#but then there's neath dark waters next & voice of no return

[noxtivagus]

my spotify-wrapped.. 🥹💀🤍

[schrijverr]

Promises You Made to Me

Chapter 2 out 3

Aragorn falls for Boromir on their journey. When they realize they share their affection, they also know that the time is not now to act upon them. Both promise to share love once they see the quest done, a promise that long seems a broken oath. Still, the horn was heard in more lands and the Elves have not yet forsaken this world

A Boromir lives AU where they fall in love before Boromir falls at Amon Hen, but Aragorn only learns of his survival after the defeat of Sauron.

On AO3.

Ships: Aragorn x Boromir

Warnings: mourning and Aragorn's bad coping

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 2: Can’t Promise You Kind Road Below

Aragorn did not want to think about the dying face of Boromir, how he had clutched to his clothes in desperate regret, nor how he had looked as if their doom was impending and there was no stopping it.

He hated how when he recalled the image of Boromir, he could only see that Boromir, chocking on his own blood, confessing his sins. He wanted to see Boromir in the flickering light of the fire, his eyes when he talked, but he could not.

Through Rohan, he ran himself ragged trying to find the little ones Boromir had died to protect and when even that task was his no longer, he worked to ensure that the world of men would not fail.

As they rode to Helm’s Deep, he was aware of Éowyn’s eyes on him, but he knew it was not love, for he knew what love looked like. She loved him for the things he could bring her, not for his tales of mischief or his tracking in the wild, just war and valor.

He would not engage with her meaningful looks hoping that they would go away, before he had to deal with them. His soul was smarting still and the affection in her eyes instead of his, hurt more than he could have thought.

When he went over the cliff edge, a small part of him hoped that he would see Boromir again, but instead he saw but an image of him, kissing his forehead as Aragorn had done on Amon Hen, before pulling him up, urging him to fulfill the oath he had made.

Brego trotted slow enough to not jostle him, but it would not have mattered for his mind was consumed by his empty arm and the shadow a smile long gone.

Arriving he heard Gimli through the crowd: “Where is he? Where is he? Get out of the way! I’m gonna kill him!” Then he saw him and hugged him close. “You are the luckiest, the canniest and the most reckless man I ever knew!”

Aragorn hugged back, but he did not have the time for this. His mind had been made up, he needed to save Rohan and then Gondor, for Boromir. It was a truth he had already known, but seeing Boromir in his mind’s eye, pleading with him again, made it a reality once more. He could not give up now. “Gimli, where is the King?”

Legolas also stopped him before he could reach Théoden King, however. “Le ab-dollen,” he frowned and scanned him over. “You look terrible.”

It was a relief, somehow, to have Legolas there, insulting him as of old. The Elf with his long life had more familiarity with grief than most and he tried his best to keep Aragorn on his two legs. A smile broke out on his face.

Then something leathery was pushed into his hands. Boromir’s bracer. It had been torn off during the fight with the Orc and he had felt its absence ever since, holding it in his hands once more made swallowing harder than it needed to be.

“Hannon le.” It was not enough to express all the thanks he had to his friend for saving and protecting this object while he could, even if he did not know whether Aragorn had made it and even if there was no one to return it to. Yet, he hoped his face showed all the gratitude his soul held.

After that he walked on to the King and so he stood and fought for Helm’s Deep, for mankind.

It was a pity that the Elves send to their aid were from the Western border of Lothlórien, instead of the Eastern, which had collected Boromir, since now neither knew that Boromir lived still.

Gandalf prevented him from marching directly through to the White City once the battle was over and the warning had to be brought, while Aragorn’s heartwas eager to march on.

Waiting was more agonizing than Aragorn had expected. When there were no longer marches that lasted days on which the silence was oppressively present or battles that went through the night, the emotions he had tried to hide from crept into his mind once more.

There was no description in any of the tongues he knew for the way his heart hurt. No words for the way it was hollow yet so heavy, nor for the way his mind replayed that day and all the things he could have done differently, if he had only seen.

He spend days sitting alone with his pipe.

Legolas understood. The Elf would sit next to him in silence, watching over the plains for someone, who would not appear on the horizon. Gimli, as well, would hold him company, on the long nights wherein sleep seemed the enemy more so than the darkness.

This night he was alone, however, gracing the halls of Edoras with his drunken mumbling filled with grief. His mind had called upon him to write a song for the loss and glory of Boromir, something he had been turning in his mind for many days.

There were reproaches to himself also for not giving him some sort of ritual send off that he had deemed as too time-consuming, if he was to fulfill his promises, and had regretted ever since. He should have bore Boromir to one of their boats and let the Anduin take him home, yet he had not.

Softly he swished the ale in his mug, looking into his reflection that looked more pitiful than a King should look. But he was no King here, just a broken man and quietly he murmured:

.

“Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass grows The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes "What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight? Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?" "I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide and grey I saw him walk in empty lands until he passed away Into the shadows of the North, I saw him then no more The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of Denethor" "O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar But you came not from the empty lands where no men are" . From the mouths of the Sea the South Wind flies, from the sandhills and the stones The wailing of the gulls it bears, and at the gate it moans "What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring to me at eve? Where now is Boromir the Fair? He tarries and I grieve" "Ask not of me where he doth dwell – so many bones there lie On the white shores, on the dark shores under the stormy sky So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing Sea Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind sends to me" "O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs south But you came not with the wailing gulls from the grey sea’s mouth" . From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past the roaring falls And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls "What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you bring to me today? What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away" "'Neath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought His cloven shield, his broken sword, they to the water brought His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast" "O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gaze To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days"”

.

“That was beautiful, my Lord. I knew not that a lament had been written for the grievous loss of Lord Boromir.” His private sorrow was interrupted by Éowyn, who could not know how deep the grief ran in Aragorn’s heart.

“It is not,” said he. “I wrote it.”

“Did he go down the Anduin, my Lord?” she asked. “We heard fairly little of the demise of our trusted ally of many years, only that it had happened.”

Aragorn’s teeth clenched, a steady breath leaving his nose at her innocent question. “He did not. We had not the time and I have regretted it ever since I turned my back to the place where he fell. He deserved more honor.”

Éowyn fell silent, then gently sat beside him. He knew not whether to be grateful for her company or upset at the intrusion, which it could hardly be called inside the public halls of her home.

She laid her hand on his arm. “You cared for him,” she observed. “He was not just your brother in arms, I can feel the grief in your voice and I see the bracers of Gondor upon your arms. Though it might not be a comparison, Théodred is a soul dearly missed by me. He rode into battle with Éomer, but it was me he comforted in the night when the nightmares got too strong. He was my brother more than my cousin.”

He heard the pain in her voice and while it was not a lover she had lost, it had been a loved one. She had not looked at him before with the compassion born of something other than love and in that moment, he appreciated the understanding she brought him.

“I promised I’d protect him, that we both might live to see the end of our quest.” His gaze wandered to a far off place that was unseen to other eyes. “I found him too late and save him, I could not. For all the Elven healing I have learned, I was not enough. I failed him.”

“You have not failed him, for if Boromir was to be failed, he would be failed by no one but his own,” Éowyn spoke fiercely. “I knew Boromir for many winters passed and he was proud and bold. He knew his sword better than his body, leading the charge and ending every fight he fought. He was a great warrior and I will not have his name tarried by your claim that he needed your protection. If he fell, he fell with the honor of a Soldier and a noble man, fighting until he could do so no more to protect what he held dear.”

Aragorn fell silent.

While Legolas and Gimli had many times told him to not carry the weight of Boromir’s death on his shoulders, it was Éowyn that defended Boromir in removing his guilt.

Boromir valued his honor and he had told him that he had kept it. It would not do to take those words back in his mind, to carry the guilt of Boromir’s death that was more Saruman’s fault than his own. Still it was easier to speak the words than to take the message to heart, yet it eased his mind, for he had felt he could not grieve that which he had caused, allowing himself to only feel the pain when colored by blame.

“You are not responsible for Théodred either, my Lady. Saruman’s magic lies in his voice and his arm reached far, do not blame yourself for there is not blame to be laid,” he said, not knowing how else to respond to the kindness she had shown him.

There was the same shock of the confirmation that it was okay to rest that had been upon his face moments before. She swallowed, then stared ahead: “I still have to atone for not doing more, for taking one of our greatest Captains in times of war when he could have been saved.”

“You do not have to replace him, my Lady. Dying in honor is not worth it to repay a debt that isn’t owed. Why should you atone for Gríma’s and Saruman’s crimes? Who will be here to protect the home that Théodred died for? If we fail, who else will hold steady here?” He knew her urge to fight, but he hoped she would see that times of peace were more valuable and that everyone had their own part to play in getting there.

She did not take kindly to his comfort, nor his advice. For all her wisdom to Aragorn, she had little for her own heart, little to soften the blows she dealt herself. Her lips pulled into a thin line and her hands clenched, before she swept out of the room, leaving Aragorn once more with a mug of ale as his only company.

Aragorn was still churning their words in his head the morning after. Both trying to find the right words for the ones that had been misplaced by her mind the day before as well as trying to come to terms with hers.

On the horizon a light flickered.

He rushed up many stairs and through the town he flew into the great hall of Edoras, where he panted:“The beacons of Minas Tirith! The beacons are lit! Gondor calls for aid!”

The hall fell silent in awaiting Théoden’s answer and while Aragorn had already decided that no matter the word of the King, he would ride, taking whoever was willing with him, he still longed to know the King’s answer.

“And Rohan shall answer,” the King decided. “Gather to Rohirrim.” The words loosened the weight inside Aragorn’s chest. An army would do more for Gondor than a lone man.

He would come to Gondor’s aid, he would not abandon Boromir nor his home. There was a little hope for Gondor now and Aragorn found himself eagerly awaiting the return to his Kingdom, even if there was a chance he would find it in ruins.

In the end his return alongside Rohan would not come to pass. Seeing Elrond was a respite he did not know he needed, but when the older man shed his hood, Aragorn’s knees nearly buckled as a sense of safety and home consumed him.

“Estel?” he questioned when he saw Aragorn. “You are not the man that left Rivendell. You have lost something, a part of yourself. Where is the Evenstar brooch?”

“I- I gave it away,” Aragorn confessed, voice less steady than a hut during an earth quake.

“To whom?” Elrond wore the face that he often did when the human character of Aragorn managed to baffle him, even after all the millennia he had walked this earth.

Aragorn knew not whether he wanted to confess to the man, who had been like his father, to whom he had given the star of his daughter, but it felt unfair to keep it from him and yet it was hard to speak the name. “Boromir.”

“The brooch was not all you gave to Boromir.” The statement was an inquiry, but it might as well have been a knife. There was no judgment in Elrond’s voice, just a quiet understanding that came with all the losses he’d had.

He nodded in reply, for there was no more he could say to Elrond, save: “I swore to him that I would not see Gondor fail, Ada. Yet, my heart tells me Rohan will not be enough.”

“Your heart speaks truth, you ride to war not victory. Sauron’s armies ride on Minas Tirith, this you know, but in secret he sends another force, which will attack from the river. A fleet of Corsair ships sails from the South. They will be in the city in two days. You’re outnumbered, Estel. You need more men.”

At Elrond’s words, Aragorn’s heart sank. He had known this was a futile attempt to stem the tide of the darkness, thatthey would need even more men, men that did not exist or could not be spared. The promise he made to Boromir, was an oath he could not keep. “There are none,” it was a desolate fate to realize there in the night.

“There are those, who dwell in the mountain,” Elrond’s suggestion was one they could not count on and he wondered when the counsel of the Elves had turned to hopeless last efforts that would not be fruitful.

“Murderers, traitors. You would call upon them to fight? They believe in nothing, they answer to no one.” Did Elrond not see that it would be his end?

“They will answer to the King of Gondor. I am here on behalf of someone that I love, Arwen begged me to bring this to you healed before she left to the Grey Havens,” said Elrond, revealing a sword that had been concealed in his coat. “Andúril, the Flame of the West, forged from the shards of Narsil.”

With near reverence Aragorn took the sword, by whose shards he had first seen Boromir so many nights ago. The rhyme that foretold his duty came to fruition as a tale from old.

It seemed poetic that it came to his hands now that he marched on the City he had sworn to protect in name of the man, he had met next to that very same sword. How it came to him healed, only after Boromir had named him King and he had proven himself in battle.

“The blade that was broken shall return to Minas Tirith.”

While he knew his duty, he could not easily do so without the entire encampment knowing. He made his goal clear, but all thought it a foolish quest that would rob them of a leader in the battle that was to come. “Why are you doing this? The war lies to the East. You cannot leave on the eve of battle, you cannot abandon the men.”

“Éowyn,” for that was who had spoken and Aragorn hoped that his tone would convey all that he tried to say to her, knowing that she was not susceptible to listening.

“We need you here.” Everyone seemed to need him, but he knew where he was needed and it was not here, it was with a deadly army marching on Minas Tirith from the South.

“Why have you come?” he asked instead of all he wanted to say to her. He knew her reasons, but he needed her to understand that what she wished could not come to pass, for he did not think he could ever fully heal from the grief of Boromir. He was not right for her.

“Do you not know?”

“It is but a shadow and a thought that you love. I cannot give you what you seek.” The glance she send to his bracers told him she understood, yet she did not want to believe and the blunt rejection still hurt her as she backed away.

Aragorn knew that he should have felt more guilt about hurting the maiden, but he could not find it in him, for he was hurting too, yet there was no one right for him either, except the dead. He would find company there.

He also found company in Legolas and Gimli, glad for his friends that had been a steadfast presence by his side.

There were no finer companions to march with, for they had been there through it all, not once leaving his side and trusting him with their life, even when his judgment had cost them one of the Fellowship’s. They had not blamed him and stood by his side with more understanding of his conviction than he could have hoped for.

A dark path later, he finally gazed upon the White City. It stood high and mighty still, yet the magic with which Boromir had described it fell flat as the lower levels burned and the streets were overrun by Orcs and Trolls.

Boromir’s words in Lothlórien echoed through his mind: ‘Still, my heart tells me that I will not see my home as it is now ever again and my fears would have me believe that the next time I see it, it will be in ruin.’

Had he known then the omen of which those words spoke, he would not have thought so lightly of them.

Yet those were demons for after the war was won, for the end was only staved off and the Houses of Healing were filled with people, who did have a chance to see their home restored, should they live through this.

Aragorn worked tirelessly, remembering Boromir telling him off the time he had ended up here with a broken arm after he had fallen of a horse as a youngster. Boromir had recalled how the nurses had more resembled a beehive and how the busy hands had distracted him from the pain.

It was strange how his memories came alive amidst the dying soldiers of his City. He tried to work through it and many citizens saw him there, working so tirelessly as to be the hive Boromir had told him off by himself.

His people spoke, rumors of his deeds in the Houses of Healing spread through the City. Yet, no one spoke of the King that had wept at the sick bed of Faramir, Son of Gondor, now herCaptain and Steward, who resembled his so brother closely.

For days he found himself beside Faramir, looking at the man with an aching guilt. He wondered if he knew his brother was dead, if Pippin had told him, if he knew that Boromir would never again hear the silver trumpets call him home.

He knew not how Boromir had carried so much upon his shoulders for the many years he dwelt here and he felt deeply how the burdens he had seen in the eyes of Boromir, were the burdens meant for him. So, he set to work again, trying not to think of it more.

And it was in the Houses of Healing that Legolas found him, gently washing Faramir’s wounds with athelas water. He laid a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. “You need to stop, Aragorn. You will not save Boromir by saving his brother. He is in safe hands here, you can do no more but rest.”

Aragorn tried to ignore him and went back to what he was doing, but his hands were shaking and his eyes were drooping. He knew Legolas to be right, yet it was hard to tear himself away from caring for the family of the man that held his heart.

“We have a counsel about our next move come morning. You cannot protect Minas Tirith if you’re exhausted. Please, sleep.”

The fact that Legolas spoke truth made it all the more frustrating. Faramir looked so much like his brother that it was sometimes easy to pretend that he had been on time to save him. But he had not. Every time he glimpsed features that were not Boromir’s that revelation came to him again.

Still, he knew that Boromir had cared for his brother, with many tales of their adventures both as young lads and soldiers proved that. Aragorn would never forgive himself if Faramir died under his care. He would do anything to protect Minas Tirith.

Slowly he stood up, vision going black for a moment as Legolas steadied him. Gratefully, he leaned on the Elf and let himself be led to a bed. He could not remember falling asleep, but it was the first full sleep he had in weeks, through virtue of pure exhaustion.

The debate for their next move had gathered in the Citadel and Aragorn walked the halls where he was meant to rule and where Boromir had grown up. He should have been there as well, to decide the fate of his City and people, but he was not and Aragorn would try his best in his stead.

He deeply understood Gandalf’s fear and blame of himself, when he talked about Frodo and the heavy shadow in the East, as he stated: “I have send him to his death.”

“No.” Aragorn would not let Gandalf fall into his own mistakes, he would not let the Wizard give up when he had just hardened his resolve to do what he must. “There is still hope for Frodo. He needs time and safe passage across the plains of Gorgoroth. We can give him that.”

“How?” asked Gimli and Aragorn explained the plan that had been growing in his mind: “Draw out Sauron’s armies. Empty his lands. Then we gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate.”

“We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms,” Éomer rightfully critiqued, but he did not yet see the full picture. The real goal.

“Not for ourselves,” Aragorn agreed, “but we can give Frodo a chance if we keep Sauron’s eyes fixed upon us. Keep him blind to all else that moves.”

“A diversion.” It clicked for Legolas and he saw in the Elf’s eyes that he thought him mad and genius at once. He knew then that he would have Legolas by his side.

“Certainty of death, small chance of success,” Gimli summarized and Aragorn hoped the Dwarf would be on his side as well. The three of them had journeyed so far and it would hurt to see his friend abandon ship at the end. Yet, his heart knew that Gimli was more stouthearted and loyal than that, which was confirmed by the Dwarf himself: “What are we waiting for?”

“Sauron will suspect a trap. He will not take the bait,” Gandalf voiced what Arargorn had also realized, but he had an idea. He grinned and said: “Oh, I think he will,” before explaining what he meant to do.

Before he could do so however, Pippin stopped him. He looked at the Hobbit curiously, it was not the same Hobbit whom he had left Rivendell with. There was a weight on his shoulders and a wisdom in his eyes.

“Promise me I can come with you to the Black Gate,” he asked. “Boromir gave his life for me and Faramir has shown me great compassion despite my involvement in his brother’s death. I would be ashamed to not protect their home.”

“It is not up to me to decide who goes,” he said and he saw Pippin’s face fall, so he added, “It is up to the heart of every man. I will not force anyone to come with me, but every man is welcome. Still, you should not feel like a debt is owed, because you were the bringer of the news of Boromir’s death to his kin.”

He knew how Boromir cared for the Hobbits – Merry and Pippin especially, since they reminded him of the youth untouched by war and he had hoped to save them of the harsh, dark hands of violence. Another place where Aragorn had failed him. Boromir would not want them to unnecessarily endanger themselves.

“That is not why I want to fight, Aragorn. I want to help Frodo and Sam, I hope to see my friends again and I wish to fight for their good fortune,” Pippin said. “And it was not me, who brought the news.”

“It was not?” Aragorn frowned. He did not know how else the news could have come to the White City.

“No, it was his cloven horn that was found in the river, which told the people that Boromir would not return, I merely confirmed the loss already felt,” Pippin explained.

A cold hand gripped Aragorn’s heart. How had the horn ended up in the river when last he had seen, it had been next to it’s bearer far from the water of the Anduin, lying on the forest ground? Who had moved the horn from it’s resting place?

“Aragorn?” He had been quiet fortoo long and Pippin’s brows formed a concerned look. He failed to smile reassuringly as he said: “I’m sorry, Pippin. I was distracted. It is a noble cause to fight for your friends and your blade will be welcome.” Then he quickly left.

The fear and guilt in his heart was a familiar mix and he had not the time to examine the revelation too closely, for there was something he had to do. Though his mind kept straying.

Looking into the Palantír, he saw the dreadful eye that had haunted them through their journey across Middle Earth. It writhed and hissed in Black speech, things he could not understand. He unsheathed his sword and told Him: “Long have you hunted me. Long have I eluded you. No more! Behold, the Sword of Elendil!”

Immediate was the reaction of the Dark Lord, who showed him the body of Boromir, defiled and dismembered by a pack of Orcs. His fair face was no more, his horn tossed into the river with all that was left of him. The Evenstar trampled and left in the dirt.

Aragorn felt sick as he dropped the Palantír.

He knew not whether the stone spoke truth or if the Dark Lord had looked into his heart to confirm his deepest fears. Yet a part of his mind could not help but think that it had come to pass and that his actions had led to Boromir being desecrated like that after death.

When he had decided to leave Boromir there, it had been purely selfish. He wanted Boromir to be given the chance to be buried as the Kings of old as he had deserved. He had not wanted to dishonor Boromir as well as giving himselfthe chance to be buried alongside him. But the had not been the time to dig a grave with the trail of Merry and Pippin growing cold every second, he could not fail what Boromir had started.

So the body had been left and now he had a broken horn that should not have been in the river and an all seeing eye that confirmed what he had feared.

The bile rising in his throat felt almost as bitter as the taste of regret that coated his tongue. It seemed like he was only failing Boromir. His city lay in ruin, he would march her last soldiers to their death by the Black Gates and now the decisions about the death of Boromir felt foolish and was causing an anguish and doubt in his heart when Gondor needed it least.

He could not let this stop him, however. Boromir had turned his back on helping Frodo for a moment and it had led him onto a road of ruin and Aragorn had swore to do better by him. He could not abandon Frodo, not now. No matter if his heart wanted him to hide and cry.

Thus it came to pass that he marched steadily on the Black Gate with too small an army and a sun rising in the sky that he might never see setting again.

Aragorn spoke to his troops, to the brave men that had followed him in spite of knowing the foolish quest that it was. “Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers. I see it in your eyes, the same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and all bonds of Fellowship.”

Even as he spoke the image of Boromir haunted his words. His attempt to take the Ring colored his mind, yet Boromir had the courage to turn back, to not forsake his friends and neither would the men in front of him. “But it is not this day! An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the age of men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight!”

He saw encouragement in the eyes that looked up at him as he heard the voice of Boromir: ‘I have not yet seen you in a proper battle, nor with men under your command,’ and he hoped that if Boromir could see him, he would be proud. That he would have provenhimself worthy of the throne that lay waiting for him, should he return.

“By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand! Men of the West!” Around him weapons were unsheathed as men readied themselves to fight with Aragorn joining them on his horse.

No one could stop him, he had to fight. Fight for Frodo, for Gondor, for Boromir and the promises he had made to him. He would fight for the memory of the Elves and the legacy of men in the new age. He might perish on the field of battle, but he would do so with honor. For if he fell, he wanted to join there were Boromir dwelt.

~~

A/N:

Shout out to me for using a bazillion (9k) words for FOTR only to breeze past the rest of the franchise in record speed (5k). Well, maybe not record speed, but pretty fast if u compare.

Also I adore the Lament for Boromir (and I cry every time, very hard and long, lets not talk about it, anyways), but that does not just come to you and I wanted to explore writing it for Aragorn, so it had to be included and is straight from the books. I am quite sad that Legolas didn’t get to sing his part though :/

In the movies more so than the books, I feel (which is up for interpretation), Aragorn’s journey is shadowed by the death of Boromir. It is Boromir that convinced him of the courage of men and how Gondor needs him, who accepts him as King first and shows Aragorn what his absence has caused. So, I really wanted to explore all the places where Aragorn would meet Boromir’s shadow when he thought him dead and was mourning.

[belligerently]

walk with me 'neath the rising sky, we will make a choice for love and joy

pairing: bernie/serena rating: pg-13/light m summary: written for Jess Appreciation Day, this is for @ktlsyrtis because she deserves all the good things, and because there’s literally only one person i would have written this for, and it’s her.

s(he) was a stableboy, she was a girl, can i make it anymore obvious?

noble/commoner au (what time period is it in? how old are they? these are questions you don’t need to ask)

read the fic below the cut or via google doc

Horses are the thing Berenice loves most, in all the world. She makes any excuse to take her mother’s old mare out to the pasture, to the town center. She sits in the blacksmith shop while he shoes the horses that come in, keeps the horses calm, holds their faces with her hands, nuzzles against them.

“A shame yer a lass,” the blacksmith says one day, when she’s helping with a beautiful black yearling a calming hand against his neck, dark eyes staring into dark eyes. “Them up there at the manor are looking for a stableboy.” 

“I’m not trained,” she says, her heart speeding up at just the mention of the position, at just the idea that she could work with horses. 

“Not much trainin’ needed to shovel shit,” he says, holding the horse’s foot in one hand, hammer in the other. “All right, just hold ‘im.” Berenice presses her face to the horse’s cheek, breathing deeply the smell of hair and hay, lets herself live in the world where that’s all she has to think of. 

She feels restless after the conversation, not ready to go home, feels like everything is jangling inside her, a plan half-forming in her mind as she walks. Without realizing, she finds her way to the edge of the manor property, right to the edge of their fields. She can see three horses grazing, one shaking its mane, a soft whinny carrying across the grass. Then a colt runs in front of the older horses, all gangly legs, whickering and circling, then stopping next to its mother. 

Berenice could stare at them for hours. But the sun is setting, getting low in the sky, and her mother will be expecting her. Bread and stew for dinner, no doubt, Meager portions from her father’s salary, a few coins sent every month for guarding the borders. But it’s enough, and her work with the blacksmith, the occasional odd job around town, pay enough to supplement, to occasionally get sugar for cooking, or a new book to read aloud by the fire late at night. Her mother makes sweet rolls on Sundays, almost the same as the bread, in the end, but made all the sweeter by their rareness. 

She fidgets in her chair at the table, an idea taken shape. There’s a bit of sadness tugging at her, the idea that this might be her last meal with her mother for some time, But there’s also a potential for her mother to live better, for Berenice to help, to do more. So she eats slowly, carefully, takes in her mother’s face, the wrinkles at her eyes, and she puts the bowls in the bucket, takes them out to the pump with her for rinsing, a scrub brush to get the flecks of stew off the sanded wood. 

She also takes her mother’s shears from where they sit in the kitchen, used to cut vegetables, to do any number of household tasks that Berenice has never bothered to learn. She fills a pail with water, cold and crisp, and bends over to see her reflection, a long plait of hair spilling over her shoulder. Before she can change her mind, before she can think it all through, she takes the scissors to the nape of her neck, the braid falling to the ground, wisps of hair around her chin. 

Her head feels lighter at once, almost bobbing up as the weight of her hair is lost. She doesn’t know if she looks like a boy anymore than she did before. With the scissors, heavy and indelicate, she tries to chop away at it, short enough there’s no way to tie it back. Good enough that someone not paying very much attention could think she was a member of the opposite sex.  

-

It turns out to be surprisingly easy to get the position, once she turns up to the estate stables. The fact that she’s able to calm a horse with a quick pet to the nose, a soft whickering sound from her lips, that’s enough to impress the stablemaster.

“You look awful puny, but you’ve got a way about you, I’ll admit,” he grunts, and Berenice bites back a smile. She tells him her name is Bernard, and he just huffs. “Bernie’s good enough for the stables. You’re not a lord up there in the manor.”

Her first nickname, really.

The routine is simple. She wakes early and opens the stable doors, lets the horses out to the pasture. She mucks the stables for what feels like hours, her back sore, her arms getting stronger. New hay to lay out, bales to roll down from the loft. The same loft where she sleeps, a blanket and a pillow handed to her on her first evening. It’s warmer than she thought, the sounds of horses breathing telling her it’s safe, they’re all safe.

The stablemaster watches her push a bale out to the fields, sun high in the sky, and she knows she’s sweating through her thin shirt, that her breeches must smell foul. But he doesn’t say anything except, “There's more muscle to you than I thought.”

It’s as much of a commendation for her work as she can expect.

Occasionally members of the manor family come down for horses, and then Bernie is shooed away, told to bring the horses in from the pasture and then hide in the loft, or go back out to the field. She only sees the lord and lady from afar, their daughter joining them on a rare occasion. Sometimes she’s called in to help prepare horses for visiting guests, brushes them until their coats shine, saddles them up and then disappears. 

The first time she meets one of the family is when the daughter comes to the stables unexpectedly, in the middle of the morning, when Bernie is still working with the rake, pulling mud and feces out of the stalls. She hears a delicate cough, straightens up, very aware of the streaks of mud on her face, of the odor that must be emanating from her. 

When she meets the daughter’s eyes, she sees the slight wrinkle of the nose, the only sign that she’s not entirely comfortable in her current environment. Her skirts drag against the ground, and Bernie can see the hay stuck to the fabric, the mud encroaching on her clean shoes. 

She almost curtsies, but catches herself in time to turn it into a low, awkward sort of bow. “Milady,” she says, gruffly, pitching her voice low. She almost hits her head on the wall of the stall, uses it to push herself back up, to hold onto as she feels nerves course through her body. She hasn’t had to talk to anyone, really, beyond another stableboy and the stablemaster. It feels like a test.

And the daughter is so pretty. 

“No need for that, when it’s just you and me,” she says warmly, with a smile. “Serena is my name and it’s hardly ever used.” Her eyes are bright, dancing around. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you before.”

“Bernard. Ah, Bernie, ‘round here.” She props the rake against the stall door, stuffs her hands in her pockets, scuffs her foot against the floor. “Can I get your horse for you?” She feels like her whole face is on fire, like the scrutiny of this beautiful noble might make her explode. Serena nods, her lips still tipped up in an impish sort of grin, and Bernie runs a hand through her hair, aware of the ragged ends, the disarray. She never would have made a good impression, not even when she was dressed as a girl, well-washed and hair flowing over her shoulders. 

At a half-trot, she makes her way out to the field, Serena’s horse in the far distance. She puts her fingers to her mouth, whistles, and every horse looks up, ambles towards her. Serena’s horse is beautiful, a pinto mare with a long brown mane and dark eyes that look human in their understanding. “There’s a girl,” Bernie says, when she’s close enough to touch. “Come on then, Elinor.” She wraps a few strands of mane around her fingers and leads her towards the stables. 

Most of the stalls are clean, and that’s where she puts Elinor, brushing her out while Serena watches quietly from the other side of the door. Her head is tilted, her long brown hair touched by the occasional breeze, and Bernie steals glances whenever she can, notices new things every time. The cleft in her chin, the silver necklace at her throat, the sparkle in her eyes, the deft fingers plucking at a splinter in the wood next to her. Every little thing makes her heart clench, and Bernie doesn’t know what to do with it, has never felt it before. 

When the blanket and saddle are on, everything buckled into place, Bernie hands Serena the reins, their hands grazing. 

“Would you help me up?” Serena asks delicately, but Bernie can’t help but feel as if she’s being teased. She kneels down, makes a cradle from her hands and allows Serena to step on them, lifting her until she’s comfortably seated sidesaddle. 

Bernie doesn’t miss that, enjoys the freedom the breeches give her, straddling a horse. She can go faster, longer, feels closer to the horse beneath her. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever go back. If she’ll ever want to. She doesn’t even know what’s next, after this. Will she stay in these stables forever? Will she be discovered? Punished in some unseemly way? There’s so much she doesn’t know, she just tries to think of the horses, of the present, of the life she has now. 

Serena’s looking at her a little oddly, and maybe she’s been away with the fairies for too long. Bernie forces a smile to her thin lips, knows from her mother that she’s far from beautiful, and feels even less so in the presence of Serena, but her smile gets one in return, and that’s not nothing, as far as she’s concerned. 

“Have a good ride, mil-Serena,” Bernie says, correcting herself at the mock-glare on the other woman’s face. With a gentle pat to Elinor’s rump, she helps guide Serena and her horse toward the open stable doors. 

She hides when she sees Serena coming back, doesn’t know if she can take another encounter with the beautiful daughter of the lord of the estate. There are so many differences between them, a vast chasm that divides them. And it feels dangerous to let someone in, to be close.

She can hear Serena moving about in the stables below the loft, but doesn’t come down. Then she hears Serena’s soft sigh and a few moments later, sees her walking back up towards the manor, brown hair practically glowing in the sun, a halo shining against her tresses.

It becomes a bit of a pattern. Somehow Serena seems to know when Bernie is alone in the stables, always appears when the stablemaster is otherwise occupied, when Bernie’s alone with her work. There’s always a little edge to their conversations, like Serena has a joke she’s not telling Bernie, a laugh behind her eyes, a sparkle.

It makes a jolt run along under Bernie’s skin, like a bolt of lightning crackling down her spine. She looks forward to and fears the interactions in equal measure, feeling like she’s teetering on a knife’s edge and doesn’t know which way she’ll fall.

Serena tricks her, in a way, and they become friends without Bernie even realizing. Serena leaves books at the base of the loft ladder, when she learns Bernie can read. She asks how Bernie is doing, how she’s feeling, and seems to really care about the answer. Her fingers trail along Bernie’s arm when she’s moving past her in the stable. They are friends and they are something else, and Serena doesn’t know who Bernie really is.

That’s what worries her, underneath it all, that she’s lying to Serena, in a way. What Serena will think if she learns. And the only way Bernie knows to solve this problem is to shut off communication, to put distance between them. She spends an evening saying goodbye to all the things about Serena that she appreciates.

She says goodbye to Serena’s cleft chin, to those shimmering eyes, to the gently curling tresses. She says goodbye to the fluttering eyelashes. She says goodbye to her soft chuckle, to the way her lips quirk when she speaks with a double meaning. She bids farewell to Serena and hopes her thoughts may carry up to the manor, because she could never say goodbye to Serena’s face.

When Serena appears one afternoon, Bernie anxiously wipes her sweaty palms against her stained breeches. Serena makes a joke, and Bernie forces herself not to laugh.

“Mud in your ears?” Serena asks, craning around Elinor’s neck to see Bernie’s face but she just sucks her head away, gets the tack ready in silence. “Is everything all right?” she asks, moving closer to Bernie, and Bernie takes a step back, drapes the reins across Elinor’s saddle.

“Just fine, milady,” she says, and doesn’t meet Serena’s eyes. But she doesn’t miss the hurt look on the woman’s face, the way she hooks the stool with her foot rather than asking Bernie for help with mounting the mare. And then she rides off in silence, doesn’t even look back once.

It hurts, but it’s what’s right, and that’s what makes her heart ache all the more.

-

Serena doesn’t come back to the stables. Bernie doesn’t see her, even from afar. Weeks go by, and her life goes back to what it was when she came to the manor, a mundane routine of rote tasks, the same for one day as the next, little conversation to pass the time, no surprises at all. 

On a warm day in the spring, Serena and her parents arrive at the stables, and, as is always the case, Bernie is shooed outside, away, too grimy to be seen by people in fancy clothing, too uncouth for the people who live in the manor. These moments are nice, though, for as few and far between as they are, moments where Bernie can enjoy the horses, enjoy the nature around her, unclouded by tasks and to-dos. 

She nuzzles her nose against Dom’s forelock, breathes in the scent of him, and he exhales softly, her hair fluttering in the breeze. She hears a whinny, a little in the distance, and looks down towards the stables, sees Serena standing there, looking at Bernie, a gloved hand shading the sun from her eyes. She hasn’t seen her in so long, and the time apart has not made her any less lovely. 

She half-wonders if Serena will call out to her, but there’s nothing, and Bernie can only think of how much she misses the sound of Serena’s voice. Someone must say something inside the stable, because Serena turns, goes into the dark interior, and doesn’t look back. Dom nudges Bernie with his nose, a push against her shoulder, velvety soft and gentle. 

“Yes, yes, I didn’t forget about you,” she murmurs to him, pressing her lips to his face. She pulls an apple from her pocket and holds it out, fresh-picked that morning, and his lips and teeth are wet as he takes it from her hand. 

She only leaves the field and Dom when the family have left on their ride, sauntering down the manor path, to the forest, and Bernie tries not to think of Serena’s sun-dappled hair, of the way she sits so tall and proper, never wavering in the knowledge that she is everything she should be. 

It’s later that day, when the sun is setting, and Bernie is closing stall doors, lining them with fresh hay for the night, that she hears the footsteps she has come to know instinctively as Serena’s. She turns at the sound, and sees her there, a lantern in hand, hair loose about her shoulders, her nightgown and shawl pale and stark in the darkened barn. 

She’s about to bow, to curtsy, something, because of the shock of seeing Serena has overtaken her senses, the word “milady” already forming on her lips, when Serena speaks first.

“You saw me.” It’s the first time she’s heard that voice in ages, and she tries not to feel staggered with relief. It’s still so husky and lovely, the way the blacksmith’s wine feels slipping down her throat. Serena says the words without a question, they both know what happened.

 “You were the one watching,” Bernie answers gruffly, patting Raf’s head, brushing back his mane, hears Fletch whickering to him from the next stall over. Serena’s hand on Bernie’s shoulder makes her movements halt, makes her freeze in place. It’s the first deliberate touch, real and true, without the guise of reins or tight space, or whatever they were fooling themselves by thinking. 

Serena’s hand tips Bernie’s face towards her own, her fingers so delicate. She seems all the more lovely for the flickering candlelight on her face, her skin warm, alight in the dark, her eyes all the more sparkling. She doesn’t say anything else, just looks at Bernie with those brown eyes for a long moment, something Bernie can’t quite fathom dancing behind them. 

And then she leans forward and presses a kiss to Bernie’s lips. It’s chaste and short, but for all that, it still sets Bernie on fire, blazing on down through to her fingertips. “Oh,” Serena says, seemingly as poleaxed as Bernie feels. It seems she’s about to lean in again, but Bernie steps back, her heel hitting a water pail, a clanging noise halting the quiet horse murmurs.

“I, uh, there’s something I have to take care of,” she says, the words sounding unconvincing to her own ears, her cheeks bright red, and she knows they’d be warm to the touch, forces herself not to think about Serena touching her face again, those delicate hands, free from callus and wear, gentle against Bernie’s sun-soaked skin.

She climbs the ladder, fumbling in the dark because she doesn’t have her wits about her enough to take a lantern of her own, just Serena’s bobbling light from below to guide her. Bernie leans against a hay bale, head tilting back, straw poking against her neck. Trying to slow her heart, slow her breath, she closes her eyes and tells herself to be calm. Tells herself not to be afraid of this, even though it’s the very thing she feared most. 

She doesn’t move again until she hears a soft, “Good night, Bernie,” from below, and the sound of Serena’s retreating feet, the barn left in darkness once again.

-

Only a week passes before Serena appears again, this time in the afternoon, when Bernie is alone in the stable. Apparently still in possession of the gift for finding the time when no one else is about. She acts as if they never lost time, leaning against the door of an empty stable and watching Bernie. She tells her a story of her tutor trying to woo the newest maid, of how he tripped and nearly got the tap from the water pump outside the kitchen stuck in his rear. 

She makes Bernie laugh so easily, and that sound is so foreign, even to her own ears, except in the company of this woman. She thinks of Serena’s bravery, of the way she leaned forward, and it’s enough to spur her into asking:

“Why’d you kiss me?” 

Serena’s smile deepens the brackets around her mouth, and her eyes look like they’re lit from a light source of their own. She stands, moves toward Bernie again, and it’s all so familiar and still heart-wrenchingly new and Bernie feels as if she’s been rolled from a turnip cart, ass over tea kettle, not knowing which way is up. Serena is close enough that Bernie can feel her breath, those soft exhalations. 

“Because you’re handsome,” she says, her fingers ghosting against Bernie’s hair, shaggy and unkempt, “because you make me smile. Because my horse likes you. Why’d you run away?” She presses forward, some unimagined rid of steel at her back and Bernie would never want to argue with her, knows she would lose in an instant.

She swallows, tries to find the words to say, and all that comes out is an ech of Serena. “Because you’re beautiful. Because you make me nervous. Because I like your horse.” Her smile is small, and there’s the unspoken tenor of her worry about employment, about the coins she’s given once a month, the coins she sends to her mother. “I don’t want to have to leave,” she adds quietly, ducking her face down, wondering if a true man would ever voice these hidden fears, if perhaps her mask is already slipping.

“You won’t,” Serena promises, and she sounds so sure. Bernie envies the conviction in her voice, threaded through with the same steel that runs down her spine. When she steps forward this time, Bernie knows what to expect, and this time, when she kisses Bernie, Bernie kisses back.

She’s been kissed by boys in the village, alternatingly gruff and teasing, but never real, and that’s what is different, the wanting that makes Bernie slide her tongue between Serena’s lips, that makes her push Serena back up against the stable door, that makes her hands tangle into Serena’s hair. 

It’s just as silky and soft as Bernie might have imagined, slipping through her fingers. She feels as if she’s gasping for breath and Serena is the air she needs. It’s like the time she fell through a hole in the ice on the lake near town and her fingers scrabbled and clawed at anything, trying to get a firm hold on something that would help her. 

That’s how kissing Serena feels, like the only thing that will save her.

When they part, Serena’s cheeks are flushed, pretty and pink, and her tongue darts out to lick her lips, her eyes dark and full of want, and maybe even need, and Bernie feels a monster uncurl in her stomach, desire rearing its head.

“Lady and a commoner. Doesn’t seem like a good match,” she says, casting her eyes downward, because if there were ever a time to protect herself, it should have started months ago, but now is as good as ever.

“It’s the only match I’m interested in,” Serena says, reaching for Bernie, those slender fingers touching the sleeve of Bernie’s tunic, but she steps away from her grasp, backwards toward the center of the barn.

“We can’t,” she says, and Serena tilts her head, looks as if she’s considering something, making a decision and Bernie isn’t even sure what the options are.

“Don’t shut me out,” is what she finally says. “I’ll live like a nun in your presence, chaste and pure, only let me still be your friend.” The words are a plea, and Bernie can hear the quiet desperation, thinks for the first time that while she has the horses and the whole of the outdoors as her home, Serena has none of that, a lonely existence inside a stately home.

“Friends,” Bernie says, offering her hand to shake, resisting the impulse to spit on her palm, the way she did years ago with the boys she grew up with, trading buttons for shiny stones.

Serena’s hand slides along Bernie’s, and her touch is deliberate, her face serious, and she clasps Bernie’s hand tightly. Bernie thinks she’ll remember Serena’s expression for as long as she lives.

And they’re both true to their word. Serena still visits, as often as she ever did, maybe more. She says she’s still almost running out of excuses to disappear from the house in the afternoons, that when the weather turns cold, it will be even harder to escape. “Imagine, I tell them I want to do my sewing outside and I can see my own breath. I’d come back an icicle.”

Bernie is tempted to offer to keep Serena warm, but she thinks that’s against their agreement, against what’s good for them both. So she just smiles and says, “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

Serena starts bringing Bernie books again, and then starts reading aloud while Bernie curries the horses. Her voice carries through the barn, and Bernie even notices one of the boys that’s in charge of fetching and carrying for them lingering to listen to the stories. It makes the day go by, makes the world seem larger and more wonderful.

When Serena can only escape in evenings, when dinner is eaten and the sun is disappearing, she comes with a lantern and climbs the ladder to the loft, skirts gathered in her hand. Bernie’s there to help her up the last few inches, to hold the light as a guide. She drapes her blanket over a bale of hay to keep Serena’s skirt clean, and thinks that she looks a pretty as a painting, perched upon the hay.

It smells sweet and clean in the loft, and Bernie boasts that she can tell which horse is which, just from their snores, their exhalations of breath, and Serena laughs at that, says she’s going to test Bernie some time.

Her face is relaxed and open, carefree, and when her laugh mingles with Bernie’s soft chuckle, the small smile that’s become wider, more brave, over the last few months stretches across her face. And because she wants to, because she can’t help herself, she leans in and kisses Serena, kisses her smile like she might capture that joy for her own.

Relief washes over her when Serena kisses back.

It’s a novel experience, to do this while seated next to each other. She has more leverage, she has more to hold herself up when her limbs feel weak from pleasure.

Serena, too, seems to feel a certain freedom here too, her hands traveling along Bernie’s neck, her shoulders, into her golden hair. Bernie feels a pang when she thinks of a world where Serena could have braided her hair, run her fingers through the long blonde strands. She hasn’t seen herself in anything but the reflection of water in the horse trough, knows how shaggy her hair is, how unkempt, and she’s been using a bit of leather to tie it back, thinks perhaps she needs to find some scissors in the storeroom.

All thoughts fly from her head when Serena’s teeth bite gently against Bernie’s lower lip, when her tongue slips into Bernie’s mouth. It’s heavenly, like the softest velvet, and she wants to bury herself in feeling. She’s lost in sensation, in action, logic and reason gone from her mind. Serena’s hands slide underneath Bernie’s tunic, her fingertips warm, but leaving goosebumps in their wake.

And then she freezes, stops, pulls away, and Bernie flushes beet red, can’t believe her carelessness. Serena’s hands found the binding around Bernie’s breasts, the strip of cloth she took from her mother’s house and has worn every day since. 

“Were you injured?” Serena asks, tentative, unsure, like she wasn’t being gentle enough, like perhaps she thinks she’s made an injury worse. Bernie shakes her head automatically, before she can even think of a lie. This evening that began so innocuously now feels of paramount importance. 

The friendship they’ve built, the companionship, this bond. Bernie can’t lie any longer, can’t go a moment more without telling the truth. Her face still pink, from exertion, from nervousness, from embarrassment, she pulls the tunic up over her head, lays it aside on the floor of the loft, baring herself in the candlelight.

Serena looks at her questioningly, her fingers twitching like she wants to touch, from curiosity or desire, Bernie isn’t sure, has to quell the feeling that rises up at the thought of their bare bodies pressed together. Slowly, Bernie begins to undo the wrapping, shame fading away in the face of the gravity of the moment. She’s never shown herself to anyone, only her mother and any horses that happened to be watching while she swam naked in a pond in the forest.

“You’re. You’re not a man,” Serena says, her voice not tinged with disgust, as Bernie feared, but wonder, a tentative excitement. And butterflies begin to take roost in Bernie’s heart, a feeling like hopefulness. And then Serena reaches for Bernie’s pale skin, still untouched by the sun, even for all the days spent in the field. Serena’s delicate, gentle fingers touch just below her breasts, touch the space in the center of her rib cage.

“I’m not,” she says, her hand coming up to hold Serena’s hand against her skin. The air feels warmer, like it’s holding more weight for them in this moment.

Serena doesn’t say anything, just looks at Bernie with that considering look that Bernie’s come to know so well in the last year. 

“You’re not,” she says again, finally,, and this time, she leans forward to kiss Bernie, her hands purposeful and sure as they travel along Bernie’s bare skin. And she is sure as she lets Bernie pull at the ties of her dressing gown, and she is sure as Bernie lays her out against the hard floor of the loft.

Neither of them are sure about what they’re doing, neither of them experienced with a man, much less a woman, beyond what they know of their own bodies. But Bernie discovers the warm wetness between Serena’s legs, and sees the way her head tilts back, her eyes glassing over in pleasure. It’s a sight Bernie will never forget, as long as she lives.

The late night visits become commonplace, and they learn what is good, what stokes the fire best between them. When Serena decides to try placing her mouth on Bernie, right there, beside her thigh, Bernie feels as if her head might burst from the sheer magnificence of it. Her tongue is wonderful in Bernie’s mouth, and Bernie will never tire of it. But her tongue between her lower lips is another sensation entirely, and Bernie thinks a new galaxy will be born from the feeling that exploded inside her.

Serena finds other ways to help, appearing one afternoon with scissors from her dressmaker, and stands behind Bernie, her breasts grazing Bernie’s shoulders, and trims her hair, wisps of blonde catching in the breeze and floating away. She whispers to Bernie that she’s going to cut a lock of her hair to put in a necklace, to keep her always close.

Along with the scissors, Serena brings more fabric for Bernie to tie around herself, softer material, lighter, even helps her wrap it on occasion, when she’s spent too much time in the loft.

She also tries to think about what’s next, coming up with solutions, endless ideas of how they might be able to live out their lives together. Perhaps Bernie could disappear for a month, come back as a prospective lady in waiting. But they both know that’s not the life for her. She just wants to work with horses and to be with Serena, the only two things in the world that matter to her. She tries to reassure Serena that they can meet in the stables, that this is enough, that it can be enough. She thinks she’s trying to reassure herself, too.

“We could just...ride away,” Serena says one night, the flame from the candle casting shadows about her face. She reaches out and tucks a short strand of blonde hair behind Bernie’s ear. She never seems to get her fill of touching Bernie. “We take Elinor and we go.” 

It’s tempting, so tempting. Her words are lined with hope, and Bernie can imagine the press of Serena’s back as they ride together, their bodies moving with the horse. “You couldn’t leave your family,” she says, because for all that Serena escapes to the stables, Bernie hears the love for her mother, for her sister, threaded through her words and in her stories.

“I would, for you,” Serena says earnestly, pressing her lips to the hollow in Bernie’s collarbone. 

“We have this,” Bernie says softly, “and it’s good.” And she thinks, perhaps, that they have a someday. When Serena takes over the estate, when she can live the life she chooses. There’s a future for them, in this world. She can feel Serena’s eyelashes flutter closed against her chest and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

She’ll wake Serena before morning, and they can watch the sun rise before she leaves. They have this.

[jaybear1701]

It was supposed to be a simple spell.

At least, that’s what Tally had said. One sprig of mistletoe and an easy-as-pie incantation:

Love is precious Banish your woe Love is found ‘Neath the mistletoe

It had sounded fake, if Raelle was being honest. But she had no reason to doubt her fellow Gryffindor and was willing to take the chance. But, like with many things in Raelle’s Collar’s 16 years on earth, nothing was ever that simple.

Perhaps she had said the words wrong or emphasized the wrong syllables. Or perhaps the intensity of Raelle’s emotions had given her magic a little too much oomph. Or maybe she didn’t use the right mistletoe. “It had to be picked on the night of a waning gibbous moon,” Tally had exclaimed only after everything went to hell. Whatever it was, it backfired. Spectacularly.

Instead of the enchanted mistletoe appearing above the archway leading to the greenhouses—where the object of Raelle’s affections would go every morning to help Professor Sprout with all the magical plants (the mushrooms, especially, were her favorite)--it now appeared above every archway, in random locations and times, catching students and professors and even ghosts unaware. 

What made it even worse: the nefarious mistletoe trapped unexpected couples underneath it until they kissed. (Raelle didn’t think she’d ever be able to purge from memory the sight of Headmistress Alder locking lips with Peeves the poltergeist.) Anyone who dared to defy its mandate were forced to have their deepest crush announced to every corner of the castle by multiple Howlers--which is how everyone now knew that Libba Swythe, a Slytherin, had a thing for a Gryffindor. And not just any Gryffindor. Her sworn nemesis: Abigail Bellweather.

At lunch, the Great Hall was decorated like it always was during the winter holidays. A massive Christmas tree with all the trimmings sparkled at the front of the hall. Giant wreaths adorned the walls, and a flurry of snowflakes floated above their heads. The air smelled of pine and sugar cookies, and Raelle would have enjoyed it if not for the calamity she had brought down on Hogwarts and all its residents.

Sitting at Gryffindor’s table, Abigail’s scowl was dark and furious. She stabbed at her meal with more force than necessary, glaring at Raelle as she vigorously chewed.

“This is all your fault,” Abigail said, very much heated.

“Keep your voice down, will you?” Raelle lowered her head, glancing to the left and right. The last thing she needed was for Professor Quartermaine to find out that she caused everything. “Besides, it was Tally’s spell.”

“Um, excuse you, it was not my spell.” Tally looked offended. “No one forced you to use it, Rae.”

“She’s right,” Abigail grumbled. “And now everything’s the worst.”

“For what it’s worth, I think it’s the best,” Tally sing-songed, high on a dreamy cloud after sharing multiple kisses with Gerit Buttonwood all over the castle. “As do a lot of people. Nothing wrong with a kiss here and there.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “None of this would have happened if you just told Ramshorn the truth,” she said. “And what's worse is that you haven't even tried to catch her under one of those vile weeds."

"I'm working on it," Raelle said.

"You are the most cowardly Gryffindor in the history of Gryffindors,” Abigail stressed. 

“Look, it’s not that easy, okay?” Raelle stole a glance over at the Ravenclaw table, where Scylla looked as effortlessly gorgeous as ever, head buried in a thick tome, as usual. She was probably crafting all sorts of new spells and potions in that brilliant mind of hers. Uncertainty washed over Raelle. Even if she managed to kiss Scylla under some mistletoe... how would she go about telling one of her best friends that she's in love with her? What if Scylla didn’t feel the same way? Would Raelle ruin their friendship? She couldn’t imagine life without the bright, witty, and rebellious Ravenclaw. 

"It’s not like you’re running to Libba even though she loves you too for some reason," Raelle deflected. 

The blush on Abigail’s face was brighter than the red on her robes. “This isn’t about me.”

Raelle watched as Scylla stood from her table and made her way out of the Great Hall. At the Hufflepuff table, Porter Tippett also stood. He only had eyes for Scylla, as well. Oh hell no. On instinct, Raelle shot to her feet. The last thing she needed was for Porter to try to rekindle anything with Scylla because Raelle’s spell had gone awry.

“Where are you going?” Tally asked, eyebrows raised. 

“I don’t know,” Raelle said. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Abigail shook her head.

Raelle ignored them both to follow Scylla, who had some free time before her next class--not that Raelle had memorized her schedule or anything. Perhaps she was going back to Ravenclaw Tower. She had to find Scylla before Porter did.

Raelle walked quickly down the hallways, shoes clacking against stone. She bounded up the moving staircases, two sometimes three steps at a time, drawing warnings from several of the portraits to be careful. She hoped she was taking the right path to Ravenclaw Tower. No matter how often Scylla told her the way, Raelle found it confusing, as if it was an ever shifting puzzle that only the Ravenclaws could figure out. Thankfully, Porter apparently found it just as mystifying because Raelle lost him somewhere between the third and fourth floors.

Skidding around a corner, Raelle’s heart lodged firmly in her throat when she saw Scylla underneath an archway, alone thankfully, staring up at a bundle of leaves and white berries. Raelle willed herself to be calm and approached slowly, not wanting to startle Scylla.

“Looks like you could use some help,” Raelle called out. Nerves made the tips of her fingers number and she rubbed her hands together.

Scylla’s head snapped toward the sound of her voice, shoulders visibly relaxing when she saw it was Raelle. “Thank the goddess it’s you,” she breathed out.

“I guess you could do worse,” Raelle said as she joined Scylla, pulse ticking ever upward.

“Not by much,” Scylla teased.

“Ouch,” Raelle said. 

Scylla’s gaze returned to the mistletoe. “I can’t believe some idiot botched this spell. I mean, a first-year could do it. Whoever it was probably picked the mistletoe during a waxing gibbous moon.”

“R-right.” Raelle rubbed the back of her neck. “What an idiot.”

Silence stretched between them, awkward and thick. 

“Well, I guess we should get this over with.” Scylla looked at her expectantly, but Raelle found she couldn’t move. She was frozen in place, as if someone had hit her with an Immobulus charm. 

“Are you okay?” Scylla’s brows furrowed. 

“Yeah, I just…” It was hard to speak with the way her mouth suddenly dried out.

“It’s just a kiss.” Scylla moved closer and touched Raelle’s elbow. “No big deal.”

Raelle’s stomach dropped. Because of course . It wasn’t a big deal to Scylla because she didn’t feel the same as Raelle. And in that moment, Raelle knew she had messed up. Royally. Why had she thought some mistletoe would miraculously lead to Scylla returning her unrequited love. She should have never cast that spell.

She was so stupid .

But she had a chance to fix it now. To bury her feelings and give Scylla a quick peck and be done with it. But...

“I can’t,” Raelle whispered, tired of hiding. 

Scylla’s face fell and that made Raelle’s heart crack. “Would kissing me be that terrible?”

“What? No!” Raelle covered her face with her hands. This was a disaster. “That’s not…”

“Rae,” Scylla gently pulled down Raelle’s hands, blue eyes as clear as the shimmering waters of the Great Lake on a cloudless day. “It’s okay. You don’t have to kiss me, if you don’t want to.” 

“That’s the thing.” Raelle’s chest throbbed. “I do want to. More than you know. But not like this.”

“Like what?” Scylla asked, baffled. 

“Like it doesn’t mean anything.” Raelle took a deep breath. It was now or never. She’d prove she wasn’t the most cowardly Gryffindor in the history of Gryffindors. “Because, Scyl, it’d mean everything to me. Because you mean everything .”

Scylla licked her lips. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, I love you. I’m in love with you. Have been for as long as I can remember. But I understand if you don’t feel the same.”

Closing her eyes, Scylla ducked her head down, shoulders beginning to shake. Raelle couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying.

“Scyl? Say something. Please.”

When Scylla finally looked up, Raelle for sure thought her heart stopped. Tears shone in her eyes, and her mouth curved up in a trembling smile.

“You know what Muggles say about assumptions, right?” Scylla said.

Raelle watched dumbfounded as Scylla stepped away and out past the perimeter of the mistletoe’s reach. Howlers appeared out of thin air, and their screech was deafening. They flapped to all corners of the castle. Even with her hands clapped around her ears, Raelle could hear the message clearly:

Scylla Ramshorn, Seventh Year, Ravenclaw, is in love with Raelle Collar, Sixth Year, Gryffindor.

Scylla Ramshorn, Seventh Year, Ravenclaw, is in love with Raelle Collar, Sixth Year, Gryffindor.

Scylla Ramshorn, Seventh Year, Ravenclaw, is in love with Raelle Collar, Sixth Year, Gryffindor.

The message repeated for what seemed like eternity before it finally ceased, leaving Raelle in stunned silence, facing burning.

Scylla shrugged helplessly.

In less than a fraction of a second, Raelle erased the gap between them and kissed Scylla, cupping her jaw and burying her fingers in soft, auburn hair. Scylla wrapped her arms around Raelle and brought them even closer. Raelle melted into the softness of Scylla’s lips, warmth spreading throughout her entire body as her heart expanded to the point of bursting. 

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Scylla whispered when they broke apart, foreheads resting against each other.

“Why didn’t you?” Raelle countered, smiling so widely her cheeks were beginning to hurt.

“I guess we’re both idiots.”

“Guess so.”

Scylla nuzzled the tip of Raelle’s nose. “Speaking of idiots, I’ll have to thank the one who bungled the mistletoe spell after all.” Her gaze traveled up to the archway. The mistletoe had already disappeared to claim its next victim. 

“Lucky for you, you don’t have to search very far,” Raelle confessed.

Scylla’s eyes widened. “It was you?”

Raelle nodded sheepishly, and Scylla could only laugh, pulling her in for another kiss. 

[roadtohell]

@mynamesdrstuff​ thank you ur brain is so big, i had like 10 moments of revelation while writing this

A Labour of Love- or, How to Write a Song That Makes Me Want to Lie Facedown On The Floor

Four decades separates the respective rises of singer-songwriters Hozier and Bruce Springsteen, nearly as large as the gap between the worlds in which their public images reside. According to popular myth, the former is the tall, near-ethereal Bog Man, half in this life and half in the next, who rose from a fae-inhabited woodland after 1000 years of slumber to find he was able only to mourn his lost love through song; the other is the Boss, a hardy yet compassionate working-class hero permanently streaked with the blood and sweat of a marathon shift, toiling endlessly alongside the heart-stopping, pants-dropping, hard-rocking, earth-quaking, booty-shaking, Viagra-taking*, love-making, legendary E Street Band. The domains of fen and factory may appear to be irreconcilable, but in reality the musicians have many things in common:

Broadly speaking, they both create wildly variable mixes of folk and rock, often with particularly strong Irish and African-American influences.

Their lyrics are poetic and commonly reflect on social issues with a progressive voice.

Songs about romantic relationships typically portray them as complex and difficult but remain respectful, sometimes near worshipful, of women.

Their characters yearn, long, pine and crave more often than not.

They both really like to use religious imagery.

They enjoy and return notable amounts of wlw love.

Representative of many of these are Hozier’s “Work Song” and Springsteen’s “Maria’s Bed”, two songs with close thematic parallels. Each is ostensibly told from the perspective of an exhausted labourer who dreams of returning to his lover. In a twist, however, “Work Song” is a melancholic love story, while the upbeat “Maria’s Bed” is a subtle tale of death; the opposing moods are complex reflections of these underlying narratives. These songs have Hozier and Springsteen skilfully intertwine the concepts of love, death, freedom and spirituality, creating two deeply moving portrayals of desire** that never fail to eviscerate the listener after 10pm.

Though the songs differ in overall lyrical structure, the similarities in narrative are evident from the first few lines:

Boys, workin' on empty / Is that the kinda way to face the burning heat? / I just think about my baby / I'm so full of love I could barely eat

Been on a barbed wire highway forty days and nights / I ain’t complaining, it’s my job and it suits me right / I got a sweet soul fever rushing round my head / I’m gonna sleep tonight in Maria’s bed

The audience can gather that each character works in a harsh environment where they are exposed to the elements. Their work is likely in manual labour, but the details are skimmed over because the narrators don’t particularly want to think about the details. Pushed to their limits, each instead copes by preoccupying himself with thoughts of his lover, though it makes him literally lovesick.

I’d never want once from the cherry tree / ‘Cause my baby’s sweet as can be / She gives me toothaches just from kissing me

She gives me candy-stick kisses ‘neath a wolf-dog moon / A sweet breath and she’ll take you, mister, to the upper room

The worker recalls his lover’s kisses as being vibrantly sweet, sweeter than nature. So, too, is her company- in contrast to the grim situation he is currently in, she is something to be savoured. Sugar cravings, an innate biological compulsion, come to mind; his hankering for her is likewise deep-seated and out of his control.

The reason for such devotion, the narrator reveals, is that she saved his life at a time when he had already resigned himself to death. He believes he was undeserving of such a deed; Hozier describes “three days on a drunken sin… she never asked me once about the wrong I did,” while Springsteen’s character recounts being “burned by angels, sold wings of lead / then I fell in the roses and sweet salvation of Maria’s bed”. In other words, his state of ruin was at least partially self-made, and her care seemed completely inexplicable. He eagerly returns her love, perhaps feeling that it’s the least he owes- but he still doesn’t quite understand where it came from.

True to both songwriters’ styles, these lines are direct allusions to the idea of redemption in Christianity: God sheltering a faithful person from the literally hellish consequences of their wrongdoing, through no merit of their own. However, the worker is notably dismissive of traditional doctrine:

My babe would never fret none / About what my hands and my body done / If the Lord don’t forgive me / I’d still have my baby and my babe would have me

I’ve been out in the desert, yeah, doing my time / Searching through the dust for fool’s gold, looking for a sign / Holy man says “hold on, brother, there’s a light up ahead” / Ain’t nothing like the light that shines on me in Maria’s bed

His faith rests not in God but on his lover; she is his religion now. Her act of grace already gave him a new, better life- he doesn’t need biblical promises when her love is tantamount to anything heaven might offer. This implication conveys a staggering depth of feeling, particularly to a religiously raised listener. Spirituality is, at its core, emotional; combined with the values and customs of religion, it is a force that can exert incredible influence over a person. The worker doesn’t reject spirituality itself- it’s an intrinsic part of him- but he has put all that power in the hands of the one he adores. It may make him vulnerable to her (that’s love!), but he is certain that she will give him the strength he needs.

Theological redemption also has close ties with death, as its benefits aren’t meant to be reaped on earth. Instead, the love, glory and freedom that are promised are relegated to the afterlife. Historically, the presumed ecstasy of achieving this gave death a sexual connotation; after all, if a lover could take the spiritual place of God, then perhaps sex could take the role of death as a gateway to paradise, far away from a life of pain. Work Song embraces this analogy, explicitly linking spiritual fulfilment to the pleasure of sexual intimacy:

When I was kissing on my baby / And she put her love down, soft and sweet / In the low lamplight, I was free / Heaven and hell were words to me

The equally suggestive Maria’s Bed allows the audience to draw similar conclusions, but it accomplishes this using a far less serious method: regular mentions of the titular bed, wink-wink-nudge-nudge. Yet this light-hearted sauciness is something of a misdirection. It’s easy to gloss over the song’s references to water, but they are strong hints that support an alternative reading: Maria is not a woman, but a river***. The story, from this perspective, then becomes much more sombre- the worker is a dying or suicidal man who wishes to have his body laid at the bottom of a river that provided for him in life, and whose real desire is for the peace he hopes to find there in death.

Got on my dead man’s suit and smiling skull ring / Lucky graveyard boots and a song to sing / I keep my heart in my work, my troubles in my head / And I keep my soul in Maria’s bed

This darker interpretation arguably makes more sense than the face-value love story, as it resolves some figures of speech that otherwise seem out of place. Even so, the more obvious reading is no less meaningful****; in fact, the coexistence of these narratives is what makes Maria’s Bed an almost perfect thematic inverse to Work Song.

When my time comes around / Lay me gently in the cold dark earth / No grave can hold my body down / I’ll crawl home to her

Hozier uses the finality of death to illustrate the strength of a man’s desire for love- his narrator embraces his own passing as he is certain not even the most permanent of barriers can keep him from his lover. Springsteen, through the personification of the river, uses the language of romance to demonstrate how fervently a man might desire death- his narrator embraces his demise because it offers a reprieve from life, just like a lover would.

All that said, no amount of lyrical analysis will reveal the clearest point of contrast the songs have: their music.

Work Song primarily draws from blues and folk music, both of which have roots in historical work songs used to coordinate physical tasks as well as boost morale. Reflecting this musical heritage, instrumentation is fairly simple, with the steady rhythm of claps and piano chords punctuating hard. It is slow and heartfelt, almost mournful; though there’s no mention of time frame, the audience has the sense that the worker still has a long way to go before he can return to his lover.  This notion comes largely from the song’s circular structure. By ending with the same music it opened with, its story is also implied to finish at its beginning: with the men hard at work in the “burning heat”, and no true relief in sight. This is furthered by having little development over the course of the song- though iterations of the chorus are more intense than the verses, the arrangements underlying both sections barely change. The worker, it seems, is never quite far enough from his reality of hard labour, and never close enough to home.

On the other hand, Maria’s Bed is relentlessly optimistic, driven by a strong forward momentum. Where most modern songs have their choruses as their most powerful feature, here the wordless refrain (“hey hey, la la la li li li li”) acts more like a transition between verses, keeping the story moving. The jaunty fiddles that fade out are quite different to the introductory guitar and organ, suggesting the worker’s situation has developed for the better. In addition, the orchestration builds continually, only briefly pulling back before the music culminates in an extended musical outro. Many of the instruments work in counterpoint, each additional layer contributing to an air of an unrestrained joy that is further spurred on by Springsteen’s high hums and whoops. The linear musical direction and overall impression of good cowboy fun results in the feeling that, unlike the singer of Work Song, the narrator is already on his way to his heart’s desire- though, in light of the lyrics, what this actually means is somewhat ambiguous. Are those final echoes him moving out of earshot… or his ghost ascending to the “upper room” of heaven?

We may not know for sure how either of these stories end, but we can feel the aching hope for something better. This longing is an emotional line that runs all the way through both Springsteen and Hozier’s work, though it never seems to get old. Combined with explorations of love, faith, life, death- that’s why we return to their music again and again; they are experts at playing on old motifs and universal themes in new and creative ways, their crafted melodies and narratives touching wild and industrial hearts alike.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

* I am legally obligated to include all these adjectives.

** Maria’s Bed seems to be sadly obscure even among fans; the one and only online forum discussion I have seen about the song refers to it as “not that deep”. Having written this whole essay- if Springsteen himself said that to me, I’d laugh in his face.

*** A random internet comment I can’t find anymore backs me up on this. It even specified that it was about the Santa Maria River in California, as quoted “from Bruce”. Obviously an infallible source 😊

**** It’s important that “[drinking] the cool clear waters” can totally be the description of oral sex you thought it was.

[hollandsmushroom]

hi! could you write one with late night make out sessions with cal while you listen to the rain hitting the roof of the car while it pours outside?

Let me know what you think!!! Comment, Reblog, anything, it makes me dance a little!!

If you don’t like it ask again and I would be more than happy to re-write it for you!

The sky had opened as you and Cal drove through the dark of night, returning home from the dinner the two of you had attended, the rain hitting the road in front of you in sheets. Droplets pounding against the glass that shielded you from the outside. Cal was focusing intently on the road ahead and you were focusing on him, how the moon lit up his soft tan features and how his jaw was tense with purpose as to get the both of you safely home. As he turned around the bend in the road the tires slipped, the car sliding slightly causing you to let out a yelp and your hand to shoot out and grab Calum’s bicep, he didn’t let the car get away from him though, managing to maintain control of the vehicle with an air of expertise. 

“I’m gonna pull over at the next shoulder, its not safe enough to drive in this condition,” He spoke loudly as to make sure his voice wasn’t drowned out by the beating of the water against the roof of the car. You nodded in agreement, no longer in any hurry to reach your house, more just wanting to remain alive long enough to get there. The next shoulder wasn’t far ahead, one, maybe two minutes up the road, Cal pulled over, putting the car in park and relaxing back into his seat, turning his head to look at you. 

“You okay?” he asked softly, reaching out to cup your cheek in his hand, stroking it softly with his thumb as you leaned into his touch. You nodded in response to his question, too peaceful to speak. “Good,” his eyes were lost in yours, taking in how the moonlight shone off of them and how the trees were reflected against them. He couldn’t resist it, leaning in and brushing his lips against yours to see if you responded to the contact, you did, leaning into the kiss and locking your lips together. 

He licked at your bottom lip, asking for entrance, which you happily granted, parting your lips and letting his tongue slip between them. His plump lips felt like heaven against yours and his hand slid from your cheek and to your hip, squeezing it causing you to gasp. He bite down on your lip as he pulled away from the kiss, leaning over and hooking a hand under neath your thigh, pulling you over the center console and making you straddle his lap. The steering wheel poked you lightly in the small of your back but the feeling was quickly replaced by Calum’s hand pulling you in closer to him. His lips reattaching to yours, your hands gripping his shoulders as you leaned into his body. Chest to chest to two of you kissed, bathed in sunlight and surrounded by the pitter patter of rain drops beating down on the metal body of your car. 

His hands were running up and down your back as if trying to soothe the tension the your slight hydroplaning had caused. Once he felt the tension in his muscles release they slid down your back, gripping the rounds of your ass and pulling you closer to him, he simply couldn’t get enough of how your lips felt against his. The moment of fear that he felt when he lost control of the car was something causing this, because when he felt the tires slip beneath him he wasn’t worried about what would happen to him, he was worried about what would happen to you, the person who made him believe in love again, the love of his life and the feeling of your lips on his made him smile against you. 

The two of you stayed like his, lips locked as the rain poured down, time didn’t seem to exist because all of a sudden the rain had stopped, the roads still wet but not dangerous like they had been before. Pulling away from Cal you peeked your eyes open, taking in his ruffled hair and swollen lips, his cheeks flushed. You rolled yourself back into your seat causing call to whine. 

“No, we can just stay like that forever,” he huffed

“We wan continue when we get home,” you giggled, a content grin take over his face as you said this. Leaning forward he turned the key in the ignition, the engine turned over as he shifted the car into drive, pulling onto the roadway he took your hand in his as he drove the two of you home.

@mylilbreadstick @cthoodsthetic @isabella10028 @dont-drop-that-lunchable @moancurly @numberonepoetryexpert @neonsgravestone @calumsbitch4ever @lukethecalumstan @caswinchester2000 @damselindistressanu @myloverboyash @heartbreak-5sos 

[journal-of-an-outlaw]

Price to be Paid

AN: This was my favorite chapter to write so far! So many of the ideas I’ve been sitting on and just waiting. And I’m so glad we’ve all agreed to just say this song was written in the late 1800′s lol. 

Chapter 5

The long day had taken its toll on you, but you were excited to relax and have a party with the gang. Abigail helped you find a new shirt and took your blood covered one so you didn’t have to think about it. She was a blessing through all of this, even if she was preoccupied with John and Jack most of the time. 

Although you had just washed in the lake on the way back to camp, your skin itched with the thoughts of what you had done. One of the wash barrels was close to your tent and you spent a few minutes washing and rewashing your hands and arms, desperate to rid yourself of whatever was making your skin crawl. 

“Washing like that don’t help much. I’m afraid those stains on your skin can’t just go away.” Arthur grabbed your arm, red from the pressure of the cloth you were dragging over and over. You sighed and released it, watching it slip under the surface of the water. 

“He was an awful man. I know I couldn't have just walked away without him killing me, but how do you justify taking away a life?” 

Arthur nodded and continued to move you away from the barrel. “None of us are especially good here, but we try. Don’t kill nobody who don’t deserve it. Sounds to me like he got what he deserved. Was that your first -” but he stopped talking as Jack ran up. 

“Uncle Arthur! Mama said Hosea needs help moving something into camp. Big boxes!” He stretched his arms up to show the two of you just how big the boxes were. You laughed, and Arthur turned before taking Jack’s outstretched hand. 

“You’ll be okay then?” 

“Yes, Arthur. Thank you.” You watched the two of them walked off and Jack broke into a run. Hosea was moving boxes of liquor for the party and the kid was right, they were big. Whiskey, beer, and various other liquors were being spread over the camp so no one had to walk very far for a drink. 

Dutch shouted appreciatively in the distance and ordered where everything should go. Ms. Grimshaw had a tent all set up for Sean with his things, and he emerged a new man after changing out of his old clothes. 

Someone handed him a beer, and he walked over towards the ledge to face the small crowd. 

“Oh, no speeches, please!” Karen shouted at Sean. He didn’t seem to mind the friendly banter and continued anyways. 

“Uncle Sean is back! And don’t you worry, Ms. Grimshaw, I’ll keep them girls in line. If I have to whip em, I will!” He stopped to take a big pull from his bottle while the women in camp shouted back. “I’d like to see you try!” “Will you drop already?” “Put him down! Somebody needs to.”

After wiping his mouth, he continued, “And don’t you worry Mr. Pearson you drunk old shit bag, it’ll be nothing but the finest game in the pot, now that Dead Eye Macguire is here! I love you bastards, have fun. Have loads of fun!” 

Sean stumbled forward and into the group, the party in full swing. Someone at the campfire started singing and playing guitar, and you walked over to find Javier plucking away. You didn’t know the one he was playing, but it was an upbeat tune that many people joined him for. After listening to the words for a moment, you realized just how lewd the words were. 

“In Louisville I met a maid, mark well what I do say,

And she was mistress of her trade, it was diddle-diddle-diddle all day!

I put my hand upon her toe, mark well what I do say,

She says ‘young man you’re rather low’, for a diddle-diddle-diddle all day!

I put my finger on her knee, mark well what I do say, 

She says, ‘young man you’re rather free’, for a diddle-diddle-diddle all day!”

The songs continued on, and as the drink flowed freely people slurred and got louder. It was a lot of fun, and you knocked back the last sip of your gin before heading to grab another bottle. 

Dutch called out to you, “Miss Moore! You said you could sing, why don’t you lead the next one.”

Your heart jumped to your throat. Javier motioned you over and asked which songs you knew. 

“Umm...how about The Mountain Shine? No, alright then. The Boy Livin’ Down Under? From This Valley? Perfect!” 

Javier scooted over on the log so you could sit with him. The guitar started up hard and fast, and you came in with the first verse. 

“Oh the desert dreams of a river,

That will run down to the sea. 

Like my heart longs for an ocean,

To will wash down over me. 

Oh, won’t you take me from this valley,

To that mountain high above?

Oh I will pray, pray, pray, until I see your smiling face,

Oh I will pray, pray, pray, to the one I love.”

Javier picked up the second verse with a rich voice that fit well with yours. 

“Oh the outcast dreams of acceptance, 

Just to find pure love’s embrace. 

Like an orphan longs for its mother, 

May you hold me in your grace. 

Oh won’t you take me from this valley, 

To that mountain high above?

Oh I will pray, pray, pray, till I see your smiling face, 

I will pray, pray, pray, to the one I love!”

People around the fire were whistling and dancing along, some even joining in to sing. The song always reminded you of home and the dance hall downtown that opened its doors after the fishing boats returned from the last big sail of the year. The big skirts twirled and swished about in the most marvelous way.

“Oh, the caged bird dreams of a strong wind, 

That will flow ‘neath her wings.

Like a voice longs for a melody.

Oh, Jesus carry me. 

Won’t you take me from this valley

To that mountain high above?

I will pray, pray, pray,

Until I see your smiling face. 

I will pray, pray, pray, 

To the one I love!”

The song concluded after you and Javier timed the last verse together, trying to harmonize and failing but laughing along anyways. 

“Thank you, Javier and YN! What an excellent tune to get folks on their feet and dancing.” 

You stood up and walked over to the group around the alcohol. Whiskey still made your stomach turn and you couldn't stand the stuff, so you rummaged around for the gin bottle you had eyed earlier. The nerves from performing for a real crowd were still shaking out and you knocked over a bottle while trying to read the label. 

“Dammit,” you muttered under your breath. Karen stumbled over looking as happy as a clam. Rumor was her and Sean were lovers not too long ago so she must be excited to have him back safe at camp. “YN! Hand me that one, will ya?” she motioned in the general direction of the bottles so you handed her the half empty one and hoped she didn’t notice. She did not, and put it high in the air to dance around with. Sean called her back to the table and she sat in his lap, ignorant to everyone else around them. 

John walked into camp and clapped Sean on the back. The two laughed and exchanged a few words, then Arthur joined John to walk over for drinks. 

“Ms. Moore! I don’t believe we’ve actually met. Abigail said the two of you met back in Blackwater and she talks enough that I feel like you and I are old friends. How are you holding up in camp?” John was younger than you thought, and it made you question how old Abigail was too. His dark hair was long and shaggy. The cuts on his face seemed to be healing although he would always have a wicked scar from his encounter with the wolves. 

“Abigail is wonderful! Nice to see you up, Mr. Marston. I’ve been doing just fine. I think,” He had a kind smile and met your gaze when you shook hands. You grabbed two bottles and gave one to him and the other to Arthur. 

“Hard to make friends when you keep getting hurt, Marston! Although probably best to keep that ugly face in the tent so you don’t go scaring people.” Arthur laughed heartily at his own joke, then took a pull from the full bottle. He must have taken Sean very seriously when he said to have fun from the looks of his flushed face. “You should see this one hunt, makes it look easy to use a bow.”

“A bow? Do you hunt much with Charles?” 

“Just occasionally. But he’s much better than I’ll ever be.”

The three of you drank and chatted for a few moments, but were interrupted by Mary-Beth coming to grab Arthur’s hand. 

“Arthur! Come dance with me. Dutch is playing that awful record player but I love the song.” He obliged and followed her over, leaving John and you alone. 

John chuckled while watching the crowd. “That girl is the sweetest, silliest one here. Tilly and Karen can be nasty if they need to, but Mary-Beth don’t have it in her. Wants to be a writer some day.” 

Mary-Beth was smiling up at Arthur as they spun around. “They with each other then?”

“Who, Arthur and Mary-Beth? God no! She’s a little sister to him, like that with everyone here.” You told the voice inside your head to be quiet but the gin made it impossible to listen.

“He, uh, sweet on anyone else then?”

John gave you a puzzled look for a few moments, then something clicked. “Nah, not anyone here. Don’t think he’s had them ideas for a long time.” He looked around the camp as the song ended. “Abigail! Get over here, woman. I’m gonna dance with you.” Abigail pretended she didn’t care but the small smile and blush told you she was thrilled. Mary-Beth had left to go back to the fire, and John called out, “Arthur why don’t you dance with that nice girl? She’s hiding back by the drink.”

Arthur looked your way and motioned for you to come. You sheepishly walked over, insistent that he didn’t have to keep dancing if he didn’t want to. He ignored your protests and held up his left hand, waiting for your own. 

You stepped forward and placed your right palm in his and your left hand on his shoulder. He stood a good head above you, even in your heeled boots. 

“Miss Moore, I can’t dance with you if you stand that far back now. Promise I won’t bite.” 

After you stepped closer he put his hand around your waist and the two of you began to twirl around. Nearby Dutch and Molly had joined the group, and you swore this was one of the first times you had seen her smile and laugh. 

“If you insist I call you Arthur instead of Mr. Morgan, then you know I’ll say the same. Call me YN.” 

He chuckled and agreed, moving you over by Abigail and John. The two of them were laughing as John tried to keep up with Abigail’s feet but kept stepping on her toes. He started to make a game of it and chased her feet around with his. 

“John! Oh you silly man. Stop it now! Well, don’t the two of you make quite a sight,” she looked over at you and Arthur. You shook your head, “He’s just being nice and putting up with me while I try to dance a bit better than John.’

Jack ran over and wanted to dance with his parents. He startled you all and you tripped forward, but Arthur caught you. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”

“How many times I gotta tell you, call me Arthur.” Without thinking he tucked the hair that had fallen free back behind your ear, lingering with his fingers in your hair. A flush spread across his cheeks as he dropped his hand to your shoulder and played off the intimate moment. 

“You okay there, Mr. Morgan?” you asked. He sighed playfully, “I guess that won’t change even if I ask a hundred times.” 

The song eventually ended, and the two of you broke apart. Arthur tipped his hat in thanks and headed back over to the group at the campfire and poking fun at Karen and Sean who thought they were flirting secretly. 

“Now that is something I ain’t seen in a long time, Arthur Morgan, flustered and blushin’,” John said quietly as Abigail left to find Jack. 

“Mr. Marston, it was nothing I promise. Just a harmless old dance.”

A burst of laughter ripped from him. “I’ve heard that before! And two weeks later, she’s telling me I’m gonna be a father!” 

Much later in the night everyone gathered around the campfire swapping gunslinger stories. Dutch’s strange opera music still floats on the warm night air around you, but him and Molly haven’t been seen in a few hours and some other members of the camp had begun to drift off to bed. Whether that was face down in the dirt or their actual bedrolls depended on who you asked. 

“I swear, it was the biggest bear I’d ever seen!” Sean elaborately told how he escaped some manner of beast, and it’s changed from killer wolves to bears and back again a few times in the same sentence. 

“Must have been, yay high. Chasin me down the road. My heart nearly burst from my chest! But ol’ Dead Eye Maguire never runs from fear! So I hopped off my horse and tried to shoot him up. O’ course he was right behind me so it bowled me over. Tumblin’ down, over and over, until I finally landed on my feet like a cat, and pumped him full of shells from my trusty shotgun!” Sean jumped on to the table to demonstrate how he landed and swayed around until Pearson grabbed him by the collar. 

“Not a word of that is true and you know it!” No one seemed to care as they were all laughing away at Sean. 

“Darlin, you ever held a shotgun before?” He questioned Karen who had kept up with Sean in terms of drinks through the evening. He leaned over her shoulder and prepared to teach her how it was done.

The look she gave him was pure murder. “‘Course I handled a shotgun before! You think I don’t know how to shoot it? Shit, I’ve jerked enough dumb men around I reckon I can cock it one handed.” 

Beer somehow shot out of both your nose and mouth simultaneously as the entire group erupted with laughter. Karen stood up and demonstrated how this could be done and it got funnier each time she pretended to shoot. Finally Sean tackled her to the ground and they recreated the bear/wolf fight with Sean as the attacker. They both stumbled around so hard no one could move more than a few feet. 

You tipped your bottle up and drained the last few drops and took that as your sign to turn in for the night. The group was still rolling with laughter but you knew you would regret the gin in the morning if you stayed up much later. You waved and smiled to the group as you left to find your tent. The cot was just as uncomfortable as you remembered. After debating with yourself, you drunkenly decided to camp out on the ground near the overlook and a tree. It wasn’t comfortable, but the fresh air felt good on your skin. Slowly sleep overtook you, and you somehow dreamed peacefully of dancing bears that sounded like Dutch telling you to point your feet when you ran through a field.

[0rdis]

actually wrote something sfw about my fl oc. written in the pov of Lady in Lilac. 

spoilers for seeking, kinda. Goes up to the Knock but is very much a huge au so its... very not canon. And very very vague.

[ao3 link]

The first time you meet him, his eyes are peligin. 

He wanders into your shop on legs fresh off the zee. He's seen something out there and you set out vials of dark ink. It's hard not to have heard the rumors about him, as close as you are to the Bazaar.

"I hear you can do tattoos in the Neathbow?" Asks the Monster-Hunter and his tongue keeps running over his teeth. There's no blood on them but you know that's what he's looking for. He's hungry in a way you know.

"I do. They call you the Fist of the Bazaar, correct?" It's an impressive title. The Masters overlook his hunger because he's willing to follow his targets to Death's Boat. You remember shuddering the first time you heard about how he shoves them off. 

He is dedicated, in the least. You, of all people, know how the Bazaar and her Curators are with secrets. Having someone so naive, so desperate for a place in the world, makes it easy to keep enforcing their wills.

He tenses. "Have we met?"

He wouldn't remember if you had, you think. You say, "No. I'm a friend of the Bazaar, though. Don't fret." 

He doesn't relax. "They call me that. But I'm just a bounty hunter." He's modest and that's strange down here. You wonder how long he will be like this.

"A hard job when death isn't permanent down here," you smile. His name and face are known. His habits will be known next. "A tattoo, then?" 

"An eye. Like they say hides under the Zee." 

You take out your instruments. "Have you seen it?"

"Not yet." 

You have no doubt he will. Already you know he's curious in ways that are dangerous. You ink it into the soft flesh of his inner arm with peligin. Gant flecks the pupil, because he will be consumed soon too.

He's silent as you work, like he's holding his breath. He watches with the same peligin eyes. You are sure they were brown before he got hungry. You wonder how he started.

"Do you dream?" You ask. 

"Even when I don't sleep," he says quietly.

"I'll give you some advice, on the house. When things seem too hard to bare, look to love. Always." 

His eyebrows furrow. "I don't know anything 'bout love "

"No?" You tilt your head. "Nothing about the sacrifice? The feeling of tightness in your chest like you may be drowning? The feeling you get when you remember the stars?"

His breathing hitches. You both fall silent, until finally he replies, "Isn't love dangerous here?"

"Yes. But when has that ever stopped you?" You're talking about yourself but you see something in his eyes that reminds you of yourself. You had been curious like him too once. And you had found the answers in the Game That Stretched To The Stars and you had fallen in love. Every year you return to the Neath. You look to love and add your own stories to her runed spires. 

He doesn't answer. 

After, he pays and leaves a tip. You raise a brow but he leaves before you can ask. He's left you his card, though you never use it. He leaves in the direction of the Forgotten Quarter. You can almost hear him telling the Well his stories.

(No, not you. The you you left behind.)

You see him again before you leave again to the surface, the tattoo is healed but you think you see it blink.

–

The second time you meet him, it's two years later. His hair is turning white, his eyes almost golden. He gives you a candle. It smells like lilacs. He's trying to hide the smell of absinthe on his breath. 

"Have you seen the Vake?" The Vake-Scarred Hunter asks.

"I hear hunters go missing searching for it. I wouldn't dare seek it out." 

He pulls out a crumpled paper. You didn't take him for an artist but it looks like something you would see in a research paper. Messy sketches with too much attention to the wings. You absentmindedly touch the tattoo you gave yourself. The one of a crab. 

There's love in his drawings. Like there's love in your work. 

"A bat," you say evenly. Mr Veils, you think. You've met them in passing, although never without their robes like he's sketched out here. You've read all about it on the hidden undersides of the Bazaar. She keeps even the worst and failed love stories, though they are hidden. You doubt even Veils knows its tale is burned into her carapace, right next to a name that should no longer exist. 

"Please. Can you do it?"

You have turned down many Vake-Hunters but you do it for him. For the love story it will produce.

Wings wrapped around his neck as you know claws have wrapped around it before. You can see the blood from a weeping scar soaking into his shirt. How many times has he died now? And how cruel is fate is to give him eyes you once saw in the Irrigo pools. He's hungry and has lost too much weight. 

Is he the one, you wonder?

When you finish, you hold out a mirror and you swear you see him wipe away tears. You inked the stars of the wings in cosmogone and violant. A feral grin and eyes the speak of intelligence rather than a beast. 

"Yes," he whispers, "That's perfect."

You wonder if Veils will be offended or proud.

–

It's the third time and yet the first. He's soaked from well water, limping. He almost looks like he recognizes you. He's full of love like you are. The real you. 

(You're early.) You say and the real you would feel guilty. Down here, you don't, you can't. He still reminds you of yourself. Would you stop him if you could? Fate and Destiny are such strange things. You had once sought yours too.

The Rapacious Hunter wants answers, of course. You can give them. Just like the Bazaar once gave you.

(No more mysteries.) You tell him. (Mr Candles was forgotten and you must be too. I know what you want – what he wants and what the real me wants. And it's all about love.)

You almost laugh at the look he gives you, somewhere between surprise, joy, and fear. (Oh, hush, I can say it down here. No one can hear us. It's just you and me. I'm no one and you're even less than that.) 

You baptise him in Irrigo. You don't need to take anything, he'll leave behind a shade like you. His future is already set in stone. But you will make it so he can't back out, can't turn around. The Masters will know. But will they remember after they've seen him long enough to stop him? 

(Perhaps, in time, he came to like being The Drowned Man. You're more alike him than any other.) 

You had met Candles and you had read the tragedy until your eyes burned from the Correspondence etched on the back of the one you love (not the you down here. The you down here doesn't love her). You had cried reading it and she had cried with you. She hadn't meant for it to happen like this, but she had no other options.

Perhaps Spices had been right, the Bazaar had told you, murder makes wonderful love stories. She's tired. You wish you could help more. 

In a way, you do, stepping to the side to reveal the candle. The Hunter-Seeker stumbles forward, desperate, mad. (Take it and you'll never be alone again.) You warn but you almost laugh. He's not alone. Not with the voice in his head. Not with Veils. Not with you.

(What else could I do but love you?) You ask because the real you gave you up for love. This Seeker will give himself up for love as well.

And there's a comfort in that. For him and you.

 –

“Do you ever miss the Sun?”

(Yes.)

He doesn't ask which Sun. You almost wish he would. 

– 

You don't expect to see him again, but the next year, he is back in you shop. He glows with a familiar violet. He knows you as much as you know him now. 

And both of you know what it's like to love a monster. 

"The Parabolan sun isn't right." People say there are only colors that exist in dreams. You are sure his eyes are that shade of gold now. 

You agree because you remember the way the sun of Parabola looked before he died. It was his light back then, not the false sun the Second City Refugees put into the sky. 

"They love the sun," you reply, "They couldn't live without it, so they built their own."

"Love makes people do horrible things." He isn't talking about Parabola anymore. Maybe he's not even the one talking. 

"Especially when you love something cruel."

"Cruel enough to kill?" He asks and you are positive you aren't talking to the Hunter now. 

"Cruel enough to imprison." You can't help the sadness in your voice. It still surprises you, though.

"All shall be well. It promised."

"They will only take a little. They promised." You counter. It's a low kind of blow but you don't say it bitterly. Everything that the Bazaar did, she did for love.

The two of you stare at each other. He closes his eyes, steadies himself. "Ah," he chuckles, "But we wouldn't love them if they weren't so."

Yes, yes, you agree. If the Messenger had succeeded, or had it not had tried so hard, you would not love it so. If Veils hadn't betrayed, it would not be Veils. 

You don't say any of this, of course. What you say is, "A final parting gift?"

He nods. "I want to remember Parabola." 

A vine in viric curls up his leg like a snake. Thorns look like they could draw real blood and buds could bloom into roses if you close your eyes. You step back so he can see your work. 

"Do you think," he starts, "that this will ever end?" 

"I know it will." How, you aren't sure. But you know sooner or later it will end. You know the politics of the Wilderness.

You pick up your needle one last time, put it to skin and write one word. A name. The name of the Bounty Hunter in front of you. He won't be this way much longer, but for now, it's his name.

He will be remembered this time.

–

The Once-Master had promised you the Sun. 

You had haunted the Nadir like a ghost, turned bitter by being given up. The real you had left you, so that she may work to a doomed future. The Bazaar is doomed. You can't change that. Perhaps you want to punish yourself. Bring light to the Neath and end this charade. 

The real you had love, had a future. You would take it from her as they had taken it from Mr Eaten. Grief and hate are all that's left you which is why it hurts so bad to realize the Rapacious Hunter has more.

He has hope.

You are silent as he lets the Betrayer cut him apart. You expected Veils to kill him. You find yourself surprised yet again by how the whole thing unfolds. Instead, the Hunter is left less than he was before, if possible. Less human. But not a candle.

Not yet. He wants to be more. He wants to be Candles. 

That leaves you as Eaten, you suppose. The agony and hate made manifest. You think you, too, have been betrayed. You would have frozen with him had he asked. Died here in the north with nothing but each other. You love him because there is nothing left of you, as there will be nothing left of him. He is meant to bring Law to this Lawless place. Restore the balance of the Chain. 

He is meant to be avenged and remembered. He promised you would see the Sun.

You break your silence only because he is so weak. You aren't sure if he can make it. But he has made it this far and you are left without a choice. It's now or never. 

(Knock, and ask.) 

"How can he return?" The question is a damnation. There is no  Sequence for this. But you realize, suddenly, this may have not been Eaten's plan, but it had been Candles. A Greater Plan, a Greater Sin. This is greater than you, or the Vake-Scarred Hunter, or even Mr Veils who slinks back as the gate ignites in a burning white light. The real stars glisten and glow. A ripple across the door. 

You understand. This had never been about the Bazaar or the Betrayers. This is about those higher. Lure the White here, to this Lawless place. An army is building.

On the surface, the real you makes a wish on a shooting star that streaks across the horizon. In all things, look to love.

Veils is staring, not at the stars but at the figure in front of the gate. The shadow that had been the Seeker bursts at the seams with light and memories. Lacre cannot bury Law. You cannot reach his mind, the place you had made home. It's not there and neither are you. You are finished. Nothing will remain. 

But in the end, you see a Sun, bright golden.

[whatrealityisthisagain]

Ganesh

‘Neith the eclipsing moon I sat. Tiny dagger in one hand, plain carved wand in the other. A green candle alit, its flame flickering before me next to the small ceramic elephant purchased that same day. . . My eyes remained closed, so I could imagine a forest in front of me, around me. That’s how it was supposed to work. Imagine yourself in a forest the ritual said and imagine a magnificent elephant charging through the trees to you. When he reaches you, imagine the divine being lifting you onto his back with his trunk and charging through the thickened forest. As he runs, use the knife or anthem to cut the branches from your path - each branch an obstacle holding you back. I’ve never had problems imagining anything. I was picturing all of this crystal clear before reaching my little clearing in the outskirts of town. I went through the ritual in my head and before sitting under the full moon on the night of the lunar eclipse. I was even adding words to some of the branches when I pictured what I’d do when the time was right and imagined as some of them scraped across my skin while we charged through them, but as I sat there . . . no new image came to my mind. I tried so hard to see a forest around me, an elephant with majestic cloths draped atop him and strings of jewels decorating his godly form coming to me to aid me in cutting down my obstacles. To give me strength. But every time I tried to conjure a forest - it would flicker into view for a nanosecond, then return to the small canyon clearing I sat in. I gave up - I thought - but don’t remember if I opened my eyes or not. I was just staring off into the distant trees, a very small line of them behind the 3 or 4 spaced out around my clearing. I was getting ready to look back at the moon and watch my beautiful eclipse when I spied movement. I squinted into the darkness - my night vision is usually impeccable - and watched a large silhouette become more defined as it got closer. I just sat there in a stupor as the elephant approached me. Not a giant, decked out, glittering idle; but a plain grey elephant. He wasn’t draped in tapestries and colorful cloths, He wasn’t decorated in gems or golds. He was a medium-sized, naked, grey elephant with strikingly deep brown eyes. He was so much more beautiful than I ever dreamed possible. When he was in front of me, he turned back around and waited. I don’t know why, but I knew that I was to walk with him. He never spoke a word or made any other sign towards this conclusion. He just stood there and waited. So I got up and we walked. I didn’t know how to walk with a God, I’d never been around one before you see. So I tried to trail behind a bit, but he only slowed with me. We walked beneath the eclipsing moon, passed the few trees between my car and the thicket of trees. We walked slowly through the patches of dried grass, uneven dirt, and pockets of weeds. I could feel the rocks through my shoes, the bugs flying and jumping around me, and feel the cattails catch to my pants as we walked the short distance in silence. He never let me fall behind, I never tried to lead. We walked side by side, shoulder to shoulder (if my shoulder would reach his, the top of my head was lower than his armpit). It was all relaxing, calming. I was able to breathe at ease walking side by side with Ganesh. His mere presence giving me peace. It didn’t even take half a minute to reach the trees, and only took a second to venture through them into a shining oasis. Like crossing through worlds, it went from night to day; from a cold uneven clearing next to a water tower, to a beautiful spring with a diamonds glistening on its surface under the sun and beautiful long green and blue grass flowing with the breeze. 

“. . .”

“. . .”

“That was a lot different than what I imagined...” Were the first words to come from my lips. 

“How?” His voice wasn’t a thunderous boom, or full of frightening power.

“Well, you were supposed to put me on your back, and we were supposed to charge through a forest while I cut down all the branches. But instead of that, you walked with me...”

“Why do you think that is?” He replied with a glint in his deep brown eyes.

“Well, to be honest it felt like you had me walk next to you to say that I’m not above or below you, and wouldn’t let me walk behind you because I’m not more or less than you. It felt like you were showing me that I’m equal to you and that there’s no more strength you could give me that I don’t already have.” Would I be torn to pieces or abandoned for my arrogance at these words? Would he laugh and tell me how stupid I was? I couldn’t even believe that I was saying the words . . . to a God . . . even if he was just in my head. At this point, I was convinced that he wasn’t though. I never had trouble guiding my own daydreams or imagined escapes.

But he nodded. 

He Nodded! 

Then we sat there. 

We sat there in silent awe and revelry as we watched the bugs play on the water, and the diamonds shimmer ‘neath the sun’s warm gaze until it was okay to leave. 

When I opened my eyes, I was in a small clearing, I held a tiny dagger in one hand, a plain carved wand in the other. A green candle’s flame flickered before me next to the small ceramic elephant smiling up at me with a gleam in His eye.  

*******************************************************************************************

Fast forward to a dark day. Not because of the weather, but in my own thoughts and heart. A day where doubts were overwhelming me and family was making it worse. A day where I was curled on my bed barely able to breathe with tears burning my face until I was dried and too exhausted to do anymore. My elephant stared at me, and I stared back. “help” was all I could say, though it was barely a whisper. Then my phone rang. 

. . . 

“Hello?” 

“Hi, beautiful! How are you?” my friend said. 

“To be honest, I’m having a shitty day. Depression is kicking my ass, and my family is only making it worse.”

I explained to her the doubt I was being given, explained the hurt I was feeling, the lists I had written. And she gave me the most amazing advice! 

“Customer service their asses”

“. . .”

“Tell them you appreciate their feedback and will take it into consideration.” I wasn’t dry after all because I could cry tears of laughter no problem! And my Elephant’s eye even twinkled for a blink, just long enough to let me think I could have imagined it. 

*******************************************************************************************

A month after that, the darkness was back. The fear that my fighting was worth no reward, the haunting whispers of failure beating me back down a hole. My savings were almost gone, my bills still needed to be paid. I’d just taken my dog to the vet for an emergency bump, I was a hindrance to everyone, but couldn’t seem to find a new job. I wanted to scream, wanted to throw things and break them. “A little help would be nice” I said to the ceramic elephant on my little alter. A lot of good it would do, He may not even be real. And even if He was I wasn’t worth his time. There were nicer, more worthy people who didn’t question his existence. Besides, he’s already helped me enough, why would he want to help me aga-

My phone began to ring. Caller ID told me it was one of the places I had interviewed. I answered. I got a second interview. When the call was over, my elephant had a smug smile, his gleam was still present in his eye. 

My phone rang again. 

Another second interview. 

Then it rang twice more after that. 

My elephant almost looked like he was laughing, his eye giving its little twinkle as mine swelled with tears. I had 3 second interviews and one first. “Thank you” I told him, once again barely a whisper. A warming embrace seemed to engulf me. 

A week later, I had a job. 

-whatrealityisthisagain

[hotniatheron]

For the writing meme: silverflint and number 8, thanks

send me a prompt!

8) things you said when you were crying

It begins with sleepwalking.

Silver wakes up in unfamiliar places, looking around with a panicked curiosity at his surroundings every morning. Hurries home in the grey dawn light to find Madi sitting up in bed, waiting for him.

“Where do you go?” she asks him, dark eyes sharp as she looks at him.

“I don’t know,” he tells her, voice soft. Frightened.

Every morning he wakes up by the water.

The smell of the tide still lingers on the rive leading into Bristol, carried in by the ships headed for her port. It jars him when he wakes up on the grassy shore of the river near the tavern he and Madi keep. Can’t remember having walked down to the river at any point in the night as he sits up, brushing mud and grass from his face.

He watches as a ship slides by in the river, the shouts of the crew on the deck of the ship carrying across the water to reach him. It puts a longing in his chest that he hasn’t felt in nearly fifteen years.

He’d told Madi a long time ago that he had no desire to return to the sea but she’d told him she didn’t believe him.

Now she was being proved right. He nearly throws himself into the river with the desire to be back at sea. To smell the salt and feel the wind in his hair. The sun on his skin.

To be near him.

Instead he makes his way home to Madi, who’s waiting for him in the kitchen with a mug of tea in he hands for him. He takes from her with a soft word of thanks and sits down before she puts her hand on his shoulder.

“Where do you go at night?” she asks. looking at him.

“I wake up by he water,” he tells hers, voice trembling. “And every morning a ship goes by just as I wake up.”

“He calls to you,” Madi says, squeezing his shoulder. “You must go to him.”

“I can’t,” Silver says, voice breaking. “It’s been fifteen years, how can I go to him?”

“Yet you felt a need to be on that ship, didn’t you?” she asks and Silver sighs, leaning his head against her hip. Her hand cups the back of his head and it’s both comforting and authoritative at the same time.

“How do I even know he’s alive?” he murmurs and she huffs.

“You’re not so lucky that he’d leave this world without confronting you” she murmurs, petting his hair. “And you know because you still love him.”

Silver shudders, clutching at her skirt and taking a deep breath before he looks up at her.

“Go to him,” she says, cupping his cheek. “Just come back to me.”

“Always,” Silver says, turning to kiss her palm.

—–

The heat when he lands in Savannah is so welcome it nearly makes him gasp. It’s oppressive and humid, but it’s so familiar he could pretend that he’s arriving in Nassau for the first time again. That there is no grey starting to appear at his temples and he has both legs beneath him.

It’s the shout of the bosun calling for departure that finally draws him out of his reminiscing and has him hurrying towards the launch. The men on this crew have come to know that he’s more than familiar with how a ship operates and they’re happy enough to wait for him to make his way down the side with still practiced ease into the longboat. They chat idly with him as they row him towards the docks and he makes an effort not to tell him why he’s really there.

It had taken him weeks to figure out where Flint and Thomas had moved to, and he’d been surprised to see that they’d made their home in a house next to the Savannah river. Would have thought they would have taken off into the frontier, as far away from civilization as possible.

He makes his way through town towards the outskirts where the road turns from cobblestone to dirt until he comes to a little one floor house. It’s tidy out front, with a flower box under one window overflowing with morning glories and a neath row of rosebushes leading up to the door.

Silver cannot help the feeling of foreboding as he makes his way to the door. The house looks happy, but something in the back of his mind says it’s an illusion. Something says it’s not quite right.

He knocks on the door and is met with silence.

“Sir! Sir? They’re not there.”

He turns to see a young woman with a child on her hip, looking him up and down.

“They’re not here,” she says. 

“Oh, do you know when they’ll be home?” he asks and she squints at him, suspicious. He doesn’t blame her, he’s never quite lost the look of a pirate.

“Sir, no one lives here. Not since Mr. McGraw’s gone.”

Silver feels the earth drop out from under him. Stumbles back until he hits the front door of he house and slides down.

“Sir are you alright? I’m sorry, are you family?”

She crouches down in front of him and reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder.

“You wait right here and I’ll go get Mr. Barlow alright? You stay here!”

She disappears and Silver struggles to breathe.

Dead.

He’s dead.

He was too late. He’s always too late. He’s cursed to kill everything he touches. He’s cursed-

“Silver,” says a familiar voice. Silver startles, looking up to see Flint staring down at him.

Oh.

Silver lets out a shuddering sob of relief, horrified as tears start to pour down his face. Watches Flint crouch down in font of him and meet his eyes, tilting his head at Silver.

“What are you doing sobbing on the front step of my house?”

“Y-y-you’re not dead,” Silver gasps out, leaning forward to clutch at him. Flint stiffens in his arms and then relaxes, hauling Silver to his feet.

“No, I’m not,” Flint says. “Should I be?”

“She said-she said you were gone-”

“Mary, what on earth did you say to him?” Flint says, turning to the young woman before.

“I just told him that Mr. McGraw is gone. He didn’t let me finish and get to the part about you living with me while Thomas travels.”

“Jesus christ,” Flint mutters. “Alright Mary, I’ve got him now, thank you for coming to get me.”

“Do you know this man?” she asks.

“He and I sailed together many years ago,” Flint says. “He’s a friend.”

Mary still seems suspicious, but she leaves them be. Flint steers Silver into the house, shutting the curtains on the front window before he turns to Silver.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Flint snarls and even that is so welcome that Silver doesn’t so much as flinch at the tone of his voice.

“I came here looking for you,” Silver manages. “I felt….it sounds stupid, but I felt you calling for me. I was sleepwalking and-”

“Every day you woke up by the water,” Flint says softly, not meeting his eyes. “Me too.”

“I’m sorry,” Silver says, voice raw. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry-”

“You’re sorry,” Flint says, hand tightening in Silver’s shirt. “Just as I knew you would be. I told you all those years ago that it would matter. That you would care.”

“I’m sorry,” Silver says one last time and Flint nods.

“I know you are, and you have deserved every moment of torment that what you did has caused you.”

Silver deflates at that, feeling miserable. He must look a mess and he rubs at his eyes, mortified that he’s had such an embarrassing show of emotion.

“I loved you,” Flint says, looking at him. “I know that now. Took me a long, long time to try and figure out why I wanted to forgive you even when I was so angry.”

“Love doesn’t mean forgiveness,” Silver says quietly. “And you are not obligated to forgive me.”

“No, but I love you still, so I want to,” Flint says. “I’ve wanted to see you for so long. To tell you that I was angry. That it wasn’t right, what you did, but I have watched Thomas be at peace for fifteen years. Have watched him walk around alive. Have loved him. I wanted you to know that too.”

“I loved you then,” Silver says, cupping Flint’s face. Feels a soft, warm rush of relief when Flint leans into the touch. “I love you now. Not telling you that, perhaps, has tormented me most of all.”

“Every morning for weeks, I have gone down to the docks, waiting. For what, I didn’t know,” Flint says, reaching up to put his hand over Silver’s. “I must have just missed your arrival.”

“One last bit of revenge I guess,” Silver says before he gasps, leaning against Flint. “Jesus Christ, she scared me.”

Wraps his arms around Flint and buries his face in his chest, sighing softly when Flint returns the embrace.

“Mary means well, she’s just not good about conveying what she means,” Flint says, running a hand through Silver’s hair. It feels good, familiar in a way that makes Silver’s chest ache.

“There’s grey, in your hair,” Flint says after a long moment. “Surely you cannot be so old?”“I’ll be forty five in the fall,” Silver says. “Plenty old enough. It’s been fifteen years.”

Flint lets out a groan. “You truly were young then, weren’t you? You’re making me feel old. I was closer to forty five than not when I last knew you.”

“Then I suppose we are lucky to have lived this long,” Silver says, reaching up to trace the crow’s feet at the corner of Flint’s eye. “Aren’t we?”

“I suppose we are.”

[innerpostmentality]

The Road To Gretna Green Part 11 - Rejoice

All rights and many thanks are accorded to Pixelberry Studios. Happy Valentine’s Day!! This takes place immediately after Part 10.  Seriously, it will be very confusing if you haven’t read the other parts. 

Please see my Masterlist if you wish to catch up on the series. Rating: M, Erotica, seriously M                     Warnings: erotica Word count: around 2700 and a bit Tagging: @darley1101 @hopefulmoonobject @blackcatkita @speedyoperarascalparty @hellospunkiebrewster @tornbetween2loves @gardeningourmet @melodyofgraves @thequeenofcronuts @symonde

  Ernest met her smile as he escorted her out into the deepening evening. “You have no idea how long I have waited, wanted to address you so.”   “Oh? I suspect no longer than I fancied calling you husband, Husband.” “What if I told you that I knew from the first I escorted you around Edgewater when you first arrived I knew?” Her laughter caressed him and he stopped and leaned to kiss her sweetly. “I’ve proof.” “Ernest,” She shook her head, “you near ran me down the first time I saw you. I cannot believe that you bore me such affection so shortly thereafter.” He looked at her a long moment. Then patted her hand on his arm and continued over to the pub. 

When they entered they were greeted with cheers and all the patrons raised their glasses as Mister Camran introduced them to the assembled crowd. Rose blushed, “Thank, Thank you.” Then she turned to Ernest, “How is this possible?” He looked down at her and smiled to show his dimple before leaning in and whispering. “I think it’s traditional for me to buy them all a drink and for us to share our cake. Oh, and they may want to kiss you…” He grinned at her. Then raised his hand. “Drinks for everyone!” 

  All the assembled cheered.

  Mistress Camran lifted Roses travelling bonnet and announced, “Aye! A drink aen a kiss fer luck from tha bonny bride.”   Rose clung to Ernest’s arm blushing furiously and smiling. They stood at one end of the bar and the people lined up taking their drinks from the barkeep then shaking Ernest’s hand wishing them joy before leaning in to plant a kiss on Rose’s cheek. Then they each dropped a coin into the bonnet that Mistress Camran held before going back to find a table. It seemed the whole village had turned out to Rose, and she was kissed til she thought not a spot on her face had not met some stranger’s lips except for her lips that no one touched until all had their drinks and started chanting at Ernest. “Kiss her! Kiss her!” Ernest blushed as he looked down at her and leaned to kiss the top of her head.  “Ach Mon! Kiss er loike ye married tha bonny bride! Kiss er! Kiss er!” Someone in the crowd yelled and then the chorus started again with “Kiss Her! Kiss Her!” He turned to her looking in her eyes and gently stroked his finger along her jaw before sealing his mouth to hers. The pub erupted in more cheers as Ernest deepened their kiss for just a moment before they broke apart blushing furiously.

 Then the Camrans were tugging them through the crowd over to a table where a great cake was set for them. Mistress Camran cut them each a slice and pointed at the next table over where two plates of stew and drinks were set for them. The stew was delicious and the spiced cider perfect though they both were kept in a constant blush by all the attention as well as the continuing congratulations and occasional well meant but inappropriate advice. One man advised Ernest on the application of walnut oil. Another man advised him on honey. A third said oil of the olive. Another advised twine about the base ta stay standn tall. Ernest nearly choked on his drink with that and was pounded on his back.

A woman advised Rose strong drink afore and a pillow beneath the bum if you want bairns. Another whispered to ride the horse from the top and pee right after if you didn’t want bairns. Several people presented them with baked goods and bottles of scotch and ale, candles and Mistress Camran gave them a beautiful soft dark brown wool blanket. Then leaned over and told Rose, “Neath ye this night and on yer courses twill save yer bed” Rose was fairly sure her complexion would remain flushed forever more by the time Ernest leaned over to her and asked if she was ready to return to the cottage. She smiled and nodded and he rose and addressed the room. “I wish to express our deep appreciation and gratitude for the generous hospitality you have all shown us. Now good friends I pray you excuse us. But continue please to enjoy the evening.” Ernest paused at the bar to pay the barkeep with extra for another round for the house and then they went out into the coolness of the night. Mister Camran was there holding the largest horse that Rose had ever seen. She held to Ernest’s arm as they slowly approached Mister Camran and the horse that towered above him even at the shoulder. “Tis Buttercup. A sweet a lass as there be. Soft gaited ta hie ye home. Ye can stable her there and hie her bak ere on a ‘morro.” “Would you like that, Mistress Sinclaire? A ride on Buttercup to the cottage?” Ernest was grinning. Rose nodded and Ernest kissed her hand before he let go and climbed on the mounting stool to get on the Clydesdale. He scooted back and held his hand down to her. Mister Camran stepped up on the mounting stool and begged her pardon before lifting her by the waist to set her sideways on Buttercup. Ernest slid up so that she was secured across his lap. And nodded to Mister Camran thanking him for all his assistance. Buttercup walked off at an easy pace toward the cottage and at last they were alone. Somehow the chill of the night seemed naught in Ernest’s arms she looked up at him smiling. “I think I have not told you how very much I love you since we wed, Mister Sinclaire.” He chuckled and brought her left hand to kiss the ring of their union on her finger. “If I didn’t hear it will you tell me again?” “Aye. I love you Mister Sinclaire. I love you. And I want you. I’ve waited all my life for you.” He kissed her then teasing her lips apart and thrusting his tongue into her mouth to dance with hers. She moaned her rising desire into his mouth even as she felt him harden beneath her. Ernest tightened his legs around Buttercup urging her to a gentle canter as his need for privacy with his wife increased. Buttercup’s gait was silky smooth and the gentle rocking of the horse with Rose in his lap was exquisite torture for him. 

At last the cottage came into view and he broke their kiss pulling a moan of protest from Rose. “Patience Love. I am yours forever. But I must put Buttercup in the stable. I will join you soon. I promise.” He walked Buttercup to the step of the cottage and eased Rose down. She grinned at him. “Hurry, Mister Sinclaire. Your wife awaits you!” Removing her lace spencer she hung it on a peg by the door then she banked the fire in the kitchen before she went to the bedroom. She stirred the fire there adding extra wood and put water on to heat. Digging though her trunks she found her grooming box. Taking her tooth powder she rubbed her teeth and rinsed her mouth with mint water. There was an oil lamp on the bed table and she lit that before she turned down the bed. She sat in one of the arm chairs and pulled the rose from her hair. She smelled it and smiled then put it on Ernest’s pillow. Grabbing her brush she returned to the chair and carefully started pulling the pins from her hair, unlacing the braids before she started brushing out her hair.  She heard him enter the cottage and her heart raced in anticipation. Moments later Ernest entered the room. His bride was sitting before the fire brushing the fiery gold of her tresses her beauty unequaled in his eyes. He dropped the blanket and bottle of wine on the bed before he went to her and took her hand urging her to stand. Then kissing the soft perfection of her mouth he murmured his love into the kiss as his arms went around her. “I love you, Rose. There is one more thing I want you to see this evening, before… before we have each other.” He went over to his chest and pulled a satchel out and a sheaf of papers he brought over to her. “I know you doubted. But here is the proof.” Rose scanned the documents, eyes going wide, mouth falling open. “But, but Ernest this… This is a marriage settlement bearing my father’s signature. I, How can this be?” Ernest walked to the bed and retrieved the bottle of wine and two glasses telling her as he opened it and poured them each a glass. “I knew Rose. I knew I wanted you to wife after our first walk together. 

You father, perhaps more than my own father always cared for me, helped me, loved me as a father should love a son. I saw much of him in you. And I loved you with a certainty I’d never felt before. So I went to your father and asked him for permission to court you. To wed you if you would have me.”

 He walked over and handed her a glass of the fortified rich burgundy. Gently tapping his glass to hers. “Long life and joy.” She looked in his eyes as she sipped the sweet wine before setting the documents back on his trunk.

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “Even then Rose. Even then I wanted you. But your father knew of my previous failure as a husband. And we both wanted you to have choice, to be certain. So the stipulation was written that I must win your affection.” He sipped his wine and shook his head. “I knew it would be hard. You have no idea how hard it has been for me to watch other men fawn over you trying to capture your affection. I think I am generous. I try. But I find myself quiet,.. quiet possessive when it comes to you.” His gaze was steady on her his voice deep with his confession.   She sipped her wine then set the glass on the mantle and went over to him. “Ernest, no other has, or ever has had my heart. I think no other ever will.” She took his glass and turned it to sip from the same place he had. Then she set the glass on the bed table and started unbuttoning his coat looking in his eyes the whole time. Ernest’s fingers were shaking as he started unlacing her gown searching her steady gaze for any sign of fear or hesitation. Her smile was a healing balm on his thirsty soul as they disrobed each the other. He hesitated, smiling as only his pocket watch remained nestled between her breasts. Her hands were soft and sure as she lovingly stroked him. Delicately exploring every sensitive inch of his skin with her fingertips. His voice was hoarse with his need, “Do you trust me Rose?” She nodded, “With all my life, Ernest.” He nodded then he heard the water she had put on boiling in the kettle and he went and poured it back into the bucket she had taken it from so the water was just warm. He went to his trunk and took an exotic looking tin and set it on the bed table. Then got some cloths from the wash stand. “Come here love.” She went to him by the fire and he gently sponged her most intimate parts with the warm water. She closed her eyes and sighed with her pleasure steadying herself on him. His voice was low as he knelt before her, “Rose, may I pleasure you with my fingers?”

“Oh yes, Ernest, Please.” The tremor in her voice he felt in his heart. 

Carefully, gently he stroked her folds. Stroking the sensitive nub then down testing her entrance with one finger and finding her soaking wet. Just at the depth of his knuckle he felt the resistance of her maidenhead. 

  He withdrew his finger and kissed her sweetly. “Love will you wash me?” She opened her emerald eyes to his filled with longing and nodded. He gave her the cloth and she carefully sponged his towering soldier all the way down to his ball sack. Then gently between his buttocks. She watched him fascinated by his response as his tip was exposed when his erection got even harder. On impulse she kissed the very tip. A primal groan was pulled from his core even as he began to leak the clear precursor of his seed. “Rose… You need not…” He pulled her up. His voice was trembling. “Let us put the blanket down.” They quickly pulled the other comforters off and spread the dark blanket on the bed. Ernest looked in her eyes and stroked her cheek, “You must promise me. You must promise me if it is too much you must tell me. I will stop. I promise. Trust me Rose. Please.” “Please Ernest. I love you. I have waited so long for you. Please.” Ernest nodded then began to kiss down her body. His fingers were stroking her, coaxing her, gently probing. First one, then another, spreading her silky moisture across her swelling nub. Urging her channel to a wider passage. His mouth was suckling at her breasts and she was mewling with the tension building inside her womb. Then his mouth was traveling down her stomach and lower. And he was suckling her swollen nub rolling his tongue across it over and over while his three fingers now pressed ever deeper into her. She cried out his name as pleasure exploded through her body arching her up off the bed against him.  Ernest gasped, as he sat back on his heels kneeling between her legs then reaching over for the tin he had put earlier on the night stand.  “Help me love. I must take you soon. You see how my soldier weeps for you. Put this palm oil on me. It will ease the passage.” She looked at him every muscle corded and trembling as he waited her ministrations. There was an ache deep inside her for him. So she took the tin and opened it finding a white creamy butter that she smoothed over him as he moaned his need and bucked against her hand more of the clear fluid dripping  from his swollen tip. He groaned, “Easy, love, easy” he held himself and thrust slowly through her folds rocking back and forth before pressing his tip into her channel. She moaned and he stopped. “Please Ernest, more. Don’t stop.” He pulled out thrusting again through her folds across her ultra sensitive nub before once again pressing his tip into her. She tried to relax as he filled her, mewling “More, please, more.” His whole body was trembling and sweating as he fought for control. She arched pushing him deeper and then cried out as the resistance of her channel gave way and suddenly he was buried deeply in her. “Yes, Oh Ernest my love, Yes.” She was weeping in joy. The pain reducing to an ache that warmed her with the knowledge that she was truly his wife.” Ernest wept shuddering sobs as she held him to her seated completely welcoming their union. Rejoicing. His heart was beating with hers. And she was moving gently beneath him. Softly urging him to keep thrusting within her. To stay with her. He reached between them and found her nub and stoked it even as they found their rhythm, “Rose, My Love…I.. Rose…” He gasped as his release slammed through him his tip pressed deeply against the kiss of her womb. He registered her impassioned cry of his name as her walls milked him of his seed. Spent. He rolled them on their side still buried deeply. “I love you my darling wife. We are one, now and forever more.” ----------------------------------to be continued--------------------------------------

[undeadwicchan]

Rewatching RWBY: Volume 1, Episodes 1-5 [Live Blog]

Let’s get started.

[Episode 1]

Hello Salem. I wonder who is she explaining all of this to before Ozpin interrupted her?

ROMAN. MY BOI. ;__;

The return of the shadow people!

By the way, has it ever been explained why Roman was collecting all of this Dust for Cinder?

RUBYYYY Omg, I am so used to her Maya model and her V4-V6 clothes. The outfit is iconic though!

Asdfjgk MONTYYYY ;___; I miss your fighting style!

Ruby’s voice is considerably deeper in the beginning….

GYLNDAAAAAA

Oh hi Cinder.

So I’m gonna go with a gambit and say that first shot Cinder went for and used was her Semblance….

Okay so I know Maidens weren’t even a thing until like between Volume 2 and Volume 3 but, does that mean what we’ve seen with Cinder was actually her semblance??

“Can I have your autograph” Omg Rubes

I didn’t notice until now, but are they at an interrogation room?

OZPIN. OZ. I LOVE YOU. ;w;

“You have… Silver eyes,” anyone want to bet Oz said the same thing to Summer at some point?

I love how Ozpin baked cookies for Ruby while she was getting scolded by Glynda it really shows how total opposite Oz and Glyn can be towards each other.

Omg Oz’s eyebrow raise when Ruby was talking with food in her mouth.

If you haven’t met me yet, I’ll say this now… I am a Ozpin stan so uh, you’ll be seeing me freak out over Oz a lot here lmao.

I’m thinking we’re seeing Ozma in control here, not Ozpin.

Ruby you’re so pure and innocent and I’m not looking forward to seeing you get traumatized.

Ozpin’s smile after she’s done talking is just aaa.

Glynda’s judgement look at Ozpin when he was considering enrolling her early. “Ozpin no.” “Ozpin yes”

Y A N G

“I just want to be a normal girl,” *laughs in silver eyes*

Adam you prick, that was a peaceful protest c’mon.

“Incredible time of peace” *cries in post Volume 3*

JAUNE BOY

Lmao that ending tho

THIS WILL BE THE DAY WE WAITED FOR. GOD I HAVEN’T HEARD THAT SONG IN AWHILE.

I just noticed after S I X years that Adam pops in this opening lmfao. It’s kinda creepy he’s still there even after Blake vanishes.

Those silhouettes do not look like Mercury or Emerald lmao. Okay, kinda, but not much.

PYRRHA. MY EYES ARE ALREADY WATERING. AAAAHHHA

The Nostalgia… Onto Episode 2.

[Episode 2]

Beacon Academy is fucking huge, and I do feel Ozpin based it’s design off of the castle he went in to free Salem. I can’t wait to see Beacon in Maya.

Ruby is weaponsexual, fight me.

The return of the shadow people lmao.

W E I S S

I forgot she's a bit of a bitch in Volume 1 omg. That just goes to show how much she’s grown since then.

B L A K E

TEAR THAT PIECE OF SHIT COMPANY APART BLAKE.

“Controversial Labor Forces” Yeah Adam would know….

“I’m Jaune” “Ruby” Ah yes, the moment I started shipping Lancaster was that very moment lmao.

I love them so much ;-;

I wonder if King of Vale (Oz) and Jaune’s Grandfather interacted…

Let’s play I spy a main character in this crowd.

“Where am I supposed to find a nice quirky girl to talk to?!” Pyrrha is RIGHT THERE JAUNE.

Yang’s expression when she realizes Ruby was being honest lmao

And so it begins with Jaune and Weiss.

That was so Ozma talking, and that foreshadowing for that moment in Volume 6 oof.  

Oh right the moment where I see people and homophobes argue that Yang isn’t into girls. Yeah, no I call BS because as we see later, Yang is into girls too.

“You’ve got friends all around you, you just haven’t met them yet,” FORESHADOWING.

I love Blake’s pajamas out of the RWBY girls. It seems very… Mistral like.

“It’s about a man with two souls” There is so much foreshadowing in this episode it’s not even funny… okay it is lol.

I love this moment between Ruby and Blake, and I think Blake sees a bit of what she used to be in Ruby and perhaps what Adam originally was to her. :c I made myself sad again gdi…

Those girls are going to love each other and treat each other like family…  

[Episode 3]

And here’s Ren and Nora!

I’m so used to hearing Neath voice Ren, but hearing Monty voice Ren and just overall hearing Monty… I love that man…

Ruby x Crescent Rose is the real endgame pairing.

PYRRHA I LOVE YOU ;A;

Omg Weiss and the return of her derp face.

I can see how Volume 1 Jaune is insufferable.

LET’S SAIL ARKOS. LET’S SAIL!

And Lancaster too!

That’s probably Ozpin talking, not Ozma.

Poor Ruby lol

Poor Jaune lmao

I think Ozpin might be enjoying this.

I remember reading a comic where that bird was actually Qrow that Ruby flew into lmao.

Man… it’s weird seeing Yang without a prosthetic for her arm…

I missed Pyrrha have I mention that before?

I remember that art style, it’s used in those RT animation skits.

That music that plays as they made eye contact gives me chills and I hear Mirror Mirror in it too.

IS THAT FOREVER FALL I’M HEARING IN THE BACKGROUND DURING PYRRHA’S AND JAUNE’S CONVERSATION. RT STOP YOU’RE GONNA MAKE ME CRY. I’m probably going to bawl my eyes one when the full version comes out.

I can see why people ship White Rose, and I do too. It’s cute.

[Episode 4]

Alright Goldilocks and the… Two Bears?

Oh right Yang values her hair a lot back during the early volumes.

That smirk from Blake. Also I’m going to be paying more close attention to Yang’s and Blake’s bond and also Sun’s and Blake’s bond here.

Ah, setting something on fire. Now that’s the RWBY I know.

Oof… yeah it was rough for Weiss and Ruby early…

Oh… I didn’t get that foreshadowing with the Nevermore fight until now!

Vol 1 RWBY has a lot of derp faces.

You know it’s been awhile since seeing someone use aura defensively like Ren does here.

Unlocking someone’s Aura seems very intimate at times.

Boop.

Oz keeping an eye out for Ruby, it is interesting because I made post where Summer’s death is what led to Ozpin being protective of Ruby during Volumes 1 and 2.

Omg Ruby is letting it all out on Weiss.

“Not yet” that was a dark mutter… referencing how her father is with her perhaps?

I feel like those chess pieces they pick are of importance in later volumes

“Some girl is in trouble” LMAO

And Ruby is falling.

Alright I know what happens next episode, and I can’t wait if I remember correctly.

[Episode 5]

Lol I love their banter

Blake’s ears twitched, that’s how early the speculation of Blake having cat ears have started… actually it might when the Black Trailer was released.

Blake is just... experiencing so much wacky shit that she would never experience seeing in the White Fang

There’s so many anime tropes in this episode lmao.

Lmao, it was heroic for a brief moment Jaune.

#EveryoneIsHere

Ruby was so reckless early volumes damn.

Omg that must have been terrifying for Yang especially.

Weiss to the rescue!

With that character development too!

Ah yes, that small Lancaster moment.

Something tells me in the Final Battle against Salem we’re going to see a more older, wiser, and harden Ruby perched on that rock and turning to her friends and allies as a callback to this.

Alright time for RWBY & JNPR VS Death Stalker & Nevermore.

I miss Monty’s fight choreography. ;v;

The start of JNPR. And Jaune being a strategist.  

The start of RWBY, and Ruby being a leader.

That’s probably one of the most iconic moments in RWBY.

Omg Pyrrha and Nora are so happy.

This is definitely going to be an interesting year Oz…

“We’re going to need more men…” Here comes the White Fang..

All in all I miss seeing Pyrrha and Ozpin in the flesh especially, and I feel like I’m 16-17 again. This is great!

[ritterblood]

OK. I need to know Haurchefant's reaction when he wakes up after the fire. I just need to know. I'm so gripped.

continued from here  honorable mention: @ferrumumbra

consciousness comes in fitful bursts of pain and flashes of memory, screams and fire intermingling with the thick rattle in his chest each time his body attempts a breath. his eyes burn as he tries to open them, retinas still tender and irritated from the damage sustained from hot air and searing smoke and his mouth tastes like ash, each struggling inhale prickling at the back of his throat, flaring up the damage in his lungs.

the first time he wakes, he panics and passes out again nigh immediately from fits of coughing. blood flecks his lips, bile rising from his stomach at the agony searing through his chest with each splutter, his body seizing in fear and pain, moaning like a wild and cornered animal as hands press him down and the chirurgeons administer another sedative; 't is all they can do to keep him from shaking off the bed, from causing himself any further damage.

the second time, the bubble of air around his mouth and nose keeps him from choking anew, but everything else yet feels like he has been skinned raw. his chest feels heavy, too heavy, like a great weight was pressing down 'pon it, several parts of his body throbbing with white-hot pain. he attempts to open his eyes again, but nausea rises anew as black stars burst in his vision, head ache pulsing from the base of his skull forcing most all rational thought from his brain. he cannot think. he cannot breathe. he cannot even see properly. someone tries to talk to him, but it sounds dulled, as if pulled from underwater.

he smells nothing but smoke and burning flesh. in the end, the darkness that takes him anew feels more like a blessing than aught else.

the third time, his senses feel dulled, slowed and his mind feels oddly disconnected from his body, but the pain has mostly abated. there is no nausea when he opens his eyes, but it takes what seems an age for him to even connect to what he's seeing, his thoughts muddled and sluggish at best as the sedative still lingers in his bloodstream. slowly his surroundings form into a whole, clicking together in his brain to form the inside of the infirmary room he is lain in. there is a pressure around his hand that feels warm, but not uncomfortable; and tilting his head to the side, he dumbly notes the presence of his father sat at his bedside, holding his hand.

his father is crying. he cannot yet understand why. " papa-- what-- ? " he nigh startles at the sound of his own voice, rough and frayed at the edges, gritty in a way it shouldn't be.

" haurchefant. my son, " his father's hold tightens as the man leans in, fear and concern shimmering in blue hues so mirroring his own. " camp dragonhead--- there was a fire. the camp is--- do you remember aught? "

fire. fire. his hands start trembling, a cold sweat covering his body as the word unlocks and rushes forth more memories previously buried beneath the haze of pain and unconsciousness. the heat. the smoke. the screams. the sounds of glass and stone giving way 'neath the power of the inferno; the crash of the beam that had blocked his way out, the smell of scorched skin as he'd attempted the metal handle and had found it too hot to the touch. he'd tried the window next, only to realize the fire had eaten its way around the entire building and he would have gained naught but jumping into deathly flame if he attempted that escape.

he'd panicked then, he admits that; once he realized his way out was barred on both sides he'd repeatedly attempted to force open the door, the jarring of his body against the wood loosening smoldering ash and flame from the hole the beam had created, causing further burns. it'd been foolish to tire himself out so, for the smoke sapped away the last of his strength once the return of rational thought made him attempt to migrate to the bathroom, towards water. he'd succumbed to the heat before he'd even gotten there. by all rights, his foolishness should have gotten him killed.

and yet, here he is. alive.

mayhap one of his men? he sucks in a wheezing breath, shaking his head as his father pleads for him to stay calm, the thought of his men seizing his heart with fear once again. he should have stopped to think. should have jumped from that damned window after all, halone take him, wrapped in a wet cloth to protect him from the worst of the flame. he may have made it and then mayhap, he could have been of use. but now, but now --- he knows not how many are even hurt. how many perished. and on the cusp of that horrifying realization, he can but grasp onto the barest straws of relief.

at least, at the very least, auri had been in the city proper, away from the flame.

how foolish of him to hope, he will soon realize.

" h-how ... how did i---? " survive, he wants to ask, his head tilting to look at his father, struggling to cope with the onslaught of memory, the guilt and fear snaring his chest and throat even further. but his father is not looking at him anymore, his gaze straying now towards the far end of the room where he suddenly realizes another bed stands. and on it, he sees---

his breath stops in his chest, a wave of black dizziness tilting the room around him at an odd angle as he lurches upright, fingers curling desperately into the sheets below. his throat feels tight, too tight, the faint whimper of “ no, halone, please, “ sounding like it is torn from him, vision swimming with hot, burning tears as realization sinks in.  that is auri.  auri, on that bed, swaddled in bandages, unconscious and prone, injured and hurt. auri who should have been awake and unharmed. auri, who should not have been here, why was he here, what has he done, how can this be ---

he does not even realize his knees and palms hitting the floor as he physically launches himself from the bed, can only groan against the sudden and sharp burst of pain inside his chest as the sudden movement agitates his lungs, wringing more deep and rattling coughs from his already weakened body. a metallic taste floods his mouth, small drops of blood littering the wildly spinning floor in front of him, his ears ringing and ringing and ringing with the onset of shock. he nearly faints, then, but grits his teeth against the encroaching black at the corners of his vision, nails digging into the tile. he cannot lose consciousness. not now, not yet, not before he’s made certain, not before he has seen auri up close, not before he has discerned that his love yet breathes. 

everything hurts, his entire body trembling against the force of that agony, but adrenaline forces him onward. he vaguely hears edmont curse as he weakly bats at the hand forcing him put until a stronger arm pulls him backwards and into a wheelchair to roll him closer. his mind churns with confusion and fear, struggling against his own body’s sundry ails and injuries, and he hardly understands what is even happening and yet ---

the moment he is at auri’s bedside, it does not matter.  with another shuddering breath, haurchefant fumbles at auri’s bandaged hand, fingers curling around it with what little strength is left to him. his body sags against the side, the mattress’s counterweight the only thing keeping him from keeling out of the chair as he leans his clammy forehead against the back of the hand, a weak moan of relief escaping him as his father’s hand rubs something across his back that seemingly soothes the searing agitation within his lungs. later on, he will think to apologize for his conduct; 

for now, weakened and vulnerable, unable to keep the tumultuous tempest of his shaken and shattered emotions at bay, he can do naught but give in to the pressure in his chest and cry: small, broken whimpers and hitching sobs borne just as much from exhaustion as they are from heart ache and pain. his shoulders shake with the effort, his eyes slipping shut when it proves too hard to keep them open, tears leaking from ‘neath trembling lids.  

beneath the tips of his fingers, he feels the soft flutter of auri’s pulse; ‘t is the only thing that keeps him tethered then, the one thing that keeps him from falling deeper into despair from feeling like his entire world may as well have just crashed and burned ( literally so-- ) around him. 

his father’s hand feels heavy on his shoulder, but haurchefant cannot help but draw a modicum of comfort from its warmth. “ they say he went in and dragged you out on his own. “ the usually calm and composed voice sounds thick with emotions, his eyes sad. it is but a further stab to haurchefant’s heart; the knowledge that his own inability to save himself forced his love to relive that which had traumatized him most. he has not yet taken stock of auri’s injuries, has not the willpower left to do so, but the bandages ... the fact that he is here at all...  “ we will put all at our disposal to give the best care to both of you. “ 

a small favor; even if haurchefant wishes for naught but for the healers, the chirurgeons they will surely face to tend to auri first and foremost. if his love ... if... 

no. he cannot even think it. he will not. he could not bear it.  “ forgive me, “ he breathes, wet and thick with guilt. “ please--- “

at last, with auri’s hand in his and cheek resting against the bandages, slumping further in the chair, he succumbs once more to the darkness. 

[thewritenerd]

Victor and Adam: NaNoWriMo Day 10

***

The nightmare was a familiar one though it had been a while since he’d had it. It started out pleasant enough. He was walking along a riverbank careful to not make any noise. At some point he reached a part where the riverbank dipped so it was level with the river itself. At this point he decided to step into the water. That was when the dream turned into a nightmare. As soon as he was in the water he felt something gripping his ankles. Looking down he saw a pair of pale white hands gripping him. He opened his mouth to scream only to find himself inhaling water as the hands yanked him under the surface. He thrashed and kicked against what was gripping him but it just kept pulling him down, further and further into the water. The river, which was impossibly deep, grew darker and darker until it was pitch black. Unable to see in the dark and his skin numbed from the cold the only sense Adam had left was his sense of hearing. Listening intently he heard two things. First was the sound of the water rushing past seeming to whisper the words “your fault” as it went. The second sound was more distant and seemed to be coming from bellow him. It was the high-pitched sound of a child crying. Not just a little blubber. These were loud howling sobs of someone in clear distress. Unable to take it any longer Adam clamped his hands over his ears trying to block out the noise. But it just kept getting louder and louder, until it felt like it was coming from inside him. Like it was coming from him.

***

He woke to find himself being shaken by Igor, the old man’s face grim with concern. ‘Adam it’s okay. You were just dreaming.’ He said trying to reassure him. Adam nodded not sure if he could speak with the lump forming in his throat. ‘Right. Dinner’s ready but if you need time I can always put your plate in the oven. Would you like that?’ Again he nodded. ‘Okay. Come down when you’re ready. Oh and maybe give your face a wash before you do.’ He gave a small weak smile which Igor returned before leaving shutting the door behind him. For what seemed like forever Adam didn’t move. Sure it was just a dream but that didn’t matter. A little girl had drowned and it was his fault. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ He whispered. ‘I only wanted to play.’ He wanted to cry again but he had nothing left. How old was she? Old enough to be allowed to play outside on her own. But definitely younger than ten. When he’d picked her up she had shrieked and yelled, but he’d heard kids making similar noises when they played together, he didn’t realise that there was a difference. When he threw her in the water he thought she’d float for a bit then climb out giggling. But she didn’t float, she disappeared under the water. He stood waiting for her to come back. But nothing happened. He wanted to call out to her. Tell her she was scaring him. But he didn’t know how to form the words. All he could do was make noises and hope she’d understand what he meant. But the only person who heard was a strange man. Later Adam would learn he was the girls father who’d come looking for his daughter when she hadn’t come to great him when he’d gotten home. What had happened to that man and his wife? Did they still live in that house or had they long since left? What if they were still living in town? They were at the trial weren’t they? The man had spent the whole trial crying with his head down. His wife kept her head up but her face was blank and unreadable. The only time he’d seen her show any emotion was when it was all over and she’d broken down in the hallway. Adam had only gotten a brief glimpse of this before being ushered away. Back then he was still getting his head around what had just happened. The concepts of death and grief were still very new. But now he wished he’d been able to apologise. Sure it wouldn’t change anything. But maybe it would have helped them to know it hadn’t been an act of malice. Then again maybe not.

 Victor

Victor was surprised when Igor came into the dinning room without Adam. ‘He’s not feeling well. I told him to come down if he starts feeling better.’ Victor nodded. ‘Very well.’ Igor started dishing up the food and pouring his glass of wine. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to ask what’s wrong with him?’ Igor asked. ‘I’ll ask him when I see him.’ Victor argued. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’ Igor muttered as he walked away. Victor frowned but said nothing instead finishing his meal in silence. He had eaten his meals this way ever since moving to live on his own. But this time the silence felt wrong. Truth was in the months he’d been living there he’d gotten used to Adam’s presence at mealtimes. It was the only time they’d spent in the same room together in the beginning, on Igor’s insistence that he would not serve the same meal to two different rooms unless absolutely necessary. ‘He’s part of the household now.’ He had argued. ‘In fact he’s part of the family, and you can start treating him like it. Though I’d prefer it if you treated him better.’ This had angered Victor and he’d even threatened to fire the old man. Igor though had stood his ground, possibly he knew Victor would struggle to find someone else as willing to take care of Adam, and soon Victor relented. Adam didn’t come down until Victor had finished his plate. ‘So you decided to come down then?’ Adam nodded. He did look unwell; his face was pale and his eyes were red. He also moved in an odd way. Slow and almost lumbering like he wasn’t sure what to do with his limbs.  He sat down and Igor served his dinner. When he thanked him his voice was distance like he wasn’t fully aware of what he was saying. ‘So what happened?’ Victor asked determined to prove Igor wrong. Adam stopped gulping down his glass of water. ‘What? Oh I just had a bad dream.’ Victor nodded not sure what to say next. ‘Nate invited me round his tomorrow afternoon. Can I go?’ Adam added looking from Victor to Igor as if unsure who he was exactly asking. ‘That should be fine.’ Victor replied. ‘Just let Igor know the address so he can take you.’ Adam nodded already looking like he’d cheered up a little.

Adam

Nate lived on a street of house that all looked identical. The doors alternated between yellow and green and white with a step leading up to each house. Igor stopped the car outside of number 845 and Adam climbed out. This house had a green front door and was one of the few houses with a patch of grass outside the front. Taking a deep breath Adam took hold of the knocker and knocked twice. It wasn’t long until the door was opened by a girl he’d never seen before. She looked around his age, a little taller than average but still considerably shorter than him, with olive skin and pale blue eyes. She was started tugging on her hair which she wore in a long plait with a bored expression on her face. ‘You Nate’s friend?’ she asked. He nodded. She stood inside letting him in before closing the door behind him. ‘Nathan you’re friend’s here.’ She called before turning back to Adam. ‘They’re in the front room.’ She said pointing to the door just to his left. He pushed it open and stepped inside. Nate was sat on the floor while Chelsea was cross legged in an armchair. ‘Hey Adam!’ Chelsea waved. ‘Hey Chelsea.’ Adam waved back. It had been weeks since he’d seen his friends in person but he already felt better for being in the same room as them. ‘I’m gonna make myself a drink you want anything?’ the girl, who Adam figured must be Sascha, asked. ‘Yeah.’ Nate replied. ‘Well get off your ass then.’ Sascha laughed and ran off before the tennis ball Nate had just hurled could hit her. It bounced of the doorway and landed on the sofa between two cushions. Adam sat himself on the floor with Nate looking round at the room as he did so. It was messy not in a no one ever cleans way but in a lived in way. There were jackets strewn over the back of the chair and an assortment of teddies scattered around. The coffee table had a stack of colouring books and a basket full of pens and crayons, and the bookshelves were filled with dvds, mostly of cartoons, and framed photos. There were also photos around the room the largest of which hung over the sofa. It showed Nate and Sascha, looking a little younger than they did now, sitting on the floor next to two women sat in wicker chairs. Each of the women had a toddler on her lap while a fifth child stood between them. He turned to point to the picture. ‘Are those your mums?’ he asked. Nate nodded and stood up. ‘Yeah and these are my brothers Ararat,’ he pointed to a wide eyed boy clutching a small teddy in a bow tie sat on the lap of a woman with a shaved head in a red and grey dress. ‘And Liam.’ He pointed a pale boy who was had his hands wrapped around his mother’s dreads. ‘And my little sister Mariangela.’ He pointed to the little girl who stood in the middle. She was covered in freckles and her hair seemed to grow in every direction except down. ‘That’s a big name.’ Adam commented as Nate sat back down. ‘We usually just call her Marie. Anyway now you’re here you and Chelsea can find a game to set up while I get the refreshments.’ He stood up and left the room. ‘Bring me back a coke.’ Chelsea called after him. ‘What does Adam want.’ He called back. ‘Water.’ Adam replied. Chelsea raised an eyebrow. ‘Really that’s it?’ Adam shrugged. ‘I don’t really drink much else. Except Cream sodas.’ Chelsea pulled a face. ‘Eyuck. You actually like that stuff?’ He just shrugged. ‘Well come on we’d better pick a game or Nate will be having us play Scrabble. And I can never beat him at Scrabble.’ Ne pulled open a cupboard door under neath the tv and peered in. ‘Now let’s see. Monoply, no. Ludo, I think the little ones have lost half the pieces for that one. Checkers, that’s a two player game. Stupid deaths, now that sounds fun.’ Adam shook his head. ‘I don’t really want to play anything about death.’ ‘Okay not that. How about this?’ ne pulled out a box much smaller than the others. It’s a card game, pretty fun. You basically have to take a card and do what it says. If you succeed you keep the card if not you put it back. You can also steal cards by doing the vs challenge but if you loose the other person can take two cards from your stack.’ ‘Sounds fun.’ Ne started putting the other games away. ‘You pick anything Nate asked walking in with a glass of water and a can in each hand.’ ‘Yeah we’re playing this.’ Chelsea waved the box at him. ‘Oh drat.’ Ne added looking at its leg. ‘I’ve ripped my leggings. And they were my favourites.’ Ne pouted. ‘And I doubt I’ll be able to find another pair like them.’ Nate nodded. ‘I’ve noticed how long it takes you to find anything being so chubby.’ Chelsea laughed. ‘Chubby? That’s so pretentious. I’m fucking fat.’ Ve rolled ver eyes in an exaggerated manner. ‘I can’t believe you’re still referencing that old meme.’ Nate teased setting handing them their drinks before disappearing again. ‘A big black blonde bigender beautiful babe that’s me.’ Chelsea laughed. Adam just nodded.

[puppyfluffpasta]

Stranger’s Help

I was driving with my best friend Jeff and we were somewhere in the middle of nowhere, when we decided we were sick of each other and started bickering, blaming each other for everything. He’d yell at me, telling me it was my fault the gas meter was broken because I accidentally kicked it, but it was such an old car that’s break anyway, and it was so small I probably couldn’t even get in with out kicking something, and being cramped in there for a cross country trip was not the best idea, but we were on our way still and it was too late now. He’d call me “Mikey” which he knew I hated because I preferred Mike, or even Michael now that I was mature and trying to be a real adult at 25. But you didn’t hear me calling him “Jeffy” whatever, it was stupid and we both knew it. The lack of air conditioning made us both sweating grump machines and we were fighting like an old married couple, which subsided for a moment until... walla, the car stopped moving. It sputtered for a moment, and wouldn’t start again as we looked out at the completely abandoned highway (we hadn’t seen a car for hours probably because we were out in the absolute middle of nowhere.) and we both knew our only chance, as we hadn’t been even remotely close to a gas station, and our phones were both completely dead the next state over, we realized we were fucked.

We yelled a little more, until we realized in unison neither one of us were going to start trekking out alone, so we decided we better just lock up the car, leave it on the side of the road and start walking with the little bit of water we had (about a 16 oz bottle each half full) and beg some person to help us, anyone to help with anything.

After a miserable hour or so of walking through dead grass and over hills, we eventually found a little fence, and in the distant was some little wooden cottage, in a strangely forested part of that area, where we thought there was deserts and plains only for states around, but here was this strange vibrant little place of trees with some kind of house in the middle. How quaint, and how goddamn lucky. We ran over, just hoping for even a glass of water, and eventually I knocked on the door. I’d do the talking, since Jeff was awkward, and usually tried to come onto any female, which could very well be who answered the door to this feminine little cabin, and that might get the door slammed or a shotgun pulled on us in these parts.

Eventually after a minute or two of waiting hopelessly, as we just hoped there wasn’t lights left on for some reason, some curtains moved in a window and someone quickly peered out, but we couldn’t make out what they looked like. I think it was a woman.

And what a woman it was... the door creaked open confidently, I waved through the window when I could, and returned a similar wave as I saw a little woman with a coy smile behind scarlet sharp lips, sleek green eyes glowing from behind long, dark locks of hair. She couldn’t have been over 30 and she was drop dead gorgeous, wearing all black with long sleeves dressing long pale fingers with long sharp black nails. She simply smiled at us and said “Yes?”

I stumbled over myself trying to not freak out at how beautiful this stranger was, I’d ask her to marry me she was so drop dead gorgeous. But I kept it to “Our car ran out of gas some ways from here, sorry to bother you, um, can we just get some water and maybe a phone to call for a tow? Or do you happen to have any gas on hand?? Anything to help please.”

She looked I’m not sure how, maybe annoyed, maybe infuriated, maybe happy to help, but said “So there’s no one else with you?” And I replied “nope just us two. That’s all. Please we mean no harm, were begging you!” I said with a nervous smile as Jeff pleaded with me.

“Hmm, why should I help you two? What are your names. Let’s see if I like your names.”

“Well I’m mark, or mike. Mike.” I stumbled like an idiot.

“And Im Jeff!” My friend said overconfidently while stretching out his hand to shake her hand. She grabbed it, but in a way as if Jeff’s hand was dainty, just grabbing the tips like you would a young woman. It made me laugh a little to see him emasculated like that. But then this woman looked dead serious at me and said “I’m Persephone. It’s a Greek name. Now Mark. Jeff. You say you beg for my help? Let’s see you really beg.” She didn’t smile she said it firmly as if it was a command. “Get on your knees, both of you, I want to see you beg, come on.” She snapped and smiled and suddenly I think we both felt an immense need to to get on our knees and beg, but we didn’t want to look too silly and looked at each other. “Uhhh” I think we were both a little scared and a tiny bit aroused, and we decided maybe at once if we should just play along. I kinda laughed and said “um like this?” Smiling and got on my knees, Jeff following. “Please, please help us. We’re begging you.” I shook my hands in prayer to her and tried to remember her name... persa phonee? That’s not right. Then as if she could read my mind she said “You can just call me mistress. Say, please mistress, please help us”

And at once giggling me and Jeff said “please mistress. Please help us” and we smiled as we tried to not get slight boners. Then she broke her serious stride with a sharp smile

Like a knife, and said “get up now, let’s go inside. I’ll get you something to drink. Come on in,” and she turned around showing off a plump tight butt waddling ahead of us as we followed in like baby ducklings. This girl was going to be fun I think.

We stepped inside and I immediately noticed how much bigger it looked inside, stairs leading down to more rooms and halls under neath the ground level it seemed. Woah, cool. And I made out so many strange pictures and objects around, some new age type stuff like crystals and stones, little talismans, and lots of bones and strange objects. Me and Jeff taking it all in, she pointed to the couch and we both sat, excited to see what happened next. Would a threesome with Jeff be too gay? Too weird? Would one of us demand to be alone with her if she liked us? We’re we in trouble? We looked around at all the stuff in the house, rams skulls and different trinkets, old books. She was in the kitchen or other room fixing up water it seemed like, taking a moment, as Jeff turned to me and whispered pointing to some

Symbols carved into the wall “I think she might be a witch dude. Hope you don’t get turned into a frog” and I elbowed him to shut up. She was definitely into the whole witchy Aesthetic, she even had a broom in the corner like an old witch’s broom for god sake.

Then the woman returned with a tray with three glasses of water, she set the tray on the table in front of us and we tried to play it cool that we were dying of thirst and we gulped down the impossibly refreshing water about as quick as we could, almost choking on it.

Jeff broke the silence with “So I’m sorry, how do you say your name again?” Oh god, don’t be rude we just got inside, you idiot.

“It’s like purse, Eff, oh knee. But like I said you two can just call me mistress. Miss Percy is fine too for now.” She said as she stirred her drink, perhaps not just water.

“Well thank you Miss Percy.” Jeff said.

Then she assumed a more motherly tone: “You know, you should really sit more proper, cross your legs, one knee over the other.” He kinda laughed and tried it, not really comfortable as he was being asked to sit like a lady, another stab at him. Ha.

She continued: “You know you have such high cheek bones, such a thin figure. Such small proportions, you really are blessed with such a body.” Jeff was drooling at her compliments, he knew he’d stay here as long as he could. He might let me take his car, but I was jealous, we were getting help and out of here soon, were not here to make friends really. We gotta get home eventually.

“You on the other hand. Michael. You are so broad shouldered, so muscular for someone that doesn’t seem to try. Your essentially the man most men wish they were aren’t you?” She was stroking my ego for sure now, with manlier compliments than Jeff’s weird things.

“Both of your potentials shall be unlocked soon, you two will make the most excellent little pets” she said as she smiled sipping. What a creepy lady. I figure she was joking, but trying to flirt at the same time? Dammit I’d really have to share her with Jeff. This is not something I planned at all. then suddenly I noticed something, I was swelling, I was getting a little taller, I looked at my otherwise loose t shirt, and noticed it was tighter, my Muscles were bulging like they never had before, it was like I was flexing as hard as I could without even trying. I touched my body and felt so much dimension, I was getting more manly by the second, wow, what the hell was going on? Was I hallucinating? Was she inside my head? Then I thought about the fact we just drank some mystery water she gave us, some kind of potion. Uh oh.

“Mikeyyy??” I heard a shrill cracking voice come from where Jeff was sitting as I noticed hair stretching down past his ears now, his face thinned and supple, lips luscious and eyes big as the lashes seemed longer than ever, his dainty hand lifting up to his quickly swelling breasts, his shirt stretching and pants bulging as his body feminized, I saw her panic as she grabbed her crotch feeling a very foreign thing where their penis quickly seemed to retreat inside their body. She let out a shriek of fear as she looked down at her entirely female body.

The witch started again “Like I said, you two will make great pets. I own you now. You’re in my possession, and this is only the first of many spells you will be experiencing. Now Jess, and you Michael, tell me thank you for your new bodies, these are much more suiting to you. You both look absolutely stunning.”

Jess started crying as she pawed herself trying to find any semblance of masculinity or familiarity it that now tiny soft body. I said in a now deeper, richer, more manly tone: “Hey, let us go now! What are you trying to do to us? What did we just drink??” I stood up aggressively to walk out, ready to fight this demon woman with my new found stature, and I pulled up the now completely emasculated young lady beside me as if I was rescuing her.

She started laughing maniacally as she pointed to the door, which had vanished from sight and was now one of the only blank walls in the house. I shuttered as I realized what a mistake we had made by coming here. There was no escape.

“Look whatever you want, just change us back and let us go!” Jess said as she stomped in all her incredibly feminine glory. I had never realized how girly Jeff was until right now. He really did make a very convincing girl already, and it had been maybe one minute.

“Shh!!” Percy hissed as our lips slammed closed painfully, our tongues swelling until our mouths were completely full and useless, making no noise.

“You two are my playthings. My dolls. My slaves. Whatever I feel like. Do you realize you are lucky you are even both human still? I promise you won’t stay that way for long, I’m going to have to do a lot of breaking on you two, I can tell. And dont worry we have all the time in the world. This is going to be a truly magical experience. Now. Go ahead and nod if you are going to shut your mouths, do exactly as I say, and with a smile, you understand?” I nodded in tears starting to form in my eyes in pure terror. But then, my tongue stopped, shrunk down into my mouth to normal size and we stood there in shock.

“Now get on your hands and knees.” She snapped and we didn’t even have to try, we were instantly brought into our hands and knees doggy style. Then just like dogs, she pulled out two collars to place on us. One a red one with a gold buckle, and a pink sparkly one with a silver buckle. We both frowned hard and sobbed a little as she placed the pink one on Jess, and the red one on me as we felt glued to the floor in that position. Then she handed me a knife.

“Don’t get any funny ideas okay. I can turn you into a toilet and you can spend the next hundred years swallowing mine and, pretty little Jessie here’s waste?” I believed her and shivered as I held the knife like an alien toy not sure what to do with it.

“Cut her clothes off. Get her naked.” The witch bellowed at me. I looked over into my friends big blue, innocent looking eyes as she looked at me in fear and disbelief. Tears filled her eyes but her soft little hands touched my now larger, gorilla like hands and she said “It’s okay. Just do it. Let’s see what I look like now. I trust you.” I really had to hide the fact through all this horrifying mess of a situation that I was really turned on by what looked like my friends blonde twin sister telling me she trusted me enough to get her naked, and my dick flexed a little bit in excitement. If I got a boner our friendship was going to get way to weird, and while it was normal for her even though she’s actually a guy that’s my friend Jeff, was more normal than the hunkified gayness of your male friend declothing you. But I took the knife, and cut her/his shirt off. Two good sized tits bounced out from their prison and I saw my friends birthmark reminding me behind these gorgeous boobs that this was my friend still. I gazed into those pointy pink nipples for probably too long and then snapped out of it, cutting down the pants and pulling them with ease, I was so strong now. Then those gorgeous smooth legs that now jutted from Jeff’s tidy whiteys she pulled her underwear down so I wouldn’t have to and pulled her feet out of her shoes to take all the clothes off, until a hot blonde naked girl was in front of me in only a collar and socks. My dick was at least half erect now. She looked down at her body in disbelief, down at the pink lips that were now her vagina. She touched herself fearfully and said “wow... I’m hot.”

The mistress giggled and commanded to me, now, hand her the knife. I complied and Jess with caution took the knife from me as we looked into each other’s eyes, barely recgonizing each other, but we knew somewhere in their was our annoying travel buddy. Then she cut my shirt off, cutting me a little bit because she was too eager. “Ow!!” I yelled as a tiny cut was formed on my now well defined abs. We were both taken aback by my incredibly toned body, i looked like a goddamn male model. I saw her tiny hand touch my abs slowly and i did the same in amazement. Maybe my change wasn’t so bad. I just felt sorry for Jeff. But then i realized she was really getting into feeling my abs and seemed more, hungry than amazed. What was going on? She pulled her hand away as she noticed, and then turned her head away in disgust. “UGH no... dude... i can’t do it” this incredibly girly little voice tried to speak like her former self would.

“Oh you’re pretending you don’t want to see more?” The mistress mocked Jess’s confusion. “Your new little body is pulsating with hormones, and I could sense your two’s horniness the second you walked up. I know you want to see how big the potion has made your friends cock. I’m making you do it. Don’t worry, it’s not because you want to, it’s because I’m forcing you!” She knew something stranger than we wanted to admit was happening to us. I was so horny, and couldn’t tell erect I was as that nervous little hand cut away as I sat in awe, my underwear and pants cut before I could say be careful, and an elongated, more chipper form

Of my member plopped out, fairly erect, a big boner that was maybe 10 inches long, very wide and very tense and veiny. It was literally pulsing it was so hard. Jess’s tiny little face made a gasping “O” and looked at me. It was the biggest dick I’d ever seen in person, my god. It wasn’t as sexual as it was astounding. All right. I was definitely well endowed now. Jess stares at it like it contained the meaning of life, I stared at her staring at it and wretched at the guilty thought of those sweet bulbous lips wrapped around the head of my cock, God please suck it it needs it, I’ve never been so horny in my life. But god, what was it like for her? Him I mean?

“I think you’re drooling a bit hun, I bet you’ve wanted to fuck your friend for a long time, now you just have the, equipment, ha.” She laughed at us in our awkward states as I noticed something below Jess dripping just a tiny bit. She was so wet she was dripping. This witch was trying to make a porno out of us. But it would be gay. And we were straight. This was too weird, we denied our alien bodies and flared at the mistress, we refused. We wouldn’t do anymore for her, she could kill us, we wouldn’t be her sex slaves.

“So why don’t you put it in her mouth. You know you want to.” She teased as Jess yelled “No! Get it away! I don’t want it near me! You’re trying to rape me! I’m not even really a girl!! You’re gay!” This shrill female voice told me. “No no I’m not!! Jess I mean, Jeff listen! Let’s get out of here! We can take her! Let’s fight her!” I said desperately. Then as we heard another snap, we were forced by an invisible force down on our hands and knees.

“Now, if you two are not going to behave, I better put you in your cage.” She walked over, heels clicking against the ground, and tapped with her fiendish nails a black metal cage, big enough for both of us. A cage? Like dogs? We couldn’t even stand up straight in that thing?

“In now. NOW!” She yelled as we sat there In resistance. She walked over and twisted Jess’s nipples hard as I was trapped in place and she screamed out in pain, but oddly it sounded tied with pleasure. Maybe i was just still horny dammit.

She whimpered and scurried into the cage like a dog as i stood, she could twist my nipples all she wanted, I wasn’t going to budge. Then she stomped behind me and I felt claws grip into my balls like they were going to tear them right off. I got the message and scurried in as well.

“Take your shoes and socks off, no clothes except a collar.” She ripped my socks off as well as Jess’s. Great. It would be cold in this metal cage and we didn’t even have socks to keep our feet warm. She smacked my ass with something hard on the way in, and the door locked behind me as I bumped into Jess’s nude body, she tried to back away so it wouldn’t be any weirder than it was.

“Listen you two are going to spend the night in here. I know you can’t resist coming inside her little Mikey, you’re gonna fuck her any second I can tell. Just know when you finally do get your semen inside her, I’ll reward both of you. I want her to swallow that cock like she wants to deep down so your real transformations can begin. And don’t act like you’re not willing. When come is in her mouth and in her vagina, don’t worry you can’t get pregnant, not yet at least, but you will be a little slut like your heart desires. Both of you will be. You’re my little toys now. I’ll let you out when there’s cum inside of your holes, got it? Goodnight!” She smacked the cage assertively and waltzed out leaving us trapped together in this tiny cage, barely able to stay at opposite sides to keep from cramping each other.

We stared at opposite sides of the room in anguish as we tried to wriggle the lock free. God dammit. In a cage. Worse than jail. Some crazy bitch keeping us captive. Great.

“This sucks... what the fuck man...” I heard Jess say as she played with her sore tits, still amazed at her new body. “I know... this is too fucking weird... how do we get out of here?” I still had a raging boner, but I tried to pretend it wasn’t there. Jess kept staring at it. “Can you put that thing away!” I blushed, “well sorry! Okay! You’re a naked girl and i can’t control this big old thing.” She crossed her arms and said “well... can’t you just like... jerk off real

Quick.” What?? Was she serious? “Ew! Like right in front of you? That’s too weird.” She looked upset by this “well, i mean, it’s pretty weird that it’s just like, standing at attention menacingly.” I responded “well hey just you don’t have one anymore.... don’t be jealous of this thing” i said with a little bit of pride grabbing it at the base, but i felt like just touching it I was about to cum all over the place.

“Well for one thing, you are not cumming inside me like that crazy bitch said...” I was appalled. “I didn’t say I was going to!! What the hell? I’m staying in my corner.” I turned around. “Oh now you’re gonna show off your muscular butt, cool thanks” she said angrily as I layed opposite trying to keep my dick from grinding into the ground or steel bars, maybe ready to explode. Then she poked my butt. “Get that thing out of here!” She said as she poked it two or three more times, seemingly touching it just to touch it. I tried to recall my friend again from this crazy girl now taking his place. “Dude stop touching my ass you’re gay.” Then she giggled, touching me again, “you’re gay!” But she sounded playful and excited. Uh oh. What was happening? “Ugh why couldn’t you get turned into a girl. She wants you to fuck me. Can you imagine? Weird. Too weird. God how does this thing even fit those things you know what i mean.” She spread her legs touching her pussy, it was still so wet. She wasnt fooling me, she was as horny as i was. She pulled the lips and showed the right little opening, pulled the hood up showing a swollen little clit. “That’s where my dick went. Look. Haha.” She poked it playfully like a toy, and rubbed it a tiny bit, pulling her hand away in fear after letting an out of character moan like she just felt the most immense pleasure for a second. “Woah.. haha sorry.” I just laughed. What was it like to have a clit? I had an idea. “Okay look, this is fucked up. But obviously we’re stuck here, we can sit here horny and fucked all night or we can just play with our new junk facing opposite ways, and get it over with right?” Jess didn’t know what to do. “Umm okay, if it sounds good to you. Well I just am gonna kinda lay on my back and... ohh mmm.” She started already. She found the clitoris and was not leaving it alone. I saw her hand spidering about with her new package and she wasn’t too shy, as a finger slid inside herself, my dick pulsating in jealousy as I watched her play with herself. “What you’re just gonna watch me? Start touching that anaconda, don’t make this weirder than it has to be.” He/she was right. I should just get it over with. I really needed to jerk off anyway, so I started pulling my hand around the base, and started grooving up and down slowly, and god did I need to do that. I was so hard I just kept going, watching her fingers touch herself when my eyes were open, I figured hers must be closed, but when I looked over, her eyes were staring down at my dick. She really liked watching me. I kept doing it and tried to look muscular doing it, look cooler and more macho. As I got closer and closer i all of a sudden noticed a hand lightly touching my side. Jess was now entirely attentive towards me jerking off, not even really touching herself, as if she gave up trying to get off on her own. “Ooh you’re good at that.” This sultry, sensual womanly voice escaped this girl, it was as if my friend had completely corroded and this porn Star was now here with me. I didn’t fight it. It just felt so good to finally masturbate. “Hey. I got a crazy idea. What if I helped you a little.. like if we just put together....” i rolled over and she was practically already crawling into my dick, her pussy inches away from the head when I stopped stroking. Then i didn’t resist as I watched her little hand grab the base of my dick and move it towards her little pussy.

“Oh god here goes... this thing is huge and...” She plopped it into her and i just about came from how good it felt. This was the nicest wettest, softest, tightest pussy i had ever felt in my life. And just the head was in. “OH GODDDD MMMMmmm” i heard let out uncontrollably as she glides her pussy over my cock, it flexed as it eased into her impossibly tight little orifice. We were officially fucking. I grabbed her boobs and squeezed and she moaned harder and I filled her more, thrusting and thrusting. She seemed like I was going to rip her in half , screaming and moaning I couldnt tell if I was hurting her or pleasing her as she moaned and moaned but I just kept fucking for dear life as she humped into me more and more as I did into her, and I felt her hands claw my ass as she clenched into it and pulled me further and further into her, until I felt the big climax coming. I was going to shoot the fattest load of my entire life, and I just said like a dumbfound baby “uh ah, I’m gonna come I’m gonna come.” And she screamed “COME IN MY FACE!!” I pulled out, ferociously jacking off and her open mouth and closed eyes begged for it as she convulsed from the hard fucking, and what looked like a whole cup full of semen erupted into her face into her mouth as she licked it up taking a finger full and slurping it into her mouth. I watched in awe and total brain dead euphoria. She looked so beautiful covered in my spunk. She took a finger full of come and shoved it back into her pussy. Letting out a sensuous “mmm....” “She said I can’t get pregnant right? Haha” and she laid her sweaty head onto me, the soft hair feeling nice, but I felt so raw from

Having just fucked my friend so hard. And the reality set in, i just fucked Jeff. And Jeff loved it. And was now cuddling with me and touching my naked body. I had to shove her away.

Jess said slightly offended: “What what? What’s wrong baby...” I had to push her away. This was fucking too weird now. “Jeff... remember it’s me mike?” “Ugh.... you’re always so boring... killing the moment... you just fucked the shit out of me... I’ve never felt anything like that in my life god that was good. I know it’s you Mikey. I don’t even care whats happening, that felt amazing. I thought the cum would be weird but like... I didn’t care in that moment... it tasted sooo good. Like it tasted salty and weird but like, it was so hot. I just lost myself. I haven’t felt like that... ever... that was amazing. Thank you.” She stroked my torso again and I almost slapped her hand away.

Jess just layed back and looked up into space. She realized what had happened. “Oh god. Did I want to fuck you? I really didn’t but. You got so hot... god I don’t even like guys... but oh my god I loved that dick... Mikey’s dick... what the fuck. Dammit. Just like the mistress said. That bitch knew we would fuck. We’re really under her control. I put your jizz in my mouth. I’m so fucking gay. That’s not normal. It’s this stupid body I have tittles for an hour and I already act like a dumb slut. God I’ve never felt so emotional!! Being a girl sucks!” I kinda sat for a moment. “Well you seem to have enjoyed it earlier.” Jess growled a bit. “You don’t get it. You don’t have a pussy. You don’t understand what a cock feels like in your pussy, it’s otherworldly, it’s meant to be. Like fucking a girl with your dick is cool but this is like... I don’t know this is all I have right now anyways but that was... wow... I just... you really don’t feel like cuddling like, at all? That’s all I want to do lemme lay on you asshole!” She scooted closer to me and I tried not the cage to sink to the furthest corner away... “look... your clingy. You’ve dated clingy girls. You’re being one of them. Chill out. I don’t wanna cuddle you.”

“Oh but fucking me is fine? Goddamit! I feel so used! You just wanted to fuck me

The second I looked like this! You didn’t even fight that witch! No wonder girls hate men so much you’re all assholes! I’ve had a pussy not even a whole day and I already hate all men! Fuck you!” Wow. Jess was really a woman inside and out now I think. This was bizarre. But maybe I was being a dick. We’d already passed the point of no return. But I wanted to get out of here, not consider each other’s feelings. We’re trapped by a psychotic witch and she’s wanting to cuddle. Crazy bitches.

Eventually I fell asleep, and of course I woke up in the middle of the night to this little blonde girl all over me, head on my chest snoring away. Dammit. I just ignored it and went back to sleep. Then I heard something. We both jumped awake, almost hitting our heads on the roof. A loud drumming on the roof of the cage rattled around.

“Rise and shine slaves!! I heard your little night you too had. I knew Jess was a little slut, say ‘yes i am mistress percy’” jess just said “fuck you”

“OH! THIS kind of behavior will not be tolerated, let me tell you something, you don’t want me to fuck you. When I fuck someone, they really get fucked. Do you really beg me to fuck you? You little slut.” So then i had the bright idea to join my new fuck buddy.

“I agree, fuck you and go fuck yourself then” I said to this witch as she glared and squatted down to show us her rageful eyes. I then got very scared.

“I think you two are going to have a better use for those dirty mouths, they can get a lesson in cleaning. First off, you little sluts are going to lose your most precious parts.”

My dick shrunk away, I grabbed at it and it completely sealed up and shriveled up, not into a vagina, just smooth like a ken doll. Then I looked at Jess and her pussy sealed up like a Barbie doll. Oh god. We were in over our heads.

“Now first off, get out here...” she opened the cage and we crawled out submissively, dying to get our precious new organs back ASAP. We both secretly were terrified of not fucking again. As nauseating as this all was that sex was life changing.

“And stick those tongues out, clean the bottom of my boot, first you Mike on the left, then little Jess on the right. Go ahead.” We both resisted but looked in each other’s eyes for some solidarity and sort of stuck our tongues out a barely touched the bottom of her boot. It was gross but really just tasted like leather.

“Keep licking.” And we started moving out tongues more and more, but still not much. Then a hard whip snapped across the both of us and we whimpered, licking more gallantly and fearfully. “Every inch of my boots or I’ll shove that broom over there up both your asses, and you can decide with one of you gets the bristled half.” We licked and licked and tasted some dirt and strange flavors on these filthy shoes, it was so gross and I didn’t feel like we were actually cleaning anything, and my gut burned in humiliation.

“Now, untie my boots.” We followed her directions and untied them

“Pull them off.” We pulled off her high heeled boots and uncovered a womanly, stale smell of feet as she wasn’t wearing any socks, but black shiny toenails shined on white soft looking feet, she raised the sole up to our faces and a black crescent of dirt was caked on the bottom of her foot, it smelled bad and looked really sweaty. Neither of us could stomach licking that thing. “LICK. MY. FEET, or else!” She yelled at us as we shivered, too disgusted to follow the orders. Then she snapped. We were frozen, I couldn’t move a single inch of my body. In a strange way, I had been shaking and tense this whole time, and being paralyzed sort of made me feel strangely calm in a way I hadn’t in a very long time, maybe ever. But the searing terror of the situation made it different.

Jess with her loud mouth yelled out again, “fucking gross! Fuck you get us outta here!”

The witch laughed. She looked at me. “You can thank your friend for your fate now, open wide.” My mouth ripped open, so wide I felt the corners of my mouth ripping away, it hurt and I felt my body crumbling, depleting and flattening. What the hell??

I looked over the best I could and saw Jess’s body melting away as her mouth grew freakishly large, and the sweaty foot pointed its toes at her face, rubbed its grossness all over nose and slid into her gaping mouth, until she pushed down, and her mouth was gagged with her foot, becoming a neat little black sock with the faint screaming face of Jess choking down her foot. Oh my god!

“Now for you.” The wet foot brushed my face, the smell staying everywhere it touched on my face as it rubbed whatever grossness it was roasting up inside those boots and wherever she walked all over my face, and the taste was ungodly as she slid her foot deep into my mouth, stretching me out as I tasted the top of her foot, the filthy bottom, the heels, the wrinkles full of dirt, the whole foot filled my entire everything and all I could do was suck on this disgusting thing as it filled me. Then she took a step, and the weight of a thousand tons came down, distorting and deforming me as it wiggles its vile toes on my tongue. The dirt crescent definitely had a bitter taste, but the salty footyness and odor like rotten fruit made every inch equally disgusting. I wonder how bad Jess was feeling for getting us changed into socks, then as the world plunged into darkness, as we were returned into the humid, hot sweaty boot, the smell became more complex and pungent, and I believe we both started crying as we sucked on every step of this witch. We could hear projected from our owner above. “Why!! You two make such excellent socks! I’m going to have to show you off you my witch friends around here! Now, you might think this area is quite barren, but underground you see, we have a whole community and I’d love to show you just how cruel some of my friends can be. Maybe I need to change you into some nice shoes and lend you to some friends! Or maybe you two would make a better couple buttplugs? Oh that would smell worse than being under my sweet little feet wouldn’t it?” She ground her toes down into me, squelching as sweat squeezed from the sole and between the toes into me to be absorbed. Fucking disgusting! Oh god!

“But listen here slaves, our journey is simply just beginning.” My consciousness became a blur as the violent steps and foot stench became a disorienting mass of sensations, I was violated and contorted as I sucked on a wet foot.

[caseybanning]

Post-Republic.

(That night.)

They fall into a deep, active sleep through the rest of the night and all through the next morning; hardly stirring, except when something catches them in their dreams and their whole body jumps. Even still, Casey's eyes remain shut. Their jaw tense. Hands twitching, caressing the handle of some imaginary weapon.

--

(The next breakfast.)

Roland makes light conversation, keeping the pressure off. “Is the tea too hot? Cream and sugar are right here. Let's see, no grocery shopping needs to be done today, tasks aren't really dire, oh but there is this new book that I've picked up...” Normal. Quiet. Casey blinks whenever their spoon clinks against the fine china of their teacup and takes their time nibbling at breakfast. Clocks tick by distantly. The gaslight shimmers. They aren't ignoring him by any means; their gaze darts up from the table to meet his, a tiny smile of reassurance hiding behind their toast. Something, like searching for the right answer, is swimming right behind their eyes. A desperate glance--they're trying.

It's nearly five full minutes of silence before they finally respond. The tea is perfect.

He beams. All good signs. Casey goes back down to inspecting the table, brushing the crumbs into their hand and placing the flatware back just so.

--

(The days following.)

Chaise-lounge. At the desk in the study. Once: the bathtub, no water, all clothing still intact. Wrongways on the bed. Casey thinks that they've fallen asleep in all these place, little catnaps to make up for the nights when they can't sleep. These are all places Roland has found Casey in a reverie.

--

Nobody thinks anything of it at first. He's teasing kisses along their jaw, and their hands are tugging eagerly at the buttons of his shirt. The post-travel haze had lifted briefly, and Casey felt their whole body alight with desire. How long had it been again? Were they really only gone for three weeks? The questions float away and disappear completely, being nearly forgotten by the time their own shirt had been discarded to the floor, with Roland's thumb running up under their bindings, pausing just--just for that second of hesitation. "What's this?"

What?

His fringe is hanging down in front of his flushed face, but his expression is concern. Casey blinks up at him, trying to follow his question. His gaze creates the trail down to where his hand was holding, the thumb lightly grazing the small, fresh scar under their ribcage. Right, that--

"It's just, it's--a scar."

An awkward pause. It's not pearly like their other ones. It must be newer--right, it is new.

"I got it in the Iron Republic," Casey continues, mouth spilling out words before their brain could catch up. Roland's eyes are full and dark in the comforting dim of their room.

Later, much later after they're both spent, Casey is holding very still while Roland gently strokes their back. He counts at least three more new ones where the knife slid neatly through their back, stealing the air from their lungs. They both look at each other, and then Casey looks away, tucking their face into the pillow. He waits. They look back up, huffing hair away from their face.

"I forgot," They begin slowly, in a small voice. "that it happened. Until now."

--

(Two weeks later.)

It's still there in little moments: Walking through the Bazaar, Roland realizing Casey's behind several paces, backtracking and seeing them standing right in the crowd completely still--eyes clamped shut, mouth pressed shut, eyebrows tensed together; the face of a headache, or of intense concentration. A gentle coaxing with touching their hand brings them back. London. The Bazaar. The whole city thrumming with the beginning of autumn. Home.

Home.

(Once, on one of their walks, Casey was caught by the sight of time pieces in a shop window. They'd stood there for a moment, transfixed, before finally entering. Perhaps a quality watch could help keep London time on a sensible, unshakable track.)

--

(One month later.)

Casey cups the water in their hands, watching it trickle from between their fingers back into the basin. It moves like time does still: slipping away like nothing at all. They grimace at their reflection in the mirror and splash the water over their face, trying to gently wipe away the day. Exhaustion has settled over their shoulders, and for the first time in weeks, Casey is actually looking forward to sleep. Roland is already sitting back in bed, and smiles up at Casey as they turn down the gaslight and join him. They both move closer, like water merging with water, and settle down with a sigh. Roland's hand is gentle as it strokes Casey's hair. On the other side of the room, the dog huffs as he settles down in his next of blankets, watching the two of them with two inky black eyes.

Casey's eyelids are heavy, and the rhythmic stroke of Roland's hand settles their nerves. They peer at him silently, studying his face. "I missed this when I was away," They murmur. "...I miss how your eyes looked before."

There's a moment's hesitation in Roland's hand, the relaxed expression on his face turning to confusion. "What do you mean?" He asks.

"You know? It's--" Casey sits up, their own confusion suddenly dropping into cold dread. They're awake now, the quick horror of realizing he doesn't know. It's become so normal to them now, this tiny secret. "I... I told you, didn't I? Since I've been back from the Iron Republic, it's.."

Roland shakes his head, looking at Casey with a mild sense of alarm. The expression is enough to press them to continue. "It's not bad," They continue in a small voice, hands kneading together. "I, um... I can't see things like I used to. My colours are different--some of them are gone. Unfortunate," They punctuate the middle of their sentence with a nervous laugh. "I still have yellow and blue, but the rest don't seem to be returning."

His arms pull Casey forward into a hug, wrapping up behind their shoulders tightly. Casey's arms are limp still, unsure of where to go next. "Maybe instead I should say most colours," Casey tries to backtrack. "If I see something from the neath; cosmogone, I still have that, and apocyan--"

Their words trail off, comforted by his embrace.

--

(Two months later.)

Up in the spires, Casey sits very still and listens to all the clocks tick by. Sometimes, they're found in the study with books open all around them, their fingertips caressing the letters as they read by candlelight. Nothing floats up off the pages. Everything stays put.

It carries on like this most nights with no explanation, until...

"I like the quiet," They offer to Roland one evening, bringing his attention out of his latest notes out of the Game. Casey is looking elsewhere, studying the spines of the books on the opposite wall from where they're sitting. "...I haven't said this yet. This piece of what happened. I found him."

Roland moves just slightly; his notes get reshuffled to be looked at later, the gently shuffling in his seat to indicate that he was listening. Casey thinks it over, absentmindedly scratching their fingernails against the pads of their thumb, trying to feel for one rough edge to smooth over. "With how chaotic the Republic was, and with... almost dying, I got sidetracked and started to believe that he would never be found. But I was finally fortunate. And it was so quiet afterward, so still..." Quite suddenly, they leap to their feet and stride across the room to their books. Their hands are caressing the spines until they find the right one, and pull it free quite easily from the shelves. Instead of pages, the inside was hollow and clean, containing only a cloth-wrapped dagger.

Casey unwrapped the cloth and set it aside. The blade glints in the gaslight as they turn to face Roland, their gaze moving up to meet his.

"This is it," They finally say. "How I took care of the problem, and how he created it to begin with. Continued it, I mean. The plan."

"What plan?" Roland asks.

"He was just doing the footwork," They explain. "Carrying out an order. It's part of a much bigger conspiracy than I anticipated."

The concern in Roland's face shifts. Something different, something sharper, grows in his expression. Casey could see it from where they're standing: the wheels in his brain are beginning to turn. Nothing is clear yet, not this early on, but it is a call for action.

"I'm with you," He says. "No matter what."