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johnskleats · 5 years

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Beautiful Fool

That Great Gatsby!Merther AU, ya’ll.

@the-once-and-future-love @arthur-of-the-pendragons @the-fated-dragoness @pretty-pendragon

He had only wanted a little space to himself. That was natural enough, Gaius had said, provided he be mindful to keep sharp whilst on holiday. Privacy was recipe for secrets, his mother had said, get too used to it and risk a doomed marriage. What his uncle failed to understand was that this was not, in fact, a holiday, and his mother, bless her, would have to come to terms with his preferences. Whomever he found as a companion, eventually, would favor a similar life to his- that was what made a household, after all -harmony. “Find a woman who hates flowers,” he had jested, “and lake houses, and sunsets.” Merlin had been grinning. His mother had not. “Specifically task her to woo me, see if I give it up.”

“Give what up, Merlin,” mother had sighed.

He had only gotten so far as opening his mouth before Gaius boxed his ears in scolding. Mother fussed over supper. Merlin set the table. All was as it had always been in their little house on the corner, only in his room, there was a suitcase by the door, and the drawers were empty, and nothing was as it had been, really, at all.

And now he was home, where a new always would forge itself. Even as he had told mother to her bleary-eyed face that he would visit often and call yet more, Gaius had watched the lie weave through his lips as it was spun. His brow had been stern, but understanding. As always, he neglected to stop him spouting words that dug graves; Merlin couldn't blame him, as whatever came to him, he would probably deserve in one way or another. Yet, here he was: Camelot Isle, renting out a minuscule gardener's cottage that overlooked the harbor. His backyard, backwoods rather, lead into the gardens and courtyards of the looming mansion next door, Pendragon House, the full and dreary history of which he had gotten in his tenancy letter. Merlin had skimmed it. As his personal contract with the cottage was in no way connected to Pendragon House, originally servant's quarters or not, he had no interest or attachment to its grounds whatsoever. Because he lived here, he preferred not to be treated as a tourist, though the thought crossed his mind that the rent was fixed where it was for a purpose. The possibility of poor neighbors hadn’t crossed his mind. Between himself and whomever occupied the mansion, they had the isle to themselves; whatever it was that rendered his house so cheap couldn’t be so bad.

Merlin, on the porch of his new-to-him, two-room-with-a-bathroom-and-a-patio house, drank in the character of his little abode through a lens of intentional whimsy. It had windchimes nailed to the wood frame of the awning, bits of Cola bottles and seaglass turned in the lake and hung up with cord. The step into the living room and kitchen area was high and gnarled, and in his rounds about, Merlin had tripped on it no less than three times; his bedroom, the aforementioned second room of the two-room-with-a-bathroom-and-a-patio house, was a splotched lavender color, unevenly applied rose wallpaper fading and peeling away at cracks in the corners of the walls. His favorite part of the bedroom was probably the curtains, orange and visible, with their thick plumes of dust and heavy shadow. They were hideous. They were his.

Between his house and his neighbor's stood a dock leading out to a pier, at the end of which was a signalling bell. It was here that Merlin’s attention was drawn when with a peal of joy, the bell, chimed with the wind, his permanent glass fixtures tinkling with it and all the leaves sounding applause through the boughs of the canopy. A chill cut through him, and Merlin retreated inside to weather the surely impending storm. Awaiting him was a house of his own, just as cramped as his mother’s and far less comfortable, made sweeter and more welcoming by the name on the lease.

Merlin was a third of the way through chipping the grime from his stovetop when the first cracks of thunder rent the air. He jolted in surprise, butter knife clattering to the tile, and, shakily, took up his task again. The sound of pouring rain had deafened him to all other stimuli, and the sense of exposure rattled his bones. With the panes trembling in their frames and shutters fluttering, clamoring against the sides of the house along with the waving branches and pelting rain, wind whistling through the waterspout with the gush of overflow, he felt swallowed inside a void. The house was empty, save for himself. A new always, he supposed, being safe, unscathed, while simultaneously so utterly immersed in what his mother lovingly referred to as trouble. It filled him to the brim with the kind of excitement that makes boys leap from cliff faces to the sea, the kind of adrenaline that demands to know whether or not he could make the jump. The chaos scraped at his safehouse as the wall of his own skin, itching. It called to him like a siren song and, oddly, his heart ached. Merlin had longed to be alone, but the magic had followed him anyway.

Forlorn, he closed again the beaten shudders.

--Merlin opened them again.

There, in the earth driveway leading up to his neighbor's abode, was a car, the likes of which Merlin had only ever seen on magazine covers in stores. Yellow, canary yellow like rain slickers, yellow like bananas and technicolor and his mother's good dress stared back at him, obscured by black mud and torrents of water coursing along the body of metal. Outside the vehicle was a man of equally astounding quality, although less from the fact that he was soaked through to his designer shoes with water-dark hair in his eyes, and more so that he stood outside apparently his car, mixing himself in what was about to be ankle-deep mud. The moment Merlin had registered that the man was trying to push it out of its rut to no avail happened to be the same moment that the man had given up, throwing up his hands and kicking at the white-faced wheels with petulant abandon. The car wasn't hooded, rather open, actually, and the man looked away, paced, fumed as it rapidly took up water. Much longer in the road, which was flooding quickly, and the vehicle may not be operable at all.

Merlin, despite his brain telling him quite avidly that this would somehow change the course of his day, if not his life, in a way that would render him devoid of control, took it upon himself to don his raincoat, nevermind the boots, there was little time, and help the remarkable stranger.

When Merlin dashed out his front door, the look of surprise and relief he expected left much to be desired. Instead, he saw bewilderment and agitation, characteristic of a man who has had a very, very long morning. The man was shouting at him. Merlin was shouting back, but both voices were carried away in the storm, leading to a mutual agreement to shut up and push the car. He was struck with regret at his choice in priorities; his raincoat did him little good, as the exertion and laboured movement lead to water penetrating and eventually inundating his upper half, while he suspected galoshes would have done him much good indeed, in place of the cold mud oozing beneath his heels and riding up his socks. In several short pushes of combined effort, plus one big push, the buggy was out of the worst of the puddle, and arguably fit to go again. Still too loud to speak much, Merlin offered a thumbs up, and the man blinked at him, surprised again, although it may have been to chase away water clinging to his lashes still blindingly. Merlin gave that close-lipped, polite smile that offered immediate exit to limited acquaintances to urge him forward and out, but when the strange man, a drowned cat in a suit, continued to look at him as though transfixed, Merlin decided to make an executive decision on part of the universe.

He turned, and went inside.

The man watched him go, Merlin could feel it like the prickle of lightning in the sky, but he dared not look back, not even out his ugly curtains until he was certain his guest was gone. When he opened the shudder for the third time that rainy first day, it was to a flooded, murky street made to a mud pond in front of his house, and a long trail of tire tracks he could trace like a piece of string to the gates of the beautiful Pendragon House.

The first of the letters arrived the following morning. Merlin had only barely begun updating his address, most of his mail sure to be forwarded by his mother in the coming months, but this first letter, addressed to him, was from someone he was vaguely surprised but not astounded to hear from. Arthur Pendragon, his landlord. He could assume it was just like the last few he had received, informative snippets about his tenancy or more fluffy introduction to the place he was so privileged to live in, and so he paid it little mind. Merlin set it aside. The man with the yellow car crossed his mind once or twice, but only in passing. He hoped he had made it wherever he was going without much more trouble, even if it was his own fault for leaving such a valuable possession vulnerable to the elements like that.

He spent the day cleaning and tidying, much as he had the day before. The sunny sky and renewing smell of rain set him in a mood of rebirth, of new beginnings, and everything in his cozy fixer-upper was an opportunity to make something lovelier than before. He had a day or two yet for his holiday before he would have to call into work, and until then, he intended use his time wisely.

The wallpaper was the first thing to go.

With the night came the smell of drying paint and the sound of cars passing his house one after another, the chatter of excitement and the glare of filtered, colored light. Merlin would have shut it out if he could, but to close the window would be to suffocate in paint fumes, his beauty rest be damned. He wanted a good night's sleep, not a hangover. In the earlier hours of the evening, he had thought this would be an eight to ten kind of affair. Then the music started, a whole brass band, it sounded like, and he knew he was in for something interminable.

Merlin rolled around his cluttered living room, everything from the bedroom shoved into it whilst his paint aired out. He perched on his loveseat, did a lazy summersault out of his pillowfort, baked cookies to warm the house, even put on his own record as though to spite Pendragon House for its inconsiderate racket. The latter was to no avail, and he turned it off after a few minutes; the clash of melody was giving him a headache. He checked his watch- almost three in the morning. He was agitated enough to round up; at most, he had dozed a little under two hours between nine and now, fifteen minute increments interrupted by raucous laughter and what he assumed to be drunkards skinny dipping in the lake. He wished he didn’t know, but again, his windows were all wide open, and if anything killed him, it would be curiosity, followed swiftly by this miserable Arthur Pendragon.

Just then, Merlin remembered the letter he had received this morning. Was it a notice? He could find it in himself to be less put off if he had been warned- at least then it would be his own fault. Eyes shot, he fumbled with the heavy envelope until the seal popped- who wax-sealed their letters? -and squinted to make sense of the elaborate script.

Hereby invited...party...courtesy of Arthur Pendragon…

That was about all he got out of it, and all he really needed to read. Merlin tossed it aside with a huff and, exhausted, covered his ears with throw pillows.

The letters kept coming. The parties kept happening. The house was coming together.

Merlin had painted the outside a soft blue and rigorously cleaned the white trim, although he left the knobbed stair and wind chime as they were. The living room and bedroom were a brisk white, the curtains had been washed- Merlin didn't have the heart to throw them out -and he had livened up the space with a new dining table, a novelty painting of a farmhouse, and a little potted plant. The teakettle was operable, and life was good.

Still, the invitations came. Invitations to day trips into the city, rendezvous on the yacht, tours of the estate, and at the end of each was a reminder of the inevitable nightly house party.

Merlin had received seven now, and other trinkets had started to accompany them in little red boxes. A birdhouse. A teacozy. A brass watch, at least he hoped it was brass. All in all, it was unsettling, but Merlin had managed to put it out of his mind. It was thoughtful, and probably born of guilt, although, if Arthur knew he was a terrible neighbor, Merlin wished he would just start being a good one instead of perpetuating this compensation nonsense. It was the ninth night, and the eighth letter that finally convinced him. It had come in a box that was shaped frighteningly like a necklace from Tiffany’s, or some other such bizarre place, and Merlin had opened it with pallor and trepidation. The letter was on top, he could only guess its contents, but beneath that, in the box itself, was a simple, soft, blue...scarf. There was no price tag, no note, for when he did open the envelope, it was only his name in that elegant script he had come to be so familiar with. Somehow, that was enough.

Merlin made yet another executive decision.

He would attend one of these parties, only one, and put an end to this strange outreach of companionship. He was willing to make passing friends, would allow teatime some afternoon or another, but this gift business would stop, and by the stars and stripes, they would be on a mutual last name basis. No more of this dear Merlin business, no signed Arthur. It would be Mr. Emrys, Mr. Pendragon, chatter about the water pressure, the Sox game, and no more.

Merlin was unfit to be there. He didn't only feel that way, but was, surrounded by people he saw glimpses of in movie pictures and heard on the radio, talking about their careers and mixing brandy in their sequined dresses and tight suits. Even amongst those closer to his own economic class, college students wasted out of their minds, he didn't feel at ease. There was no theme, no center, no purpose to their frivolity- only music, loud and frenzied, and glittering champagne, dancers, fireworks above the tower raining stars into the lake. Whoever he spoke to told him something different; Mr. Pendragon was a prince, an actor, a war hero, a famous doctor, a mob boss. Not once did he hear Arthur. No one seemed to know him, or where he was, if he even lived in the house bearing his name, if he intended for there to be a shindig tonight. Apparently, the gates opened and people came, from everywhere, and no one was ever turned away.

No one was ever invited.

That put a knot in his stomach like nothing else, and he kept a white-knuckle grip on his little box of unsolicited gifts. He would find Arthur, if he could, and return them, explain himself if there was air left in the atmosphere. He would apologize. He would leave. The stars fallen into the lake would stay there, extinguished, and Merlin would soundproof his bedroom. The next letter he got, he would pack his things. The overwhelming sense of impending change, so much like doom, made his heart beat heavy and his teeth ache.

He had meandered for two hours, and like Persephone in the underworld, dared not partake. Unlike her, he could leave whenever he pleased, even if it didn't feel like it just then. The pull of destiny made him stay put, and with every passing moment, he was tempted to throw caution to the wind and join the fray.

Four hours in. Midnight. Merlin felt a tap on his shoulder and turned, the band meeting crescendo to the coo of a love song and the stars bright overhead, a moment of stillness and light, he stared, caught in the blue eyes of Apollo himself. He wished he had had something to drink. Heart fluttering in his chest, he half listened to the man welcoming him with a smile, leading him by the shoulder to somewhere more private where they could talk, and yes, he did have a lot on his mind, and indeed, the decorations were splendid. The click of a door brought him to his senses.

“What’ve you got there?”

They were in a study lined with chestnut bookshelves, each full of old, decorative books and ships trapped in bottles. The man who Merlin recognized as Mud Man With the Yellow Car had seated him on a plush lounge, black leather that squeaked faintly when he moved and smelled particular, but good. Its arms were too wide for his comfort, and he felt small. The man, much neater than when Merlin had last seen him, placed a cold glass in his hand.

“Just water,” he assured amiably.

Mindlessly, Merlin broke his vow and sipped.

Arthur Pendragon was a tall, broad man, who knew his way around a suit. In private now, he had shucked his coat to a hanger and loosed his ascot, red, to leave it hanging about his neck. He had never seen a man in suspenders any color but black or brown before, but for the sake of fashion, Merlin compelled himself to understand one's need for scarlet, if only to pair with a white suit. A white suit that looked fantastic, mind.

His host was watching him bemused, as if he knew what Merlin was here for. Merlin certainly didn't. He swallowed.

“Is that for me?” Arthur probed again. All eyes went to the repurposed gift box in Merlin’s hands, suddenly thrust into Arthur’s, who took it with mild surprise. Opening it, the look of someone enjoying a marvelous and delightful game was lost to one crestfallen. In the box, was a birdhouse, a teacozy, and a brass watch. Arthur closed the box. Had he continued to paw through it, he would have found the stack of letters, each written in this very study. Merlin, feeling like he was intruding on a private moment, was relieved that he had stopped there.

“Would you like a drink? I'd like a drink,” Arthur hummed, and he was gone again, opening wine.

“So you're not a gift person,” he said cheerily. A new glass found its way into Merlin’s hand. “Or a, how do you say, luxury adventure person,” he was starting to feel guilty, “or a party person--”

“You don't even know me,” Merlin heard himself say. The half empty wine glass he didn't remember drinking set itself on the table. Everything about this night was shiny and ethereal, his whole body abuzz with newness and golden warmth. He didn't know he had passed four hours wandering this house, drunk on art and a myriad of mismatched strangers, didn't realize he had spent almost half an hour drinking with the mysterious Arthur Pendragon in his private study, didn't know how he had gotten to the point where he could hear the words coming out of his mouth but couldn't understand who on earth had put them there, but here he was, and, “You don't know a thing about me.”

Arthur furrowed his brow and stared into his glass, the box far from forgotten on the coffee table. “I know you like the color blue,” he said quietly. “I know you like to watch birds. I know you like to work with your hands when you could call someone instead.”

Merlin, at once feeling too big for his skin and yet very small under the pressure of Arthur’s attention, watched him carefully. He watched his body language, stiff even in as casual a position as he was, legs crossed and leaning. He watched his lips, red from the worry of teeth and wine, round themselves about his words, saw his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks.

“I know you don't mind helping strangers,” Arthur was saying. Merlin’s mouth was dry and his water was gone. Arthur was watching him now, too. His eyes were blue, bluer than anything, his jaw was sharp, his shave was close and he could smell his cologne and Arthur was saying, softly, “I know your name,” and then, “Merlin,” and then.

Hook, line, and sinker.

“We know each other plenty well,” returned the easy smile. The moment was gone just like that, leaving him breathless, as though he'd been kissed. Arthur hadn't kissed him, though. He hadn't touched him aside from the occasional brush of fingers exchanging a glass, hadn't tried to breach the distance. He was still talking. Merlin wondered how his a smile didn't reach his blue, blue eyes. “But you've avoided me quite avidly, I would say. I was starting to get ideas when-”

“--When?”

“Beg your pardon?” Arthur flushed red, not expecting the question. He was used to Merlin’s silence, had no way of knowing how unusual it really was. Perhaps he had rehearsed parts of this conversation. Regardless, he disliked being thrown off guard.

“Ideas. I've been here a week, when could you have possibly found time to get ideas?”

Arthur was incredulous.

“You'd be surprised to find I do have a brain, you know,” he seemed about to continue, but Merlin glowered. Arthur began again. “...Ideas about you?”

“The Queen,” Merlin answered dryly.

“Victoria or Elizabeth?”

“Mary.”

Arthur winced, and poured more wine.

“You pushed my car,” he murmured. “No one asked you, there was no proposed reward, you just came out in your loafers and helped me.”

Merlin thought back to that night, the sniffles he'd had the remainder of the evening, the mud he had to mop up the following day. “I help people who need it,” he corrected. “The ‘who’ makes no difference to me.”

Arthur toasted him halfheartedly. “‘Sure know how to make a guy feel special, don't you?” His host glanced back to the box of rejected gifts, rejected friendship, and again, Merlin felt a pang of guilt. The distant sound of the party made its way to them, a bass beat that had always been there but had still managed to be forgotten. The clock read two.

Merlin took a drink.

“What do you want from me?” His glass clinked against the wood of the table.

“Are you flattered?” He frowned in confusion. Arthur repeated himself, clearer and more distinctly. “Are you flattered, Merlin?”

“I…”

Merlin didn't know. Why was he here, he thought, what brought him into this situation? Why had he set out tonight, bent to break his promise to his mother? Why did he insist on following that drag of purpose clutching his heart, leading him into danger such as this?

“...I am.”

There was a breath, Arthur waiting for a ‘but’ that didn't come. Again, Merlin was caught in the gaze of an Adonis.

“Would you come back?” Arthur’s tone was low, wistful, concealing. His look didn't waver, daring Merlin to lie, staring into his heart or perhaps just enjoying what he saw- both concepts he couldn't understand. “If I let you go tonight, home,” he sighed, every word sounded like a sigh now and the world was a void, “would you come back?”

The implication that his landlord might not permit him to leave should have been disturbing. Much of this should have been, in fact, he ought to have reported it or left or something--

“Yes.”

What.

“Yes?” Arthur smiled.

What are you doing?

More than smile, he beamed. He tried to hide it but couldn't, the relief overwhelming his composure and Merlin was damned if he saw anyone more beautiful than Arthur Pendragon was in that moment.

“...That's all I wanted,” he said simply.

Merlin was damned.

He knew then that if he took even the smallest amount of momentum towards Arthur, he would do something they would both regret. He would lose a potential friend, although an odd one, of his an admittedly lousy, endearing neighbor. He could always say he had been drunk, which he was, a little- he wasn't -and bank on Arthur being the same- sober, that is -and maybe, maybe then he could get away with it. Dangerous thought, danger, danger--

“Will you stay tonight?”

His heart leapt to his throat to choke him, treacherous thing.

“...Until the party is over?”

The clock read two fifteen, Merlin unabashedly eyeing those red, red lips.

He made an executive decision.

He left.

#my writing #fanfiction #merthur #great gatsby!merthur au #Beautiful Fool #if you don't want to be tagged then lemme know #if you DO wanna be tagged lemme know #bbc merlin #merlin

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quantumrpg · 6 years

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NAME: Ariadne “Ari” Lefebvre AGE: 25 SPECIES: Time Traveler - The Creator OCCUPATION: Owner of Tempus YEAR OF ARRIVAL: 1973 RESIDENT FOR… fort-five years. FACECLAIM: Marine Vacth

t i m e i s a n i l l u s i o n, b u t n o t o u r s t o r i e s…

The beginning, as most beginnings could often be described, was exceedingly ordinary. Ariadne was born in a small village in France, an unanticipated but welcomed birth to a pair of young, wayward couple who were by all means perfectly ordinary and decent, with ambitions that matched their humbleness, vigour that commanded their hearts. The memory of early childhood to her was sweet and hazy, one of those that when recollected, seemed to be composed of a picturesque likeness with soaring landscapes and a country girl passing flowers for diadems, bathing in the turquoise haze of the many afternoon days she’d spent sauntering about with a book in hand and a whole cosmos contained in her shimmering eyes of sage-green satin. She was a musical girl, a capricious girl. A girl with a smile that never faded yet rarely bursted into laughter—was brilliantly inquisitive and held a determination fuelled by whimsy yet steadfast in the way only a child could be. She was a girl fortunate enough (or perhaps not) that, despite the turbulent time in which she would eventually attempt to write and later learn to read(in that specific order), she had never really known much suffering. For she always remained one step behind corruption while gradually gliding past innocence, even when she was made to flee the post bombing shambles and fields that she had once left her mark all over barefoot, when she was shown death and more—through cold grey gazes of familiar corpses, the fabric that threaded her reality never showed signs of wrinkling. For she thought of all of it as such ordinary things, because how could it not be?

So then she moved from city to city, ruins to ruins, a toddler still, with a mother that shielded her from pain and a father that protected her from secrets a child needn’t know and beyond. And that’s when the real story began—with a shroud of darkness left behind by the war that many possessed but few dared acknowledge; and it started with an overly zealous child, too proud, too smart for her own good, as it often does. Within the carnage of the proceeding eleven months before she found the land of freedom the girl had met two new family members and lost three more, and it was this fragment of memory that would serve as an enduring reminder to her on how eleven months of time could ever have felt remotely significant. Finally, at the tail end of the war when all the chaos and despair had finally half-sunk into her tender consciousness, Ariadne grew increasingly restless. Not because of how she had sensed the waning thrum of her mother’s life or of how hungry she had been as the surviving pair of mother and daughter barely managed to scrap by with food and supplies; but because of how little control she saw over the forces in their lives and the mercilessness of time’s arrow, stripping away humanity and what sustains it in the way a seven year old saw it as it was. Though a last ray of silver lining and a soldier’s patronage would secure a future for the young girl, within a mere seven days after they have arrived at their destination, her mother too, loosened her grip on life while still tightly holding onto hers. It was the winter of 1945, and they were in Michigan.

The man they met then and took them in was supposedly a close friend of her late father’s, whom the girl had never heard anything about until they’ve landed on the shore of the United States. Ariadne, for all that she was eager to learn and see in this brand new land of strangers and apparent safety, still clutched onto in her mind too fervent the desire and ambition to wrestle control over from existence itself. While dainty she poised herself and timidly she spoke with a hint of honest purity that would devastate anyone with half a heart, her eyes had already become accustomed to the certain darkness of understanding things much too soon in a way that is just twisted enough to reflect reality. In this new life she was now given, though, she was quite fortunately granted the opportunity to satiate her thirst for knowing, and knowing more. That friend of her father’s, a lecturer at the University of Michigan, became known as her surrogate father and provided her with all the unconditional care that ought to be the birth right of every child born. While in a disappointing sense, there remained a rift between them until Ari had aged well into adolescence, they formed a considerable bond nonetheless over a mutual respect for higher learning and solidarity over the loss they have both endured.

While life was by no means simple growing up in Michigan post war, the girl who was once nearly extinguished by smoke and debris quickly found some semblance of a child’s attitude to life with meaning upon enrolling in public school. They called her a genius then, the girl with a confident gaze that conveyed too much for her age and a tongue so wickedly precise and more bitter than arsenic. People either furiously disliked her or felt endlessly fascinated by the girl who proclaimed that she wanted to solve the theory (or theories) that governed existence itself—space, time, the human mind and all. She felt empowered by the knowledge she absorbed perpetually through books and papers and quickly she became addicted to that power she felt. She had not ceased to be that storm of lyrical mystery that once flourished on foreign soil; her existence, now forged metallic and carved deeply into the fabric of time conducts rapidly her desire over knowledge and control. And if her human brain isn’t enough, she will build another, and another, and another until she has in her command an entity with such capacity that will allow her to master reality in its entirety.

Her enrolment in MIT was a monumental achievement in such grand ambition but it was still no where close to where she needs to be. That is, until she met the five other individuals with ambitions perhaps not as colossal as hers but were perchance her equal in audacity and will. December of 1963 marked the moment where the history of reality itself will permanently change, for better or for worse—and Ariadne, having never forgotten what it meant to be the one with her strings pulled and moments stolen away, quickly mined through and embraced the shockwave of revolution. She took matters into her own hands to explore the scope of her new abilities: and found out that not only could she now master time, she could also create them. She saw new possibilities, creating liminal spaces where realities are in a sense, under her control, while branches of time and infinite realities are made accessible at her fingertips.

She knew what that meant instantly, and in the span of ten years she had lived through ten thousand, and in the ever increasing amount of liminal spaces she has conceived, people were able to live better lives, left contented and each to their own devices. She was careful, indeed, careful never to bite off more than she could chew or to create irreparable tears in the any of the higher dimensions. But nevertheless she saw the consequences, though more notably the ones caused by the others. She decided then, whatever she would do could not be done while the others are present, while they - including herself - each went their own way. And in 1973 she created a version of New York, originally a pet project that she grew increasingly fond of for reasons ranging from nostalgia to excuses of cultural relevance, but mainly because that was where she had first landed on the American soil, and where millions of others have found a place for themselves too. She met up with the other travellers, her old friends, put on her mask of sincere goodwill and concerns for the greater forces at play—none of which are fake, in truth, and once more united their abilities, intellectual or otherwise, to share the burden of such knowledge including ones regarding those forces beyond any logic and scientific explanation made for human comprehension.

A leader emerged among them, and she followed. While continuing to play her cards close to her chest as she always have, she may be a team player just yet. Or maybe she will wait, wait patiently biding her time, while realising greater forms of intelligence or maybe become one herself. There’s all the time in the world, she had thought, the realisation that reality may collapse was not one she had ever feared she may cause, but was what she had always thought was the reason she stands here today instead. And if not, life then, might have never meant to last and exist in the way it has. The universe’s swan song, and she will be there to watch, she will be there and she will be smiling.

This is what it must feel like to be a god.

t e l l m e, a r e w e a p r o d u c t o f w h o w e u s e d t o b e?

She is a young girl’s pure hearted curiosity and the shadow of injustice that beckons forth a lamentation of mercy in the way which a child may perceive. The scent of stale roses atop of overheating laptops flashing through midnight over the weighty tune of an orchestral symphony. She is well mannered speech and carefully edited writing of chaos made orderly, an amused and sincere smirk responding to deep philosophical inquiries. She is daring, optimistic in the ways only those with matching confidence would understand. A wayward soul by every means, but capable and erudite with weaponised beauty, as captivating as an era-defining genius and a tragic hero drunk on insanity. She is a child of time made into a catalyst, unorthodox in the manners she pursues meaning and ruthless in execution. Some braces themselves for inevitable catastrophe, whilst others watch in awe as she dances with graceful obsession, meticulous and decisive, her each determined step in a universe of infinite spotlights but no cheers as she rises and falls to an adagio of evanescent sorrow again yet again, without end. Though just another clog that would one day be lost to history, she is determined to be the epicentre of madness made reality—is she virtue buried deep, or hubris’ reckoning? Perhaps in time, we will see.

#taken #time traveler #ariadne lefebvre #marine vatch

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devoverest · 7 years

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Cupped Fists

(Ficlet inspired by https://grayscaleart.deviantart.com/art/Chakotay-492875433)

h/t @mia-cooper for blogging this image in the first place, and @jhelenoftrek and @killermanatee for record-time beta-reading. Up in time for #chakoday!

My throat was raw from the grit and ash in the air, from thirst, from shouting commands, from just … shouting … into the constant hot wind on this planet.

It was near dusk on our third day here. We’d buried Hogan at midday – what was left of him. Without tools we couldn’t dig deep enough in the dry rocky soil. No shortage of rocks here, but it still took five of us hours to gather enough of the right size to construct a cairn, one solid enough to keep animals out. Then we spent what remained of the afternoon catching up with the rest of the crew.

The others were eating a well-earned meal. I couldn’t face food yet; I’d been left polluted by the burial work, by the contact with the corpse. I couldn’t purify myself here, without water, without my medicine bundle. It was the least of my problems in practical terms, but it weighed heavy in my chest.

I didn’t mention any of this when I told Kathryn I needed half an hour to meditate. She gave me an unfathomably weary look as she nodded her assent, and I felt her reddened eyes follow me as I picked my way across our makeshift camp. For safety’s sake, all I could do by way of privacy was to put a few large boulders between me and the crew, me and my captain. I knew they’d try to respect it, try not to interrupt me for a time.

As I sank to the ground, I was seized by my own weariness and gave in to the temptation to lean back against a boulder. I closed my eyes, just for a minute.

When I opened them, though, it was noticeably darker; I sat obscured in shadows cast by a rocky outcropping as the sun was sinking below the horizon. Well, a catnap might have done me more good than any attempt to meditate. Without my akoonah, I wouldn’t be conducting any vision quests. I thought of Sister Wolf and felt a deep pang of regret and abandonment.

I was about to rise and dust off my uniform when I noticed a large winged insect on my knee. I had no idea how long it had been perched there, quivering slightly in the wind that was calming as the sun set. It put me in mind of a dragonfly – a similar elongated look to it, and an iridescence. Its blue markings stood out vividly against the red-dusted black of my uniform leg, even in the fading light.

Seized by whimsy, I addressed it in the old language. “Sister, I greet you.” It quivered, then started walking from my knee toward my foot, tucked up close to my body. I shifted my hand into its path, and after a time it walked onto my palm.

Mesmerized by this encounter with a new life form, so reminiscent of ones from Dorvan, I slowly lifted my hand to bring the insect towards my face, marveling at its vivid coloration in such a visually drab environment.

Halfway there I suddenly remembered basic evolutionary theory. An insectoid this physically fragile should have evolved protective coloration to let it blend in against the brick-red rock and dust of this place. The eye-catching blue of this species probably signaled to would-be predators that it was toxic, maybe poisonous.

By the time I consciously recalled my hundred-forty shipmates mere meters behind me, I’d instinctively cupped both hands around the creature, trapping it between them, still held at chin level. I froze there for two breaths, three breaths, four.

I should kill it. I wanted to kill it. It was a threat to my people. There were so many threats here. I couldn’t save Hogan. Baby Naomi was ill and getting worse rapidly. Her mother’s haunted eyes appeared before me, and I saw in them accusation. We’d flown into a trap in the name of saving my own child, and now hers was dying. This planet owed me a death. Kill it!

It was likely poisonous. It might sting or bite me as I held it. As I crushed it. How much damage can one insect do to a man? Thoughts of New Earth rose up unbidden, and of Kathryn, and my heart was suddenly seized not with longing for what we had lost but with fury for having lost it. The kind of rage that burned away reason and foresight. My head lowered like a bull about to charge; I could feel the tendons of my neck pop as I clenched my jaw against the impulse to lay waste to everything in my path.

My consciousness rose from my body, putting distance between itself and the coming violence that would blind me to my actions for a time. This had happened to me twice before in my life. Once in my youth during an argument with my father. Once in the Maquis, the first time I witnessed Cardassian slaughter.

As my self-awareness drifted away, though, something called to it.

My mind’s eye turned back. I saw myself from outside my body. My posture, head bowed over my cupped fists, exactly mimicked my father’s as he held the akoonah.

Then Kathryn touched my shoulder and said, “Chakotay?”

She named me, recalling me to myself, and she touched me, grounding my spirit where it was rooted in hers. I was again who I am, who I have been since the angry warrior laid down his weapons to carry her burdens.

The insect stirred gently against my two palms. It was a wild living thing, no more, no less.

The tension drained from my body as I slowly turned my head to seek Kathryn’s face.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. We have visitors. I need your help.”

I stood without speaking, opened my hands. A flash of blue – its wings, her eyes – and then I turned to follow her across the boulders.

#janeway x chakotay #chakotay #captain kathryn janeway #chakoday #angry warrior #st:voy #fanfic #star trek #ep: basics #hanon iv #voyager

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roraewrites · 8 years

Text

four - bare

Glass Heart Rating: M And he was in the darkness, so darkness he became.

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The sun spots speckle his face through the leaves, leaving warm patches against his skin. Once the wave of nausea washes over, he rolls his head to the side, his dark, mysterious eyes finding violet eyes looking into his, the question still hanging in the air between the two boys.

"We're traveling to another hide out," he says, plain and simple. Suigetsu's face shows confusion, as though he wants to ask something else but he's too afraid. He does it anyways.

"Why?"

"I don't need to give you a reason, you don't have to follow me," Sasuke states plainly, his eyes still looking to amethyst orbs, gazing through those windows and looking into the shinobi's soul.

If that's one thing he hates about himself, it was the ability to see everything, know everything about an individual. He didn't care how other people felt, or what they felt on the inside, yet he was able to see and understand. Sasuke simply understood things from his trained interpretation from over the years. It also gave him an advantage when it came to fighting enemies as well, though. He finally broke the contact when a slight rustle against his chest caught his attention.

A lone leave caught in the slit of his shirt, blowing lightly due to the breeze.

It was colored in vivid greens, fresh lines running through the inner layers, bringing out every detail that this simple leaf had to offer. The light yellow splotch towards the center, outlined in a lighter green, fading to the deep green that colored it as a whole. Sasuke plucked the leaf from his shirt before crushing it in his palm, envisioning it as the Leaf, his previous home.

The Uchiha finally sat up, his eyes already on Sakura. She was still lying on the ground, her body coughing while in her unconscious form. He wasn't sure when she would wake up, and he sure as hell wasn't sure what he'd do when she woke up. Sasuke didn't need anything from her, yet he wanted her there to take on this task, travel with him and whoever else he would find, take down Itachi.

He wanted her there, yet he didn't want her to shoulder his pain or misery.

"What's the plan with her?" Suigetsu's hestitant voice ripped Sasuke from his thoughts. He didn't turn his head to meet eyes with Suigetsu this time though, instead he stared at Sakura's form on the ground.

"She's a medical nin, she'll come in handy."

He tells himself this, lying to himself and lying to Suigetsu. This isn't the reason he wants her there, but Suigetsu clicks his tongue in response before standing and casting a shadow upon the girl's body. Sasuke finds his face pulling into a scowl, remembering that the white haired man is still naked after all.

"Go put some clothes on," he snaps, his voice low and harsh.

"Where am I going to find clothes, exactly?" The tone in Suigetsu's voice is sarcastic yet hard, but Sasuke matches it.

"Figure it out," he growls back. "And bring something back for Sakura."

Suigetsu throws his hands in the air before slapping them back down against his hip bones, making a sharp noise that pierced through the secluded forest, sending birds flying from the branches in the trees. Sasuke could only pinch the bridge of his nose and relish in the idea of sitting here, waiting for the idiot to return before they started their journey across the land.

Suigetsu smiles a malicious smile before melting to his liquid form, becoming clear and colored in pastel azures and sapphires, his smile still visible through the transparent water.

"I'll be back, no funny business," he jokes silently before washing away.

Sasuke rolls his eyes once more. Suigetsu reminds him of the dobe back home, how idiotic his friend was, his childish antics and loud mouth ways. The memories of Naruto were bittersweet, causing his mouth to dry up and his throat to constrict. His eyes found Sakura once more before he exhaled sharply, stood to his feet and walked his body to her.

He cradled her once more before stalking off into the cover of the greenery, hiding their bodies and presence from any wandering travelers, shinobi, or trackers. They were rogue nin, and he knew what would happen if anyone crossed paths with them; the trackers would be dead and Sasuke would be taking off with Sakura's body.

He snickered at the thought, his smirk appearing on a porcelain face with obsidian eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

Sakura weighed close to nothing as he continued through the brush, stepping over roots, climbing rocks and sidling through trees. When she snuggled her face towards his chest, resting her head against his pectoral, he felt his body stiffen.

She had only ever been this close to him when he knocked her out, leaving her body to soak up the cold weather as she was laid to rest on the bench overnight. The same night that he evaded Konoha, promising to never return. Ever since his time away, he had become stronger, wiser, grown more as a human since he was able to roam freely and take on stronger enemies. It was much better than picking up garbage around the village, or finding some poor lady's lost cat. The memories angered him, causing his eye brows to furrow.

The sound of rushing water became more apparent as he pressed through the trees and bushes. The sound of lapping water against rocks calmed his mind. The closer he got, the more the air smelled of soaked moss and fresh fish and the second he arrived, he noticed how peaceful the sight was.

Rushing water, running rapidly over jagged rocks, while other parts were calm, floating along with gravity pulling at it. The water was clear, making the smooth rocks from below the surface clear as day, the different colors of tans and browns popping with intense colors.

When he finally arrived by the water's edge, he began to work his sandal off his foot. His toes pressed heavily against the heel of his left, slipping the sandal off carefully before repeating with the other foot. The wet soil and sand against his calloused feet felt relaxing, the sound of flowing water exciting his senses. He laid Sakura down gently, his mind running through the easiest way of addressing this 'issue'.

His mind washed over with thoughts similar to those of any man his age. Sasuke wanted to peal her clothes off of her body, lavish in the curves that formed her hips. The bumps of her chest that were obviously wrapped tightly with bindings, and the illustrious muscles that toned her smooth looking legs. The dirt and sweat that painted her skin hid the inviting color of her skin, frustrating Sasuke further as he began to unzip the front of her shirt, careful to not touch her inappropriately.

She stirred at his slight touches, making his mind panic and his hands tremble.

He wanted so badly to take her, take her in the calm of this secluded forest. On the side of the river, their limbs and skin rubbing in the soft dirt and sand that lined the river while their lips crashed against one another, pressing harshly and feeding upon one another's lust and hormones.

Sakura stirred once more, causing Sasuke to frown, his dark eyes narrowing in on her revealed chest, the sarashi covered in blood, sweat and dirt. His eyes began to widen the further he unzipped her blouse, revealing taut, defined abs and the small navel that was placed right in the center of her stomach. He noticed every scar, cut, bruise that lined her body, painting her skin in battle wounds and lining her like a damn tiger.

Sakura is fierce now, stronger than ever, her strength becoming well known across all the land as she rises with the title as Tsunade's pupil. She's also becoming a well known medic, one of the best in the Land of Fire, excelling at everything that's been passed down to her, and it's all because of her excellent chakra control.

Another bittersweet memory tainting his mind as he continues to unzip the shirt that isn't quite covering her body anymore. He finishes his job before sliding her arms through the holes and discarding the fabric to the left of them. It smells of smoke and blood, soaked from the sweat of her body and covered in muck. He grasps her boots, releasing the buttons of each hook and slides them from her legs and feet; a clear line of grime resting against her shin where the top of her boot came to rest.

Sasuke swallowed heavily as he began to remove the wrapping from her leg, the one that her kunai holster rest firmly against. The more his hand brushes against her skin, the more aroused he becomes at how soft her skin is against his leg. She's filthy as fuck, but he's so into the light brushes and soft stirring of her body that he begins to find himself light headed as he discards the wrapping and pulls at the buckle of her skirt.

He notices now how long her legs are, how much she's grown since he's last seen her and really looked at her. The thing that really pisses him off is that he feels his Sharingan activate and before he can stop himself, he's already engraving the view of Sakura and her taut, defined and battle ready body into his mind. Matured in every way possible, proving that she's now a woman capable of mass destruction and not a whimsy cry baby anymore.

Sasuke scoffs at the thought, seeing small, timid Sakura cowering behind him as he stands before her with a kunai poised, Sharingan activated and death shimmering in his blood red eyes.

He was her protector after all, the boy that took pride in caring for such a small girl. He knew now though that she didn't need saving, or help. She would kick the shit out of someone, and he just knew it.

Her body presents itself in front of maroon eyes, her chest rising and falling with the small breaths that she takes and as Sasuke falls back to his rear, he pulls his hands to interlock under his chin, considering if he should put her in the water as she is, or remove the rest of her clothes.

All that's left are those skin tight spandex and wrappings that cover her breasts, and Sasuke finds his mind is troubled by stripping her clean of everything, or leaving the dirty clothing on her. He snarls in protest before pushing up from the soft ground and grabbing hold of the wrapping in the front, square in the center. He pulls roughly, ripping the bindings in half, the ripping of cloth making a horrendous sound as he's greeted with the sight of her rounded breasts, fair skinned like the rest of her body and her nipples small and pleasant, colored in a light pink.

Sasuke finds himself dumbfounded now as he's face to face with Sakura's breasts, taking in the sight and how she has truly grown up in the past three years. His fingers tremble as he's still holding onto the torn wrapping, while Sakura's eyelids begin to open slightly.

She looks confused at first, still asleep the more he thinks about it, but the scene that's about to play out between the two causes his mind to run through the possible outcomes and what he should do.

Fuck, he tells himself as she coughs once, twice, three times. She rolls her head in the sands, cherry blossom tresses picking up the separate grains of sand and carrying them with her motions.

Sasuke now notices the soft expression in her eyes, the shimmering of yellow and lime green flecks catching the different rays of sun as she focuses in on him. He can still tell that everything is still hazy for her by the way she looks at him. He knows it's from the smoke and fumes that she inhaled from the room that she had passed out in, too.

He doesn't say a word though, only looks at her with a scowl on his face while she lies topless in front of. He notices how she begins to move her fingers around in the sand the more she comes through to her senses.

It's when her eyes drop from his and trace down his body, and to the object in his hand that her eyes focus in, narrowing, her lips parting, that he sees the panic course through her body, her face, flashing in her eyes.

Those perfect eyes widen, vivid green and lively as ever that she realizes exactly what he has in his hands. And it's when she screams and begins to scramble that he slams both his hands over his ears and his teeth are clenching together that he remembers exactly how annoying Sakura Haruno can be.

Sakura can't feel the courage in her chest, her bare chest that is presented to the boy she's spilled her heart out to and has always had feelings for, and now she's presented in front of him, half naked. She doesn't know what to think, or do, but she wraps her arms around herself, concealing her breasts from his hungry eyes.

"What the hell!" She chokes out, coughing lightly as her brows knit themselves together.

She knows damn well she shouldn't yell at him, knowing that Sasuke is a criminal, but she also knows that he wouldn't do anything too rash to hurt her. Or would he? He mirrors her look, brows pressed tightly against one another as he brings his hands away from his ears. Her shriek probably would've attracted enough attention, and she knew that he'd reprimand her for that.

"Shut up, Sakura."

He begins their day by ordering and bossing her around, great.

Then it all begins to come back to her. She's sitting outside, in one of the most beautiful places she's ever seen and she's covered in filth, while Sasuke Uchiha stands in front of her with his sandals removed and they're outside. Not in the hideout. Where everything was on fire and quickly filling up with smoke.

"What happened?" She asks, her eyes scanning the trees as he fingers brush lightly against her light skin.

"Nothing that concerns you. Get washed up, you're filthy," his face doesn't change, but his tone does. It's light, soft as a feather and Sakura can hardly hear it over the running of water. She swallows the saliva from her mouth, moistening the dryness of her throat.

"Then go away," Sakura commands, filling her voice with a hardness much like Tsunade does.

"No."

His refusal baffles her, frustrates her, yet she knows she can't argue with him. He's too stubborn, too stuck in his ways.

Sakura feels her skin crawl from under his eyes, knowing that his Sharingan will remember exactly what she looked like and the thought spreads a furious blush across her cheeks. The heat scorches her skin, sending a wave of fire through her veins and angering her that she would let herself get knocked out so easily. It's at that thought that the quick pulse of pain rides of her spine and ends in the nape of her neck.

Her back colliding with the wall and knocking the breath from her lungs.

Sakura purses her lips before clicking her tongue loudly. Not only would Sasuke give her the privacy that she needed, but she also wanted to heal her back and rid the pain. She couldn't do that if she didn't have her hands available. Instead of arguing further, Sakura stood from her spot and faced away from Sasuke before letting her hands fall from her chest.

The kunoichi inhaled deeply, ridding her mind of the embarrassment and the uncomfortable feeling of Sasuke's eyes on her body as she grabbed the elastic of her spandex and began to peel them from her hips, down her thighs, and kicked them off to the side with a quick flip of her foot. Sakura continued her breathing, focusing solely on the pain in her back, the cool liquid against her toes as she entered the water, and soon, the comforting embrace of the water as she wades to one of the deeper spots of the river.

Once she was in, she could already feel the dirt pulling away from her skin, the water entering each cut and scrape as it cleans each of them out. When she dips her head back, Sakura feels her breasts escape the clutches of the water as her scalp submerges into the cooling embrace, soaking in the relaxation of the calm. When Sakura feels her ears disappear under the surface, she finally feels calm, transparent in a world of hate and constant fighting, she feels free.

Free of her body, free of the hungry eyes that are locked onto her naked body, free of the worry of returning to Konoha.

She could breath.

Once she finished wetting her hair in the river, she finally pulled her hair back from the water, whipping the rose quartz hair forward and creating a bridge of water drops from the body of water, to the sky, creating a glistening and shimmering show made of water.

It was when her hair came to rest over her left eye that she was looking into dark eyes, shimmering with fascination as he watched Sakura with a content look on his face, his hands clenched on either side of his body.

"Look away," she calls from her spot in the water, her arms crossing over her chest once more to conceal the view from Sasuke. The look on his face washed away and was instantly replaced with his usual scowl, but he did as she said and focused his eyes on the birds that jumped against the rocks, plucking and picking at the small bugs that scurried across the rough surfaces.

Sakura went back to scrubbing her body, ridding herself of the sweat and dirt, scrubbing at her scalp and washing the sand, blood and whatever else resided within her thick locks of hair. The matte red that colored the water startled her at first, but she found peace in the way her fingers brushed through her hair, massaging the tension from her body and ridding the filth.

Once the knots of dried blood finally released, Sakura turned her back to Sasuke and began to focus chakra to her hands. It was there that she felt at home, pressing her sore hands to the base of her spine and heating it with chakra, soothing the pain that transpired and reverberated throughout her body as a whole.

The calming and warm sensation created a smile on her face as she continued to concentrate her chakra in her spine, kneading and threading through sore and tired muscles, all while she stood bare in front of Sasuke.

It took Sakura all of five minutes before the chakra flowed freely from her hands and entered her body that she felt the pain lift. She knew it was much harder to heal herself, rather than heal someone else, but once she was finished, she turned to Sasuke who was now watching her with brooding eyes.

She could only smirk, knowing that he watched her the entire time she bathed herself in the clear river.

"Are you done?" He snapped before inching towards her.

"Yeah... What am I going to wear?" The question startles her, panics her mind.

Sasuke's lips pull into a firm line before he pulls the bottom of his shirt from his pants and slides it over his body, revealing washboard abs alongside well defined pectorals. Sakura feels her body tense up at the view of his amazing physique. Evergreen eyes scan the lines, the contours of each muscle, how his biceps move when he pulls the remaining cloth from his head and holds it out, a smirk painted on his gorgeous face.

"Here," he offers with a sarcastic tone.

She glares now, knowing damn well that she's not playing this perverted game of his.

"You're joking," Sakura says flatly, not amused one bit.

"I'm not," he reassures her, a dangerous flash behind his obsidian eyes.

Sakura grunts, a harsh shade of red filling her face but she refuses to play this dangerous game, refuses to show him more of what he wants. He left her after all, after she promised him a life filled with happiness. She feels her heart flutter in her chest as she replays the memory in her head, pain filling the hole that Sasuke had created when he left her that night.

"I need to talk to you, anyways. Come here," his voice pulled her from her thoughts and created a new tinge of panic within her chest. Her heart pounded against her rib cage, pulsing and sending worry through each vein in her body. He sounded pissed, his voice deep and covered in darkness.

Sakura began to wade through the water, her legs pushing through the current until she had the water resting against her hips, only feet away from Sasuke.

"Closer, Sakura," he warns, and at those words she swallows her pride and builds up her dignity before inching closer to him.

She can see the small smears of dirt on his face now as she stands only inches away. She gathers the soft cloth of his shirt in her arms and pressing it against her chest firmly, letting it snake to cover her hips and conceal her pelvic region. Sasuke's hand stays in the air between the two of them, nearly touching the skin of her arm and when she looks back up to his face, she sees the softness in his eyes.

"I need your help, Sakura."

The confusion in her raw and uncut emerald eyes hurts, hurts the iced over heart - or so called heart - in his chest. She says something, but he doesn't hear through the blood rushing to his head and cutting out all the sounds around them; chirping birds, leaves rustling against one another, the calm rush of water nearby.

"Sasuke?"

The shrill tone in her voice brings him back, reminding him of her previous scream not long ago, when she was pure and exposed in front of him.

"You're coming with me," he feels the words leave his lips, filling the space between them. Sakura scrunches his shirt between her fingers as she clenches it tighter within her fist. He can see her knuckles turn white, reminding him of his own bruised knuckles that pulsate with a bit of pain when he thinks about them.

"No," she clicks her tongue with a smug look.

And it's in that moment, that one second, that the world turns from happy go lucky, to fucked.

He has the two of them on the ground, his body on top of hers and pressing her into the sand and water.

And it's in that moment that fear overtakes her expressions, turning that vivid green of her eyes to a matte emerald, glossy with fear and frustration.

Her skin feels amazing against her own, the way her round breasts press against him beneath his shirt, and how her hip bones press against his own. The feeling is exhilarating, enticing, inviting. But the voice within him presents itself once more that day, darkening his mood and reminding him just why he had asked Sakura for her help.

"I'm not asking," Sasuke's voice is hoarse, his breath running across Sakura's skin, causing her to break out in goosebumps. "I'm telling you."

The uneven stutter in her throat entertains Sasuke, making him all too aware that she's still a pawn, still under his spell, still his Sakura. Her looks might've changed, but there's that one thing about her that never changed; her love for the Uchiha.

Sasuke trails a finger up her arm, tracing the goosebumps and leaving more in his wake until he reaches her collarbone, tracing the gorgeous and stunning shape with his dirty finger nail.

She's so fucking beautiful, he yells to himself, but warns that she's not worth it, he's only using her.

Her startled jade eyes are still looking into his, revealing the fear that lies within them, yet he sees a certain softness that she's always had there and it pisses him off. She can do so much better, yet she's still head over heels for a guy that knocked her out and left her behind. When he finishes running his hand across her clavicle, he finds her neck, the pulsing vein there and it's there that he feels the nervous beat.

She's terrified; he's excited.

She deserves the best; he deserves nothing of the sort.

When she swallows, he presses his palm firmly around her slender neck, wrapping strong fingers against the skin there and lavishing in the terrified look that lies within her eyes. He feels guilty, oh so guilty that he finds pleasure in her parted lips and short exhales.

"Sasuke," she forces out as his grip tightens on her throat, promising an unspoken promise.

"Come with me."

For a second, he's lost to the darkness in his heart, trapped in the ice and for a second, it's not him talking. It's that fucking demon that's taken over his body, and now he's comfortable with scaring Sakura, making her feel terrified; forcing her to agree to something she doesn't want. "If you don't, I'll just have to kill you," he whispers quietly, his onyx eyes melting to a deep red.

Their noses are mere inches apart now, and when she nods softly, he releases that capturing smirk of his. Sasuke can only swallow hard, swallow down the guilt of knowing Sakura is still his and no one else's, but it pleasures him, knowing that she's waited for him and she always will wait.

"Good," he whispers, matching the tone of her last words, loving the way she spoke his name last.

He feels the twisting in his stomach when she readjusts, one leg coming up to rest on the side of his thigh while his finger traces up her neck, lining her jaw and coming to rest on her chin. Sasuke notices that Sakura no longer looks scared. Her evergreen eyes shimmer with promise, shimmer with hope, a lightness that he's only seen come from her eyes.

He moves his index from her chin to the outer corner of her lips, lining the bottom with the padding of his thumb now. He presses his forehead against hers, looking deeper into her orbs, through her outer layer and really looking at her.

She's scared, lost in her own mind, yet she's so fascinated with how close he is that she's put her fears and worries aside, and she's consumed with how he's looking at her that she's lost. Lost in this make believe world that he's seen before, been invited to join before, and it upsets him. Upsets him deeply.

"Hey!"

The sudden voice startles him, makes Sasuke jump to his hands, yet his pelvis is still pressed against Sakura's, shielding her from their trespasser.

"I was gone for a hour and you're trying to take a nap?!" It's Suigetsu, fully clothed unlike Sasuke or Sakura now. Sasuke's thankful that Sakura is hidden, rocks and bundles of grass blocking his view of Sakura.

Along with his clothes, is a rather large sword, one that Sasuke's seen before. And in the water user's hands, more clothing.

"Shut the fuck up," Sasuke snarls from his position above Sakura. She's now pulled his shirt to conceal her body, hiding it from the strange human that broke the moment between the pair. Sasuke looks back to her before running a smooth hand through her damp, wavy curls of pink tresses, and leaving his current position on Sakura and hoisting his body up. He grabs his sandals from the shore and walks towards Suigetsu, the white haired shinobi throwing the clothing to Sasuke.

He glances at the particles in his hand, noting that there's a black tank top made for a man, a black, rather tattered obi from a kimono, and a pair of black leggings. He shrugs before sliding the tank on over his head and tucking it into his pants and fastening his rope around his waist.

"I also got these, just in case," Suigetsu pulls the sarashi from his pouch, something else he had found while terrorizing a nearby farm house. Sasuke nods before taking the cloth from his hands and turning his back to slide the sandals on over his sand covered feet.

"Where did the lady go? What's her name? Sak-"

"She's bathing, go wait by the road."

The soft groan from Suigetsu irritates Sasuke, drives him to a darkening mood. "Whatever you say, boss."

Once he feels Suigetsu far enough away, Sasuke returns to Sakura and finds that she's hunched over in the water, ridding her back and hair of sand. Her curves appear through the water's surface, emphasizing the way her slender yet toned body that she now possessed. Sasuke stood on the shore, his dark eyes watching with interest as she would cup the water and pour it lightly down her raised arm.

Sakura moved with such graceful, fluid movements, like she was dancing, yet she was just casually moving. She moved in silence, much like a shinobi should, and Sasuke couldn't help but smirk, clearing his mind and finally seeing that she may just compare and be equal to him some day.

He didn't feel like sticking around, instead he gave her the privacy she yearned. He set the clothing down softly against his shirt - which was laid out on a rock nearby - and rest them there before turning on his heel and heading in Suigetsu's direction.

Sakura's scent still lingered on his skin, invading his nostrils and reminding him just how dangerous this game can be. It was nostalgic, how she smelled. Her scent wasn't as strong as it used to be, more so from their adventure earlier that day, but she still smelled fresh, like fruit, like the flowing water from the water.

Sasuke narrowed his eyes, trying to focus less on Sakura and more at his goal on hand. He found himself growing frustrated, much like he was when he was a genin in Konoha. Frustrated that he was letting Sakura get in his way of his revenge, his goals, frustrated with how pretty she is, how beautiful she is, much like a blooming flower.

Frustrated with the smirk that Suigetsu was giving him now.

"You've totally got the hots for her."

"What did I tell you earlier?"

"Umm-"

"Shut the fuck up," this man reminds Sasuke so much of Naruto that it hurts. Hurts what's left of his heart, stings the back of his mind, and he just knows how stressful the next few weeks, months will be with the endearing Sakura and annoying Suigetsu.

And it pisses him off so much to be reminded of a past that he cut loose, released from his grip, forever to be forgotten.

She can feel her fingers tremble as she runs them through her hair, plucking the last pieces of sand from wet, wavy locks and it makes her upset. Upset to know that Sasuke still has that much power over her mind, her heart. Still upsets her that after all the training she had endured, that she was still the little girl that was infatuated with the youngest Uchiha.

Sakura swallows hard, swallows the tears that threaten to prick at the corners of her eyes, swallows the built up emotions, the fear, the love. All of it, she swallows it down to the pit of her stomach where it can rot and be forgotten about for the remainder of the day.

What does he even want with me, she thinks to herself, frustrated with the fact that he's never wanted anything to do with her before. But now, now he wanted her help, wanted her to come along.

Or else he would kill her.

The dark look in his eyes frightened her, the way his pupil clouded over with an eerie yellow, his lower water line rimmed with a red, until she could see the rubber band snap within him. Something awoke from behind those precious, deep, dark obsidian eyes, and it frightened her.

This wasn't Sasuke.

This was that fucking curse mark that Orochimaru had placed on him three years ago; the demon within.

Sakura cupped one last ounce of water in her hands before splashing it against her face, ridding any tears that might've escaped from the corners of her eyes. Washing away the misery that lined her eyes, the sadness that formed her frowning lips.

When she finally finished wading through the water and saw that there were more clothes than just Sasuke's long sleeve shirt, she felt at ease. She made quick work of the outfit, knowing exactly what would go where.

Sakura slid the sarashi on first, adjusting it to a comfortable place and then sliding the long sleeve over her head. It smelled of smoke, alongside the deep scent of Sasuke. She consumed the smell, becoming intoxicated on a how a damn human being can smell so inviting and comforting, yet be one of the most scariest and dangerous humans in the world. Her body swam in the shirt, her shoulder hanging out a bit, while most of her body was revealed in the front. She shook it off though, knowing this was better than her torn and useless clothes from earlier.

Next came the leggings, and finally the obi. She found it odd that Sasuke would give her this of all things, but she figured it would be better than traveling around naked with not only Sasuke, but whoever he was talking to before he pushed away from her body. Once she placed the obi in it's position, she readjusted Sasuke's shirt a bit, having it hang lightly over the tied obi, yet still bringing out the curves and round of her body.

She felt that she looked all right.

Finally, her boots slipped on and everything felt right. Everything except...

"My fucking headband!"

Frustration swept through her body, alongside it, disappointment. She searched the area around her, finding her old set of clothing and found that the corners were frayed, burnt, stained from blood and soaked with sweat. The stench made her nose crinkle, and she was thankful that Sasuke made her bathe now. A slight wave of embarrassment took over, but she shrugged it off. Sakura tied her kunai holster firmly around her thigh, knowing that she would find a weapon to place in it soon enough.

The last thing she needed was a medical pouch, the familiar bag that wrapped around her waist, carrying the supplies that she was familiar with.

"Let's go," the sudden voice of Sasuke startled her, causing her to turn around.

He now had a black tank top, a large slit running down the middle, much like the long sleeve she now had on. His onyx eyes scanned her new look, an approving smirk presenting itself against his lips. Sakura couldn't help but meet his smirk with a glare.

She hated him for giving her an ultimatum, hated him for asking for her help - telling her that she'll help him - but most importantly, she hated him for acting so casual and so into her, when before he never wanted anything to do with her.

"Right," she mumbled softly to herself, trying to reassure her mind that she would escape.

Escape and return to Konoha, even if it killed her.

Even if she did love Sasuke, this wasn't the kind of help that she wanted to give him. He wanted help with something dark and the only help that she wanted to provide, was the help to return him back to the light, return his mind back to being pure and innocent.

He was lost in the darkness, lost to a demon; Sakura could be the light, could be his guidance from the Hell that he'd placed himself in.

As if, the thought doesn't even lift her mood, only drags her down further as she follows him from the greenery and face to face with the individual from earlier.

"Nice to see you're alive and not dead," he says with a sly smile and nod of the head.

Sakura smiles her fake smile known by many, but recognized by none. She can only nod, the depression from within eating away at the core of her body, reminding her just how upset, just how low she had become the past years, and this was something she never would've expected.

And as if she never would've thought she'd be following a shark like man, alongside Sasuke, through a beautiful forest, colored in vivid greens, dark blues, soft yellows and welcoming oranges.

As if.

#sasusaku #ss fanfiction #sasusaku fanfiction #sasuke uchiha #writing #glass heart #ronan rae

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itsmkjones · 8 years

Photo

Imagine: finding a hellhound!

Crowley X Reader

Content: Fluff

Snow. Snow. Snow. You tilted your head back, hair resting against a thick scarf. A bleak pale sky burned your eyes, as the invisible sun’s rays bounced aimless through the white cloud layer. White flakes, thick and clumped, spiraled to the earth. Fluffy ice stuck to the knit strands of your beanie and your eyelashes. You stuck out your tongue on whimsy. The field was empty leaving no need for social pretense. Your arms spread out as you spun in place with abandon. Stress melted away, leaving nothing but the blanket of snow and the pounding of music pulsating from your earbuds. Your boot stuck, but you didn’t care, letting your body fall into the thick pile of snow. Air pushed from your lungs, the calm winterscape cutting into the heavy guitar riff as a bud dislodged. You laughed breathlessly smiling into the blaunch void. You nodded in beat to the song, gloved hand wiping the snow from the pliable rubber piece. A whiney growl paused your hand next to your ear.

You propped up on your elbows, yanking the remaining bud from beneath your hat. The soft buzz of sudden silence filled your ears. You shook your head in abashed amusement, a light chuckle on your lips. But as you shifted to reinsert the music, you caught the sound again, clearer. Brow furrowed, you flipped to your knees scanning the snowline. Your music vibrated in your fist. A high pitched whine fell as a whisper in the air. You looked to the scatter of Birch trees. A shadow shifted just before the nearest tree. You lifted your body to a crouch, approaching the source of the sound. As you drew closer, the whine shook as if the source shivered in the cold, but your eyes couldn’t locate anything. Pausing, you closed your eyes to find the sound louder. You lowered to your heels, eyes squeezed together. The whine shifted to a pathetic growl.

“Puppy?” You inquired delicately, praying to anything or one who would listen not to end up a horror show character. “Here, puppy-puppy.”

A faint exclamation left your lips as you realized you had a snack in your pocket. A couple of candy wrappers and a stray M&M settled in your palm as you pulled out the contents of your jacket. Your face fell. You were debating whether to go find some food or try to coax the puppy from its hiding place when a blur knocked your hand aside. The flicker solidified like dye spreading across linen. A puppy appeared before you, fur untextured, matte, like the animal’s shadow ripped from the snow and cloaked it’s body. It blinked, two pools of deep red, the very shade of the pounding in your veins. The puppy padded forward, wisps of onyx smoke played like a ripple of wind in fur. Its blurry head tilted to the side questioningly. Your eyes blinked rapidly attempting to discern the creature before you. The crimson stare blinked back. A minute passed. You stayed frozen, half sprawled in the snow, as the beast sniffed the ground. Its nose touched the M&M. Before you could process its intention, the M&M faded from view.

“Hey!” You leapt forward, shedding a glove. “No! Spit that out! Dogs can’t eat chocolate.”

Your fingers fell against gossamer miasma, groping at the indistinct muzzle. Finally, your fingers found a wet warmth. Rows of needle sharp nubs grated against your fingers as you fished for the candy. You found the disintegrating sphere and snatched from the confines. The skin in contact with the beast’s saliva puffed up, tinged with pink and raw to touch. You flung the sugar away in disgust, wiping your hand on your jeans. The puppy pranced in place, perking up with alert attention as it watched the food disappear.

“No! Puppy, no!” You commanded firmly. “No, chocolate.”

The beast tilted its head.

“You understand?”

The beast stepped forward, head lowering tentatively. Heat caressed your skin as it sniffed you.

“Wanna come home with me?” You asked, gingerly lifting the hand. “I’ve got food.”

The beast straightened, head moving as your hand cautiously reached over its head. You stroked its crown. Much to your delight, the beast pranced in place rubbing against your hand enthusiastically. You grinned scooping up the creature. You tucked it in your jacket. The beast let a low rumble escape from his chest stilling your heart until it curled against your chest. It took a moment, to realize it was a weird and haunting type of purr. You took the beast to your cabin, a brisk ten minute hike away, sharing warmth and companionship.

Crowley, sensibly clad in a sable peacoat and, less sensibly, his usual day suit, materialized to the outskirts of a sleepy mountain village. Night guised his arrival, giving no passerbyer indication to his supernatural means of transportation. He adjusted his collar against the flurry, casting a passing glance over the street before striding towards the wilderness. Snow crunched under foot, breaking the eerie quiet suffocating the area. A second set of tracks marred the natural blanket, paralleling aside Crowley’s in four fold. He came to a stop in the midst of a field. His lips pursed together, a long low whistle hanging in the opening. He waited. When nothing met him, he tried again. Again, expectation went amiss. His companion growled at his side.

“Go on, Juliet. Call for your pup.” He ordered, voice as hushed as the snowfall.

The hellhound at his side threw her head back unleashing an unearthly howl. Her cry died, echoing against the mountainside miles away, yet no response came. Crowley sucked his lower lip between his teeth, eyes dropping. Juliet looked up at him. He tucked his tongue in his cheek, shifting to retrieve a leather cuff.

“Very well.” He clucked. “A spell will have to do.”

A ribbon of red unfurled over the snow. Crowley followed the trail until the forest broke against a cozy cabin. He assessed the structure with a discerning eye; smoke wafted from the chimney, golden light illuminating the window even with the curtains drawn. He walked the path, mounting the porch stairs easily. He sensed a human energy mingling with the low heat of demonic aura. His brow furrowed slightly. Juliet cared not for his incredulity, raising a paw to scratch at the door, catching a whiff of her pup. Crowley raised a hand, with a snap cold turned to dry heat.

A low fire ate away at pinewood, sap eliciting occasional snaps. Crowley raised an eyebrow, surveying the one room cabin. On the far side near the bathroom door was a shotgun style kitchen, squared off with an island counter, a queen bed with typical rustic themed bedsheets was made and pressed against the wall behind him, and near the front window facing the room was a heavy writing desk where a human sat cross-legged, hand resting atop the head of an adolescent hellhound sitting chair side. The hellhound turned from the human, blinking at the newcomers.

You tore your eyes away from the book on the table, feeling the shift in your companion’s mood. “Cerberus? What is i-?”

You followed his gaze nearly jumping from your skin as your eyes fell on a man standing on throw rug in the center of the cabin. Your heart caught in your throat, fingers curling into Cerberus’ thick fur. The town was miles away and this cabin was your retreat, the only lifeline you had was in the form of your cell phone, turned off in your nightstand on the other side of the stranger. You froze as the man took a single step forward.

“Good evening.” His chin made a half arch, head tilting to the side to gain unobstructed view of your person. You swallowed hard, feeling vulnerable in nothing, but an old oversized shirt and fluffy slippers. “That’s an interesting pet you have there.”

You noticed a lilt in his voice. On a breath you replied, “Yes…”

His tongue caught between his teeth as he mused over a secret thought. “Interesting, indeed.”

“You… can see him?” You asked, the information inspiring alarm.

Crowley smirked gently, “I can… but the more pressing question is, ‘how can you?’”

You slipped from your chair moving in front of Cerberus protectively. The pup licked your calf. His saliva rested against your skin like a minor sunburn. You licked your lips, mouth feeling dry.

“Because he’s mine.” It was only a theory, but you claimed it with confidence. “And you can’t take him.”

“How…” Crowley stepped closer, pausing when you flinched, but steeled yourself. “Do you know I want to take him?”

You nodded at the hellhound to his side. “Y-you have that one.”

“You can see her too?” Crowley’s head dipped to indicate Juliet. You nodded. Crowley’s tongue found the space in his cheek. He twisted in place, hands in pocket. “Interesting.”

Juliet dropped into a crouch, lips curling back in a snarl. Her growl reverberated throughout the room. Your knees shook, hand falling to the back of your chair for support. You could feel the vibration of her growl travelling through the wood. She stalked forward, vermillion eyes drinking you in. She lunged forward. You fell to the floor, blocking Cerberus with your body. He put a paw on your shoulder before springing forward. He licked the length of the older hound’s face. Juliet pulled away with a yelp on confusion. Cerberus tilted his head as she circled away from him taking shelter behind Crowley’s legs. Her master merely raised a brow. His eyes flicked over your haphazard state. You quickly pulled the shirt back over your thighs, pressing closer to Cerberus.

“You…” Crowley hesitated trying to find the words. “Domesticated my hellhound.”

“Hellhound?” You echoed numbly.

“What the bloody else would it be?” Crowley snapped pinching the bridge of his nose.

You chewed the inside of your cheek. “Shadow puppy?”

“Sha-” Crowley pulled his hand away in stark indignation. “Shadow puppy? Does this beast look like a-”

He broke off as Cerberus sat back beside you, head lolling to the side inquisitively. You pat his head lovingly.

“He was a puppy a month ago when I found him!” You defended yourself, annoyance rising over fear.

“But you named it Cerberus!”

You ducked your head down, slightly embarassed. You muttered, “All first dogs are named Spot…”

“Fine, just fine!” Crowley turned away rubbing his forehead with his fingertips firmly. “Regardless of this little… misadventure… I need my hellhound back.”

“No!” You scrambled to your feet blocking his view of your puppy. “Cerberus is mine!”

Crowley’s jaw tightened. He lift a hand, flicking at the wrist. Your body flew through the air slamming against the door. Cerberus jumped to his feet. Smoky fur prickling down his spine, his head dropped low, a growl pouring from his throat. He moved slowly facing Crowley. He braced himself in front of you, snarling threatening. A muscle twitched in Crowley’s jaw. He sighed with frustration releasing his hold on you. Your legs were unable support you as you hit the floor. Cerberus ran to you, nuzzling your cheek with a wet nose.

“Why do you even want him?” You asked weakly holding onto Cerberus.

Crowley rolled his eyes, voicing the thoughts he was working though outloud. “My hellhounds are pertinent in retrieving bartered souls and two denim-clad morons are killing them. That leads to a loss of souls being brought in on a timely manner.”

“Why can’t you just go get a different one and let me have Cerberus?”

“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get hellhounds to procreate in the first place?” He snapped. “It’s not as if lighting a lavender scented candle and laying down the silk sheets puts them in the mood.”

“But he’s mine.” You pleaded.

Crowley’s gaze morphed from irritation to consideration. “That he is… And a hound who has a different master presents an undesirable situation.”

“Then you’ll leave?”

“Counteroffer.” He strode across the room dropping into a crouch before you and Cerberus. “He remains yours, but when I call he helps Hell collect its promised souls.”

You studied the man’s fathomless onyx eyes. His gaze dropped when you licked your lips nervously. You could feel your heart pounding high in your throat. “I assume my options are that or… something worse, so… okay. Yes.”

The corner of his lips twitched up. “Smart move, love.” He stood, spinning on his heel, headed back towards Juliet. “Of course, I’ll need to train him before he gets sent out.”

You nodded agreeably, too shocked to speak.

“I’ll be seeing you soon.” His head moved as he spoke, words rolling from his tongue. He lifted a hand and with a snap, he vanished.

#supernatural #Supernatual #supernatural fanfiction #Supernatural fanfic #crowley #crowlykingofhell #crowley x reader #crowley x you #crowley x y/n #crowley fluff #hellhound

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sirwaddlesesquire · 8 years

Text

Loved the Stars

Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

- Sarah Williams

Dipper Pines knows what it is to be in love. It’s a shooting star across the pitch black sky.

It’s the sudden explosion of light, illuminating in its radiance. It’s the streak of brilliance, spinning and twirling as it makes its journey, incandescent beams trailing behind and touching all that it passes. It’s the new capability of vision presenting the opportunity to drink in sights previously unknown. It’s the captivation caused by flash-point intensity.

It’s her.

In back-alley bars, old men and rough men, their clothes and their prospects as faded and tattered as their stories, warn him of his folly. They caution him, that he is too young to know of love, that his naiveté and his dreamer’s whimsy have led him down a fanciful path. They tell him tales of going steady and drive-in movie theaters, of sweethearts and summers spent at the beach, of beaus and of letters home from the war. This, they cajole, is how you love. This, they remonstrate, is how you know it is love. This, they exhort, is how love is properly done. He listens and he thanks them and he pays for their drinks. And he knows that they are wrong. It may not be how things were done, but there was a world of difference between how things were done and how things just simply … were.

She had appeared so abruptly. She had always been there, of course. A perk, or maybe a quirk, of being born five minutes apart. But one day, she was there. Like a sudden blaze of fire across an empty canvas, she grabbed his attention and he could not look away. She was everything. Her presence was intense and total, dominating his every waking moment and the entirety of his sleeping as well. She lit up his entire world.

She was a force of nature, a swift bolt of wild color that improved on anything, no matter how dim or bleak it might be and he was no exception. She was a pagan goddess, resplendent and savage, noble and free, and he was an eager worshiper. She was a celestial being and he was happy to be caught up in her tail, basking in the white hot sparks she left like puddles after a storm.

In mid-town coffee shops, lawyers and capitalists, their suits pressed and their ties crisp, pause in their industry and mock him for his folly. There are exchanges of barbs and taunts, the presumption that a jovial grin and a jabbed elbow may soften the invective contained within. They inform him of the locations of topless bars and nameless backrooms, of street corners and hourly hotels, of unfettered dance clubs and liberal-thinking coeds. And if he is too timid to visit any of those, they smirk, he could at least have the balls to tell her. He joins in on the banter, even giving some of his own, knowing all the while that only he is privy to the cruelest joke of them all.

He tells her all the time.

Sometimes it is in line with the propriety of a moment and sometimes it is by finding an opportunity to espouse it. But he will often look her in the eyes and pronounce that he loves her. The words, which when within him are a melody of exultation and ardency, sound hollow, course, and foreign when exposed to the space around them. She will reply that she loves him too, and he knows that she means it as well.

But there is a chasm of disparity between what they each say and what they each mean. With each exchange of those three little words, this crevasse grows deeper, even as it already leaves him shuddering at its expanse and its treachery. Because while she helped create it, at least her assistance was inadvertent. His was purposeful. She stands upon the edge of the precipice and she does not know it, unaware of the looming fall which threatens to swallow her whole at a single misstep; be it a misstep of hers, or a misstep of his. She remains on the escarpment where he has placed her, heedless and oblivious of its danger, as he remains in the ravine where he has placed himself, conscious and embracing of its safety.

Betimes a call of warning will well up inside of him, imperative and demanding, and he can feel himself begin to shout, only for the cry to die on his lips.

For as he stares up at her from this abyss of his own creation, she is apparent, discernible, unmistakable, and he cannot bring himself to disrupt, fearful that this may be his final chance to observe it all. Her beauty, composed not of the odist’s limpid eyes or pallid face, but rather of the blaze of self-assurance and the gleam of irrepressibility. Her nature, one of bubbles and glitter, of midnight coffee and comforting talks, of helpless exuberance and thoughtful chagrin. Her character, unabashedly frank and unapologetically extravagant, freely given without question and without regard for what might be taken. Her stance, her smile, her poise, her laugh, her intellect, her allure, and a thousand other things that are uniquely hers. Most of all, her gaze, forever on the horizon, sweeping and seeking as it searches for what comes next.

There are times when her gaze falls upon him, and he is breathless in the sensation of being stripped to the core, of being laid bare, of being utterly exposed. He is certain that everything inside of him, all of it, must be freely discernible; written in his face and in his eyes. In these moments, he is afraid. For even when he is sure that it is all revealed, he cannot bring himself to hope. Instead, in these moments, he feels only fear; the fear that now she must see and the fear of what exactly it is that she now sees.

But her gaze moves on. And he is left to wonder.

Does she know him, as he knows her? Knows the gentle swaying of her movements, knows the soft shadow which a midsummer sun creates by playing across her dimpled cheeks, knows the sound of her thousand and one sighs and their thousand and one causes?

Does she think of him, as he thinks of her? In the reflections of the bitter dregs of last night’s dream, the vestigial remnants of exquisite bliss interrupted by morning’s routine? In the idle musings of a second’s pause, a respite of warmth snatched from the otherwise apathetic day? In the deep hours of the night, when shame takes a backseat to desperation and ruminations on lips and skin and touch and breath and heat will no longer be ignored?

Does she view him, as he views her? She is consistency: vivacity and indomitability, glamor and charm. She is contradiction: eminence and indiscretion, havoc and harmony. She is felicity itself, an axiom independent of all else. She is the source, wondrous in its possibilities, and she is the conclusion, absolute in its finality.

He is not sure. Maybe he does not wish to be sure. If he’s honest, maybe he does not care, in the treacherous manner that is the wanton abandonment of good sense. For here there is a touch of beauty and perfection. So long as he imagines himself content instead of complacent, considerate instead of cautious, commiserate instead of contemptable, then he can create for himself an ethereal eternity. Because if it never truly begins, then it can never actually end.

So he is left wondering. And so her gaze continues moving on.

It always moves on. Even after it returns to him for a time, it never lingers long. With each successive departure, her gaze moves further and further away. It is the ellipses of an empyrean that was never truly bound by gravity to any object it orbits. He knows there will come a time when that orbit ceases all together. He dreads that day. He welcomes it.

And he does nothing.

In late-night sushi haunts, colleagues and peers, their eyes bleary and their spirits buoyant, try to convince him of his folly. Outwardly educated but inwardly timid, their bookshelves full but their suitcases empty, they quote tragic poets and golden-age starlets, tweed clad professors and insightful sitcoms, weary philosophers and folksy country musicians. He laughs at each one, raising his cup before slamming it back. And each time, as even the liquor, undiluted and acrid, fails to dull the sharp burn of the yearning inside of him, he is made certain that their confidence is ignorance. Ignorance that they will dismantle his delusion, ignorance that they will at last unmask him, ignorance that one man’s practiced wit is comparable to another man’s artless and persistent being.

Where others might aspire for her to hear the songs of his heart or to see the affection rife in his words, he does not. To have even allowed himself the smallest of wishes would be to create obligation upon her. And what he gives her, he gives freely; a devotion as unequivocal as it is unavailing. He knows that it is not wasted.

As he stumbles out into the street, he looks up. The canopy of night above him is bejeweled with a million tiny stars. Their twinkling existence is enough to make any man notice and revel in the beauty of such a sight. He is no exception, for the sight of this dusky tableau moves him dearly. Not because of the spread of numerous stars, vast and incomprehensible, but because of the knowledge that one star, the only star that ever really mattered, is not there.

And so…

The shooting star continues on its journey, that sudden flare of illumination rapidly receding as it passes over the horizon, leaving behind only the now unfamiliar inky black sky.

His soul sets in darkness.

The sense of abandonment and of singular solitude is so pure as to be nearly heaven itself, and it can only be embraced anew each and every day.

He will rise in perfect light

He closes his eyes, breathes in the stillness of the moment, reflects on the all-encompassing nature of the void above and within. There is futility and indignity in attempting to keep that light in his life, and he will indulge in neither. He is at peace.

He smiles.

He has loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

#pinecest #loved the stars

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mastcomm · 5 years

Text

Your Tuesday Briefing – The New York Times

Coronavirus’s toll includes economies

China on Tuesday reported 72,436 total cases of coronavirus infections, while the death toll now stands at 1,868. Here are the latest updates and maps of where the virus has spread.

In Europe, where wealthy Chinese tourists have become mainstays of hotels, shops and cultural destinations, the outbreak has dealt a blow to businesses after Beijing banned overseas group tours and many countries restricted or barred entry to people from China.

Flight and hotel bookings have been canceled over fears of the virus, and there has also been a drop in tourists from other nations who want to avoid crowded spaces. Apple cut its sales forecast Monday, as both production and demand for its products have been slowed in China because of the outbreak.

The latest: Australia, South Korea and other countries are preparing to evacuate their citizens from the cruise ship Diamond Princess, which has been quarantined in Japan for almost two weeks. Fourteen evacuated Americans were found to have the virus shortly before they boarded chartered flights to the U.S.

Political fallout over floods in Britain

Prime Minister Boris Johnson of Britain came under fire after his office said on Monday that he had no plans to visit areas with severe flooding after a storm that battered the country over the weekend.

Storm Dennis, classified as a “weather bomb” by the national weather service, slammed areas that were still recovering from heavy rains and strong winds brought by another storm last week. At least one person has died, while hundreds of others have been forced to leave their homes.

The response: Despite more rain predicted on Wednesday, Mr. Johnson has not called a meeting of the government’s emergencies committee to discuss the situation.

Background: Britain is experiencing more frequent and serious flooding because of global warming, experts say. Mohammad Heidarzadeh, a coastal engineering academic, said floods that were once seen every 15 to 20 years are now occurring every two to five years and that the country’s flood defense systems are “not fit to address the current climate situation.”

Another angle: The pressure is piling up on Mr. Johnson after his office appointed an aide who once said black people have lower I.Q.s than white people. The adviser, Andrew Sabisky, quit on Monday after the ensuing uproar, complaining of “media hysteria.”

U.S. efforts to thwart Huawei in Europe fall short

Germany appears poised to follow Britain in allowing Huawei, the Chinese tech giant, to build next-generation 5G networks, despite warnings from the United States.

U.S. officials have lobbied their allies to ban the company out of fear that its equipment could be used by China to spy on or control European and American communication networks. But as those countries are forced to choose between the U.S., a key intelligence ally, and China, a critical trading partner, some like Britain have taken the risk and cooperated with Huawei.

Context: The Huawei issue is part of a broader fight between the U.S. and China as they vie to dominate advanced technologies. The U.S. is now shifting its approach by looking to cut off Huawei from access to American technology and trying to build a credible competitor — but its officials have often contradicted each other’s ideas.

Quote of note: “Many of us in Europe agree that there are significant dangers with Huawei, and the U.S. for at least a year has been telling us, do not use Huawei. Are you offering an alternative?” asked Toomas Hendrik Ilves, Estonia’s former president. “What is it that we should do other than not use Huawei?”

How China tracked Xinjiang detainees

Going on religious pilgrimages, praying, attending funerals, wearing a beard, having too many children.

These are all acts, among other signs of piety, that would have been flagged by the Chinese government and warranted monitoring or even detention for Uighurs living in the western Xinjiang region, according to a leaked government document that was shared with several news media organizations, including The Times.

The document, one of numerous files kept on more than one million people who have been detained, illuminates another piece of the Chinese government’s coercive crackdown on ethnic minorities and what Beijing considers to be wayward thinking.

Follow-up: Three-fourths of the detainees listed have been released, according to an expert who studied the document. But it also shows that many of those released were later assigned work in tightly controlled industrial parks.

If you have 5 minutes, this is worth it

Too much of a cute thing?

Adorable characters like Hello Kitty are used to sell everything in Japan, and fading towns have long used mascots to lure visitors and investment. Above, Sanomaru, a dog with a ramen bowl on its head, represents the city of Sano.

But as their tax bases dwindle along with their populations, communities are increasingly questioning whether the whimsy is worth the expense.

Here’s what else is happening

Libya arms: The European Union said it would launch a naval and air mission to stop arms from reaching Libya, currently embroiled in civil war. Austria and Hungary had initially objected out of concern that ships could enable more migrants to reach Europe.

Burkina Faso shooting: A gunman attacked a church during Sunday Mass and killed at least 24 people in the country’s northwest, security sources said. It was not immediately clear who was responsible, but jihadist groups have been seeking control over rural areas of the country.

Caroline Flack: Fans of the “Love Island” host, who died by suicide over the weekend, are calling for a new law to stop British tabloids from publishing articles that reveal “private information that is detrimental to a celebrity, their mental health and those around them.”

Snapshot: Above, Michael Bloomberg on the campaign trail. He has risen in the polls after entering the race for the U.S. Democratic presidential candidacy, raising the pressure on political reporters employed by his news media outlet.

Artificial intelligence: Mark Zuckerberg, Facebook’s chief executive, met with European Union officials on Monday as the E.U. prepares to release a draft of an artificial intelligence policy. That will have important consequences for tech giants like Apple, Facebook and Google.

What we’re reading: This collection of letters. “British newspapers’ letters pages are a peculiar sort of joy,” writes Peter Robins, an editor in our London newsroom. “Recently, readers of The Guardian have been debating how old you have to be before it’s eccentric to keep boiling up your annual 18-pound batch of homemade marmalade. Bidding started at 77 and has escalated rapidly.”

Now, a break from the news

Cook: Cheesy baked pasta with sausage and ricotta is faster to make than lasagna. (Our Five Weeknight Dishes newsletter has more recommendations.)

Read: “Apeirogon,” the latest novel from Colum McCann, delves into the Israeli-Palestinian conflict through the eyes of two grieving fathers. “I think people wouldn’t have trusted it as much if it wasn’t real,” he said.

Watch: It may feel as if Zoë Kravitz has always been famous, but you can now watch her in her first lead role, as the heartbroken Rob in Hulu’s TV adaptation of “High Fidelity.” She spoke with our reporter about her acting and her life.

Smarter Living: We collected a few items that will help you make the most of an off-season getaway.

And now for the Back Story on …

Somalia’s future

Abdi Latif Dahir is The Times’s East Africa correspondent. A Kenyan of Somali descent, he reports in and about some dozen countries. We reached him in Nairobi, to talk about his latest story, about the young Somalis who are filling in the gaps their government can’t.

This is such a powerful story of resilience and hope. How did you find it?

Late last year, there was a big attack in Mogadishu, the worst by Al Shabab in two years. And one thing stood out. Almost all the news stories mentioned that a lot of university students had died, young people who wanted to be doctors or were studying other specialties that would help the country.

On Jan. 1, I flew to Mogadishu, to follow up on the attack and to write about these students and what they mean to Somalia.

My first story was about that, but also on how things had been getting so much better in Mogadishu — and it was all these young people doing it.

What else inspired you?

I went to this crisis center. They were collecting the names of the victims and reaching out to their families. I wanted to sit amongst them and see what it was like. They were checking in, asking the families, how are you today?

And maybe they’d hear that the hospital bill had been paid so that was OK, but the family hadn’t eaten breakfast that day. So they would corral someone to get food over to them.

I wanted to write about the chutzpah to invent these systems, to stay strong with all that was happening.

People could rattle off all these names of people they’ve known who’ve been killed. But then they would say, we want to stay here and be the ones to fix this country. They’re creating tech hubs, and restaurants and delivery services that are thriving. Because of the attacks on hotels and restaurants, it’s safer to stay home, have friends over and order a meal.

How is it being the East Africa correspondent?

I’ve had the job since November. It’s incredible. This is a dynamic, evolving region that’s changing socially, geopolitically, economically. It’s a great place to be a journalist. Honestly, you could write a story every hour.

That’s it for this briefing. See you next time.

— Sofia

Thank you To Mark Josephson and Eleanor Stanford for the break from the news. Andrea Kannapell, the briefings editor, wrote today’s Back Story. You can reach the team at [email protected].

P.S. • “The Daily” was off for the U.S. Presidents’ Day holiday. But try our “Modern Love” podcast. This week’s is titled “When Cupid Is a Prying Journalist.” • Here’s today’s Mini Crossword puzzle, and a clue: Sound made with two fingers (four letters). You can find all our puzzles here. • Last week, we told you that our Visual Investigations team would be answering reader questions. Here’s the YouTube video of them doing just that.

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kenpaisworkshop · 6 years

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Sinquest: Soul and Sand: Part II

“The Desperate Streets of Chazin”

Subject: @sin-quest Characters: Ken’pai the Mechanist, Tomis the Warlock (owned by @tomis-jb) Warnings: None

[--PREVIOUS--] ========== [--NEXT--]

Dust began to settle across the tiny abode, a sign that the two occupants had been there far longer than anticipated. The passing laughter of children darting between the alleys of Chazin caused just enough of a distraction to keep the two from falling into the pattern of deeper, and perhaps mournful thought.

“The tomb was only used once, as the resting place of Prince Nerid Chazin, 14th in the noble line,” Loch began.

Ken'pai's curiosity was piqued already. He always had a bit of a fascination with old ruins, particularly in that he often heard of wonders unheard of, and matters of construction that should have been too complex for the age they were built in.

“It was about a hundred fifty years ago. Back then...this country, Chazin, wasn't friendly to anybody who didn't have relations with the right kind of people. Nerid...fell in love with a servant-boy. An elf, to be precise.”

Loch's elven ears twitched a little at the mention before he continued.

“One day, the captain of the guard caught the two...cavorting. He moved to strike at the servant for even daring to sully the royal family in such a way. As his sword thrust through the air, Nerid darted in front, just in time for this father to round the corner.”

“You're making it sound like you were there,” Ken mused.

“Well, we elves can live for a long time. I was studying architecture at the time, not quite Chief Engineer. I heard about the tragedy...it became a source of gossip for the townspeople, especially the other elves. We were...afraid of retaliation.”

Loch sighed.

“The king was devastated. He worked so hard to have children, eventually having two, but not before several losses before infancy. They were his most precious treasures. To lose one, you'd think he'd lost his own heart. He jailed the captain for failing to uphold the law properly, and told the servant that he was sorry, and that he, and his kind, would always be safe in the palace.”

The old man pressed a finger on the map sprawled out on front of him, where the marker for the tomb was.

“The king had his son interred at the tomb. It was fairly new, and wasn't complete yet, but he figured it was the least he could do. The servant...disappeared. Some say he wanted the desert, searching for the tomb itself, to die with the man he loved. There was no sign of his corpse anywhere in the sandsea, nor at the tomb. He just...faded away.”

They sat in silence for another moment. Eyes never meeting, resisting the urge in respect for the dead.

“Alright then, it's settled,” Loch stated, rolling up the parchments on the table. “I'll go ahead and send for a regiment of guards to accompany us, and we'll...”

“Wait,” Ken'pai said, waving his gauntleted arm. “No guards.”

“Are you sure?! This thing's taken out a few caravans on its own!”

The lizard-man held his hand out to the small spider-like robot. It chittered a bit as it started crawling up his arm, finally resting on his shoulder.

“The fewer people who know about...this...the better. The Mages Guild is still after Gray, even if they're just chasing after a ghost. I intend to keep it that way as long as possible.”

The old man sighed. “I understand. I'm going with you though. Somebody's got to operate the sand-skiff.”

Ken'pai chuckled. “What, you think I can't handle it?”

Loch raised an eyebrow. “I don't doubt your ability to learn, Scales, but if you've never flown in the desert winds, you'll be shipwrecked and stranded in the Sandsea before even getting halfway to the tomb.”

“Fair enough. I'm guessing that will take some time, then?”

The old man nodded. “A couple of hours to go through the paperwork. That's about as fast as I can push it through, so meet me at the docks, alright?”

The two stood and made for the door, Loch placing a hand on the lizard's shoulder as they stepped out into the blazing Chazin sun. The old man shielded his eyes for a moment, while Ken'pai was unaffected, his goggles keeping most of the light from burning into his pupils.

Loch patted Ken's shoulder. “I'd better get this started then. Should take a couple of hours. We'll probably be able to depart around the beginning of sunset?”

“Sunset?”

From around the corner came a familiar black-robed figure, crossing his arms.

“...is that safe?” Tomis asked.

The bearded elf nodded. “When the air begins to cool, the wind becomes stronger, but it's also a lot more stable and predictable. We'll be able to get out there faster than we would during the afternoon. Plus, it won't be as unpleasant a trip.”

Purple-glowed eyes squinted behind the mask. “...Alright.”

The old man soon disappeared amongst the crowd, traces of the color of his clothing weaving through like wisps in a forest as the two companions turned toward each other, Ken placing his hand on his hip.

“Something's wrong, huh?” The lizard asked.

The warlock pointed his head and brought his voice down to a low whisper. “...that guy.”

Ken'pai knew the signal when he spotted it. He turned around, making it a point to make it appear as if he were gazing up skyward at the buildings in the distance. His eyes, masked by his goggles, shifted to the corners, focusing on one particular subject.

He appeared fairly normal for a citizen of Chazin. Light, airy clothing, a head-wrap for catching sweat, all standard attire. The only standout was a long red scarf, which was also not uncommon, many people enjoyed adding a splash of color to their appearance.

“What about him?” Ken inquired.

“I felt something. Magic. Very trained magic, but I wasn't sure until I noticed the brooch, on his scarf.”

The mechanist focused a bit, but the color gave it away instantly. Gold set inside a deep ruby-red stone.

“Mages Guild.”

“Yeah. I've been watching him while you were chatting. He's been out here the entire time watching the building. I want to say he might've tailed us since the city gate. I dunno if he's watching out for me or you, but...”

“I get'cha,” Ken agreed, placing a hand over the robotic spider on his shoulder. It kept still, as ordered, but he still felt he couldn't take the chance. He pressed his hand down on the construct, flattening it, and calling the essence back into his being. When he lifted his and again, there was only a brown sleeve beneath it.

The warlock stepped up right next to his friend, standing shoulder to shoulder and scanning the same skyline in an attempt of subterfuge. The could both see their target, the mage, start to wrap the scarf around his mouth as he walked down a side street.

The two both sighed at the same time.

“Guess it's me,” Ken rolled his eyes, beginning a slow pursuit, his warlock friend right behind him.

They followed him a ways, keeping a slow walking pace so as to not attract attention. The streets wound around with a sense of whimsy at points, leaving Tomis to wonder what madman had originally thought to design the streets around the buildings, rather than vice-versa. Ken'pai kept his clip a bit faster, his younger days training as a hunter creeping back into his subconscious.

“Red scarf, over the right shoulder. Gray-blue vest,” he whispered.

“Got it.”

“Repeat it.”

Tomis clicked his tongue. “Red scarf, over the right shoulder. Gray-blue vest.”

“Good. Keeps it fresh in the mind...wait, what's he doing?”

From directly behind, Ken could only see the man's arms folding forward, meeting in the middle, he'd guessed. Tomis' angle was slightly to the left, however, and he noticed the man's left arm bracing to keep itself steady.

“He's writing something,” Tomis noted.

“Writing? What, like a message?”

“Yeah, wouldn't be surprised if...”

The two silenced themselves once the mage brought his writing hand out to the side, the feather quill he had beginning to glow. The light expanded into a luminescent ball, before it shattered, sending sparkling magic drifting to the ground like snow.

In the mage's hand was a small white dove, with a metal canister attached to his leg, which he inserted a rolled up piece of parchment.

“Ugh,” Tomis moaned, “that's a bit much. Fuckin' mages.”

The lizard-man didn't say anything, reaching up into the top of his backpack and getting a grip on his most prized possession. He pulled out his signature weapon – a specially modified firearm, specifically a “carbine,” as his master once called it. He never learned where the name came from, but he assumed it was one of Gray's books before the cottage was torched. He slid open the chamber, loading a few slug-shells before snapping it shut.

They both watched as the mage tossed the dove into the air, the bird rapidly flapping its wings to gain the altitude it needed to head toward its destination. Warlock magic flared up in Tomis' hand, as the mechanist at his side braced the butt of his gun against his shoulder, lining a reptilian eye along the sights and taking a deep breath. Before the bird flew above Chazin's unique architecture, a clawed finger squeezed the trigger.

An unbelievably loud crack blasted into the sound-scape, creating a crater of fear in the townspeople around him as they began to scramble for some form of safety. Firearms weren't unheard of, but they certainly were a rarity, especially this particular gun. The target, for what it was worth, had burst into a gruesome mess of blood and feathers as it spiraled toward the ground.

The mage they had been following was, as expected, no fool. Rather than head for cover, he demonstrated that he knew he was being tailed by this point, as he broke into a run, turning at the first street he could. Ken'pai's hunting instincts kicked in, as he grasped his firearm almost like a spear, leaning forward as he sprinted after his prey, his tail sticking straight behind him, sharp as a dagger.

“Ken, wait up!” the warlock commanded.

“Get the bird! I'll catch hi--” Ken's voice trailed off as he turned the corner.

Tomis jogged toward the recently-made cadaver and scooped it up, dangling it by the leg with the canister attached. He yanked on the canister, struggling to get it to let go of the limb, finally pulling it free with a powerful jerk, the force of which caused the bird's corpse to slip out of his hand and whip toward a nearby wall, hitting with an almost satisfying splat, much to the chagrin of the startled woman trying to sweep her porch nearby.

“...sorry!” he called out, chuckling to himself as he dashed to try to catch up to his friend.

For a mage, Ken'pai's quarry was surprisingly quick.

He kept an eye out for the red scarf, as it shifted between townspeople like a dragonfly through the reeds. Ken paced himself rather well, for being out of practice as long as he had. It was a bit easier though, hunting prey in an environment where he didn't have to run silently. The strain always burned into his calves when he had to quiet his footsteps.

Reptilian claws scratched against the sandy cobblestone streets, propelling the lizard-man forward at an impressive pace, keeping up with the mage if not threatening to eventually overtake him. He probably would have, if the mark hadn't pulled over a stack of wooden crates to impede his pursuer's progress.

Ken had to slow a bit in order to leap up on top of one of the crates, bounding off of it into the air. Noting that the street wasn't at all crowded, he took the opportunity and lined up a shot, firing the instant he felt he had a chance.

The slug round sang as it bounced off the groundwork next to the mage's feet, before ricocheting and embedding itself into the wall near his face with enough force to cause him to stagger a bit in recoil. The chase continued, the slight stutter being just enough for Ken to make up for the obstacle.

The mage rounded another corner, his follower skidding a little from having to make such a sudden turn. A flourish of a cold blue magic from his hands told Ken'pai to be wary, proving his instincts to be correct as the mage began to cover the street behind him in a thick sheen of ice. Though he had to hold his hand backward to keep the stream going, the speed he lost wouldn't match what the lizard-man would lose if he continued to stay on ground level.

Glancing upward, Ken noticed a bit of wooden construction scaffolding that was just low enough to reach. Before he got caught up on the ice, he leapt into the air, clasping onto it with one hand. He put his gun back into his backpack before using both hands to pull himself up onto the platform. From there, it was a simple matter to get onto the roof of the building and resume chase from a much higher vantage point.

The buildings themselves were close enough together to not exactly hinder Ken's progress, but being that high up did have a tendency to obscure his sight on the target at points. He kept focusing on the red scarf trailing behind the mage, knowing that as a member of the guild, his vanity wouldn't allow him to discard something that displayed his station, no matter what advantage it would give him.

The sands bit harder up there, stinging the lizard's face a little, while making him thankful that he had goggles on. Taking a moment to gaze ahead, he noticed the buildings were going to come to a sudden end, with large windmills getting closer than he'd realized.

They were almost at The Great Well.

The mage had stopped his icy deluge on the streets, prompting Ken'pai to leap back down to street level in an attempt to force the wizard to choose a path once they had gotten to the inevitable end of the road. It came sooner than the magus had expected, having to take a second to look back at the scaly humanoid making a beeline for his position.

The mage smiled and leapt backward, over the waist-high dividing wall around the Well.

“Wait!” Ken demanded.

He climbed up on the wall and looked down, watching his quarry land on one of the safety nets and begin to roll backward, underneath him.

“Clever...” he said, giving out a slightly frustrated hiss.

He breathed deeply, staring at the netting below him. It didn't really matter just how safe it truly was, below that net was another net, and below that, another net...but below that...

Just water. Hundreds of feet down.

He had to ease his mind from the possibilities.

Ken leaned forward and let gravity do its work, opting to land on his stomach as his backpack was full of very...unsoft things. His feet hit the net first, but its unstable nature caused the lizard-man to collapse to his knees as he caught his upper half with his hands. He shook his head to keep from staring down at the water below and focused on the direction his prey had opted to take instead.

After a bit of struggling, Ken'pai finally stepped off of the safety net into a dimly-lit corridor that ran under the streets of Chazin. He figured they must've been access tunnels of a sort, just in case the foundations of the city began to crack somehow, or at the very least, it was a way for citizens to make it back to the surface if they'd fallen into the Well.

The hallway only had one direction to go, thankfully, and he could just barely make out a crimson scarf billowing in the distance. Falling into the net had given Ken a momentary reprieve, just enough to catch his breath so that he could break into another sprint. Footsteps echoed in front of him, as the scratching of his claws into the stone trailed behind.

The ever-brightening hallway told Ken'pai that he wasn't going to spend much longer down in this tunnel, soon finding himself bounding toward a tall set of stairs that led back up into the blue desert skies. He skipped every other step, every two if he could, falling into a sort of rhythm as the lizard bounced back and forth until he reached the top.

This particular street was rather empty, and it, too, had no other side paths, save for one up ahead. The mage was nearing that particular turn himself, but Ken'pai skidded to a stop, giving a sheepish grin. The man turned back in curiosity. He didn't see what Ken saw.

And what Ken saw was a coalescence of shadows in front of the magus' path, a black-robed figure stepping out, wearing a white mask and folding his arms.

Tomis.

The mage turned back, too late to avoid running into the warlock, who held his ground firmly. The man fell backwards, scooting back on his hands to attempt to stand, but Tomis was all-too-eager to assist him with his endeavor. A small dark spot formed on the ground next to him, as a glowing purple tentacle spewed forth and wrapped itself around their quarry, swinging to one side as he screamed, before flinging him with incredible force down the side street.

The sudden cry of pain already told Ken'pai that the street was a dead-end, and that his target had slammed into the far wall.

Catching up to his friend, Ken'pai grabbed the warlock's shoulder and hunched over, panting heavily.

“How'd...you catch up...so well?”

A violet-glowing eye gave him a wink. “I tend to keep track of the people I like.”

“But...I'm the...only person...you travel around with.”

“What can I say? You’re the only person I like.”

Ken'pai chuckled. “Because you get to rail me whenever you want?”

“Well, that's only a small part of it,” Tomis said, eyeing his friend's posterior for a moment before snapping his gaze toward the end of the alley. “C'mon, let's take care of this.”

The two walked in-step with each other as they approached the mage with the red scarf, who had slumped down against the back of the wall, a large cracked depression above him demonstrating just how much force he was thrown with. A small bit of blood trickled from his mouth, a mouth that seemed to still be muttering to itself.

CRACK!

The sound surprised even Tomis, as he looked sideways to see Ken'pai with his firearm in one outstretched arm.

The round drilled into the wall beside the man's face, spraying bits of rock. The combination of the sudden sound combined by the force of the impact caused the mage to recoil in fear as a small spark of magic flared, then fizzled out.

“Keep your mouth shut and your magics contained,” Ken'pai grimly ordered.

Tomis resumed his march toward the mage, grabbing him by the collar and lifting him up, slamming him into the wall again.

“P-please! I w-won't tell anyone, I sw-swear!”

“Begging?” Tomis leered. “How unbecoming of a Guild Mage.”

Ken'pai holstered his weapon again and stepped forward. “What're you going to do? Blast him with that beam?”

Tomis gave a short sigh of exasperation. “I told you this before, it doesn't work like that.”

“What then?”

The warlock held the mage up with one strong arm, glancing at the wall and outstretching his other hand. An inky, purple-tinged darkness began to swirl out from it, forming a round, black window of twisting nether energies.

Tomis turned back to the mage. The others couldn't see it, but Tomis was smiling under the mask.

“I'm going to give you a glimpse. A glimpse into the darker side of this reality, one that you mages will never seem to understand, despite your fears. I'm going to show you the truth.”

He let the mage drop before grabbing the back of his head and forcing it into the vortex, the man bracing himself against the wall with his hands to keep from falling completely in.

Even having his face completely trapped in a portal, it wasn't enough to drown out that level of screaming. His body jerked and pushed with a desperate fervor to escape his captor's grasp, but not only that...to escape from...

Ken'pai turned his gaze and blocked the sight with his hand. As deeply as he cared for Tomis, there was always a strong discomfort of the powers he possessed. He actually felt a little weird at the fact that he wasn't afraid of them anymore, but they still gave him a strong sense of unease.

Tomis finally pulled the man from his creation, throwing him aside and letting his magics dissipate. He was visibly shaking and huddling for warmth, or perhaps, comfort. Comfort that he wouldn't find here.

“It's over, Ken. You can look.”

The lizard-man uncovered his eyes and glanced at his friend sideways in embarrassment. “Sssorry. I just..”

“I know. It's okay.”

The warlock rolled back his hood and took off his mask, prompting Ken'pai to tilt his head in curiosity, before smiling at his friend's gentle face.

“Guards are coming. Follow my lead,” Tomis smiled.

Sure enough, two guards rounded the corner, one male and one female. Golden armor matched with golden spears and large golden shields as they approached the two companions.

Tomis didn't even give them a chance to speak. “Oh thank the gods you're here,” he pleaded, giving a grand performance, “we heard this terrible noise and we found this man just lying here, talking to himself!”

The male guard kept his spear at the ready, watching the two as he motioned to the woman. “Check him,” he said, pointing his head to the mage on the ground.

She rolled him over and looked in his twitching, terrible eyes. The mage grabbed her and held on for dear life.

“There's nothing but eyes! It's nothing but darkness and eyes watching you always watching and nothing can save us or save you or save me or save them we're all being watched. Always watching and waiting to devour and eat and consume and those eyes are upon me and upon my mind and upon my soul and...”

She'd heard enough, backhanding him with a gauntlet with enough force to render him unconscious. “He's gone, sir,” she said, checking the brooch on his chest. “...looks like a Guild Mage?”

The male guard eased his watch and turned toward his partner. “Magic frenzy.”

“What's that?” Tomis asked innocently. He knew the answer already.

The man turned back to them. “I don't know the details, but Guild Mages like to experiment with magic, and if they delve...too far, they can go a bit crazy from the things they experience. They're so unstable when they do that their actions are wildly unpredictable.”

“It's why we don't want the Mages Guild to have a chapter in Chazin,” the woman said, “Mages going through frenzy have been known to attack people, and with the powers they have at their command, that's a very dangerous combination, especially in a city like this, where the streets are so dense.”

“Well, that and we don't really like Guild Mages here anyway,” the man scoffed, “too snobby, to far up their own arses to see or care about the people around them.”

Tomis chuckled. “Yeah...they wanted me to join at one point but man they really don't make a good pitch. They were trying to tell me that my family was worthless and holding me back, they didn't care just how badly they insulted me to my face!”

The man patted Tomis on the shoulder. “Good thing you didn't join up then. Free mages are so much more helpful anyways.”

“What's going to happen to him?” Ken'pai spoke up.

They were both startled a bit as the woman dragged the mage to his feet and braced him up. “You speak common?” Ken averted his gaze.

“...Sorry. Guess it takes all kinds here in Chazin. We'll take him with us and see if we can get him stabilized, but if not...he'll have to spend time in the sanitarium. If what he said is any indication...a lot of time.”

The male guard helped his partner brace the unconscious man as they began to drag him away. “You two going to be alright? Need anything else?”

Tomis smiled. “No, just glad nobody got hurt, that noise was so frightening!”

“Indeed,” the woman said. “Take care.”

“You too!”

The guards nodded and continued to drag their subject away, turning the corner out of sight.

Ken'pai finally gave a few chuckling hisses. “I don't know how you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Just...lie so convincingly. You all but had them eating out of your hand.”

Tomis gave his friend a loving smile. “I know how to get what I want.”

Ken'pai grinned. “Oh, do you now?”

“What's that?” Tomis said, grabbing one of Ken's horns and leaning in as close to the lizard's ear-hole as he could, speaking in a low, sultry whisper. “Is my comrade beginning to doubt my powers of...persuasion?”

Ken shuddered as his grin became an embarrassed smile. “No....” he said, resisting every urge he had to not melt right then and there.

Tomis let his breath hit the lizard's neck before smiling. “Good.”

He pulled back and wrapped his arm around Ken'pai's back and squeezed. “Now, we've got a few hours before sunset, and I'm guessing you need something to eat.”

“And drink,” Ken'pai noted, swallowing hard.

“After all that running, I can't blame you. C'mon, let's get some grub. I'm counting on you to find a good place. Never been here myself.”

Ken'pai gazed skyward for a moment before the inspiration struck. “I know just the place! Has a great view of the Well, also.”

“Sounds good,” Tomis nodded, replacing his mask and hood.

The lizard gazed at his friend, still slightly unbelieving that he'd met him in the first place.

Yet...he could feel his soul was...happy.

“Yeah. It does,” he smiled.

Thanks for reading. Reblogs are appreciated! :D

#Writing #Fantasy #Sinquest #Ken'pai the Mechanist #Tomis the Warlock #Soul and Sand

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mastcomm · 5 years

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Your Tuesday Briefing – The New York Times

Coronavirus’s toll includes economies

China on Tuesday reported 72,436 total cases of coronavirus infections, while the death toll now stands at 1,868. Here are the latest updates and maps of where the virus has spread.

The latest: Australia, South Korea and other countries are preparing to evacuate their citizens from the cruise ship Diamond Princess, which has been quarantined in Japan for two almost weeks. Fourteen evacuated Americans were found to have the virus shortly before they boarded chartered flights to the U.S.

Political fallout over floods in Britain

The response: Despite more rain predicted on Wednesday, Mr. Johnson has not called a meeting of the government’s emergencies committee to discuss the situation.

U.S. efforts to thwart Huawei in Europe fall short

Germany appears poised to follow Britain in allowing Huawei, the Chinese tech giant, to build next-generation 5G networks, despite warnings from the United States.

How China tracked Xinjiang detainees

Going on religious pilgrimages, praying, attending funerals, wearing a beard, having too many children.

If you have 5 minutes, this is worth it

Too much of a cute thing?

But as their tax bases dwindle along with their populations, communities are increasingly questioning whether the whimsy is worth the expense.

Here’s what else is happening

Now, a break from the news

Cook: Cheesy baked pasta with sausage and ricotta is faster to make than lasagna. (Our Five Weeknight Dishes newsletter has more recommendations.)

Smarter Living: We collected a few items that will help you make the most of an off-season getaway.

And now for the Back Story on …

Somalia’s future

This is such a powerful story of resilience and hope. How did you find it?

On Jan. 1, I flew to Mogadishu, to follow up on the attack and to write about these students and what they mean to Somalia.

My first story was about that, but also on how things had been getting so much better in Mogadishu — and it was all these young people doing it.

What else inspired you?

And maybe they’d hear that the hospital bill had been paid so that was OK, but the family hadn’t eaten breakfast that day. So they would corral someone to get food over to them.

I wanted to write about the chutzpah to invent these systems, to stay strong with all that was happening.

How is it being the East Africa correspondent?

That’s it for this briefing. See you next time.

— Sofia

Thank you To Mark Josephson and Eleanor Stanford for the break from the news. Andrea Kannapell, the briefings editor, wrote today’s Back Story. You can reach the team at [email protected].

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