#a smell of honey a swallow of brine

[atomic-chronoscaph]

TGIF

[movieposters1]

[alexagirlie]

January Omegaverse Challenge 2024

Day 20: Exes (Masterlist) Fandom: The Last Kingdom Pairing: Finan/Sihtric/Uhtred Rating: E Summary: Sihtric unexpectedly goes into heat and calls up his exes to help him through it. Modern au. (thinking of expanding this into a longer story in the future) tags: heat. desperate sihtric. masturbating. anal sex. very very mild dub-con (Sihtric is already in heat when he gives consent). infertility.

When Sihtric unexpectedly went into heat his only thought was to get home and lock the door and wrap himself up in his favourite blanket to ride it out. He wasn't expecting how strong it would be, or how much his instinct would scream for his Alphas, how much he would miss them after he had broken things off with them two months prior after learning he was infertile.

As his heat intensified he found himself pulling out his phone and dialing the number he still had memorized, barely able to focus on the buttons as his fingers trembled violently. 

Finan picked up the phone after only two rings. “Sihtric?” He sounded concerned and confused but even so the sound of his voice made Sihtric feel like his heart was about to pound out of his chest. Sihtric opened his mouth but no words came out as he was hit with a wave of desire so strong it made him double over.

“Sitty? What's wrong? Did something happen?” Panic filled Finan's voice, the tone pulling a distressed sound out of Sihtric's throat.

Sihtric opened his mouth and tried to get a proper response out but he could only whine, high and desperate. He wanted his Alphas so badly, he could think of nothing else.

“Sitty, where are you? Are you at home?” Finan's voice had grown even more frantic, Sihtric's inability to reply verbally making his protective instincts go crazy.

“Is that Sihtric?” He can hear Uhtred's muffled voice asking in the background. They were obviously together when Sihtric called.

Finally he was able to swallow past the rising desire and made his voice work. “Yes. Alphas please.” He begged, practically sobbing he needed them so badly.

“We're coming sweetheart, it's okay.” Finan was scrambling for his keys and he and Uhtred were rushing out the door,  determined to get to their Omegas as fast as possible, all while keeping up a stream of gentle words and soothing sounds over the phone. 

Sihtric lost track of time, overcome and overwhelmed by the heat in his core and desperation for his Alphas who he had missed so much. His heat-addled mind didn't care that he had left them, that they were better off without a broken Omega like him, infertile and not able to give his Alphas pups. That they would be better off finding a different Omega. He needed them with him now.

He had stripped his own clothing off, sweats, tshirt, sock and boxers, leaving them in a trail leading toward his bed and had instead wrapped himself up in an old zip up hoodie of Uhtred's he had never given back. The Alphas scent of salt and brine was faded and barely there but was enough to offer some level of comfort and to make him so desperate for the other man. His fist moved furiously over his cock and two fingers of his other hand fucked into his sopping wet hole when a pounding sounded at the door. He couldn't stop, couldn't move from the bed and just whined more.

“Sihtric?” He heard Uhtred's voice through the door and whined louder. “We’re coming in!” The metallic sound of the spare key he had never gotten back from Finan turning in the lock was almost drowned out by the wet sounds of his fingers moving inside of himself and then the door swung open hard enough to slam against the wall. 

The Alphas all but ran into the small studio apartment and froze as they were greeted with the sight of Omega in heat. The room was filled with the thick smell of smoked honey and the sweeter notes from the copious amounts of slick leaking out of him, coating the fingers he had buried inside himself and dripping down his thighs.

Uhtred growled as the smell hit him and lunged forward only to be held back by Finan as the older Alpha kept a leveler head at being presented with his mate in heat. “Wait, wait, wait.” He pressed Uhtred against the wall forcefully, made sure the front door was closed and locked again before he turned to face Sihtric.

“Sweetheart?” He called out, taking a single step further into the room, brain whirling as he took in the details of the scene in front of them. The obvious evidence that Sihtric was deep in the grip of his heat and not fully in control. “Sweetheart, we need to know what you want here.” His voice was strained, hoarse with lust and the effort of holding himself in check but he forced himself to think and ask. 

Sihtric whined and pulled his fingers out of himself with a squelch, uncaring of the mess he was making as he leaked everywhere and he rolled over onto his hands and knees, pressing his upper body to the bed and presenting himself to his alphas.

Finan groaned at the sight of the Omega's slick hole, he had to turn and press his forehead against Uhtred's shoulder to hold them both back as they waited for verbal permission. “Words please Sitty, I know it's hard but we need the words.” His words were muffled but his tone was firm. They couldn't help without explicit consent, or at least as best as could be obtained at the moment. Sihtric had broken things off with them for a reason after all, even if neither Finan nor Uhtred had agreed with it.

Sihtric groaned in frustration and struggled to clear his head enough so he could do what his Alpha asked him. He forced himself to roll over onto his back, limbs askew and cock hard and leaking against his cut abdomen. “I need…. I need…” He covered his face and screamed wordlessly before flinging his arms out to the side. “I need you! I need you both! Fuck me, knot me! Alphas please!

Permission granted Finan released Uhtred and shoved him towards the bed, letting the other Alpha reunite with their mate first before he followed close behind. They stripped frantically and climbed onto the bed so they could cradle Sihtric between them and rained kisses down on the Omega’s face and neck. The action soothing the younger man and gave Finan and Uhtred an opportunity to scent him, Sihtric's smoked honey scent mixing with Uhtred's salty sea breeze and Finan’s summer meadow.

The next few hours passed with them each reacquainting themselves with the taste of Sihtric's skin and the feel of his wet hole clenched like a vice around their cocks. Of his desperate cries for them to fuck him harder, faster, to knot him and at the peak of his heat, his heart wrenching requests to breed him, the impossibility lost to the fire in his blood.

As they lay wrapped around each other after the worst of Sihtric heat had passed Finan swore to himself that they would get him back for real. That they will do whatever it takes to win him back and never let him go again.

taglist: @gemini-mama

[maxparkhurst]

Prologue

A bell tolled in the distance. It meant a ship docked in the harbor.

The evening tide rolled in, Smelling thickly of brine and electricity. A storm’s birth woven in gossamer threads.

Time felt so meaningless. Arbitrary. Void.  There wasn’t much left; yet, the moment lingered for near an eternity. The cold press of cobblestone warmed only by a steady crimson draught to accompany her through the gradual loss. She drew in a breath.

Where had that dagger of pain gone?

A gasp rattled from her chest, wet and ragged, as the world turned. No. She had turned. Onto her back. Copper-laced bile pooled in her throat. She spat it out onto her chest. The specter at the edge of her vision tensed. He didn’t need to see this.

For a moment, it was dark.    And good.       And quiet.

She found it hard to emerge. To breathe. Her gaze rolled up to the pain written deep in her brother’s brow. He held her close. Tried to shake some warmth back into her. She watched as he sputtered, red-faced and desperate, through tears.

Why did he speak in a silent voice?

She reached up and caressed his cheek. His skin felt as soft as shadows and light as air. A thread-bare smile crossed her lips. Sweet boy. Summer child. She would set the world aflame for him.

But then, it was dark.    And good.       And quiet.

She swallowed a breath. It lodged in her throat, and she could only manage to wheeze. His hand had found hers. He spoke silent, urgent words. She tried to settle him by giving his hand a subtle squeeze.

“I’m sorry.”    ‘I can’t hear you.’

A gentle haze, fringed with blended edges and murky memories, fell over her. Warm and euphoric, it coated her skin in goosed flesh. She did not fight the dark this time; instead, she welcomed it as a long-loved companion.

Time felt meaningless as the last of it bled away.

There was a single thought that existed apart from herself - a memory of sorts- only distinguishable by the colors of Crimson and Gold. Backdropped by the dark between the stars. It was a dance between flame and shadows. Such an abstruse arrangement. Bittersweet but always honest. For shadows never indulged in honey-suckle lies.

She brushed against the memory. And embraced it.

“I’m sorry.”    ‘For not returning.’

She relinquished the memory of seasons since passed. Released it into the night with a departing breath.

Then, all was good. And all was quiet.

As a darling fox finally went still.

[ronnymerchant]

A SMELL OF HONEY, A SWALLOW OF BRINE (1966)

[eyesofveronicamars]

[lysmune]

demon’s kiss

24/7

(OM! Demons/Reader)

i: Satan -  5:35AM

      Satan’s kisses are sunbursts, rimmed sweet from morning precipitation as he guides, goads, without a breath of hesitation. Nipping, skimming your bottom lip, he engulfs wholly, utterly, and you’re always left a little mesmerised, a little giddy.

     Fingers running up your side and down, and you giggle into his mouth, into the quiet evaporating gasps when he pulls away and he pecks the tip of your nose with emerald-flecked mischief.

     “Wide-awake, are we?”

ii: Diavolo - 6:30 AM

     Diavolo’s kisses are open-mouthed, hopping from your lips to your jaw, to the dip of your neck and your clavicle. His body wash lingers, warm, faintly musky as you ball the fabric of his shirt, tugging him a little closer.

     Laughter shivering your skin, biting at you playfully, nuzzling into you, his hair tickling before he reaches up to your lips once again. It’s a little rushed, a little sloppy, but you find that it suits him just as well, and he cradles you when he pulls away, even if it’s brief.

     “I have to get up,” is his soft, chuckling plea and, as much as you’d like him to stay, you surrender him to his work. Brushing your hair to the side, he whispers the promise of his return, a dinner together and a reward you’d very much like to sink your teeth into.

iii: Beelzebub - 12:00 PM

     Despite his intimidating build, Beelzebub’s kisses are tender, mellow, bitter caramel and pudding between his teeth. He handles you with a delicate touch and you’re precious in his arms, your hands up against his chest, the strong beat of his heart thrumming under your palm.

     Never pushing, never forcing, he always seems to back away just before you do, your name tumbling in honeyed dulcet tones. An endearing smile smoothed by affection, warmed by the kitchen heat, you raise your hand to cup his cheek and he gladly presses into you.

     “You taste sweet,” he confesses, thumbing a peck into your palm, and you chuckle at how unabashed, how honest he always is.

     “Thank you.”

iv: Asmodeus - 2:00 PM

     Coloured in rose perfume, Asmodeus’ kisses flatter you, coiling in an intoxicating swirl of indigo and peach as he pins you down against his bed, his knee between your legs and his hands flitting across your figure. You shudder into his caress, back arching when he traces the length of your abdomen, the swell of your hip, the curve of your thighs.

     Giggles spill into your mouth, the shell of your ear, unsparing in his touches as he bares warm flesh to cool air, to warmer palms, relishing in the way you’re sighing his name in praise. He adores you with sugared compliments, his lips grazing every inch of you in fluttering pecks, a topaz gaze transfixed by the blush of your body.

     He always stops, just as you’re at the precipice of it all, coyly slinking back, taking you into an embrace while he smooths you out.

     “Sorry,” he winks, grinning, knowing. “I got a little too carried away.”

v: Belphegor - 5:45 PM

     Taking all the time in the world, Belphegor’s kisses are, oddly, patient. He nips at your bottom lip as his thumb strokes your cheek, humming your name, brushing your hair back. Through violet eyes, he admires.

     When he finally presses his lips against yours, everything around you seems to flicker ablur, quelling into a silence as you ease in his arms. Mint peppery on your tongue, tart with raspberries and dewed in stardust, holding you tighter still. He’s gentle, if not unyielding.

     No matter how many times he breaks away, gives you space, he’s never really distant, his lips hovering yours for a few heartbeats before he captures you again. Languorously, he showers you with quiet affection, fingers running across your arms, resting at your waist, and you always feel ethereal in his touch, as though you’re floating, as though you’re in a dream.

     Pulling away for the last time, you watch him in a daze as he thumbs a light kiss to your eyelid, the crescent of smile etching itself before he chuckles at the sight of you.

     “Again?” he asks and you nod. Wordlessly, without any hesitation, he lulls you back in.

vi: Barbatos - 7:00 PM

     Earl grey and rose petals, and crème Chantilly; that’s the only indication of Barbatos’ kiss today. You swear you feel him soft against your lips, the ever slight hand on the small of your back, his hair tickling your eyelids when he bends, but when light floods your vision, he’s a good few spaces away.

     You’re not sure if you’re to believe it happened or not, your fingers skimming your  bottom lip as though it would jolt the process of a recollection. You hear him chuckle quietly and you look up to meet the serpentine gleam of his gaze.

     Pressing a finger to his mouth, a smile curling at the edges, he sends a small hush that makes you warm with blush, the thrill of your intimacies being kept under wraps tingling across skin.

     “Later,” and with that, he assures you that this isn’t the last you’ll be seeing of him today.

vii: Mammon - 10:25 PM

     Under the flickering fluorescence of a dying street lamp, the aftermath of a sudden shower, the slight bittersweet tang of Demonus, Mammon’s kisses are uncharacteristically bold.

     Hands clinging, wandering, roaming the side of your thighs, your waist, your face as he pulls you flush against him with his other. Balling his shirt in your fists, you tug and he deepens the entwinement, teeth skimming your lip before his tongue tangles yours, brash as he always is, though the way he strokes your cheek is as kind as ever.

     Hovering, lingering, when you break for air, he shies his gaze away and you’re met with the sight of him, blushed twice over to the tips of his ears. You laugh, wondering where all his bluster’s gone, pressing a peck onto his cheek that stiffens him straight as he looks at you, wide-eyed and nothing short of surprised.

     “Y-ya can’t jus’ do tha’ outta nowhere!” he stumbles, frowning as he does, though the soft look he fixes on you betrays it. Without so much of a warning, he hoists you up and you yelp, your arms finding purchase on the strong line of his shoulder while your legs wrap around his waist, his hand slipping under your thigh to support you.

     “Mammon!” you yell and he lets out a giddy, unrestrained chortle.

     Kissing the top of your cheekbone, he smirks. “Payback,” and he captures your lips once again, rapturous.

viii: Leviathan - 12:00 AM

     Leviathan’s kisses tremble in your mouth, quivering ever just when you return his affections in earnest, hugging you tighter as you lean back against his chest. He’s awkward, unsure, but he holds you with a tenderness that makes your heart melt.

     He leaves the ocean on your lips, mellowly sweet and herbaceous, and you shift in his lap to bury your head into the crook of his neck, the scent of brine and saltwater clinging to him like second skin.

     “D-don’t do that,” he stutters out. You peek out from below and raise a brow in question, and he seems to slump, the sunset across his blue eyes dulling. “I smell; I’m a yucky otaku after all.”

     Pressing your hand to his chest as you rise up to peck the edge of his lips, and he stumbles at the suddenness. “You’re not,” is your answer and he bites the inside of his cheek, looking away, flustering and fumbling before you raise your hand to his cheek to focus on you.

     He holds his breath for a moment then, before his shoulders relax. He doesn’t ask for any confirmation, he just simply allows himself to trust your words, to hold you tighter with a little more confidence. Tugging the blanket that swaddles the both of you closer, you can only sigh as he starts to hum, soft and melodic, and not nearly as often as you’d like him to.

     With the waves crashing frail at the shell of your ear, you rest yourself flush against him, clutching his shirt, eyes fluttering close. A featherlight kiss onto the top of your head and the sea swallows you into a fitful slumber.

ix: Lucifer - 3:30 AM

     Incandescence rims him gold, the smell of juniper spiced and woody, grating the metallic tang of fresh ink as his fingers brush your cheek. Underscored by bitter coffee, Lucifer’s kisses are the aftermath of countless sleepless nights.

     His lips are harsh against yours, clashing, bruising, the hand on the back of your neck pushing your forward as his teeth skim your mouth. Breaking away, your fingers twine his hair, tugging him closer when he trails kisses down your jaw, shuddering as he bites and suckles on a particularly sensitive spot on your neck, your hand coming up to his chest, the other gripping the chair’s arm.

     With one last peck to your newly formed love mark, he pulls apart, drinking in his handiwork with a proud gleam. “Beautiful,” he hums and you flush, clicking your tongue at him; he raises a brow. “No?”

     “Somewhere less obvious would’ve been better,” you huff out. Chuckling, he brings your hand from his chest to his lips and a shiver runs through you when he levels a devilish gaze at you.

     “That would’ve completely missed the point,” he answers and you roll your eyes, shaking your head, but he’s unperturbed, thumbing a kiss to your wrist. “Besides, red suits you.”

     As if to prove him right, warmth floods your cheeks and he laughs once more, a little freer this time, with less of an arrogance. You lean forward, just slightly, before you glance at the clock on his table. He appears to have followed your line of sight, because he clears his throat and straightens his back.

     “You can go ahead and sleep first,” he encourages, assures; you shake your head.

     “Not unless you are,” you assert and his mouth opens in protest, yet you shush him by continuing. “Paperwork can wait, your sorry excuse of a sleep schedule can’t.”

     He frowns at that. “I have a sleep schedule.”

     “Last I checked, three hours isn’t a sleep schedule,” you retort.

     “It’s still sleep.”

     “Lucifer.”

     At that, he complies, allowing you to disentangle yourself from him as he stands. He’s still reluctant, you can tell, so you reach up to cup his face in your hands and pull him down to meet your eyes.

     “Please, get some rest.”

     He tenses for a moment, though it doesn’t last long. His stare softens as his mouth curls into a small smile, his hand taking yours before he nods.

     “Alright.”

     Tenderly, gently, he leads you to the bed and takes you into his arms in a rare display of intimacy. Fingers carding through your hair, his chest falling and rising in rhythm, you drift off with his heartbeat in your ears.

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

before the otherness came

the wench and the witcher

“before the otherness came”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: Geralt realizes how much he has to lose.

Warnings: NSFT/18+ - you should not be interacting with this fic if you are under the age of 18. Fingering, intercourse, sex as a coping mechanism (again, jfc Geralt). Smangst!

A/N: This is absolutely the brainchild of @witchernonsense​, who provided me with this scenario and then helped me flesh out the next parts that I have planned because she is my DARLING TUMBLR WIFE. Listen, I got a taste of the smutty angsty and it’s just *chef’s kiss*. Love me some emotional turmoil, y’all. Title and lyrics from “As It Was” by Hozier.

Part 2 can be found here.

@coconutxraikage - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @alwaysnatz - @agniavateira - @witchernonsense - @owillofthewisps - @hina-chans-stuff - @yespolkadotkitty​ - @wastingmypotential​

And the sights were as stark as my baby And the cold cut as sharp as my baby And the nights were as dark as my baby And half as beautiful too 

He’s awake long before dawn, too agitated to try for a few more hours of sleep. He tries to relax again. Failing that, he tries to close his eyes and quiet his mind – find the stillness that comes with meditation – but the peace is illusive. It won’t come. He can’t shut out the sleepy, easy rhythm of your heartbeat, nor the warmth of your hand over his chest. Geralt gives up before long, rises carefully - you don’t move, which shouldn’t make him feel relief like this. He finds his clothes, quietly sets about strapping into his armor and tries not to be distracted by the scent of your skin. It teases at his nose. He can still taste you on his tongue.

As he pulls the last buckle taught, he hears you murmur and lets himself look. You turn in your sleep, curl over the pillow he’s vacated. The dark of your hair spills over your neck and face and his fingers itch to push through it. He should wake you. At the very least say goodbye, but the words cloy. They sit heavy in his mouth, an unwieldy chill behind his teeth.

You look soft, and warm, and so fucking lovely in bed that it grips around his heart.

He thinks suddenly, wildly, about throwing down his sword and his armor and crawling back under the covers.

His weapons could gather dust under the bed.

You would wake up curled next to him every morning and smile like the beaming sun. He could repair the roof, keep learning how to bake – smell of your soap and fresh bread instead of gore and road dirt. Worst thing he would be covered in would be cooking oil.

Fuck he can see it – that quiet, boring, simple life and what’s worse, he wants it. He wants it so much that it hurts, deep down into the pit of his stomach and not even the thought of his inevitable return can ease the pain. The idea of leaving, the thought of being without again – it’s a hunger-pang ache. It gnaws at him.

Geralt grits his teeth as he pulls his boots on. You hum sleepily when he ducks in and kisses your cheek, but he’s out the door before you begin to wake.

It’s mostly quiet downstairs, though he hears the rattle of a cart on the road outside. The sky outside begins to wash from inky blue to muted gray with the coming dawn. He takes quick inventory of what remains in his pack, using the list in his head to distract from the pull of desire and the temptation of soft, willing skin upstairs. The scent of you lingers on his hair, in his clothes – you’ve seeped down into his very pores, it seems, soaked him in the sweet, honeyed smell of you.

That scent, clover honey and fresh herbs, suddenly grows stronger and Geralt frowns until sees you coming down the stairs. The soft fabric of your shift whispers over your bare legs and that’s when he realizes your scent is off. It’s tainted – too sharp, too bitter. He sees why when you falter at the last step and the sight strikes like the blow of a mace.

He’s seen you cry – from laughter, from rage, from sorrow – but this is different. This is the sharp, acrid scent of fear under the salt-brine bite of tears and a hollowness behind your dark eyes that hurts to see. Your jaw works, your full mouth twisting before you duck your head, but not before he sees the wet shine on your lashes.

He needs to leave. Needs to walk away because this is suddenly far too real, too raw, but his feet carry him towards you instead and he tastes salt on his tongue when he kisses you. You gasp – sob – against his lips and the noise twists between his ribs. Your heartbeat thunders in his ears and he grips at your hair, your waist, while your fingers tangle and fist into his hair. His hands twist in the light cotton of your shift, bunching the fabric as he lifts you into his arms; your legs grip over his hips.

“Don’t go,” he hears you whisper; it’s soft, and broken, and sad. “Don’t go.”

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut. He manages to set you on the smooth surface of the bar, shivering when your fingernails scratch over his scalp. His gloves hit the floor. Your legs are warm and soft under his palms, and between them is slick and wet and sweet. The smell of you, rich and heavy, sends a shock of arousal straight through him, sudden as a lightning strike. He groans, letting his fingers stroke over your swollen, slick flesh until you’re panting, until you shake apart in his grip, moaning into his mouth. Your fingers tremble as you yank open the buttons of his trousers.

It’s not gentle, not by a long shot. He ruts into you with sharp, greedy strokes and you cling to him, panting hotly against his cheek. Your heels dig hard into his backside. Each shuddering gasp from you seems to take root in him, grips around his heart with grasping vines to squeeze, to bloom with heat and light and fuck all he doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to leave.

He doesn’t want to leave you.

So, he kisses you hard. He draws you close and breaks the tracks of your tears with his thumbs, licks each soft, bitten-off sound from your mouth. You whisper his name when you come; the silken grip of your cunt drags him along, blinds him with the white-hot shock of his orgasm. He grits through a moan with his face pressed into your hair.

You won’t look at him, after.

He picks up a clean rag from the pile folded nearby, lets you clean the mess as he rights his trousers again. Still, you won’t meet his gaze. The thick curtain of your hair hides your face. Geralt picks up his gloves, watching you weep silently. You don’t flinch from him when he touches your cheek, pushing back the fall of bed-wild curls, but he feels you drawing away. Like you’re trying to curl up and vanish.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs.

He hears you give a wet sniff; you finally lift your head. Your lovely, dark eyes are bloodshot and bright with unshed tears. There’s a heavy, awful thing pressing at the back of his throat; it’s bitter when he swallows. He chews the inside of his cheek, bites his tongue - he tries not to let himself drown in the deep sorrow behind your eyes. The ache between his ribs thrums.

“I will come back to you,” Geralt whispers in a rush. He crowds close, pressing his forehead to your temple to breathe you in. “You’re - ”

The ache surges in time with the slow pulse of his heart, catches him off-guard. “You’re my home,” he breathes.

Geralt feels panic claw at him, snaring with freezing cold fingers. He forces himself to breathe through it as he presses a rough kiss to your temple and turns on his heel. It feels as if he’s watching everything happen instead of being there – he takes his pack, his weapons and the next thing he knows, he’s managed to swing into Roach’s saddle. The world snaps into clear focus again.

The panic twists, the cold mingling with the ache.

The Witcher grits his teeth, spurring the bay mare into movement. “Shit,” he hisses to himself.

[japiform]

Logs: Explain what the fuck he’s talking about

[[mind the tags]]

Helmsman: Have you ever been in a building after it's closed for the night? The darkness? The dead air? The faint feeling of unease, like you're somewhere you shouldn't be? The darkness?

You're the only one there, looking for something. Maybe the way out. Maybe for answers.

Maybe the store hasn't been open for years. The darkness. The overgrown plants, crawling over the ground and walls. The smell of brine. The water in your boots. Are you being watched or is that your imagination? Surely you've already been at this hallway. Did one of the tentacles move? Are you alone?

And finally, you find it. The husk of what was once a man. One who laughed and fought and loved. It's eyes behind the goggles are dark. It's twitching in the hold of the ship. The ship twitches in extension of the man. The darkness.

Are you alone?

Grand: You are not alone, but the atmosphere makes you tense, makes your keen eyes dilate wide to get as much out of the lights you brought as possible. Your boots splash in the salt water, and you wonder where the fuck the rest of the empress's entourage is. Surely she had some sea fucks with her to keep this massive place running.

It isn't important, except that it makes you tell your clowns to keep their guards up as you descend into the bowels of this abandoned place. It's going to take a bit, the empress's ship is so fucking massive. But that's alright. You're patient.

Ish.

Every moment he is off is another moment he could be dead. But at least you know generally where to go. You've been on Her ship before. Though, motherfuck, it was not like this.

When you get to him, you are relieved, motherfuckin gratified to see his form twitching. You hope it's not just some errant tentacle fuckery of the ship, you've never seen one so... overgrown before.

Well. Nothing for it. Give him a little slap on the cheek. "You alive in there motherfucker?"

Helmsman: Static electricity zaps the Grand Highblood's hand, the spot where he touched the Helmsman clammy and hot and viscous, somehow. But the Helmsman's eyes snap open, barely emanating any light at all before they slip closed again, unseeing.

On closer inspection, he's breathing shallowly from dry lips, mustard blood dripping shallowly from every orifice. It looks uh. Bad.

Grand: Ouch. Spicy. Still, the zap, the eyes coming open, the breathing reassure you that this isn't a totally fruitless endeavor.

Still. Oof. That's a big old yikes, you don't know if your mediculler can fix that shit. Ugh, what a mess he is, stubborn bastard. "Aight, where the fuck is my nerd?" You look at the clowns behind you. One of them better have brought the helm tech with them.

Devoteer: The small crowd produces a troll that can be succinctly described as cereal box shaped, and he dips his jagged horns in a sign of reverence towards GHB before fumbling for his toolbag. "If I may, Your Grand Whimsican, this Technicrusher will do everything in my power to preserve the life of this... of the helmstroll, if that pleases you." Behind a faltering, whiny speech is a troll who's had to disconnect many a half-dead helmsman from their block in his time. But the Devoteer has never in his life seen a helmsblock this... overgrown...

Grand: Oh, yep. That's a nerd, you'd know em anywhere. "I want his pump goin and his pan in there fuckin somewhere. Tell us what the fuck to do and we'll get it done. If I've come all this way for him to burn out, imma be real fuckin pissed, you pickin up what i'm puttin down?"

Devoteer: "I am indeed, picking it up, Your Unholiness." You sidle around him and inspect the helmsblock, before plucking a waterproof pen from your bag and marking off some of the smaller tendrils in dark purple. "These are the connections to his cardiovascular system, his life support, and the main nutrition and waste tubes. All the rest need to be cut away- about an inch at least from his body." Looking at the state of his nutrition tubes makes you faintly ill, but you keep the green out of your gills.

"Al- also I'm going to need a small supply of nutritionslurry, high in vitamins, a jar of mind honey, and some cauterizing knives. Is that amenable, High Priest?"

Grand: You click your tongue. "Easy enough, brother mine. I definitely got the last bit, at the very fuckin least." They drop into your hand quick as miracles, and you hand the gruesome weapon/medical tool over. You look over the crowd. "Aight, who brought the nerd?" A motherfucker raises his hand with a wave, clearly not paying that much attention now that his duty's done. "Give him his fuckin goods, what do you need, an invitation??? Mind honey. Nutrition slurry." You snap a few times, and the goody bag gets passed forward like you're in fuckin schoolfeeding. Whatever, if it works.

"That gonna do you aight, or are we gonna need someone ta go shoppin?"

Devoteer: "This is perfect, Beloved Dreamer. I'm going to need some space." You put your goggles on, and get the fuck to work. It's incredibly loud and messy, the knife slicing through tendrils like a hot blade through butter. Which is basically what it is. Pieces of helmsblock go flying as you shear it away, leaving something that looks a little less like a H.R.Giger painting and more like a person.

Wiping your hands clean with a microfiber cloth, you take the vials and hook the Helmsman up to a rudimentary IV drip, methodical as always. "Now um. A-as soon as the honey enters it's system it's going to become a bit of a lightshow in here, but it'll keep it's psionics cycling until it stabilizes. Be careful removing it, it's limbs are. Rather delicate."

Grand: Oh yes, the smell of burning flesh. Acrid, meaty enough to make you hungry, smoky enough to make you sneeze. You aren't sure how the rest of your mirthful are taking it, because you're definitely not paying attention, but you're vaguely interested enough in the work to observe the whole time, make sure he isn't taking unnecessary risks with your prize.

"Damn, we love a light show," you look over at your clown friends (turns out they weren't all doing the best), and get a few nods. "Quick question though, brother. How likely are his limbs to be any use, and what's the risks in not givin a shit?"

Devoteer: You give them one look and shake your head. "Even if, er, they weren't looking due for sepsis, it would take a real medical miracle for them to be of any use again, sir." They're uh. More hole than flesh, to put it lightly.

Grand: "Sick. May as well take em off and not deal with the hassle then, gimme that knife brother," you hold out your hand so you can get your tools back. You don't know if this fucker knows how to carve through bone instead of helm tentacle, but you sure the fuck do.

... Might wanna wait for that light show though.

Devoteer: You hand him the knife and step back into the crowd just as the Helmsman stirs, sparks beginning to crackle around the goggles as his eyes open just a sliver. And then the screaming starts, teeth bared as red and blue light fills the large room in a one-troll supernova.

It's only for a few seconds though, before it starts winding down as the psionics cycle erratically. His specially made goggles- the one thing between him and GHB being a pile of troll shaped ash- crack under the display of pure uncontrolled psionics.

The air is sharp with the smell of ozone.

Grand: Oh, that's neat, isn't it? Look at him go, he's like a one man firecracker. You grin big and wide at the sight, let him run himself out, and hope he isn't going to be choking on blood from screaming.

Alright, let's get this shit done quick. You step up into his shit and start cutting away tentacle and limb alike, until he is a lump of torso, head, hair, and probably just... so much rot. Just, an unfortunate amount of rot. You'll take the effort to make sure you cut as much of the sepsis as possible without getting to his innards, but.... Eh. That's about all you can be bothered with. You'll just make sure the medicullers go real hard on the germ killin shit, so he don't rot much more.

Dumbass motherfucker.

Helmsman: The screaming has become coughing, before he settles down with a whimper, curling into himself now that he isn't forced upright by the helmsblock. For how tall of a troll he once was, he looks small. Maybe he'd always been a small troll, under all the sass and vitriol and power.

It's hard to say.

Grand: ... Ain't that almost sweet... You hold him close, fully aware he could vaporize you if you're not careful with them damn glasses, but still finding it a bit...

Somethin. You can't say. Sad, maybe. Pathetic.

Any fuckin way. No need to linger. "Aight, motherfuckers. Job well done, head the fuck out, don't trip on tentacles or i'll make ya the butt of the next sweep a jokes. Keep ya eyes peeled, but i doubt there'll be much else excitin." There's a few laughs, a few groans of disappointment, but they do as you say, because you are fuckin king.

... And the king's gonna need a shower after this, because this battery is decidedly rank.

One step at a time, though. No need goin quick and jostlin all his lively bits until he ain't got no life left in him. One step at a motherfuckin time.

Helmsman: Despite the chill of GHB's skin, Helmsman takes comfort in it, craving any amount of warmth against his feverish form. As he tucks himself as close and comfortable as possible, the ship around the parade of clowns becomes even darker, emergency lights flickering off as the biggest asset to the empire goes silent.

Behind his eyes, the Helmsman fitfully dreams of being swallowed by a goat the size of a sun.

Grand: At least, finally, he can be completely asleep.

[boneandfur]

Incantations [1]

And whosoever of them ate of the honey-sweet fruit of the lotus, had no longer any wish to bring back word or to return, but there they were fain to abide among the Lotus-eaters, feeding on the lotus, and forgetful of their homeward way. (Homer, Odyssey)

WARNINGS: contains potentially triggering content. Rated Explicit 18+. Tagging will be in comments as i’m in a bit of a rush today. Words: 2840 // Summary: No one ever tells what becomes of common girls, after they ascend. An alternate universe that explores the links that myth and magic have to present day Cordonia. A/N: love you guys!! Thank you for being so supportive, especially @lizeboredom and @ritachacha​ and @darley1101​ and @breaumonts​

CHAPTER ONE 

"The Queen is not pregnant." The doctor delivers his verdict in the clipped, sterile tones that Riley has begun to dread and expect in equal measure. He strips the gloves from his hands, wiping them off briskly and vigorously, and she tries not to think about his fingers pushing into her, probing her aging ovaries cynically as her ankles dangle in the stirrups, laid bare for her king -- her husband, yes, but first and foremost her king -- to witness. 

As if she were being punished. 

As if what happened -- what has repeatedly happened -- is her fault alone to bear. 

Maxwell would never -- But Riley tries not to think of him.

(Not anymore. Not for a long time. Not since the last time she saw him, a thousand and one things unsaid between them.) 

"...instruct her to lie with her legs up after the act of coitus, and no sinful positions. There is only one way that the heir to our blessed country should be conceived..."

Riley thinks of the doctor's words when her thighs are spread so wide they ache and her lover is plowing her deep, cursing and grunting, the sound of their sweaty flesh slapping together in the thick darkness of the room. 

To conceive a child, you must cease your sinful ways. The queen shall lie on her back, and think of Cordonia. The king shall lift the hem of her nightdress, inserting his little king into her throne room. The subjects shall be blessed. 

The summer heat presses behind the curtains, if it comes into this room, it will blind them, their sins laid bare before all the court to see. 

All Riley can think of is how close she is, dipping a finger between her slick thighs, the bud of her clit swollen and engorged. She fists the bedsheets in one hand as his hand cups one breast, the pads of his fingertips creating a delicious friction on her nipple. She twists wildly under him, movement becoming frantic, jerky. 

"Not yet." His accent gets thick when they are abed together, it becomes something out of legend and myth, honey and myrrh, stirring the embers into a blaze that will burn down civilizations, and make a new age of men. 

•••

"Who is that absolute oaf making a mess of the canapés?" 

Lady Adelaide must be getting old, Riley thinks. She would know those broad shoulders and muscled thighs anywhere. The memory of his stubble against her breasts makes Riley dig the tips of her nails into her palm, but only for a moment. 

"There's no need to signal the staff. I will take care of it." She touches Adelaide's shoulder, brief, light, like the fanning of the death’s head moth against the cheek, and the older woman nods vaguely, already turned back to her glass of wine and Lord Rashad's slow, deliberate eye fuck. 

Riley scans the grounds for her king, out of pure habit if nothing else. Three years after the fact has made Liam a stranger, and she sees him lay two fingers on the shoulder of Kiara of Castlerellian as she laughs prettily with the ambassador of Auvernal, showing her neck. It means: She is mine. She belongs to me. 

(Once, it was Riley who was the mistress. Once, she was the one who belonged to the king, not to all Cordonia. Once, she had the world at her feet, and the love of few good men…  And now, nothing.) 

Even from this distance, Riley can see the ambassador swallow, taking a step back. His eyes avoid her direction, but she knows she will have to patch this up later, and can already feel a migraine coming on. Diplomacy was never her strong forte, even if she played the part back when she was still an imposter, a waitress who dreamed of being a queen. 

Arin, The First Courtesan of Rome. Valentina, The Sell Sword. Penelophon, The Beggar Queen. 

(No one ever tells what happens to the common girls, after they ascend.) 

"Excuse me, sir, guests must use a fork, and not their fingers. We are not all wild animals here." Riley taps the oaf on the shoulder, and squeaks in mock alarm as he drops his plate. He issues forth a roar of laughter, wrapping her in a bear hug and lifting her off her feet. 

He smells of the Aegean, blue and green and bronze as the brine in his hair. 

(Salt, and sun, and sin.) 

She sneaks a glance in Liam's direction. If he has noticed their proximity, he gives no sign. But why would he care? This man is to be trusted. 

The petals of the lotus quiver in the breeze, and sleepy dusk grows thick with the sickly sweet fragrance of the blossoms. 

•••

“I need my lips on yours when you come for me.” His voice is ragged and thick with lust, and she does not protest as he flips her over, pulling her to the edge of the bed. His cock impales her to the mattress, plunging deep inside of her, and Riley makes a strangled noise in her throat as her lover begins to thrust, her teeth pressing against his shoulder, nearly breaking the skin. 

She tastes sun and sea and salt and sin, and when she closes her eyes she hears the sonorous peal of the bells from the last time they were together, three years gone: the household draped in black, her orgasm tasting of hot copper where she'd bitten her lip to keep silent, for a queen must never, ever cry. 

(You must bear an heir of royal blood. It is for the good of the country, for we have enemies on all sides. If you cannot conceive, what good are you, except as a figurehead?) 

“You are crying.” His voice is as resonant as the caverns under the palace, where before time was time, princes and pythias alike would speak the language of the house snake, and feed it milk and honey to ensure good oracles for the reign to come. “Ah, my queen.” He pulls out, and his breathing is thick, labored: the scent of wormwood is pungent in the small room. The sides of the mattress beside her thighs sinks down as he braces his hands upon it, and he cups her by the chin to gently kiss her forehead, a mark of obeisance. 

(But she is not his sovereign. His star had already fallen before hers ever shot across the sky. Their constellations were never meant to align.) 

“It is nothing. I thought you wanted us to come like an incantation between our lips.” She feels him tense under her fingertips, stroking down the rippling abdomen, the fuzz is fair and fine from his navel to his cock, and he moans when she takes him in her mouth. 

(Sin, salt, sea, sun.) 

An incantation. 

A ritual tattoo. 

The black sails that returned the ships to the harbor after the battle had done, bearing the byre of the regent’s only heir. 

“Fuck. Fuck.” His hands fumble, they grip the bedposts. His cock quivers in her mouth, she runs the tip of her tongue up the vein in the center, then deep throats him, hard. His muscles tense, the only sound in the room is that of the tip of his cock hitting the back of her throat and his rasping groans. When he comes, his fist gripping her hair, the deluge floods into her mouth like the waters of the Nile. 

Riley licks up every salty drop, the great man dropping to his knees before her with a thud that would bring the guards running if they were not all sequestered in their quarters to escape the heat of the midday sun. 

(Except Mara. But Mara will never tell. After all, it is Mara who knows her secret sins, loyal unto death like a handmaiden of old.) 

•••

“Duchess, are you always this bored at state functions, or did I arrive at a bad time?" Leo lays a finger on the side of his nose, tapping it with a wink. He is bronzed from the sun, and under his ceremonial suit his muscles bunch and ripple, the seams stretching at the shoulders. He pops a canapé into his mouth, following it with a shot of ouzo from a nearby waiter's tray. 

"It's always a time." Riley frowns as Leo passes her a shot of ouzo, clinking their glasses together. “I shouldn't be drinking --” but after a long, measured moment, she does. 

Blue eyes search her face, and her stomach roils with guilt. “I'm not.” The memory makes her head swim, and the ouzo tastes like poppy syrup, oozing down the back of her throat. 

(Only three years gone, bloody handprints on the wall, the dogs setting up a cacophony of howls for days on end, and all the things that smelled of them, of her, carted away and burnt to cinders.) 

What good are you, except as a figurehead? 

“That is very fine, especially when you think about what the two of us will get up to later.” Leo’s breath tickles her earlobe when he leans in, and the proximity of his body makes something kindle in her loins, desires she'd thought long dead and buried beyond the garden walls. “I have half a mind to snort a line of blow right off that tight little arse, right here on the lawns, but I think Regina would perish on the spot.” 

“Let us consider it done, then.” Riley smiles against Leo’s neck, so he can feel her lips move, and then takes a graceful step back. He grunts, shielding his erection with a carefully angled bottle of champagne, dripping with condensation. 

“Your Majesty, the king bids you join him for the closing address.” A servant bows before her, and she thinks she may never get used to this -- the linen dresses with finely beaded necklines, intricate enough to put an Egyptian queen to shame, the way the crowds part for her as she walks in mincing steps through the waving grass, the sudden sharp memory of a small, tiled room, painted with cracked frescoes, the oldest room in the palace. 

(There was a lemon tree, and a girl with wide eyes, bangles on her wrists and shackles on her wings. Her wings? But that can't be right.) 

Lady Riley Brooks…

The Duchess…

A figurehead…

She closes out the whispers with a Lady Di smile plastered on her face, bright as anything. Liam’s fingertips dig into her wrist, just enough. He knows. The sinking cold dread settles in her bones, and she covers it with her most brilliant, diplomatic smile. 

“Darlings, thank you for joining us.” Her kisses on the cheeks of the Auvernese and Panrian ambassadors are sweet as poppy syrup, false as plasticine. When they smile, it is at Kiara, awkward and unsure. 

“Your Highness!” One of the reporters for a local vlog, The Golden Apple, jumps up and down frantically, waving to get her attention. Riley picks her out of the crowd, a girl with short pink hair and a leather mini-dress far too on-trend for the noveau riche set. The press badge reads Eris. 

Riley mentally steels herself for the same tired question, but is unable to mask her expression for what comes instead. 

“Duchess Riley, how is the royal family handling the news about Lord Maxwell Beaumont?” 

•••

Maxwell Percival Beaumont. 

The hallway is endless. 

Riley carries her kaboodle, and Maxwell drags the vintage steamer trunk with seemingly little effort behind him. His designer trainers set up little clouds of dust off the threadbare carpet, an Aubusson which has never seen a carpet sweeper more modern than anything from 1902 (according to the girl upstairs, socialite Fenny Vandervliet, this is an actual historical fact). 

She can feel the ghosts of the pre-war building at her back, watching her leave. I'll be home soon. The words are on her tongue, but she does not dare speak what she already fears to be a lie. 

She thinks, instead, of Maxwell’s scent on the bed sheets when they woke in the morning, still tangled together. 

Bronze, parchment, and the expectations of the ancestors. 

•••

After the nightclub, she begs a headache, and Maxwell offers to share a taxi. Liam seems pretty taken with you, you know…

But when he brushes a strand of hair back from her face, she doesn't pull away. And when she offers him a nightcap, he doesn't refuse. When he lifts her hair from the back of her neck to press a kiss at the nape, all the birds in the apartment, hearing her soft sigh, begin to sing. 

He unclasps the first button on the dark green dress (abalone and gleaming pearl, borrowed from the girl who lives upstairs, the socialite with enough Old Money to buy all of New Amsterdam), and the silk rustles like the petticoats of the girl who ran away to sea with a pirate she met on the King's Highway in 1612, rapier wit and gold teeth, a pair of blackbirds the two of them. 

(But her soul whispers that this man is not the pirate, that man was another path, another chance, and he sits drowning his sorrows even now at a dive bar somewhere south of hell.)

His fingertips are warm against the bones of her spine, and his lips follow, each kiss making her gasp and grip the kitchen sink for stability, as though she might fall apart without him there to keep her steady. Years later, this memory will blacken around the edges like a beaten bronze mirror found at an archaeological dig in the Aegean, back in 1899, just as the old age began to fall into the new. She will take it out and examine it, trying to reconcile the girl she once was with the queen she has become. 

(Ah. But that is what will come, and this is now.) 

Now is this: a tangle of images and sensation. Maxwell’s fingers lacing through hers as the dress slides to the floor, his tongue in her mouth, she bites his lower lip and drags it between her teeth. The shelves rock against the wall, the train is coming through. The scent of cardamom is in the air, her hands are in his hair and his stubble scrapes against her neck. 

Maxwell’s hands move up her thighs, they both fumble with each other’s garments: her moan of dismay as she tries to maneuver his belt, his low groan as he struggles with the clasps of her bra. 

Don't bother. She stays his hands and pulls the straps down, her breasts still firm and high and tipped with dusky rose. She feels his cock hard and firm between her legs, he's lifted her up on the counter and stepped in between her thighs, pulling her forward and nudging them apart as he dips his head to take one nipple into his mouth, her cries drowned out by the sound of the train again. Somewhere, a harp is playing, somewhere, somewhere, over the rainbow.

But here and now there is only the two of them: Maxwell's fingers push aside the sodden cloth of her underthings, and she sobs his name as he plunges his fingers into her, in and out, in and out, over her clit and back inside of her until she knows she will go mad with wanting him. 

Condoms are in the bathroom, she manages to gasp out, and when he dashes off, she has a moment to study her reflection in the windowpane: a stranger is there, with red lips and tousled hair, and a face to launch a thousand ships. 

Riley. His lips brush the nape of her neck and if she kept scrying into the glass for one single second more, she might have seen his doppelgänger there, with a breastplate of beaten bronze, on his knees before his queen in a bedchamber of a palace in some place long forgot to human memory. 

They fall into the bed, his hands are on her hips as she sinks against him, their moans and sighs an incantation. 

Come back. Come back to me. 

Throw the centuries off like the dust on a handful of faience beads. Dance in his arms on a ship's deck lit by Greek Fire, roaring across a wine dark sea. Scream your lover’s name as the blood pools under the locked door that will become your tomb. 

Come to me. Come back to me. 

A funerary rite. 

A hymn to the living. 

An incantation. 

[averbaldumpingground]

Sing All a Green Willow

Her eyes were that same sea he drowned in, breathless and panting and prone on the sand like a starfish, now coughing up mouthfuls of brine, his body still plastered in algae, small shells digging into his back, and leaving their traces in broken-off fragments and scratches.

She steadied his head with her fingers, too large and calloused and somehow both tender and kind. Her plump lips were downturned and scowling, and pink like a jellyfish sting.

The warmth of her touch felt like childhood, somewhere on shores far away, with crags and echoing laughter, his sister in her pale green dress, the servants with large, heaping baskets of food, the clouds thin and hazy like cotton.

He saw the cliff face, saw his much younger self jumping, bobbing for air in the spray of the tide, lost to the laughter of seagulls. Falling felt dreamy, suspended, like it had been someone else. Like the first whispers of summer.

She touched his cheek, wiped his forehead, fingers still gentle, scented with something familiar, floral and fruity and calming. Something like lemon balm, maybe. A vague thing, perhaps elderflower?

She whispered stories beside him, tales that his mother had told him, curled by her feet as they watched ships moor in the harbor. He had toy sailboats, crimson-sailed, intricate wonders, that he and Cersei would take to the water to race. She had been given a mermaid, wooden with cornsilk for hair, painted bright like a new Maypole, like the carved prow of a ship.

His mouth felt dry and peculiar, and she sat him up, helping him swallow his tea, sweetened with honey but still a bit gritty and bitter, warm like the slope of her neck.

He breathed her in and smelled forests, learning to ride as a boy, horseflesh and hickory fires, playing at knights on the steps of the Rock, him wearing his sister’s kirtle, fingers still pin-pricked and aching from long embroidery lessons. He thought of meadows and dandelion crowns, watered down mead at the fair, dried, sugared fruit and an innocence long since forgotten.

She stroked his face in the half-light, morning sun sluggish and slow to emerge through the windows. He tried to hold her hand tightly, but he met nothing but air, right wrist still useless and empty. She hummed and leaned a bit closer, reverently touching his angry, scarred, warm, mottled skin.

This was the undertow pulling, this was his memory, an anchor, long, winding days of a summer since past and forgotten, berry-red lips and shrill bird songs. They hunted mushrooms, clothes streaked with dirt and wet grass stains.

He curled up in himself tighter, feeling her, wanting her closer. Wanting the comfort that most of his life had denied him, his mother’s grave standing cold, his sister almost a stranger. It was a dizzying eddy, fur burning wildfire-hot, blankets clung to him like seaweed.

She called him name and she shook him, touch smooth and sure like a skiff, reflected, lone on the water, sunrise just breaking, air clean and sterilized with salt. He felt too heavy, unfocused, jetsam left strewn overboard. Memory receded and left him, drowning his ghosts in its fog. They would remain, he promised.

Her eyes baptized him anew.

[forthelulzy]

come rain or (sun)shine

I remembered there was a festive week over at @carver-defense-squad​ last minute and I whipped this up. It’s not really all that festive, more depressing than anything (it’s set in the first year in Kirkwall, so obviously) but. Eh.

Hawke family feels, gen, mostly unrepentant angst.

Read on AO3

come rain or (sun)shine

Kirkwall is dirty, and crowded, and smells like sewer and brine, but if Carver could pick one thing at the moment to hate the most about this disgusting city with its ghosts and chains and people, it would be the climate. Garrett can roll his eyes all he wants, but when, mid-Haring, the weather resembles a Ferelden summer, only so much wetter, and storms roll in off the Sea every other day, he realizes that it isn’t going to snow at all.

It’s a ridiculous thing to complain about, he knows. Garrett doesn’t have to tell him. The first First Day without snow in his entire life is just the latest in a long line of disappointments, the worst of which has always been Carver himself. Garrett doesn’t have to tell him because he knows already.

He misses Bethany. Maybe that’s it; the first new year without his sister, her constant presence. No one talks about it, not after Mother said all that needed to be said over her broken body. It was directed at Garrett, but Carver felt it deeper, little razors slicing up his heart. Couldn’t keep her safe. Won’t ever spend a cold night in Ferelden talking to Bethany about everything and nothing again, until Mother brings them tea with a fond smile and shake of the head.

The tea here is little more than boiled bark, all they can afford while saving for the Deep Roads. Sugar is expensive and the only honey he’s seen has been in daydreams. Still, Mother tries her best, and he can occasionally scrounge spices from smugglers’ dens on the Wounded Coast when Meeran’s work send him that way. When Garrett leaves without him, which is all the damn time, he somehow manages to bring home whole jars of cinnamon, lavender and chamomile. And Carver tries very hard not to seethe. Garrett isn’t trying to show him up; despite his brother’s infuriating competence he’s not stuck up about it. Which is worse, somehow.

Across the table, Garrett is distracted by the pretty waitress, who is clearly smitten with him (or flirting for tips, but knowing Garrett it’s more likely she’s helplessly in love). His brother is laying on the charm right back, and though the Hanged Man is crowded for the First Day festivities Carver can still hear them. It’s making him nauseous.

Carver snatches up his cup and downs the… whatever, not even flinching as it makes a trail of fire down his throat, and slams it back down on the table. It crumples as if it were paper, and Carver pauses in the middle of leaping to his feet to blink at it. Shit.

Garrett looks up then, concerned (his default expression when looking at Carver, it seems), but before he can ask the question Carver dreads most of all, the warrior shoves his hands in his pockets and mumbles, “I have to go.”

“Carver!” his brother calls at his back — leaving, he is leaving, not running away — but someone, probably the waitress, keeps him from following and Carver is fine with that.

It’s raining outside, again, and Carver charges right into it before he can stop, not that he would have anyway, not after he left in such a state. Which makes a twinge of guilt — more guilt, another addition to the mountain of it — flutter in his chest. Maker, he is so dramatic.

The door to the Hanged Man creaks behind him, probably someone getting some fresh air — and the Hanged Man, especially, smells of old piss and bile, and as crowded as it is also new piss and bile — so he hunches his shoulders and stomps through the rain toward his uncle’s hovel.

No one else is out in the streets of Lowtown, not even the most desperate thief or drunken celebrant, but light spills from the windows of every dwelling and makes the dark and the rain somewhat easier to navigate. He is soaked down to his smalls by the time he gets home, and shivering violently. More than ever he wishes for proper winter celebrations, like building snowmen with his sister in the backwoods, or when his father would build a bonfire and they’d all huddle around it, or catching snowflakes on his tongue. Or being able to get roaring drunk without his brother being himself.

As it is, he’s not even close to tipsy, and the fire in his throat from the… whatever is long gone by the time he pushes open the door to Gamlen’s house.

And finds his mother, grayer than ever, sitting at the table with a cup of tea in her hands. She is humming something between her hiccups, tears drying on her cheeks, and doesn’t stop even as he pauses in the doorway, waffling between in and out, or when he carefully steps in and shuts the door behind him. His clothes are dripping all over the already-warped floors, and his guilt is piling up again, but he can’t bring himself to leave.

Not when she is already so alone.

Still hiccuping, she reaches the end of her lullaby. For that is what it is, he remembers, a memory surfacing from the depths of his being of when he and Bethany were small and their mother would, despite Garrett’s protests that he was too old for it, tuck them all into bed and sing over them as they drifted into the Fade.

“Carver,” she whispers, not looking up. Her head is bowed, hands around the forgotten teacup shaking ever so slightly.

“Mother…” He wants to ask her if she’s okay, but his voice dies in his throat when she turns her head at last. She looks so lost, and when she sees him she lets out a choked sob and buries her face in one arm, back shaking as her weeping fills his ears. He’s across the room before his brain catches up, kneeling on the stained hardwood at her feet and gently taking her other hand in both of his. She’s so fragile in his warrior hands, so like that one time he found a baby bird in the woods behind the house and its tiny bones shattered when he picked it up. He is older now, though perhaps not much wiser.

His mother’s voice is muffled against her sleeve, but no less anguished. “We just left her there, Carver.”

He thinks of her body, left for animals and darkspawn, and swallows. The only things left of Bethany now are memories, and the staff that Garrett carried across the Waking Sea, side by side with his own. He’d offered it to Carver after they got into the city, but Carver had still been so angry, and now he doesn’t know where Garrett put it. He wants to ask, just to know.

Instead he rests his forehead against his mother’s knee and blinks slowly, breathes slowly, willing the tears back.

“My poor little girl…” She must have already cried herself out, her breaths evening within minutes. He doesn’t move, but he feels her shift, setting the teacup down. “I miss her,” she says, voice ragged and quiet, and strokes his hair. It’s soggy and dripping down his back, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Me too.”

“This will be the first holiday in a long time without her. The first holiday in a new home, and it’s without my Bethany. I wonder if she would have liked it here.”

“Probably not,” Carver says gently, “but she’d have never let it show. And Kirkwall would’ve been a better place with her in it.”

She sighs. “Yes. Yes… Oh, Carver. Does it ever stop hurting?”

No. It never does, it never will. He thinks of that unusually warm winter when his twin held the melting snowmen together with frost magic, and the razors carve another piece of his heart. Bethany is gone, back in Ferelden with their old lives, and while he doesn’t want to be “Garrett Hawke’s baby brother” anymore, that doesn’t mean he knows what else to be.

A son. He can be his mother’s son.

The rain pounds outside, and his knees gradually go numb, but he holds his mother’s hand and lets (himself let) her run shaking fingers through his wet hair. It’s a long time before her hand stills and she succumbs to exhaustion, barely stirring when he lifts her up (broken bird, life seeping through your hands) and tucks her into her narrow bed in the room she shares with Uncle Gamlen, and longer still before he can finally dry off. Lying down in the other room is more a formality than anything; he won’t sleep. He can’t.

So he listens to the wind rise and fall, howling through the streets and whipping at the tree in the Alienage, and the rumbling of distant thunder over Sundermount. He’s used to falling asleep to Sophia snoring from her favorite place under the writing desk, but the mabari is with Garrett, and Garrett is… somewhere.

Garrett is… standing over him in the dark, eyes sad, one hand hovering in the air as if he hand been about to touch Carver but thought better of it.

“Mmph?”

“Sorry,” Garrett says quietly. “It’s just I— I’m sorry.”

Carver blinks slowly, still trying to figure out how he managed to fall asleep despite everything.

Sophia trots into the room and shoves her cold nose into Carver’s hand. Carver doesn’t move, because now that the sleep is blinked away he notices Garrett is looking at him with an expression he can’t figure out. It’s not concern, not really, or not the same kind of concern it was back in that squalid tavern.

“Tell me what to do,” Garrett whispers, “because I’ve run out of ideas.”

Oh.

Before he can untangle his tongue, to ask what the hell does that mean, Garrett shakes his head sharply. “Never mind. I’m just tired.” He turns away and steps toward his bed in the other corner, unhooking his staff and rolling his shoulders.

“No. Wait just a minute.” Carver surprises himself with his own vehemence. He pushes Sophia away — the mabari wisely makes herself scarce — and sits up. “I just spent hours comforting our mother because this is the first new year without Bethany and you have the nerve to just— barge in here and act like you’re lost?”

Garrett opens his mouth, turning back halfway, and promptly shuts it again when he sees Carver’s face.

Carver doesn’t know what he sees there, but he squares his jaw and barrels on. Barreling on is what he’s best at. “What the ever-loving hell, Garrett!” His voice pitches funny, and he hurriedly takes a calming breath. If he wakes Mother, he’ll never forgive himself.

Both of them freeze when the sound of her shifting carries through the thin walls. They hear nothing more, though, and Carver turns back just in time to catch Garrett’s stricken expression before he sits heavily his bed and bends to unlace his boots. His hands are shaking. “I’m sorry,” he says raggedly. “I didn’t think— I didn’t think. Maker. I shouldn’t have stayed so long.”

Carver is tempted to say something scathing about that, but the very fact that Garrett is visibly upset holds his tongue. “Right,” he says instead, running a hand through his hair.

“I’ll talk to her in the morning.”

Carver throws his hands up in frustration. The fight is over before it really began, and his blood is boiling with nowhere to expend that energy. He could go out and pick a fight with some back-alley thug (the storm has abated, at least), but… no. He won’t do that to Mother. “Right.”

Garrett finishes undressing and goes to bed without another word, and soon after Carver lays back down Sophia is there again, nudging under his arm and then crawling onto the mattress with him. She presses herself against his side and lays her square head on his collarbone, gazing at him with her huge mournful eyes. Carver huffs in half-annoyance, half-affection and gives her an ear-scratch.

She is not his twin, and he can’t talk to her while Garrett is in the room (and he would feel silly about it anyway, however Fereldan he may be) but she does her best.

Their best is all anyone can give, and then he’s reminded of Bethany again, Bethany who always put her all into everything. Bethany who protected him as much as he protected her. He sighs, staring blindly up at the ceiling, as Garrett’s snores join Sophia’s. Bethany wouldn’t have liked Kirkwall, but she would have brought her sunshine to every corner of this blasted hellhole by the time she was done.

Their best is all anyone can give. He is not Bethany, and he will forge his own path away from his brother’s shadow, but he will do his best, too.

[blueseaspoems]

Hungry Soul

-----Cherries-----

I was two when I had my first cherry.

Sickeningly sweet and a bright red that mimicked the sun at dusk, light bleeding into the horizon.

It sat on my tongue as I tried to decide whether or not to eat it, this ball of sugar and syrup.

I swallowed, and it slid down my throat, leaving a sticky trail in its wake.

-----Lemons-----

Every taste has a way of bringing back memories; of moments hard to remember without the aid of other senses.

I find that this experience is one of a buffet in of itself. Taste an apple and remember your fifth birthday, cut apples baked with cinnamon and sugar, placed in a pie so dense you were full after two bites.

Taste a grape and remember your grandmother's love for them, both as the fruit and as the wine.

Taste a lemon and remember lemonade served with tears, a broken heart. A pitcher of something tasting as sour as your tears, not enough sugar stirred in to make it drinkable, not enough happiness to make life worth living.

Taste a lemon and remember your mother handing you a glass every time your heart has been ripped in two, yet again.

Taste a lemon and remember that your mother could not hand you anymore lemonade in the sterile, antiseptic atmosphere of her room.

Taste a lemon and remember the flowers on her grave were a waxy, lemon yellow.

I cannot eat lemons anymore.

-----Green Tea and Honey-----

She always smelled of green tea.

Green tea does not have its own discernable scent most of the time, but she smelled of green tea and honey.

She would always be outside, listening to the wind and humming along with a guitar.

Sun peeking over the trees, and the light would hit her in just a way that made her seem as if she was made of honey herself.

Rain and she would stay under the awning, watching the leaves shake with the weight of water pelting them with soft thuds.

Asking her why she would stay outside, and all she would say is that it smells new.

The earth smells refreshed, rejuvenated, but with a slight tang in the air, a crisp smell of budding flowers and churned dirt.

Like fresh green tea with a bit of earthy, rich honey mixed in.

She left in the winter, and any and all warmth and freshness left with her.

I can only drink coffee now.

-----Fish-----

My father was a man that loved the sea.

My father was a man that if he could, would have taken gulps of the salt water, letting it coat his mouth, throat, stomach in the salty brine of the deep.

Instead, he satisfied himself with fish.

Any fish you could think of, he managed to bring up from the depths.

He spoke of the water and sea with more love than he had for my mother, he would remember the way the water moved and churned, but could not remember my birthday.

On the few times he took me out with him, he would tell me to look down below the boat, below the surface, and watch the life underneath.

Putting my head underwater slowly, as to not disturb the fish, opening my eyes to the sting of salt and the sight of color.

Bright color that invaded my senses, flashes of silver and orange, green, purple, yellow. Bright color that made the deep blue sea not so blue and dreary, not so cold and miserable.

I understand why my father loved the sea more than he loved his wife, more than he loved his child, more than he loved himself.

I understand why he wanted to die there, sinking slowly down, further and further into the expanse of color, further into the fish that he spent his life loving and eating, and now he wanted to return the favor.

He let the sea eat him and his soul, that night when the blue sea turned red.

I live in a city now, and unable to step foot near a beach.

-----Mangoes-----

His name was never known to me.

The only thing I knew about this man, this man with the bronzed skin of a god and eyes the color of thunderclouds, was that he loved mangoes.

He could never afford one, in cold New York State, but he loved mangoes.

He would try and satisfy his craving with sour oranges, bruised apples, browned bananas. Freshness was an unachievable luxury for him, but even if they were fresh and new, waxy reds, oranges, and yellow, the sweetness was simply not there.

He lived his life without sweetness, without the warm feeling of a full stomach, but he never said a word of it.

All he wanted was a mango.

He described them as ambrosia, as a fruit that held the secret of happiness, of fulfillment.

His first mango was when he was an infant, a child with no mother. His milk was mango juice, golden sugar that left sticky trails along his skin and mouth.

Every time he thought of mangos, he said he could taste them on his tongue, and smell them in his dreams.

One day, I bought him a mango. Giving it to him, he trembled. Peeling it skillfully, he shivered.

Eating it, golden rivulets of ambrosia making his fingers sticky, he gave a death rattle.

He ended with a dream of mango trees in the hot sun.

I walked away from him in the snow.

-----Cherries-----

My favorite food are maraschino cherries.

The first one when I was two left me with a sweetness that I couldn't replicate with anything else.

Fake sugar that overwhelmed every other sense or thought in my body for a moment, silenced everything else, made me believe I was in sun when I was in snow.

A bright red, a red even brighter than the red in the sea, twisting through the depths of blue.

Fresh, chilled cherries that tastes like what dew smells of. When covered in chocolate, earthiness surrounds it, biting in is exploding into summer.

Cherries that encompass my memories, but dull them, dull my memories only into color and taste.

Dull them so the sharp pangs of a hunger deep within my soul doesn't hurt as much.

Dull them so I can continue living, thinking not of tastes that are in the past.

All good things come to an end.

When it does, it comes back to haunt me.

I can avoid as much as I want, but at some point, not even cherries will shield me.

Shield me from lemonade, green tea and honey, fish and salt, and golden mangoes.

[satyrcon]

MONICA’S MOVIE MASTERPOST 

~ a visual documentation of every film i’ve seen for the first time as of January 2014 ~ 

past entries here  

FILMS LISTED: 

Blood and Black Lace (1964) |  The Arrangement (1969) | Moulin Rouge (1952) | Lizzie (1957) | Roman Holiday (1953) | 5th Avenue Girl (1939) | Suspiria (1977) | Schwechater (1958) | Human Zoo (1962) | The Little Match Seller (1902) | Scorpio Rising (1963) | Big Eyes (2014) | The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) | Lady Snowblood (1973) | The Hills Have Eyes (1977) | Mommie Dearest (1981) | A Free Ride (1915) | Criminally Insane (1975) | The Bride Wore Black (1968) | Autumn Leaves (1956) | Hollywood Boulevard (1976) | The Secret Cinema (1968) | What We Do in The Shadows (2014) | A Thousand Pleasures (1968) | Hurricane Bianca (2016) | A Smell of Honey, a Swallow of Brine (1966) | Everybody Wants Some!! (2016) | Last Tango in Paris (1972) | The Younger Generation (1929) | America America (1963) | The Garage (1920) | The Fire Within (1963) | Cover Girl (1944) | Fire Fighters (1922) | I Am Curious (I Am Yellow) (1967) | Blood Simple (1984) |

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Vice| Chapter Four

I bit down on the carrot, filling the room with a loud crunch as I chomped down on the solid vegetable. My fork stabbed at the tomato that I had pushed to the side of my plate, not particularly fond of them unless they were doused in some type of dressing. The smell of meatloaf was moving through the kitchen, making my stomach churn in hunger as mom sat down in the chair across from me, starting to pick at her own salad.

It was the last week of summer, making me even more on edge than I had been for the last two months in this town. It seemed like a constant loop, almost as if I was stuck in the same day. Getting up early to work on the house with Hannah until nightfall, when mom would return from work and we would eat before both retiring to bed.

The queen bitch next door hadn't done more than send me a few glares every once and awhile if we ever so happened to cross paths. Usually I was outside, and lately, so was she. It seemed almost fitting that they were all on the cheerleading team- practicing make shift cheers as Hannah and I painted the front of the house. We still needed to get the sides- but I was sure that we wouldn't finish by the first day of school.

Sawyer had been dropping off supplies for a few days before he eventually offered to help us reconstruct the porch. He had even started to open up a little bit, sharing a few laughs with Hannah and me.

"Grace, are you listening?"

"Hmm?" I looked up, swallowing the remaining bits of carrot. My mom's hard eyes were watching me as she raised the glass of milk to her lips. "Yeah, totally listening."

"What'd I just say?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Grace, are you listening."

"Grace." She let out a thick sigh, sitting back in her seat "I said I picked up another shift tonight. I'll be out until morning. I wanted to know that you'd be okay."

"I'll be fine," I gave her a small smile "I'll probably just watch some movies."

"You could have Hannah over, you know. She's a sweet girl. I trust her around you."

"I'm the bad influence on her, Mom. Not the other way around. And I would, but she's out of town with her father on a trip for a few days. Some camping thing." Worry creased into my mother's forehead.

"I'm still not comfortable with it," she grumbled, but realized she didn't have much of a choice this late at night. She hated leaving me alone since the accident- but I refused a babysitter considering she's okay with me riding a motorcycle, but not staying the night by myself. Her logic was lost on me, but I didn't object anymore.

Lately, every conversation we had lead back to him. Every time we stuck up something more than the weather- a full out argument broke out between us. One minute we could be speaking about rain, the next she'd get this sad glossy look in her eyes, which I knew not to question. I'd always let her cry. I'd always let her grieve. I'd always push everything down.

"There are numbers on the fridge. The meatloaf is in the oven, you should pull it out in another fifteen minutes." She started to pick her half full plate up, downing the rest of her milk as I picked my head off of my hand, placing the edge of my fork on my own plate.

"You're leaving now?"

"Yeah, honey." She said exhausted, "If you listened earlier in our conversation you would have heard that."

I huffed, looking back down at my salad as she rushed around the kitchen, grabbing her purse and keys before cuffing my head in her palm and giving me a kiss on the temple. "Love you, mom."

"Love you too, get some sleep tonight." She whispered before shaking her head and walking out of the house, her presence heard on the creaking deck with each step she took.

The movie droned on next to me as I lay outstretched on the couch. I had lost focus in the film about an hour in; knowing that Liam always ended up rescuing whatever family member was taken.

I took to scrolling through my feed on my phone, looking at all the messages on my Facebook wall. They were all the same, each wondering where I was, or why we had left so quickly. I never replied to any of them, I just let my eyes scan over them for the tenth time in the last two months. I had always contemplated answering, but that was dangerous. Everything I did now was considered dangerous and traceable, as my mother put it.

My eyes started to drift shut, the long day catching up with me as I turned onto my side, cuddling into the cushions of the couch as I put my phone on the wooden coffee table, a yawn escaping my lips.

Sleep washed over me relatively easy as the sound of a strangled phone call on television caught my attention. I felt somewhat awake, but at the same time like I was entering a dream that would eventually be unsettling.

The loud echoing bang that came from the front door jolted me awake quickly, my lungs filling with air quick enough to burn my throat as my chest heaved up and down. My feet were on the floor now- I shook my head of any residual sleep. Maybe it was just part of my half drowsy state.

Regardless I crept over to the fireplace, grasping the cast Iron poker in my hand as my blood ran cold. I could feel a ball of nerves rush through my stomach, my chest coated in a brine of sweat. Different memories rushed back to me as my bare feet padded against the floor, my ears alert for any type of sound.

The sound echoed through the house once more, making me tense up quickly as I grasped my cell phone from the table. Hannah had said something about the sheriff station being a good twenty minutes from here. I didn't want to be known as the girl who cried wolf if it was nothing but a bird.

I started to walk forward my hand reaching for the doorknob as I swung it open quickly, holding the poker up in defense. I let out a loud scream, stumbling back as the alpha bitch practically stormed into my foyer, her hand clenching the side of her arm, her eyes wide as she slammed the door behind her before I could even object.

Her hair was matted to her head, her breath coming out in thick pants as sharp crimson moved down her arm and dripped onto the floor. She was covered in mud, and what looked like dead leaves, tears rushed down her flushed cheeks as I stood there dumbfounded.

"What the hell?" I raised my hand to my hairline as she struggled to form sentences.

"Someone chased me," she said, her breath seeming to escape her once more "I- I was running and he started to chase me... h-he had a knife and cut me with it when he got close."

"So you ran to my house?" I said in a shocked tone as worry seeped into my voice for a girl I barely knew, her green eyes were coated in a crystal that overflowed, and dripped down her chin.

"I didn't want him knowing where I lived." She sniffed, threatening to slide down the door. I clenched my jaw, swallowing as I held back my anger with this girl.

"So you have lead him to mine?" I threw my hands up in the air, the girl flinched away from the iron that was still in my hand, shrinking into the door as I let out a sigh "That's it. I'm calling the police, this is fucking outrageous."

"They're closed." She responded quickly, clenching her arm tighter as I gave her an odd look "at nine. They close at nine."

"What do you mean they closed? They're the police, they never close." I mumbled.

"Not here," The red head all but sobbed, getting aggravated with my ignorance about the topic "Our station is connected with one in the county over. Hannah's father runs this branch but they're gone. I'm sure you know that."

I nodded briskly, ushering her to the couch as I sat her down, she limped heavily, her weight fully on me as I lowered her down to the seat. She was shaking, it could be from the cold, or it could be from fear- either way I felt sorry for her.

"Did he follow you?" I breathed out, pushing myself against the side of the windowsill as I peeked out of the curtain. I didn't get a reply back "Hey alpha bitch, did he follow you?"

She snapped her head up, "No. I don't' think so. And you know, I have a name, not like I go around calling you tattoo fiend."

"Tattoo fiend?" I laughed loudly, but reached beside the girl, making her flinch again as I flicked off the light, leaving the room in a dull glow of the television until I turned that off too. The blue shade from the moon.

"What are you doing?"

"if he is out there, I don't exactly want him to know we're here." I mumbled as I sat down next to her on the couch, my knee pulling away from hers as I felt her warmth. She sniffed after a few seconds of silence.

"How long do we have to sit like this?" She squeaked.

"I don't know," I sighed, messing with the tip of the fire poker "fifteen minutes."

The girl swallowed, nodding as she winced. She tried to move her hands from her the wound. I moved my hand over hers, pressing it back down as her eyes followed my movements. "Keep pressure on that. You're losing a lot of blood."

"Sorry." She whispered as her eyes trailed down to my palm on hers. I retracted my hand, putting it back on my lap "About leading him here and all... I didn't know what to do. No one's home. Won't be for a few more weeks."

"You're alone over there?" I asked, my voice strained as I stared ahead at the pictures that were hung unevenly on the wall. "Why?"

"Why'd you move here?" the girl quipped back, her defenses moving back up. I shrugged my shoulders, knowing neither of us wanted to answer the question.

"Can I get a name?" I mumbled, "You're right. Alpha bitch isn't very tasteful."

"Hannah hasn't told you?"

"Hannah practically shakes out of her shoes every time I mention you."my voice had a thick edge to it, that softened as soon as I saw the look in her eyes "I don't exactly know what you do to her, alpha. But I'm not very fond of it."

"Mamrie." She looked over at me, wincing in pain "My name is Mamrie."

I nodded, looking ahead again as I stood. If this man had any sense, he would have tried to smash in a window by now- but I was still on edge, keeping the fire poker close "You can stay here the night if you want. I'll fix up those cuts. You shouldn't be alone."

I started to walk towards the kitchen, my feet padding on the cold floor as I rummaged around for the same first aid kit that my mother had used on my when I almost broke my hand. Mamrie was silent for the most part, not making a sound other than a few sobs. I ignored them, letting her cry like I knew she needed to do. She was scared, and truth be told, so was I.

She seemed like the type of girl to put up defenses, to hold this type of front when she was around her pack. I never got it. Why hide your true self in order to lead a group of girls who are trying just as hard to be anything but who they really are?

I moved back into the living room, flicking on the light. She looked worse than she did in the dark, her hair a mess, the blood soaking into her sleeve as her hand stayed unmoving. "Why are you so good at this?"

"At what?" I mumbled, sitting closer to her than before as I moved her hand from the wound, she winced, but she let me peel her t-shirt sleeve back, rolling it up onto her shoulder.

"acting like you're okay."

"You don't know me."

"I know enough." She shot back the same words I used with Jocelyn. "You act all tough, but you're really not that strong, are you Grace?"

"Why does it matter?" I breathed out, focusing on pouring some peroxide onto a cloth. She flinched as I pressed the cold liquid against her arm. "You don't exactly seem like one to pry into personal lives." I said, sarcasm heavy.

"Funny." She scoffed "I just want to know that the person I have to ruin has at least some good qualities."

Her words didn't deter me much, she didn't get the reaction that she was expecting from me as I wiped the long gnash in her flesh gently "Oh really, and why does someone like yourself want to put in the effort to ruin someone like me?"

"Because you threatened my friends." She sighed, "and it's my civic duty as- as... well you call it alpha, to make your life living hell at school."

"Right," I mumbled, biting my lip as I focused on wrapping up her arm "that seems fair enough. You can ruin my life, okay?"

She turned her head my way, a confused expression on her features "what?"

"I said do your worst." I told her, taping up the gauze around her arm. "I just have one condition."

Mamrie scoffed as I pulled her sleeve back over the wound "You're giving me permission to absolutely tear you apart?"

"You haven't heard my condition yet." I grasped her chin slightly, taking her by surprise as I moved her head to the side, taking a look at the long, bloodied scratch across her cheek. She turned slightly my way, her breath thick on my jawline. "You have to leave them alone."

"Who?" She asked, knitting her eyebrows together.

"Everyone." I told her, clenching my jaw. "If you want to drive me into the ground, I'm the only one that you and your pack can torment."

"Grace, I-"

"It's my one condition. You guys can't call Hannah a dyke anymore. You can't hurt Sawyer, or whatever other outcast is in this town. But you can do whatever you want to me. I won't fight back."

She was silent, her hair falling into her green gaze as I started to whip of her other cut, peeling away a layer of dirt too.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why take the bullet for all of them. You don't know any of these people."

"I know enough."