complete stranger. You clear your throat stopping your train of thought and continue. “This is actually my last night here, I'm moving.” You lift your gaze to meet hers and it’s consuming. The way that her eyes are looking at yours, how she can see right through you. She starts moving closer to you and you let out a deep breath. 

When you don't step away or break eye contact she continues making her way towards you. Her hands move to your face, and she slowly closes in interlocking your lips. You deepen the kiss holding on to her hips and moving her closer to you. Your hands brush the hem of her shirt. She bites your bottom lip asking for entrance and you grant it. A fight for dominance ensues, you almost give in but she beat you to it letting you take control. Your night goes by in her arms exploring her skin, etching every detail in your mind, remembering every spot that makes her knees go weak. When you wake up your bed is empty, and you want to be disappointed but you can't. You can't drag someone into the shit show that is your family. So true to your word you were gone by lunchtime. 

It had been months and it just kept getting worse. You found out why the financial situation had become so dire. Your father all but drained the company of all its funds… You always knew that your father was a questionable man but this was low even for him. Disparaging your mothers name your name. You learned not to be offended though he trusted you enough to get out of this mess. Your mother brought out the best in him, but in the end the worst ended up prevailing. You worked, and worked threw yourself into the obligation that was tossed your way. “Miss Fisk you have Forbes on the line and Pepper Potts on another.” You nod. It had been a year and a half and you thrived. You haven't heard from your father in all that time. You had Manhattan wrapped around your finger, and everyone knew it, like your father you were ruthless to those you betrayed you, Once someone was burned by you no one dared talk about them, much less in your precedence.  

You look and wonder where that bright eyed hopeful person you were went. Then you remember all the people you put your trust in and all the people that tried to kick you when you were down. Forbes was something that represented the end of you, whatever was left of that person you were not too long ago. “Y/n Fisk, to what do I owe the pleasure Ms. Potts?” You were surprised when she called. You thought Stark Industries would want to stay away from a name like yours. “No, need for the formalities Y/n. I’m exploring a business venture that might help us both out.” She goes on to explain her plan and you say you’d think about it, in turn she invites you to a Stark Function this weekend… “Well Pepper I look forward to meeting you and discussing this business venture further.” You put the phone down into the receiver and can't help the small smile that grows on your face. As much as you hated the obligation you couldn't deny the pride that you felt, or how you felt thinking of how proud your mother would be… It almost makes it all worth it.   

It's another one of Tony's parties that she is forced to go to, Natasha Is at the bar serving drinks when she sees you. Or someone who held an uncanny resemblance, something was different, your posture no longer relaxed, now effortlessly poised and business like. The sparkle in your eyes was the same, but everything else was fundamentally different. She witnessed Pepper walk up to you, and how your face instantly lightened. Pepper had shared a couple of words with you and took you to speak with Tony. Natasha's eyes widen slightly as she notices Pepper making her way straight to her. “How’d I do?” She asks Natasha with a smile growing on her face. “What do you mean?” She asks confused. “Well, the new mission haven't you been briefed?” She shakes her head. “No, I just got back from one abroad. What is this mission about?” She nodded understandingly. “That's Y/n Fisk Daughter of Wilson Grant Fisk… Kingpin.”

Natasha's eyes widened, she can't believe she didn't put it together sooner. “So she’s following in her Father's footsteps?” Natasha asks carefully. Pepper continues. “Well, we’ve been keeping tabs since a year and a half ago, after Fisk Industries suddenly went into the red.” Natasha quirks her head. “Wilson syphoned all the money and took off. Y/n is ruthless when it comes to business, it's a miracle she saved the company.” Pepper stops and looks at Natasha's still confused face. “What exactly is she doing here though.” Pepper takes a moment before she answers. “We’re recruiting her… using her to get to her Father.”  Natasha can't help, but shake her head. “How do you know she’s willing to work against her father… They are family at the end of the day. Blood is thicker than water.”  She says as she sees You and Tony walk off into a more secluded part of the compound.

After an hour maybe more she spots you again. This time the light is completely gone in your eyes. It was truly an off putting sight, no apparent emotion ran through your expressions. Your movements were cold, and calculated an opportune smile on your face when someone walked up to you. The desire to get out of there was apparent. She took her eyes off you all of two minutes, and by then you'd made it to the elevator door standing next to a rather old man, whose talking business. She watches you as you wave the older man away with a smile plastered on your face, handing him your card, and just like that you’re gone.

The drive back to Manhattan was a quiet one, full of reflection and contemplation. By the time you make it back to your Penthouse you’re ready to just go to bed. As soon as you walked in you knew something was off. “You need to stay away from Stark Industries Y/n '' It didn't even phase you, your back still turned on him you made yourself a drink and drank it. Finally turning you meet your fathers gaze. “Father, I would say it's good to see you, but that would be a lie. You know how mom felt about lying.” You were testing him and he knew it. “What do you want?” You reiterate and make your annoyance known. “You need to stay away from Stark Industries Y/n, It's for your own good.” You sigh rubbing your temples. “Why would I back down from the business deal of my life? What do you know?” He’s quiet, his eyes boring holes into yours, testing your resilience. “You left me with the mess that was My mothers company in shambles… you don't get a voice in what I do with the company.” 

“You’re not going to like what's going to happen if you don't back down Y/n. The board…” You laugh at his attempt at a threat. “Well, haven't you heard… Those usurpers paid for their wrongs. They tried to take your precious company from me.” You chuckle at his obliviousness. “I have the power here… So I suggest you start talking.” 

(4 Hours Ago)   

“Y/n, I see no need to continue this charade. I Don't think you’re a bad person.” This is where Tony starts off which sets the tone foe the rest of the conversation. “Well, I’ve been around long enough to know when someone wants something from me. So what does Tony Stark need from me?” You say as your eyes close in on him. “It’s not really what I need. It's more of a ‘are you willing to’ corporate.” He then proceeds to show you this presentation very well made if you might add. Of things you already knew about your father, but your question was, How did he know? “Right… So you want me as bait?” You say finally leaving with him. “Well, in a way yes. You won't be in immediate danger, your father won't hurt you.” You chuckle. “You underestimate him.” You say. “He left me to clean up after his mess. Hasn’t checked in once, since then. Why would he now?” 

“Lets just say word has spread about our little business venture.” He states. “So this... you are informing me that  I’m bait.”  He nods. “Great glad you caught on… see we couldn't take the risk…” you finish his statement. “Of me saying no.” You nod. “What do you need me to do exactly.”  Tony then goes on a tangent on what you will need to do takes too long for you liking but you sit through it anyways. “So you want me to push his buttons and get him to talk.” He agrees giving more specifics and more details. “Right, well call me when you need me” You say as you stand up and walk away.

 (Current Time) 

“And you did all of this, Why?” You don't even give him the chance to explain himself. “I was never under any pretense that you were a good man, but this… this is vile.”  You could tell your words hurt him. The same words your mother had once uttered before she passed. “Y/n I-i tried to keep you away from all of this.” He tries to defend himself. “Of course by throwing me right in the middle of all of it.” Push buttons you did. “I was once proud to be a Fisk, a name that commanded respect, now I am disgusted and ashamed of this name.” At this point he just kept blaring on about how he tried to fix things, how he just dug himself deeper. Final jab, at this point it wasn't necessary this one was for you. “I hate you for making me hate mom… every time you would promise her an out of this… she believed you, and I hate her for that.” you take a breath and look him dead in the eye. “Because you never deserved her love.”

Before you could even process the hurt on his face, agents stayed bursting through every entrance. Window, doors, balcony, any entrance you could possibly think about blocked and barricaded. You step back from your father, but he’s too quick. He takes our arm and drags you in front of him, using you as a human shield. 

Lepidopterophobia

Shinobu Kochou x Fem Reader

A/N: Heyyyyy its been awhile! As far as warnings go, there will be some swearing and butterflies and that’s it as far as I can tell. Bye!

The Butterfly Estate. A beautiful place of refuge for injured demon slayers to rest in the care of the gentle and skilled Hashira Shinobu Kochou, and her attendants. Or as (Y/n) liked to call it, the house of nightmares. (Y/n) feared butterflies immensely. It was something that she would never openly admit. After all, who slays demons with no problem but screams and jumps away from the fluttering of fragile wings? She got enough teasing during her childhood, thank you very much. So, she never told anyone and that would have been fine, it’s not like the information would ever have an opportunity to be brought into conversation. Well, unless you forgot about the large estate that literally had the word “butterfly” in its name that was supposed to be a safe haven for demon slayers like her. (Y/n) was very careful. The last thing she wanted was to be injured and sent off to the Butterfly Estate to heal. She was lucky enough to find plenty of wisteria houses in the event that rest and healing were needed. At least, she was lucky until tonight.

“Aughhh, damn it!” (Y/n) cursed, sucking a sharp breath through her clenched teeth. She glared at the demon as its body crumbled away and she leaned her own battered body on the trunk of a tree. Her hand shook as she pulled it off of her side, gazing at the blood that painted her palm. (Y/n) had managed to behead the demon, but not before it shot off an attack of its own. (Y/n) craned her head up to the sky and saw her raven circling above, cawing loudly and clearly distressed. “Mochi!” (Y/n) hissed, not nearly loud enough for the bird to hear from that height, “Mochi, I’ll be fine! We just need to find a wisteria house...” (Y/n) grunted as she pushed off of the tree trunk she was resting on and staggered forward. She took off her haori and tied it tightly over her waist to slow the bleeding. “Help! Help!” Mochi cried, the bird was too panicked and high up to be reasoned with, but as the raven continued to circle (Y/n) felt a sense of dread pool in her stomach. Her raven was definitely calling for any Kakushi in the surrounding area to come to her aid. (Y/n) quickly jerked her head toward the sound of approaching footfalls and clumsily attempted to hide herself from view. “There she is!” “Hey, don’t worry we’re here to help!” “Shit,” (Y/n) muttered under her breath, leaning back against another tree and turning to face the two Kakushi that were approaching her. She forced a smile, “Oh, hey, thanks for coming, but I’m fine, really. My raven tends to blow things out of proportion, it’s really not that bad an injury.” “Doesn’t look like that to me,” One of the Kakushi answered gruffly. “Ow!” The other one elbowed him in the ribs and approached (Y/n) with concerned eyes peeking through their uniform. “Even so, we are more than happy to guide you to safety. The night is still young, more demons could come.” “That’s fair,” (Y/n) huffed once it was clear they were not going to leave. “I could use help getting to the nearest wisteria house.” “A wisteria house? There isn’t one for many kilometers,” the more gentle of the Kakushi informed. “Damn, where can we go then?” “Don’t you know where you are?” The Kakushi asked, eyes twinkling. “You don’t even realize how fortunate you are my friend! We’re not too far from the Butterfly Estate, much better than any old wisteria house in my humble opinion.” A cloud of darkness swirled over (Y/n)’s face. One would presume from blood loss, but being privy to (Y/n)’s fear, one would quickly know that blood loss wasn’t the cause. “Come on, lean on us, we’ll get you there in no time,” the other Kakushi spoke, closing in. “No, no, no, that won’t be necessary,” (Y/n) weakly waved her hands. “I’m, uh, I really rather go to a wisteria house.” “What? Don’t be ridiculous, you’d never make it in this state. You’re wasting time,” The more grumpy Kakushi said, grabbing her forearm. “Be gentle!” The other Kakushi chided, grabbing (Y/n)’s other arm and swinging it over their neck. (Y/n) began to panic in earnest now, dropping her previous act to struggle against the two Kakushi at her sides. “No! Please, don’t take me there! Anywhere but there!” “What the hell, lady!?” The grumpy Kakushi yelled as (Y/n) elbowed him in the gut. “Please stop struggling, we’re here to help you!” The other added, tightening their grip. “Help! Help!” Mochi yelled, dive-bombing their heads. It was all just absolute chaos. “Enough already!” Grumpy Kakushi swiftly chopped at the back of (Y/n)’s neck, causing the girl to fall unconscious and slump forward. “Oh my gods, why did you do that?” Gentle Kakushi scolded, adjusting their hold on (Y/n) so she wouldn’t slip to the forest floor. “She was being difficult and she’s lost a lot of blood. We need to get her to Kochou-sama quickly,” Grumpy Kakushi huffed, heaving (Y/n)’s other arm over his shoulder. They sprinted through the woods with practiced ease, eventually approaching the wisteria grove that guarded the estate like a natural barrier. They brushed passed the beautiful blooms and rushed to the infirmary. “New case!” The gentle Kakushi called as they burst into the infirmary. “Place her in that cot and I’ll asses the damage,” Shinobu called from the opposite side of the room as she finished changing the bandages of another patient. The two Kakushi heaved the unconscious girl onto the cot and Shinobu came over and observed the girl with a trained eye. “Unresponsive, this must be serious,” Shinobu frowned. “Well, you can thank him for that,” the gentle Kakushi poked. “He knocked her out!” “She didn’t give me much of a choice! She was adamant that we not bring her here. She was making it impossible,” Grumpy Kakushi explained. “Really? How peculiar,” Shinobu hummed. “I wonder why she would be so averse to coming here...” Shinobu would be lying if she said she wasn’t just a tad offended by this information. Nevertheless she thanked the Kakushi and dismissed them from the premises. She removed the blood soaked haori and the upper half of (Y/n)’s uniform the properly observe the wound. The bleeding had mostly stopped, but the gash was rather nasty. Shinobu dabbed over the wound with antiseptic and washed away the blood with water. She then stitched up the wound with practiced ease and covered the area with gauze to protect it. Once that was done, Shinobu raised a thin sheet over (Y/n)’s body to cover her bare torso. With one last check of the girl’s vitals, she left her side and continued her rounds. *** (Y/n) groaned as she awoke the next morning. She rubbed her eyes and tried to sit up, only to fall back against the cot and gingerly grip her sore side and stomach. She took a moment to assess the damage and cringed at the old gauze rolled over her wound. Then she realized she was shirtless and pulled the thin sheet tightly over herself as she tentatively looked about the room. She was in an infirmary, that much she could tell. There were only two other patients in the room and both appeared to be in worse shape than herself if the missing limbs, thick bandages, casts and IVs meant anything. “Oh good, you’re awake. I was just coming to change your gauze.” (Y/n) startled slightly and turned to put a face to the soft voice that was addressing her. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes roamed over the face of the woman beside her. Gods, she was beautiful. (Y/n)’s eyes caught the purple tint of the woman’s hair and followed the pleasant color upward and took in a sharp breath through her nose and shuffled away before she realized that what was pinning the woman’s hair back was an accessory, and not an actual giant butterfly. Still the damage was done, and the woman gave her a puzzled look. (Y/n) assumed that, along with the audible in take of air and the sad distancing attempt, she had also had a stupidly fearful or shocked look on her face. “No need to be frightened, you’re safe here. I would never dream of hurting you in any way,” the woman spoke gently as she approached the side of (Y/n)’s cot, misreading (Y/n)’s momentary fear of her hair pin as fear directed at her. “I’m Shinobu Kochou, the Insect Pillar. You are in my home, the Butterfly Estate, recovering from a mission.” Fuuuuuuuuuck (Y/n) looked around the room nervously. So those Kakushi had managed to drag her to the Butterfly Estate and it wasn’t all just a bad dream. That would explain the hair pin. Not only that, but she was in the presence of the Insect Hashira herself and- oh, a Hashira! “It’s an honor to meet you Kochou-sama!” (Y/n) spluttered out, bowing her head as best she could lying down as a sign of respect. Shinobu laughed and the sound hit (Y/n)’s ears pleasantly and she shivered as an unexpected heat rose to her neck and cheeks. “It’s alright, no need to be so formal. You are here to recover after all,” Shinobu smiled. “Speaking of which, would you mind letting me check your wound?” “Oh, um, sure,” (Y/n) awkwardly shifted the sheet to cover her chest and left side, causing Shinobu’s smile to look a bit more sympathetic. “Sorry, can you drop the sheet, please? The shadows it’s casting is making it hard to see what I’m doing,” her smile quirked up a bit on one side. “I promise to be nothing but respectful and professional.” (Y/n) felt her cheeks begin to sting as they were positively on fire. She averted her eyes and dropped the sheet, allowing Shinobu to remove the dressing and check the sore skin tissue that started a bit above her navel and curved upward near her bottommost rib. “So, what’s your name?” (Y/n) almost forgot to answer, she was too busy focusing on the feather light fingers as they applied some kind of salve to her wound. “I’m (Y/n).” “Well, it’s nice to meet you, (Y/n). Have you been a slayer long? How are you adjusting?” Shinobu asked, closing the jar of salve and reached for the gauze. “I’d say I’m doing pretty well, I’ve been at it for almost four years now. I just reached Kinoto rank two weeks ago. So minus that last fight, yeah, I think I’m doing okay,” (Y/n) answered, a small yet proud smile formed over her lips. “You’ve been in the corps for almost four years and I’ve never had you as a patient?” Shinobu’s brows knit together as if she was contemplating something or she just got a new piece to fit in a puzzle that she did not like. “I dare say it’s not because you’ve never been hurt before, there are a few other scars that I can see here,” Shinobu leaned in and scanned over (Y/n)’s face, checking for any micro expressions as she spoke. “Now that I think about it, one of the Kakushi that brought you in claimed that you fought against their help and refused to come here. Have you been purposefully avoiding this place?” Me? (Y/n) found herself unable to look away from Shinobu’s eyes. They were like an amethyst abyss and (Y/n) felt like it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if she could sink into them and float around aimlessly forever. She cleared her throat, “No! Not at all, I just- most of my missions are farther away from here actually. It’s just more convenient to stop at wisteria houses. This time, it just so happened that here was closer!” (Y/n) let out a breath of air that was supposed to be a laugh as the Hashira’s eyes bore into her own. Shinobu stared a moment or two longer before closing her eyes and straightened herself so her back held better posture. “I see, well, allow me to formally welcome you,” Shinobu smiled. “Who knows, perhaps in two weeks I’ll be begging you to leave,” Shinobu teased, her eyes gleaming. (Y/n) barely managed to stop herself from having her eyes pop out of her head. “Two weeks?” She squeaked out, cursing the way the words left her mouth. “Yes,” Shinobu tilted her head suspiciously. “I really don’t want to discharge you before you’ve healed properly. Is there a reason you seem to be in such a hurry to leave?” “What? No... who is hurrying? I’m in no hurry, I’m cool as a cucumber.” (Y/n) wanted to slap herself. “Okay, cool cucumber...” Shinobu said each syllable with such excruciating slowness, (Y/n) thought she might as well have flossed a piece of sandpaper between her ears. “Mind putting this on? Then we’re going to move you to another room that’s a little less... depressing,” Shinobu frowned as she looked over at the two other demon slayers who were still dead asleep. “Sure,” (Y/n) took the clothing from Shinobu and pulled the top over her head and carefully switched her pants without straining her injury too much. Shinobu smiled and offered (Y/n) her arm for support as she shakily rise to her feet. Then the pair slowly made their way out of the infirmary and down the hall. “Here we are,” Shinobu slid open the door to reveal a small, but homey room. “I bet you must be tired from the walk over here so I’ll leave you to rest in just a moment. One of my attendants, Aoi, will be helping you with day to day things like recovery training and meals. Of course I’ll be checking on your progress from time to time as well. Aoi will drop by in an hour or so with food so in the meantime if you can’t sleep, there are books on the shelf and there is also a lovely view of the garden from the window if your interested,” Shinobu smiled sweetly. “Thank you,” (Y/n) returned the smile and sighed once Shinobu left the room and the door closed behind her. (Y/n) took in her room and nodded appraisingly. It was really nice, nicer than any wisteria home she had visited before, and besides Shinobu’s hair accessory and her surname, (Y/n) had yet to see an actual butterfly in the whole place. She felt a little foolish. She had expected the estate to be a giant insectarium where all the butterflies would roam free without restriction. If this was all she had to deal with, she would have come here sooner. (Y/n) walked over to the window to check out the view, pulling back the curtains she froze for a moment before jerking the curtains back in place and jumping back several steps. “Shitfuckcunt!” (Y/n) clasped her hands over her rapidly beating chest and stared back at the window with fearful eyes and slightly erratic breathing. There must have been at least seven butterflies of various sizes resting on the mesh of the window. (Y/n) cursed some more as she tried to calm her heart and felt the throbbing of her wound. Alright, so may haps she spoke to soon. Apparently there was some truth to the horrible scenarios her brain came up with. Luckily, the threat laid outside, she should be safe in here, right? Please? There was a curt knock on the door and (Y/n) turned to see it open to reveal a stern faced girl with piercing blue eyes. “I heard yelling, what’s wrong?” She asked, approaching (Y/n). “Oh, I’m fine I just... stubbed my toe on the bookshelf,” (Y/n) laughed, nervously. “You shouldn’t be wandering around, if you want to heal you should be resting in bed,” Aoi said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re right, sorry. I’ll do that now.” “Right,” Aoi sighed, watching (Y/n) shuffle over to the bed and sit on it. “I’m Aoi, I’ll be helping you recover over the next few weeks. If you need anything let me know, I’ll be back in about forty-five with lunch, then we’ll do some light stretching.” “Alright, sounds good. Thank you, Aoi-san,” (Y/n) said, wincing as she laid against the mattress. Aoi nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her. Then she walked down the hall to where Shinobu was waiting for her. “Were you able to find out what that outburst was about?” “She claims she stubbed her toe on the bookshelf, but I can’t say I believe it. Her feet looked fine, she wasn’t even near the bookshelf when I came in,” Aoi informed. “I wonder what is going on with that girl,” Shinobu pondered. “Keep a close eye on her, please. Let me know if you find out anything about her odd behavior.” “Of course, Shinobu-sama.”

*** Just one more night, one more night and (Y/n) would be home free and no one had yet found out about her fear. There had been some close calls, one of the more notable being when Kanao came back from a mission with a butterfly clinging to her uniform and then it decided to flutter around the hall. (Y/n) yelled and tried to disguise the sound as a sneeze and then excused herself, claiming she forgot to feed Mochi before bolting off back to her room. She was sure no one actually bought that excuse, but she didn’t really care since no one questioned her about it. Shinobu however, seemed to grow ever more suspicious of her manic behavior so (Y/n) always had to stay on her toes around the Hashira as she would ask seemingly innocent questions, but her eyes were sharp and calculating like she was waiting for some kind of slip up. Needless to say, (Y/n) tried to keep her interactions with Shinobu to a minimum, no matter how attractive she found the Insect Pillar to be. (Y/n) was brought out of her thoughts as another wave of pain washed over her body. She grit her teeth together as Sumi, Kiyo, and Naho painfully stretched her body and Aoi prepared her antibiotic for the day. “Are you sure you don’t want to continue recovery training outside? It’s a beautiful day and you could use some fresh air,” Aoi advised. “Um, nope, I’m good.” (Y/n) squeaked, her arm popped as Naho tugged it back with all her might. “It’s pretty hot, I don’t do well in the heat,” she added, looking into Aoi’s skeptical eyes. “If you insist,” Aoi sighed. “Shinobu-sama will be coming to check you over tomorrow morning before you can leave. She wanted to know when she should stop by your room,” Aoi said, giving (Y/n) the medicine as the younger girls finished assaulting her muscles. “I’m fine with whenever,” (Y/n) shrugged, taking the medicine. She was just so ready to get out of this place. She was tired of flinching every time she saw a butterfly hair clip in the corner of her eye or worrying about the occasional open window or door. She was ready to go back on duty and put this whole thing behind her. All the girls were sweet, and she was happy to have met them, but being constantly on edge was tiring. “Am I good to turn in for the night?” (Y/n) yawned. “(Y/n)-san, it’s noon. We haven’t even had lunch yet,” Aoi said, crossing her arms. “Haha, you’re right, how silly of me,” (Y/n) cringed internally. Well, she had to try. She just felt safer in her room where she had more control over her environment. “Come on (Y/n)-san, let’s eat!” Sumi excitedly called. “We prepared lunch before we started stretching, it’ll be so good!” Kiyo smiled. “Okay, I’m coming,” (Y/n) smiled weakly as the younger girls pulled her in the direction of the kitchen. “She seems excited to be leaving, don’t you think?” Shinobu smiled sadly, startling Aoi with her sudden presence. “I wouldn’t say excited, she seems to be... relieved?” Aoi answered. “That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Shinobu sighed, “We haven’t done anything to her, why does she hate it here so much?” “I don’t understand her at all, Shinobu-sama. It’s probably best to just leave her be and send her on her way. Tomorrow we can all go back to normal,” Aoi said. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Shinobu frowned. “Well, I’m going back to the infirmary. Inosuke is raising hell again.” “Good luck with that.” “Thank you, something tells me I’ll need it,” and with that, Shinobu disappeared from the room.

*** (Y/n) released a relieved breath as her back hit her now closed bedroom door. She had gone to the infirmary to get her stitches removed and was bombarded by a crazed teen in a boar mask that kept demanding a fight. He chased her throughout the estate until (Y/n) finally managed to lose him and circled back to her room. She stood with her back pressed against the door a moment longer with her eyes shut, but they snapped right back open as a voice addressed her from the other side of the room. “(Y/n)-san, good evening. What a surprise. Do you need anything?” (Y/n)’s head jerked up to see Shinobu standing in a thin, shimmery yukata. Her hand poised over a fish tank as goldfish swarmed after the bits of fish food that slipped through her fingers. “Kochou-sama! Sorry, um- I must have gotten turned around. I could have sworn this was my room,” (Y/n) turned and fumbled with the door to try to make a quick escape, but Shinobu was faster and placed a delicate hand over the door, keeping it firmly in place. “No need to rush off, why not stay awhile? I have tea,” Shinobu singsonged. “I don’t want to bother you, it’s getting late. I’ve got that physical exam tomorrow and you probably have important things you need to do-“ “I’m not busy, it’s just a cup of tea, nothing too strainful for someone who has nearly recovered such as yourself,” Shinobu said, guiding (Y/n) to a little table and motioning her to take a seat on the matted floor while she glides to the other side of the table and poured tea into the two conveniently placed tea cups. “Thanks,” (Y/n) mumbled into the cup Shinobu had given her. “You’re very welcome,” Shinobu said, breathing in the aroma of her own cup. “Hospitality is an important value of the Butterfly Estate after all. I hope we made you feel comfortable and welcome here during your stay.” “Oh yes, I think you are all wonderful people. You all take your jobs seriously. I think I feel better now than before I was injured,” (Y/n) answered. “I’m glad to hear that,” Shinobu took a sip from her cup. “I just wish I understood then, why you seem to think you just can’t get away from us fast enough.” “Oh no!” (Y/n) gasped, nearly spilling her tea. “It’s not like that at all, I swear! I’m just- I’m a busy body. I just can’t sit still. I’m just excited to get back on duty,” (Y/n) explained. She was being truthful for the most part, but (Y/n) was also dancing around the major issue that probably brought about this conversation in the first place and it seemed like Shinobu knew it. “Busy body? I never would have guessed what with all the time you spend in your room. I believe Aoi told me you never once accepted her offers to go outside either. Why might that be?” Shinobu asked. “It’s summer, it’s hot! I hate how it’s so hot!” (Y/n) yelled defensively, feeling her back bump against a metaphorical wall with every word Shinobu spoke. “Why are you so interested in what I choose to do with my free time? I’m sure you have plenty of other patients to concern yourself with.” “I’m concerned about you in particular,” Shinobu stated simply. “You don’t need to be. You’ve done nothing wrong, no one has, I’m just ready to go.” “(Y/n)-san?” “Yes?” “I don’t believe you.” (Y/n) scoffed in disbelief, looking at the smiling woman before her. “Well, I don’t know how I could possibly change your perception,” she said, crossing her arms. “You could start by telling me why you are so uncomfortable here,” Shinobu prodded. “Just drop it, please.” (Y/n) sighed wearily. “I obviously don’t want to talk about it. I’ll be leaving tomorrow so there is no point in discussing it.” “So there is something.” Shinobu frowned. “Don’t beat yourself up over it, there’s nothing you can do about it,” (Y/n) assured, placing a hand over Shinobu’s without even thinking about it, then awkwardly she tried to withdraw it. Shinobu caught her hand though, keeping it clasped in hers. “We won’t know for sure what I can do for you unless you tell me. I want to help you, (Y/n)-san.” Why did this have to be so difficult? If only Shinobu knew how ridiculous this whole thing was, but (Y/n)’s pride was too great and she wasn’t going to suddenly drop the truth on Shinobu after all of that so she just shook her head and slid her hand out of Shinobu’s. “I really need to go to sleep, Kochou-sama. I’ll see you tomorrow morning for my exam. Thanks for the tea,” (Y/n) mumbled. Shinobu tried to get her to stay, but (Y/n) left before she could even finish her sentence. The Hashira, frowned and looked at her hand. It still tingled with the feeling of (Y/n)’s calloused fingers against her own. She gripped her fingers tightly to form a fist, a determined fire blooming in her eyes made it clear that this was far from over. “Shinobu!” Inosuke called as he kicked open her door. “I got the girl here just as you asked! I’m getting tempura tomorrow, right?!” “Yes,” Shinobu sighed. “But you better fix my door first.”

*** When Shinobu entered (Y/n)’s room the next morning, she was pleasantly surprised to find the girl was still sleeping. She decided to grab a book and wait for (Y/n) to awaken, but not before opening the window, as it was rather stuffy in the room. As the pleasant breeze wafted into the room, Shinobu moved the desk chair next to (Y/n)’s bed and began to read. Occasionally she would glance up and observe (Y/n)’s peaceful expression as she slept, making Shinobu’s heart flutter unexpectedly but it was not an unwelcome feeling. Shinobu observed a few stray butterflies from the garden flutter aimlessly through the window and grinned as one took roost in (Y/n)’s hair. Her book forgotten, she watched the insect slowly fan it’s wings as another came to rest on the nape of (Y/n)’s neck. The tickling feeling on (Y/n)’s bare neck caused her to stir in her sleep her hand made a move to scratch her neck and luckily the butterfly had the sense to fly off before the hand made contact. However it’s next perch was perhaps worse than the first. (Y/n) exhaled sharply through her nose as an unexpected light, fluttering weight rested just under her nose and on her upper lip. She immediately bolted upright and rubbed at her lip, looking sleepy and befuddled as the butterfly floated just out of her line of vision. “Good morning, (Y/n)-san. Did you enjoy your wake up kiss?” Shinobu chuckled “My what?” (Y/n) blushed, her sleep addled brain quickly becoming more alert. “I must say, you’d do very well here, the butterflies seem to compliment your beauty wonderfully,” Shinobu complimented. “Huh?” (Y/n) squinted her eyes and tensed her body. “...What are you talking about?” (Y/n) asked, as if she was afraid to know the answer. “The butterflies, they float around you-“ Shinobu stopped speaking abruptly as (Y/n) screamed and tore her covers off of her body and jumped out of her bed. Shinobu watched with shocked eyes and her mouth slightly agape as (Y/n) shook and curled defensively into herself as she darted into a bare corner of the room. (Y/n)’s eyes scanned the room and her breathing became more labored as she noticed a large butterfly blocking the door and three sitting on the window sill. There was one on the bed and one fluttering near the bookshelf. “(Y/n), look at me, what’s wrong?” Shinobu asked, trying to make eye contact. (Y/n)’s eyes finally focused on Shinobu and she looked as if she had forgotten she was in the room. “Kochou-san, help me! I- Get me out, get me out!” (Y/n) spoke rapidly, clinging to the Pillar as a butterfly flew in too close for comfort. “Okay, it’s okay. I’ve got you,” Shinobu pulled the girl into her side and ushered her to the door. She met some resistance as they neared the giant butterfly, but Shinobu shooed it away and it sluggishly flew over to the desk. Shinobu opened the door and (Y/n) bolted out and ran down the hall. The Insect Pillar cursed under her breath and ran after the clearly frightened girl. “(Y/n)-san, you’re safe now,” Shinobu called gently as (Y/n) reached a dead end. The girl turned and Shinobu’s heart ached when she saw the fearful expression upon her face. She walked up to (Y/n) and gently grasped her clammy and trembling hands in her own, squeezing them gently. “I um, I think I understand why you wanted to leave so badly now,” she smiled emphatically. “Yeah,” (Y/n) croaked. “No coming back from that. Just, please don’t make fun of me. I know how ridiculous my fear is, but it doesn’t make it any less frightening for me,” (y/n) mumbled. “I’m not going to make fun of you,” Shinobu said seriously. “I mean, it’s going to be very hard not to tease you about it, but I’d never do it maliciously,” she added. “Are you... going to tell everyone?” “I think we can keep this just between us,” Shinobu smiled. “Now, I’d like you to close your eyes for a moment.” “Why?” “A calming exercise. You look like you could use one.” “Okay,” (Y/n) closed her eyes and Shinobu released her hands and instructed her to breath in deeply through her nose for three counts and exhale through her mouth for another three counts and asked her to repeat the exercise ten times. As (Y/n) breathed, Shinobu carefully reached for the butterfly in (Y/n)’s hair and the calm insect crawled onto her finger with no problem. Then Shinobu carefully opened the conveniently placed window and released the butterfly back outside and quickly closed the window and returned in front of (Y/n) with two cycles left to spare. “Can I open my eyes now?” “Mmm, one more thing,” Shinobu simpered. She leaned forward and lightly kissed the tip of (Y/n)’s nose. “There, now you can open them.” “Okay,” (Y/n) squeaked.

*** After Shinobu cleared (Y/n) for returning to duty, (Y/n) changed into her uniform and prepared herself to go back on the road. She thanked Aoi and the others for their help and was about to make her way out of the mansion when Shinobu caught her at the doorway. “How do you plan to leave the estate with those winged beasts guarding the grounds?” She asked, sweetly. “I was just gonna run like hell,” (Y/n) admitted. “I... I suppose I won’t be seeing you again,” Shinobu said. Her words sounding more like a statement than a question. “Probably not,” (Y/n) sighed. “Nothing against you of course. You’re awesome. It’s just, there’s a lot going on here.” “I’m awesome, hmm? Well, you’re not too bad yourself,” Shinobu hummed. “Gee, thanks,” (Y/n) laughed. “I think I might actually miss you. In fact, just meeting you almost makes being dragged here against my will worth it.” “Was that supposed to be a compliment? If so, you aren’t really good at it,” Shinobu chuckled before speaking again. “You know, this doesn’t have to be goodbye. I wouldn’t mind seeing your raven coming around if you ever wanted to send me a letter. I’d return the favor with my own crow of course. “I’d like that,” (Y/n) smiled. “Perhaps we can make plans to meet again on a more even playing field. Maybe then I can see what you look like when you aren’t stiff as a board!” (Y/n) stuck out her tongue and landed a surprise attack on Shinobu’s nose, causing the Hashira to gasp at the Kinoto’s audacity. Then (Y/n)’s lips set into a small smirk. “I’ll be sure to write! Bye, Kochou-sama!” (Y/n) darted out of the door and Shinobu watched as the girl booked it across the lawn and laughed as she nearly tripped before jumping over the fence and out of sight. Shinobu stood there a moment longer as she swiped her sleeve over her damp nose, her eyes trained on the spot where (Y/n) disappeared over the fence. After her nose was wiped dry, she walked to her office to start drafting the first of many letters.