#falling on the ground weeping like a widow and never getting up

[wildsaltair]

CRIES FOR A THOUSAND YEARS

@whumptober | Day #20: "Permission to Die" Gladiator (2000)

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

Okay so I had this on my mind STRONGLY. May I request a scenario/one shot of Platonic Angel reader saving Alois from being killed by Claude and giving the poor boy the happy ending he deserves? Maybe the Angel is like a mother figure to him or is just one year older and is his big sibling figure

first of all HOW DARE YOU MAKE ME BREAK MY OWN HEART

second of all THIS IS LITERALLY EVERYTHING

third of all *UGLY CRYING*

It is not this boy’s time to die.

Some would ask you how you knew that; you’re an angel, not a Grim Reaper. How in the world would you have any idea when a person’s time is up?

But angels are in service to the order of the world in a similar vein to the way Reapers are, so you know this child has so much more life left. There’s no justice in the world that would let some soul who’s already been in pain be ended in a manner such as this.

Demons are vicious creatures, horrible, strong, and too many of them prey on the weak. You can’t stand idly by, not when this boy has such hope in his eyes as this demon approaches him. He sounds so relieved, like he thinks this demon is some knight in shining armor come to rescue him, slay his dragons, love him for the rest of his days.

By now you’ve seen enough of these two, and the others, to know the truth. He’s no savior. He’s a black widow looking for his next meal ― nothing more.

You would be amused at the confusion in the demon’s eyes when you block his assault, if it didn’t outrage you beyond belief. Your entire body braces against him and his callousness, fighting everything he represents. Your entire presence defies the notion that he has any power here.

The soft sound of his would-be victim gasping behind you is not a distraction. It’s motivation. He would be dead if you hadn’t intervened. Even so, in his desperation, you can hear him begging weakly. “No… no, please…” His voice is distant, a far cry from the typical energy you have seen him display. It doesn’t sound right. His life is flickering, and if you don’t get that wound in his side dealt with soon, your efforts are futile.

It makes you want to weep. This child has confused cruelty for affection, pain for love.

Poor thing. You dig your heels into the ground and push back against the demon. This monstrous creature has never loved you. He would rather destroy you.

“Move, or I will move you myself.” The demon’s voice is devoid of any feeling. No compassion for this boy, no anger at you, nothing. To you, that’s worse than anything. Can he not summon up a single, solitary, fleeting emotion?

Of course, no one is about to tell you what to do, especially a loathsome creature such as him. “I am an implacable warrior of God,” you hiss. The sword you wield licks at his form with sparks of flame, a warning as to what will come if he doesn’t stand down. “You will not move me, and I dare you to try.”

As if you had a doubt, he takes the dare. His razor-sharp nails slice into your chest, but you refuse to stop being a shield. Even as heavenly essence leaks from your wounds in the form of white light, you intend to protect this child.

It’s clear that nobody else has done so. You won’t be someone else who fails to do right by him.

The demon’s eyes narrow against the intensity of your blood. If he’s not careful, it could blind a beast like him, and you wouldn’t consider it a loss at all. You will your bright blood to burn his eyes right out of his skull.

His gaze drifts down to the boy he’s left in ruins, and back to you, then he closes his eyes completely. “… Neither of you are worth the trouble. I have more important things to attend to.”

Just like that, his fingers still dripping with your blood and tipped with light that you only hope is eating away his fingerprints, he turns.

Your hands shake, gripping your sword, whilst you stare after him for a long moment to make sure he actually leaves. As soon as you can no longer feel his oppressive black aura, your sword falls flameless into the grass, and you drop to your knees.

It’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt. Knelt next to the boy you’ve kept safe, your hand reaches up to instinctively clutch at your injuries. Even though it hurts, this is nothing compared to what that spider could have tried. You might thank your lucky stars were you not busy thanking God instead; it was no luck, no stars, that allowed you to survive. It was your strength given to you by the Father.

A small whimper catches your attention… a nudge at your side. The poor little blonde boy has dragged himself about a meter simply to lean against you, and he’s so close that you can see he’s crying. From pain? Fear? You still need to do something about his wound…

Before anything else, your free arm quickly circles around him. “There, there,” you say softly as you hold him close. “You’re going to be alright.”

“You shouldn’t have…!” His voice becomes a wail, ragged at its edges, catching on every word. Despite pressing his face in against your neck, he seems to have very little energy for anything else. His breathing is shallow.

You let your lips rest against the crown of his head in a gentle kiss. “Shhh. Yes, I should have. He was going to kill you.”

Tears dampen the spot where he’s buried against you, beading down your skin. “I know! I k… know…” You saw before that one hand is held on his wound to keep the bleeding in check, and his other one now reaches to bunch up the fabric of your dress in his fist. Like a toddler clutching his mother’s skirts as he hides behind her. “But then you… and he… look at you…”

Although he may not fully grasp what’s going on, disoriented from blood loss as he is, he obviously saw what the demon did to you. His voice goes so small with his next words, you nearly don’t hear them. “… You should have let him kill me… he hurt you… I’m not worth that much…”

Your heart breaks for this poor child, for the millionth time. If you didn’t know that God has a plan and will not let it stay broken, you would wonder if your heart would ever be whole again. He has been through so much; too much for an adult, let alone a child.

Why? Why did nobody take care of him? Why was nobody there for him?

None of his pain had to happen. It was all so unnecessary.

This boy lies in your hands, in pieces, because every single person who should have cared for him instead was careless with him. He’s like a statue which has been dropped and hit multiple times, cracking until he began to fall apart entirely.

“You are worth it. These are scratches, dear. They will heal. What he wanted to do to do, there would be no coming back from.” You hold him as delicately as you possibly can, your arm around his shoulders while that same hand reaches up to stroke his hair. “I wanted to save you. I know we don’t know each other well yet, but believe me when I say that God loves you, and I love you, and I couldn’t let that monster take your soul.”

You’re not sure if he has anything to say in response, or if he even can say anything. By the way he continues to cry and sniffle, trying in vain to get himself under control, you think he couldn’t begin to know what to say. Nobody has ever loved him before… well. You know that God has always loved him.

He’s never heard it, though. You want to take a walk through his past and throttle every single person who made him feel like he’s worth nothing.

A stinging pain in your chest reminds you of your own injuries, and suddenly you’re overwhelmed with concern about whether this poor boy is going to survive. If you have anything to say about it, he will.

His story will not end here. You refuse to let tragedy cut his life short before he has a chance to live it on his terms.

You pull your hand away from your chest, and the shimmer of heavenly essence that drenches your fingers gives you an idea. This is the white light, woven into your body by God when you were created. Your blood must be able to do something for him.

“I’m going to help you, sweetheart, alright? Deep breath, now.” You keep your voice low so as not to alarm him, before reaching down to the wound in his side.

You gingerly nudge his hand aside to paint his injury with the sparkling light from yours. He goes stiff in the face of such intense healing. Regardless of the fact that you can see it’s definitely starting to close the wound, it’s an awful lot of sensation. This is healing that usually takes place over weeks or months, happening in an instant.

So you hold him, and he cries, and you don’t tell him to stop. You simply pull him into your lap to comfort him, to protect him while he’s in pain.

How long he cries, you’re not sure. But at last, his breathing starts to become much more even. When he peeks out, drawing his face away from your neck, you can see a little of his color starting to return.

You give him a smile, then kiss his forehead. “There we are. You look like you’re feeling a bit better now. Does it still hurt?”

He shakes his head slightly. “No… not as much.” Those big blue eyes are looking up at you in wonder, as if he can’t believe you’ve just done all this for him. The way he’s clinging to you, he probably thinks you’re going to disappear if he lets go.

“You really are an angel, aren’t you?” he mumbles, and he laughs as he rests his head on your shoulder. Even though he’s mostly healed, he looks so exhausted. Carrying him back to his manor, he’ll be dead weight in your arms. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

You tilt your head, continuing to card your fingers through his hair. “You know demons exist. Do you doubt angels?”

This time his laugh is tired, bitter. Too bitter for a child. “I used to pray for someone to save me. I stopped believing in angels, because none came. A demon did. Haha… I was so stupid to trust someone like that, wasn’t I…? But I… I loved him…”

“You weren’t stupid. You were desperate.” At last, you can wrap both arms around him. On instinct, your wings unfurl from your back, and you sweep them against the ground to further shield him. “I may be late, but I’m here now. How do I measure up to the demon?”

Although he’s never done it before, he leans in and simply lets himself be cradled. After a moment, he slips both of his arms around your waist. Despite his touch being weak and careful, he’s holding onto you for dear life. It’s a few seconds before he gives you an answer. When he does, his voice sounds like it’s going to break apart:

“… You’re… so warm…”

You get the sense that the demon was never warm. Sometimes a cooling touch is what a person needs, but this boy? No. This child needs warmth.

Another few minutes pass quietly, with the two of you hugging each other. Something deep in your heart tells you that this boy has been waiting a very, very long time for this hug.

At last, you break the silence. “It’s ALOIS, right? Alois Trancy? I’m (Name) (Surname). I think you’re going to be just fine, but after what’s just happened… I’d say you deserve some rest. How about I get you home?”

You lift him up in your arms as you get to your feet, and he readily tosses his arms round your neck to hold on. “Only if you stay,” he murmurs. His eyes drift closed. “Please… please don’t leave me…”

“I won’t, I promise.” A slight bit of adjustment, and you’re holding him securely, folding your wings back up. He had a carriage around here somewhere, didn’t he…? You don’t want to jostle him too much by flying. “We’ll go home, and I’ll get you in bed so you can sleep. You should feel better soon.”

His grip tightens a little. “In bed…? Mh… well… could you put a lavender candle on by the bed? And… stay in the room… so it doesn’t get knocked over?”

“Oh, of course. That sounds lovely.”

“And… can I… have cake for dinner?”

Your lips quirk up in a smile. “Whatever you like.” He deserves it after everything he’s been through in the last couple of weeks.

“… And cake for breakfast?”

With any luck, your laugh will vibrate all the way through him. “Oh, well… probably not. If you’re going to heal properly, you need more than just cake.”

“I had to try,” he sighs.

For a moment Alois doesn’t say anything, and you almost think he’s fallen asleep until he suddenly speaks up. “Could I… could I… call you ‘Mum’… instead of ‘(Name)’…?”

He says it so hesitantly. Like he’s afraid you’ll tell him no. Like he’s primed for even his non-romantic advances to be rejected.

You have to swallow past a lump in your throat before you reply. “If you want to.”

And that’s it.

He is your child now.

Just like you dared that demon to move you, you wordlessly dare the rest of the world to try and hurt Alois Trancy while you’re still alive.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

The World Keeps Getting Hotter, Baby, but I’m Too Cool to Die

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Pre-series; The Line-Up; Whisperers Arc

Warnings: Domestic violence; Child abuse; Injuries; Blood; Allusions to alcoholism; Mentions of canonical character death

Summary: Three times Daryl didn’t fear death and the one time he did.

gif by @jaaryl

Daryl had honestly never feared death. Sometimes, he felt it would even come as a reprieve from a life that had taken such a toll on every aspect of his very being. He had seldom wished for it, mostly as a child who didn’t understand the permanence. He wanted to follow his mama, who often took the beatings meant for him. 

Even in her near constant drunken stupors, she would reach for him from the bed, fresh blood and bruises still adorning her pale skin. C’mere, baby. It’s okay. When she died and Merle ran, Daryl faced their father’s wrath alone. 

“Worthless, bitch-ass mama’s boy.” The rough leather of the well worn belt was a follow up sting to the skin-tearing agony of the metal buckle. “Gon’ toughen ya up. Won’t have no pussy Dixon livin’ in my house.”

Daryl just laid there, watching the new flecks of crimson fall in sporadic splatterings on the dirty wooden floor. He circled the thought of his mother reaching for him, shushing and soothing in her slurred voice. It was almost enough to numb the angry wounds long after the onslaught was over. 

“I'll find ya, mama. We can run away together.”

He wasn’t a stranger to motorcycles. Merle had taken him down the backroads, no destination in mind. The elder Dixon had been working on obtaining his license but was already a skilled rider. 

He’d show up at the most opportune moments, almost like he was listening for the old man to pass out drunk. Daryl was older then, early teens making things more confusing as he went through changes he didn’t understand. He’d never speak them aloud for fear of invoking his father’s rage or his brother’s ridicule. He kept quiet and waited excitedly for the times his brother would offer him peace on the open road. 

Merle hadn’t noticed the pine needles on the wet asphalt until it was too late. 

Daryl could only remember bits and pieces. His brother’s distorted face and muffled voice. Keep them eyes open, boy! The younger man found he didn’t care to oblige. Maybe if he closed his bright blues, he’d wake up in a different life. Loving parents, good grades, a house in the suburbs complete with a dog that was always happy to see him. 

He was actually disappointed when he woke up in the hospital, broken arm and severe concussion, his body throbbing. 

Merle was already gone again. An officer took him home where Will Dixon broke the cast within an hour and twisted the skin above the break. 

Daryl missed his brother. 

It was his fault Glenn had died. Maybe Abraham should be on his conscience as well. If he’d never stormed off, half-cocked and hell bent, they would have all been there to make sure the group made it to Hilltop. The line up would have never happened because all the best fighters would have been together, functioning as a well oiled machine to plow the Saviors down. 

But Daryl had to be stubborn. He had to do things his way. And now Abraham and Glenn were dead, Maggie was a widow, and her baby would never know their father. 

He was losing blood. The wound was through and through, steadily freeing his lifeblood without medical intervention. As the van bounced and jarred over the rough gravel, the archer hissed and sluggishly pressed a hand over the weeping hole so close to his collarbone. Yet the blood on his hands wasn’t his. It was Glenn’s. 

His vision was graying at the edges, his skin colder without the blanket that had been left on the rough ground where his family mourned. They likely spit on the fabric, the only thing among them that had been somewhat his. Even if he lived, he could never go back and face their anger. 

His breaths came slower, more shallow. He was growing numb and exhaustion had him giving in to the urge to close his eyes. 

If there was a god, maybe he’d see fit to take Daryl and toss him into hell in exchange for Glenn being returned to Maggie. 

He’d lost you. The cave had collapsed and you had been swallowed by the dust and debris. It had been suggested there were other ways out, that maybe you had escaped after all. Only to go back to Alexandria or Hilltop, to reunite with Kelly, Yumiko, and Luke while discovering Daryl had gone off on his own—again—and let rage drive him. 

He was stupid to think he could coerce Alpha into revealing anything that might benefit him or aid in your rescue. He’d been reckless and now he was paying for it. Blood was no longer spurting from the wound in his thigh, the veins having long ago slowed the gush when his heartrate began to decelerate. 

He was gonna die there, bleed out and never know if you were safe. For the first time, he found he didn’t want to go. You, arriving with Magna and her group, had charmed your way right past his defenses and straight into his heart. He had been a lovesick fool, grasping the unfamiliar feeling with both hands until his knuckles turned white. 

You were completely and utterly transparent in your reciprocation, doting over his injuries and ensuring he took care of himself. You were glued to his side, throwing yourself into the fray when anything could possibly pose a threat to him, much to his displeasure. You were sweet as honey, but stubborn as an ox. Fierce and loyal, downright lethal when someone you loved was threatened. 

And you loved him. Of all the people left in the world, you had chosen him. 

And he didn’t want to let go. He didn’t want to escape the pain. He didn’t care to see Merle again yet or run into his mama’s arms. He had longed to hear the innocence in Beth’s singing that he’d failed to protect, but found that it wasn’t as important as what he had there, in life. 

He actually had a life. He could settle down with you, even if he couldn’t promise you complete safety and peace. You were still young enough for children if you wanted them, and he’d never deny you that even if he felt he’d be a shit father. He wanted to go home to you at the end of the day and let you whisper away the stress he couldn’t leave outside the door. He wanted to hold you, kiss you, touch you, love you. 

He didn’t want to die not knowing if you were alive and that those things were possible. 

He wheezed, forced to blink hard to battle against his eyes’ will to close. He was cold. He no longer felt the pain of the wound. 

He wasn’t ready anymore. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to risk leaving you. He didn’t want to die.

“Daryl.”

The archer gasped, summoning all the strength he had left to slide his eyes toward where the sun was now beaming into the cold garage. 

There you were, carrying the light behind you like a pair of wings. Like his vest, but bright and beautiful. He could make out your face as you lowered to hover above him. Your hand was warm against his cheek, it felt near scalding pressed to his chilled skin. 

“You’re alive.” He managed in a rough whisper. Even with your features vibrating, he could see that beautiful smile. “M’dyin’, Sunshine. Don’t wanna go.” Someone was working on his leg but he couldn’t be bothered to check or even ask. Your lips pressed against his blood streaked forehead. 

“You’re not going anywhere. Not today.”  Daryl sighed. He believed you. It was always so easy to do, but he could tell you weren’t placating. “You’re too cool for that.” 

He was going to live and he was going to love you right. 

[tearstoshed4ever]

the skin has startd to dry and flake

from always having it sticking out of the ground

the thing her best friends warned her about has happened

"Horrid. Positively horrid." She sighs, looking forlorn. She wants to be sad about it but somehow she knows it's just how it is. There's no use crying over it

shed begain to rot

she drys her eyes with the backs of her hands then picking up the candle pours some hot wax into her open plam

"Nothing. No pain at all" she sighed, not realizing her guardians were approaching

she wanted to get the knife from under her pillow and slash her wrists

still not noticeing them she puts down the candle gets up and goes to her bed

drawing out the knife

to lost inher own mirsty

to notice

she puts the sharp blad to her left wrist and pulls it arcross

black tarlike blood ozzes from the the cut

bringing froth the smell of rot

but once again she feels no pain

if u cut me with a knife its still the same she sniffles and begins to sob again

her tears salting the wound

Jun 28, 2021 6:49 PM

hey what the hell do u think your doing

maggot yells

starling her and making her drope the knife

Jun 28, 2021 9:49 PM

hi

Jun 29, 2021 8:03 PM

so this is what happens if im not in your head all the time

u go and do something stupid like this

malating your pretty skin

and getting blood blood on your dress

sloppy carless stupid little goose

maggot snerred trying to hide how worryed he is

hurt embrassed and deprssed emily flopps sidways on the matresss and weeps into her pillow her bedgallged hair falling over her face

Jun 30, 2021 4:38 AM

"oh stop with all that nonsense! You're not failing you're mother. Nobody's pissed at you for leaving. They're all drunk and having a bloody good time. Do they wish you were there, yes? Do they understand why you left, yes? Don't worry about it!" Widow said

and that was enough to finally get though to her

she smiled

your right

im done moping

done crying

and done being depressed

"I'm going to take action! I'll find a husband and finally get out of here!" Emily declared

and u and maggot are coming with me

when i leave

she added

Jun 26, 2021 11:51 PM

She kissed her finger pressed it to widows head then stood up

Come on widow let’s go back to the party and have some fun

Jun 27, 2021 5:48 AM

"As you wish, dearie." Widow smiled. She was happy Emily was trying to move on. Even if she wasn't entirely happy yet, she could be way less sad.

Jun 27, 2021 11:37 AM

and with that they rejoined the party

the end

Jun 27, 2021 4:53 PM

Yay! Are you happy with how it turned out?

yes very

now we gotta do the other prequel

the bday one

Jun 27, 2021 8:27 PM

The birthday one? I've forgotten about that, what was that one about?

its gonna be a follow up to this one

its one year into her death

Oh right, I remember now.

this is where the things hinted at in the last one come in

we start with her alone in her room once again

the ally virabtes with tiny sobs

and sniffls

she sits on the stepsa buring candle in her lap

cold tears streaking down her pale blue cheeks

shes a mess

her beauful blue hair is a scarggly clumpy tangled mess

her mascura caked in the hollows of her eyes

making her look like a very pretty raccon

Jun 28, 2021 12:46 AM

Depressed, the only light she sees is the flame of the candle. She'd never notice how alive fire was. It made her jealous. "I could snuff you out right now, if I wanted." Emily tells it, her fingers coming close to the flame. But the fire is unafraid. It flickers in, as if she doesn't exist

Snilffing she boldly sticks one finger into the dancing flame

She expects to be burned, to feel any type of pain. But there's nothing. It all just feels cold. She's completely numb, everywhere but in the inside

If I touch a burning candle I can no pain

She whimpered

She try’s again with all the fingers of her right hand

Jun 28, 2021 3:55 PM

but just gets the same reselt

scwoling she looks at her left arm

though tearfilled eyes

and and hand

the skin has startd to dry and flake

from always having it sticking out of the ground

the thing her best friends warned her about has happened

"Horrid. Positively horrid." She sighs, looking forlorn. She wants to be sad about it but somehow she knows it's just how it is. There's no use crying over it

shed begain to rot

she drys her eyes with the backs of her hands then picking up the candle pours some hot wax into her open plam

"Nothing. No pain at all" she sighed, not realizing her guardians were approaching

she wanted to get the knife from under her pillow and slash her wrists

still not noticeing them she puts down the candle gets up and goes to her bed

drawing out the knife

to lost inher own mirsty

to notice

she puts the sharp blad to her left wrist and pulls it arcross

black tarlike blood ozzes from the the cut

bringing froth the smell of rot

but once again she feels no pain

if u cut me with a knife its still the same she sniffles and begins to sob again

her tears salting the wound

Jun 28, 2021 6:49 PM

hey what the hell do u think your doing

maggot yells

starling her and making her drope the knife

Jun 28, 2021 9:49 PM

hi

Jun 29, 2021 8:03 PM

so this is what happens if im not in your head all the time

u go and do something stupid like this

malating your pretty skin

and getting blood blood on your dress

sloppy carless stupid little goose

maggot snerred trying to hide how worryed he is

hurt embrassed and deprssed emily flopps sidways on the matresss and weeps into her pillow her bedgallged hair falling over her face

Jun 30, 2021 4:38 AM

(hi, sorry I was gone yesterday. I had a rough day at work and then just went straight to sleep when I got home.) "oh maggot, that's not the way! You're being too rough on the girl!" Widow chides. Quickly she runs over to Emily, creating a web with her spindly legs and putting it on Emily's wound like a bandage. "Rough!? I'm rough! If she wasn't already dead, she would have killed herself! We can't let her harm herself like that or she'll turn to dust before we know it!" Maggot bristled.

the thought of turning to dust made emily cry even harder

Jun 30, 2021 5:03 PM

"Shh! maggot! See what you did!" Widow snaps before turning to comfort Emily. "Don't listen to him Emmy, that won't happen. You'll have to be older than an Egyptian mummy before that happens. You'll never see that far because you're going to find a nice young man before then."

i dont see how now that im fucking rotting emily sobbed sitting up

look at me she wailes thrusting her [ealing arm at them

pealing

the cut had ripped off a chuck of skin eposing the bone under nethg

more tears spill down her cheeks

Jul 1, 2021 1:15 AM

and her bottom lip quakes

"oh...oh dear, now don't cry! Uhm...perhaps the fancy ladies have something to cover it up! Perhaps needle and thread can do the trick." Widow suggested

well what about this emily whimpered getering to her stab wound that had now decayed to the point that her ribs showed

"I...I'm afraid it's too late for that, dear. But maybe the other spiders and I can repair the dress so it doesn't show?" Widow proposed. "What's the point! It would only get ruined again!" Emily wailed.

this is the wosrt fucking brithday ever she howled bursting into deep gurtter sobs

guttler

Jul 1, 2021 5:19 PM

chocking on her own tears

Jul 1, 2021 7:23 P

[starshipsofstarlord]

The Sheriff and the Murderer

Part Four

Previous Parts | Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Series Masterlist

Summary | car rides come to a gruelling end, leaving you and Sandy with the dirty business of burying Simon’s limbs. Though, when Lee enters the station, he hears the news of a weeping widow, that has been touched unfairly by your husband. He has to find Simon.

Warnings | mentions of death, mentions of rape, mentions of pregnancy, angst, mentions of sex, includes smut, swearing, fingering, blowjob, titty fucking, dirty talk, anal sex, squirting

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

Dirt moulded upon the seams of your knees as you knelt, placing Simon’s hand upon the pile of his scattered body parts. There had been many holes dug in the woods, and it was beginning to get dark, as you and Sandy finally finished hiding the evidence of your crime.

A sigh of relief escaped your lips as you had finally finished stowing away the parts of your life that haunted you, and with much pleasure, buried it deep within the ground. “Surely now you’ll be looking for a new husband...” Sandy snickered, grabbing a rag to wipe the grime from her well adversed hands off on.

“That would not at all be suspicious.” You rolled your eyes at your friend, grabbing the shovels and moving towards her trunk. “But I’m going to need a story for his disappearance, Lee among others will certainly find it strange to never see me worrying of his return.”

A light scoff emitted from the blonde, as she shook her unruly curled head. She placed a hand upon your shoulder, giving you a tender smile to soothe your thoughtful nerves. “Ain’t nobody gonna wanna find that poor excuse of a man. And if they do, you’re gonna be the last person that they suspect.”

She had a point, the people in town that knew of you, were aware that you were nothing more than a simple housewife. You were forced to depend on Simon and his income, and without either, you would fall into squalor. But a life of difficulty, fighting against sexist poverty would be better than living with that monster.

Because that is what Simon was, a monster. He had no recollection nor care for the value of you being a woman, like many men in the day and age. And now, with his bones hidden in the middle of nowhere, far form citizen eyes, you were free, though you were unsure of what to do with your newfound freedom, and how you would manage it.

“What about that wife of his?” Lee snapped his head around, as he looked between the door that held the victim, and Deputy Reeves, who had decided to bring the woman that owned his heart, and another man’s ring upon her finger, into this case. But it was inevitable, you were to be dragged into it, Simon had a hell of a nerve for putting you into the corner.

“And what may your point be to bring y/n into this inconvenience?” The sheriff snapped at his co worker, containing his anger concerning the situation. Reever reeled his head back at the sound of Bodecker’s tone, frowning at his commander’s voice.

“I meant, she may know where Simon Priot is! I’m not assuming that she is the reason that he has gone off the grid, hell knows he wallows in the dark corners of this town. You need to make your likening towards that lady less obvious, I remember back during our training days, you’d carry around a picture of her, and now look at her... she’s bound to have be with a child in a year or so, she moved on Lee, and you’re still stuck on her like gum on the bottom of her shoe.”

Lee bit his lip, restraining the need to explode on this man that was below him, yet was still talking down to him. It was true, it was a fear of his that he’d watch you balloon with an heir, that Simon would raise under his manipulative thumb. And the chances would be, that the baby was genetically identical to his genes, having been made from the pair of you sexually intermingling.

“So your concern is that y/n may know his whereabouts, and not what he may do to her behind closed doors? This woman that we are interviewing may be from a wealthy family, mourning her own well established partner, but because y/n and Simon are married, it surpasses over your thick skull!”

He steadied his breath, holding his hands upon his hips as he tried to control his authority, though, Reeves did not entirely seem impressed with Lee’s words. Instead, he simply bellowed a laugh, finding his sheriff’s prejudice to be amusing. “That is one way to act jealous. Guess I’ll just go over to her home, and see if Simon is present.”

“I’ll go.” Lee grabbed his mug, glaring at his coworker as he walked profusely away, sending a point of his finger towards the door that the widow was concealed behind, prompting that Reever best continue his work, whilst he perceived to do the same.

A series of knocks had you bustling out towards the door, clothed in nothing more than a towel, as you had just left the premises of the bath, finding it to be only Lee on the other side. “Hiya sheriff, is there anything that I can help you with? Maybe you’d like to come inside for a cup of something smooth and sweet.” You bit your lip, giggling as he pushed you through the door.

He shut it behind himself, pinning you against the wall, as his face tucked into your neck, planting ravishingly kisses against the column of your neck, making you revel your head back. “You do feel smooth.” His hands ran up the length of your leg, worming it’s way beneath the rough fabric, sliding his fingers up and into your entrance, causing you to moan up and toward his chin. “I’m finding this suspicious...”

At his words you froze, becoming paranoid that he had found something out. You stared up at him as he thumbed at your clit, as you rutted your hips down and upon his fingers. “Lee, you have to listen to me, there is nothing to be - fuck!” He shoved another two fingers into you, stretching you open, as your hands stroked against his sleeved biceps.

“Every time you answer that damned door, you’re dressed in practically nothing. It’s like you’re trying to seduce all the men around here.” He smirked, using his free hand to tug off the towel, leaving you in nothing more than your own nude skin.

“Just one.” You played with his tie, wincing as the sheriff removed his fingers from inside of you, raising them to your lips as you tasted your own juices from his flesh. “He’s quite the charmer, that smile of his, well that’s contagious. And don’t get me started on that plump belly of his, I love to feel it pressing against me as he fucks me into the mattress. He’s so handsome, and has such a big, pulsing cock.”

With that said, you dropped nakedly to your knees, tugging at his belt, looping the leather out from its holsters, and dragging the layers of material down, so that you could expose his erecting cock. You grasped his base, instantly moving your mouth down to his balls, sucking his left one into your mouth, causing the man above you to grit his teeth.

You stroked his length, moving back up towards his tip, tapping it against your tongue, moaning against him as he began to comb his fingers through your hair, before sinking his fat cock down your throat, feeling his taste upon your buds, as you stared up at him with your innocent eyes.

“Such a talented mouth.” He moved his hips, sinking further into you, as you muffled your noises of gagging on him. “Simon really is a lucky man.” He muttered to yourself, the words being inaudible to where you were below him. But where was Simon?

“Love sucking your cock.” You popped him out of your mouth, swiping your tongue up his shaft, as you continued to pump him. “So big Lee Lee.” His eyes rolled to the back of his head, as he handled himself, moving himself of out your grasp, as he watched you press closer to him, a breast on either side, as he rested on your chest.

You grasped your breasts, a hand upon each, as you suffocated his length with your tits, bouncing on your thighs, as you fucked him with your assets. “Y/n.” He breathed, humming at the sight of you, licking his lips, as he felt swarmed with pleasure.

He remembered back in the day, when he would come over to your house and help you study for mid terms. Those sessions ended rather similarly, with one of you performing some kind of pleasure on the other, keeping as quite as you could so that your father would not hear.

But of course he knew what was going on, which was why he had decided to introduce you to Simon, so that his blessing would sway you into choosing him rather than Lee. “I’m going to cum, baby girl. Gonna soak your lovely tits with my spunk.” He groaned, watching behind heavy lidded eyes as he spilled over your chest, painting it white, as he stepped slightly back, and turned soft.

“Oh my - Christ!” You squealed as you were held chest first against the dining table, remnants of Lee’s cum sliding upon the surface as you were pounded back and forth, Lee behind you as he took you from that angle. “Harder baby, har - ah!”

A light scream reckoned from your throat, your fingers grasping the corners of the surface, as he slipped his cock out from inside of your pussy, pressing his tip against your tighter hole, using no lubrication except your own natural essence that cloaked his skin, as he began to press into your ass.

“Honey, you’re so tight.” He squinted, as he began to slow down, allowing you to adjust to his girth within your asshole before moving slightly faster. “You’re ass feels so good. Never let your horrible husband in your back door, have you?”

The thoughts of ways that Simon had never brought you pleasure, times that you consented to it, made him pulse harder within you. Lee had been permitted to do more socially unacceptable things with you, in your home, and it completely turned him on. If anyone knew that adultery, and all these other things that Lee did to you, they would even look down on him, the sheriff.

“No. Only you Lee Lee.” You threw your head back, moulding with the pressure of his hand upon your back, forcing you to be flat against the table. “I want more baby, give me something more sweetie.” Giving you a light spank upon your ass, making your tighter walls clench around him, he trailed his hand to your front, pinching your clit, before delving his fingers within your contracting walls.

“Holy heaven.” Lee groaned, feeling at how your wetness seeped down his hand, as he hammered into you. This session had been going on for so long, and if he weren’t mistaken, he’d think it to be one of the best. “Cum baby, cum all over me. And I’ll feel this ass up, yeah?”

Feverishly nodding, you continuously clenched around his thick fingers, until a flow of clear liquid squirted out from your pussy, creating a puddle upon the kitchen floor as he removed his hand from inside you, shoving it in your mouth to mute your screams. His balls slapped against the middle of your ass cheeks, as he thrusted, falling back against you as he filled you up.

Grasping your hips lightly, he pulled back, watching as his cum dripped out from you, cascading down the back of your thighs, as your pussy withered from emptiness. He bit his lip at the sight, and for a moment, he forgot why he had visited you this early on the day for an exchange, and then he remembered, it all flashing back to him.

Perhaps another round was in order, to numb the reminder of your marriage, and the case that he was on duty for. As you returned to your senses, he helped your get up, carrying you towards the bathroom to partake in more fulfilment and cleanse the both of you.

Tags;

@charmed-asylum @tcc-gizmachine @stucky-my-ship @brynthebulldozer @acciosiriusblack @lady-loki-ren

[rayshippouuchiha]

naruto moves into the forest of death bc loving that place is in his blood

I see this, I love this, it begins a long time before Naruto is born and it goes a little bit like this:

Hashirama never fully recovers from the fight with Madara.  Not really, not fully, not in the ways that truly matter for a man and a shinobi.

He keeps a strong presence for the village and those who would seek to do Konoha harm but to those closest to him, to those who know the man behind the titles and the legend, the differences are stark and grim.

Hashirama spends more and more time in the forest, spends days and nights out amongst the trees and the flowers and the sprawling roots, pouring more and more of himself into all of it as he goes.

Tobirama argues with him about his distraction, about his distance, about his decision to pass the mantle of Hokage onto Tobirama who never really wanted it but wears it now because he must, because Hashirama asked.  Because Tobirama has always done all he could do to make whatever Hashirama wanted into a reality.

Hurt and hurting Tobirama’s words and accusations are cold and cutting, because that is what a life of too much war and too little peace has made him in moments like this, when fear and love rides him hard, and unlike Hashirama he’s never been able to slip more than a fraction of that mantle.  But, most of all, Tobirama is desperate not to let his beloved elder brother slip through his fingers like so many others have in the past.

They built the village Hashirama and Madara dreamed of to stop the death and the suffering so why is Tobirama’s beautiful and lively brother seemingly so determined to fade away.  To go where Tobirama cannot follow?

He doesn’t understand and if there’s one thing Tobirama truly hates in this life it is not knowing.

But Hashirama just smiles at him, reaches up to pull him down so he can press a kiss to Tobirama’s forehead, and then drifts away back into the trees.

Mito watches her husband just as closely and sees what Tobirama, her brother in all the ways that matter, sees.

Hashirama, once so vibrant and alive, is ... diminished.  Fading bit by bit.

But, unlike Tobirama, Mito keeps her silence.  Words have not been necessary between her and Hashirama for years now.

Instead she follows him into the forest when time and her duties will permit it, sometimes even when they do not.  She watches him breathe new life into a forest that already teems with it.  Watches him eradicate sickness from saplings, watches him push them to grow until they are towering monoliths with bark as hard as iron.  She watches him run calloused, battle worn fingertips over flower petals and leaves with the gentle sort of reverence that he’s always touched her with in their quieter moments, in the times when passion and lust and heat were not necessary. When only love was.

She loves him all the more in those moments, in these moments of fading light, even when she knows that he is leaving her.  Going somewhere she cannot follow, not with her duties, not with what she carries.  Not yet.  Likely not for decades to come.

“Mito,” Hashirama sighs to her one night when the fireflies are thick and the trees sway down to meet the both of them.  “My beloved Mito.”

“Husband,” Mito murmurs back as she always does, one hand smoothing over his hair where his head is resting in her lap.  “My foolish husband.”

“I cannot give you back the sea,” Hashirama whispers once the silence has grown thick and heavy around them.  “I cannot return you to the whirlpools and the eddies.”

“You took neither from me so they are not yours to return,” Mito tells him sternly, lovingly.  “My choices were and are my own, you wood brained idiot.  They have never been yours to carry.  If I wanted the ocean I would simple go to it.  But Konoha is my home now.”

“My fierce fire-pearl,” Hashirama smiles then, soft and small.  “My beloved ocean rose.  I would bring the very sea here to meet you if I could.  Or I’d pester Tobirama into doing it for me.  But instead I give you this, an ocean of trees, a sea of leaves and flowers as wild and untamed as Uzushio’s itself.  Here you will always be safe, here you will always find me.”

“I will never need to find you,” Mito tells him, the hand laid atop his chest clenching just a bit in the battle silk above his heart.  “You will not go where I cannot follow you, you know better by now.”

“Of course, dear,” Hashirama smiles.

They both know it for the lie that it is.

They both know he’s already leaving.

And when he loves her there, pressed down onto a bed of soft clover and surrounded by trees that seem to sing, Mito tangles her hands in his hair, raises her hips to meet his own as steadily as the tide, and weeps.

~~~

Mito is a widow no more than a month later.

~~~

Tobirama does not weep but the skies do it for him, monsoon like rain washing over Konoha the moment he feels Hashirama’s living and present chakra signal fade away into nothing.

For three days and nights there is only rain, water rushing down streets and swelling the rivers and lakes.

The villagers pray for sun.

Tobirama mourns.

The trees of the forest sway and sing.

~~~

Years pass and Mito wanders the forest in her free moments, hands trailing over tree trunks and vines alike, fingertips ghosting over flower petals and slowly unfurling buds.

As she walks she whispers or rants or sometimes sings, telling the forest her days, her nights, her triumphs and her failures.

And always, always, the trees hum and sway and sing back to her in welcome, in safety.

In love.

~~~

Tobirama wanders the forest in his free moments, leaving streams and ponds in his wake as he goes.  He pulls fresh water to the surface, cleanses stagnation where he finds it and ensures that it does not return.

‘Refuge,’ Tobirama thinks as he pulls water from the air and the ground as he breathes his own form of life into the forest his brother had loved and nurtured like a child.  The forest he had tried and failed to hate in his grief.  ‘Let this be a refuge, let this be a place of peace.’

He does not speak to the trees that feel so like his brother and yet not.  Does not talk or argue or scream or rage or beg.  He keeps his silence now as he had not then.

But the trees sing back regardless.

Hashirama had always known all of the things Tobirama could never bring himself to say.  Had always been able to read beneath and between and around whatever Tobirama did.

His forest is no different.

~~~

Far too soon Tobirama is gone as well and Mito is alone in a way that has far too little to do with the number of people around her and everything to do with her heart.

More years pass and her isolation, her loneliness, only grows.

She is one of last of a quickly dying breed, one of the few who truly remembers life before the villages.

She aches for her husband, for her brother, for her family.

Sometimes, in her darker moments, she even aches for the burden she knows she will pass onto another.

And now she aches for the Clan she has lived long enough to see destroyed.

When Uzushio falls Mito takes to the forest as she always does these days.  As she has for years and years now.

She does not rage.

She does not weep.

Instead, kunai in hand, she bleeds.

Uzumaki blood and life force flow out onto rich dark soil, is pressed onto iron bark tree trunks and splattered over flowing vines and unfurled leaves.

Seals flow from her bloody finger tips, are pressed into the ground with every whisper quiet step she takes.

“Shelter,” Mito half begs, half demands to the forest that has been her companion for so long now.  “Uzushio has fallen.  Hashirama, my love, my people are slaughtered and scattered and lost.  You said you would give me the sea if you could, you said this forest was built for me as much as it was for the village.  So let this be a shelter. Let this be a place of safety for those who truly need it.  Let the Uzumaki blood find home and hope beneath these branches as I long have.  Let them know your love as I do.  Should they come, let them stay.”

And all around her the forest hums and sways and sings.

Mito, bloody hands pressed against the trunk of the colossal tree that Hashirama had once made love to her under, laughs.

And then, finally, she weeps.

~~~

Time passes, the village moves forward, and so many, too many, forget things that should never be forgotten.

The forest grows darker, the trees, with their tunneling roots, grow more imposing, the animals more vicious and wild.

The trees stop singing.

Instead they rattle and shake and hum in what some would swear is anger.

~~~

Naruto has always liked plants.

Has always liked the green and growing things that can be found almost everywhere around the village.

Trees and flowers and vines don’t hurt him.  They don’t call him names, or throw things at him, or spit and stare and hit.

Plants are kind. Plants are safe.

And there’s far too few things or places or people in the village that Naruto can truly call safe.  Not for him.

Chest aching, Naruto swipes at the mess of blood and tears smeared across his face as he pushes himself to go faster, to run harder.

He just wants to be away.  Away from the name calling and the hitting.  Away from the hurt.

He barely even pauses when he hits the fence littered with warning signs he can only half read, just scrambles up and over it without even breaking his stride.

Naruto might not be good at or for much of anything but he’s always been good at this.  At running and climbing and finding his own way.  It’s not much but it’s all he has.

The forest is dark and gets darker the deeper he runs.  The trees grow thicker and taller as he goes too, grow bigger than anything Naruto has ever seen besides the Hokage Mountain.

He runs until he can’t anymore, until he collapses at the base of a tree even bigger than the others he’s seen in the forest.

Chest heaving, tears welling up in his eyes again, Naruto presses his bloody hands and face against the thick bark and cries.

Around him to forest goes still, goes quiet.

“Please,” Naruto whispers, unsure of why he feels the need to talk to trees when not even people want to listen to him. “Please help.  It hurts. It hurts so much.  I don’t want to go back.  Please.”

And even as exhaustion rips and claws at him, forcing black in around the edges of his vision, Naruto swears that, for a split second, the tree he’s leaning against almost seems to sing.

[primasveraas-writing]

Finnpoe- “the wave, to the ocean”

Poe dies after a lifetime spent together. Finn deals with the aftermath of losing his partner and other half. It's the hardest thing he's ever done.

WORDS: 3030

XXX

Poe dies on a quiet summer evening. Their bedroom, packed with children and grandchildren, is silent aside from muffled cries. Outside their home, crickets chirp, overlapping and loud, enough so that Finn is thinking of their noisy chorus when his husband takes his last breath.

Everything and nothing changes- the Damerons have been mourning preemptively, and Poe’s death is not sudden. There is only sorrow in missing him, rather than the opportunities lost with the end of a life. They cry and comfort each other, as they have done for so many days prior, and they do not need to conjure up funeral plans. Poe wrote his first will when he was 19, and since then, he merely edited and revised his wishes as his life evolved.

Finn experiences his first second, night, week, as a widower. He and Poe spent a lifetime together, and then there is nothing.

Nothing is not nothing. It’s the unification of his entire family, of old friends and beings from all corners of the galaxy. Decades worth of meeting, knowing, loving people. That is the relief to the pain, that he may be surrounded by all the lives he and Poe have touched. His children don’t leave his side. 

Distinctly, Finn is aware that he needs them as much as they need him, but this is a role he has always struggled with. He hesitates to ask for help from the people who have just lost their father. They love and know him, but they cannot break through his veneer.

He can hide his grief with a gentle smile or a hug. It’s easier because he means it, but these moments are a droplet of joy amongst an ocean of sorrow. Still, on the surface, all appears well.

When Finn learned the ways of the Force, he became well attuned to the feelings of others. He knows the warm light of happiness, the fire of anger, and the stormy turmoil of pain. He knows that, try as one might, these feelings cannot be hidden or erased. He’s felt the pain of widows and the bereaved. It’s a beacon in the Force, overwhelming and blinding.

Rey can hardly look at him. He can feel her pain, he knows the hurt of his children. Finn knows that Rey must be drowning in his sorrow. He is lost, and he knows that Rey can feel this turmoil just as clearly as he lives it.

Yet she is the last to depart even after duty calls his children away. Weeks fade to months, and although there is no ground beneath Finn’s feet, something like normalcy returns.

It is not quite true that Rey leaves Finn. He examines what’s left of his life before him, and then he cannot stay on Yavin, in a place that still smells like Poe, every inch of their house defined by their life together. 

Finn finds a quiet corner of the galaxy, and he goes. Rey discovers a brief holo explaining why he’s left, and that is all. There’s a few frequencies she and his family can call on, but no coordinates with which to find him. It’s him and BB-8, and Finn is really, truly alone, for the first time since he was 21.

  In his new bed, it’s less strange to wake up alone. The mattress is smaller, and the sun shines in at a different angle than it did in his room on Yavin IV. Sometimes, there is still a phantom warmth next to him, and in the moments before Finn fully wakes, he can feel Poe there beside him. He’s not sure, but Finn thinks that he talks to Poe then. It makes his heart ache when he realizes, like a black hole in his chest weighing him down and sucking him into unfathomable depths of despair, because reality quickly sets in and he is talking to thin air.

He misses Poe. He wishes, more than anything, to hear his laugh, to have a conversation with him about the weather or something trivial, to hug his husband or hold his hand. He misses the warmth of his embrace, and he remembers the comfort that came along with it, but Finn remains cold and alone. Unreachable by design, by space and depression and grief.

Finn will heal by himself, first. He will experience every part of this pain, and that’s how it will be. The tide must swell before it can recede.

In the beginning, beautiful things do not inspire him to live. The sun shines after rain, and Finn thinks to himself that he would be at peace, if he rejoined the Force at this moment. He wouldn’t be without Poe any longer. That would be good. That would be easier.

So he waits to do just that. It has been so long since he’s lived without his family that Finn doesn’t expect to last long without them. He settles down on a small farm by the seaside, and a boy from a local village brings him food every week. He spends most of his days reading or watching the waves crash on the rocks below him.

Finn waits to die and he waits for the grief to lessen in the meantime. It follows him wherever he goes; it is his only companion, aside from a lonely droid and a child who doesn’t ever stay for longer than five minutes.

He misses his children. They are insistent on finding him, on visiting at the very least, but Finn declines every offer. He doesn’t want them to see another parent waste away, or for them to be pulled under by his grief. It is better, for everyone, that he is alone.

Finn weeps more during that period than he ever has before in his life. It hits him suddenly, making his knees weak and crumbling his resolve. He falls to the ground, hands covering his mouth to muffle the sobs. No one is there to hear him, but the sobs fight their way out anyway, and they always stop too soon, before any true release of sorrow can occur.

The beach, which is mostly jagged pebbles scattered below the cliff where he lives, is where Finn goes when he ventures to leave the house. He wonders, more than anything, if Poe would have liked it here, if they could have settled down here like they did on Yavin IV. It rains a lot here, too, but the air is dry instead of humid, and the air tastes perpetually of salt. Crickets still sing him to sleep every night, but they are joined by the rhythm of waves against the shore.

Finn likes this, though he thinks his husband would have never quite adjusted to this change. It’s peaceful here, but noisier than Yavin. It’s colder too, which Poe had never enjoyed.

Had never. Poe, in the past tense. This is easier to accept than the reality it belies. Now, he is away from the empty house and the grave. The only evidence of his loss is grief and memory, so perhaps this is why Finn thinks that maybe, just maybe, he could fly back home and find Poe waiting for him.

It is three months before Finn realizes: he is waiting for Poe. If he died, he would be reunited with him; if the grief disappeared, it could only mean a reunion. He is waiting for what may never come.

And he lives. And the grief never goes away.

-

Something like spring happens, half a cycle into his stay. The boy tells him in broken Basic that this means more rain, which Finn is surprised to discover is possible after endless days of downpour. After this comes planting season, which Finn surmised after living on a farming moon, with his husband who was raised on a farm. The boy laughs at him when he says this. Finn smiles for the first time in months.

It rains, and Finn lies in bed, wrapped in the blankets he brought from home, listening to the torrent against the roof. The cadence is different; the roof here is simple and stone, but if he closes his eyes, he can nearly imagine that he’s on Yavin, that Poe is beside him and they’re enjoying a lazy afternoon together.

This type of thinking hurts more than it heals. It happens on the nights that Finn cries himself to sleep. He longs for the past and impossible comforts, and the gaping hole in his chest widens.

His heart is dead weight in his chest, and it is cruel that he lives. There is nothing to live for. His family is strong enough to mourn him and live, and he has already shaped the galaxy into a place for them to thrive. There is nothing left for him in a universe devoid of his soulmate.

The boy and his family are harvesting the first of their crops. In addition to the plain bread and simple staples delivered to him at the beginning of the week, Finn receives a bag of purple berries and some other orange vegetables. He thanks the boy, who cites his mother, so Finn passes his thanks to the whole family. The next week, even more are entrusted to him, and Finn gains the impression that they have a surplus. When he grumbles that he’s only one person, that he can’t possibly eat this much, and that his droid can’t be expected to help him eat, the boy laughs at him again. Finn realizes he hasn’t talked to him beyond a brief thanks every week and a passing conversation once or twice. BB-8 is often powered down, too. It’s been a long time since Finn has heard laughter, or held a conversation.

He’s brought some sort of sweet bread the next week, made from the purple berries. Finn’s never had it before. It’s odd, to have lived so long and to still learn new things, especially in a place so lonely and from a being so young.

He asks the boy his name before he goes. It’s Becke, and he’s eight (this information seems attached to his introduction). Finn hadn’t known before. He hadn’t asked when he first arrived, only inquired to Becke’s mother if she knew anyone who could bring him groceries. She had nodded, and gestured to the blonde boy reluctantly holding her hand. He spoke the best Basic out of their family, and he needed to get out of her house more often.

Becke smiles at him, most of his teeth missing. It reminds him of a young girl, and her children that kept her parents and grandparents perpetually exhausted. Finn understands why his mother appointed him to this task.

Becke leaves that week, and this time, he hollers his goodbye over his shoulder as he retreats.

Finn smiles again.

-

Summer and fall mean that Finn is stuffed with fresh harvestables. Becke tells him about his afternoons helping on the farm, in short, slowly extracted sentences. Sometimes Becke comes in chattering (or complaining) about the work, and sometimes, Finn dares to ask a few questions. A rounded conversation takes a month and a half, but they both readily accept this pace. It’s enough for the attention span of an eight-year-old talking to an old man and the old man in question.

Becke talks about his family, and what he’s learning in school. It’s menial, yet Finn cares in the way that kind people do when a child talks. There are concerns and viewpoints only applicable through the eyes of a child, and it’s simpler than loneliness and pain, and one day, Becke spends an hour showing Finn his attempts at juggling with the fruit he brought that morning. He’s not exceptionally good at it, but Finn encourages him, and it is the lightest he’s felt since before Poe died.

The next week, Becke invites him to dinner with his family. Finn declines, but the week after that, another invitation is extended. He accepts.

Their communication is limited, but gestures and fragments of sentences are enough. They get by; Finn learns that Becke’s father and two older brothers have the same sense of humor as the boy- there is laughter to be found in even the most miserable of circumstances. Finn finds it hard to complain around them, especially when Becke’s mother, Ola, keeps loading his plate up with food, even once Finn starts protesting that it’s too much for him. The other men laugh, and Becke’s father tells him that no one can resist his wife’s will. So, he will be fed, and fed well.

By fall, Finn regularly makes the trek to their house for dinners. He helps Becke with his homework. Ola herself visits Finn, and the next afternoon, Becke arrives with cleaning supplies. Suddenly, Finn is not just looked after, he is cared for. He laughs and he talks, and he does not have to think of the grief and the pain.

He lives.

-

Sunset on the ocean is one of the most beautiful things Finn has ever seen. Orange light weaves through the tall grass on the edge of the cliffs and turns the water below golden. The skies fill with purple and pink clouds, mingling to create colors Finn has never dreamed of before.

He hopes, every evening, that he lives to see the next day’s magnificent sunset.

-

Finn knows that he could stay here forever, that he may live to see Becke grow into a man, that Ola will cook and clean and feed him until the end of his days. He is happy there, after thinking that he could never be happy again. There are simple and wonderful things, and Finn enjoys them all.

But as Becke gets older, and as the years pass, Finn thinks of his own grandchildren, how they must be growing and learning. They are without their Abuelo and their grandpa, and he does not get to see or know them.

If Finn returns, he will be reunited with those he loves most in the universe.

He will also have to face an old life, one that should have Poe in it but does no longer.

The choice is neither quick nor sudden. Becke is twelve; Finn is happy worlds away from Yavin.

But there is more. He misses his children’s laughter and the light of his grandkids. He misses his home and the richness of life in the jungle. He misses Rey and her eternal optimism, her smile.

He is not complete without these things. Infrequent, broken calls are not enough.

If he was meant to outlive Poe, then Finn must face that. He will do it, at last, with his family at his side.

Becke and Finn both weep when he leaves. He’d planned to do so on a sunny afternoon, but became delayed by last-minute repairs, so he hugs Becke and his family goodbye as the sun wavers just above the horizon. Its dying sunbeams illuminate Becke’s face, then the boy scrubs the tears off his cheeks. Finn manages one last goodbye before boarding his ship, and he watches the small family wave goodbye before they go, flying low towards the sunset before taking off to the stars.

He contacts his eldest first and tells her that he’s coming home. She breaks down in tears over the call, and promises to meet him on Yavin. They’ve missed him, she says, and they’re glad he’s coming home.

His children- three out of four who could make it in time- are waiting outside his house. They embrace him, holding him tight, and Finn does his best not to cry too excessively. He’s welcomed home, which matters most, and they’re glad to see him.

It hurts, to be back in the hastily dusted house. There are holos of Poe on the walls. His youngest son has Poe’s mannerisms; his youngest daughter has his same cheeky smile. 

But he loves them, and it’s worth the pain. 

He and the brunt of the grief are together again; he’s only a few klicks away from where Poe is buried. His children cling to his hands, and ask him how he is. BB-8 explains all of what he can of their absence, and when it’s Finn’s turn, all he can say is that he couldn’t stay.

Their acceptance of this fact hinges on Finn’s promises that eventually, he was happy. He was cared for and not truly alone. He came back to them.

His eldest corners Finn and tells him, with her jaw firmly set, that they missed him and in some ways, they lost both of their fathers at once. Finn bows his head and apologizes, but he could not stay. Without Poe, he had to learn to live again. He had to want to live again, and he couldn’t do that while so haunted by loss.

She doesn’t understand, not fully, but she accepts this and tells him she’s glad he’s home. He is too, and the joy of being back with his family overpowers the grief.

It’s storming, hours later, when they hear Rey arrive. She barges through the door, drenched, and wraps her arms around Finn, tears shining in her eyes. She missed him and she loves him, she murmurs, then she pulls back and offers him a watery smile

Finn had forgotten how much her presence lights up a room. Yavin hums with an energy that he has not felt in many years, and it rushes over Finn in excited waves. He can sense all the life nearby, from the frogs in the trees and the vines in the jungle, all the way to the tree standing over his husband’s and his parents’ graves.

There is beauty and life and death and pain. Finn can feel it all, and he knows it well. It’s pervasive throughout his life and his family and his home.

It’s a part of him and part of everything, and Finn understands. It will ache inside his chest then destroy him, and finally build him back up. Finn understands that he lives and will die loving and missing Poe.

But this is not the end.

“Picture a wave. In the ocean. You can see it, measure it, its height, the way the sunlight refracts when it passes through. And it's there. And you can see it, you know what it is. It's a wave. And then it crashes in the shore and it's gone. But the water is still there. The wave was just a different way for the water to be, for a little while. You know it's one conception of death for Buddhists: the wave returns to the ocean, where it came from and where it's supposed to be.” -The Good Place

[passivenovember]

Let the Great World Spin. 

Steve made the mistake of asking what Billy's major in Romantic Literature was, exactly, like two minutes after moving the last box into their new apartment. He tucked each corner of a baby blue fitted sheet into one side of the mattress while Billy worked on the other and wondered aloud If spending all day writing artsy-fartsy poems would be able to pay the bills.

Billy had frowned, and.

Clenched his jaw. Raised a dismissive hand when Steve began his usual parade of that's not what I meant and hey I'm sorry when Billy snatched his special box of shit--

A treasure chest containing rolls of floss, tube tops made of repurposed bandanas, one vintage lava lamp and a stack of True Crime trading cards--four from Dustin and one from Max-- 

Off the dresser before moving into the living room.

Steve followed, because.

Yeah.

He watched from the tasteful archway as Billy threw his box on the coffee table, lava oozing through ridges and tears in flimsy cardboard, and made up the couch with sunburnt looking cheeks.

Billy passed out there, with book on his chest, every night for a month.

So.

Naturally they were off to a great start.

Steve tried to apologize but Billy wasn't merciful. As annoying as it was cute, he couldn't deny it was one of his favorite things about Billy, the way he made people work for a spot in his life.

Steve tried to sweeten the deal.

A new Metallica tape here. Primary status library card there, but.

Billy wouldn't give.

Ever the poet, he didn't bury corpses in the sand until grand gestures were made. Declarations. Speeches. So on Friday night after spending two hours at the pub and returning home to find Billy asleep on the couch with a towel around his head, Steve climbed onto the coffee table and started talking.

"Billy Hargrove," Steve announced.

Billy started drooling on his chin.

Steve cleared his throat, embracing a more heroic stance; hands on narrow hips, foot on Billy's cardboard treasure box. "William Patrick Hargrove."

Billy startled awake, towel going lopsided as he sat up. He stared wildly around the room, raising his copy of Let the Great World Spin and aiming it at Steve's head. Poising the paperback to crack walls made of flesh and bone.

Steve held out his hands. "Wait, I just--"

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"I have something to say."

Billy snatched the towel from his head, folding it with as much grace as a hurricane. "What time is it, Harrington?"

Steve checked his watch, blinking sharply as the numbers started doing the macarena. He sighed. "Doesn't matter. Look--"

Billy looked.

Steve lifted his arms. Cleared his throat and repositioned himself on the coffee table to show that, after tonight, they would never have to be alone again. Billy's mouth cocked patiently as the third leg on the coffee table snapped and Steve fell headfirst into a mountain of beanbags.

"Fuck this," Billy stood, grabbing his paperback from where it lay discarded over ratty green carpet. "Let's go to bed already."

Steve gaped at him. "You don't wanna hear what I have to say?"

"What, you gonna finally admit that you love me, or something?" Billy scrubbed adorably at his eyes, and.

Steve clambered to his feet, noticing for the first time that Billy looked tired, and admiring the way his curls stuck out in every direction like a wad of blonde pipe cleaners. Steve opened his mouth to speak. To preach, but Billy was already hobbling away, sweatpants wedged up his ass.

"Love you too, shithead, 'm fuckin' tired."

Steve wanted to burst into song.

Or burst into tears, but.

The bedroom door slammed shut.

--

Apparently, scribbling love stories on the backs of takeout menus can funnel into all sorts of practical things. Like kitchens full of new pots and pans, monthly oil changes for Steve's car, and a pantry stocked with individually wrapped protein bars from the organic store across town.

They finally start sleeping in the same room again when Billy lands his first job as a research assistant.

For Steve this means getting to quit his shitty job at Family Video and focus on school, in between guitar lessons and trips to the farmers market.

For Billy, this means spending fifty hours a week in the office of a PhD. that definitely wants to fuck him and focusing only on school.

Forgetting their anniversary in favor of Shakespeare's Life and Work, Masterpieces of World Literature, an Entire course on John Milton's Paradise Lost. Steve forgives him until a lecture series on Folklore has Billy crying every night over the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice.

Asking Steve red-eyed, coffee induced, panicked questions like; "Would you follow me into the underworld?"

So Steve holds him. "Of course I would."

"Even after I missed our anniversary?"

And Steve doesn't have anything to say to that, so.

He goes to bed alone, just like every night, while Billy falls to pieces in the next room.

--

It's maddening.

The tentative bones of each of Billy's fingers are sure to peek through before graduation. Skin caught between the pages of books, left behind like loose pencil shavings as Billy puts one pad in front of the other, marching on his way to The Great Big Somewhere.

By March, Billy's a shell of a man. Sleeping less than five hours a night, burning through packs of tea candles because he studies under a haze flickering amber, like some sort of medieval poet, and only eating one meal a day if Steve cooks it for him.

And Steve's worried.

Crying on the phone to Joyce. Throwing up in the toilet when Billy passes out at the supermarket. Preparing himself to be a widow at twenty-five.

So.

He decides to say something.

The first time he brings it up Billy pours rice milk into his lap.

The second time he bursts into tears over a stack of files.

So.

Steve decides to put a sock in it.

But then it's April. Spring Break. Steve expects that they'll follow through with their plan to visit Hawkins, but right as their bag is packed to board the train home, Billy insists on staying back to finish his dissertation.

Steve throws his suitcase at the wall. Billy bursts into tears and locks himself in the bedroom. One phone call to Joyce and half a sentence from Hooper proves it; Billy will starve to death if Steve leaves him alone.

So they stay in New York. Cooped up in their massive, empty, hard-earned apartment while Billy writes about love without ever showing it.

Steve thinks about leaving.

Just.

Packing his shit in the middle of the night, sticking a note to the fridge with the magnet Billy had made for their first anniversary, but.

This will pass. That's what Steve keeps telling himself; Billy will have his Masters soon, that precious slice of paper that burned their relationship to the ground, and then they'll move to a house on a lake like Steve's always wanted, and.

Love won't exist between the pages of a book anymore it'll be real. Like first meetings on a high school basketball court, secret kisses at the top of a Farris wheel, Sunday mornings in green meadows.

Love will fall just like it used to.

Bright red across hardwood floors.

--

The last and final straw comes at 4:45 in the morning.

Billy punches their lamp off the table in his sleep, shouting about the structure of a novel and cutting his knuckles open and that's it.

Steve has, well and truly, had enough.

He tells Billy just as much over a stack of alcohol wipes and a fist that, luckily, doesn't need stitches. Steve tries not to cry, and then tries not to weep, and.

Fails.

When the love of Steve's life falls to his knees and says, "I'm exhausted," and it feels true.

Like red books full of hymnals.

Steve fails when Billy hugs him around the waist and says, "I only ever write about you," and it feels heavy.

Like shattering church windows.

Steve cries and he hates himself. And Billy. And the universe; nuns and religion. Mountains, valentines day cards, bouquets of lilies, and poetry most of all. When his fingers card through fuzzy blonde curls.

Steve tugs his poet closer, and.

Decides to follow him anywhere.

[ladynightmare913]

Secrets of the Darkened Seas

Welcome to Chapter 4! I would like to say a special thank you to my best friend and co-author Olivia ( @asunshinepuff​ ) for inviting me to work on this story with her. As you may have notice, we have decided to change on how we release the chapters of our story. We will be alternating from my blog to @asunshinepuff​‘s blog. 

These chapters contain many original characters created by Olivia and myself. All credit for our creations goes to each other for our respective characters because we have both work so hard to bring these characters to live and I would never dare to take credit for any of Olivia’s characters. 

Small warning, there is a funeral in this chapter. If you have any questions, feel free to send an ask!

As always there is mermaid lore hidden within the storyline. The included lore on different types of merfolk will be taken from the book “The Secret World of Mermaids” by Francine Rose. We are taking no credit for her work. The different types of mermaids will be explained later so don’t worry. We have also taken the liberty of creating some of our own original types of merfolk. 

Now without further adieu!

Chapter 4: Honoring The Fallen

The voyage back to Swansea in West Wales was somber. The Captain hardly said anything more than a sentence. Remus would sit on a barrel next to the railing of the ship, watching the sea for hours. Quinn and Opal took over caring for the young Black Heir in the midst of taking over some of the Captain’s duties whilst Min-Jun was focused on preparations and work. 

Newt and Tina took it upon themselves to care for the two mers, to try to calm them down. There was some progress, but the older mermaid refused to part with the younger mer child. 

It took all of two days, the Dragon’s Pearl made port, and Min-Jun ordered the crew to finish the preparations before he left the ship in First Mate Scamander’s command. Normally the trip back home would bring Remus a strange sense of nostalgia, but now he felt only dread. 

He watched Min-Jun, dressed in a white coat with black pants and boots, walk down the loading dock. A heavily pregnant woman wearing a brown dress with her hair tied into a bun walked towards him with a smile. 

“I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes… ” Opal stood beside Remus. She was dressed in a royal blue button up shirt which was tucked into her black slacks and brown boots. In addition, she wore a moonstone pendant necklace and a wide sword with a blue sheath was at her side.

Remus said nothing as he watched. The woman’s face began to pale, her head began to shake, her hand covered the pained gasp that escaped her lips. Min-Jun stood perfectly still. 

The woman began to sob hysterically, she began to fall from despair, Min-Jun gently caught her before she could read the ground. Min-Jun spoke to the weeping woman. Quinn joined Opal and Remus. 

 “She’s so young to be a widow…” Remus spoke softly.

“He died too young…” Was the only answer Quinn could give. 

The Captain sat with the pregnant widow on the ground for a few more minutes before he spoke once more, the woman nodded her head in response. Slowly, Min-Jun lifted the woman to stand, gently taking her arm as he guided her aboard the ship. Opal stepped forward. 

“We have a gown if you would like to change.” Opal took the hand Min-Jun held, giving a small smile. Opal walked in step with the young mother-to-be who only nodded her head as Opal led her to the cabins. 

“Are the preparations complete?” The Captain asked his First Mate. 

“Yes, we are weighing anchor now.” Quinn replied with a curt nod.

Min-Jun only nods his head in acknowledgement before he leaves to his chambers. Quinn exhales slowly, turning to carry on with the remaining tasks. Remus joined the rest of the crew in setting up the banquet. 

The ship sailed out to sea, and just when the sun was beginning to set, they lowered the anchor, they stopped. Lanterns were lit all around the ship, gold and white streamers made of cloth hung on the masts and staircases. A life boat was placed at the center of the ship, Ethan’s body rested inside. He was cleaned, and dressed in simple white garments. He looked peaceful. Like he was only asleep. 

Mirissa, Ethan’s widow, sat silently by her still husband’s side. Her hair had been let loose from her bun, flowing gently on the warm summer breeze. Her grey eyes staring lovingly at his face, her fingers gently brush against his cheek. She was dressed in a white gown that matched her husband’s. It was not a usual funeral, but she was thankful for different colors instead of the grim black. 

Remus stood beside Opal on the left side with the crew, dressed in a black shirt, dark grey pants and dark brown boots. Replacing his treasured blue scarf around his waist was a white sash in honor of tradition. He couldn’t bring himself to look away from the peaceful face of his fallen friend. 

Opal had changed, for she was now dressed in a simple black attire consisting of a long sleeved blouse, slacks and boots. Her light brown hair was tied up in a french braid, a white ribbon interlacing the folds. In addition, she wore a moonstone pendant necklace which brought the only contrast to her outfit.

Newt and Tina stood beside each other, close to Remus and Opal. Tina was dressed in a black blouse with a black long flared skirt and black flats, her black hair was pulled up into a high bun. Newt was dressed in a dark grey coat, with a black shirt and slacks with dark brown boots as he silently watched the crew gather to begin the funeral. 

The First Mate was dressed in a dark blue coat with gold embellishments, a black shirt, slacks and boots as he stood beside the Captain. His sword was sheathed at his side as usual, the only hint of his signature red in sight. 

The Captain stood beside Mirissa and Quinn, in a white coat with black pants and boots. A gold sash across his waist, his sword at his side. He only looked at Ethan's pale face. A pastor walks next to the lifeboat, opposite of where the three stood, and invites everyone to gather to the funeral. Min-Jun gently prodded the pregnant woman to stand, hold her steady as she rose to her feet.

No one really paid attention, at least Remus didn’t. He only listened when the pastor mentioned Ethan’s life. How he had been an orphan, and taken in by Min-Jun and Quinn. Raised on the Dragon’s Pearl, and helped save many people who were attacked by pirates. How Ethan was a vibrant and kind soul who died too soon. Leaving behind a wife and child he will never know. Remus silently cursed the Blacks. 

After mass, the eulogy done by Captain Hua and First Mate Scamander, and a few stories shared by Quinn, Opal, and some of the crew. The funeral mass concluded to an end, yet the funeral was still not over. Without a command, four crewmen lifted the lifeboat with a pulley, ropes were tied to the hooks. Another crew member gently pushed the boat over the railing of the ship, the life boat slowly lowered to the water. 

Captain Hua looks down to Mirissa, grabbing the bow offered to him by the pastor. 

“It’s time.” 

Mirissa nods her head, wiping the tears from her cheeks quickly. Min-Jun gently guides her to the side of the ship where the lifeboat began to float away. The captain doesn’t rush the young widow. No one dares. Everyone stays silent, swaying gently as the waves rocked the ship. For a moment, Mirissa’s posture changes, she takes the bow and sets her feet into position. She was ready now. 

Quinn lights the tip of the arrow, igniting it aflame, then gives the arrow to Mirissa. She drew the arrow back, and in that moment, memories of Ethan flood her mind. His gentle words, his boisterous laugh, the way his hair could not stay neat. How his face broke into a smile when she told him she was with child. Her arms begin to waver as tears begin to fall. Her body trembles. 

Min-Jun moves to stand behind her, gently steadying her aims. His presence calms her immensely. With a weak sob she looks back to the boat that was floating farther away. She wants to send him off with one of her brightest smiles. He loved her smile. As she pulls the string to her chest, Min-Jun helps steady her hands. She releases her breath. She releases. 

The arrow flies gracefully across the sky. Landing on its mark. A few moments pass before the whole boat is lit aflame. Min-Jun takes the bow from her hands, stepping back to give her space. She continues to watch the boat burn. The crew lower their heads to their fallen brother. 

Remus watches the bright flames from the boat that reflect on the surface of the dark sea. It was not fair.  

“Remus.” 

Snapping out of his thoughts, Remus turned to look to the voice who called him. Newt stood beside him, watching the setting sun leave its final rays of sunlight before it sank into the horizon. He simply hands Remus a book. 

Remus takes the book into his hands, his thumb gently brushing against the letters of Fantastic Nautical Creatures, by Newt Scamander. 

“I want you to look after it.” 

Remus’ head snapped up to meet the older Scamander’s gentle gaze. “What?” 

Newt takes a deep breath, this wasn’t easy for him to do. “That book is my life’s work, and people won’t stop coming after it. It does not belong to people who wish to exploit the knowledge I collected over the years. And they found me, it’s no longer safe with me anymore.” 

“I understand that. But why me? Why not with Quinn?” Remus frowns. 

“Quinn is a target simply because he is my son. He knows some of the contents. But no one would know who you are, or that you have the book.” Newt smiled softly. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I know that you will do what's right to ensure that no one gets their hands on this book. Burn it if you must.”   

“But- it’s your life’s work?! I can’t just burn it should the need call for it!”

“Yes you can. I have faith in you. Even if all that’s left is ash, all its content is in our minds. It will never truly be lost.” Newt turns his head to look at his wife. “You can update it, I’m sure there are many things I still haven’t learned.” He looks to Quinn. His eyes become filled with sorrow. “Tina and I are going into hiding. Quinn knows.”  

Remus didn’t know what to say, he understood why they were going into hiding, but he still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Newt Scamander had asked him to guard the book. How can someone be this trusting? He has hardly known him for long…. 

Wait. That sounded familiar. It was exactly what he had thought when Quinn offered him the chance to join The Dragon’s Pearl. So Quinn gets it from Newt. This was all so sudden and too much, how could he become the book’s guardian? Add his own updates? What had he done to gain the Scamander’s trust this easily?

“I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll do my best.” Remus gave the older Scamander a small smile.

The reception was full of merry music, there was nothing left of the banquet by the time dawn arrived. Some of the crew were passed out drunk, while others began to clean up the deck. Captain Hua had informed the crew that he would be accompanying Ethan’s wife back to the mainland, where she would return to live with her parents, and deliver the Scamanders to a temporary safe house, He would return in a few days. Quinn was left in command.

And so they waited by the mainland. Opal continued to care for the mers, Remus would join her whenever she would go to check on them. They learned that the older mermaid’s name was Brielle, after she had calmed down. 

She was just barely beginning to trust them. The younger mer child was her brother, who Greyback mercilessly threatened to cut the child’s tail with his cutlass. The child was a boy, Tadase. And Remus could honestly say that being around the little mer child made the ache in his heart ease for a few hours at least. 

Quinn looked after Regulus, the Black’s second heir. Remus also went to check on the young boy who was awfully skinny, and barely responsive. 

“Why don’t we introduce Tadase to him?” Opal suggested. “He might perk up around someone close to his age.” 

“Would Brielle let us is the real question. She barely trusts us.” Quinn responded with a shake of his head. And for good reason. 

In the end, Brielle consented to allow her tiny brother to play with Regulus who was only a few years older than Tadase. Regulus was cautious, his soft black hair and storm grey eyes contrasted strongly from his pale skin. He would always search for traps in everything. Whether or not he could eat, sleep, or play without getting into trouble. 

Remus’ heart ached for the small boy. Regulus was slow to accept Tadase’s easy friendship. Tadase was a soft spoken child, gentle with everything he did. It was adorable to watch Tadase shift uncomfortably in the clothes provided to him, and learning how to walk. Tadase would simply smile and try again. 

Only on the third morning did the two boys become friends. Brielle was always watching them close by. Tadase had given Regulus his tears, blue pearls as a sign of friendship. Regulus only stared in amazement at the beautiful pearls. He wailed. 

Tadase had been panicked at the sudden tears of the older boy, gently pulling him into an embrace. Remus wrote into Newt’s book about the blue pearls. He would ask about the color later. 

The ship stayed motionless on the water as The Dragon’s Pearl waited for her captain’s return for three days. It was the fourth night now, since the funeral. Quinn stood in as Captain, sailing around the Bristol Channel. 

Remus leaned on the railing as he stared at the docks on the mainland. He looked back to the deck to see the two boys sleeping on deck on top of a blanket. Regulus curled on his side while Tadase tucked to his side. Remus’ gaze softened at the sight of them. He looked back to the mainland. 

The muffled sound of footsteps caught Remus’ attention. There was no one on deck besides a few of the crew who were eating silently, and the soft breaths of the sleeping children. Remus’ eyes narrowed. He turned around and nearly jumped back when a man landed on top of the very railing Remus had been leaning against, a rope in his hand, probably from his ship that Remus had failed to spot in the dark night.

A tall young man was dressed in a loose dark blue shirt, black trousers, and black boots. He would have thought him truly a handsome man, who had most likely left many women swooning for him. If he did not have that smirk upon his face that clearly meant trouble. Remus glared. The man had raven black hair that fell just on his neck, fair skin, and stormy blue eyes that twinkled in mirth as he smirked directly at Remus. Remus knew those eyes. He had seen them on Regulus. 

“Sirius Black!” 

[goonlalagoon]

Drawn to fall || Leagues and Legends

A series rewrite AU for @ink-splotch​‘s fantastic Leagues and Legends books.

This has been sitting as a 90% finished draft for...a while, but talking to @soundofez​ about WIPs the other day prodded me to actually finish it up

Spoilers for the whole trilogy below

Read on Ao3

It was the Piper who fell first, a ricochet and a song vanishing from the world. Jack and George limped home, but the fight didn't stop with a round of prisoners stolen from the Seeress' grasp, with one more body laid to rest and another widow weeping.

The mage traders didn't get George. The Graves family and their guards were a constant threat, a blight, but the mountain vigilantes had plenty of other dangers to throw themselves in front of. It wasn't a bullet or a gun that slew the Dragon Slayer, but sharp claws and sharper beaks.

Jack never really made it home, from that. He walked through the bakery door and he held Bea as she wept, but he was burning and lost somewhere inside himself. He looked at Bea's maps, her petitions, and he threw himself into saving everyone he could reach with a manic desperation.

It was the Rangers who brought the news to Bea, when they lost the Giantkiller. Jack had been shrouded in good fortune, unknowing, for his whole life, but luck can only take you so far.

The bakery was cold and quiet. Beatrice Jones felt like she had frozen all the way through, turned to stone, and thought she might never thaw again. 

(Bidi would wake in the night for weeks, tear stains dried into her cheeks, and crawl into her mother's arms. Bea would curl close around her and remember that she had felt this cold before. She would live through this.)

The news of their falls reached Rivertown, through channels both official and hidden. Rupert mourned the loss of an idol, and didn't know that the revered Rangers, far off in the mountains, were standing with red rimmed eyes at the grave. The Farrises didn't know what their wandering son had been up to, but Jack's mother woke one day to the aching certainty that he would never be coming home. She watched the horizon anyway.

 Lanetia Jones heard stories of a mage who had whistled magic out of the air, of his fall, soon after she became acquaintances with the blue blooded hero in her second year study group. She would hold her back straight and clasp her hands neatly on the library table, and ask in a steady voice if he knew anything else about the Pied Piper. Rupert knew stories, legends, Bureau reports he technically shouldn't have seen - but he didn't know the name Liam Jones except from Laney's own tales, so they couldn't be certain.

 They couldn't be certain, but neither of them had heard of any other mage who pulled magic into the world with a whistle, and Laney was a pragmatist. The numbers tallied up, the arrival of a dark skinned singer in the mountains and her brother setting out from home, never looking back. 

(Liam had looked back for years, his mother's best recipes simmering on the hob, his daughter stumbling through songs a slightly older Laney had warbled terribly on his heels, old familiar stories ready on his tongue - mice and lions, thunderstorms given tongues to shriek, a stubborn kid with her hair scraped into braids by their mother's patient fingers ignoring scrapes and scratches until she could reach the top of the tallest palm tree, because someone had told her that she wasn’t allowed to.)

In the Academy library, warm golden sun spilling over her table and the back of her chair, Laney held herself tall and still because Rupert was neither friend nor enemy, just a classmate, but she would not let him see her weakness either way. She would not. 

Rupert fetched slim volumes of legends, dispatches from the past seven years of Vigilante activity in the mountains, and a glass of water. He ached and didn't know how to help, stuffy with it, so when she got carefully to her feet he didn't follow. He re-shelved the books and checked that they hadn't left anything behind, and then he went to do his Uncle's paperwork, burying himself in it until he felt useful again.

They had barely interacted in their first year, but Rupert had known her name and a few other things about the desert-born mage that weren't common knowledge before they were assigned their second year projects. He arranged for them to go to Sally-Anne's for their first meeting, because it seemed like the kind of place that would help everyone relax - would help him relax, really. Sally-Anne gave him a reassuring wink and a bonus plate of chips, on the house, and he sighed pointedly at her transparent attempts to Help Him Make Friends to make her laugh. 

When he got back to the table Clem was awkwardly trying to flirt - or possibly just bond, it wasn’t clear - with Laney, who looked stunningly unimpressed. The pipsqueak Sage that Rupert was keeping an anxious eye on while he tried to formulate a discreet way of sneaking numb tea to was buried in his book, slowly demolishing a plate of plain fries without looking up. Heather was rolling her eyes at Laney whenever Clem said something particularly demonstrating an inability to read the mood, and the rest of the time scribbling notes in the margins of a scientific journal she'd brought along with her. Annals of Botany, Rupert thought, because he'd seen her with it in the dining hall on a monthly basis all of the previous year and it was about the right time for a new issue to have been sent out to subscribers. He didn't square his shoulders, because they were already carefully level, posture already perfect. He took a steadying breath before setting down his purchases and trying to drag things back to the agenda he'd planned out the evening before. 

Rupert's agenda had included contingency plans, of course. What really had to be covered first, in case someone needed to dash off and hadn't thought to warn him. Who could pick up the slack if their combat spec decided he had more important things to do (Rupert), who could keep their squeaky sage on track (also Rupert), and who would cover what as a back up if someone fell ill (Rupert again). 

He hadn't planned what to do if armed men walked into his friend's shop and fired a gun in the air. He had no precise strategies, no intel whispered in his ear by Sez, just his Academy study group and their homework assignment clutched in Grey's trembling fingers, just a room full of frightened civilians.

Clement went down with a bullet in his shoulder, and a bricklayer hit the ground with one in his gut not long after. Laney and Rupert held a hissed conference, and Heather weighed in to point out that official witnesses were probably not part of the thieves' plan. He'd seen gunpowder dusted on Laney's fingertips at breakfast for months, so he wasn't surprised when she fired off perfect sniper shots with the gun that fell within reach. Grey pressed himself back against the wall, pale, quiet, eyes wide over cheeks lit up gold, and that wasn't a surprise either. Heather sitting on one of the fallen gunmen and threatening to force feed him the poisonous plants she was casually carrying around with her was, though mostly because he'd thought she had a basic grasp of health and safety.

Laney trailed him as he went to find Sez, and he would berate himself for carelessness later, but - men had broken into Sally's shop with guns, and the streets were never still or silent. She would know soon, and she needed to hear that Sally was okay from someone she trusted, someone she knew wouldn't have left if it wasn't true.

She dropped her tray down next to him at breakfast the next morning and said she wanted in. Heather and Gloria joined them while he was still blinking and sighing, considering, and he looked around the half empty mess hall with confusion, because he wasn't entirely sure what they wanted from him. He thought maybe Laney was after some excitement, a sharpshooter mage feeling trapped by petty class politics and Academy expectations, but he didn't know about the other two. They asked him for the salt shaker, his opinion on Professor Rhones’ lecturing style, and nothing else.

He let Laney help him with his next Rivertown job, and they patched each other up afterward, discussing strategies and critiquing their own form. They sat together in the library later that week and she asked politely about his essay, on vigilantism in the Mountains and how to effectively combat it - and in the warm, golden light of the afternoon sun, he told her about the Pied Piper and broke her heart.

When Sez next contacted him, he knocked politely on Laney's door, braced for it to slam in his face and holding his shoulders carefully relaxed so it wouldn't show. She didn't shut the door on him, but she did demand to know, on their brisk walk back to the Academy after eliminating a Thing that had taken up residence in an alleyway, if this was pity. She didn't want to join him on these tasks because he felt sorry for her, or because he felt guilty - she wanted to help because she wanted to sink her teeth into something real. 

Rupert blinked at her, and began patiently dissecting their joint performance, gave a litany of tactical reports of earlier jobs where a sharpshooter or a mage - or both - would have made things much more...efficient. Laney listened suspiciously for any hint that she was being coddled, but her stomach settled. She had a bruise the width of her palm on her ribs and a stinging burn starting to blister on the backs of her fingers, and she felt a fierce joy welling up through her chest. Laney had learned to fall, true, but that was only half the battle - she'd learned to stand, too, to hit the ground and push herself back to her feet, to decide what was worth falling for, over and over. This, the safety of these streets and these people - this was worth standing for.

Gloria and Heather cornered her one afternoon in the room she and Gloria shared, and demanded to know what was going on. Laney had been slipping out and sneaking back with bruises for over a month, and they were worried. Laney looked at the earnest concern and said, with perfect honesty, that she was doing some extra curricular self-defence training. This had the unintended side effect that Gloria and Heather both wanted in. Rupert sighed when she reported this, and she raised an eyebrow. 

"You'd prefer that I'd told them we're Rivertown vigilantes? I can, you know, I think they're both capable of keeping a secret, but I figured you'd rather I not make that kind of decision on your behalf." Rupert sighed again, but he did suggest that the stables would be an okay venue for self-defence classes, and he got her to set up wards so that if anyone came looking they could very quickly pretend to have been doing homework. After all, they were a study group.

The first time the wards went off, they actually just switched to doing core circuits because honestly nobody who'd be checking would believe four people in training gear and somewhat out of breath had been doing their homework in an out of the way corner. Circuits probably still wouldn't be strictly approved of, but they wouldn't be disciplined for breaking Academy rules. 

But it wasn't one of the Academy instructors checking for misbehaviour. It was a rather surly combat spec, who seemed quite surprised to see them and immediately asked if Leaf had invited them. Rupert blinked.

"Hello, Francis. No, I haven't spoken to Leaf about...much of anything, really. Laney and I have been using the space for some fitness training, and these two decided they were also interested." Francis gave him a considering look, and nodded slowly, glancing over the rough straw pallets they'd set up to cushion their falls. He gave them a flicker of a smile. 

"Leaf and I were planning something similar, actually. Mind if we merge?"

Their study group met in the library or dining hall, after that first foray out into the city, but Laney and Rupert were frequent faces at Sally-Anne's. The growing stable loft gang started dropping by too, laughing over in-jokes and nursing bruises, grinning brightly. Red would claim a corner seat and relax into it like the noise and bustle were a second skin, like he was more comfortable with a floor strewn with straw and fish scales than the polished length of the dining hall at the Academy.

Rupert started watching Francis, quietly and from the corner of his eye, during the handful of classes they shared. A few months into their extracurricular training began, he would suggest that Red join them on their hunts in Rivertown, and shrug when asked why me. It was a decision he had hesitated over, but not one he regretted, after the first alley they raced down, side by side, chasing a wounded manticore into Laney's waiting shields, Red adapting almost instantly to the strengths of his allies. 

He had a wealth of knowledge of the things that crept through the dark, though he shone most when it came to creatures of the deep. Soon after the winter break a (small) kraken made its way up the river, and Red barely hesitated before calling out instructions, demanding supplies from the terrified crowd of civilians, not needing to think about what weaknesses were there to exploit. As they bandaged themselves up, after, Laney caught Rupert's eye and raised one eyebrow a hairbreadth. He blinked solemnly in agreement, and they waited patiently until Red was ready to tell them what they'd already guessed. 

When Sez handed Rupert a piece of paper scrawled with yellow crayon, he and Laney poured over it for days. Laney dragged out book after book, picking the curse to pieces with a steady determination until she knew how to burn through it. Neither of them knew enough of the shape of this, yet, to know that there was a warning they should offer in turn.

Over the years, Rupert had fought a lot of battles in the name of Rivertown and its inhabitants - in back alleys and warehouses, shin deep in the river and slipping on the muddy banks (in the quiet of his private Academy dorm, the rustle of paper and the scratch of a pen). He had tackled petty thieves, thugs, monsters who went after human bones and Things in the dark. He knew he didn't know all of their victims' stories, but Sez was pale with fury when she told him a child was missing, door broken down and a terrified sibling hiding under a bed. The mother was wringing her hands at a table in the back corner of Sally-Anne's, bent double with grief and anger.

"Should have been more careful," she muttered, "we should have - we thought we were safe, so far from the mountains but the Seeress - everyone knows she doesn't like competition, but we thought we were out of her sight, so careless, so careless..."

Laney's face had gone still, carved from stone, and Rupert's heart was frozen in his chest. Someone had dropped a curse diagram in their pocket, and they hadn't thought about how. This was his city, and he hadn't known there was a risk, that there was any kind of warning needed. Red stepped forwards, reaching out to squeeze the woman's hands.

"Breathe. The slavers took her, you think?" She gave a harsh, sobbing laugh, and he nodded sharply. "Sorry. But we have time, then, because they have to get her to the mountains first, and she has to be alive when she gets there. We have a chance." He didn't sound hopeful, just determined, but she took a shaky breath and squeezed his fingers back. Laney wasn't moving, wasn't saying anything, and Rupert knew she was as puzzled as he felt. Red looked at them sidelong as they slipped out onto the street, and frowned. 

"You don't know? In the mountains - there are people who steal mages and drain the power of the Elsewhere out of them, process it to make electricity. Mages have been fleeing the mountains for years, now."

 Once, Rupert had broken Laney's heart in the Academy library, unknowing, with reported stories of a lost vigilante. There was so much that they hadn't known, then, and now they were floating on the edges of it. Rupert had known there was a Piper, that he had fallen - but he hadn't known who. They hadn't been able to guess at why.

Laney was thinking of her brother's smile as he poured golden fire into her palms to drift through her fingers. She was thinking of all she had done, to feel that fire on her skin, and of the things she would never have thought of. She had wanted to walk alongside her brother, so badly, but she’d never once thought to drag him down for daring to be something she wasn't.

Red had no idea of the blow he had just delivered, unknowing, in the afternoon sun outside Sally-Anne's. He knew only that there was a child in a lot of danger, and not much hope - but that any hope was still something. 

They didn't have supernatural good luck on their side, but they had Sez and all of her contacts, so they found the warehouse. The slavers were waiting for them, forewarned, and they woke in the locked cellar. The child they’d been searching for was curled in the corner, eyes wide and face pale. Laney had expected her to be weeping, but she seemed to be frightened beyond even tears. They were all bound, but their captors hadn't thought to check Laney as thoroughly for weapons as the others - because she was an Academy mage, because she was a girl, because everyone underestimated her at first - so she had a knife tucked into her boot that they could use to cut the ropes. A glowing stone was hung around her neck, casting warm light and harsh shadows in the otherwise dark room. Elaine's wide eyes tracked it, but Laney didn't know what the point of it was, and she had other priorities, here, than asking.

So did Red and Rupert, so they didn't tell her until later, when they had bandaged wounds and finished their homework. They had her set up a careful silencing ward around Rupert's unofficial single room, and explained why the slavers had dropped a fracture in the fabric of the world around her throat. Laney didn't flinch, because no matter how much she trusted this friendship this was not a weakness she was ready to show them. But she trusted them enough to tell them the story - skinned knees and golden fire, her palm pressed up against the endless desert sky, splitting it open.

The Rangers came to visit, sending Red into fits of hero worship - Rupert was almost as bad, except he also remembered seeing half of them as students. Laney and Leaf exchanged long suffering looks full of affection. Gloria and Heather snickered and pretended not to know any of the names being gleefully praised at breakfast, seeing how much of Red’s breakfast they could filch off his plate while he recited heroic deeds before he realised what they were doing and snatched theirs in retaliation.

When the legends of the Bureau arrived, they immediately slipped cheerfully into the back of a lecture, hiding nostalgic giggles that they were too well trained (too used to ambushes) to let slip. They listened to lectures the material of which they'd learned and lived by for years, looking over the assembled students with interest and an unvoiced shared feeling that they were all so very young. They hovered around to chat, to officially mingle and inspire, and Sarge froze when he heard Laney's name. He'd known an L. Jones, mage, once upon a time, and never known how to reach the next of kin without getting tangled in the official channels that they couldn’t afford to get involved.

Rupert followed along when Laney was invited to a private meeting with Sarge and May. They both had their suspicions about what reason these two legends could have for wanting to speak privately with Miss Jones, the very first time they met, and he wanted to be there for her if they were right. He had planned to wait outside, patient as stone, the way she had over their months of friendship when his uncle was giving him frantic hushed reminders about status and reputations and not sneaking out of the Academy in the middle of the night to do freelance vigilante heroics in the back alleys of Rivertown. Laney caught his sleeve briefly as he went to lean against the wall, a brief unvoiced request for company.

 May and Sarge didn't know what a concession this was, for Laney to guess what grim news they held out to her and to invite someone else to witness it. They didn't know anything of her but stories, and Liam had never been someone Laney was afraid to see her bruise.

They had guessed, over a year before this otherwise unremarkable evening, that the Piper had been Liam. Red had told them what monsters lurked in the mountains, and they had guessed why. But there is a difference between guessing, between cold logic and lining up the pieces, and confirmation. There is a difference between guessing that the rumours of a distant fall are of your brother, and being told where to find his grave by friends who know his widow. There is a difference between knowing your brother had years of his life away from you, and being told by his grieving friends that he had a wife and child, names you never knew and faces you can’t imagine.

The walls seemed too close when she slipped back out with Rupert steady at her shoulder, eyes dry and back straight, so they made their quiet way to the familiar streets of Rivertown. She was staring at the distant mountain peaks when an explosion split the night, fire blooming on old wooden rooftops behind them. They called their friends to arms, marshaling Academy forces and rapping out orders in practiced partnership. Sarge stepped forward to object - he knew them only as Heads' stuffy nephew and Liam's beloved sister, not tested heroes in their own right. They didn't have a looming redhead vouching for them with years of shared experience they were still only grasping the edges of. Sarge knew them only as children, and he had buried too many of those. Laney froze him in his tracks with her mother's best icy look, and didn't know whether it was that effective or if it was just how unfamiliar that face would be, to someone who had only known Liam and his easy smiles.

Their city was on fire, and it all led back to the same warehouse - faced with a fire demon, Laney slipped by in the harsh shadows to find the rift, while Rupert stayed behind as a distraction, a barrier. He was a paper pushing hero, and the sword in his hand had seen active duty than some of the Bureau Leagues could claim. The flames bore down at him in roaring symphony, and as he adjusted his grip he politely asked it to go back to where it came from. He gave it a chance, a choice, and when it shrieked threats instead he killed it without a second thought.

Rupert had killed more often than some active Leaguesmen, too.

People started to whisper about Laney, after. They called her the Lady of the Lake reborn, and Laney raised impassive, mysterious eyebrows and privately snickered over the abrupt about face of her fellow mages. They whispered about her and so they came down from the mountains, hunting for a golden goose and taking a girl who was barely even a sensitive. Thorne wasn’t trying to trap a Giantkiller, this time, but he was trying to test his potential recruit - and he wanted to get her out of the influence of her far less interesting classmates. Laney didn’t know this, not yet; she only knew that these were the people who hunted mages for the sake of the fire hidden under their skin.

These people had hunted a Jones before, and Laney was going to make them bleed for every heartbeat she had lived without him. She had an elsewhere crack around her neck, and it faded in the golds of the elsewhere as she told an exasperated, understanding Rupert that she wasn't running from this.

Rupert followed shortly after on a surprise internship, a desk hero out to get some field experience. Laney wasn't running, but she also hadn't been sitting around doubting this friendship, so she'd known she wouldn't be doing this alone even before she slipped away to speak to him. Gloria, Heather and Clem went North too, because someone had taken their mage (their sharpshooter, their friend) and they were going to get her back. Sarge frowned over the paperwork, but they were a close-knit group, and Rupert had forged the paper trail too convincingly to stop them. Sarge scowled and scowled, and was uncomfortably uncertain whether he would have stopped them if he could. He had known another Jones, once, with golden fire like that in his veins. He knew what they did to mages with a legend that spread that far, in the mountains.

(A squeaky sage named Sanders Grey buried his nose deeper in his books and pretended fiercely that it was nothing to do with him - that he didn’t know why, that he didn’t know where, that he didn’t feel guilt pooling in the pit of his stomach. He pretended that the headaches were from reading in the dim light, and some days it was even true. He would spend a grudging season after he graduated at the Waypost in the Forest, then move to the library in St John’s Port to embark on a happy lifetime organizing books and scowling at visitors. Spider had left a letter and a parcel of books for him, as he slipped into the Academy to steal away one of their students from down the hall, but hadn’t tried to tempt him home; he trusted Sandry’s chances without her brother’s help, in a world where their three most visible opponents were years dead and buried)

Laney fled the slavers in the middle of the night and was dragged back by the next morning, unknown trackers hidden on her skin. Spider hauled them all before the Seeress, a useless clump of people who held no value or interest to her except for that one of them was the Piper’s sister, an amusement to gloat over. She sat Laney down for a polite chat, to detail how her brother had been a thief and a fool and how he had died.

She did not mention how bright that light had burned, how she had felt it snuffed out. Laney kept her face smooth but the Seeress read her feelings in the flickers of gold around her shoulders, her unclenched fists, her smooth brow - despair, hatred, and a furious broken love. Cassandra wasn’t quite sure, yet, what she planned to do with these interlopers, but killing Bureau Leagues, even trainee ones, was not a sensible course of action, so she shut them in the cells until she had time to calculate her angles.

Laney broke them out instead, and they fled. It was sheer luck that led them to find the shallow cave with supplies and wards to hide them from the sight of even Cassandra Graves - an overturned rock that exposed a hint of a rune, a scuff mark at the back that suggested where to stand to complete the ward. Laney and Gloria pieced it together, and if either of them thought it odd that it should be both so secure and yet coincidentally left open, they did not voice it. In the morning, they stumbled down a valley into a sleepy village that held a statue and a grave that Laney still didn’t quite believe belonged to the same man.

(Spider did not linger to see if they found the shallow hiding hole - he had done his best, and he could not afford to be discovered. He had given them a chance, which was more than he could give most. Thorne had sent a letter North with quiet instructions, and this had been one of them. He had given no reasons why, but Spider was well used to this)

But there was more to this village than the ghost of Laney’s older brother in a village the Rangers had told her how to find. Sarge had told her about Beatrice and Bidi, too, and he’d sent a message North to the Baker, telling her to be on the lookout. Laney recognised the wards pressed into the bones of the bakery, stopped short with her shuddering breath caught in her throat, and Bea stepped forward to pull her into a hug.

They stayed a few days, until they woke one morning to a flag on the hill declaring that an informant had come visiting. Bea took Rupert with her when he offered, but left the others behind. She recognised the resigned pragmatism in his shoulders; she knew he would understand bargaining with almost any devil for the sake of fewer names on a list of the dead. Rupert would understand taking information from the Spider, but she thought the others might object on principle, and the Baker’s network wasn’t so widespread that she could afford lose any threads no matter how little she liked them. Laney was busy teaching Bidi some of the stories from the desert that her father hadn’t gotten the chance to tell her; Gloria, Clem and Heather were keeping carefully out of the way.

They had no link to the Merry Men to earn safe passage through the Woods, so Bea sent messages to Little John through other channels and gave them directions to Challenge instead. Rosie scowled and watched them warily, but Laney was a Jones, and they all remembered Liam. Laney listened to them whisper, to the grief tinging unfamiliar voices, to the echoes of a hero she’d thought only she knew. Rupert had helped a mage in the mountains to heal, unknowing, and now he slipped from bed to bed, trying to use a gift he hadn’t known lurked in his skin.

It went the same as it would in a world where there were different friends here - a collapsed mine and a missing hero; slipping in Spider’s wake into the depths of the Graves’ lab. There was no pipsqueak sage to light the bombs, but Gloria and Laney figured out how to tie the necessary enchantment to a bullet when Spider flagged the issue in their planning session, a joint invention that would have been gleeful were it not for the circumstance. Clem went down under falling rubble and propped himself against a wall to wait while Laney ran towards the sound of danger - Heather and Gloria had followed Spider to the upper floors, met Cassandra Graves and been dragged before the Mayor.

There was no squeaking sage to have secrets torn out of him and laid bare, but Laney still went down with every knotted cord burning, still pushed herself to shaking knees to aim a gun into the golden light of every scrap of power she had wrung from the world and take her best shot.

They were looking for Rupert, and the Bureau was their best chance. Laney signed onto Thorne’s gleeful payroll, while Heather took up her delayed position at the university and Gloria joined her old classmate Grey in the library archives (and badgered Laney into both eating regularly and porting her out to hidden shooting ranges so that she could stay in practice).

Rupert broke himself out of a prison, the Seeress at his shoulder, and met them outside. Laney had been furiously planning a break in from the moment she’d put together where he must be, but Heather had befriended a Bureau lab tech while searching for interesting plants in the market stalls that lurked off the beaten track of St John’s Port, an acquaintance solidified in the frantic rush of triage in a soup kitchen turned infirmary, a mutual seething rage at a disease spread not by chance but by carelessness. Jillit Chu had passed a message on, quietly, a few days later, and one of the things Rupert had said was to wait.

He’d also had an informative discussion with Jill about the germination period of certain plants, which she hadn’t thought anything about mentioning to his friend when she asked anxiously how he was doing, not content with just he’s alive. Heather had nodded, thanked her, and gone back to the flat she shared with the others (and their uninvited but not unwelcome guest of Miz Eliza, when she wasn’t calling in favors and collecting resources to help retrieve her son) to give them a time frame. They were waiting with a getaway car, Laney using careful tricks picked up from the local hedgewitches to open a door, Gloria standing guard with a pistol their sharpshooter had pressed into her plump hands because she couldn’t trust her own.

Thorne wouldn’t know until hours later that there had been a security breach. They would have long since left St John’s Port behind, abandoning the truck somewhere for one of Miz Eliza’s associates to pick up while Laney ported them down to Rivertown - they had no mages with them to worry about the rift, though Laney held a quiet hope that the Seeress would be dragged into the fires instead of making it through with them. Cassandra saw this in the level set of Laney’s chin, the way her face was held perfectly smooth, the disdain in the flick of her eyes. She kept her own face still and expression disinterested. Neither of them were interested in letting an enemy see their flaws and weaknesses, even if Laney was bitterly aware she couldn’t truly hide them from a seer. Cassandra was safe in the knowledge that only two people had ever known of hers, and that neither of them would be telling anyone.

(Sandry didn’t know that her little brother had been only a few streets away, sleeping safe in the spare room the head librarian had been kind enough to let him rent cheap because he didn’t know anyone else in the city to share the rent of a flat with (because the lad was obviously years too young to be out on his own even if he furiously pretended otherwise) - she would have seen him if she’d been looking, but there had been other things to keep her eyes on, and she had long since trained herself out of wondering where Sam had gone.)

Rupert stumbled into Sally-Anne’s to be met with Sez’s fierce grin and a stern admonishment from Sally-Anne to never do that to us again. Laney lurked in the background, retrospective guilt pooling in her throat. It hadn’t occurred to her to let them know - that Rupert was missing, that they had leads, that if he was alive they’d find him and burn down any prison that tried to hold him, that they’d bring him home.

She wondered if they had figured it out somehow, or if they had been clinging to a desperate hope, a denial. She remembered sitting in the Academy library, learning that her brother was dead from whispered rumors, a full year after the fact. She remembered learning that there had been people who knew Liam had a family still in the desert, but hadn’t found a way to tell them they’d lost their footloose child.

(She remembered - she hadn’t found a way to tell the rest of the family yet, either, and shoved the thought back where it had come from. There was a revolution to win, first.)

 Sez had been building plans for years, and Rupert wasn’t the reason for it but he was the spark to set it in motion. There was no-one left in their chosen battleground but those who’d decided they wanted to fight for this; Thorne tried to claim the town and Sez brushed away the dirt he was sneering down his nose at to show the lines already drawn. Golden walls rose, the careful work of patient hands, and Laney’s fingers itched to pick apart how it had been done.

None of them had lived through a siege before, but they knew enough from history lessons to know that Laney’s ability to port people out and supplies in were a lifesaver. Sez assigned her an assistant to track supplies and routes, a cheerful burly lad who joked about being a glorified scribe and went still and silent when they mentioned the forgetting field. He wasn’t much help with the technical work on Rememberer, or Laney and Gloria’s private project to see if they could build a device to extract energy direct from the Elsewhere, but it turned out he had a knack for spotting patterns and sifting through data, so they gave him the records of fire demons Red and Leaf had been compiling to filter through. Laney spent a tense few days wondering if she was the cause of things, until their stand in sage pushed pages of annotated maps at her and pointed out the total lack of overlap, chattered ideas for experiments at her to see if she might be strengthening the fabric of the world as she went. If he saw the way her shoulders settled, a tension she’d been hiding as best she could, he didn’t mention it.

Gloria had liberated plans for the machines from the Mayor’s ruined lab, correctly guessing that they wouldn’t be the only copies, knowing that even if not now that it had been done once it would be discovered again. She and Laney had spent scattered evenings pouring over them, figuring out how to modify them - if Laney could wring power out of the sky, they could find a way to make the machines work without draining a mage for power.

The Seeress had smuggled out her own copies of plans from the Bureau lab, parts of machines bundled up under her skirts - it would be their trainee sage who showed her the results of Laney and Gloria’s experiments, cheerfully oblivious to her history. He’d spotted her peering over the blueprints, and just thought that maybe she was helping the other two out. He didn’t understand why she burst into tears when the lightbulb flickered on, knees hitting the ground hard enough to bruise. If he had ever known her name, her reputation, he didn’t remember it to begin to guess at what this might mean. He figured that she must have lost a mage to the machines, and he wasn’t entirely wrong.

When she wiped her eyes, Cassandra looked at him, at the ripples of gold around him, and told him who he was. She watched the bubbles pop around him as the knowledge faded as soon as he heard the words, and she hesitated. There was a cruelty here that she had delighted in at first, a delicious irony, but here was a compassion as well that she would never have thought to look for from this quarter. She looked at the machine, it’s low hum and the cold electric light, the lack of residue, everything she’d never let herself dream was possible, and thought I wish I could show Sam. I wish Spider was alive to see this.

Rupert didn’t question her, when she gave him suggestions on the rememberer. She didn’t challenge him on it, needling at loyalties and looking for a reaction, kept the barbs that sprang to the tip of her tongue locked behind her teeth, and reached for the wrench to make the adjustment.

Laney was on a watchtower when the floor rose to meet her, memories slamming back into place with an abruptness that sent her to the ground, that felt like it should have hurt. She fell more than climbed down the ladder, leaving her station to a confused second in command. There were furious shouts on the other side of the wall, and the part of her than wasn’t reeling guessed we weren’t the only ones they hid things from. Her heart thudded in her ears as she ran for Sally-Anne’s, guilt choking her as memories slotted back into place. She slammed into the doorway, stumbling to a halt - Gloria and Heather were already there, crying in belated grief, slumped either side of their cheerful trainee sage - their battered combat spec.

~~~

Clem had been required to repeat a year at the Academy to make up the work missed with his run of bad injuries, a broken arm in the first battle for Driftwood Island and a leg crushed in the fight at Gravestown. He’s called Gloria with regular updates on what Red and Leaf’s band of hooligans was up to that week and to talk about the mathematical puzzles they sent each other. Sometimes Heather stole the phone to tell him about her research, and he doodled out trend graphs on scrap paper while he tried to figure out what she was talking about. They talked about Rupert, a little, but none of them were so naive as to think that it safe to share their suspicions aloud.

A careful few days after Rupert’s memorial service, Clem had wandered down into Rivertown to have a quiet chat with Sally-Anne about a missing friend. He’d waited to see if there were any patterns to watch out for, any hints to send back to the others, to make sure that if any of the Bureau were watching saw just a grieving schoolmate who had accepted his loss. They weren’t sure if the Bureau were responsible for Rupert, but at the end of the day that just meant they weren’t sure they hadn’t been. Clem didn’t mention to the others that he’d made the trip - it didn’t occur to him that they hadn’t thought of it; he figured they’d rightly assumed he would handle it.

He kept his head down at the Academy as much as he could, though he couldn’t escape notice as one of the sort-of ringleaders of the new Stable Loft Crew (Red and Leaf ran it, but they’d figured out the year before that Clem wasn’t a bad support instructor). He couldn’t help search for Rupert, but he combed the library for information on Walking Stars, for statistics on the mountain’s energy supplies. He stepped in when he saw people being bullied, tried to see the patterns in the Academy Rupert had woven himself into and pick up the slack, and tracked down reports of shady Bureau dealings of the past, trying to see patterns in those as well. He called Laney more rarely than either Gloria or Heather, because they’d always had very little in common at the end of the day, but they were still part of a team, and at the end of the day that mattered to both of them.

Clem had been on the watch for the Bureau, but he was only a student, and one unused to politics. The Quiet Branch had always kept an eye on the Academy, and they noticed the way the young combat spec was acting. He broke the arm of one of the agents who came for him, and gave the other a black eye. He woke up in an alleyway with bruised knuckles, and didn’t know why.

Thorne was always watching for people who might hold some sway over any of his prospects, and he had needed a test subject.

~~~

It felt, later, like that flick of a switch had set it all in motion - as though when one of Thorne’s plan’s unraveled they all did.

Jillit Chu turned up on their doorstep, grimly relieved and determined to finish what she’d started. Rupert welcomed her gratefully, and she eyed the impassive Seeress the way she had in the hidden lab. Some things had changed with the flick of a switch, but the weight of those years failing to save the Seeress’ victims hadn’t. Cassandra looked coolly back, and pretended that she wasn’t reeling herself, that the ground below her feet was still the steady ground of what we do is right.

In this world, there was no squeaky sage sharing a room with his big sister to make Wren hesitate. She slipped into the Seeress’s room with a knife to hold a blade to the throat of a monster. Cassandra hissed all the bile she could, every weakness she could see spiraling around them, and Wren’s smile was colder than anything the Seeress had ever managed. She left Cassandra alive, because this wasn’t about revenge, about paying in blood for what the Seeress had wrought. This was a shaking woman proving that she could face down her monsters, that her nightmares had no hold over her. That she could choose to let the Seeress live because it wasn’t worth killing her, because the Seeress was just a young woman who couldn’t harm her again.

She left Cassandra alive, and Sandry shook through the night. Many people had cursed the Seeress’s name over the years, hissed threats, but few had ever gotten close enough to lay hands on her. She remembered making hot cocoa for her brother after bad dreams, remembered telling him he wasn’t allowed to be afraid like that would be enough to keep him safe.

Thorne went after Bea, after Bidi, and Laney ran for the mountains with Rupert on one side of her and Clem at her heels - it took only minutes to port through, but the dragons were quicker even than even that. Bidi had screamed for help, and they had answered. Clem spent an hour in delighted conversation with them via Bidi, scholarly glee and childish enthusiasm, while Laney did her best to comfort Bea for the loss of her home while her daughter was distracted. Once Bidi was asleep, Clem helped Laney dig out the remains of the attackers from the bakery rubble and bury them so that Bea wouldn’t have to - he also collected what scraps of identifying possessions he could find, tucking them carefully in a pocket in case there was someone who would want them back.

They returned to Rivertown exhausted, and woke to a renewed assault, Thorne’s death twisted to a rallying point. Shay cursed her mentor’s shining recruit, wanted to shriek why - but if she questioned his decisions, she did it so quietly even she wasn’t aware. She scowled at maps and reports, tried to pretend her steps weren’t haunted by her losses. She told herself her decisions were rational, that her choices had always been hers even if she didn’t remember making them.

The Bureau managed to splinter their golden wall, and as Laney moved to repair it Cassandra slipped from the shadows to dart through the crack in their defences. Laney watched her step through, and thought about how laughably easy it would be to put a bullet in her back, for all that her hands trembled with old wounds. Liam had fallen for the last time rescuing those who would have been burned to nothing in the rooms below this girl’s home. Mages had been fleeing the mountains for years because of the things this young woman saw.

Laney closed her hand around the grip of her favourite pistol, and handed it over through the shimmering curtain. She wanted to say so many things - I do not forgive you, I could kill you but it wouldn’t be enough, so what would be the point?  I hate you but you gave us our friend back, so here you go, a life for a life. I will live all my life hating you, but I will not be haunted by you. She said none of it, because if she tried she would break. Cass saw it in the swirls of gold around her, and gave her a grudgingly respectful nod. When Laney looked up from closing the gap she was gone, slipping away through the streets of Rivertown like a ghost.

It was Laney who strode into the negotiation room when Shay called for a truce, because she had the Quiet Branch’s respect even if she didn’t have their affection, and Sez trusted her to fight for the right things, these days, despite the Academy badge. She had Sez and Sally’s long thought out demands, their plans, her own hard won lessons and Rupert’s deliberate morality - and she had a secret waiting on the tip of her tongue.

In the dark of a hidden lab, Cass had whispered stories, clinical and aching, not sure if she wanted sympathy or just a reaction, and Rupert had passed them on. Shay snapped accusations, dismissals, grief - and Laney she remembered sunlight, warm on the back of her chair on a long ago day when Rupert told her the truth and broke her heart. She took a sniper’s steadying breath, and looked Shay in the eye.

“Do you know how Spider died?”

Falling is the bravest thing I know, Laney whispered at the funerals, at graves old and new, in the doorway of a cottage where an old woman wept like broken glass with old, delayed grief as Jill held her frail hands and Rupert hovered, stuffy with sympathy. She had broken like that, once, something jagged sitting under her heart that she wasn’t sure would ever go away even if the edges could be smoothed over time. Liam had fallen, hit the mountain stone and not gotten up, but the impact had shattered Laney too.

I will be brave, she whispered to herself, and Rupert squeezed her hand gently as she got to her feet. The desert sand shifted under her boots and she stood firm, bracing herself to deliver a blow she had never stopped reeling from. She watched the expressions around the fire twist, grief and mourning, bittersweet stories, and thought about the ripples that had spread from every fall in this fight. She would try to map it out, on sleepless nights - the way strangers whispered her brother’s name and murmured about the Dragon Slayer and the Giantkiller, the steady promises of the mountain folk: we can’t let their memories down. Laney wondered if they’d known how they would shake the world when they fell, but they weren’t the only ones.

Spider must have known that Thorne wouldn’t let betrayal live, but he’d taken the shot and hit the polished floor because he refused to watch more children burn for the sake of another man’s ambition. Bea had woken in a cold house, twice over, and hauled herself back to standing because she refused to let the monsters win, kept a map of every victory, every loss, every bitter step of her quiet war. Jill had gritted her teeth after every failure, every fading patient a new reason to keep trying no matter the weight on her shoulders.

Rosie and Susie had built Challenge from the wreckage of their home, an old mining village digging deep and refusing to be driven away, turning every broken family and nightmare into a rallying cry. Maid Marian had put her back to the mountains and walked away, the memory of smoke and snow on her heels until she forged something new in the back streets of St. John’s Port, had dared to invest her broken heart in a new set of faces and carve out support for the people the Bureau didn’t care about.

Rupert had been buried in the rubble of a cave in, been dragged out and lost months to Thorne’s secrets, taught himself to wear a civilian sweater like a uniform while they scrambled to find him, had stumbled through the door of the fish shop and been the spark that Sez turned into a beacon. So many people had come to the defence of Rivertown, against fire demons and Bureau soldiers, names Laney had known over Academy tables and ones she hadn’t, and some of them hadn’t gotten the chance to deal with the aftermath.

Laney had hit the plush carpet of the Mayor’s office, every limb burning, and pushed herself as close to standing as she could get and taken her best shot. She was long, aching years from the time when bravery meant bruised knees and scraped palms, dragging herself inch by stubborn inch up the tallest palm tree, meant letting herself fail a hundred times to learn to do it right.

Sometimes the bravest thing is falling, letting yourself try and knowing you might not succeed, that you might hit the ground hard enough to bruise, pushing yourself back up after to try again.

Sometimes it’s to keep breathing - to put one stumbling foot in front of the other until it feels like you’re filling your lungs with air not choking on ash.

I will be brave, Laney said, and breathed in.

[random-rendezvous]

Like the Wind on a Dry Branch Chapter 1

#001 A Harsh Season(1)

Count Casarius caught the plague and died suddenly.

He left a will asking for Rietta—the beautiful young widow in his county whom he tried to take as a concubine when he was still alive—to be buried alive with him.

Just before Rietta is buried, Grand Duke Axias who is known as a cruel tyrant,  turned up at the county to get back the huge debt that Casarius had delayed paying day by day.

Rietta Tristi was a beautiful woman.

Either tied or released, her blond hair with thick waves shone beautifully, her nose and lips were feminine and had pretty curves, and her deep and elegant eyes always caught people's attention. 

Her white skin, which did not easily get a sunburn, was rare among the commoner.

The most special thing was her pupil. Whenever the light shines, her eyes shine with bright sky blue color, sometimes with elegant blue glass color, making her pure beauty even more mysterious. 

Even the flowers and stars would lose their light when Rietta smiled like a fresh spring with her pretty eyes.

Everyone who first heard she was married and even had a three-year-old daughter, lamented and envied her husband saying he probably had saved a country during his past life.

That was the story of four months ago before her husband passed away.

***

After Rietta's husband suddenly died of a mysterious illness, she lost her smile.

For a powerless commoner woman, her beauty was more of a curse than a blessing.

Even before the flowers scattered at her husband's funeral wither, Casarius, the lord of their land, started to force Rietta to be his concubine.

Rietta refused at first. Putting aside the fact that Casarius was old enough to be her father, it was less than a month since her husband's death.

As Rietta turned a deaf ear to his request, Casarius got into a fuss and took her daughter away. Her daughter was barely three years old. A young daughter who did not even understand the concept of death yet and kept on asking Rietta the whereabouts of his father.

Rumors have begun to emerge that Casarius sold Rietta's daughter to a slave dealer.

Poor Rietta was almost out of her mind and accepted that she would become his concubine on the condition that her daughter is returned safely to her.

However, Casarius who suffered from the plague that struck the Empire died without getting Rietta or finding her daughter.

But he left behind a nasty will that requested Rietta to be buried alive with him.

***

It was a harsh season.

Only groaning and grief were left behind in the Empire where the plague and demons made a return.

Weeping sounds and the flames of burning bodies were endless everywhere.

The ground became dry and people fought among themselves for food.

Some lands even offered sacrifices to appease the plague demon.

So in this situation, it was possible for a mere commoner woman to be buried alive at a noble funeral.

The day has been decided for her death.

It was the funeral day of Casarius Sevitas.

***

On that day, the Grand Duke Axias appeared in Sevitas County to get back the huge debt Casarius Sevitas owed him.

“At that young age... What should we do with that pitiful woman?”

“Tsk tsk... It's useless for a commoner to be beautiful. Her fate will only go wrong."

“I know, right? It's too bad. Even God has given up on her."

Even though Rietta wore a luxurious dress that she had never worn since she was born, there was no smile on her face.

Rietta was beautifully groomed with a ceremony dress made of soft black silk, a black veil covering her sky blue eyes and her braided hair was decorated with white flowers. She looked so beautiful that anyone looking at her could only lament.

In front of the Sevitas Residence, where the funeral of Count Casarius is being held, on a temporary altar, she sat kneeling on a carpet that was more expensive than her worth, waiting for her turn.

In order to be buried alive without pain, Rietta drank allucino that had an anesthetic effect from dawn. Although it was difficult for Rietta to move by herself, there were handmaidens on her side and guards surrounding her to keep her from running away.

The crowd was saddened to see the beautiful woman facing her unfortunate fate.

A middle-aged woman clicked her tongue and mumbled.

“God has not given up on her. What’s the point of being cast with blessing? Look at Casarius who ended up with the plague. He was actually being punished by Heaven!”

The man beside her snickered and answered her.

“Rather than God taking care of her, the God of the plague is taking care of her.”

With same mind and same will, everyone cursed Casarius and sympathized with Rietta.

But no one stepped up for her.

She was an orphan in the first place and her husband--the only one who protected her--was already dead.

“How dare he made a pass at a young lady younger than his son. He dragged Rietta with him even when he’s dead. He’s really terrible.”

“Hush. Lower your voice. They can hear you.”

After the priest’s eulogy ended, the count’s handmaidens helped Rietta up from her side.

Rietta, who was intoxicated by the allucino, got up slightly muzzy, staggering into the hands of the handmaidens.

It was her time to go to her family on the other side of the world.

Dry snowflakes began to fall from the gray sky.

It was late snow in April.

Looking at the snowflakes that were about to stop, she thought of her little daughter’s last whine.

All winter, she waited for her dad who left as soon as winter came, her dad who will never come again.

Her daughter kept whining about the snowman.

Adele.

Rietta called her child’s name for the last time in her heart with a tear trickled down her cheek.

If this snow piles up...We can make a snowman together.

Now...the three of us…

Both the deceased and the one who was about to die were silent.

Those who remain also kept their silence, with their thoughts in their hearts.

The procession of the quiet funeral began at a staggering pace.

The bereaved families of Casarius began to take their feet off after the beautiful human sacrifices who followed the coffin with the help of the handmaidens.

***

When the graveyard was only a little ahead, a small turmoil broke through the slow procession.

A servant was rushing toward their procession in a hurry.

Casarius’ eldest son, Frederick, who wanted to finish the funeral as quiet as possible, kept a calm face on the outside but felt irritated.

He was hoping for the tactless servant to not come to him, but the servant managed to push his way through the crowd to go to Frederick with a rough breath and shook his head.

“My Lord...! We have an important guest!”

Frederick frowned and snapped at the servant.

“This is a funeral. Don’t behave rashly. Don’t you even know how to guide a mourner?”

The servant flustered and stammered.

“H-he’s not a mourner. G-grand Duke Axias is here!”

Hearing the servant’s announcement of the visit of Grand Duke Axias, the bereaved families turned pale. A quiet disturbance spread out.

Frederick, who had forgotten what to say for a while, bit his lips.

“Killian Axias is here?”

The late Casarius was deeply in debt to the Grand Duke Axias.

It had long exceeded the repayment deadline.

Sevitas' family had to hire priests and pay a large sum of money to the temple to recover from the plague and the sudden death and funeral of Casarius had almost destroyed the county’s financial condition.

They had no way of paying back the debt they owed to Grand Duke Axias right now.

They even covered up Casarius’ death from the outside to avoid giving him an excuse to visit. 

Frederick chewed his lips.

“How did he know that father passed away?”

“I was just passing by and suddenly remembered my old friend whom I hadn’t heard for a long time. So I just came here to ask for debt.”

A cold voice interrupted with a heavy sound of horse’s hoofs.

Everyone’s eyes were on the voice’s owner.

A man with a daunting atmosphere and shining red eyes on top of a huge black horse came slowly.

Every time he moved, his pitch-black hair waved gently with the horse’s mane.

Killian Axias tilted his head sideways and smirked. The people who were watching held their breath with a gasp. It was a gruesomely beautiful and terrifying smile.

“I didn’t expect my friend’s funeral to be in progress.”

A cold sneer.

No one could blame Killian Axias’ disrespect for breaking into the funeral procession while riding a horse.

Although he looked relaxed, the guards instinctively swallowed their saliva and strained their shoulders when they saw he was totally prepared that he would hold his ground even if a sword fight were to break out immediately.

Killian Axias.

He was the most influential savage man in the Empire.

He was the firstborn son of the Emperor but became a dethroned Imperial Prince about a decade ago for beheading his brothers and throwing them under the feet of the Emperor and the Queen.

According to Imperial law, the death penalty was inevitable due to the murder and defamation of the Imperial family.

The Emperor who felt it was a waste for his talent, could not bear to punish him and instead drove him away to Axias, the bloody wasteland in the far north with all his titles and rights as an Imperial Prince stripped away.

But the young dethroned prince, who seemed to have lost everything, reclaimed the ancient Axias, which was not allowed to humans for hundreds of years, from the beasts and began to transform the whole wasteland into a place where humans could live.

Within a few years, Killian took control of the vast territory and reigned as the ruler of the north.

He even discovered the most precious mineral on the continent—Adamantite—in the huge snow mountain in his area.

Axias accumulated enormous wealth with laborers, mercenaries, craftsmen, and artisans flocking for beast hunting and Adamantite.

Axias developed at an explosive rate.

A city was built at a rapid pace on the land that used to be a wasteland.

The house of peers changed its attitude and got agitated to grant him a peerage and he needs to fulfill his duty of paying taxes.

Eventually, the Imperial Family officially granted him the title of Grand Duke Axias and recognized his control over the land. Although he was not a prince, the Imperial family acknowledged his title and rights as a Grand Duke.

Killian accepted it without much feeling.

Until here, it was a story known by any citizen of Lilpayum Dimpel.

Thirteen years after he lost his name as the Imperial family and was driven to the far north, Killian Axias has never appeared in the society, but his name has been constantly mentioned by the nobles.

To the commoners, all sorts of false rumors were added and exaggerated, making him cruel and violent that he was viewed as almost like a monster, not a human.

The story that he went out of his mind was basic, the story that he was possessed by a demon, the story that he was cursed were really ordinary types.

From the type of story that he will kill if someone looks at him, he will kill if someone brush against him, he will kill if he feels bad, he will kill if he feels good, he will kill if he likes it, he will kill if he does not like it, he will kill if he is not satisfied with his woman, he will kill if to get a part of the body if he likes it.

To the type of story that he eats human flesh, he drinks blood and he collects human fingers, ears, and eyeballs. No one can tell how far the stories are true. But everyone knew of all the eerie, bloody rumors he was carrying around,

Those who were on his way stepped back with pale faces and the road opened by itself.

Everyone bowed their heads for fear of eye contact with him.

By the time Grand Duke Axias has stopped in front of Frederick, the funeral processions had already stopped.

“...it’s been a while, Grand Duke Axias.”

“Yeah, Frederick. Or is it Count Sevitas now? Why didn’t you tell me? If you had done so, I wouldn’t have done this kind of disrespect of asking for debt in a funeral.”

Killian smiled coldly and gracefully. He still had not even gotten off his horse.

Frederick replied with a smile.

“What do you mean disrespect? Certainly not. Since he died of the plague, we wanted to send him quietly without accepting mourners. It’s my fault.”

“Really?”

Killian laughed.

“I thought you hid the news because you didn’t want me to come.”

The nobles who stood as the bereaved families were frozen due to the frankness of a man who never cared about anyone else and had no relationship with the society.

Hearing the remark that hit the target, Frederick, who grew up in the society, could not answer right away.

He was thinking of denying him, but he made a decision that admitting it was rather better and bowed his head.

“...my apologies.”

As a result, his decision was not wrong. Killian grinned and turned his head indifferently. He looked at the coffin of the Lord Casarius and muttered.

"Easy to give, not so easy to get back. Isn’t that right? He always made excuses. Now that he was already in the coffin, I can’t even pull him out.”

Killian gave a sharp comment and jumped off his horse.

“Nonetheless, as I’m already at the funeral, I should show my respect. I’m sorry you lost your father.”

Grand Duke Axias took off his hat, put it on the head of his black horse and handed the horse reins to the knight who belatedly followed him. He naturally joined the funeral procession.

People opened their eyes wide and looked at Grand Duke Axias after listening to his normal remarks that were somewhat different from the rumor saying he was a lunatic. Some of them exchanged glances and whispers.

“Is that true? Is he THE Grand Duke Axias?”

“He doesn’t look like someone who would eat human meat…?”

In addition, the crowd looked at the Grand Duke Axias with shocking faces because of his terrifying beauty.

Although he called Casarius Sevitas his friend, Killian Axias who was about the same age as Casarius’ eldest son, Frederick, was a cold guy with a cool and relaxed atmosphere.

His blood-colored eyes and cold eyes created a sharp atmosphere, but his eyes did not seem to be obsessed with madness.

At least judging from what he’s doing now, he did not seem like a madman, let alone a murder maniac.

Even the nobles who roughly filtered out the false rumors among the commoners and roughly knew the truth were surprised seeing the appearance of the Grand Duke Axias that they saw for the first time.

As he had traveled for a long time with his horse, the appearance of him wearing a dusty gray robe was different among the people in black mourning clothes, no one thought he was not polite for his beautiful appearance.

His black hair spreading over his refined and classy face was splendid and dignified than any other ceremonial dress. It made it hard to believe that he beheaded his brothers, mercilessly slaughtered terrifying beasts in the far north, and developed a vast territory.

He was a perfect match for black hair and the black horse.

He naturally blended in as if he had been walking in memory of the deceased from the beginning and bowed in silence to Frederick’s wife and brothers.

The Sevitas nobles carefully exchanged silent greetings with him and resumed the funeral.

Rietta who had stopped for a long time at an unexpectedly delayed funeral stumbled and fell.

The handmaidens in mourning dress were flustered and helped her up.

Killian frowned slightly and looked at the woman with drowsy eyes who followed the coffin ahead of the chief mourner.

“Who is she?”

Read Like the Wind on a Dry Branch on Naver Series: Naver Series

[glorykill-a]

𝙍𝙐𝙇𝙀𝙎.   share   five   songs    /    pieces   of   music   that   represent   your   muse    !    repost    ,    don’t   reblog    !

/   /   :   lateralus   -   TOOL

Over thinking, over analyzing separates the body from the mind Withering my intuition leaving opportunities behind. Feed my will to feel this moment... Urging me to cross the line, reaching out to embrace the random, reaching out to embrace whatever may come. I embrace my desire to... I embrace my desire to feel the rhythm, to feel connected enough to step aside and weep like a widow

To feel inspired, to fathom the power, to witness the beauty, to bathe in the fountain, to swing on the spiral, to swing on the spiral to... Swing on the spiral of our divinity, and still be a human

With my feet upon the ground I lose myself between the sounds and open wide to suck it in... I feel it move across my skin, I'm reaching up and reaching out, I'm reaching for the random or what ever will bewilder me... What ever will bewilder me, and following our will and wind we may just go where no one's been, we'll ride the spiral to the end and may just go where no one's been

/   /   :   walk   with   me   in   hell   -   LAMB   OF   GOD

Pray for blood, pray for the cleansing, pray for the flood, pray for the end of this nightmare... This lie of a life can as quickly as it came dissolve, we seek only reprieve, and welcome the darkness. The myth of a meaning so lost and forgotten. Take hold of my hand, for you are no longer alone. Walk with me in hell

Pray for solace, pray for resolve, pray for a savior, pray for deliverance, some kind of purpose, a glimpse of a light in this void of existence. Now witness the end of an age, hope dies in hands of believers who seek the truth in the liar's eye. Take hold of my hand, for you are no longer alone. Walk with me in hell

/   /   :   unforgiven   -   METALLICA

New blood joins this earth and quickly he's subdued, through constant pained disgrace, the young boy learns their rules... With time the child draws in, this whipping boy done wrong, deprived of all his thoughts, the young man struggles on and on he's known. A vow unto his own, that never from this day, his will they'll take away What I've felt, what I've known, never shined through in what I've shown. Never be, never see, won't see what might have been. What I've felt, what I've known, never shined through in what I've shown. Never free, never me... So I dub thee unforgiven

/   /   :   pet   -   A   PERFECT   CIRCLE

Lay your head down child, I won't let the boogeyman come... Count the bodies like sheep to the rhythm of the war drums. Pay no mind to the rabble, pay no mind to the rabble. Head down, go to sleep to the rhythm of the war drums

I'll be the one to protect you from your enemies and all your demons, I'll be the one to protect you from a will to survive and a voice of reason, I'll be the one to protect you from your enemies and your choices, son... One and the same I must isolate you, isolate and save you from yourself

Swaying to the rhythm of the new world order and count the bodies like sheep to the rhythm of the war drum... The boogeymen are coming, the boogeymen are coming... Keep your head down go to sleep to the rhythm of the war drums

/   /   :   don’t   get   in   my   way   -   ZACK   HEMSEY

A man with a grudge and a case, a man with intent on his face, and if a man walks into place, let it be known I won't hesitate... This a long time coming like a comet pass, got 'em all fired up from the rocket blast, and if I fall on my sword turn my bones to ash, let it clog up the sand in that hourglass. We in the title fight, blow for a blow, and you can reap the benefits of what I have to sow cuz I'm about that worth of which you don't appear to know, so you can take the scene while I take over the show It's a long way down when you're head is in the clouds and all around the sirens play don't get in my way. Don't tell me I should bow, cuz I'm no clown... And this is not a game, don't get in my way...

This an ace caught, cut the game short, you don't want to have an escalation of the maimed sort and you don't want to feel the flame that burns pride... Now you know the reason why those sleeping dogs lie

tagged   by   :   @blacklyte   ,   ILYSM <3

tagging   :   steal   it   !

[kenzieam]

Save My Life - Chapter One

@jewels2876​ ​​​​​ @moonbeambucky​ ​​​​​ @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123​ ​​​​​ @iammarylastar​@captstefanbrandt​ ​​​​​ @badassbaker​ ​​​​​ @pinknerdpanda​ ​​​​​

I know I’m forgetting people, sorry. If you want in, hit me.

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Warnings: Definitely M. Language, violence, adult situations, graphic mentions of horrible things, traumatic death and descriptions.

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

!!!!!TRIGGER WARNINGS!!!!!

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Paramedic Bucky Barnes has seen it all and it’s definitely taken a toll on his mind and body, witnessing senseless death, all but wading through it at times as he is the first responder to so many ghastly accidents and mishaps. The widow of one of his former patients haunts him long after his brief, chaotic contact with her and destiny conspires to cross their paths again. Can the broken man and grieving woman find peace together?

Feedback is life, y’all.

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

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER

With a growl and a groan, Bucky rolled over onto his back and threw his arm over his eyes. His body throbbed in a way that, while unwelcome, was far from unpleasant and he reached down, palmed his aching cock through the plain black boxer briefs he usually slept in.

It was so much easier to stumble to the shower if he only had to tangle with briefs, not try to pull a t-shirt off his muscular frame, it wasted precious seconds that could be better spent gasping for breath under the spray, hands pressed to the wall and bowed forwards, water washing away the nightmares that had torn him from uneasy sleep to begin with.

The dichotomy wore at him, even as he relived the horrors of her husband’s messy final moments of life, his body yearned for her, his cock hardening while his mind played the reel over and over, the sightless eyes, the crunching of the man’s ribcage beneath his hands.

There was no use fighting it, he’d tried so many times, only to lose every battle.

His pleasure crested, peaked and he groaned in release, his cock pulsing thick ropes of his seed onto his heaving stomach but the physical gratification didn’t touch the emotional turmoil and he dropped his hand with another groan, squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth until the sensations faded, both the ecstasy and the guilt.

Finally, he moved, hauling himself off the bed, off the tangled, soaked sheets and grimaced; the evidence of his twisted mind drying on his belly. Stumbling over last night’s jeans he shuffled into the bathroom and turned the water to scalding, scowling at his face in the mirror, scrubbing a hand over his stubble.

Would he finally get his shit together today? What compelled him, day after day, to continue like this? Sure, not every call ended the way that one had, but the good ones had long stopped overpowering the bad, their shadows too dark to chase away.

His phone jangled, clashing with his already raw nerves. Would such a simple sound ever stop eliciting such a heart-stopping response in him? He reached for the receiver, his seed still painting his belly, pulling at the downy hair there as it dried and silently held it to his ear. The voice on the other end knew he was there.

“Hey.” Steve said quietly.

“Hey.”

“Is today the day?” The day you stop this, quit the job that’s slowly killing you and start putting yourself back together again?

Bucky exhaled, a harsh yet anemic sound. “No, not today.”

Steve, his partner of eleven years, the man who usually drove the ambulance while Bucky worked so hard in the back, sighed quietly. Closer than brothers, he could read Bucky like an open book, but it went both ways and Bucky could hear the small smile on his face too. Although it was slowly killing both of them, there was nobody they’d rather die beside.

“See you at the station?”

“Yeah, an hour.”

“Coffee.”

“Your turn.” Bucky grunted, slamming the receiver down. Their shorthand baffled most, pissed off others, but you couldn’t be stripped bare emotionally in front of someone for over a decade and not connect like that.

One last lingering glance in the mirror, a brief grimace at the haunted cast in his blue eyes, then he continued into the shower, letting the water wash away both the sweat and the tears.

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

“Still having nightmares?” Steve asked, glancing Bucky’s way before returning his attention to the road. On their way to a frequent flyer found semi-conscious and, no doubt, more than semi-intoxicated, sprawled on the ground outside a local McDonald’s, there was a mild sense of urgency but an even larger sense of ‘same-old, same-old’ weary acceptance.

“Never stop.” Bucky replied shortly, barely looking up from poking listlessly at the computer screen mounted on the dash.

“About her?”

Bucky exhaled, eyes falling closed until the pain, while by no means gone, diminished enough to allow him to draw the next breath. “Yeah.”

“Man, that was over a year ago and you haven’t seen her since. What gives?” Steve demanded, slapping the steering wheel with the palm of his hand before cursing under his breath and hitting the sirens again to persuade a stubborn car out of their lane.

Bucky mused that he’d probably hear those god-damned sirens in hell.

“I don’t know-”

“Her husband died-”

“I know!”

“And I’m sure the last person she wants to see is the guy who was covered in his blood literally crushing the man’s ribs!”

“I know!” Bucky bellowed, slamming his fist on the dash then pulling it back with a grunt to cradle against his muscular chest. He’d need the full use of his hands, both massive paws that somehow could be so gentle and precise while intubating or placing an IV line, to deal with the patient they were now pulling up on.

“You using again?” Steve asked, voice low, bordering on a mix of angry and disappointed.

Bucky turned away, opening the door and jumping out before the bus had come to a full stop.

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

Lev glanced around briefly before dropping her eyes again. She felt supremely uncomfortable here, despite the fact that she was one of the more in-control attendees; she wasn’t weeping ceaselessly into a handkerchief, or burying her face in her hands while her shoulders shook, or muffling her wails on the shoulder of the person beside her. She was keeping it together.

Wasn’t she?

Eighteen months since Clint’s violent and unexpected death and this was her first meeting for grieving survivors, held in an aging school gymnasium that smelled like old socks and even older sweat, the wood floor marked and scarred with years of abuse.

Her friend Wanda had finally put her foot down, after a year and a half of back and forth, of, ‘I’m fine, just tired’ excuses and tearful limbo and all but dragged Lev to her doctor, where the kindly soul who may or may not be hiding pain just as visceral as hers and therefore knew what he was talking about had suggested this place, as an alternative to the pharmaceutical option that had been the first choice, and rejected so vehemently by Lev to warrant it’s proposal.

She glanced around. The middle-aged woman who’d lost her husband when he’d choked to death right in front of her during their weekly Sunday brunch, three chairs over in the large circle; the man who’d suffered through agonizing minutes of his wife pleading for help over her phone, then her final screams of terror as her car’s throttle had malfunctioned on the freeway and she’d careened at top speed into an embankment, instantly dying but taking with her his unborn son as well, five chairs over; then…. Him.

Lev startled slightly, dropping her gaze before it could be returned. Her memories of that time were so scattered and chaotic, stained with Clint’s blood and the sound of that goddamn siren, but she remembered him, or more accurately, the pain in his supernatural blue eyes.

Built like a marine, massive and muscled, shoulder-length hair pulled back into a loose bun, clad not in his uniform but a simple red long-sleeved Henley and jeans, hulking and intimidating until you looked closer and saw the anguish, was the paramedic that had tried so hard to save her husband’s life that lifetime ago.

Her heart sped up and she focussed obsessively on her cuticles. She wished suddenly for Wanda, but she’d insisted on attending tonight by herself and consequently was now alone as a tsunami of memories crashed over her. The incongruity of smells: bitter antiseptic, raw panic and body expulsions, warm male musk and blood; the duelling opposites that had all but torn her in half: frightening, in-your-face reality as Clint’s blood dried on her face coupled with the dream-like quality of the whole drawn-out nightmare.

How did that man cope? Dealing with that life and ugly death daily? Was that why he was here now, slumped in his chair and listening to other lambs to the slaughter open their veins in wretched attempts to assuage the pain?

She was called gently upon to speak, to give her name and reason why she was here; what screaming banshee howled unending torment in her ears, but she shook her head, burrowing further in on herself and muttering a vow to make herself talk next time, no matter how uncomfortable.

An eternity and an eye-blink later, the meeting ended, and Lev stood stiffly, her body raw and pulsating with fresh grief. For lack of anything else to do, she wandered to the refreshment table, knowing she was far too shaky yet to attempt to drive herself home and picked up a pre-poured paper cup of juice and pack of generic cookies. She’d just sat at an empty table and touched the cup to her lips when a quiet, tentative voice washed over her.

“Hi.”

She glanced at him, quickly back down again. “Hi.” Her voice was stronger than she felt, and she was grateful for the support of the table and chair.

“May I sit?” There was a puzzling hesitancy in his voice, as if he expected screaming rejection, but Lev was too tired to push someone else away, it was too wearying keeping her own mind and body quiet.

At her nod, he sat, picking at his own pack of cookies, seeming to be warring with himself about something.

“I remember who you are, you know.” Lev added, watched his shoulder slump with mingled relief and trepidation.

“I didn’t know… if you…. did or not-” He mumbled, trailing off uncomfortably.

“Hard to forget that day.” Lev whispered. She hesitated before adding. “I never got a chance but… thank you… for trying.”

He nodded, jaw tight, not lifting his eyes from the table.

“How do….” She didn’t want to ask, but God, she did too. “How do you manage to do that… as a job I mean?”

He smirke humorlessly, gesturing with one massive hand to the assembly around them.

“Does it help?”

He shrugged. “More than the company counselling. A friend of mine suggested it a couple years ago; I try to come when I can but….” He cleared his throat. “What about you?”

Lev dropped her eyes again, puzzlingly embarrassed. “My first time. My friend… she made me see a doctor-”

He held up a large hand. Say no more.

“How are you sleeping?” He asked quietly, lifting his hypnotizing gaze to hers again, which she quickly averted, in parts shocked and soothed by the tractor-pull that seemed to emanate from his supernatural blue eyes.

The question stung somehow, and it was so much easier to bite at that then lay bare the devastation beneath. “How do you?” Even as the question left her lips she recoiled, horrified with herself and pressed her hand to her mouth.

He flinched, barely perceptively, but the dark rings under his eyes answered her.

“God, I’m sorry-”

He shook his head, held up a massive hand again. “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not!” What was wrong with her, biting the first hand that extended any type of friendliness? “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“This place… feeling this way… it makes you raw.” He replied, glancing up at her before looking away and gesturing with a chin jerk to a nearby table. “Sweetest old lady you’ll ever meet over there, but once she comes here and starts remembering her husband’s death again, turns into an old hag.” He twisted the paper cup in his hands, completely engulfing it before taking a sip. “Later, she’ll sit there with a stunned look on her face, like she’s waking up from a black-out.”

“I don’t want to be an old hag.”

A faint smile touched his full lips, temporarily lighting up his unbelievably handsome face. “You’d never be.” A faint pink flush and he looked away again.

Lev suddenly couldn’t breathe. The room, the man across from her, were taking all the air and she stumbled to her feet. “I have to go.”

He watched her, face falling and tried to stand but Lev lifted her hand, an emotional traffic cop, and shook her head. “I’m fine.”

It was a lie, and both knew it, but he only watched sadly as she hurried out the gymnasium doors to the darkness outside, head bowed.

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

“You never answered me.” Steve spoke suddenly, breaking the silence in the bus as they took a rare break between calls, sitting in the parking lot of a local coffee-shop, trying to wolf down their breakfast sandwiches before the radio blared and re-established reality.

Bucky grunted, knowing what his partner was referring to but hoping that he’d drop it if he played silly buggers.

“James.” Shit, he was serious, using Bucky’s given name.

Bucky sighed, staring out the windshield. “It’s under control.”

“Is it?” Steve all but shouted. “Shooting H? Seriously, man. How do you have that ‘under control’?! What the fuck, James!”

“I don’t do it all the time-”

“Once is too many!”

“Fuck you. You got someone to come home to-”

“DO NOT put that on me, asshole. You’ve had plenty of women hoping for your last name, what the hell are you always waiting for?”

“I’m-”

“Stop thinking about that girl, it’s never going to happen!”

A bitter retort stung Bucky’s tongue and he knew if he spit it out it would poison their enduring friendship, weaken it just when he needed it the most but he was saved from sabotaging himself by the damned radio itself, the dispatcher’s efficient voice relaying maximum information with minimal syllables.

Glaring daggers at Bucky, obviously having a damn good idea what he had been about to say, Steve snorted angrily and grabbed the microphone, snapping an affirmative before slamming the vehicle in gear and hitting the sirens.

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

Levi was not at the next meeting and Bucky felt a curious mix of relief and disappointment. Steve was right, this was never going to happen and, even if it did, he had no right dragging this girl down into his shit, not when she was still trying to dig herself out of her own. But still, he was disappointed; she was the rare light in his darkness, had been since the moment he’d first seen her, even with all the chaos and horror around her, cradling her dying husband’s head in her lap, pleading with someone, anyone to help. When their eyes had locked, a visceral, physical jolt had shot through him, almost painful in its intensity and he’d become personally invested in doing all he could to help, if not the patient he’d been dispatched for, then her.

Anything for her.

He was a sad fuck.

He’d barely heard the meeting going on around him, the others whispering their shame and pain, the answering murmurs from fellow sufferers. He rarely spoke at these, was rarely called on anyway because the overseer, a thin, bantam rooster of a man named Tony, who still lost all confidence and swagger when remembering his dear wife, Pepper, who’d passed suddenly from an aneurysm a few years previous, knew who Bucky was and why he was here.

He had no personal stories of loss to tell, but shared the pain of every single death he witnessed, every patient he tried to save and usually ended up only managing to usher into the afterlife with some semblance of comfort anyway.

He left the meeting that night alone, curled up on the floor at the end of his bed and found a vein.

[notyetneedcoffee]

USO Tour Tutelage

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Warning: 18+ for smut

Summary: Steve Rogers, newly dubbed Captain America, is not quite used to celebrity. Not too long ago he was just that skinny kid. An encounter with an older woman opens a whole new world of possibilities.

“Come on, Captain.” The pretty red head held on to his bicep, pressing her breasts into him. “You’re not going to let us girls go out unattended, are you?”

The other girl in the red, white and blue stage dress took his other hand in her own. “Yeah, we need someone strong like you to make sure were well taken care of.”

Captain Steve Rogers swallowed, plastering a smile on his face although the anxiety shone in his eyes. “I appreciate the invitation, girls. I really do. I just really have stuff I’ve got to do. You’ll be fine. Honest.”

You leaned on one of the props cases, hidden in shadows. These girls were determined. It made you smile because the drop-dead gorgeous Captain looked nervous as hell. You’d gotten to know him a little over the last two days, and you knew he may be a wall of a man, but he was really just a teddy bear.

“There you are.” You called across the backstage of the theater. “Captain. You’re late. You were supposed to be in my office five minutes ago.”

Steve looked up to see you at the other end of the stage. While the girls pouted, you gave him a sly wink. “Sorry.” He answered. “Right away. Sorry, girls. Like I said, stuff to do.”

He slipped out of their clinging hands and rushed to follow you to the other end of the theater. This USO tour had been going on a little more than a month, almost non-stop. They were here in St. Louis for several days. He’d met you when they first arrived, and immediately took a shine to you. As the owner and manager of the theater, you held your ground with the tour’s organizing Staff Sergeant. More importantly, you didn’t treat him like a performing monkey.  

“In here.” You ordered. He followed you into your office. You shut the door, dropping the fake annoyed tone. “Looked like you were in need of a rescue. You want a drink?”

Steve chuckled, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck. “That obvious?”

“Probably just to me.” You smiled and offered him a whiskey. You lowered on to one end of the old sofa, motioning for him to sit. “Not into the girls falling all over you?”

“It’s just,” He lowered himself to the opposite end of sofa. “It’s a bit much.”

“You like more traditional, demure girls?” You grinned into your glass.

“No. Strong women.” Steve answered immediately. When he saw your smile widen, he blushed.

“You got a ‘strong woman’ back home?”

“Not exactly.” Steve sat forward, trying to get comfortable in the stage uniform. It was still new and was fine to stand in, but not very comfortable for lounging. “There’s . . . someone. . . but she’s in Europe somewhere.” Then he added more quietly. “And she’s not really mine.”

“Ah,” You kicked off your heels and tucked your feet on the sofa under your black skirt. “An unrequited love. Those are tough. You look like you’re itching to drop that get up. Do you got a beater on under that thing?”

Steve nodded.

“Then get comfortable, Captain. I won’t judge.” You smiled wickedly. “And don’t worry, I haven’t lured you here to take advantage of you.”

He looked sideways at you, a flush coloring his neck again. You may be six or seven years older than the young Captain and widowed, but you knew you were looker. You’d caught him admiring your ass while you were up on a ladder hanging signs in the lobby yesterday. Honestly, he was gorgeous, but even more appealing was his honest sincerity. The man was adorable.

He unzipped the side and pulled the uniform shirt over his head. The white tee underneath rode up, giving you a delightful peak at his strong stomach. He tugged it back into place quickly before dropping back to the sofa.

Your late husband had been a wall of a man, too. George hadn’t been as defined, or as pretty, but he was big. Even though you hadn’t loved him as much as you sometimes felt you should have, the physical side of your marriage had been good. You missed the feel of a big, strong man.

“Your husband doesn’t care that you’re working all the time?” Steve asked, trying to convince himself he misunderstood the way you looked at him. He didn’t mind. You didn’t make him feel embarrassed like the others.

“Can’t.” You sighed. “He died three years ago in an accident at the factory.”

“Oh, gosh.” He frowned, turning fully toward you. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. It was a while ago.” You covered his hand with your own.

You watched Steve contemplate your fingers. He turned his palm over and stroked your palm. His touch was hot, gentle. Sitting still became more difficult, you wanted to crawl over and make yourself comfortable on his lap.

“What’s the real reason those girls bother you so much?” You entwined your fingers with his.  

His thumb stroked your skin. “They make me nervous.” He said quietly.

“Why?” You asked just as quietly, beginning to suspect.

“They want. . .” He stumbled. “I mean it’s not that. . .” He closed his blue eyes. “I’ve just never.”

“Ah.” You sighed. He looked at you, but you just gave him a gentle smile. “Waiting for something special.”

��I just. . .” He looked pained.

“Steve, tell me. I won’t tease. I promise.”

“I’m afraid of something awkward. I want to know how to do it right. And, I don’t want it to be meaningless.” He answered with such intensity.  

“Do you want me to show you?” You purred, hoping.

His full lips opened, tongue wetting them. “I thought you didn’t invite me in here to take advantage.”

You smiled. “Do think I’m taking advantage?”

“No.” He slid a little closer. His large hand cupped your cheek, touched your hair, lowering to your neck. “I think you’re beautiful.”

Steve's lips touched yours, tender, tentative. You kissed him back, edging closer. When your tongue brushed his lower lip, his mouth opened under yours. His hand cradled your head, deepening the kiss. You mewed a delighted noise, emboldening him. He drank your kiss down like a man drowning.

He pulled you closer, setting you upon his lap. You smiled against his lips. He smiled back. Your fingers ran through his hair, pulling him closer to devour another heated kiss. His tongue battled yours, his lips gently sucking yours.  

“You definitely have kissing down.”  

He breathed into your mouth. “I’ve been wanting to kiss those rosy lips since you first smiled as me.”

You took his hand from your waist, moving it to your breast and covered his hand with your own. “Touch me.”

He obliged. Steve peppered your neck with open mouth kisses, nipping and licking, as his hand knead your breast. His other hand snaked up your back and unclasped your bra. You chuckled. He nipped your ear. His deep chuckle joined yours. “Amazing what you learn in the costume room.”

You pushed away from him, standing between his knees, and pulled you shirt and bra off in one movement. Steve sat, mouth open, eyes taking in every inch of your exposed skin. As if snapped out of trance, he pulled the white wife beater off. It was your turn to drink in the sight of him. Damn.

A momentary lucid thought tripped across your mind and you moved to the door, locking it.

As you came closer, you unzipped your skirt and let it fall to the floor. In nothing but your panties and stockings, you crawled onto his lap, straddling him. Steve held still, panting.  

“Touch me.”  

His hands ghosted over your skin, leaving goosebumps. Across your shoulders and neck, down your sides and your legs. His touch became more sure, more insistent, as his hands massaged your breasts. He pulled you forward, kissing them, teasing your nipple with his tongue.

“More.” You breathed, raking your hands up his broad back and over his strong shoulders.  

You felt his teeth graze your peaked nipple and you shivered. Steve worshiped your breast and you moaned beneath his touch. Still, you wanted more.  

You took one of his hands and guided it to the ache between your legs. Steve watched as you slid your hand inside your panties and stroked yourself. He did as he was shown, feeling your heat. “God, Doll, you’re so wet.”

“All for you, Captain.” You purred, moving your hips against his hand. With the tip of your fingers you circled the sensitive bud of your clit. “Here Steve, one magic spot is right here.”  

He mirrored your movements, watching in fascination as you trembled beneath his touch. Steve suddenly flipped you over, laying you back on the sofa. He pulled your panties off, then one leg at a time removed your stockings.  

Steve knelt between your legs, fingers running through you folds. He explored, touched, utterly amazed. You reached down, dipping your fingers into your waiting cunt. Your head fell back when he did the same, first one digit, then two. His other hand moved rhythmically over your clit. Your breath came in pants.  

“Oh, fuck...” you moaned.

The dirty word went straight to Steve’s cock. He watched your sex glisten and brighten. The scent of you flooded his enhanced senses. “Wow.” He breathed. “Can I try... my friend told me to...”

“Anything, Steve.” You moaned. “God, that feels so good.”

Then you felt his hot mouth over your clit, forcing a vulgar growl from your throat. “Fuck yes!”  

His fingers rubbed at your g spot and you shook. “There. Steve, right there.”

He moaned over you, lapping and sucking. Fingers pumped. You felt the fire mount. “Oh, I’m going to come, Steve! Oh, god.”  

You came apart, shaking under his touch, flooding your orgasm over him. He kissed his way up your body. His smile could not be suppressed as he hovered over you. You pulled his head down, kissing him hard. “So damn good.” You smiled back.

He let you push him up to stand so you could remove his remaining clothing. You stayed kneeling, his amazing cock in front of your face. He was beautiful. Long and thick, weeping of want for you. Steve’s hands clinched at his side as you took him in your hand, stroking him. He moaned when you ran your tongue the from base to tip on the underside of his cock.

You looked up into his eyes. “You can touch me,” You ran your tongue around his tip, “just not too rough.” You took him fully in your mouth. Steve’s hands ran through your hair. He watched, mouth open.

You could feel his hands tighten. His cock twitched. Steve moaned and he pulled you up, and up, lifting you with his hands on your ass until you were face to face with him. Your legs wrapped around his hips. He kissed you hard. “I want to...”  

“Fuck me, Steve.” You nibble his lip. Your hand slipped between you and you position the tip of his cock against your entrance. He lowered you onto him. You both moaned. He stretched you deliciously.  

“Oh, Y/N, you feel so good.” He moved in you slow, slick inch by slow, slick inch. His mouth clamped down on your shoulder as you hung on to him. His pace picked up. A sheen of sweat broke out on his skin. “I want to see.” He panted.

You release your legs from his waist, and you pulled away just enough to crawl on to the sofa. Ass facing him, you looked over your shoulder and smiled. Steve ran his hands over your butt, slipping his fingers between your legs, before lining himself up and plunging into you again. “Oh god.” You moaned at the deeper thrust. “Fucking amazing.”

His fingertips dug into your hips and he moved. Looking over your shoulder you saw Steve bite his lip, watching himself slide into you. “You like the way that looks? Your huge cock fucking my wet cunt?”

Steve slammed into you hard. “That mouth, so naughty. Never knew how sexy...”

Your hand moved between your legs, rubbing your clit. “I’m going to come again, Steve. Oh shit. Harder,  fuck me hard.”

His fingers ran up your back and one hand took you by the shoulder. He pounded into you harder. “Oh, god. You feel so fucking good.”

“Steve, oh shit.” Your legs quivered. The sound of skin slapping, of his growl, had you so close. He pulled your back closer, locking his mouth on you neck and biting down. You came, flooding down your thighs.

Suddenly he was gone. Leaving you empty and shaking. He turned you around, laying you on your back. “Y/N,” he moaned, slipping in again. He moved slow, watching your face. He kissed you with so much passion tears burned at your eyes. You hitched a leg over his hip as his moved, pulling him deeper.

“Steve,” Your hands roamed his shoulders and back. “You feel amazing. So good. Thank you, thank you for making me feel this way.” Words fell from your mouth as he kissed your neck. His pace quickened. You ground into each other.  

He whispered words into your ear. How beautiful. How sexy. How amazing. His hand reached down, pulling your leg higher. His cock now hitting you just right. A moan escaped your throat. Steve growled. “Yes, there’s that sound. You like that, right there. Don’t you?”

“Fuck, yes.” Your eyes opened to lock with Steve’s, intense and full of wonder.

“Can you come for me again?” he breathed. You nodded, words escaping you. “I want to watch your gorgeous face. I want to see you come for me.”

So simple, so intimate. You breathed each other’s breath. Touched the length of each other’s bodies. Steve’s gaze never wavered. A small smile touched his lips. Warmth spread. His hip moved faster. Your thighs, slick from your own sex, slid along his hip. His strong hand gripped your ass. Your legs quivered.

“Oh, yes.” You moaned. Your orgasm washed over you, cunt clamping down on his cock.  

Steve’s eyes never left your face, but when you spasmed around him, his hips snapped erratically. He moaned, pulling out quickly to empty himself across your stomach. He hovered there, held up by his powerful arms, panting. “God, that was. . . “

“Incredible.” You finished.

He laughed. Rocking back onto his knees, he snatched up his tee and clean you up with a careful, gentle touch. You lay under his ministrations, smiling contently. “Steve come here.”  

There wasn’t quite enough room on the sofa. “I don’t want to crush you.” He scooped you up in arms before laying down on his back with you sprawled across his chest. His hands ran gently over your flesh. You sighed, nuzzling your nose under his chin. “So, I did okay?”

A laugh bubbled up from your toes. “I think it’s safe to say you’re a natural. You get much better, and you’ll put a woman in a coma.”  

He laughed, holding you tight. “I had a good teacher.”

A sated laziness made your limbs feel heavy. Steve’s fingers drew circles around your back. “You feel amazing.” He murmured. You hummed in agreement. It was when you felt him begin to harden again that your head came up to look him in the face, one eyebrow raise. He grinned. “Practice makes perfect?”

You squealed as he flipped you over and kissed you hard. He was leaving town tomorrow, you thought, you could get back to walking normal after that.  

[bluepenguinstories]

Intention Headaches Chapter Nine

To Our Crumbling City:

How many dusks, overtaking dawn, have the drones

littered the skies just as the bodies litter the streets

devoid of human spirit, or the spirit in the machine

wishing to devour everything, but falling short

for its gingivitis and inflamed throat; lacking bite

it only leaks information, devoid of context, its

liberating enslavement, braying Cranes (weathered by time) –

Our crusades of laughter, our vicious joviality

slaughtering each other with mugs. Our curse of skin

sagging into itself as we drink ourselves away. Yet these halls

where we age like wine, slow and souring, the grapes

of wrath now forgotten, our hostility tempered

to a refined weapon which has grown rusted;

– (as all things become) Arrested by its final days...

So we, men loving, loving men, all lay in our residences

with our hands tied, to our legs, to our necks, to our lips

just as we find another place to take the whiskey

as if it were a thicker liquid, as if our essences were honey.

I reminisce on our togetherness, although never separated

we would feel ourselves becoming less of each other

and more automatons in Hephaestus’ pornography collections.

Weeping tears of liquid titanium, our craniums feel the bolts

losing their grips on each other. One by one, we slow ourselves

down to the moments where we forget the tides shifting

and not in our favor, but theirs.

We cannot pretend “All is well” when the negotiations

flat on the table, we lean ourselves against, came from the ones

with the wrench, loosening the screws so the table would fall on us.

We fought and we fought our own memories bitten into the dust.

They taste like blood, they are film reels playing the same things:

Cinemas of grotesques parading as “Just another day”.

Of course, we chose the life of one such gang.

So as to relive the memories, but omitting one key detail

that used to bind us all together:

No fault of ours, but a fault of the years. We once fought our everyday.

We once marched against the ones with their names on the tables.

It is both a great amusement and a bitter taste, then, that we act.

Such bravado for such cowardice. Surprised by our surmise, counteract

our love for men, for the love of death. For us, the muscles, the hair,

the beards and the bears, the shaved and the scarred, the bitten.

The sophist, the self-destructive, the slurred and the articulate.

The tortured and the torturer, the smokers and the freshest of breaths.

Those with supple breasts, milk which tastes like ale, hair like cotton

and when I drink from him he tells me to call him Captain.

We gather together, strangers, lovers, cousins, brothers.

Clergymen of our own blunders. Kissing the winds, each other.

Mistakes are acquaintances, even for the antiquated.

I see us all as the spit we lick from each other, our sweat

against the ceiling fans. Hardened buttocks betray

Sideways glances. All our contributions we owe to open secrets –

– If you listen real close, I’ll tell you:

Cranes are who we are, the ones who rest on the water.

Our necks twisted, faith distorted by the Orphic.

Between corners of each district, I see lights that operate.

“Whatever you wish to see at any given time shall be yours.”

Or so they say, the bastards, so holographic.

So courteous as to lie, as we in wait, because out of all the boasts

of technologies, all that were made were means to enslave.

Weaponry cannot baptise us any more than a plague.

For all the so-called advances, we have yet to find a way

to help each other live.

Cranes gather in an unassuming shack, by an unassuming docks.

Our base of operations. Above ground, by mere inches.

It’s a testament to my flair that I do not protest. For all the talk

of atrocities, what better way to live, than to tear through our insides?

We can change our parts for anyone. Our arms, our hearts

Our genitalia. All belong to us at any time, for the price of many lives.

It’s a testament to my amusement that I have played along so long.

So this tribute is for you, broken city, with your watchful eyes.

No, not you. Your uninhabited towers and your houses of horrors.

Those I care not for. This is a tribute to tributaries.

For the seas and the rivers, the ponds and the lakes, the oceans

which divide us all. We are united in the ways in which the currents

drag us under like a siren hungry for its next lover.

Oh, how I wonder who or what this is all for. For the rapids rest

just outside of the city itself. If we could conquer them, no.

If we could fornicate with them, then we may see passage.

For these many bridges will one day collapse.

Thank you, you foul creature. Just as you have thanked us.

Just as we have thanked each other by shaking hands.

Time and time again, I wish to suck your lips.

Beside your bridge.

Part I: Aloe Vera:

Vive la Karen:

Our old friend Karen came a callin’.

During our raucous rancor, our celebratory crowned affair.

No lordships, bishops, lieges, or bison, could stamp away

at our achievements in blissful ignorance.

But one could, our old friend Karen.

Every night, our home served as a tavern. Us, our own servers.

The disc is somewhere, corrupted and overwritten.

Blame it on our laughter, the lack of slumber, the swayed movements.

We couldn’t hear her until the lights were darkened.

We looked around, there was Karen.

“Your next and only mission is to disband.”

The machine’s grand announcement. No uncertainty present.

The panel on the wall with the eyeball, its ocular malice;

Glazed with its sterile gaze. Never more than what was needed.

Lack of subtlety and an unnecessary cruel mercy.

Karen couldn’t make the intent any more crystalline.

But, she decided to lay frosting on our cakes:

“There will be no funds. No rewards for your troubles.

But if your mission proves to be a success, you will not be shot

to death within a twenty-four hour window.”

We all exchanged expressions meant for lovers or distant relatives.

Straits were dire, and not to mention the famine of straights.

Only one was; he was a pale widow, sunken within a ship in a bottle.

I creaked, my bones atrophied, my cane gifting with splinters.

“You heard it, men. Time to pack it up. Our time has come to an end.”

My cyclical smile unwound back below my nostrils.

Everyone cheered, for the truth was an open secret.

Men between men, that was how it was kept.

We were not leaving each other.

We were leaving the city which made us.

I knew that thoughts and words could be heard

But few doubt the resolute.

Forward March:

Outside, still night. Still as it was eternal.

Our collective thoughts: holding hands.

Beef and chicken alike, in a hot pot

Made to be slurped down. That was us.

At least a hundred of us. Foot out in front.

Leg out in back. Each one making their

forward motions in unison to display our union.

We sang a little ditty, a barrage of showtunes.

Our weapons on our backs. Some of us as

Our own weapons, we guided ourselves.

I was eager, yet wary. Weary for the true outside.

So out of reach, the stars were unfocused.

Students left to their own devices.

Rats with shock collars and curds stuck in fur.

I was an all-out war and I am more.

Streets as empty as the night, Patron Saints of paint.

Nary a drive-by in sight. Pardon the mourning

of bloodshed; city wasn’t alive without someone to die.

On cue, a device to electrocute took a man

I loved so dearly that I only ever kissed his hand.

Nary a tear was shed, for the beast was fed at last.

Hunger was a strange thing, wishing for nothing

to fill up the stomach, but we could speak

of all the things we would eat when we escaped.

If only the fates would stop slurping our eyeballs.

I needed them to see, however myopic of me.

Part II: Bridge Out Ahead:

Approach:

As the steel greeted us with its sturdiness

we shook our heads in disgust, our tastebuds distorted.

Stealth was not an option; grasping at straws, we took aim

and attached our mucus membrane gelatin onto the beams.

Smiles and jeers, no time for cheers. Karens, no, turrets.

Torrent of them took aim without firing.

So we stood, forever lost in the absence of Father Time.

“City limits. Turn back now or be prepared to be shot on sight.”

Karen could be a ferocious one, always wanting to empty

the contents of the device inside of several men at once.

Oh, but such a fulfilling release would lead only to an end.

We would not be deterred, so long as my bones ached.

“Mikey, can you go on?”

“– Babe. I’m Logan.”

Only in the early 30s, already losing to the ravages of age.

Our weapons drawn, we took fire at the turrets named Karen.

They took struck at us. Some fell, some put up electric glass

As a means to protect. What we couldn’t protect was the bridge.

We knew our passage would not be a solid one. Not a stone skipped

but a record without any scratches.

Turrets could be intelligent, even within their torrents.

Aimed at the matter which held firm to the bridge’s limbs

we watched the load get blown. Several pieces, several

men hit in the name of revolution. Their concussion wouldn’t

Be in vain. But our means of escape, we were afraid.

Bridge dissipated, too damaged to be a salamander.

Many remain, yet we had to turn back. We saw

the rustic passage as a golden opportunity.

We walked across our fellow’s remains and back

to the home which we abandoned.

Whatever crustacean in the sky would bless us

I would bless in return; hermits, no more.

“Betty, would you do the honors?”

“What about you, Barry?”

Betty and Barry were the same man. Or the two men

were joined together. Their algae arms pawed at the crate

which kept hidden until the very day. I came up

With the idea, myself. I wanted to kiss Betty and Barry.

Betty and Barry were both men, men I could sail with.

Under the crate was our lever, our lover. Such a promise

In the form of a warm and hardened stick.

It had to be kept warm at all times, someone crawling

toward it in secrecy. The lever was powered by our

Equilibrium, no, our affectionate friction.

Part III: Ship of Relations:

Theseus:

Every day since our inception, we supplied ourselves.

Our end was always approaching, and Karen knew it.

Each month after shipment, we took boards.

Our hands were full, planks drawn, quartered. Flanked.

So on that night, or day, we finally deployed.

To test if it would float or sink. Fine testing, it was.

Fine men, we are. Fine enough to squeeze. Like mustard.

No, mayonnaise on a desert day.

Ship did float, and so we installed light

on our boots, so we could walk above water.

Perform miracles, if only for a few seconds.

Then, we watched the docks get shot down.

Karen was a diligent one. If only Karen was a man.

If I could hold a machine like men held me.

Like I’m a baby, and mother brought meat.

Baby Harold, waddling. But this baby was a button:

If I had twenty more years to get my youth back

Then I wouldn’t be so elderly. But in the 30s, you know.

Third decade brought booze and misery.

Booze could serve as a playground, or a death sentence.

One of my men had to help me aboard.

Soon, I and them, all on deck. Out with the city, in

With the forewarning breeze. Passionless in its stirring.

The wind would have to guide us.

My compass was too fogged by malicious software.

Incontinent:

Did we have food?

Yes, we had/have food.

It has expired, it has grown molded.

It tastes of our favourite bourbon.

It smells like a familiar flatulence.

It is food.

Did we have a map?

Yes, it told us where to love and how often.

There were sticks and stones.

In due time, we would break each other’s bones.

Then seal the deal and murder with words.

Later into the night, we would bring a kiss.

Did we have cabins? Yes, just as we had means to sleep.

In each room weren’t beds, but we would keep

Each other warm in each other’s arms.

The body heat would be our thermostat.

The mast had a glow to it.

Did the ship move?

Just as it sails, a ship moves.

There is a wheel, it goes unused.

We move it to get the experience.

It reminds us to spin.

The ship itself, sails itself.

Automation is our lifeblood.

We designed our ship to forego hesitation.

Part IV: To Cutlery Sharks:

Cutlery Shark:

Waters blackened by the murky chemical invasion.

So long past, we almost think to drink it.

Instead, fresh men take purifying solutions within

the laboratories of the chemistry quarters.

I took a look and took a drink.

I became drunk off of it.

Some of us made the mistake of drinking

from the waters we sailed on; sickness set in.

Stumbled overboard, devoured by the sharks

with teeth made of cutlery.

It bit into our planks and turned some of us to rust.

We shot at the shark, but the creature split

into a husk of tapeworms with acidic spit.

I prayed for our continued passage and what answered:

Explosion! One man, a burly burlesque dancer

threw a brigade of explosives into the water.

The tides themselves roared and the tapeworms no more.

In our stead, a whirlpool and the seas quivering.

Skies above rained down cutlery. Messengers from the gods.

From the whirlpool, we washed our clothing.

I went first, taking a drink, then pouring the soap.

Our clothes fished, a mildew scent perforated

And left an imprint. Damp and musty, we lost nakedness.

I drank to that, as did all the rest.

Ol’ Phil Howards:

Phillip Howards was a man, or a shrew.

Hated men, or hated himself as an extension.

Hated me, but valued our friendship.

I loved the way he loved the fetal position.

Always did think of it as poetic.

Smooth sailing so far, I descended.

Down the hatch of madness.

Where in his private cabin, he was crouched.

In the far corners was his whispers.

He always said things not pale didn’t bode well.

I laugh because he was paler than the ghost of my mother.

Bless that woman’s heart, she raised a loving man.

Me, I was wrinkled more than my grandmother;

When I last saw her was on her deathbed. But I digress.

He always talked like he had one foot in the grave

while hoping others would go in instead.

I ask why he cower. His teeth chatters. He speaks in whispers:

“I’ve seen colours, more than black, more than deep purple.

There is smoke on the water and it signifies danger.

We shouldn’t undergo such a folly.

For I’ve seen colours, more than neon, but something brighter.”

“They haunt my dreams, the seas, they speak.

Though I do not understand their language, I know malice.

There is a healing intent, that I do see. The seas sing to me.

But they are not Siren’s Songs, but signs of foreboding.

What we sail will not cleanse our bodies.”

I laugh because he didn’t understand. He doesn’t wish to.

“If there can be any freedom for my men, any indication

that we can live within each other, and outside, that is enough.”

Although we both were former clergy, we resigned;

His distaste for others, yet belief that no one deserves healing.

Me, I loved men a little too freely.

He spoke again, eyes sunken, his face a full 180:

“There is a beast in the sea. The church spoke of one.

Which would heal any who dared enter.

But I am not ready to be healed by it.

I would rather stay inside, plead ignorance to the outside.

Know this: we know nothing. We will soon.”

I took a drink. Truer words never spoken.

The sea was a harsh mistress who seldom display her phallus.

Before I may part, he said one last thing:

“Friend, I am concerned about your drinking.

You appear in poor health.”

Part V: To Virginia:

First Sights:

As the cutlery sharks pacified, back into the depths

Whence, I too, descended. Only for one more sip.

Sips turn into a chug, which turn into grey hairs.

Hairs upon dogs I wish I had brought along, if only to keep warm.

Up above, breeze of the sea poured salt into me.

That was how I came to see the sights of the city:

We passed by endless roads of nothingness, always paved.

By the wayside were the routine machines paving their ways.

Little cars which drove themselves, express purpose of open flame.

And beside them, the skyscrapers, all plain and never-ending.

So too I, my whole face agape, will we ever find sanctuary?

Past the gangs, past each base, I wanted to know

what was past it all.

All our gazes, mine especially, shifted to the forests.

Those haunting woods with their shrill howls abound.

Those hounds which surely lurk, stalk, prey for me.

As I should pray for them, if my hands weren’t for drinking.

Those thickets and bushes, rustling of leaves from them trees.

I believe I could see shadows from the plants, the rabbits.

Deer and bears, then, something glistening:

Behooved horned creature.

They say Hemingway drank from its blood.

An open wound to ease the troubles.

As I partake in a drink of my own. Common cure for the bereavement.

It stood to reason, I stand with my legs bent.

Cane not quite working, leg machine broken.

Forests, woods, pines, all stretched for miles and kilometers.

Other units of measurements. I don’t know them.

Centipentagrams? Terasects? Parallax?

One of those words are  not like the others.

All that matters is the endlessness...the vast.

Undergrowth overtaking, but a crease, it does cease:

Trees line up. Stop.

Stop! Stop it!

Groan. I knew it.

I know, I knew it then.

The alcohol will not, would not, can never keep it at bay.

Oceans, tempest, they all expand. But the forest doesn’t.

Ain’t hear a root a shootin’.

City limits, where you think it ends, it doesn’t.

There is a mountain, next.

Hills, a rocky point. The forest itself a circle.

No, a circle cannot be a square.

Even if the circle be a peg, cannot be a leg.

Let me explain: like a barrier, a veil, a shield.

Preventing or protecting, cannot say.

But at the hills, past the rocky trail, lie a cliff-side.

Where I see their home: the final base.

We sure were sailing away.

To Virginia:

Dear friend, how did you let the years fill you up so fast?

Like the drink in my belly, in my liver, in my gut.

I ask for you gracefully, without a poem or a song to be sung.

No pretense about it, I remember your top aide:

Was it Vera? Or Santa Maria? Flo-Rida? Maybe I don’t remember. Let me partake once more.

Aha!

As you are Ginny, she was Victory.

You and her and Virgil. The three of you in matrimony.

No doubt, you lost her in the hospital. As well as yourself.

Every day I stop being me, becoming an adjacent memory.

One day Heart. Hearth. Earth. Arthur. Hurt.

What do any of those ‘words’ mean?

Anyway, if I make it out, I won’t tell the outside:

That you were mad, wicked, numb, or naive.

I’ll read not only my poetry, but your unspoken words.

Just like the way you must wish for it to be.

Just you and her and him.

Those words you wish you could tell him that he already knows.

Those words you still wish you could tell him, anyway.

Before the hospital made you forget.

Or you chose to go.

I wouldn’t blame you, either way.

Oh! Look! Out on the cliff-side face! It’s your base!

Operations were much smoother when you didn’t have to think.

Wouldn’t you agree? Or is it just through my eyes that see?

See far too many things...right now I see…

Just past your base. To my ship’s side. It is!

I look and see To the Lighthouse, its burning beams.

Searchlights take us all someday. So I hope.

What am I doing? Writing this letter to you?

Who am I kidding? It will never get sent.

Just like you will never say the words to him.

The ones he already knows, but you wish you could say.

That’s OK. Just like Oklahoma, the place.

I read about it when I was a kid.

Millennia and a half, maybe more, ago.

It was said to have existed. Like Agartha.

Like Atlantis.

But those places were fairy tales we told each other as children.

I never met you as a kid. I never much believed in the English.

Your house and its hinges, where you reside, your age untapped.

By madness, it still lies still.

No fear for you, only admiration.

I would have let you criticise me any day, if I could continue.

You may live to see more days, but will you ever escape?

Look! I see your garden! Down by the beaches!

Your little Daisies and Petunias, Pansies and Begonias.

How you would walk with your watering can.

Sing, “I must tend to my Sapphics.”

Hark! On cue, one of those devoted.

Adeline with bear claws, passes by pansies.

Hangs on a laundry line a pair of panties.

I wave, so does she. She asks the crew what we’re doing.

“We’re sailing for freedom!” I make my declaration.

“Yeah! Come get y’all freedom!” She echoes the statement.

Even if I cannot send you this letter when my men escape.

I would like to pretend that you have read it.

If there were any proof of an outside world. Or a “world” at all.

I would like to send this your way, as a form of evidence.

I have to go now, Ginny, for gin is calling me

and the end is approaching, my dear friend.

Whom I’ve never interacted with.

Part VI: The End:

Earth is Both Round and Flat:

We did it.

Thoughts and prayers were answered with cheers.

Clangs of mugs! Hoo-rah!

I take my tiptoes to Phil Howards, he mumbles

about his fiendish friend, from the clergy, St. Eliot:

“The sea is a wasteland...the sea is a wasteland…”

I shake my head. The Wasteland was what I counteract.

For water is not soil. Or so it was, I would have soiled my pants.

Rather than the piss that smelled of bourbon.

Taking to him, I say:

“We made it! Soon we shall live!”

His eyes, first things to turn, I see not.

Instead, clam shells or oyster heads.

Spiral homes for hermit crabs.

His mouth was a starfish.

Words were no longer important.

But so I heard, just as I will hear:

“We have not left, only departed. The true end is the end.”

I leave him. There is an above to this.

There cannot be a Hell with a head above water.

One man in the crowd eyes eyes with I, I eye him.

We kiss. First on the lips, then on the fists.

Fists kiss with fists, knuckles bloody.

How men make love aboard a ship of relations.

One other man sees and comes up to me:

“Something new!”

I look. But I disagree.

“Familiar should not be new.”

Image of our former base of operations, in flames.

How we left it. How we left everything.

I shake, so does my face. My head, for good measure.

“Must be a mistake. Sail faster.”

So we went at it. Pushed around, left to right.

Sway with the night; harder, faster, stronger, better.

Currents in our favor. We didn’t yet notice the ship was lower.

Until we reached the end again and found ourselves

back at the beginning.

Water fills the top decks; our ankles get licked by it.

Its liquid, thicker than my blood long since poisoned.

If there is anything I can do, all our years of plans, and

We remain in the same place for I cannot locate action.

“Captain! We keep going around, and each time we do

We sink further below? What is the meaning behind this?”

“Words too obvious! This is a poem!”

“Ah! You’re right! ‘T’is my testicles caressed by Satan!’”

“Much better.”

So I stew in my saltwater sweat. Tastes like men.

So do I, but I don’t let it become my doppelganger.

I will not have my sweat swallow me.

Not when I can swallow it. Sweat is my pride.

Seagulls ahead, murderous cries.

Part VII: Leviathan:

Rumbling in the water:

Riptides in the muddled pond.

It was bad enough to find that the ocean was a moat.

City is a donut hole. No nutrition, only fat.

Our knees were tickled by seaweed. Or mine, leg hair algae.

Riptides grew louder; ripple effect of defective parapets.

My precept for perception failing me.

At this point we started noticing things:

Crocodiles jumping gangrene and tails wagging.

My men grabbed the nearest pointed weapon.

Fire open! Battle cries like the wild ride we chose for ourselves.

But fire proved to be nothing against the Crocodile’s hardened skin.

Us all, cowering, but I, I saw myself as a Doge, crowning.

Wow! It becomes time to step up! Wow!

With the press of a button, my phallus expands.

With it, I can swordfight Crocodiles.

Even past my prime, I am told I hold it well.

We’ll see, when it’s skin against teeth.

Reptiles have bite, but my blade does slice.

For all those teeth, I was the one who made the creatures bleed.

Bleed and retreat, just as the burden of being on the sea.

Sailors and Maritime sea-shanties sing

of a magnificent phallic fascination.

The battle itself, legendary. Decisive victory.

As the last of the creatures fled, my blade sheathed.

My blood was in my body, but I felt as if I was losing it all.

Forfeiting, for I already knew the truth:

the bridge that collapsed was our only way out.

Through it, we could have reached the tunnel.

But no more.

The tunnel is a sheet.

Over a black hole.

Sucking us in to the idea of freedom.

Suckering us, just as it does, and we fell into it.

My head sinks, no drinks left.

Far too sober, head sick. Head split.

“For those who want to live, leave now.”

Were the words I wished to say to my men.

But just as I addressed my evacuating sea men, ripple effect.

Ears ringing. Before, the creatures with teeth

may have made my fellows depart from me.

With my phallus back in my pants, sea men wouldn’t evacuate.

And, as my past erections, in an instant, from the waters

a great creature did rise!

Some unknown poison flower, a mouth dripping.

Plant with scales like a dragon fruit blooming.

Fins and tails, a face thought to be extinct.

Eyes of pure malice, flame emitting.

If there was a time to evacuate, the sea men should have.

Too magnificent, too arousing. Fear heightened.

Taller than the highest man-made structures.

Taller than structures made by AI.

So tall in stature that its body was nary a body at all

But a sizable shadow. Us, breadcrumbs.

If it weren’t for the hatred which summoned it

we may have gone unnoticed.

Too frozen in fear to jump overboard.

Us, a collective, hundreds, morsels to the beast.

Try as I might, there were no apt descriptors.

Despite the prior attempt. It was too great.

My heart understood true hopelessness.

The way the creature leaned until face against our ship:

Eyeing its meal.

“Everyone. Let’s all kiss one another

before our time is up.”

All of our systems, dry.

If not for its distaste for our attempted dissent

we wouldn’t have been its candidate for digestion.

Bestial and anomalous.

One of (Phillip Howards) Craftlover’s anonymity.

I understood his words now; the powerlessness.

Us all must have felt.

Yet powerful, in our final moments, like the Spartans.

No, Athenians. We had to be them: naked and unafraid.

My Grandmother’s Grandmother’s Grandmother:

If you were here with us, would you remember anyone at all?

I looked up to you, thighs greater than the legend of the Grand Canyon.

Child, Baby Boy, I was. You, the Great Grandmother. Mafia Don.

Gang leader with a Sailor’s tongue.

Someone so kindly, baking all the burly men cookies.

I remember, as a child, you told me:

“When I was your age, I sat upon the lap of my Grandmother.

Just as she sat upon the lap of hers. Then, there was your mother.

She had no lap for anyone to sit upon. Aside, the role was for

Us Grandmothers.”

I asked you what to do if a man loves a man and

a men love a men as a whole and everyone had a Sailor’s tongue.

You laughed and said how you were no man, yet

every Sailor needed somebody to bake cookies. It was a maritime rule.

You said how next there will be no grandmothers

because I was the next one chosen.

I objected, your crystalline eye, your sibylline prophecy.

If it would come true, who could I be?

My feelings lie not in war, but the act of action itself.

In turn, you told me:

“When you have feelings, you write poetry.

Poetry lets you hang your naked body in full display

without you being filled with shame.

Poetry is why some men live, laugh, and love.

Others eat, drink, and be merry.

For you, to have a gay old time, just find a rhyme.

Don’t worry about whether it makes sense.

That’s not what metaphors are there for.

Therefore, go off and lay your feelings bare.

Face down, buttocks up.

No need to worry about lazing on your bum.

That’s what men love!”

That was how I would become

the one who crocheted tea stands

with white-knuckled hands and a fluoride thread.

Though I could not bake cookies, I could write poetry.

When you left in the war, I grew to be an old man

before even leaving my twenties.

If you were with us, would you stare the beast into the eye

and serve it cookies?

All we have is our fists. Our spears which pierced with love.

Impaled with the most tender of grafts.

What rendered is a great sense of despair.

Our mission was being fulfilled.

In our failures, we were a success story.

What does it all mean? Would you have said:

“I am your grandmother and I have a lap”?

If I so loved a woman, she would have been you.

I miss your guidance, your arms like monkey bars.

If I know not the right answer, call it nostalgia

that illuminates my soul.

Vore:

“Men! If we shall go, we shall go with in the midst of action!”

That wasn’t what I shouted, but I seconded the motion.

No more. No more. No more. No more. No more.

There weren’t any more words.

For all the times others have swallowed me whole.

This was too much. Too great to bear.

I cannot. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot.

What I wish for is to be a poet. Lover. Man.

Not dead. Not mad. Not dead. Not mad.

I watched them; spears made of lightning; code.

Binary and hexadecimal creating enough energy

to electrocute the seas, but focus on the beast.

Everyone, everyone but me. They fought, ‘til the end.

Bitter was the end. For the violence only made the beast grew.

Larger and larger, a boastful source of nourishment.

All our attacks made it hungrier. Rather, it wasn’t an invincibility:

not that we couldn’t scratch; each scratch gave more life to it.

Whatever I had called such a mass of distortion in the seas

it wasn’t correct. This beast, its shape could not be contained.

Not one shape. Not one shape. Square hole in round pegs.

Would any survive the fight? Would any love me?

See me as the lover I am, or once was, before I couldn’t stop?

Or would they see me as a coward, for refusing to be devoured?

Yes.

I watched all of them.

And I jumped, so I could meet my end elsewhere.

Bottom of this body of water, my body shall lie.

To think, I may only become a footnote in the overall history.

The Pantheon’s memory itself is a beast.

Goodbye, my men.

(Before I lost consciousness, my eyes remained open. Before all systems shut down, I noticed: my mind had been awake for too long a time. Over one hour had elapsed. By then, the beast must have returned from whence it came. I fear it may not be the only one. One if by land, one if by sea. So it must be. What of my body? No. Bad question. What of the end? When would I reach the bottom? Every downward spiral, my star loses its twinkle. Each descent, further fading, and every second it grows darker, I think it has reached the blackest point but IT BLACKENS FURTHER. There is no lowest point, it only grows lower, and I may never see a true end…)

Part VIII: Lost at Sea:

Deserted Virgin Islands:

...Cannot have a maiden voyage with crowded cabins

where everyone, so close, almost congealed

tied to each other, mingling and bleeding

to paint the halls and the boards on the floor.

No captain in the captain’s quarters, the wheel

has steered itself.

Down the stream is a continual loop, further

degrading its health.

Further sinking down, no smooth landing.

Only sandpaper on the ocean floor.

Course correction won’t save the inhabitants

when there is nowhere beyond the boundaries.

Outside, empty. Land, empty. Earth experiencing

a flirtation with entropy, a perfect reciprocity.

Forego the salutations. Wave and be forgotten

for what is best is to stare it into the mouth

and drown, than to let yourself be eaten.

[demetyilmcz]

but what a ghostly scene. {au self para}

  ❛  you wear the same jewels that I gave you      as you bury me ❜

tw: death mention, stabbing mention, funeral, general ghost vibes

This is not what she thought death would be. 

Humans have the folklore that souls would hang around the world when they have unfinished business with the living, or if their death was particularly violent and the soul could not find rest. Demet supposes she would fall under both categories. 

The funeral is pretty. She hadn’t thought Harry would be so meticulous with the selection, or that she would even get a headstone at all. He seemed to only see the monster while he held that silver blade, determined that he was making the world a better place by removing her from existence. You’d never guess it now, from the role he plays as a grieving fiancé. Demet has to admit that he does it well, and she wonders how much of everything she ever saw from him was as much of a performance as the show he’s putting on now. Did she even know him at all? The dull ache in her heart wants to scream yes, that it couldn’t have all been a lie, but maybe that’s just phantom pain from the dagger he put there. ( Sometimes when she looks down, she swears she can still see it sticking out from her chest. )

Strange. Esma and Rafael aren’t here. She always thought they would be. Maybe Rafael really has moved on with his life. Maybe she doesn’t matter to him anymore, had stopped mattering a long time ago. He never did respond to any of her letters, anyway. But Esma, that one’s a puzzle, something she doesn’t quite understand as her lifeless eyes scan the crowd of mourners. Friends, coworkers, everyone she’s ever known in London have turned up. But none of her family. Esma should be here, if no one else. Her sister still loves her, doesn’t she? Does Demet’s life really matter so little? The thought is a chill that crawls over her skin. Funny, she was never cold when she was alive. Her fur always kept her warm. Now it’s as if she’s encased in a cage of ice, and she thinks if she had breath, it’d fog up the air around her. She’s forgotten how to breathe. Is that another ghost thing?

Harry sits up front at the service, as the priest reads pretty things from the one book she never got around to reading. May God bless her soul. She didn’t realize Harry was particularly religious, he’s never mentioned it before. Demet floats forward until she’s standing in front of him. She wills him to see her, give her anything, but he only stares through her as if she’s nothing more than a window. Even as she reaches out to touch his cheek, and her hand passes straight through. Is this her new reality? To simply exist? Wander the earth forever, condemned to her loneliness? This isn’t what she wants. Demet wants her father. And her mother. And Burak. She wants to be with her family again. It had been some small relief, a consolation prize as she laid dying on her kitchen floor, that at least she would get to see them again. But it seems as if she’s been cheated out of that as well, now. Is there anything else the universe is capable of taking from her? She’s never been sure she’s believed in the idea of a god, but if any exist, they must take great amusement from her torments. 

Tears stream down Harry’s face as the casket that holds her mortal body is lowered into the ground, and really, he’s wasting his talents as a hunter, it’s clear that he’s made for the stage. He’s wearing the cufflinks and watch that she bought him, Demet notes, as he runs a hand through his disheveled hair. He always did like dressing well. Maybe it makes him feel more powerful. There’s a small satisfaction to seeing him favor one side, the side where her claws had scratched him. She did not go with grace. No soft gasp, no limp body to hold in his arms while she dies and he cries like he’s the victim of the scene — that the woman he loves turned to a monster, so he must act the hero and kill the beast for the good of humanity. He had to earn her death, while she screamed and thrashed and plead and cried and fought back. So many stab wounds. So much blood. Demet wonders how they cleaned her up well enough for the viewing. That’s probably what the modest black dress is for, covered from neck to toe. As if she would ever wear something so restrictive. 

He stands around, accepting sympathies and well wishes and offers of ‘if there’s anything you need’ from everyone they’ve ever known, and a part of Demet wants to scream. To tell them all that it’s his fault, she didn’t have to die, doesn’t have to be here now floating outside of existence. But her mouth opens and no air comes in, no sound goes out. Mute. Might as well be, she always felt mute in her mortal life too. Biting her tongue so much, the first taste of blood she ever had being her own, swallowed to keep her mouth shut. So many things she never said, for the sake of everyone else, and now they never will be. Perhaps she did this to herself, to some degree. If she had not been so ashamed to want things for herself, to not have to always be the dutiful daughter when none of her siblings seemed willing, perhaps she would not have been such easy prey. So effortlessly charmed by his sweet words, and the idea that for what felt like the first time in her life, Demet came first to someone else. Where would she be now if she had simply thrown out the slip of paper he'd left with his number on it?

And yet, there is no use to ponder the ‘what ifs’. None of them will change this plane of existence that she finds herself caught in now. She follows Harry as he leaves with his friends to go drown their sorrows in a pub, not because she feels any particular tether to him, but because she knows little else where to go. Her life in London revolved around him, and neither of her siblings came to her funeral. What else is there for her? So she goes, and watches him pour down drink after drink, bemoaning his poor fiancée to anyone who will listen. The bartender gives him a glass of top shelf whiskey on the house, and Demet thinks she should’ve used this ploy a long time ago. She could’ve played the weeping widow for a free drink. She sticks a finger in his glass, just to see if she can feel it ( the answer is no ), while a man she’s never quite liked claps him on the back and tells him that everything happens for a reason, even if it doesn’t seem like it now. If she were capable, Demet would throw the drink in his face. 

And why can’t she be a vengeful ghost? The kind people always claim are haunting their houses; throwing books off the shelf, turning on stoves and locking the doors. She feels like she deserves at least that much, some kind of recompense for this fate. Instead, all she has is this detached form that doesn’t even feel like a body anymore, but her mind forces into the conforms of one anyways because that’s all it knows. Incapable of anything other than floating around after the living, watching in silence as they get to continue doing everything she had taken for granted once upon a time. Useless.

It’s nearly midnight when Harry leaves the pub, heading back to the little home they used to share. She remembers being so proud when they signed the lease together, a step towards their future. Looking at it now, all she can see is every shattered promise he ever made her. Demet wonders if Harry sees them too. He certainly didn’t waste time having the place cleaned up. You’d never know a murder was committed here only a few days prior, she thinks, as she floats into the living room. She expects Harry to follow, perhaps to sit in the lounger, kick his feet up and congratulate himself on a job well done while he watches television, but he never comes. So she seeks him out instead, finding him in the middle of the entryway, slouched against the wall with his head in his hands. It’s an image that surprises Demet, she’ll admit. She can hear the soft, choked sobs that wrack his chest, loud as the chimes that would ring from the clock on the wall in that quiet hallway. Oh. Maybe it was real, then. At least a little bit of it. 

She slides down, too, propped up on her hands and knees as she watches him with a mild fascination she would not have expected from herself. There is a certain schadenfreude in knowing he does not get to come out of this Scot-free and unaffected. Her name falls from his lips, the ones she used to fantasize about kissing all the time, muttered like a prayer or perhaps a curse, and Demet finds herself leaning in closer. What is she listening for, exactly? An apology? An acknowledgment of what he’s done? But no matter how long she waits, nothing else comes. Nothing except the sniffles of Harry’s tears. And maybe it speaks to how fucked up her mindset has always been, or maybe how much she loved him, but a strange sort of sympathy fills her chest watching him cry. She reaches for him once more, but it only passes straight through again.  If she could speak, if there was one thing Demet could say to him, she would ask, was it all worth it? Is this what you wanted? She cannot believe that it is, seeing him now.

And then she wonders, what if she is meant to forgive him? Perhaps that is the reason why she’s stuck here between a half-existence, when she should be with her family. If she lets go of this anger, and pain, and betrayal that she carries around with her, will that be enough? To give them both peace? It is a bitter thought, that she should have to bring peace to her murderer before she can achieve it for herself. And Demet knows, deep down in whatever is left of her soul, as she sits across from him in this dark hall, that forgiveness is a long ways away. 

It seems that you and I are still tied together forevermore, Harry. Was it always meant to be this way for us?