#❪ DRENCHED IN STARDUST ❫ ━━ 「 THREAD. 」

[vivfms]

.

[spacejellyfish3]

Ms. Marvel Episode 5: Time and Again

penultimate episode time and boy did it ever deliver! Ms. Marvel continues to prove itself as not just the best Marvel+ show, but the best thing the MCU has actually produced so far with a beautiful, pulse pounding and yet delicate treatise on family, love, and temporal convergence that shines even if it is unfortunately hindered by Marvel’s nonsensical mandate of 6 episode seasons.

tracing a path backwards from the Marvel Studios logo of the present to a breaking radio sepia tone song, the episode begins with a 4:3 newsreel of the historical context on Partition before tracing back even further to 1942 India where Aisha (Mehwish Hayat), separated from Najima and the rest of the Clandestines, meets Hasan (Fawad Khan, finally), in a rude meet cute awakening from her slumber on a bed of his roses.

the first half of the episode revolves entirely around the romance between the two, and it’s something which is invariably diluted by rapid pacing so as to allot enough space for finale setup in the remainder of the episode, yet Hayat and Khan infuse such depth of passion and worn, compassionate affection in their performances that the relationship feels timeless and powerful in the short vignettes we receive irregardless. it’s once more indicative of Ms. Marvel’s greatest superpower; behind the purple starlight and embiggened fists is a magnificent ability to craft beauty in the minute of life, the small moments in the spaces between all the action and lore. more than anything, this is a show utterly defined by its reverence for the power in personal relationships and human connections, for our lifelines and lifetimes suspended across the membrane of time through the sharing of music, clothing, food, and mementos kept to the heart and held close.

director Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy and writer Fatimah Asghar go as above and beyond as they possibly can against the rigid restrictions of the show’s low episode count to both entertain the audience and engage them critically and intellectually, particularly in the respectful, painful depiction of Partition, haunting and rawly rendered in full tragedy; bodies pushing across and trampling in a search for safety, fire and death drenching the air, cold and solitary yet sweltering and crowded all the same. the idea of a time traveling Kamala being the one to guide her young grandmother back to her father was a particular stroke of genius, reinforcing the themes brought up in the previous episode—the duality of us, of then and now, as a path to bridge the gap between, the beauty we can find and make from the broken pieces of our history; Aisha and Kamala, past and present, ourselves now forever connected to those who came before—with Vellani (only arriving halfway through the episode) delivering her best performance to date.

“What you seek is seeking you.”

the recurring thread driving this episode: a quote from a poem that became something bigger than any two hearts could’ve made on their own, an inscription on a cosmic bangle passed down across generations and divisions. a thread of binding love, a specific hope, a transcendental call for help.

a leap to faith, simply put.

it’s the core of what Ms. Marvel is to so many, what it is to me. home built by the heart of things, my love and my soul in the people I come from, my life and my light from the people I share myself to. we are bound together in moments, in everything we touch; familial agonies, melancholy memories, bittersweet stardust lighting the path to ourselves from beyond the void of perception and understanding.

this is the resonance that speaks to me, what truly fills my heart when I’m watching. this is what makes all the flaws, all the grievances, all the warranted criticisms worth suffering. it’s that thread, that beautiful tapestry of me on the screen, even if it’s different; in all those divergences can I see myself so fully, that dislocation of self, split between two cultural identities.

cleaved in separation, cleaved in fusion. just as stuck in between me and myself as I am bound and found by them all the same.

[yeojaa]

Dude... What about a devil!jk spending his first valentine's day with her and she's all it's just a dumb holiday and he's all offended cus he's a rooooomantic 🤣🤣

[ read devil in a new suit ]

pairing.  rich boy!jjk x girlfriend!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  the epitome of fluffy angst.  wc.  1.4k.  beta reader(s).  @coepiteamare, @yeoldontknow.  ty mucho. ✨  a/n.   vday is a capitalist lie and also, this will rip your heart in half then piece it back together.  happy 14th of february!    

There sits a portrait in the atrium of his heart.  A lovely thing, a lonely thing, painted in the shades of your smile, the rouge of your lipstick, the studded dark of your stare.  It never gathers dust, prim and pristine, carefully tended to with an adoration that sinks sunbeams into the shadows, sweeps cobwebs away on moth wings.  

It’d once been blocked off, locked with a skeleton key, brass tucked behind the cage of his ribs.  He’d guarded it like a three-headed dog, barked and bayed and keened quiet in the night when no one else was around.  No one enter, he’d said, full of fear, skin of his hands hardened and rough and purpled.  The flesh of a fig, hardy and thick, protecting a centre soft and chewy and terribly sweet as it stuck to teeth.  

He’d never been bitter - never the harsh white pith of a lemon, never tart like the yellow that burst forth and stung - but he’d been something else.  Cautious, worried, scared.  Full of love but with nowhere for it to go, overripe and inedible from years of hanging on the limbs of trees left to rot.

And then you’d appeared.  Shot across his sky like a comet, brilliant and beautiful and fluorescent, lighting up his life like the burst of a supernova.

You’d drenched all the grey in technicolour, turned paper leaves green, spilled colour into his cheeks.  Made them rudied red and full of life, warm warm warm in the curl of your palms, scorching coals under the weight of your kisses.  Filled all his cracks with the silver quality of your laughter, honeycomb smile turned gold filigree to piece back all the fragments. 

So of course he’d showered you in affection, appeared with an armful of flowers and a smile that rivalled the sun.  “Happy Valentine’s day,”  he’d hummed, a heart full of hope, hands full of freesias and white roses and enough baby’s breath to take yours away.  He thought you’d love it - like you loved him, with unashamed adoration and lines at your eyes, brow creasing with delight.  But you’d only blinked once, twice, with a polite turn of your chin, a knife slipped between his ribs and pressed, too gentle for purpose. 

You’d smiled and shook your head, caught a petal between your fingers and dipped your nose to the leaves.  Inhaled deep and pure and then continued on, moved along, already miles away by the time he’d caught up.  

“Don’t you like them?”  He’d asked, doubt creeping up, twining around his lungs like a rose bush, heavy with thorns.  They’d pin-pricked his heart, spilled his insides out;  your bandages were nowhere to be found, no chiming bells or liquid gold in sight.  It’d beat for you, in time with you, one to one for each of your own.  It’d stuttered and tripped, caught on its own too feet, overeager and delirious.  “The girl who helped me said freesias symbolise trust and baby’s breath mean love and—”

“They’re lovely.”  

Maybe you’d meant it, for the briefest of moments, in the quiet before you’d crossed the threshold, before you’d swung open the door and turned his efforts to ash.  Surely you’d appreciated them - him.  Surely you never intended to hurt him the way you had.  

“But they’re kind of a waste.”

A heart is a well of impossible depths, an abyss of contradictions and contrived notions.  Even the brightest of rays do little to penetrate its darkness.  Moonlight filters over the surface in ripples and waves, undefined and blurred.  Thoughts without end and often without start.  

He supposes he can’t help the way he feels, how his shoulders turn stiff beneath your touch, the set of his mouth worn and sagging, a poorly strung noose tying his lips up.  (It feels more like the thing around his neck, tattered and heavy, a reminder of all the reasons the door had been better left shut, sealed.) 

“What’s wrong?”  You’re a birdsong in his ear, lilting and lovely, impossible to ignore.  You hold him in your hands and press kisses to his throat, sear stardust beneath skin, and hum in hopes of an answer.  He’s stoically silent, a statue fit not for hallowed halls but mausoleums, stone cold and sad.  

Jungkook doesn’t mean for this - for the sorrow that rains down in sheets.  You’re a Monday in May, a winding path speckled with flora, springtime.  His misery will surely suffocate you, tear life from limb with its torrential cast.  

“Nothing,”  he says, through the pristine white cage of his teeth, untruths bleeding past enamel and staining them red.  He speaks them well, well enough to fool anyone else, well enough that his lies are dressed lily white, stunning in their Sunday best.  “Just don’t feel well.”

Hasn’t, since you’d come home, since dinner, since exactly four hours and four minutes ago.  

“Don’t lie.”  It’s not an accusation, baseless and blunt.  It’s coaxing, pleading, whittling away amber, crystallised and hard around the too-soft thing in his chest.  A layer of wax giving way, melted by the warmth of your touch, the fire in your eyes.  Icarus’ wings, hummingbird wings, monarch wings.  Stained glass creaking and cracking beneath the weight of your words.  

“I’m sorry.”

The apology lays itself over crushed velvet, spins itself into silk and twines into strands, a braid twisted over your shoulder.  It settles, indistinguishable from the salt-sweet, his whisper finding a home within the shell of your skin.  He threads his fingers with yours, twists and turns knuckles until they knock awkwardly, unkempt and unsure.  

Your sigh is a salve, soothing ointment spread over scorched earth, dulling the sting.  He still aches all over, from the base of his spine to the top of his head, a rattle in his bones when he brings you close.  It trembles through the both of you, an eruption of emotion felt to the core.  (But still, he feels best when he’s with you.)

“For what?”  

He thinks and thinks, works himself into a knot he doesn’t know how to unfasten.  It coils in the centre of his chest, a slipknot he’s tied wrong, whose tail has been folded in on itself.  He grasps at frayed rope, seeks aimlessly for the answer.  A tidal wave of emotion sweeps high above his head, an unnamed terror that threatens to upend his rowboat.  He settles as the sea does, in breaks and luls that belie something far worse, in a voice small as a drop in the ocean.  “For being too much.”

“Jungkook.”  The way your voice breaks hits like a thousand pounds, an assault to the back of his knees, a shot to the vulnerable soft of his gut.  A sound whines out - another apology - and you swallow it whole, take it in and turn it around, offering tenderness in its wake.  “You’re never too much.”

He believes you.  He swears he does, even if the words come tumbling out, glass too full to hold them all.  “You didn’t like the flowers.”

“So what?”  You cradle him careful with magic hands, understanding threaded between each digit.  You hold him tight even as he threatens to run away, can’t keep the skip of his stare from doing so.  “I don’t need flowers.  I don’t need gifts.”  (Not the jewels he’d laid in your lap, stamped with an interlocked ‘C’ and nestled within pristine white tissue.  Not the flowers that’d poured onto every surface of his apartment, a mountain of blooms with typewritten cards nestled amongst stems.  Not the five course meal he’d ordered in, because love and devotion didn’t translate into a masterclass in cooking.)  “All I wanted for Valentine’s Day was you.”

Something he’s never heard before.  Less an excuse and more akin to you’re enough, echoed in the quiet, repeated in a daisy chain that attaches itself to the end of his thoughts and undoes all the sadness.  That unravels him in a single fluid motion and has him melting against you, leaking love from all his undone seams.

“I’m sorry.”  This time, he means it as thank you.

“Me too.”  And you mean it as I love you.

[koostory]

001.  writing sample (long) / jeon jungkook x reader

There sits a portrait in the atrium of his heart.  A lovely thing, a lonely thing, painted in the shades of your smile, the rouge of your lipstick, the studded dark of your stare.  It never gathers dust, prim and pristine, carefully tended to with an adoration that sinks sunbeams into the shadows, sweeps cobwebs away on moth wings.  

It’d once been blocked off, locked with a skeleton key, brass tucked behind the cage of his ribs.  He’d guarded it like a three-headed dog, barked and bayed and keened quiet in the night when no one else was around.  No one enter, he’d said, full of fear, skin of his hands hardened and rough and purpled.  The flesh of a fig, hardy and thick, protecting a centre soft and chewy and terribly sweet as it stuck to teeth.  

He’d never been bitter - never the harsh white pith of a lemon, never tart like the yellow that burst forth and stung - but he’d been something else.  Cautious, worried, scared.  Full of love but with nowhere for it to go, overripe and inedible from years of hanging on the limbs of trees left to rot.

And then you’d appeared.  Shot across his sky like a comet, brilliant and beautiful and fluorescent, lighting up his life like the burst of a supernova.

You’d drenched all the grey in technicolour, turned paper leaves green, spilled colour into his cheeks.  Made them rudied red and full of life, warm warm warm in the curl of your palms, scorching coals under the weight of your kisses.  Filled all his cracks with the silver quality of your laughter, honeycomb smile turned gold filigree to piece back all the fragments.

So of course he’d showered you in affection, appeared with an armful of flowers and a smile that rivalled the sun.  “Happy Valentine’s day,”  he’d hummed, a heart full of hope, hands full of freesias and white roses and enough baby’s breath to take yours away.  He thought you’d love it - like you loved him, with unashamed adoration and lines at your eyes, brow creasing with delight.  But you’d only blinked once, twice, with a polite turn of your chin, a knife slipped between his ribs and pressed, too gentle for purpose.

You’d smiled and shook your head, caught a petal between your fingers and dipped your nose to the leaves.  Inhaled deep and pure and then continued on, moved along, already miles away by the time he’d caught up.  

“Don’t you like them?”  He’d asked, doubt creeping up, twining around his lungs like a rose bush, heavy with thorns.  They’d pin-pricked his heart, spilled his insides out;  your bandages were nowhere to be found, no chiming bells or liquid gold in sight.  It’d beat for you, in time with you, one to one for each of your own.  It’d stuttered and tripped, caught on its own too feet, overeager and delirious.  “The girl who helped me said freesias symbolise trust and baby’s breath mean love and—”

“They’re lovely.”  

Maybe you’d meant it, for the briefest of moments, in the quiet before you’d crossed the threshold, before you’d swung open the door and turned his efforts to ash.  Surely you’d appreciated them - him.  Surely you never intended to hurt him the way you had.  

“But they’re kind of a waste.”

A heart is a well of impossible depths, an abyss of contradictions and contrived notions.  Even the brightest of rays do little to penetrate its darkness.  Moonlight filters over the surface in ripples and waves, undefined and blurred.  Thoughts without end and often without start.  

He supposes he can’t help the way he feels, how his shoulders turn stiff beneath your touch, the set of his mouth worn and sagging, a poorly strung noose tying his lips up.  (It feels more like the thing around his neck, tattered and heavy, a reminder of all the reasons the door had been better left shut, sealed.)

“What’s wrong?”  You’re a birdsong in his ear, lilting and lovely, impossible to ignore.  You hold him in your hands and press kisses to his throat, sear stardust beneath skin, and hum in hopes of an answer.  He’s stoically silent, a statue fit not for hallowed halls but mausoleums, stone cold and sad.  

Jungkook doesn’t mean for this - for the sorrow that rains down in sheets.  You’re a Monday in May, a winding path speckled with flora, springtime.  His misery will surely suffocate you, tear life from limb with its torrential cast.  

“Nothing,”  he says, through the pristine white cage of his teeth, untruths bleeding past enamel and staining them red.  He speaks them well, well enough to fool anyone else, well enough that his lies are dressed lily white, stunning in their Sunday best.  “Just don’t feel well.”

Hasn’t, since you’d come home, since dinner, since exactly four hours and four minutes ago. 

“Don’t lie.”  It’s not an accusation, baseless and blunt.  It’s coaxing, pleading, whittling away amber, crystallised and hard around the too-soft thing in his chest.  A layer of wax giving way, melted by the warmth of your touch, the fire in your eyes.  Icarus’ wings, hummingbird wings, monarch wings.  Stained glass creaking and cracking beneath the weight of your words.  

“I’m sorry.”

The apology lays itself over crushed velvet, spins itself into silk and twines into strands, a braid twisted over your shoulder.  It settles, indistinguishable from the salt-sweet, his whisper finding a home within the shell of your skin.  He threads his fingers with yours, twists and turns knuckles until they knock awkwardly, unkempt and unsure.  

Your sigh is a salve, soothing ointment spread over scorched earth, dulling the sting.  He still aches all over, from the base of his spine to the top of his head, a rattle in his bones when he brings you close.  It trembles through the both of you, an eruption of emotion felt to the core.  (But still, he feels best when he’s with you.)

“For what?”  

He thinks and thinks, works himself into a knot he doesn’t know how to unfasten.  It coils in the centre of his chest, a slipknot he’s tied wrong, whose tail has been folded in on itself.  He grasps at frayed rope, seeks aimlessly for the answer.  A tidal wave of emotion sweeps high above his head, an unnamed terror that threatens to upend his rowboat.  He settles as the sea does, in breaks and luls that belie something far worse, in a voice small as a drop in the ocean.  “For being too much.”

“Jungkook.”  The way your voice breaks hits like a thousand pounds, an assault to the back of his knees, a shot to the vulnerable soft of his gut.  A sound whines out - another apology - and you swallow it whole, take it in and turn it around, offering tenderness in its wake.  “You’re never too much.”

He believes you.  He swears he does, even if the words come tumbling out, glass too full to hold them all.  “You didn’t like the flowers.”

“So what?”  You cradle him careful with magic hands, understanding threaded between each digit.  You hold him tight even as he threatens to run away, can’t keep the skip of his stare from doing so.  “I don’t need flowers.  I don’t need gifts.”  (Not the jewels he’d laid in your lap, stamped with an interlocked ‘C’ and nestled within pristine white tissue.  Not the flowers that’d poured onto every surface of his apartment, a mountain of blooms with typewritten cards nestled amongst stems.  Not the five course meal he’d ordered in, because love and devotion didn’t translate into a masterclass in cooking.)  “All I wanted for Valentine’s Day was you.”

Something he’s never heard before.  Less an excuse and more akin to you’re enough, echoed in the quiet, repeated in a daisy chain that attaches itself to the end of his thoughts and undoes all the sadness.  That unravels him in a single fluid motion and has him melting against you, leaking love from all his undone seams.

“I’m sorry.”  This time, he means it as thank you.

“Me too.”  And you mean it as I love you.

[animotierno]

BEFORE US, AFTER ME.

&&. — solo. warnings apply.

“Jem? Jem, is that you?”

His lungs collapse under the sullen cage of his ribs, sticking to his spine, suffocating the failing rhythm of his heart – cursed, tainted, broken – nothing but a wind-up mechanism inside a pretty container. Trembling hands scramble and dance over the scratchy cotton of Institute linens, searching for what haunts the dusk of the night, what hangs in the air like fine dust. Fingers catch and get lost in the bends and twists of the fabric, encasing him further into a deadly cocoon, until he thuds to the floor and wakes, sudden and sharp, inhaling hard so that his chest expands to infinity. Bleary gaze focuses on the cracks and lines of the floor, fields of columbines blooming between fluttering butterflies of fanned lashes.

“Jem?”

Nothing but silence greets William’s quiet inquiry. The night air rustles against the frame of the window, echoing the question in the language of winds, but the boy is gone before he can decipher it – running, sprinting. Bare feet on the cold floors, loose shirt clinging to his sweaty frame. Something burns on his chest, in his chest – he is not quite sure. Something, someone, is watching. He feels icy fingers extended towards his limbs, ghostly and ghastly, wrapping around his ankles and tripping his steps, making him stumble on slippery stones and grasp walls to make his way. Right turn, left, a tapestry with a torn corner, a witchlight that never quite burns – he follows the way instinctually. Tears begin to form in his eyes, settling over his vision in a treacherous mist that blurs the world to what it once used to be, to what it was before yesterday.

Violin notes echo in the distance, close and far, and he feels like he is running in place, following the white rabbit of a haunting melody further into the hole of his nightmare. It is a dream, it must be a dream, because he stumbles, grazing his knees and palms on the stones beneath him, hissing and crawling forward stubbornly, gaze set forward even as his demons threaten to take him.

“Jem, Jem, Jem…”

The only word he remembers, the only word that he knows at this moment – the only name that he needs. It was only yesterday, the oath still fresh on his lips, ringing in his mind louder than words of any promise. He recites it passionately in a hoarse whisper, finding his footing, dashing the final few steps until the door swings open. Jem faces away from him, violin kissing the pale skin of his cheek and shoulder, drenched in serenity. Will breathes, wheezing out rapid exhales, holding the doorframe in a white-knuckle grip, the other hand on his heart.

Jem does not turn.

“By the Angel. Your screeching woke me up!”

The flippant manner of his speech is shadowed by the trembling tone of his voice that catches the panic he feels. There is something behind the door, standing there, waiting to pounce. Will runs a hand down his face, then tangles it in his hair, messing his sleep-pressed curls. The song flows and flows, dancing around his frame, every note a caress, and Will succumbs, falling to Jem’s bed: face down, with a groan, hiding his fear beneath dramatics. Jem is alive, Jem is fine: he did not burst into flames because Will allowed this one weakness, he did not wither to nothing when Will decided to love him. Yesterday, at the final word of the oath, he expected Jem to combust, but the moon of Will’s life is still here, drawing sweet melodies from delicate strings, playing him lullabies. He falls silent, soaking in the melody that Jem plays for another minute, then finally turns his face to look at his parabatai.

Solemn hysteria creeps into his heart instantly. There, behind him, stands a shadow, but it does not belong to Jem: no, it is something else entirely, something that Will created in the shadowy plains of his mind, the ghost of his curse. Will opens his mouth to scream, but no sound emerges, darkness clasped over his lips like a vice while he watches Jem disappear – petal by petal, a dying flower. The curse takes Jem’s soul and Jem’s heart, picks up every note that threads Jem together into an amalgam of the kindness he is, then finally, gently consumes his frail frame, until there is nothing.

Will thrashes, trying to free himself, but the darkness holds fast and the night laughs at his efforts. Heart breaking in two, stardust exploding into a black hole, and then they are no more.

“Will. Will, wake up.”

Dainty fingers dig into his shoulders, nails biting into his skin painfully. He sits up like a spring, breathing hard, only to meet Jem’s concerned gaze. Argent ashes of Will’s silver soul settle deeper into his lungs as he stares. Then, he is extending a hand, wrapping fingers tight around Jem’s baby bird wrist, as if to reassure his conscience that this is still real.

This is now real.

“Are you intending to sleep in my bed? I absolutely must insist that you state your intentions before such intimacy!”

Jem’s eyes glisten like diamonds, amused and fond, as Will exhales sharply, air knocked out of him, then starts to laugh. Bells and violins mix into a song that only they know until he cannot breathe for an entirely different reason, flopping back to the bed with an extravagant sigh. Jem sits at the foot of the bed, cross-legged, violin resting snugly in the cradle of his bony hips. His inquisitive gaze does not leave Will’s face, as if he expects an answer to his ridiculous question.

“By the Angel.”

He says, solemn, lips forming a pout to suppress his laugh.

“I’d rather hoped this would be an easy affair to save me from monotony of my marriage...”

[indomitablemegnolia]

Sunshine came sweetly, softly through my window today. My eyes fluttered open, consciousness gently introducing itself to my mind. I swaddled myself in the covers, taking in that delicate predawn light coloring the sky a soft lavender. Watching a brilliant ray of sunshine, Life, himself, slide into view.  Just the sight of him drenched my senses, the little remembered delights seeping to the surface. His walk, as always, liquid smooth, perfectly delicious in an unkempt, natural style. His appearance so lusciously sleep-rumpled and dewy-eyed,  though negated by his straight shoulders and glamorous posture.  Oh, but he shined so brightly. He was that odd sort of perfection, wabi-sabi down to his sweet soul, a delicious delight of haphazardry and elegance. I was struck by a thought, that made sense, well if anything in this maddening, sadistic loop in which we were both embroiled had the audacity to make sense. Once there had to be a night when he was simply a star, perhaps he was the first one into the sky; maybe someone, maybe multitudes of someones, hung every hope, every wish, every dream they ever had on his beautiful limbs. Perhaps as that bright, brilliant star he knew his beauty. He knew that constellations lined the cathedral walls of his chest, the tranquil moon for a heart. The universe saw him become conceited in his glory, deciding to teach him a lesson, transforming him like the frog prince. Suppose that is why the universe loved playing these wicked games on he and I? Oh, gods, I wonder if he remembers that distant worship. If that is the reason he was so bright and vast and beautiful. Oh, but sunlight still flowed from his skin. He was, despite the universes meddling, still a magnificent symphony of stardust and love song, he was born to shine.  For some few fantastic moments, he was mine. My eyes follow his sweet and soft motion. His gliding step measured, steaming cup of coffee he held lovingly in both of his hands. I drank it all in, his beauty, his oddities, the way he scuffed the toe on his left boot every other step. Sighing I sit up slowly, tossing the covers back I kneel in front of the window sill. My elbows resting on its cold edge, cradling my chin in my palm, drumming my fingers like a besotted teenager. I miss him, I long to touch his face. I press my hand to the cool pane as he takes a long drink from his cup. The motion, showing me his partially open shirt, buttoned unevenly, his well-worn jeans slung low on his hips. I chuckle and sigh watching the chambray billow in his wake, the mother of pearl snaps shimmering in the low morning light. A breeze kicked up tousling his hair, giving me a glimpse of the little boy who still haunted his psyche. He stops to caress his horses face feeding it a piece of sweet apple. The other beasts becoming jealous nuzzle in for their portion. I revel in the simplicity of the morning, the route, the routine; measured, specific, but done with such loving care. I feel the cool breeze on my own cheeks, smell the soft sweet alfalfa, that warm lush coffee and organic scents of the barnyard. After sating the horses, willful wants he finishes his coffee in one long sighing drought and pouring the dregs onto the soft dirt next to his gloriously soft worn booted foot. He scoops sweet feed and corn with his now empty cup into a makeshift pocket he pulls into his shirt tails. He opens the door and enters his chicken coop. Tossing the feed for his flock, lovingly. He coos and talks to his little troupe, telling them how pretty they are. Telling them of all his little plans. He intends to bring in and raise his own bee hive, making sweet honey. He distributes all of that feed then scoops up his favourite hen Lucy up into his arms. She coos and cuddles into his arms, enjoying his attention. In this world at this moment there is a person kissing their baby on the head for the first time; some lucky duck is walking into a bakery, breathing in deeply that sweet and salty scent; dying their hair the color of flame; confessing… love… or… something; someone is winning… losing… something… everything. Me, well I am the luckiest of all, watching that being I love most in this stupid messed-up world be their quirky adorable self. He holds that sweet-faced chicken in his arms cooing and talking to it, reassuring it. The thing of it is the chicken nuzzles into him cooing and clucking gently back and suddenly, against my better judgment, I am jealous of poultry. The thrill of seeing him suddenly like this, beautiful but not new. Oh, I made my mind up a while ago, he was going to be mine, but for right now I would settle for a clucking hug. Time had passed, I have learned from how those long hours, minutes, years have unfolded us, our legacy, that the time to hesitate is through. I understand that unexpected things always have and always will happen in this universe. I realize that the only control I have is how I handle those whips and scorns. I decided then, a few years ago, that I will use the courage I have, the humor I need and as much grace as my odd self can muster to weather this voyage. I feel the pull, and I know that every opportunity has to be grasped. Never look for the easy way, no, looking for a door or ladder wastes valuable time when a window with a survivable tumble lay before me. I grab my hoodie and boots, levered the window open and climbed out onto the ledge, then gracelessly tumble to the ground. I walk to the coop, threading my fingers through the chicken wire. “It’s been a while.” His shoulders straighten and slowly he looks over to me, smiling broadly. “There you are. I have been wondering about you.  I thought you might have found someone else to haunt.” His voice a glorious deep, delightful rumble. A perfect storm of joy and naughtiness, I couldn’t help but get swept up in, the wind blew me his fresh scent and laughter. Oh, gods, the way it made me feel. I would follow him to the ends of the earth; to the end of time itself. “If only we were able to pick and choose when these little visits would happen, I mean there I was sleeping happily and boom there it was… you… my sleeping eyes drank you in all dashing and dorky and utterly charming in your delighted awkward grace.”  “So, I am dashing and dorky? Interesting combination.” He sighed his eyes raking over me, taking in every little change, new detail.  Honestly I had already done the same, the new scar above his right eye and the one along his collar bone drew my eye. “Wow, I mean it.  You are always like this welcomed breath as if I had been starved for oxygen while you were gone.  You look..”  He turned to me and Lucy gave me a look of indignation as I had interrupted her attention. “It has been so long, you never seem to change.  God, you are like a supernova, when I see you I can’t look away. Even here, your hair a mess, your eyes sleepy, attesting to your tale of being surreptitiously awoken by fate. I adore your every detail.”   He set Lucy on the ground and after shooting me a look she happily clucked away. He walked to the fence making me have to crane my neck to watch his face.  “Standing there as if it was the most natural thing in the world, in your hoodie and white nighty, unlaced boots, you burn far too bright for this wretched world.” He rubbed his fingers along my knuckles on the other side of the wire. The soft, tiny hairs on my skin lift, shivering from the sensation of air from his words caress my cheeks. I long for his open mouth against the pulse on my neck. He breathes out with a lazy smile, watching me, watching my pupils dilate knowing he’s triggered other places to ache for his attention. “God, you know I spend hours writing about you, trying to either convince myself you are real or that you live simply in my imagination.” He chuckles, the air breezes my face smelling of sweet coffee. “Sometimes you are all I can think of to write about. I write about you because I miss you. I write about you because I need you to exist in my world, you are all my keyboard can capture is a stark relief,”  He moves closer I stretch my fingers out to run along that scar at his collar bone, his skin was warm and soft.  “I sometimes write till I bleed and my heart leaks out through my eyes, drying on my cheeks.”  His longer fingers lace through the wire to run along my cheek “I don’t even have that as a comfort, I have the memories. I keep all of the little things you leave behind in a little box that I open at least two times a day. I inventory the items remembering that visit.” He laughs, opening the coop door; I ride the soft swinging motion setting my feet on the bottom rung, our frames only separated by the door, touching lightly through the chicken wire. “The barrette, that little note,” he kisses my finger. “The ribbon, the tiny candy wrapper paper crane” he steps out still face to face with me. “The broken lapel pin, the sea glass and shells,” he opens the door all the way, my back coming to rest against the side of the barn. “The ribbon choker and kitten bell,” I step off, and he swings the door shut stepping into me. “The earring, your tube of lipstick,” His face soft and gentle, his expression earnest and thrilling. “Every little keepsake in its place in that little wooden box. I know you are real, I know by how I miss you.” His soft lips separated, his glorious green eyes heavy-lidded and seeking. “But I would trade anything to keep you for longer than a precious few minutes.” He kissed me, soft and sweet. We loved the best way possible in those glorious seconds that the universe threw Life, himself, and me together, always with a touch of madness, he loved me reckless. ..

[matredaen]

the high road

late, late, late cross-posting of this story from AO3

dishonored 2; 2.4k | feat. fever dreams and minor violence, & emily kaldwin and the heart

.

Run, the Heart says, and so she does.

The blade cuts quick and deep into her side; sticks there. Emily feels her breath clog up her lungs. Sees her arm move more than she feels it – a bystander in her own body. Her knife lodges in the meat of the guard’s shoulder.

Someone screams. The man’s eyes widen – he looks startled, surprised – and his fingers loosen on the hilt of his sword; the skin of his face goes pale, pale against the blue of his shirt collar. He stumbles back, takes his blade with him, and it scrapes against her ribs on its way out. Leaves a terrible heat pulsing loud where it’d been.

Run, the Heart says, and so she does.

 .

She stops in a condemned apartment near old Batista, by the waterfront. Collapses, really – stumbles on a loose roof tile and falls in through an open skylight. Blood draining out, mixing with the dust on the hardwood floor. The impact rattling her bones. Instinct makes her freeze, go quiet and listening, but there’s no one alive in the building but her. Even the bloodfly nests lie dried and emptied. All the doors and windows sealed up tight.

She closes her eyes, makes an effort to steady her breathing. Does nothing for the pain, which still flares white hot agony in her side with every twitch of her traitor body. She didn’t think it would. What it does do is help her drag her thoughts into something resembling order. Neat, pristine. Bloodless.

She’s still bleeding. Can taste iron in the back of her throat.

Bind the wound, says the Heart.

Emily braces her forearms against the floor, pushes herself up and grits her teeth at the fresh surge of pain. She peels out of her jacket with clumsy fingers and tears cloth from the hem in long strips. Wraps it tight around her ribs. It’s slow going, and her hands shake.

She’s shivering when it’s done, drenched in cold sweat. Her hair is falling out of its knot, and there’s the bitter tang of iron at the back of her throat. She pulls herself up on the kitchen counter, stumbles with a hand braced on the wall down a hallway and into a sitting room. She sees light filtering through the boards on the windows, slanting through the dust.

She’s shivering, and shaking, and cold – but the sunlight is warm against the wall when she steps into it, and so she slides down onto the ground, a hand pressed tight against her side. Her own heartbeat pulses flighty under her palm, like a strange bird caught up in the cage of her chest. She thinks that she will only linger here for a moment or two, and no longer. The other Heart beats quiet and steady, somewhere in the space by her left hand.

Emily tilts her head back, closes her eyes.

When she opens them next she’s still shivering, and the sun is gone.

She’s got blood in the back of her mouth, and the wound’s gone hot under her hand.

 .

The building may be abandoned, but the neighborhood isn't. It’s fringe Howler territory just the same as it’s fringe Batista: the Howlers and the dust seem to go hand in unfriendly hand. Already, only two days into her fever, Emily has heard the wind screaming through the seams in the building like a living thing more times than she has cared to count. Thinks it’s a wild beast and wakes from her dozing in fever-bright terror. Faceless men and witches come to put her down.

There are people singing down in the street too, a woman’s mournful croon and a man’s deep voice supporting it. One of them plays the fiddle and Emily can see it behind her twitching eyelids. The singing woman’s hands, the dark amberwood of the instrument. The silverdust in the street around them.

She coughs and it sends vibrant starbursts of pain scattering across her vision. Been flickering in and out anyway, of late. Bursts of gold and purple and void blue. Sounds leaving bright echoes. Her fingers twitch where they rest on the floorboards, and she shivers again. Presses her hands against her bandaged side and whimpers at the sticky damp, the heat.

The woman hits a high note. Emily feels it echoing under her sternum.

She and Her Mother used to sing together, until dust from the mines stole Her voice, the Heart says in its faraway voice, half lost and half desperate. Emily’s head lists to the side, her hands falling away from her wound. Finds her breath sticking in her chest. The woman and the man sing lullabies, not unlike the ones Meagan hummed when she thought Emily wasn’t listening. Not unlike the ones her father hummed to her a long, long time ago.

Emily?

“Yes?” she says in her dust-cracked-broken voice. Closes her eyes.

The Heart is silent.

 .

“Mother,” Emily says – breathes really, a note on the wind on the dawn of the third day. The Heart beats gently, and Emily thinks she hears it whisper a response. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”

She is drowning in dust, in her own skin; she is –

 .

I am proud of you, the Heart says.

 .

“Get your boots off the table,” Meagan says, knocking gently at her feet with the ladle. Her tone is harsh but she’s got a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth – been kinder and softer since Emily brought back Sokolov. Heat drifts from the galley, the smell of something warm and salty and rich.

The Wale creaks around them, and Emily laughs. Plants her feet firmly on the floor.

“Better?” she asks. Meagan smirks less sideways, nods.

 .

She is adrift in the void, whales singing all around her and bright light spearing the darkness and burning in her eyes. Delilah is in the void with her, standing above her shivering corpse and smiling beatifically. Emily is not certain that she is real – she is not certain that Delilah would ever smile like she thinks her mother did. The streets of Karnaca bloom around them, gilded in silver, bright and shining and malformed.

“How strange,” the false Delilah says, her voice echoing strange through the space, “How funny – that you will die in the city where your father was born.”

She crouches, lays a hand on Emily’s cheek the same way she did in the throne room on that first day. Emily recoils from her touch, reeling, her body splitting apart in the light.

“I won’t die here,” she rasps, her voice wrecked and hoarse. The shade’s smile stretches wider, and splits her face. Bloodflies swarm from the empty cavern of her jaw.

“You will,” she says.

 .

“Tell me a story,” she asks. Whispers, really. Voice like Karnaca’s hot winds over salt-crusted sea stones. Her eyes tracing the outlines of the cracks in the plaster of the ceilings, spidering lines mapping out from the seams of the room. Dust swirls in the corner, stirred by her breath. Shadows flicker in the corners of her eyes and the Mark throbs on the back of her hand.

What sort do you wish to hear? the Heart beats, slow and unfrantic. Emily turns her face to it, seeking warmth, comfort. That which she will not get from the chained spirit of her dead mother, but desires regardless. Shadows flicker, dancing along the walls. Dark fire, licking at her skin. The wound is hot on her side, dries her out her tongue and makes her slow.

“Anything,” she whispers. Thinks she can glimpse a woman’s shape made of shade and starlight at the periphery of her vision. Her hands rise up and settle cool on Emily’s face. She turns herself to it, clumsy and slow. She wishes that she could see her face – that she could remember her mother as anything but a fragmented collaboration of old oil paintings and Delilah’s harsh eyes.

You are burning, the Heart says, low and somber, here is a story that is perhaps familiar: a Man you know was born not far from here. He ran through these streets and was untamed and He threw stones at bloodfly nests and he laughed when they buzzed. Did he ever tell you of it? a Girl you will never know was born here too, and ran with him, faster and farther still.

They never settled, children of quick-wit and sharp-tongue and wandering-feet. a Woman you will never know waited behind their paths and held the Strictures to her heart and she would have been proud to know you. Did he ever tell you of it?

The Heart gasps then, or the closest thing to it: a sharp sound, like what the rush intake of air would be in the language of a creature only remembering it. The Heart says again, You are burning.

“I am burning,” Emily agrees, reaching through the fog and starlight for the hands of her mother’s spirit. Feeling more dust than Empress, more fever than girl. She can see the fire licking at the shell of her skin, and wonders if her bones make for good kindling. What anyone could do with the ash.

 .

The whales are singing to each other in the deep of the seas.

Long and mournful; high and finite; the echoing of it fills the void. Slips down into the empty cavity of her chest and makes a new heart for her. An organ that sings sweeter than her ruined voice could ever manage – something pure and incorruptible.

 .

“Get your boots off the table,” Meagan says, knocking gently at her feet with the ladle. Emily laughs and smiles so wide it splits her face. Sparks falling down into her lap. Meagan turns back to the galley, humming quietly.

“I am burning,” Emily says. Meagan nods.

 .

The Heart, the stardust shadow woman, her mother slinks across the walls, pulling secrets from the bricks. Comes back to Emily’s side and lays her coldwater hands on Emily’s face, her shoulders, her neck. Pulls the fire out like threads on an unfinished hem – it only flares back stronger, hotter, and the Heart sings a cradlesong tune and keeps working.

“I can’t remember what you looked like,” she confesses, glowing coals falling out of her mouth like uncut gemstones. Turns her blind eyes to the window. The woman is still singing down in the street – her mother’s shade is still singing in the space above and behind her right shoulder. Glowing coals rattle in her chest when she breathes.

Like you, the shade says softly, gently, pulling at the threads, like you, only without your strength and without your father’s eyes.

“You were strong,” Emily breathes, remembering the set of her mother’s shoulders, the steel in her spine and the kindness in her words; remembering everything about her mother but her face. The Heart hums, and the shade bends double, brushing Emily’s hair back behind her ear.

Perhaps, it says, but I shattered like spun glass. You are already stronger than I ever was, and you are not yet done.

 .

The whales are singing to each other in the deep of the void. She can hear the resonant song rattling in her jaw, between the little bones of her ears. Her eyes are full of distant fire and she imagines that she is more skin than bone, more ash than blood, and less still than even that. The stone of the island is solid at her back, but she is so far gone that she cannot even feel the chill.

She breathes out sparks and bleeds out coals and heat. Is scoured clean and raw in the inferno. She thinks it would be nice for the cold of the void to sink into what is left of her corpse. To bury herself in it and be lost. She keeps her eyes fixed on the distant stars.

“Emily Kaldwin.”

She turns her head, creaking like an old machine. A fine and fair clockwork, ruined by her own hand. Bits of herself breaking apart and drifting; burning, always burning. The Outsider is crouched near her, his eyes dark in his bonepale face, something halfway between curiosity and concern writ in the slant of his mouth. She forces the tattered remains of her lips into a smile.

“You,” she rasps, pushing air through shredded lungs. She does not worry that her embers and sparks will catch him on fire – he is far too drowned and damp for that. She reaches for him and he leans forward, black eyes hungry. “What happens to the Empire, when I die here?”

He shakes his head.

“You won’t die here,” he says, and he does not sound at all like a god – only like a boy.

Emily laughs.

 .

I am proud of you, the Heart says, I am so proud of you, but you are not finished yet.

Emily can hear the ocean through the shuttered windows. Birds calling. She cannot open her eyes.

Her mother sings to her, combing fingers through her hair.

What I wouldn’t give to hold you just one time more, she sighs, Emily. It’s time to wake up.

 .

“You won’t die here,” the Outsider says, and pours seawater down her throat.

 .

“Here,” a voice sighs, low and rasping, “Careful, she’s resting. That board right there creaks – step over it.”

A quiet murmur, indecipherable; then closer: “-how is she?”

The second voice is warm like good whiskey. Emily sinks into the familiar sound of it, comfortable in the dark. The first speaker grunts, scuffs a boot along the floor.

“She had a fever when my boys first found her, and we had to stitch up a pretty nasty cut on her flank, but,” another vague noise, the air shifting near her face, “She should be past the worst of it.”

The second voice sighs, a long and slow exhale. “Thanks, Blanchard,” they say, and Emily hears the soft jingle of coins in a purse, “What do I owe you?”

The first voice laughs, says, “Come downstairs for a drink and we’ll call it even. We’ll help you get her back to your boat in the morning.”

The two of them go back down the stairs together and shut the door quietly behind.

She drifts back down into the dark.

 .

In the dim of the room above the Crone’s Hand Saloon in old Batista she reaches out for the Heart.

It beats on, steady against her fingertips, and is quiet.

[sanguinaryprince]

@deadlysilence 

Liked for a starter

          “Mai,” the vampire started, looking out over the city of Cairo, the lights glittering off in the distance made it look like a sea of orange stars, reflecting the evening sky that dimmed in comparison. A shame given how bright the city was. “Have you ever considered becoming a vampire when you hit a reliable age?” He asked, never looking at her. A curious question indeed, he had that ability to turn mortals into vampires, if he didn't drain them first. Those usually became zombies.

          Zombies posed a problem, but he found humans and more importantly, Stand Users to be respectful when it came down to his demands. A repeat of a century earlier would do at all.

          “Have you ever considered ascending your humanity?”