pickled Piggsbury

One night, shortly after retiring to her tent, Willow heard a quiet tenor voice carrying a tune she couldn't name.

Peeking outside, she saw him sitting near the firepit, feeding the smallbird a handful of toasted seeds. It was stupid, of course, because she was a goddamn adult and didn't need anyone to sing her a lullaby, but annoyance prickled at her skin anyway.

"You are NOT singing to that failed science fair project."

"Oh, Willow! I'm sorry, did I disturb you? I thought you'd fallen asleep." He sounded sincere, but Willow scowled anyway. "I thought that, since many birds utilize calls of varying complexity... well, that it might help us bond with it."

He fidgeted with his gloves. "May I ask you a question?"

"Haven't you already?"

"One more, then. You don't have to answer it... if you don't wish to." He waited, but was met with silence. "Are you afraid of me?"

She let out a long sigh. (Annoyance? Relief? He couldn't guess.) "No."

He nodded, still looking at his hands. "Good. You know, you've always come across as quite... fearless."

She scoffed. "I dunno where you got that idea. I'm literally so scared of the dark I still sleep with a teddy bear."

"Is there... are you unsatisfied in some way with that?"

"Nah- like I've said, you're fun to tease. I was just curious if this is like, your preference, or..?"

"Oh! No, it's not necessarily a preference- though I have no complaints. Rather, your continued comfort and enjoyment of, um... our time... is, of course, of the utmost importance to me- and that seems easier to monitor when you're- that is, when you take a more... active role."

"Oh, please! It's not like you're gonna break me, I can say 'no'! We could totally switch it up some time, if you want. Do you?"

"Hey," she called. And his traitorous eyes flicked back to meet her gaze.

"Are you uncomfortable?"

"No." It was a bald-faced lie, and he knew it.

"You are, though! I can tell. Why?"

"It's just... Your eyes are striking, intense—Direct eye contact is, I mean."

She smiled, though he couldn't fathom why. "I like that. Hey, you know what else is intense?"

His own eyes, maybe? But he simply wasn't bold enough to ask. "No, what's that?"

Genuinely, no lies detected.

"You're quite something, yourself." She turned to leave.

"Wait." She pauses, looks back at him. "What were you thinking just now?" The slightest upward twitch of her eyebrows- surprise at being called out.

"I was just gonna ask what you meant by that–but I think I figured it out."

"Oh! I'd be happy to explain." Another smile, but this time accompanied by a gentle brush of pink across the cheeks.

Regardless, nothing could compare to the high of kissing Willow.

His eyes opened when he felt her pull away, breaking the kiss but staying tantalizingly close.

"You're getting better at this." Her breath brushed against his tender lips.

He tried to think of a reply, but if he was being honest with himself, his mind was clouded with the desire to kiss her more. With his eyes closed, he could almost forget, could almost imagine it was Willow–his Willow!–wrapped in his arms, and not Their Queen.

When they first met, he wondered what was her influence, and what was Theirs. Now he was better at telling. Willow–his Willow–seemed content to share longing looks with her companion, whereas the Queen had the confidence of Their throne. Willow could be brash, but she appreciated when someone met her at her level. The Queen preferred submission from her subjects. Willow, he guessed, would be an enthusiastic partner, but perhaps the need to draw his blood was Theirs. He hoped so, though he couldn't know for certain. His silence, or perhaps his body, betrayed him, because her lips curled into a wicked smile.

"Thinking naughty thoughts, Higgsbury?"

He wavered between a lie and the truth. "You hold my every thought captive, your majesty." That was another thing. Calling her Willow 'pissed her off,' as she would say. He would, occasionally, try it anyways–but he had learned it was safer to do so when her hand wasn't on his neck.

Her eyes narrowed, though she was still smiling. "Cute," was all she said.

Willow would never take such a comment without deflecting in some manner–he could almost hear her laugh and ask if he said that to all the girls. The Queen seemed to enjoy knowing how much power she held over him. Furthermore, she seemed determined to bring him both pain and pleasure in equal measure. Hmm. Pain for pleasure; he surely proved he would make that trade, and that was dangerous.

"Am I a distraction?" She asked, sounding innocent as ever.

"Yes! You regularly keep me from science- from sleep, too!"

"Willow? Are you awake?"

"Hmm?" It wasn't quite the.. respect, perhaps, he thought this deserved, but then again, how was she to know?

"This is, uh, rather important. I'd like your full attention–if you're awake, that is." She sighed quietly and shuffled a little in the dark. He couldn't see a thing, so this was entirely guesswork, but something told him her eyes were open now, looking at him. How much she could see, he didn't know–but he could feel the weight of her gaze anyway, somehow.

"Okay, I'm up. For real."

"Thank you." He took a steadying breath. "I think I might... no, sorry–" Now was not the time for hesitancy and his usual hedging of bets. "I think I love you."

It took her a long moment to respond. "I was wondering when you'd figure that out." What? This was entirely new information..?

"What do you mean?"

She felt an overwhelming giddiness, the sheer joy of facing monumental odds and surviving. With a whoop of exhilaration, she ran towards Wilson, crashed into him, wrapped her arms around him, laughing as one might after after accomplishing the impossible.

Her words stumbled to a stop as her senses caught up, telling her that Wilson had not joined her in celebration. Indeed, he stood there, stiff, and as she pulled away she noticed his face– so pale. Fearful.

"Hey, are you with me?" She looked him over, but didn't spot any obvious blood.

It took a second, but Wilson came back to the present moment, wherever he had been before.

Hmmmm. "Haunted" is kind of a heavy word, generally suggesting something negative, but not necessarily, sort of related to grief, perhaps. I guess I'd consider a piece of writing to haunt me if it sticks in the back of my mind, if I really have to mull it over, if it changes my perspective (at least for a moment, maybe forever)

Now, the Problem with Me is that I have a very poor memory. It's very hard to pull memories up without something related reminding me of them first. So, I'm certain writing has haunted me before, probably even very recently. But unless something triggers me to remember, I can't just pull it out of thin air. Unfortunate. HOWEVER I won't end the answer on that sour note.

The closest thing I can think of rn is this unfinished fanfic I read featuring a fox as the personification (animalification??) of the northern lights. That's not really what the fanfic is About, (you know how writing is) but it was such an interesting read I felt compelled to make a little fox fanart of it to... idk, commemorate it and remember it. I haven't yet, but soon! Hilariously, a plot point in that fanfic is about memories and the loss of them, and maybe that's why it struck me so hard.

Also? Those lists that people reblog and pass around of hard hitting lines/accidental poetry from unexpected sources? I love that. I love people finding striking writing and beauty wherever they may.

You know what else is haunting and related to writing? When people go looking for fanfics they loved before, only to find them deleted. I can't remember this happening to me yet, but I think that would haunt me. The unanswered questions, etc, you know?

OH! I have an incomplete list of song lyrics that I enjoy/like thinking about/etc but that gets into my music taste, which is embarrassing and idk if anyone would want to see that lol

Aaaand I might be forgetting some poetry, I'll have to reread some 🤔 Off the top of my head "Simile" by N. Scott Momaday really got me in college. Its not the like, deepest craziest mind bendingest poem ever, but the words "latent flight" just really hit me, okay. The existing but concealed. The inevitable, the moment before the inevitable, the attempt to avoid the inevitable, etc, etc.