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[exo-plushie]

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[wholesaleindianartvilla]

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[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

“We're all Mad here."

This is the first of a 7-part headcanon series for the Rollo at the Writing Desk blog event; the theme is basically "Rollo pays a visit to each of the dorms, and then chaos ensues". He'll have a chance to reconnect with old enemies friends from Glorious Masquerade, as well as meet new deplorable mages people! First up, an oldie but a goodie... Heartslabyul! (This one is extremely long because there are so many characters to account for 🤡)

A Big Heartslabyul Welcome to Rollo!

His nose is assaulted with the overpowering aroma of roses as soon as he steps foot into the garden. In his hand is an invitation to Heartslabyul: it's the 5th of the month, and therefore, they will be holding a tea party as per the rules of the Queen of Hearts. The guest of honor? Him: Rollo Flamme.

He's immediately flanked by two lines of Heartslabyul students in dorm uniforms, their faces painted with a card suit and trumpets in hand. The brass instruments sound loudly as he passes.

The dorm has gone out of its way to prepare for this occasion: they've strung up lots of flags and lanterns, brought out their best tablecloths and fanciest silverware. The roses are both red and white today too--the colors together, signaling the arrival of a new acquaintance.

Rollo grimaces at the fanfare, the colorful decorations strung up, the sickeningly sweet smells wafting over. It's an ill reminder of Topsy-Turvy Day back home, how all the locals delight in the sin called magic.

Waiting for Rollo deep in the rose garden is the dorm leader and his second-in-command to greet him. Riddle offers a small, polite smile and extends a hand. "Rollo-senpai." (His thinking is, "Rollo-senpai is the headmaster's esteemed guest. Regardless of what happened in the past, we must maintain decorum for the duration of his stay.") Trey nods and gives a slight tip his hat.

Rollo meets them with a stiff smile of his own. His grasp on Riddle’s hand is impersonal, cold. “Riddle-kun and company. I am humbled to be invited to participate in your dormitory’s time-honored traditions.” (It’s a lie, but no one needs to know.)

The celebration begins! Rollo is allowed to sit near the head of the table, and he’s presented with a generous selection of familiar foods: croissants, madeleines, mousses, choux pastries, macarons, tarte tarin… even accursed savarin, the cake he considered the least appetizing.

“I did some research on the City of Flowers,” Trey casually explains. “I heard that’s where you’re from, so I wanted to give you a taste of home away from home.” (And in spite of how much he loathes mages, even Rollo is impressed. “Hmm, most astute. I must say, I commend your diligence.”)

Deuce offers to help Trey serve the guests. He's clumsy as he goes about pouring tea and passing out treats, but he's trying his best! When Deuce gets to Rollo, he attempts to bow in reverence--but ends up smacking his head into Rollo's chin and spilling tea all over him instead!

... Needless to say, Rollo is NOT happy about it, especially not when Riddle intervenes with magic to clean him up against his wishes. Deuce apologizes profusely to him for the rest of the day.

With the abundance of sweets, poor Cater's suffering out here. He makes whatever excuses he can to shove off his desserts onto Rollo, gushing about how "We gotta spoil our guest with Heartslabyul hospitality! Go on, have some of Cay-kun's cakes!"

Riddle offers Rollo a strawberry tart as a sort of... peace offering? Rollo accepts it, but he takes only a small sliver from the whole tart and nibbles on that like a starving man might ration his last loaf of bread. It raises eyebrows, but Riddle wisely chooses to not comment. It doesn't go unnoticed by Rollo, who simply replies, "Everything in moderation."

There's some tension amongst the group, on account of what went down in the City of Flowers having been told to a few select dorm members. Ace in particular is eyeing Rollo suspiciously while he munched on a slice of cherry pie.

"This dorm can barely handle one anger-prone arsonist," he had told Deuce prior to the party, "now we're supposed to deal with TWO? You might as well just set the whole garden on fire to save us some time." (But to Ace's surprise, Deuce actually defended Rollo. "He deserves a chance to redeem himself! If I'm aiming to go from delinquent to honor student, then I should have the same faith in others to change too!")

Whenever Rollo has his back to the first years, Ace makes faces at him or mimics the uptight way Rollo sits—back straight, fingers laced, expression neutral yet stern. When Rollo looks back, Ace returns to acting like everything is totally normal.

Shockingly, it’s Rollo that makes the first faux paus of the afternoon. After the incident with Deuce, he requests coffee in lieu of tea, which earns audible gasps from around the garden. Rollo stares at all the mobs gawking at him as though he has committed a heinous crime. Riddle looks like he's going to strangle a cat. “… Have I said something out of turn?”

Trey intervenes with a fresh cup of tea and tells everyone to relax, whispering to Rollo that coffee is only for birthdays. Really, Trey ends up playing mediator for the entire party.

It's then that Rollo learns that there exists a set of rules penned by the Queen of Hearts herself. Riddle proudly declares that he knows all 810 of them by heart (and that he expects all of his dorm members to do the same to honor the Queen's spirit of strictness). "Oh? And just what might these rules be?" Rollo asks.

Riddle's more than happy to oblige with a looong lecture about the 810 rules. He starts a pop quiz on the spot to test Rollo, and, to everyone's shock, he answers each and every one of them correctly. "I guess you're not student council president of Noble Bell College for nothing," Riddle mutters. "You have an impressive memory." (In truth, Rollo only made an effort to perform well out of sheer spite.)

Cater mentions that he thinks Riddle and Rollo are a lot alike. This riles them both up, and they simultaneously shout, “In what way am I like him?!” (“Ooh, you even share the same thoughts. That’s big twin energy,” Cater laughs.)

While talking over tea, Cater learns that Rollo writes letters instead of using social media. "Eeeeh, there are people that live in this day and age without a Magicam account?! How do you survive..." Cater proceeds to spend the rest of the party chatting him up and trying to convince him to make an account so he can keep in touch (terrible, really--Cater is exactly the type of noisy, frivolous person Rollo detests), all the while Rollo tries his best to dodge questions.

The meal is finished without further (major) incidents--but roughly 15 minutes in, Riddle claps his hands and announces that everyone must leave the table, as per rule 271. Rollo starts to excuse himself, Trey lays a hand on his shoulder and beams. "We need one more player for croquet."

And so Rollo is dragged into playing a round with the Heartslabyul boys. He's told the rules and handed a red flamingo and hedgehog (both of which stare at him dubiously as he handles them as though they're diseased).

On his first turn, Rollo struggles to get his mallet and ball to behave! The flamingo keeps twisting its neck instead of staying straight for his shot, and the hedgehog keeps scampering away!! "Strange, they usually behave so well," Riddle notes. ("They must not like the cartoon supervillain vibes he's giving off," Ace grumbles in the background. "A-Ace! You can't just say that!" Deuce protests. "What if he hears?!")

His hedgehog sneezes when he at last punts it, which brings the game to a screeching halt as all the card soldiers burst out into song. (Rule 304, Rollo lamented. Why can't they be silent like unrung bells?! His blood pressure is rising, his ears ringing. He tries to focus on the match to distract himself.)

Over time, Rollo becomes more accustomed with how to get a control of his mallet and ball--he's back in the game! (It's not that he's particularly competitive, but he absolutely refuses to be outdone by these haughty NRC mages... especially not Riddle, who's smirking at him so smugly!)

Unfortunately for Rollo, he can't beat Riddle despite his best efforts--though he does manage to snag second place, pulling a little ahead of Trey. There's polite clapping from the other players to congratulate them (though a few look worried).

As Rollo is returning his equipment, a horrible realization dawns on him: rule 703: Whoever comes in 2nd place during a croquet match must serve tea to the Queen the next day. He slowly turns to Riddle, whose arms are folded expectantly. "I eagerly await my tea," the redhead tells him.

Rollo feels faint. He dabs at his forehead with his handkerchief in a vain attempt to dispel some of his dread. (It doesn't help one bit.)

Before he's able to leave, Cater pulls in him by the arm, his phone at the ready. "We should totes take a group selfie to commemorate the occasion~ Since you don't have a Magicam account, I'll print up a copy for you to pick up when you drop by tomorrow!"

Rollo doesn't have the chance to protest before Heartslabyul members crowd around him, squeezing in for the photo. It's hard for him to breathe, trapped between all these writhing bodies and surrounded by boisterous laughter.

He catches the eye of Riddle beside him and manages to choke out, "How you manage with this kind of madness every day, I'll never understand."

"It is mad, yes," Riddle says with a knowing smile, "and there are days when my dorm members drive me up the wall and leave me with no choice but to collar them in retaliation. Still... I think that's part of the fun. The chaos is ours to share. It's something I've never experienced in the small world I came from."

"Preposterous. There is no conceivable way anyone in their right mind would be endeared to this."

... Right?

Just as the tendril of doubt makes itself known… SNAP! The picture is taken, forever immortalizing the moment.

[thornybubbles]

I Never Go Around Mirrors (Yandere Illuso X Reader)

Note: I’ve neglected La Squadra members for far too long and I wanted to fix that. Still, I think this little story is kinda meh. I will try to do something better for Illuso next time.

---------

This wasn’t the life that you wanted to live. It was never in your plan to live on the run spending your every waking moment glancing over your shoulder and your every night wondering if you should take the risk and go to sleep. You made sure that when you left, you would head out to the country, staying as far away from any place that could possibly have a mirror. You managed to get far enough away that you managed not to panic when you found the mirrors in the old farmhouse that you rented. You got rid of them immediately, tossing them into the river behind your new house and watching the current carry them away. There had only been four of them; one in the bathroom and one in each bedroom. If you needed to see your reflection that badly, you could just marvel at your tired, haunted appearance in the river water. You weren’t totally sure how his abilities worked, but you were fairly certain that he could only use the reflection of a mirror. It had been a few days and he hadn’t tracked you down yet, so that must be the case. 

You were foolish enough to allow yourself to relax. It didn’t last long. Eventually, your paranoia would just not leave you alone. You started to notice an odd echoing sound that was driving you crazy. It sounded like a faint knocking at first and you ignored it, thinking it must be distant hammering from some construction work miles away. The echo carried far out where you were. The Italian countryside was beautiful, lined with mountains and flowering meadows, but it was not as peaceful as you had hoped. Another day passed and the knocking was beginning to sound like footsteps: slow, deliberate, stalking, mocking… 

You couldn’t stand it!

It had gotten to the point that any reflection was unbearable. Each time you caught a glimpse of yourself on any reflective surface you would panic, expecting to see him standing behind you. He wasn’t there. He was never there. Still, you didn’t want to take any chances. The silverware was replaced with cutlery made from non-reflective material. The old brass knobs throughout the house were replaced with dull metal. You made it a point to stay away from the river from now on. If you didn’t stand in front of a reflection, then he couldn’t see you. You didn’t care if his abilities could only be used with mirrors. You were not taking any chances. 

Another day or so passed. That echo was getting louder. Footsteps. They were definitely footsteps! They were closer than they were a few days ago. Now you could hear them coming up the driveway, up the steps, right up to the front door! Your eyes darted to the stained glass window adorning the door. There was nothing there. No familiar silhouette darkened the doorway. Still you kept glancing down at the knob as if expecting it to turn. It never did. You almost let out a laugh at how badly your imagination was running away with you, but the footsteps started up again. They circled the house a few times, giving off the air of someone who was on a casual stroll. You jumped up from your seat and ran to the record collection that came with the house when you bought it. The house was a treasure trove of old trinkets and homey decor left behind by its previous owners. The record collection was one of your favorites. At that moment, you needed it to save your sanity. 

You picked a record at random, placed it on the record player, placed the needle in a random position on the record, and started the player. An old country song began to play, the twang of a steel guitar covering up the sound of the footsteps. As long as you couldn’t hear it, it was fine. You stared around the parlor trying to find something else to help you relax. Your eyes settled on the bookshelf next to the unused fireplace. Just as you did with the record, you chose a book at random. You didn’t care what the book was about. It could be anything from a dull historical chronicle or an ego-driven celebrity autobiography and you wouldn’t care. As long as it took your mind off of the overbearing feeling of being hunted, you would devour each and every word. You took a seat on the overstuffed sofa, relishing the softness of the cushions, and opened the book. 

What the hell?

You stared at the page and the gibberish written there. You didn’t recognize the language at all. It wasn’t English, Italian, or any other language that you recognized… until you took a second look. 

It was Italian… but the words were all reversed. 

You shot up from the sofa, dropping the book to the floor in horror. That could only mean one thing. 

A low, familiar chuckle startled you. You looked up to see the man you’d been trying to avoid all this time standing by the record player. He lifted the needle from the record, stopping the song and filling the room with silence. He turned to you, giving you a smug grin. 

“I was wondering if you would ever figure it out.” he said with an uncomfortably calm laugh. 

His smug expression became one of soft adoration as he turned to look at you. 

“You really hurt me when you left, mia amata.” he said. “You promised that you would stay by my side forever…” 

He began a slow saunter over to you and you backed up, staring at him with disbelief.

How did he find you?!

“Everything was peachy between us until you discovered what I did for a living. Honestly, I don’t know why that matters so much to you. I suppose it is a little scary if you aren’t used to that kind of thing, but as my lover you should be willing to stick with me no matter what. I know you’re scared, but you made a promise and I think it’s only right that you keep it. I gave you all of my love. Don’t you think you owe me the same?” 

There was a dangerous undertone in his voice. He was angry, but the way he was looking at you made you wonder just how angry he was with you. His hand darted out and you flinched, squeezing your eyes closed in anticipation of pain. It never came. You opened your eyes to see him bending down to pick up your book. He opened it up and flipped through a page or two before closing it with a snap and placing it back on the book shelf. He offered you another smile, this one was devoid of the usual smugness. He was giving you the look of someone that was totally smitten. It looked out of place on his face now. You’ve seen his gleeful expression as he cruelly beat someone that made the mistake of accidentally locking eyes with you. You will never forget the rage in his eyes when someone got a little too friendly with you for his liking. You’d seen that dark side of him before and the image of it was burned into your memory. He didn’t seem to realize that you had already made your plans to leave him long before you found out that he was a Mafioso. 

“I have to admit that I was pretty mad with you when I found out you were gone.” he said, suddenly wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you to him. “I thought you’d abandoned me… but I realized that you didn’t really  want to leave me.” 

You stopped struggling in his hold to give him a questioning look. 

“What are you talking about?” he asked. 

He pointed back to the record player. 

“You probably didn’t even realize it, but you instinctively choose a song about a man who couldn’t stand to see his own reflection because he no longer saw his lover standing next to him. You were thinking about me, even though you didn’t realize it.” he said. 

He ran a hand along your arm until he came to your wrist where he traced his hands along the bracelet you wore there. 

“And here is another reason I know you still have the hots for me,” he said, voice taking on an arrogant, teasing tone. “You didn’t take off the bracelet I gave you, even though you knew it would lead me right to you.” 

Your eyes widened and you pushed out of his embrace. He didn’t bother to stop you, just stood there in an odd pose while he watched the realization flow over you. You lifted your arm to your face and examined the bracelet. Along with the diamonds that adorned it, you were horrified to discover that the bracelet was lined with little mirrors. Illuso chuckled and you looked up at him, dread plastered on your face. He frowned when he saw your expression. 

“Oh, wipe that look of shock off of your face.” he growled. “Stop pretending like you didn’t keep the bracelet on because you wanted me to come after you.” 

“No,” you offered  a weak protest. “I wanted to get away from you! I wanted you out of my life!” 

Illuso’s frown deepened and he closed the distance between you. You tried to back up but your escape was blocked by the wall. 

“Look, babe, I like playing a good old fashioned game of hard-to-get, too, but you’re taking this too far.” he huffed. “You missed me and you know it.” 

He placed his hands on either side of your head and you felt your heart fall. You thought you’d managed to escape him for good this time. You thought you’d been so careful. You hadn’t even looked at the bracelet when he got it for you. You’d been so concerned with pretending to adore it and worrying about the blood money he’d used to buy it for you at the time. You hadn’t considered that it would be lined with mirrors. 

“I have to admit that I’m getting a little tired of the game, though.” Illuso said, breaking you out of your thoughts. “This is like, what, your third time running out on me? Or is it the fifth? Well, whatever, it’s starting to piss me off a little bit. So I think that I’m going to put a stop to it.” 

You looked him right in the eyes when he said that. What did he mean by that? 

“What are you going to do?” you asked in a frightened whisper. 

Illuso grinned in his usual smug way, but you couldn’t ignore the sinister feeling it gave off. 

“I think I’m going to leave you in here, at least until you get over that little running away habit of yours,” he said. 

“Leave me… in here…??” you repeated, not sure what he meant. 

Illuso pushed off of the wall and looked down on you with disdain. 

“Don’t act stupid,” he scoffed. “You saw the writing in the book was reversed. Surely you’ve figured out by now that I’ve pulled you into my mirror world?” 

You gasped in horror. You sputtered words at him, but none of them formed a sentence. Illuso watched you struggle with your disbelief before he laughed and snapped his fingers in the air as if he suddenly thought of something. 

“Oh, that’s right! I never told you that I could do that, did I?” he said. “That’s right, your lover boy can not only travel from mirror to mirror, but I can actually pull others into the mirror world with me. Heh heh, it took me a little while to catch up with you because I had to find this place in the normal world, but I managed. The way you ransacked this place of all its mirrors almost made me think that you actually didn’t want me to find you, but you kept the bracelet on, so I know that’s not the case. Either that or you didn’t think the mirrors on it were big enough. Just so you know, it doesn’t matter what size the mirror is, I can move through it and pull in others. In fact, you’ve been in the mirror world since about three nights ago. You’re a really heavy sleeper, by the way.” 

The way he smiled at you then chilled you down to the marrow in your bones. 

“You can’t keep me in here, Illuso!” you shouted. 

Illuso scoffed. 

“What’s stopping me? You can’t get out unless I let you out, so you can’t run from me anymore.” he said. 

Suddenly he pulled you to him, both of his arms were wrapped around you in such a way that your own arms were pinned to your sides. You tried to squirm free but he tightened his hold on you. 

“Quit that!” he shouted, annoyed by your struggling. 

You froze and he smirked. 

“That’s better. Now, I don’t really have anything important to do today, so I thought that you and I could spend some time together. You’ve been gone for so long and I missed you so much. I think we should make up for lost time. What do you think about that?” He said, planting a kiss on your cheek. 

You whimpered pathetically, but said nothing.

[saint-ajax]

Phantom Of The Sea

THE ONLY DAUGHTER OF POSEIDON AND Aphrodite was Sierra. She inherited her mother’s ethereal beauty and as her father was the God of  Sea, she could live in the deepest ocean there is. She was a product of mistakes and everyone in Olympus knew that. It may be one of the reasons why the Olympians look at her differently. None of the children wanted to make friends with her, and almost all her life she was treated miserably. But the Goddess of Warfare was the only soul who had a soft heart and kindness to the poor child. So as Sierra grew, she was clandestinely taught how to fight. She grew to be a brave lady with an astonishing beauty you can not deny. She was so beautiful that her mother, the Goddess of beauty and love, discovered a covetous jealousy that possessed her to banish her own daughter from her palace and sent her to her father to live in the sea. Sierra left Olympus with her heart filled with anger, hatred, and rage built ever since she was a child.

  In her life under the deepest and darkest sea, she found light in her enchanting voice and grace. At one point, she discovered that the sound and sight of her can seduce mortals, men, women, and… Gods. Ever since she was a child, she was clueless about what she was given to rule, what she was destined to be a God of,  but now in her new home, her lustrous scales gave her an idea. She was the Goddess of Sirens.

  Her heart was painted in anger and it pushed her to use her assets to seduce mortals who dared to sail, bring them to her cave, and decide their time of death. This continued for almost an eternity, thousands of humans tried to find and catch the infamous killer of the sea but none of them succeeded in passing her deceitful seducing mirage.

One morning, in one of her favorite islands where no one lives but silence, her paradise, where she goes to pass the time, had a living breathing mortal out of nowhere. The stranger was a rugged man in a veil. His mask seemed to be a skull of a being. And this awakened Sierra’s interest. It paused her plans to make that man her meal. From the corner of the island where she wouldn’t be seen by the young man, she eyed him in serenity. She watched how he walked by the shore in the morning and witnessed his sailing whenever the sunset. Her former annoyance of him vanished, whereupon the peacefulness of the island remained even with his presence.

One afternoon, Sierra’s curiosity got the best of her, and entertained the idea of approaching the boy’s boat without him looking. Her sneaking exposed her to silver and brass apparatus. Her attention was focused on a piece of silverware with four pointed edges. In a quick move, she swam deep with the material in hand. Back in her cave, after staring for hours at it, she ended up using it to untangle her silk hair. Meanwhile, the young man’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion as to why the calm water moved, but his focus was quickly diverted to his missing fork.

  The next day when he sailed, his fork came back out of nowhere with shiny pearls. Confusion built in his mind as he set them aside. Several exchanges of the moon and sun passed and their dance continued in its own rhythm. In every missing silver, comes back with newfound pearls. Whenever it was time to close the day, there was a mortal and a goddess watching without knowing the other knew about their presence.

      He could afford to build a castle with the amount of pearls he earned, he thought. At long last, he then decided to wait and catch the thief and returner of his belongings.

  He kept an eye on his ship and the body of water as the sun ended its reign, and by the time daylight covered the scene, the fairest woman he had ever laid his sight on made an appearance that surprised both companies. Their opposite-tinted orbs met. Once she realized that he saw her, she vanished out of thin air. She went back to her pitch-black nature. While he tried to chase her with his eyes, his confusion unfortunately froze him in his spot and he did nothing but let and watch her leave.

  The young man’s night became devoted to debating and thinking about whether it was a mermaid he saw. If he was in fact correct, he would be rewarded by the King if he ever brought them into their hands. The night went by and afterglow arrived once again, he found himself in his usual spot waiting for the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Meanwhile, Sierra purposely showed up, she was testing what would be the mortal’s reaction to her presence. If he dares to make the wrong move, then there would be a siren singing that night.

           But silence joined salt air when they finally saw each other. Their eyes lingered on one another until the young man decided to shatter the deafening silence between them.

       "When shall you be returning my silverware, fair lady?”

      The masculine man’s first words to her left her dazed. She could sense no fear as he stared directly at her radiant orbs and it only blossomed her curiosity of the man. When the fair lady did not respond, he tried once again.

 “Are you heedless that thy actions as stealing are pondered as a crime you shall be responsible for?”

  Her eyebrows lifted at his statement, and she enchanted him by simply speaking.

“I committed no crime when I intended to restore your taken treasure, and in truth, gave back more than I took.”

      “Capturing an object that is not thy possession without permission is known as stealing which is a crime.”

        The young man noticed that her eyes were focused on his neck, where his pendant of identification hangs from his service as a remarkable knight lieutenant for the King. When she pointed at it, he immediately disapproved by shaking his head.

 “I vow to return your fortune.” She swears.

“I’m afraid that's not happening.” He declines.

   “I advise you to trade it for gold.”

    “You heard me the first time, my lady.”

  “Sierra.” She received only a hum of acknowledgment from the young man. “And you are..?”

 “Ghost.” He made her smile. And all of a sudden he couldn’t look away from her blinding beauty.

   “You are a mortal named ‘Ghost’?” He confirmed with a nod as she released a contagious laugh.

      Ever since the mortal and the goddess met, they didn’t realize that they deliberately pledged time to spend together to capture the last gasp of beauty before the death of the day perpetually.

        Sierra even sang for Ghost once without any incantation and what he could only utter was,

      “You are a Goddess I would worship for eternity, Sierra.”

While she only responded with a mischievous sly grin.

      Like a usual afternoon, Sierra and Ghost were letting one another read chapters of their life.

       “Ghost.. Was the designated name for me when I performed my duties as a Lieutenant for the King.”

   “Lieutenant.. Ghost?” She fathomed in fascination. “If so.. Then ’Ghost’ is not your true name?”

     He hummed to confirm. That had put a frown on her face when she perceived the truth of the lack of trust he had for her by the simplicity of giving his birth name. Ghost took notice of her sudden silence, therefore, he tried to check up on her, but she was quicker to notice that he saw what was happening with her thus she proceeded to speak before him to cut him off.

    “Oh, I nearly forgot to caution you to be careful..there is a forthcoming storm.”

      His brows knitted at her change of topic. “It shall be as you say.” She nodded at his response. And when she prepared to swim away, he tried to stop her.

      “Am I bound to hope that we shall meet again?”

      “Fate shall know… Ghost.”

      She purposely weighed his name before vanishing to the depths of sea.

      When the moon wielded the night, Sierra’s oath came to life. Gigantic waves dominated the sea, heavy drops of rain demolished, and it was pure rage the wind and lighting proclaimed. Inside his sanctuary, there was no distress, no terror of the storm from Ghost but worry for the lady who was recently trapped in his labyrinth. He was worried for the mermaid who lived below the light and kept him on the edge of his seat the whole night. But the reign of moon finally ended yet all he could think about was her safety, her situation, if she was harmed or hopefully spent the night safely.

   Soon the king of light rose from the horizon, chirps of birds echoed along the calm wind and the sea was now at ease. A quiet knock came from the door. He was puzzled as he reached to open the entrance and see whoever was at the other side.

      The ground caught his jaw when the door gave sight of the Goddess on the other side. A captivating heavenly beauty stood familiar by heart, covered in peplos. 

    He was speechless, left in shock. He couldn’t believe a Goddess was standing right in front of his eyes. Luckily, a skull and clothing hid his face from the world.

     “Pleasant morning, Ghost. I only arrived as I wish to be aware of your condition after the storm.” 

     Her soothing tone comforted the harmonic morning and it brought him back to reality. He came back to his senses when he realized it was Sierra who was the stunning ethereal lady standing in front of him.

     “Sierra..”

“Ghost? Are you well?” She was starting to worry about his lack of response.

      “Sierra.. How are you with feet? I was secured the whole night. I am grateful that you care. You are the one who shall be questioned of their well-being. Do come in.” He widened the space for her to enter.

   “My pleasure. It is not necessary for you to worry about my health. I have experienced an even more terrible life in Olympus.”

      “I guess so.. –Olympus?”

   Sierra’s eyes widened when she realized what she had shared.

     “I only casted my feet to know if you are well. Are you confident that you are?”

     “You endangered yourself due to my being? Sierra, you are clueless of what you are doing. You shall come as I will take you back to your home.”

      “You are home.”

      “Stop being oblivious, Sierra. You would not desire to be with me, for I am not a nobleman.”

      “I am certain that it is not an appalling atrocity.”

       “I have taken hundreds of lives with my bare hands, Sierra.”

     “I am aware. You are the Lieutenant for your King, did you not say?”

     “Exactly.”

  “Therefore?”

    “You are the definition of pure and noble, Sierra. Your flawless skin.. your angelic eyes I could not find myself to look away from.. your luscious tail. In truth, you define perfection.”

    “I have not heard of your true name nor have I seen the magnificent mortal behind the mask, Ghost. Thus, same as me, you have not dived into my pool of sins for you to be definite of my genuine self.”

       “I am certain that it is not an appalling atrocity.”

         When Ghost threw her own words at her, she couldn't hold it anymore.

      “I behold such a fact that you are aware of my great love and care for you, Ghost. May whoever or whatever you have done.” Sierra held back tears before abandoning him speechless. And it was too late when he tried to run after her.

    Days elapsed and Ghost sailed consistently to try and catch Sierra by the nightfall, the time of day they usually meet, hoping to ask for her forgiveness. But days evolved into weeks and it was beginning to feel as if there was no existence of the mermaid at all.

       A mermaid who woke his long dead heart.

       He was filled with great sorrow and regret in the days when there were no signs of Sierra.

    Until one night, a miracle knocked on his door and made his heart beat crazy in hope of seeing Sierra once he opened the door. Heaven and earth entwined him when a different face of a goddess faced him.

      “Are you the mortal known as ‘Ghost’?” Authority and bravery would be sensed on her tone of speaking.

      “I am.” He responded.

     “If you without a doubt care about the Goddess of Sirens, you are to come with me right this moment.”

        “In what reasons would I care about the Goddess of Sirens?” Even if Ghost thought he had an idea who the lady was talking about, he didn't make it obvious.

       “For the Goddess of Sirens who ruled the Sea is named.. Sierra.”

        It was as if he was poured down with cold water with what he heard that he couldn't speak.

        “You are nothing but a fool if you weren't aware of this truth. Cease this nonsense right this instance and save the Goddess from the verdict of Zeus.”

          Athena made the former soldier do as told with her commanding tone. Ghost wasn't sure how they arrived at the sacred mountain of Olympus, but he was certain that it was Gods and Goddesses daggering him with looks full of judgment and studying his existence as if he wasn't meant to be there. And they were correct, he was just a mortal who had no right to be in the same place or even breathe the same air as God. But he did not have any time nor intended to self-pity, for this once caused him the sole reason of his being. Or in simpler words, the love of his life. The only soul who was ready to accept and love him for whoever or whatever he had done.

       Proud yet emotionless was the face carved behind the mask of Ghost. He followed right behind Athena who stood and bowed to show respect to the throne of Zeus. One gesture of Zeus and Athena vanished from her position and stepped aside, leaving the center of attention to the only mortal in the room. Zeus flashed a taunting smirk when the mortal in front of him did not dare to break the eye contact it held with a God.

       “A foolish and impudent mortal is the one you bring to save the Goddess of Sirens from death, Athena?!”  He yelled, howled, and tore the noises they caused that made the whole stadium sit in silence.

      Meanwhile, the Goddess of Warfare reacted as if she heard nothing, as if she wasn't yelled at by the God of all, she remained cold and unmoved while staring at nothing. Ghost had the exact same posture except his eyes widened when he took notice of the use of the word death in the same sentence with Sierra.

     “Death.. ?” He could not hold back anymore and started asking, he badly wanted to know her situation. Is she okay? Has she eaten yet? Where was she?  Is she in the middle of the sea waiting for him to sail? How he wished that their condition would always be as it was.

        “Precisely. The daughter of Poseidon and Aphrodite shall be punished for unjust killings of thousands of mortals! men.. women.. And demigods.”

        Ghost knew that taking one’s life is vile, wrong, evil. But he couldn’t force to stop the smile that was forming on his lips when he knew that the woman who owned his heart was the same as he was. Morally corrupt, rotten soul, sinful and ungodly, a killer. They were fit for each other.

      “Yet.. the judgment can still be revoked..” All of a sudden, Ghost found a shed of light for just a split second when Zeus continued.

      “If only she were to marry me.”

     His closed fist tightened its grip on nothing when he heard those words. His anger boiled when he heard the condition of Sierra’s freedom from death. She was his. He would never let death nor any God or mortal take her away.

      “Bring her out!” He demanded.

   “Fool! And who did you think you are for anyone here to follow!?”

  “Bring Sierra out!” The mortal wasn’t moved one bit and even had a higher tone in speaking to a god.

     “Mortal!” Athena called out to Ghost to scold him for disrespecting.

   The mocking laugh Zeus released thundered the entire domain as he gestured to one of the knights.

  “You’re brave, Lieutenant.” An insulting smirk appeared on his lips while he sneered at Ghost, “I'll give you that.” obviously wanting him to know that he knew who he was.

    “Summon the Goddess.” Zeus commanded calmly which the knights obeyed immediately. A few tense minutes went by and the sound of chains hitting the ground was starting to sound close by. Then the knights appeared surrounding the most beautiful goddess in the room. But there was something off with her. She looked lifeless. And as if a dog whose owner did not want her to bark, she had a dog muzzle. His heart of stone tore into a million pieces at the scene. He fought the urge to run and rip the rope securing her wrists and feet and pull her to his embrace.

   But he became a statue as he took in her condition. She was pale, hollow-cheeked, as if she was starving for weeks. They forcedly sat her beside Zeus’ throne, as if she was the reigning Queen.

  “Sierra..” He whispered weakly.

    She slowly brought her gaze up to find the source of that familiar voice and found his warm eyes staring back at her. The eyes that calm her system down. She couldn’t do anything but squirm and persist to be free from being restrained. Her radiant eyes moistened from tears that begged to fall when she saw him. Weak and faint cries were heard from Sierra.

    Ghost wasn’t able to hold it together anymore when her cries reached his ears. He tried to run to her, but the alert knights held and forced him down before he caught the throne.

   “You stop this instance you imbeciles! You! Mortal! If you, as you claim, care for the Goddess, I challenge you to prove it right this moment.” One flick of his hand and one of the chevaliers threw Ghost away and a sword at him. He wholeheartedly accepted the challenge.

  Sierra became undone at the scene in front of her. She was nervous, scared, and at the same time impressed at the mad skills Ghost was showing as he defended and slayed the knights of gods. There was fire in his eyes, igniting him to win. But the battle wasn’t fair and square, Zeus was tiring him out by sending more and more warriors with each knight he slayed. Sierra kept squirming in her seat as she witnessed the unfair battle before flinching when she felt a hand land on her shoulder.

    Ghost was well aware of Zeus’ intentions, he was purposely exhausting him so he would give up, but no matter how many stabs or bruises he received, giving up would never cross his mind knowing the price it pays.

      Each swish of sword and duck of his, he sensed where the other was if it was nowhere near his sight. As he jabbed the steel into the man’s chest breaking through its skin and sinking into its bones, it was too late to duck from the stab that was coming from behind, but before a blade passed through him, a dead body dropped behind him instead, at the same time when the one in front his face dropped dead. When he turned around, he saw Sierra with a sword slightly gasping for air, his saviour from the traitor enemy. She ran to help him as soon as Athena untied her.

      “Ghost..” She whispered breathlessly. Just a few more steps and they were finally able to feel another’s embrace. At the drop of the armor, Sierra locked his neck around her arms while Ghost secured her waist in his arms.           

      “I love you, Sierra. I am such a fool, please, I need you to forgive—”

     “Shh.. shh.. I know, my only. I know. And I love you too, I love you so much.”

     “Fools!” At the same time as Zeus let out a scream, the arrow came free and landed on the back of the mortal.

    Sierra froze on her spot as she slowly processed what just happened. Ghost’s blooded body fell on the ground but she immediately tried to catch his head.

        “No.. no.. this.. This is not possible. This can not be.. no.. ”

        She couldn’t control the tears that were falling from her eyes. All the anger that burned inside her for centuries was turning into pure pain and sorrow.

       “Ghost.. Don’t.. Please.. Don’t leave me.. I beg of you.. Don’t.”

      Ghost weakly tried to reach his balaclava to let the Goddess know his genuine self. While Sierra was as seen as if she saw an angel, a handsome hunk angel. Even if he was painted in blood, and deep scars, it didn’t manage to lessen his striking beauty. From his brilliant eyes, sharp nose, and jaw, she was falling for him all over again.

       “You are the most handsome mortal I sang for.”

      “You are the most beautiful goddess I fought for.”

       At the same time a smile appeared on Sierra’s lips was the escape of tears and a cough of blood from Ghost.

      “Oh, Ghost. No.. shh.. no.. my ghost.."

     “Simon.” Simon corrected. “Simon is my true name, my only.”

     “Simon..” Sierra repeated in fascination. “I love you, Simon. I do.”     

     She left a kiss on his forehead as Simon left his last words before his last breath.

    “For eternity, even at the last gasp of sun, I can only witness beauty when I’m with you.”

      Each corner of the stadium was filled with Sierra’s screeching scream when Ghost officially caught his last breath. Her pain and grief were painfully evident in her yells and her cries. Every god and goddess watched her scream in pain. Her agony maimed everyone who heard her howl on the whole mountain of sacredness.

      Yet no matter what the two of them went through that day, she was still served with death on the same day and neither of her parents defended or sought to comfort her. No one ever did except for the mortal who lay lifeless next to her.

       From that day on, the cry and screams of agony of the siren echoed eternally at the depths of the sea, and anyone who came across, anyone unfortunate enough to hear it, was never found.

      And that became the birth of the phantom of the sea.

[estellan0vella]

Nothing Is Ever Truly Perfect - Megumi Fushiguro AU Word Count: 4.8K Content Warnings: Death Masterlist for Eras AU

The wind catches your hair as you step onto the deck of the RMS Titanic. It's a cold April day in 1912, and the grandeur of the ship is breathtaking. You can hardly believe that you and your fiancé, Megumi Fushiguro, are about to embark on a journey across the Atlantic.  

Megumi, ever stoic and composed, walks beside you, his dark hair tousled by the breeze. The two of you are dressed in your finest clothes, befitting second-class passengers, and your heart swells with excitement and anticipation.

"Are you ready for this adventure?" you ask, squeezing his hand gently.

Megumi looks at you, his usual serious expression softening just a bit. "As long as you're with me, I'm ready for anything," he replies, his deep voice a soothing presence amidst the bustle of boarding passengers.

The two of you make your way to your cabin, admiring the ship's opulence as you pass through the grand halls. The polished wood panelling, intricate mouldings, and gleaming brass fixtures make you feel as though you've stepped into a palace. 

The second-class accommodations are more than you could have hoped for, with their own level of luxury and comfort. Plush carpets underfoot and a charming porthole window looking out to the endless ocean add to the enchantment. You can't help but feel a sense of pride and privilege to be on this historic voyage.

Once you've settled in, you spend the first day exploring the ship. You and Megumi dine in the elegant second-class dining room, where the chandeliers cast a warm glow over tables set with crisp white linens and gleaming silverware. The food is exquisite, and you savour each meal, from the hearty soups to the delicate pastries.

"This beef is so tender," you say, cutting into your dinner. "I've never had anything like it."

Megumi nods in agreement, taking a sip of wine. "They certainly know how to treat their passengers," he remarks, his eyes glinting with appreciation.

You spend long hours on the deck, watching the endless expanse of the ocean. The waves shimmer under the sunlight, and you feel a sense of freedom and adventure that you've never experienced before. 

You meet other passengers, forming fleeting but warm friendships. There's Margaret, a lively woman with a contagious laugh, and Thomas, a gentleman with a passion for storytelling. Evenings are filled with lively conversations and shared laughter, making the journey feel even more magical.

"Did you hear about the captain's dinner?" Margaret asks one afternoon, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "It's supposed to be quite the affair!"

"I did," you reply, glancing at Megumi. "Maybe we should attend."

Megumi smiles slightly, his eyes softening as he looks at you. "If it makes you happy, then we will," he says.

One evening, as the sun sets in a blaze of orange and pink, you find yourselves alone on the deck. The sea is calm, and the Titanic glides smoothly through the water. Megumi wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. The chill of the evening air is no match for the warmth of his embrace.

"This is perfect," you say softly, leaning your head against his shoulder. The sky above is a canvas of colours, and the first stars are beginning to twinkle.

"It is," he agrees, his voice a low murmur in your ear. "But remember, nothing is ever truly perfect."

You smile at his pragmatism, knowing it's part of what you love about him. "Still, let's enjoy this moment," you say, looking up at the stars beginning to twinkle in the twilight sky.

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I'm grateful for every moment with you," he whispers. "Whether they're perfect or not."

You look up at him, your heart swelling with love. "I feel the same way," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "This voyage... it's like a dream."

"A beautiful dream," Megumi agrees, his hand gently stroking your hair.

You both fall silent, lost in the beauty of the moment. The ship's band plays softly in the distance, the notes of a waltz drifting through the evening air. The Titanic's lights cast a golden glow across the deck, reflecting off the calm waters below.

"We should dance," you suggest suddenly, looking up at Megumi with a playful smile.

He raises an eyebrow, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Here? Now?"

"Why not?" you reply, standing and taking his hand. "Let's make this moment even more special."

Megumi stands, pulling you into his arms. You move together slowly, swaying to the distant music. The world around you fades away, leaving just the two of you, together in this perfect moment.

"I love you," you whisper, resting your head against his chest.

"I love you too," he replies, his voice filled with warmth. "More than words can say."

The next night, after another delightful dinner in the second-class dining room, you and Megumi decide to explore parts of the ship you haven't yet ventured into. Megumi has heard from one of the other passengers that the third-class quarters often host lively parties, full of music, dancing, and laughter. With curiosity piqued, you both agree to check it out.

As you make your way down the ship, the air grows warmer and the hum of conversation and laughter becomes more pronounced. The narrow corridors are filled with a different kind of energy compared to the more formal atmosphere of the upper decks. You can feel the excitement building inside you. Finally, you reach the third-class common area, where a vibrant party is already in full swing.

The room is packed with people dancing, clapping, and enjoying themselves to the rhythm of a spirited band. The band is playing a lively jig, and the atmosphere is infectious. The musicians, dressed in simple clothes, seem to be pouring their hearts into the performance. The fiddle, accordion, and bodhrán create a joyous cacophony that fills the room. 

"Shall we join them?" you ask, looking up at Megumi with a grin.

He smiles back, the rare twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "I suppose we must," he says, taking your hand and leading you onto the makeshift dance floor.

The moment you step into the throng, you're swept up in the energy of the dance. People of all ages and backgrounds are moving together, their faces flushed with happiness and exertion. You and Megumi fall into step with the others, twirling and laughing as the music guides your movements. 

The steps are simple and easy to follow, and soon you find yourselves caught up in the fun. You laugh as you spin and twirl, your skirts flying around you, and Megumi's normally composed face breaks into a broad smile.

"Isn't this wonderful?" you shout over the music, feeling a rush of exhilaration.

"It's incredible!" Megumi responds, his voice filled with genuine joy. "I never knew such a world existed on this ship."

As you continue to dance, you notice a young girl watching you with wide eyes. You smile at her and extend your hand. She hesitates for a moment, then takes it, and you bring her into the dance, discovering her name is Cara. Her giggles are infectious, and soon others are joining in, creating a circle around you. The camaraderie is palpable, and for a moment, you feel as if you've known these people all your life.

After a while, you both retreat to the sidelines to catch your breath. A friendly woman with rosy cheeks and a hearty laugh offers you each a drink—a hearty ale that warms you from the inside out. You take a long sip, savouring the earthy flavour.

"This is wonderful," you say, raising your voice to be heard over the music. "I'm so glad we came."

Megumi nods, his eyes alight with enjoyment. "It's a different world down here," he agrees. "There's a raw energy that's quite captivating."

You watch as the dancers continue to whirl and spin, their joy palpable. "It's like they're celebrating life itself," you muse, feeling a deep sense of appreciation for this unexpected experience.

An older man with a twinkle in his eye approaches you both, his face lined with years of laughter. "First time in the third class, eh?" he asks, his accent thick and melodic.

You nod, smiling. "Yes, it's our first time. We didn't know what we were missing."

"Well, you're always welcome here," he says warmly. "It's the heart of the ship, where everyone's equal and life's simple pleasures are celebrated."

As the night goes on, the music shifts to a slower, more intimate tune. Couples pair off, and Megumi pulls you close once again. "Shall we?" he asks softly, his voice gentle.

You nod, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. "I'd love to."

You sway together, the world around you fading into the background. His arms are strong and steady around you, and you rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

"I don't think I've ever seen you so relaxed," you tease gently, looking up at him with a smile.

He chuckles softly, a sound that vibrates through his chest. "You have a way of bringing that out in me," he admits. "I can't help but feel at ease when I'm with you."

You dance like that for what feels like hours, wrapped up in each other's presence. The third-class party continues around you, a blur of happy faces and lively music. It's a night filled with laughter, love, and a sense of camaraderie with strangers who, for this brief moment, feel like friends.

When the evening finally winds down, you and Megumi make your way back to your cabin, your steps slow and unhurried. The memory of the night's festivities lingers in your mind, a bright spot in the journey.

As you close the door behind you, Megumi pulls you into a tender embrace. "Thank you for tonight," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "It was... unforgettable."

You smile up at him, your heart full. "Every moment with you is unforgettable," you reply, leaning up to kiss him softly.

With a shared sense of contentment, you both settle into bed, the gentle rocking of the ship lulling you to sleep. In the safety of each other's arms, you drift off, dreaming of the adventures still to come on this incredible voyage.

The next morning, you and Megumi wake up to the soft light of dawn filtering through the porthole window. The excitement of the previous night's adventure still lingers, and you can't help but smile as you think about the lively dance and the warm camaraderie you experienced.

After a leisurely breakfast in the second-class dining room, you decide to spend the day on the deck, enjoying the fresh sea air and the beauty of the ocean. The ship is bustling with activity as passengers go about their day, but you and Megumi find a quiet spot near the railing, where you can watch the world go by in peaceful contentment.

Megumi leans against the railing, his eyes scanning the horizon. "It's amazing how vast the ocean is," he says, his voice thoughtful. "It makes you feel so small, doesn't it?"

You nod, slipping your hand into his. "It does. But it's also a reminder of how much there is to explore and experience."

He smiles, squeezing your hand gently. "I'm glad we're experiencing it together."

As you stand there, a group of third-class passengers wanders over, their faces bright with curiosity and friendliness. One of them, a young boy with tousled hair and a mischievous grin, runs up to you.

"Hello!" he says cheerfully. "What are you looking at?"

You smile down at him. "Just enjoying the view. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

The boy nods enthusiastically. "It is! My name's Timmy. What's yours?"

"I'm Y/N, and this is my fiancé, Megumi," you reply, introducing yourselves.

Timmy's eyes widen with interest. "Fiancé? That means you're getting married, right?"

You nod, chuckling at his enthusiasm. "That's right."

As you chat with Timmy, more third-class passengers join you. There's a young couple named Rose and Jack, who are travelling to America to start a new life, and an elderly man named Mr. O'Leary, who shares stories of his adventurous youth. The group quickly falls into easy conversation, the barriers of class melting away in the shared experience of the voyage.

"Is it true that the second-class dining room has chandeliers?" Rose asks, her eyes wide with wonder.

You nod, smiling. "Yes, it does. It's very elegant. But I think the real charm of this ship lies in the people we meet and the experiences we share."

Jack nods in agreement. "That's true. We've met so many wonderful people on this journey. It feels like we're all part of one big family."

As the day goes on, you and Megumi spend time getting to know your new friends. You share stories and laughter, and the deck becomes a place of warmth and camaraderie. Timmy, ever energetic, challenges Megumi to a game of tag, and soon you're all running around, the sound of laughter filling the air.

After a while, you all gather by the railing, watching the waves shimmer under the sunlight. Mr. O'Leary pulls out a small harmonica and begins to play a cheerful tune. The music adds a magical touch to the moment, and you find yourself swaying to the rhythm, Megumi's arm wrapped around your waist.

"This is what life should be like," you say softly, resting your head against Megumi's shoulder. "Full of joy and connection."

He nods, his eyes reflecting the happiness he feels. "I couldn't agree more."

As the sun begins to set, casting a golden glow over the ocean, you all sit down together, sharing a simple meal brought up from the third-class galley. The food is humble but delicious, and the company makes it a feast.

Rose smiles at you, her eyes shining with gratitude. "Thank you for spending the day with us. It's been wonderful."

You reach across the table, taking her hand. "The pleasure was all ours. We're so glad to have met you."

As the evening turns to night, you and Megumi walk to the front of the ship, hand in hand. The air is crisp and cool, and the stars begin to twinkle in the darkening sky. The bow of the Titanic stretches out before you, a perfect spot to take in the majesty of the ocean and the endless horizon.

You walk up to the railings with Megumi right behind you. He gently places his hands on your waist, guiding you closer to the edge. The wind catches your hair, and you close your eyes for a moment, savouring the sensation of freedom.

With a gentle yet firm touch, Megumi helps you step up onto the lower railing, making sure you feel secure. You spread your arms wide, feeling the wind rush past you, the ocean stretching out endlessly before your eyes. Megumi's strong arms wrap around you from behind, holding you steady and close.

"I'm flying, Megumi!" you exclaim, your voice filled with joy and wonder as you giggle.

He chuckles softly, his breath warm against your ear. "You look beautiful," he whispers, his words filled with affection and admiration.

The world around you seems to disappear as you lose yourself in the moment. The ship's movement beneath your feet, the sound of the waves, and the endless sky all come together in a symphony of sensations. You feel an exhilarating sense of freedom as if you could truly soar above the ocean.

Megumi's embrace tightens slightly, grounding you in the safety of his presence. "This is incredible," he murmurs, his voice a low, comforting hum.

You both stay like that for a while, lost in the magic of the moment. The ship sails steadily onward, cutting through the water with grace and power. The night is filled with the soft sounds of the ocean and the gentle hum of the Titanic's engines, creating a serene and peaceful backdrop to your shared experience.

Eventually, you lower your arms, turning in Megumi's embrace to face him. He lifts you from the railing and spins with you still in his arms, making you laugh. The carefree sound of your laughter fills the night air, mingling with the distant music and the whispers of the sea.

"Put me down, Megumi!" you exclaim between giggles, though part of you never wants this moment to end.

He finally sets you down gently, but his hands remain at your waist, holding you close. The moonlight casts a soft glow over his features, and you can see the genuine happiness in his eyes.

"I love seeing you this happy," he says, his voice filled with warmth. "Your laughter is the most beautiful sound."

You smile up at him, feeling your heart swell with love. "I'm happy because I'm with you," you reply, your voice tender. "These moments we share... they mean everything to me."

Megumi leans down, brushing a soft kiss against your lips. It's a gentle, tender kiss, filled with all the emotions words can't fully capture. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, both of you breathing in the same rhythm.

"We'll have to remember this forever," you say, resting your head against his chest.

"We will," Megumi agrees, his hand gently stroking your hair. "This is a moment I'll cherish for the rest of my life."

It's late on the night of April 14th when you're jolted awake by a sudden shudder that runs through the ship. The cabin, once so cosy and secure, now feels strangely ominous. Megumi shoots up beside you, his instincts alert. He looks at you, concern etched on his face, his usually calm demeanour replaced with a tense urgency.

"Did you feel that?" he asks, his voice low but steady.

You nod, fear creeping into your heart. The tranquillity of the evening has been shattered, replaced by an unsettling sense of foreboding. "What do you think it was?"

"I'm not sure," he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and getting to his feet. "But we should get dressed and find out."

You quickly pull on your clothes, your hands shaking uncontrollably. The thin fabric of your dress feels almost like a fragile shield against the unknown. Megumi remains calm, his presence a source of strength for you. He helps tie the corset of your dress with steady hands, his touch grounding you in the moment before you both pull on your coats.

"Stay close to me," he whispers, his eyes locking onto yours with a mixture of determination and concern. "We'll face whatever this is together."

Once you're both dressed, you leave your cabin and join the throngs of passengers making their way to the upper decks. The narrow corridors are crowded with people in various states of undress and distress, their faces pale with fear and confusion.

Children cry, clutching their mothers' skirts, and men whisper anxiously among themselves. The atmosphere is tense as you reach the boat deck. You overhear snippets of conversations – something about an iceberg, the ship being damaged. The air is filled with a mixture of disbelief and rising panic. Crew members are trying to maintain order, but the sense of urgency is palpable.

"Don't let go of me," Megumi says, holding your hand tightly as you navigate through the crowd. His grip is firm, a silent promise that he will not let you go.

The lifeboats are being lowered, and it becomes clear that there aren't enough for everyone. The stark reality of the situation hits you like a physical blow, your heart pounding as you realize the gravity of the crisis.

Desperate voices rise above the chaos, pleading for a place in the lifeboats. The officers, their faces set with grim determination, are prioritizing women and children. The crowd around the lifeboats is frantic, people pushing and pleading, their voices blending into a cacophony of desperation.

"Get in," Megumi urges you, his voice strained but resolute. "You have to survive."

You shake your head vehemently, tears streaming down your face. The thought of leaving him behind is unbearable. "No, I won't leave you," you insist, your voice breaking with emotion.

"Please," he pleads, his usually calm eyes now filled with desperation. "You have to survive. For both of us."

"I can't," you whisper, clutching his hand even tighter. "Not without you."

Megumi pulls you into a fierce embrace, his arms wrapping around you as if he could shield you from the nightmare unfolding around you. "I love you," he says, his voice thick with emotion, his lips brushing against your forehead in a tender gesture.

"I love you too," you reply, your voice trembling. Your tears soak into his shirt, but you don't care. In that moment, the world around you fades, and all that matters is the man holding you, the love that binds you together.

The ship continues to shudder, a groan of metal and a distant, haunting wail adding to the cacophony of human fear. The cold night air bites through your clothing, each breath coming out in visible puffs as the temperature plummets. You can see your breath mingling with the frantic exhalations of those around you, a mist of desperation hanging in the air.

"Look," Megumi says softly, pulling away just enough to nod towards a lifeboat being lowered nearby. "There's still time. You need to go."

You shake your head again, more adamantly this time, as if the sheer force of your refusal could change the dire reality. "I can't, Megumi. Not without you."

The ship lurches, tilting ever so slightly more towards the dark abyss of the ocean. The tilt makes it clear that time is running out. Megumi's grip tightens on your hand, his eyes searching yours, pleading without words.

"Please," he says again, more forcefully. "For me."

A stern-looking officer approaches, his face hard with the weight of the night's duty. "Women and children first," he commands, his voice a bark that cuts through the noise.

Megumi steps forward, still holding your hand. "She needs to get in," he tells the officer, his voice steady despite the chaos around him. "Please, sir. Let her in."

The officer looks at you, then back at Megumi, and nods curtly. "Hurry."

Megumi turns to you, his expression a mixture of love and urgency. "Go. Now."

"No, there are still children on the deck," you shake your head, glancing at the officer. "I'm not taking what spaces could be theirs, I'm staying."

"What?!" Megumi looks at you and you smile at him but he can see the fear in your eyes.

"I'm not leaving you, Megumi Fushiguro," you whisper. "I suppose we will be dying together."

Tears well up in Megumi's eyes, and he pulls you into another fierce embrace. "You're incredible," he whispers, his voice choked with emotion. "But we have to try to save others. Let's find those children."

You nod, a sense of purpose grounding you amid the chaos. Together, you move through the frantic crowd, scanning for any unaccompanied children. The ship continues to tilt, the groaning of the metal and the distant cries of the panicked passengers creating an eerie soundtrack to your desperate search.

You spot a young boy, no older than seven, standing alone and crying. Megumi quickly scoops him up, murmuring reassurances. "We've got you, little one," he says gently. "We're going to get you to safety."

As you continue to search, you find a little girl, the one from the third-class party, Cara, clutching a ragged doll, her eyes wide with fear. You take her hand, squeezing it gently. "It's going to be okay," you say, hoping your voice conveys more confidence than you feel.

With the children in tow, you make your way back to the lifeboats. The officer's stern expression softens slightly when he sees the children. "Get them in," he says, waving you forward.

You help the children into the lifeboat, ensuring they are safely seated before turning to Megumi. "Are you sure?" he asks, his eyes searching yours one last time.

You nod, resolute. "We'll find more. We can't give up."

He squeezes your hand, then turns to the officer. "We'll find more children. Save as many as you can."

The officer nods, respect in his eyes. "Good luck."

You and Megumi turn back to the crowd, your hearts pounding with fear but also with a renewed sense of purpose. As the lifeboat descends, you glance back, catching a final glimpse of the children's frightened faces, but there is a glimmer of hope in their eyes now.

Hand in hand, you navigate the chaos, each step a testament to your love and courage. You push through the throngs of desperate people, calling out for any unaccompanied children. The deck tilts further, the cold wind biting at your skin, but you press on, determined.

You find another small group of children huddled together near a railing. Megumi and you quickly gather them, your voices soothing as you urge them to follow. The ship's groans grow louder, the sense of urgency intensifying.

As you approach the lifeboats again, you see fewer and fewer spaces remaining. The officer spots you and waves you forward once more. "Hurry, there isn't much time left."

You usher the children into the lifeboat, and Megumi turns to you, his eyes filled with gratitude and pride. "We did it," he says softly.

"One more trip," you reply, your voice steady despite the terror threatening to overwhelm you. "Let's find as many as we can."

Together, you make your way back into the chaos, your hearts unified in purpose. The ship tilts even more dramatically, the frigid water now lapping at the lower decks. The cries of the passengers grow more desperate, but you and Megumi press on, determined to save every life you can.

In the final moments, you find another child, a toddler, screaming his lungs out. Megumi gently picks up the child, his eyes meeting yours with a silent vow to protect. As you make your way back to the lifeboats for the last time, you realize that every second counts.

The officer, seeing you approach with the child, urgently beckons you forward. "This is it, the last lifeboat."

You hand the child to the officer, who places him in the lifeboat before beginning to lower it into the water. The deck beneath your feet shudders violently, a clear indication that the ship's end is near as screams fill the air.

Megumi turns to you, his eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and love. "We've done all we can."

"Now we await our fate," you murmur, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

The ship's groaning grows louder, a terrible, haunting sound that resonates deep within your bones. The angle of the deck becomes steeper, making it harder to stand. Megumi pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you in a protective embrace.

"Do you take me as your husband?" Megumi rushes out, looking down at you.

"Yes," you whisper, tears streaming down your face. "I take you as my husband, now and forever."

Megumi's eyes glisten with tears as he holds you tighter. "And I take you as my wife," he says, his voice filled with unwavering resolve. "I vow to love you, to protect you, for as long as we live."

The ship lurches again, a violent shudder that nearly knocks you off your feet. But Megumi's grip on you is firm, anchoring you in place.

"In sickness and in health," you continue, your voice steady despite the quaking deck beneath you. "For richer or poorer, in joy and sorrow. Until death do us part."

Megumi's hand cups your cheek, his touch warm and reassuring. "And even after that, we shall love each other for eternity," he finishes, his voice breaking with emotion before he presses his lips to yours and you respond with fervour.

The ship's groans grow deafening, the end drawing ever nearer. Yet, in this moment, you find solace in your shared vows, a testament to your unbreakable bond.

"I love you," you say, your voice barely audible above the din.

"And I love you," Megumi replies, his eyes locked onto yours, his love shining through the fear.

The deck tilts sharply, the freezing water rushing up around your legs. Panic surges around you, but you remain focused on Megumi, his presence a beacon of warmth and love in the icy chaos. He pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you as if he can shield you from the inevitable.

"We'll be together," he whispers, his voice trembling but resolute. "No matter what."

You nod, resting your forehead against his, finding strength in his unwavering gaze. The water rises swiftly, engulfing you both in its frigid grip. You shiver uncontrollably, but Megumi's embrace provides a small measure of comfort against the biting cold.

As the Titanic's bow dips beneath the waves, you cling to each other, your hearts pounding in unison. The cries of the other passengers fade into the background, replaced by the roaring of the sea and the creaking of the ship's metal. Your breath mingles with the icy mist, every exhale a visible testament to your determination to face this together.

Megumi's lips find yours again, a desperate, passionate kiss that speaks of love, fear, and an unspoken promise to remain together even in the face of death. You kiss him back with equal intensity, pouring all your love and strength into that final, shared moment.

The water surges around you, a powerful force that pulls you from the deck and into the dark, cold depths. You hold on to Megumi with all your might, refusing to let go, and he grips you just as tightly. Your love is a lifeline, a beacon in the darkness, guiding you as you sink beneath the waves. Your lips refuse to part from each other's as the icy water envelops you both.

The freezing cold bites at your skin, a numbing, relentless force that saps the strength from your limbs. Yet, even as the frigid water surrounds you, the warmth of Megumi's embrace remains, a comforting reminder of the love that binds you.

In the inky darkness, you feel his heart beating against yours, a steady rhythm that matches your own. It is a reminder that you are not alone, even in these final, terrifying moments. The pressure of the water pushes you deeper, but you remain locked together, a single entity facing the abyss.

Your lungs burn for air, but you focus on the feel of Megumi's lips against yours, the taste of saltwater mingling with the bittersweetness of your shared kiss. The world around you fades, the cold and the dark becoming secondary to the profound connection you share.

As the last vestiges of light from the surface disappear, you feel a strange sense of calm wash over you. The panic and fear give way to acceptance, a quiet resignation to your fate. In Megumi's eyes, you see the same acceptance, a mutual understanding that you have faced this together, and that is enough.

You cling to each other until the very end, your bodies entwined as the icy depths claim you. The love you share is a beacon, a light that shines brightly even in the darkest of times. It is a testament to the strength of the human spirit, the enduring power of love.

And as the cold overtakes you, you find peace in Megumi's arms, knowing that you faced the end together, your love a shining beacon that will endure, even in the depths of the ocean.

The teacher looks at the faces of her high school students, their expressions ranging from boredom to invested interest.

"Now I know you all want to see Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet," she says with a teasing tone in her voice, eliciting a few chuckles. "But I want to discuss the real people on the Titanic and to do that, I reached out to a survivor. She was only a child when the Titanic sank, and she's here to tell us her story. So I want you all to be respectful and kind, okay? Her name is Cara."

As the teacher finishes her introduction, the classroom falls into a hushed silence, filled with a mixture of anticipation and reverence. The students shift in their seats, their eyes wide with curiosity as they wait for Cara to speak.

Cara, now an elderly woman with silver hair and gentle eyes, stands at the front of the classroom, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips. She takes a deep breath, her voice soft but steady as she begins to recount her memories of that fateful night.

"I was just a little girl," Cara starts, her voice carrying the weight of a lifetime of memories. "My family was travelling in third class, and we were settling into bed. But then there was this sudden jolt, like the ship had hit something."

The students lean forward, hanging on every word as Cara describes the chaos and confusion that followed. She speaks of the fear and uncertainty, the overwhelming sense of loss as the Titanic slipped beneath the waves.

"I got separated from my family," Cara says, reaching into her bag and pulling out a ragged doll. "This is the only thing I had to comfort me until they came."

"Who?" a student asks.

"A young couple, second-class passengers, engaged to be married," Cara says with a small smile. "The woman, Y/N, gave up her seat on a lifeboat, and together she and Megumi, her fiancé, saved eight children. I'd met them two nights prior; they attended a party we had in third class."

"What were they like?" another student asks, their voice tinged with curiosity.

"They were lovely," Cara replies, her eyes lighting up with the memory. "They invited me to dance with them. They adored each other. I reached out to their family to extend my condolences and gratitude when I realized what they'd done. Megumi's father sent me a picture of them."

Cara pulls the picture out of her bag and allows the class to pass it around. A young couple stands in the picture, smiling at each other as if the camera wasn't even there.

"They look so happy," a student murmurs, examining the photo closely.

"Someone who was rescued from the water spoke about them," Cara says. "Said they got married before they died. They said their vows to one another before the ship sank. Vowing to love each other for eternity."

"Were they ever recovered?" another student asks, their voice soft with reverence.

Cara nods, her smile tinged with sadness. "They were found holding onto each other, their limbs frozen around each other. I think they were buried that way."

The classroom falls silent, the weight of Cara's words sinking in. The students exchange solemn glances as they contemplate the profound love that bound the couple together until the very end and even after that.

"Did they have any children?" another student ventures to ask.

Cara's smile softens, though sadness lingers in her eyes. "No, they never had the chance," she replies gently. "But in their final moments, they ensured the safety of the children on board, offering them a chance at life. Offering me a chance at life, one which I lived to the fullest in their honour. Every night, I pray to them and thank them for their kindness even in the face of death. I look at my children who now bear their names and remember how they wouldn't exist without them. At my grandchildren"

"They sound like they were really brave," A girl says and Cara nods.

"Once I was old enough and had the money, I managed to secure a marriage certificate for them. Dated for April 14th, 1912," Cara says. "I have it framed and there's copies framed in the museums for the Titanic"

The students are silent for a moment, absorbing Cara's words. The teacher, sensing the depth of emotion in the room, gently prompts, "Cara, could you tell us more about how you honoured their memory through your children and grandchildren?"

Cara nods, her eyes shining with a mixture of pride and sadness. "Of course. When I had my first child, I named her Y/N, after the woman who gave up her seat on the lifeboat for me. My second child, a boy, I named Megumi, after her brave fiancé. And now, I have grandchildren who intend to give their children their names as middle names. Every time I look at them, I see a part of the couple who saved my life. It's a way to keep their memory alive."

A boy in the back raises his hand. "Cara, what do you tell your grandchildren about Y/N and Megumi?"

Cara's smile widens, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening with warmth. "I tell them that Y/N and Megumi were two of the bravest people I've ever known. That they showed me what true love and sacrifice look like. I tell them the story of the Titanic and how, even in the face of unimaginable fear, they thought of others before themselves. They made sure that children like me had a chance at life, even if it meant giving up their own."

Another student, her voice soft and respectful, asks, "Do you still stay in touch with their families?"

Cara nods. "Yes, I do. We've kept in touch over the years, and we've become like an extended family. It's a bond that was forged out of tragedy, but it's a very strong one."

The teacher interjects, her voice filled with admiration. "Cara, your story is truly inspiring. It's a powerful reminder of the impact that kindness and bravery can have, even in the darkest of times."

Cara looks around the classroom, her eyes meeting each student's gaze. "Thank you all for listening. I hope you remember Y/N and Megumi not just as names in a history book, but as real people who made a real difference. They taught me that even in the face of great fear, we can choose to act with love and courage. And I hope their story inspires you to do the same."

A student raises her hand. "Do you ever visit the Titanic museums?"

Cara nods. "I do, whenever I can. I feel a deep connection to those places. Seeing their marriage certificate framed on the wall, knowing that their love and sacrifice are being honoured, means a lot to me. It's a way for me to feel close to them, to thank them for the life they gave me."

The classroom falls silent again, the weight of Cara's words sinking in. The teacher thanks Cara for her time and her powerful story. As the students begin to file out of the classroom, many of them stop to shake Cara's hand, their faces filled with gratitude and respect.

As the last student leaves, Cara turns to the teacher. "Thank you for inviting me. It's important that these stories are told so that the bravery and kindness of people like Y/N and Megumi are never forgotten."

The teacher nods, her eyes misty. "Thank you, Cara. You've given us all a gift today."

Cara smiles, a mix of sadness and contentment in her expression. "It's the least I can do to honour their memory. They may be gone, but their legacy lives on in every life they touched, including mine."

taglist- @sad-darksoul @lik0

[wintersongstress]

A Dream’s Winding Way

Part II — The Weaver and the Loom

Pairing: Arthur Morgan (high honor) x Female Reader

Summary: For as long as you could remember, you dreamt of falling in a love so whole and pure it was worth enduring the many griefs in your life. But the world, cold and cruel as it was, robbed that dream from you, and you believed you would forever be broken until you met a man who was scarred in his own way.  

Word Count: 10.8k

Warnings: sexual assault trauma responses, murder, canon-typical violence. 

A/N: Arthur will make his appearance at the end here ♥ thank you THANK YOU @the-halo-of-my-memory​​ for beta-ing 💞 

Part I | ao3 link

                              ~ II — The Weaver and the Loom ~

Snick. 

The bolts inside the cabinet lock slid free. Between your finger and your thumb, the tarnished key in your grasp opened a long-latched door, a swoosh releasing dormant air. Inside the stale cell, relics of the past awaited, felty with dust. A chatelaine belt rested on the shelf, ornate with filigree, alongside a satin pouch, a crystal hat pin, silver spurs with brass rowels, and a wedding bouquet, its once-white roses shriveled and decaying. You paused once, running your fingers over the cool rivets of a sapphire brooch, and overlooked it all, instead retrieving a new vase for the kitchen table—one that would not shatter into pieces when it fell—and a tattered recipe book. 

With the book settled in your lap you opened it with a crack. Antique, creamy pages inked with words fluttered past your fingers, food stains mottling the margins alongside cursive pencil scrawls. A flattened sprig of poppy bookmarked the page for an oatmeal pie recipe. You tucked it back in for time to keep safe. A few gentle turns later you found what you were looking for and rose from the floor of your grandmother’s room, relocking the cabinet, and shutting the door behind you. You donned an apron and began your work.

The rugs, the curtains, all were taken down and rolled up, flapped outside, and beaten with the handle of your broom. You swept the floors of broken vase shards and stray leaves, replenished the oil in the lamps, trimmed the candle wicks, tossed out last night’s dinner, laid a new tablecloth, filled the silver ewer from your grandmother’s cabinet with water and fresh flowers, and scraped the ashes out from the fireplace. Wood clopped as you piled it up in a canvas carrier outside and lugged it in. Soap suds splashed your wrists as you scrubbed the dishes spotless. All the while the clock ticked on, from hour to hour, the day waning, until you could no longer prolong the inevitable, and commenced your grisly task. 

You propped your family recipe book open on the counter and fetched a large stew pot from the wall rack. The cutting board hosted the full spectrum of ingredients you needed, so you set the pot over the stove flame and warmed a dollop of butter and olive oil. The yellow onions you chopped sizzled as you added them in, and, using a knife, you deployed your special ingredient from the cutting board. A few dashes of salt and pepper joined the mixture next, and once the onions popped their flavor, caramelizing, teaspoons of dried sage and thyme hand-picked from your garden snowed from your hand with clumps of chopped garlic. 

Stirring, mixing, curdling, after a few minutes a pour of red wine and a splash of vinegar came next, making the soup bubble fragrantly. You scraped the copper bottom with a wooden spoon, stirring the browning bits of onion and garlic around, and drowned it all in three cans of beef broth from the general store. Two bay leaves fluttered in last before you covered the pot with a lid to let it simmer. 

The Sheriff would have a fine last meal. 

When the first three stars appeared in the evening sky, your cottage was aglow with soft light and welcoming with the scent of a rich dinner. Fine dishes and silverware sparkled on your table with a basket of bread in the center beside a lit candelabra. A fire warmed the hearth, and the alluring shimmer of dusk slipped in through the clean curtains. All was set. You sat in your armchair and waited, staring at the flames. 

Hoof beats. Sweat chilled your palms as the sound drew nearer and you stood to peer out the window. The dot of a lantern bloomed in the distance. You tucked your shirt into your belt and clutched your shawl tighter, holding your heart to tame its wild beating, fingertips bumping the band of your mother’s ring, still hanging around your neck from a chain. The most important thing for you to do was breathe, slow and even, so your blood could thrum throughout your body as it was supposed to and give you strength. It flowed into your heart and you closed your eyes. 

“Ease up,” a voice called. His voice. 

A horse nickered, blowing out its nostrils. Leather creaked as he dismounted from his saddle and the bit tinkled as he hitched the reins, whistling. You could imagine it all, him fixing and grooming himself as he walked up, expecting a girl who would be so happy to see him and enamored with him that she made her home all nice to welcome him after a noble day of hunting outlaws. 

The jingle of his spur was as foreboding as a snake’s rattle as it marched up the flagstone path. You positioned yourself in front of the stove, bending over the pot with a spoon and stirring the flavorful broth, a smile schooled on your face. 

“Honey pie, you home? It’s me.” 

The picture of a perfect wife, you thought, standing in your inviting home in a cooking apron. He would only see what he wanted, blind to you being capable of anything else. 

“Door’s open!” You chimed, and the doorknob turned. 

Some change at once went through the room. In a heavy, dominant rush it all came back, like the strong winds the night before that rattled the window panes and made the trees plunge and bow. You spent all day distracting yourself from the flashbacks of his lurid words, the fondlings, and the sound of his labored breaths. Anguish seized your throat at the footfalls entering your home once again and the pillar of strength you constructed within, had leaned upon, began to crumble. 

You had a hangnail on your thumb. You discovered this while squeezing your fist tight, tethering yourself to the present. It was a welcome, soft twinge of pain for you to focus on and you picked at it, fixing your eyes on the window. The candle before it illuminated the glass, and you watched the sapphire heart of the flame waver, heard the little hiss of it, and glanced beyond. A sky wistful with waning blue, a sunset throwing gold on all that was green, a hush of wind passing through the leaves, and your reflection blending in between. To take it all in brought you forward in time, to a crackling fire and a bubbling soup, and a purpose hanging over your heart. 

It is not happening again, you reflected. And it will never happen again. 

You were safe, you reminded yourself, safe in the present, grounded, and irrevocably turned to face the man who hurt you in a way no one ever had. You looked at him without seeing him, a dish towel in hand. 

“Come on in, I have some dinner on the stove. It'll be ready in a jiff if you want to hang up your things.” 

“I would be delighted,” was his reply. 

He took off his Stetson, hung it on the hook. The sound of his coat being tugged down his arms and his gun belt unbuckling made your heart beat fast and your fingers curl into your palms again. Shaking, you gripped the edge of the counter. Steam from the bubbling pot kissed your cheeks.  

A chair scraped across the floor. “It smells delicious, sweetness. I’m downright famished.” 

You breathed in and out slowly. He folded his leather gloves beside his table settings and you prepared a dish for him. With a gulp and a clench of resolution, you dipped the ladle deep and unearthed the chunks of vegetables, pouring them artfully into a bowl, spoonful after spoonful.

“Any luck tracking down that gang?” 

He sighed, deep and tired. His elbows knocked on the table as he reached for the loaded bread basket. 

“They slipped through our fingers last night, but we almost had ‘em.” Pulling the loaf apart, he ripped a piece and tucked it into his mouth. 

You rounded the table and laid the baleful meal on his place setting, in a daze as he happily snatched up his spoon. 

“Oh my,” he marveled. The polished silver of the utensil disappeared in the broth and came back up replete with the softened wild bulbs. 

“These onions are quaint,” he commented. 

The lie came to your tongue easily. “They’re called pearl onions. I have them growing in the back.” 

And with a pleased grin, he feasted. You sat across from him with your own bowl, your spoon a special porous one so you could pretend to eat alongside him. He dipped his bread in the soup and drained his glass greedily, refilling it himself from the pitcher you set on the table earlier. Before long he scraped the bottom of the bowl and you replenished it. 

You tried not to pay attention to his sordid aspect. The way he sniffed loudly and chewed openly, the dirtiness of his face from riding, the grease slicking his unwashed hair and the matted tips of his mustache, his eyebrows also unkempt and overgrown. You fixed your eyes to the grain of the wood instead, ate your bread with a slice of cheese and a handful of walnuts, munched on the salad of spring greens you prepared, all the while waiting for time to take its natural course as the toxins of the ostensible pearl onions invaded his system. 

“You’ve been quiet,” he observed. His hunger appeared to sate as he scraped up the last dregs of his supper, affording his utmost attention back to his hostess. “Why won’t you look at me?” 

You lifted your chin from your palm. Something in his expression shifted with awareness. 

“Is this about last night?” he went on. When you remained simmering in your silence, he deflated. “Listen, I–I didn’t mean to get so rough with ya. I was drunk, and I’m sorry.” 

Your insides twisted and flamed, refusing to be quelled. You shot up, turning your back to him and crossing your arms as you faced the window. 

“You’re sorry?” you seethed. A drum pounded in your ears; it was the mad pulse of your heart. Tall in your judicial resolve, you whirled and directed your fury towards him in its full magnitude. “Not a bone in your body is capable of being sorry,” your voice shook, low in its tenor. “You saw an opportunity to take advantage of me and seized it. The way you spoke to me—degraded me—it’s impossible for me to believe you didn’t enjoy every moment of your vulgarity.” Split flew as you scoffed at him. “Regret is not within you. Not when I see now that you planned it. All along.” 

He broke into a laugh of disbelief and leaned back to survey you. The worst kind of smile distorted his face, as if your fit of temper delighted him. 

“Yer actin’ like you didn’t want it. Like your cunny wasn’t drippin’ wet for me–” you lunged forward, vision red and nostrils flaring, ready to seize his neck in your hands and crush his windpipe like the frail stalk of a vegetable, but stopped, grasping the back of your chair instead. You despised the idea of having to touch him and were reminded that you would not have to get your hands dirty to kill him. But you were prepared to. How much longer could you stand his gloating and his shameless iniquity? The wood of the chair’s cross rail creaked beneath your unforgiving knuckles. The Sheriff smirked at your little display. 

“I think you’re just ashamed and don’t know how to admit that you liked it,” he argued, pointing his finger at you; then he shook his head. “What nerve you have, bein’ a little cocktease with me. But I didn’t treat you like those whores in town, no, I went out of my way to…to enamor you, bringin’ you flowers while you greeted me in your garden in your lace and your pretty smiles, a pie coolin’ on your windowsill. You know my dear Carolynn never blessed me with a child, and here you were,” he gestured to your frame and the home around you. “Takin’ on the responsibilities of housekeepin’ all by yer lonesome. All you needed was a man to take care of you, and I could be that man. Honey, I want to marry you. I could make you happy! Can’t you picture it?”

Flushed from his diatribe, he pleaded with you, half-rising from his seat until you thrust out a hand in warning. Surprisingly, he heeded your tacit command. Disgust curled your lips into a sneer. 

“Marry you?” you echoed, hollow with disbelief. Your vision blurred and you blinked against the mounting tide of revelation washing over you. His mindset, his reasoning, it was unfathomable, and you struggled to piece together a sentence. “This whole time…that was your object? And you thought that by—by trapping me, and giving me no other choice, that I would accept you?” 

His eyes rolled heavenward and frustration flashed across his oily face. “Lord knows I’ve been patient,” he gnashed his teeth, voice raising a note higher. “I didn’t want any other man to have you. What, you think you’re meant for one of those half-witted grangers in town? They don’t know the first thing about women, let alone how to keep one as pretty, smart, and pure as you. You know it’s downright sinful to keep such gifts to yourself.” 

His words were worse than his touch. You had not one to describe your own sensations; the shock of his inflicted on you completely suspended your power to think and feel. 

“Sinful…” you wandered over his meaning. “You’re a hypocrite.” Releasing the chair, you stepped away a few paces and shook your head, huffing to contain your brimming despisal for this man. You refused to listen to him any more. All throughout the day strands of thought had weaved through your head, firmly knotting into what the shame made you believe about yourself. That you were ruined. That you were worth less. He must have thought he was paying you some kind of compliment, saying what he said. The refutation rose in you to a forbidding height, like the dust before a whirlwind, and your lips parted to release your final judgment of him. 

“You don’t know the first thing about me: about what I want, or what I need. What you did was assume. You assumed I wanted someone to come around and sweep me off my feet, save me from my solitude, and you assumed that I wanted you. A gluttonous, arrogant, entitled pig who can’t take responsibility for his own actions, who would rather blame them on the beast at the bottom of the glass,” you spat with venom. Emotion began to wrack your voice, lifting and dropping it like the swell of a wave, but you plowed forward, pinning him to his seat with the fearsome gleam in your tear-stricken eyes. 

“The worst part about it is you could’ve made your intentions clear! I could’ve been spared from all this pain if you had only the stones to be straightforward. But I guess the prospect of your hurt pride was too much to endure. Deep down, you knew the only way you could have me was unwillingly.” 

Your hand clutched at your breast, wrinkling your shirt and tangling in your necklace chain. You let go and charged forward again, and this time, the chair rail snapped in your hands at your final word. 

“You had no right. You’re the most pathetic excuse of a man I’ve ever seen, and I’ll be glad to see you drop dead.” 

At the crack of wood he sneered. No longer tolerating this speech, he stood, and for a fleeting moment you shrunk back. Until his hand—his fat, pallid hand, still bearing a wedding band—braced itself on the tabletop and he wobbled on his feet. Blood rushed to his face and a delta formed in his forehead as he blinked at the ground, as if his vision was filled with spots while his legs drooped unsteadily beneath him. He clenched his gut and groaned. 

A griefless laugh croaked from you. “You know, they say that wishes and dreams have a winding way of coming true. It looks like you are gonna spend the rest of your life with me, Sheriff.” 

His sight fixed itself on the bowl in your place setting, at the spoon resting in it, and how none of your portion was consumed. He had the look of a man who realized something too late. The vein in his neck fluttered and his breaths sawed in and out of his lungs. Sweat dotted his temples and a thread of saliva spilled from his wobbling lip. 

“Wh–what did you d-do?” He choked out. 

The compass of your soul spun and whirred, before the ruby-tipped point settled decidedly south. 

“What I had to.” 

As his knees gave out beneath him, the Sheriff clutched the table’s edge, and the peaceful, law-abiding chapter of your life ended. The scent of bile fouled the air as he retched and retched, his body rejecting every morsel of the Death Camas he had stomached, and the pallor of his skin colored to that of fish’s belly before the monger’s crude knife carves it open. Not a twinge of sympathy or regret rippled inside as he fell helpless to the floor. Not at his struggle for breath, at his uncontrollable muscle spasms, or the chunks of undigested food dangling from his chin. He would lie there, wheezing and convulsing in a mound of his own vomit, until his heart stopped. You had no desire to watch, and you had no desire to wait any longer for your meteoric flight from this tainted place of grief and despair. 

You unlatched the trunk in your bedroom and sifted through your belongings. Two saddlebags quickly filled. You packed the essentials: bedding and a camp outfit, medicine and provisions, clothing for severe weather, and valuables to fence. Rummaging through the kitchen, yanking open drawers and cabinets, you moved mechanically, occupying your mind with a plan moving forward, all the while a man lay dying on your floor, twitching and choking, sightless and inert. His breath was a mere rattle as you dressed yourself for travel and long riding, laying your necklace with your mother’s ring inside a sack for safe keeping. This was not the time for thoughts and moral ruminations, it was the time for action. 

It would buy you time–and perhaps forego a bounty altogether–if you buried the body. His absence from town would not go unnoticed, but—Oh, yours would not either. Regardless, your next course of action began to formulate itself. You would need a shovel, a rug or a blanket, and a lantern, for the sun had dipped below the horizon and would not light your path. 

As the night closed darkly in, the sunset folded its wings over the rib cages of clouds; the last pulse of color on the shore of the world a glowing, molten shade of marmalade. Insects clacked and clicked in the dusk as you stepped out in your hunting jacket, hoisting your supplies over your shoulder on the dirt path to the stable with a lantern swinging in your free hand. White moths flittered around the light and followed in your grim, resolved wake.

You hung the lamp on a hook behind the creaking door, illuminating the hay-strewn space. Bridles, bits, and martingales populated the wall inside the stable, with rakes and shovels propped up from the ground. An empty wheelbarrow served as a temporary home for your provisions, setting them inside so you could perch yourself on a stool in the corner to strap on your spurs. 

Willa shifted on her hooves to adjust to the weight of the various sacks and pouches you affixed to her saddle, but she complied with a trusting snort. You spoke to her kindly, stroking her forehead, knowing that she was listening in her own way and understood her importance to you. Without her, you would be alone. Without her your future, your freedom, it would all be infeasible. You led Willa out into the night, a shovel tucked under your arm and your lantern restored in hand. 

An owl hooted and a pack of coyotes yipped and yowled, the sound carrying throughout the valley. Willa’s keen ears flicked, along with her long tail, and you gestured for her to wait behind the cottage, hitching her to an oak sapling. You intended to trudge through the muck of the funereal situation as quickly as possible while the night breeze slipped cool fingers through the forest and snuffed out the last tendrils of daylight. You marched back into the firelit house for the last time.  

The stench hit you first. Foul and nose-wrinkling, you tugged your collar up against the smell and regarded the log of the Sheriff’s body, lying rigid. In death, he soiled his pants, as all men do. The body releases everything and the muscles stiffen and lock, blood stagnates in the veins, the skin purples, the tongue lolls out, and the eyes fix wide open to meet the unknown. Nature takes its course. Flies are drawn by some promising whiff of a feast in the air and consume the dead flesh in a quivering swarm of greed. Time passes. Maggots crawl. And bones will be all that remain, until, some day, they are dust for the wind to claim. 

He was the one you rushed to when you found your grandmother cold in her bed. He was the one who arranged for the church to collect and prepare her body for burial beside your parents in the local graveyard. He was one of the persons who offered you words of comfort during the funeral. 

He was the man who hurt you most in the world. 

And he was no more. 

It was a yawning, black moment, the one in which you stood, hesitating on some windy pinnacle, reflecting on not what will be, but what, long since, has been. Your throat choked around nothing. What has become of you? The future stretched out before you gray, interminable, and desolate. Thoughts crowded thick and fast in your mind, and you imagined carrying out the rest of this act—covering his body, dragging it across the floorboards, the weight of it, the slack look on his face, the creases of his fat fingers outstretched from his limp hand, and you knelt to the floor with a gathering horror of your deed, a tremor pulsing in your throat, your heart crumbling to the same ash dropping in the dim fireplace. 

A numbness possessed you to pull up the corners of the rug, to nudge his body to the center of it with your foot, to wrap the carpet around his form and tuck him inside. To do what needed to be done. Your mind turned off. It had to, for it was the only way to endure. There was no choice left for you. But you wished you had listened. To the night, to the change in the wind, for the footsteps of fate and the creeping shadow of the terrible god of chance stepping into your doorway, eclipsing your hope of escape from this dire strait. A darkness was gathering in the hush; the kind something crouches within.  

Fate is a weaver, poised at a loom; the spider over your garden gate. It works silently and unseen, amidst an intricate and silvery web, attaching invisible strands of possibility along a path leading to an inescapable epicenter. Fate, with its nimble clutches, spins and entwines, pulls one thread, wends the other, until the time comes when the unwary traveler reaches a pivot point, the moment when their life goes down one path or another, and the spider strikes the grappling victim caught in its web.  

Back first, you dragged the carpet bearing the Sheriff’s body outside your door. His boots stuck out from the roll, thumping along the ground as you grunted with the effort of transporting him, using the strength behind your legs to shuffle farther along. The light from inside spilled out along the flagstone path, and as you stopped to establish a stronger, more efficient grip, your ears pricked at a pair of unfamiliar spurs clicking and scuffing to a halt behind you. 

A pin-drop silence encased the air. 

Your heart froze. Ice enveloped your ribcage and crystallized the blood inside their elaborate vessels, each breath serrating through your chest like a razor. For a time, only the stars moved with their twinkling. Slowly from the ground, inch by inch, you turned your head and your sight rose to the face of the intruder, the sole witness to your grisly act, and you almost laughed at how twisted fate could be. 

A faltering deputy was fixed in place on the path, taking in the undeniable scene before him. He was no stranger. You recognized him in that slant of dandelion light by the curled tip of his nose, his ruddy cheeks, and the cleft in the middle of his chin. His beard was strong, a shade darker than his hair and not so red as his skin, and he had grown into his jaw, the line of which had become more pronounced and square. He wore wrinkled pants tucked into worn, dusty boots, with his lanky frame swallowed by a long duster, a vest beneath it buttoned all the way, and a gun belt sagging around his hips. Ungloved hands hung at his sides, fingers that long ago squeezed the curves of your budding body dangling emptily. 

Though he scarcely looked it, he was the boy from the orchard with russet hair and dimples all those years ago, whose mother treated you like her own; but he had grown since that uncomplicated beginning. How a broken collarbone led to a friendship, which ripened into an affection and concluded in bitter resentment, was unforeseeable at the time. You never guessed that the two of you would end up like this.    

“Gideon,” you breathed. “What are you doing here?”

The hungry, sweeping motion of his mouth against yours invaded your mind. In the blink of a moment like this, despite the current of the years that swept past and weathered away the discomforting, stony edges of the memory, you could relive the minutest details of your past with him: the sloppy tangle of tongue and teeth and the scratch of an adolescent mustache; the mopey, beseeching expression on his face, begging for more of you. A chill crept across your skin at the remembrance of his neediness and desperation, making it hard to look at him, shame rooted so deeply in you. 

He uttered your name in the same stunned tone, his mouth agape until he swallowed his alarm. “It’s been a long time,” he said, and his eyes, murky, silver, and cold—like a pond in winter—cut to the sagging roll of carpet in your arms. An unmistakable pair of boots stuck out. “And I see much has changed.” 

None of your muscles moved—but the weight of the deceased tired your arms and you ached to rest them. You slowly lowered the rug to the ground, your eyes never leaving one another’s.  

“This isn’t what you think it is.” 

A disbelieving scoff left him. “What I think it is,” he echoed. “I’m thinking that better not be who I think it is. I’m thinking ‘she went from breaking men’s hearts to stopping them altogether’,” his long legs carried him forward and your spine stiffened. His face came into the light. You shrank back. “Something tells me you don’t have one of Dutch Van der Linde’s boys wrapped up in there. See, I knew the Sheriff would be here tonight, and that’s his horse hitched there,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the animal. “You have five seconds to produce the man I’m looking for alive and well or I’m taking you in.” 

You wished to heaven you could think of a way out of this. What vestige of freedom you could still secure was within your grasp and it made your teeth grit that the bitter waters of life would surge high once again at this crucial hour. It figured; the final wave for you to overcome came in the form of Gideon Taylor, the pouty boy who you had no remorse for jilting. Your fists clenched beside you and you lifted your head, standing tall, measuring and meeting the danger of his presence. 

Holding his stare unblinkingly, you pitched your voice low, words growing frost. “You should leave.” 

Though he had a gun and lasso on his hip and an inflated sense of superiority to empower him, Gideon hesitated. 

“I will, once you tell me where the Sheriff is.” 

His spurs jangled. He spoke to you cautiously, as if you were a skittish animal about to bolt for an impenetrable thicket, the flit of his eyes gauging your every move, and his hand rose out to you while he subtly reached beside him. 

Before you a narrow avenue of escape flickered, shrinking smaller and smaller like the last sliver of the moon in the dark of an eclipse. 

When lightning flashes, the precise amount of moments that pass between the initial burst of light and the thunder that follows measures the distance between the strike and the listener. A blink, a heartbeat, a slow breath. That was how much time you had to act, before the thunder came and the earth trembled. In that slow, blinking, beating instant, you knew how this would play out. 

When his gun began to clear leather your instincts kicked in, quick as a snap. You leapt backwards into the house, throwing the door shut. Fumbling with the bolt, the rusty metal bar slogged its way through the lock, making you cry out in frustration as you strained to jiggle it forward. The bolt slid home the instant Gideon’s shoulder rammed against the boards. 

Your teeth rattled at the battering of the frame. He charged against it repeatedly and your eyes, in darting about the room, snagged on a buffet table. Praying the old lock would hold, you rushed to push it in front of the door and the furniture groaned as you shoved it in place, only for Gideon’s attempts to break in to cease. 

“So, we’re doing this the hard way?” Gideon yelled through the door. Your heartbeat thumped in your ears and your face grew hot at the rushing of blood. You moved to extinguish all the lamps and candles, flooding the room in darkness and the lacy scent of candle smoke. His voice came again a moment later.

“Shit, what the hell did you do to him?”

The body. Beyond the threshold. He must have peeled back the rug, looked upon the Sheriff’s vacant eyes and felt his clay-cold cheeks. A leaden weight sunk into the pit of your stomach. There was no escaping what you did. But a small chance remained to evade capture. You could sneak through the back window and mount Willa quietly, get a head start before Gideon gave chase. You could lose him in the woods near Lady Face Falls and follow the water north—

A bullet crashed through the window. You dropped to the floor. Moving forward, you crawled towards the bedroom, covering your head with your hands whenever glass shattered and chunks of wood flew. Along the way your foot slipped through a sludge of the Sheriff’s vomit and your knee banged against the wood. You bit your cheek so as not to cry out in disgust and pain and shuffled slimily onward by the heels of your hands.

Gideon fired off six shots in total before you made it safely to the other room. Quietly, tortuously, you unlatched the window and pulled it up by the handles in increments to prevent any sound while outside Gideon cursed to reload his weapon faster. You winced as it gave a squeak, but the noise was muffled by the breaking of a window in the front room. A heavy stone’s thump followed after. 

Gideon called out in the dark. “Are you gonna come willingly or do I have to shoot you? There’s nowhere to go!” 

The night air beckoned. Without another thought you swung a leg over the sill and ducked out, making a break for Willa. Behind the cottage, you slid down a slippery bank of pine needles until you reached your moonlit mare, grasping the smooth horn of the saddle and clambering astride to get a move on.

“Ya!” With a kick to her flank, Willa gave a jolt and a toss of her head before starting forward. Moments. You had bought yourself moments to escape, merely. Snatching up the reins, you seated yourself properly and urged Willa through the grove of trees, hunching low to dodge the lash of branches. 

She moved with a swift determination beneath you. With hooves heavy upon the earth, she sensed your urgency. Twigs snapped and spears of moonlight shot through the pine canopy as you wove through a wide belt of trees, your breath coming hard and fogging in the air. 

The lane of a meadow came into view and you burst through the tree line, into the moon-bright open. Willa vaulted over a fallen log and landed in the muddy grasses, your rear hitting the saddle hard while pellets of ice flecked your cheeks as she scudded over a sheaf of unmelted snow.  

“Go, go, go!” Crying out, you nudged her flank again, and Willa obeyed, breathing hard. The prospect of speed and gaining distance from your pursuer outweighed the risk of exposure, riding in the open like this. Her pace transcended into a gallop. You clung tight, blinking against the cold air as it pricked your eyes. The thunder of her feet matched the beat of your heart and the landscape became a blur of stubby trees and boulders smudging past you. In the wind she made Willa’s mane flowed, and you trusted her completely to deliver you from danger. 

A gun fired off in the distance. You were forced to let up, arming yourself with your father’s hunting rifle, the stock firm against your shoulder as you peered down the sight and readied your aim. A quarter of a mile off a glint of moving light came from a lantern, and it struck your heart with a pang to do it—to fix your sights on the pulse of it and fire with violent intent. The sound split through the valley. The empty cartridge ejected. 

Astride his horse, Gideon shouted as it reared up. Your round pierced the dome of his upheld lantern and sent glass and kerosene raining. In the briefly purchased interval you prompted Willa onwards, back into the ponderosas that environed the open meadow and the darkness their bristling boughs afforded before he and his horse finished screaming. 

The farther into the woods you ventured the thicker the trees crept in, until you were forced to a walk. Into the silence of the night you listened, straining for any sound of pursuit. Nothing, only the cold shadows, dim moonlight, and scaly bark of pines passing by your knees. You propped the rifle against your thigh and loaded another brass round into the breech before hopping down from your mount. If the necessity rose again, it would be easier to aim on solid ground rather than swiveling on horseback. 

Pine cones and fallen twigs scattered at your step, and you took care to prowl lightly through the snowmelt. You held Willa’s bridle in one hand, her bit jingling, and led her until the murmur of flowing water pricked your ears. Miserable cold began to set in. At every rustle and riffle of leaf and breeze your eyes snapped to each corner of the woodland on high alert. More than anything, you wished for the warmth of your hearth—to be nestled in your favorite chair like any other evening spent in the solitude of your home. Not gripping a loaded gun in a dark forest, heart racing for your life. 

But at home, you remembered, lay the body of a dead man. To return to such a place was to hold to your ear a shell from the sea of the past, filling you with the hollow echo of what once was and no longer is. Those chapters from before fluttered away—as the seasons did. 

The soil turned mossy and spongy from the lush influence of the river, with trilliums springing up between tree roots and felled, sun-bleached logs. You let Willa walk on ahead, and the music of the water dampened the far-off sounds. Your breath came out slowly as you surveyed the wooded area behind you. 

How smart had Gideon grown in the past few years? Could he track you, undetected? Was he stalking you through the woods, with the patience and guile of a hunter?  In truth, you had no idea what he was capable of, and it made your fingers twitch towards the trigger. Then again, what were you? 

The treetops stirred. A gale whistled down from the mountains, hauntingly cold, and spliced through your jacket, meanwhile the starlight twinkled on. The moonlight turned the river iridescent. Willa drank her fill of water and you settled back into the saddle to trudge downriver. Gideon would lose the tracks you had no time to cover once he reached the stream, but could easily piece together your route. You stowed your rifle and formed a grip over the reins, knuckles over, and moved to fit your boots into the stirrups to give Willa a kick. 

You wondered how you could not have heard it: the low, whisking sound of a twirling lasso. By the time it dropped around your shoulders, it was too late. With a violent lurch you were dragged backwards from your horse into the numbing, snow-fed water. Hard and unforgiving rocks bashed into the side of your face as you slammed into the streambed, the taste of coins flooding your mouth as your teeth cut through your lip and tongue. You wrestled with the unyielding hold of the rope amidst the water flowing around you, the shock of which soaked ice in your blood instantly. Black flowers blossomed behind your eyes. A hard yank snagged the air from your lungs and pulled you free from the chaos of the current. 

Coughing, spluttering, blinking and gasping, twigs and gravel scraped your palms and before you could brace your hands against the silt someone else’s pinned them together and pushed you on your stomach. 

“You’re not gettin’ away now,'' a voice hissed. You remembered those hands on you years before, stronger since, and contempt flamed up in you, compelling the fight in your limbs to kick and scramble beneath Gideon’s hold. 

“Quit makin’ this harder for me than it already is!” he snapped. With force, he wrapped the rope around your wrists in a tight bind. All that was left to fight him with was your ankles and you thrashed your knees to shake him off, but the solid weight of him prevailed. 

“No,” you groaned, and it took all of your strength to. The rope bound your feet together, and a stupor sludged your limbs from the shock of the cold water. You were flipped onto your back, flinching at a face you were loath to look into. Gideon shook you by the shoulders and your eyes rolled.

“Tell me why! Why did you kill the Sheriff?!” 

The river still roared in your ears. Water dripped down your neck, bunched in your lashes. You thought they might turn into icicles, like the great big ones that hung from the cottage roof in the wintertime. Senses dulled and dazed, you could hardly see from the blur of tears and cold, but you caught the echo of his question, and the vial of indignation within you overflowed past the chatter of your teeth and the shivering of your limbs, unable to contain the seething words any longer. 

“You have no idea–” a cough interrupted your speech. “What kind of man you are defending.” 

Blood from the cut inside your lip spattered onto his face and he only blinked as if it were water. His astonishment was beyond expression. By the moonlight, the dark of his eyes narrowed, and you wormed beneath his glaring sneer. 

“He was a great man. Everyone saw the good he did. But you–” he yanked you up from the rocky bed by the elbow, your head lolling. “You were all he talked about. And I tried to warn him about you! You know what he did? He just laughed at me and said I wasn’t man enough to handle you.”

His statement stunned you into silence. Upright, your senses were slow to sharpen with the fog accumulating in your head. The idea of the Sheriff boasting about you to his fellow men sickened you more than the memory of his touch almost. But you had no time to harbor the thought before Gideon dragged you to his mount like a lamb to slaughter. 

Within the narrow, binding circle in which your ankles could shuffle you were pushed along, stumbling over pinecones and driftwood. You were too cold and cut up by the rocks to fight him, but you dug in your heels as you approached the tan horse’s flank, the gelding’s tail twitching. 

You rolled your shoulder as he shoved you harshly forward by the center of your back and searched for your horse desperately. Willa had taken off during scuffle, trotting down the opposite side of the riverbank. You whistled for her, and her head swung in your direction.

Gideon lost what little patience he had and pulled you up by your underarm. “Do I need to gag you as well?” You braced your arm against his horse’s side to keep your footing. “I think I should, since you’ll be savin’ your confession for the judge.”  

“Gideon, stop. Please,” you wheezed. “There was a wrong done to me.” You hoped the pain in your voice would make him pause and see the misery in your eyes, think about the weight behind your words. Maybe he would remember the girl you used to be, and recognize that she was gone, wondering what took the light from her heart. A minnow of doubt darted across his face and his grip nearly faltered, until the breeze blew cold and snuffed any flame of apprehension sparking inside him.

“And you call what you did makin’ it right? Killing a man is against the law,” he elucidated. His spit sprayed across your cheek and you flinched. “But I’ve heard all that I have an ear for. You’re spendin’ the night in a cell.” 

Gideon crouched and lifted you from around the legs, hefting you onto your stomach over the horse’s rump. Blood rushed to your head as your weight gravitated to your abdomen and your muscles strained to support it. The steed’s legs shifted underneath you and you lifted your head with a painful effort to speak your mind as he rounded the horse. 

“The law doesn’t tell you what’s right and what’s wrong; it only says there’s a price to be paid for certain actions,” you snapped. Disdain pulsed through your veins, your blood humming with contempt. 

“Yeah?” Gideon’s feet slotted into the stirrups and he gave a kick, gripping the reins and flicking them to the right. “And you are gonna pay—with your life. What’s that tell you?” 

You balled your fists and squirmed, the weave of the rope digging into your wrists. Gideon started forward, roughly, back into the darkened forest. Your chin knocked against the horse’s hide and you held your head up again. “Men like the Sheriff bend the law in their favor whenever it suits them to get what they want and never pay that price. The law doesn’t protect those beneath it.” 

“Spoken like a true degenerate.” He tossed you a look over his shoulder and scoffed. “God, if my mother could see you now.” At the memory of Mrs. Taylor and her old warmth towards you, you flamed up again, voice coming out in a growl. 

“Oh, you don’t have room in your head for more than one idea!”

“I know better than to listen to this. I know you. A man’s heart is your joy to play with–” 

“And it’s your joy to play the victim! Even now you can’t fathom why I despised you. You filled me with shame. Men like you and the Sheriff, all you care about is what I can give you. My heart, my feelings, they don’t matter. In the face of your desires they mean nothing. They don’t so much as cross your mind. The Sheriff took advantage of me and he would do it without a second thought over and over again unless I stopped it!”

“Shame?” Gideon turned back to you. The cold pinked the tips of his ear and nose, his knuckles also red from their place on the bridle. He went quiet for a moment before going on, the scenery passing by vaguely in shadows and shafts of moonlight. Your sternum ached at the pressure accrued from resting on it, and every time your head bounced along with the rhythm of the horse you glimpsed your bound feet on the other side. 

He spoke softer this time. “You must not remember how sweet I was on you when we were together. But the way you turned so sour so suddenly, when I could’ve sworn you liked me just as much…it made my head spin more than anythin’. I didn’t know what I did wrong.” 

The confession strummed a somber chord within you, twisting your expression grimly. You stepped out of the present, back into the years, while Gideon emerged from the cover of the woods and picked his way onto a pale ribbon of trail that wriggled ahead like a snake. A sign post at the fork heralded the one mile marker to the main road into town, painted white and chipping.

“We were so young. We were children, Gideon. It wasn’t love.” 

It struck you that, at the age you spoke of, you did not know how to say no—the word not being something girls were taught. What you knew of women’s’ relationships with men was the expected role they fulfilled: giving. Giving affection, pleasure, children, companionship. In theory the rationale was not so terrible. Love was a dream. To be in love was everything. But your tryst with Gideon acquainted you with a breed of men who were used to taking what women were expected to give. Your kiss, your touch, your embrace and your body, these were all special to you; a gift to be bestowed, the chance to do so reveled. Not things you were expected to surrender to the first boy who looked at you lustfully, unconcerned with your true, inner value. You wished you knew that then. 

The train of thought led you, for a glimmer of a second, to believe you could have stopped the worse act inflicted upon you by the hands of the Sheriff. As quick as it came it died. He would have found a way to get what he wanted, regardless of pleas, or strength, or precognition. You were not to blame. Bad people would always exist in the world and take advantage of others, and it was no fault of yours. 

Gideon shook his head, sighed, and muttered to himself. Pivoting, he looked down on you with a pinched mouth, his eyes hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. “Yeah, well. We still knew what we were doing.” The cutting edge of his words dismissed you and he spurred his horse into a faster trot. 

 I think you’re just ashamed and don’t know how to admit that you liked it. A ghost whispered. The soft choke of his death rattle gripped your memory and you flinched from it.

The hardheaded hold Gideon held on his grievances made your teeth clench. If only the perfect string of words existed to compel him to release them, you would draw the strands from the air, thread them together into a net, and cast their influence over his mind to pluck his heartstrings and make him remember the boy he once was; the one who looked upon you so fondly. But the notion came to a halt at that, for was he ever a boy capable of thinking beyond his own wishes, considering the thoughts of others? 

“You’re so selfish. You’ll never change,” you found yourself saying without thinking. But he did not catch your words, and you spoke up as your despisal surged anew. “Maybe you knew what you were doing when you groped me, and ground yourself against me, and kissed me slovenly, but I didn’t. Because maybe you’ve forgotten, but I just sat there. You only ever cared about making yourself happy.” 

He scoffed. “As much as I know you’d like to think it is, this isn’t about what happened between us. I stopped thinking about you in that way a long time ago, along with asking myself why. What you offered—” Gideon cut a withering look to your frame and grunted. “Wasn’t that special. There’s plenty of other girls out there. I’m just glad I didn’t end up in a goddamn carpet.” 

Further and further away your hope slipped. Your heartbeat pounded in your head, making it throb and ache as you hung over the horse’s side and your feet grew numb. Inevitably, water pricked your eyes. A chill breeze brushed past your nose and snot began to dribble from the end of it while your vision blurred and your voice broke.

“There is no getting through to you, is there?” 

In reply, Gideon only spurred his horse to trudge an incline in the road and leaned back in the saddle, steering away from the deeper patches of snow. A knot formed in your throat as you choked down useless tears. He owed you nothing. His nature was not understanding, or reflective, or critical of himself. It was self-righteous and vindictive. The conviction rested in his eyes as unyielding as the laws of justice. An ounce of sympathy from him was as likely as drawing blood from a stone.

Bitterly, your head fell, and you sucked your quivering, gashed lip. One last time, you tried to implore him. One last time, you sought your freedom, because it was the only thing you had left to lose. 

“You can let me go. I’ll never come back here! Whatever you’re trying to prove, you don’t have to–” 

And he slapped you across the face to shut you up. 

The strike stung like nettles and your ears rang. Shrinking away, your mind blanking with static and noise and blinding white despair, fresh blood spilled from your lips from the slap and your trembling body remembered how cold your dip in the river had been. Worse was the wind, billowing down from across the distant mountain peaks, and the shivers set in deep. The trot of the horse went on, up a hill and off the trail through the terrain once more.

In silence, in anguish, in defeat, you wept. Over the side of a horse, bound, slapped, and subdued, you wept and embraced the taste of salt. For your lost girlhood. For the grandmother who raised you and the mother who did not have the chance. For your life, for the ruination of your dreams, from the unfairness of it all. Was this the harvest of all that had been planted for you? Bone-weary, you slumped against the animal’s hide and let yourself rock with each step. If only sleep could take you. You were ready for all of this to be over, to be a dream you could wake from in a sweat and try your best to forget. Bleeding and shivering, you longingly ached for something to fetch you out of your present existence, and lead you upwards and onwards, but you had no heart left for anything. 

Glancing up at the sky, a bank of clouds enveloped the moon. Over wood, over water, the flood of its silver radiance receded, the ensuing darkness weaving a mystery in every drop of dew and creaking branch. An owl hooted, but its mate did not answer. The stars did not have any either as you searched for them.

The tall trees rustled, violently unsure, and the night breeze carried a sickly sweet scent in its passing, as if stirring something hidden under rotting leaves. As Gideon passed beneath them, the ragged shadows cast from the spruces closed in, and in the gloom an old stone rose from the earth like a grave. It may as well have been your own. Darkened by the color of moss and damp, the granite ledge presided over the forest, sundered by some glacial movement from the mountains eons ago while death and rebirth churned in the woods all around. 

Unable to face what was to come, you turned your head. But in so doing, you caught sight of Willa trailing you from a short distance, the spot of white on her forehead unmistakable, and your tears subsided. Your heart glowed and lifted; a wobbly smile dimpling your cheeks. Graceful and poised, steadfast and resilient, she trotted in the passing shadows like she was of its fabric, her coat the same shifting shades of moonlight while she moved like a river, the sinews of her forearms and chest a changeful, inky black above her socks of white. Her hooves were too soft to hear in the spongy dirt. 

Willa’s softly brown and gleaming eyes held a star in them. Every journey you embarked on, she was beside you. She carried your bushels of burdock root and feverfew and fireweed back to your cottage without complaint, conveying you home through the forests and switchbacks countless times, and in turn you took care of her since the day your grandmother bought her from the livery.

The events which occurred in the past day loosened your foothold on your sense of self. But in that moment, pondering Willa, it came back to you. You remembered who you were, and what you believed you were meant to be. A girl brought up to respect the Earth and revere it, who kept hope in her heart always, and dreamed that she could be loved. With crystalline clarity, your mind broke free from its chains and a wind stirred a flame back to life inside of you.

From a drained well of will, you gathered your strength, braced yourself for another struggle and one last trial of endurance. While you raced to think of a way to cut your binds, Gideon’s head snapped around, and you stopped. His revolver was drawn in a flash and his horse whinnied and raked its hooves. He fixed his eyes on the tree line and you strained for any telltale sound while his gelding started to canter to the side uneasily. Something spooked it.                                

“What is it?” you hissed. He ignored you.

A twig snapped close by. “Who goes there?” he called out. Not far off, a ribbon of campfire smoke wove up into the night air and you squinted at the shadows.

Gideon tugged the reins hard to the left and clicked his spurs, venturing to investigate and evade the open clearing. Your head joggled with the movement and you grunted. A patch of ground ahead, though sideways from your point of view, appeared odd, misshapen, the thick carpet of pine needles too obvious to be natural. But Gideon was not watching his tread and aimed his horse’s walk right over it.

A dire creak made you freeze.

“Look out!”

It was too late.

A shrieking snap, and next, the wind was in your ear as the earth gave out from beneath. With a cry, the horse stumbled and reared and everything went upside down. Your heart seized during a timeless, weightless, airless second as a lattice of concealed logs collapsed beneath the load of Gideon and his horse, and you all fell in an outcry.

The sap and pine scent of fresh wood rushed up your nose as it cracked all around you. Unable to reach out for anything or protect your face, the sharp edges of branches snagged at your clothes and stabbed at your sides, needles scraping and stinging your skin. When the slamming force of the ground ended it all, a spike of wood tore a scream from you as it impaled your thigh.

The tumult fizzled to a static in your ears. You roiled on the dirt floor of the manmade pit, curling into yourself like a pill bug at the hot, pulsing throbs of pain in your leg surrounding the intrusion. You cried out at the unbearable and debilitating burning shooting throughout your body. Throat raw, vision white, breath sawing raggedly, your senses came clear enough for half a moment to observe Gideon, still astride his hysterical animal, gripping the bridle and urging the horse out of the pit. He kicked it harshly to vault over the rim back to solid ground.

He spared you one glance before riding off, and left you.

Tears stung your eyes and you wailed out your pain freely. Scratching at the rope around your wrists was useless, your nails only drew blood. All over, your body ached with bruises and fatigue, and it depleted all of your strength to focus on your breathing alone. Frustration and pain tangled in your chest like a mass of snakes, warring each other, and all you could to do alleviate the pain was roll onto your uninjured side. Your leg gushed like an oil-well.

Once everything started to fade, time ceased mattering, and you slipped in and out of consciousness. You blearily wondered why you were still fighting. A cold sweat chilled your neck and your chest palpitated unbearably.

Sounds from afar, beyond the pit, invaded your ears. There were hoof beats. The shouts of more riders, pursuing Gideon most likely. He would be rounding up what was left of the Sheriff’s posse, going after this gang that has been troubling this valley the past few days. No doubt this pit was dug by them, a trap for someone who got too close to where they were camped out. The whole town would be in a frenzy, meanwhile you...fading, languishing in the dirt…no one would find you in time…

With a quavering sigh, you began to let go. There was only so much your body could take; it would so much easier to sink into this grave than crawl your way out. To breathe became like listening to a lake lap a shore with its waves, growing fainter, quieter, and more still.

The moonlight was serene, and the coolness of this cavity of earth was welcome. Tree roots poked from the stratified layers of dirt, worms and centipedes clinging to the moisture therein. Above, a scuff of needles and a snort announced the presence of your most trusted friend.

Willa whickered, eyes finding your curled form in the pit. She paced around the edges. What remained of your hope ached. Through a glaze of tears you tried to speak, to soothe her, but no sound broke from you other than a whimper. But you were not alone. Never alone…in these woods…these mountains…with these familiar stars above…until unknown, male voices dispelled the cloud hovering over your thoughts.

“I’m telling you, I heard something. Someone in pain.”

Footsteps, a pair of them. You fought to stay awake, aware, but your willpower was slipping like the final sands through the waist of an hourglass.

“It’s probably another one of them law boys,” someone grumbled. “Maybe we caught one.”

“As soon as Dutch gets back we need to skip town without kissin’ the mayor goodbye.”

“You’re telling me. We should’ve left after that business last night.”

A haze began to drift over you again, sweeping you under the blessed numbness unconsciousness promised. Your eyelids were so, so heavy.

Willa nickered, the white of her eyes showing as the pair of men presumably approached her.

“Whoa, easy there.” One of the men regarded her, gently shushing and calming her in a matter of moments. In a way only you could—

“Look.”

“It’s a girl. Tied up like a steer.”

A gun being holstered, a thump of feet, and you were no longer alone. A shadow passed over the moonlight on your face. It was too dark to see, to know if you were about to be saved or damned by whoever was crouching over you. Dimly, you hoped you looked too powerless and broken to be mistreated.

“Pl—please,” your weak words tasted of copper. The apricot glow of a lantern warmed your face, and you looked up into a pair of eyes you trusted instinctively.

“What happened here?” The man who asked you this was older, with graying blond hair swept beside his temples. You had never seen him before. He had deep lines beside his shrewd eyes and his mouth was grim, but a kindness of understanding softened his countenance. It had been such a long time since any sincere compassion had looked at you through eyes other than your grandmother’s.

“Deputy—was bringing me in—left me here—“a spasm of pain interrupted your slurred speech. Wincing, you gestured to your thigh with your chin, seeing the pool of red darkening your pant leg for the first time. “Can’t move.”

The older man’s companion joined him in the light of his lantern. He was younger; tall and well-built, with a gun belt slung across his hips replete with ammunition, the brass of his bullets shining. A satchel hung from his side and he unsheathed a hunting knife attached to his belt. The quick gleam of it filled you with uncertainty.

“Easy, miss,” he raised his hands. “We don’t mean you any harm. I’m just gonna cut you free. Hold still.”

In a few saws of the blade the rope loosened its pitiless hold over your limbs; the relief of clutching your wound with your own hands was enough to make you sob. The men grew quiet, considering your condition. All of the blood was draining from your head, like it was all racing to escape out of your leg. The chunk of wood was buried in it, likely holding back a gushing torrent of crimson like the river miles and hours back. You wanted nothing more than to yank it out. It had not gone all the way through.

“We need to take her to a doctor,” the older man asserted, and his companion made a noise of protest. “I don’t know if Susan and Bessie can patch this up.”

“No—“ you cut him off, as forcefully as you could. “I can’t—I can’t go back there,” your breath began to labor and dizziness crept in as you moved to sit with your back against the packed dirt wall of the pit. “They’re gonna—gonna hang me, for killing that awful man.”

Clutching the wound, the blood oozed out warmly between the webs of your fingers, the dark, iron scent of it pungent in your nostrils. Air hissed out sharply between your teeth.

The two men looked to each other in mute discussion.

It left you in a sad whisper: “You should just leave me here.”

“We’ll help you.”

“We will?”

“Arthur.”

The fading began in earnest. You were incapable of protesting what came next. A pair of hands grasped your elbows, guiding you to your feet, which only stumbled because there was no strength left in your legs. Boneless, a broad chest caught you, your head lolling in the pillow of an arm, your nose grazing the fur of a jacket, and you burrowed into the scent of smoke and forest with a groan.

“We need to get back.” The lantern flame was doused, and the arms surrounding you lifted you in their hold. Your lashes fluttered to catch a glimpse of him, the man who held you, but his hat cast a shadow over his gaze and the night around him was dark with blue.

“You’ll be safe with Arthur, miss,” a voice said, but you were far away, lost to memories and hollow dreams. They dragged you down deep with pictures of bluebells in a water puddle, of lightning flashes through a curtain, of useless wrists beside you.

Your last awareness was of a sky made of woods and branches, with all of its stars perishing.

[lucie-newman]

Where: Polished Brass Market When: February 21st Who: Capped (5/5)

The problem with moving into her own place (well one of the problems) was that Lou owned no furniture. She had a childhood bedroom set but nary an end table to her name. So, as she was apartment hunting, she was also thrifting. Buying rugs, paintings, silverware, dishware, towels and the like. This, she concluded, was what a stationary life was, the slow inclusion of things. The weight of which eventually anchored you into place. She was at the market this afternoon, testing her impulsivity to the limits. "What do you think?" she asked. She held up a uniquely shaped lamp. "Cute or weird?"

[camille-lachenille]

Kinda related to my previous post: I enjoy restoring tarnished or completely oxidised silver objects, often antiques, and I found a very easy and entirely natural method to make even the most blackened silver shining new. Would anyone be interested in a step by step method on how to easily clean silver (also works on brass and unknown alloys) objects?

Here’s what I already cleaned with success so far:

All the silverware in the house that hadn’t been touched in 25 years

My parent’s matching napkin rings they got for their wedding (and I saw ancient Roman jewellery in better state in some museums)

An antique brooch I thrifted

A brass mortar and pestle no one had touched in over 50 years

A pair of antique embroidery scissors of unknown metal (probably tin or nickel)

A cast iron cauldron (though it was so rusted I couldn’t save it, but I still vastly improved its condition)

[fyrewalks]

“i would always rather know than have you spare my feelings, even when it's hard.” // @entriprises

Bob pushes up his glasses, something to do with his fingers that isn't obnoxiously tapping against the coffee mug steaming in front of him or fiddling loudly with the silverware laid out on the table.

When Nat invited him out for pancakes and coffee, Bob hadn't been sure what to expect. An update on Bradley, probably, or an inquiry on how Bob expected to spend his time while they waited to see what brass decided their fate was to be. There'd been reports and interrogations, but no official word on whether anyone's disobedience during the mission would warrant disciplinary action.

"Is this because of the mission or because you think they're gonna pair us up permanently," Bob asks her. He appreciates her insistence, but it feels rather unneeded - they might not have known each other long, but Bob knows the kind of pilot Nat is.

[masterchefatbaratie]

What are your character's quirks?

A wakeful clamor buzzes the recesses of his head, courtesy of Baratie's previous bustling dinner rush. 

Sanji's focus runs in a short look from a running spout to the filling, uneven stack of plates. The shift of his weight returns him after a brief and disbelieving head shake. 

Brass pops introduce the tinkling of silverware as they topple into a bottomless sink by the fistful. Resulting droplets spring from a swill of discoloring water and spread their suds onto a sleeve.

Sanji's fate leaves him brushing shoulders with the garde manger.

"Did Patty tell you about the drunk?"

A dishrag, damp and cloaking over his fingers, runs slack over the grooves of a gravy boat.

"What, Pat'y had time to look at his reflection during th' rush?" "Hey, I heard that. You want to get that apron off, we can take this outside."

A chill sculpts Sanji's lips from drawing a breath in through his smile. Lights overhead travels his eyes, twinkling them during a tilt of his head. Patty returns the cheeky smile with a wave of well-balanced chagrin and sportsmanship.

"Red-Eyes." Carne redirects the conversation while joining the rich laughter. "He was going on about this story."

"I'm not repeating it-" Patty's voice, now an echo, calls from the backswing of service doors.

"Well," a plate exchanges hands to Sanji, meeting the gap between his thumb and forefinger and cushioned by the towel. "The rumor he started is he raged war against a Sea King. Fought it on its seas and won."

Sanji strains to listen over the burbling of running water and metallic clattering of pans down the assembly. Dark brows scrunch together.

"What'd he do wif it, then?"

Another dish slides to the beginnings of the assembly, held in Sanji's peripheral sporting a wedge of beef speared by a fork, bordered by clumps of unfinished risotto. He doesn't hear Carne's disbelieving remark. His weight props him into a forward lean onto the steel-framed workspace. The dish towel threatens to sag onto the floor from its perch, unnoticed.

Baratie's cardinal rules, Sanji's rule: Do Not Waste Food blazes in his mind. From the angle leaned, an additional dish pans into view, obscured by Carne's stocky frame.

"We're not tossing those dishes," Reassurance carries with a resonant purr over the sloshing of water. It's enough to put Sanji at ease.

Catching the rag by its tangle of threads, he resumes work with several sidelong glimpses to the accumulating pile of dishes that return to them. The food waste, as it always does, hollows him.

As their shift disperses Baratie's staff into the night, and Sanji is left standing in the company of plates, he begins to sift leftovers onto a platter. His stomach wrings in hunger, calling for the shards of vegetables that tumble from another unwashed plate.

It's commonplace that Sanji withholds from eating throughout the day, waiting until the dinner rush for this very reason.

First rinsing off a veritable stack of dishes, he collects his meal and carries it to a corner table, grabbing silverware swathed and left behind for him.

Crossing the threshold of ornate restaurant doors, Sanji embarks on his journey across the dock. A wash of night air envelopes him, tangling blond that hangs over the left eye.

He seats himself by a moored ship and studies the mass of uneaten beef, now cold and flanked with other discarded cuts of meats.

Rather than tempting fate again by trying to recreate something with customer leftovers, he bypasses Zeff's lectures about rampant creativity.

The gnarled cut of beef juts out, overcooked, and excessively scored by a customer's knife. Sanji's fork slants. And, with reverence, he begins to carve- radiating his gratitude long before his teeth sink firmly into the first bite.

He'll not waste of what died to maintain life for the patron who rejected unwanted fragments. Every dish is served from sacrifice. He chews in silence, gathering stale bread with eager hands. Bread deflates in a fizzle of sound from his bite, finishing in a small crunch. His gaze roams with a wandering mind, not towards the groans of a docked ship, but in the direction of the moon. Briefly, he finds his mind absorbed in a story retold by Carne. His smile evolves to a cheery grin, evoked by the wonders of what it must be like to see a Sea King.  His knife meets sinew and a pause holds him. Lowering his head, Sanji's halved gaze follows the smattering of oregano. He opts to leave the piece in question for Zeff, knowing well it will not be thrown away. More than most, both chefs understand what goes into the makings of a dish, and what it is like to wither to bone under the thumb of starvation.

[sacrilegious-skeletal-scribe]

kerosene and other dietary supplements

there’s a dryness in the center of bite wounds, the ones that can’t get all the way through

teeth and saliva and blood; that little semi-circle of perfect fifths

but the skin between remains unblistered, unbroken, dry and calm

it’s funny, as long as a morgue kicking laughter into grief is a joke

if it's still humor when the ouroboros reaches the end of its tail and stares back at itself

eyes and recognition and fear meeting for a second

the moment it takes for a jaw to widen, eyes rolling back in the lunge

and the snake is lust, it is doubt and a choking scream and violence

so tightly coiled it must forfeit sight to part its teeth

directionless and thrashing and begging for someone to do that again

take up shed blade and intent and for god’s sake aim for something important

but mostly it sleeps in your chest, and mostly it isn’t a snake, and mostly you live around it

and it’s not lust

it is anger, enough pain and blood and guilt and violence for a lifetime

astounding what you can fit into fifteen minutes with a little depersonalization and a paring knife

still not lust

but there is a sex to it

something in the movement, in the quiet desperate shuffling

because it’s sex and it's grief and you don't even have to cry during

it’s sex and it's the closest you can get to dying without drawing attention to yourself

it’s tearing your skin down to brass tacks because maybe if you can get at the support hooks you can talk them into fitting correctly

it’s standing in the basin of a church parking lot on a thursday afternoon

slamming god’s finest car door into your forearm until it remembers who it belongs to

it hurts like godfire and it’s the closest thing you can have to sex without taking your clothes off

and it’s lust the same way that shallow midnight anguish is lust

it’s lust like an apology that stalls out, somewhere between bile and teeth

like a rotting pomegranate, like a dead spider, blood and skin and eyes

smeared ever so slightly between your palm and the hole it was trying to escape to

it’s lust for as long as anger has to be yelling

has to seethe and bare teeth and throw plates at raised arms

as long as anger does not realize how to smile, to placate, to pray

(as long as i love you has to be true)

as long as you have to stare unblinking into the wound before it’s allowed to kill you

allowed to pus and rot and burrow through flesh until there isn’t any

lust like a maggot cupped gently into a corpse, bathed in sunlight

it’s lust because the grief counsellor can never dig quite fast enough

hard to keep up with the dirt, armed with your own inertia and twenty court-ordered minutes

and the kind of grief that doesn’t grip the silverware drawer to hurt other people

they never get to weapons made of strangers

to clothing that debrides skin if you fold it right, if you ask nicely

to throwing yourself against nails and teeth and flared collarbones

until the bruises start to slide together, till your skin is too stunned to scream at you

it’s violence but not for anybody else

it’s that godless sex that gets you frowned at, by family and holy men

like all this little fucking conundrum was missing was disapproval

and the bite roils in your stomach now, bile creeping up between cracked teeth

they are vicious and eager and can never sink all the way through

‘cause it’s rotting, that dry little center

and you can’t bring yourself to check just how much progress it’s made

you’ve always looked a little like roadkill, anyway

[localravenclaw]

Hello there! For the ask game: 15 and 28 Have a nice day!

Thank you so much for the Ask, bb! ♡♡♡

15. what do you think of when you hear the word "home"?

as cheesy as it may be, it's my partner. We've moved around a bit together but things never feel too different no matter where we live because of him. He makes everything easier for me and I could gush about how absolutely wonderful he is forever and ever!

28. do you collect anything?

ooh, I collect a bunch of stuff! Both my parents are collectors of antiques. My mum collects antique china and silverware, and my dad collects antique weapons. So naturally, I started collecting antiques myself. 😅

I have a small collection of antique gold jewelry and precious stones. I also collect rare plants and expensive perfumes. But my true pride and joy are my turtles. Every country I visit, I bring home a turtle-themed item, mostly figurines. The older the item, the better. I have an old brass turtle from Cambodia that's probably older than my dad.

[callmebliss]

Apparently it was not enough that I fumbled my very pretty glass-and-brass perfume bottle and spilled perfume all over myself, oh no

While I was at work, the painting that hangs above my desk fell off the wall and wreaked havoc across my desk, including but not limited to knocking that same perfume bottle down (along with a dried rose head, which got soaked atop an empty picture frame) all the way to the floor* and on the way it took out the painted repurposed wooden silverware tray I used as mini shelves on the wall below said painting, plus a brass bowl on my desktop, upending it. The shelves are destroyed. The contents of the bowl - coins, jewelry, loose fake pearls I tend to use to practice knotted bead stringing, perfume sample vials - were scattered across the desk and floor around my chair.

I’ve cleaned up somewhat, but my mini shelves - which I quite adored - are a total loss, and most of the ink bottles I kept upon it are somewhere behind my desk.

Ah well. We reset, rebuild, move forward.

I’m sure I can find a wooden silverware tray somewhere that I can paint and add picture hangers to.

And at least I LIKE the smell of the Florida water cologne that is now permanently emanating from my carpet.

*by random crazy happenstance it landed upright?!?!

[udo0stories]

New York City is the most iconic and most visited city in the United States. With its distinctive skyline, diverse neighborhoods, world-class museums, incredible Broadway productions, and melting pot of cultures, NYC attracts millions of visitors each year. (It’s also the place I call home.) New York City is huge. I mean, ten million people live here. Where do you stay when you’re here? There are so many hotels to choose from. To help you plan your visit and narrow down your options, here’s my list of the best hotels in NYC: 1. East Village Hotel Located in the East Village, my absolute favorite neighborhood in NYC, this boutique aparthotel is run more like an Airbnb than a traditional hotel. You get sent a code before arrival to check in, and there’s no staff or restaurant on site (though an outpost of The Bean, a popular NYC café, is right downstairs). The studio apartments are designed to reflect the neighborhood’s bohemian spirit, with contemporary artistic décor, beautiful exposed brick walls, and lots of natural light. The kitchenettes include a stovetop, refrigerator, microwave, dishwasher, and silverware. Rooms include comfy pillowtop beds, showers with good water pressure, a flatscreen TV, and complimentary bath products. Everything is pretty compact, but in an area with few hotels, this is one of the best-value spots. Stay here if you want to be in a central location with tons of great restaurants and bars at your fingertips.   2. The Marlton Originally built in 1900, this historic boutique hotel in Greenwich Village has been home to many of the area’s bohemian set, including one of my favorite writers, Jack Kerouac (he even penned a few novellas here). I like that the hotel’s extensive renovations still kept its classic aesthetic. The beautiful interior has a stately feel, with ornate moldings, herringbone parquet floors, and vintage furnishings like brass light fixtures, ornate rugs, and custom-made furniture. The staff are super friendly too. The rooms are pretty small, but well designed to make use of the space. They come with flat-screen TVs, comfy beds with plush bedding, wardrobes, minibars, and marble bathrooms. The Marlton is also home to an excellent bar that serves incredible cocktails, and there’s a complimentary breakfast available too. I think it’s the best value for your money in the area.   3. Vocabulary: The Franklin This three-star hotel is in a 19th-century brownstone in the Upper East Side, the neighborhood I live in (if you see me, say hi!). The rooms here are simple, but the hotel has some great perks, like a free 24-hour espresso bar and a standard late checkout time of 12 p.m. The restaurant is currently being renovated, so there’s no breakfast available on-site, but there are tons of places just steps away. The rooms are decorated in a minimal (but cozy) style, with white-painted chandeliers and cute original art. All rooms come with large TVs and comfy pillow-top mattresses, while their larger rooms come with a desk and easy chair. Everything is newly renovated, and the glass-enclosed showers have excellent pressure. The location is great too, as it’s on a quiet, leafy street close to Central Park and Museum Mile.   4. Hotel Indigo This four-star hotel is dedicated to supporting local street art and artists, and you’ll see plenty of their work throughout the building. The rooftop bar, Mr. Purple, is a favorite among locals for fancy cocktails, and on the weekends, the area turns into an upscale club. (Because of that, it’s a 21+ hotel.). There’s even a heated pool on the rooftop too. The rooms boast hardwood floors, bold artwork, and floor-to-ceiling windows with impressive views over the city. All rooms also include Keurig machines, desks, and a minibar (for which you get a $20 USD credit). The bathrooms are large, beautifully tiled, and feature rainfall shower heads. While there’s no breakfast served on site, you’re just steps away from tons of great eateries open at all hours. Overall,

I think this hotel is the best place to stay if you want to experience NYC’s legendary nightlife.   5. The Standard The Standard is one of the best hotels in the city (I think this East Side location is even better than the one in the Meatpacking district). The bar serves some of the best drinks in town and is usually always packed with NY’s fashionable set. There’s a café where you can get breakfast in the mornings too. The recently renovated rooms are gorgeous, decorated in a minimal design with bright pops of color and lots of natural light thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows. They’re pretty big too, especially by NYC standards. All rooms at this four-star hotel feature plush beds, fluffy down pillows, huge flatscreen TVs, Bluetooth speakers, cozy bathrobes, work desks, and stocked minibars. The bathrooms are spacious, with tiled walk-in showers and organic designer toiletries. You’ll also get complimentary access to the nearby Crunch gym (in case you want to work off all the delicious food from the plethora of nearby restaurants).   6. The Library Hotel Everything at this four-star hotel is book-related. Each of the ten floors has a different theme, and all of the 60 rooms have dozens of books that fit within that theme (the hotel has a collection of over 6,000 books!). There’s also a Reading Room lounge with work desks, cozy nooks for reading or writing, and 24/7 coffee, tea, snacks, and drinks. Guest rooms are a good size (for NYC) and feature rich wood furnishings in a sleek, contemporary design, with plush bedding, minibars, flatscreen TVs, desks, and luxury bath products. There’s also free breakfast, a rooftop terrace with a bar that serves literary-themed drinks, and really helpful staff. It’s a quiet respite from an otherwise busy and loud neighborhood. Stay here for a unique experience that’s close to major tourist sites like Times Square, the Empire State Building, and Grand Central Station.   7. The Sherry-Netherland Located on Fifth Avenue, right across from Central Park, this ornate five-star hotel is housed in a stunning Beaux-Arts building. The lobby boasts vaulted, painted ceilings and custom-made chandeliers, and the elevator even has a white-gloved operator, just to highlight how upscale this property is. The property’s Italian restaurant serves breakfast in the mornings, and there’s a fitness center available too. The spacious rooms are elegantly decorated, with mahogany desks, tasteful art on the walls, and large marble bathrooms. All rooms include flatscreen TVs, luxury bath products, complimentary soda, mineral water, and chocolates, and daily newspaper delivery. This is the place to stay if you want to splash out on a classy and timeless NYC hotel experience.

[melis-writes]

well sINCE YOU MENTIONED IT melis (beloved) i want to reiterate how much i loved that drabble you wrote for michael and wanted to see if you'd be interested in writing another one like oh, i dunno, what's going through michael's mind at the end of the first godfather movie during his interaction with kaye and the moment he officially becomes the godfather 👀👀👀 as always i love your writing, your gifs, and i hope u have a splendid evening mWAH 🦁💕

Lion, my beloved!! 🥺💕 Ah yes, let me get into the thoughts of that sexy, evil man once again as he becomes Don this time… Poor Kay witnessing him enter demon mode like that. 💀

Don Corleone.

“Oh, thank God,” Kay murmurs in Michael’s shoulder, embracing her husband. “Looks like we both need a drink, huh?”

Michael rubs up and down Kay’s back gently to soothe her, gazing at his wife solemnly. “Everything’s fine, Kay.”

Kay smiles shyly at Michael as she pulls away from the hug, nodding and turning around to step out of her husband’s office and bring in some refreshments and at least calm everyone’s nerves from all the stress of moving and now Connie’s emotional breakdown which has Kay shaken up.

Michael leans against his office desk, resting his hands over the rim of the desk as he watches his wife—completely fooled, naïve and still under the belief her husband would never come to personally harm someone—leave appearing relieved and relaxed.

Just across from Michael’s office in the hallway is a cabinet set of fine china and silverware holding a variety of aged red wine, whisky and gin; all commonly served to Michael’s men and business partners.

Kay places two clean glasses over a brass tray along with a bottle of whiskey, but it’s the sound of footsteps coming towards Michael’s office that distracts her and causes her to look up.

Kay blinks, watching as Clemenza, Tessio and Al Neri enter Michael’s office as if they’re completely expected to at this very moment judging from the expectant look upon Michael’s face.

Kay pauses, slowing her movements as she and Michael only make temporary eye contact once more for a brief moment before Michael’s attention diverts to Tessio and Clemenza by his side.

Michael’s eyes harden as he remains quiet, allowing Clemenza to raise his hand and humbly low his head, saying, “Don Corleone,” before kissing Michael’s ring.

Tessio also avoids making direct eye contact with Michael, remaining quiet next to Clemenza and keeping his head and gaze low out of respect.

Completely aware his wife is watching him from the hallway, Michael easily blurs Kay out of his mind and environment as he nods at his men, accepting his title rightfully earned, stepping into what his father assumed of Michael but never wanted for him, and taking newfound power and reputation.

It’s not the fact that it’s the Don’s youngest son that came to succeed him would become worthwhile, surprising news to the heads of the other families, but rather everything that Michael believes in, values, strengthens and feeds that will show his enemies, rivals and business partners that the Corleone family will never be the same again.

Michael will not the passive man his father was. He’s prepared to make promises only to make them, follow out on threats immediately or years later to intimidate and spread fear.

Never will Michael kneel to anyone or feel the need to make decisions to undermine his family for the sake of someone else’s.

Michael will break his father’s empire down to build it up again from his cunning and wit. He has no interest in allies or forcing respect; the families will learn to fear him or they’ll be eliminated entirely.

Every move Michael will plan out will be calculated, strategic and unexpected. Where his patience continues, others will become frustrated and fed up, but Michael refuses to relent.

Michael will not give in, and rather than expose potential family weaknesses, he’ll get rid of them permanently. Michael will live by no code that others do not abide by. If it means another war, then so be it.

Michael has never taken issues with bad blood; he knows its not from his family, he knows he does not share the same disgrace the other Dons do.

With everlasting respect to his father and the way Vito Corleone built his reputation, power, lifestyle and family, Michael knows it is no longer respected nor accepted by others.

Compassion and thoughtfulness have no room left in this business expected by bloodthirsty men ready to turn the knife in anyone’s back.

Michael could care less for their reasons; nobody will undermine the Corleone family ever again.

Kay swallows hard, looking upon the face of the man she loves and gave birth to two children for only now he appears like a stranger to her, standing for all the things she’s against.

Kay feels a tugging ache in her heart she can’t explain towards Michael, almost as if she’s witnessing her own husband give away his soul to the very things Michael made Kay feel so safe and secure about; things he promised he would never get into.

The lies are only the beginning.