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whyareyouhere66 · 1 year

Text

“My body's aching and my time is at hand…

And I won't make it any other way…”

[-James Taylor, “Fire and Rain”, 1970]

Darry was no stranger to loss.

He had lost so much, in his 20 years of life- starting from smaller things and leading right up to the big stuff.

When he was 5, he lost his favorite toy and threw a fit. And then, when he was 19, he lost his parents.

He’s lost his patience, and he’s lost jobs. He’s lost his temper, and he nearly lost his brother.

And he had come to learn that life moves on - if you don’t move with it, you get left behind. Life doesn’t just pause, he knew that. So he continued on, only mildly aware that the fog clouding the back of his mind was not “tiredness,” but instead the feelings he had shoved down catching up with him.

With nearly every loss since his parents death, he would “suck it up,” unaware that not allowing himself to feel all those things, was just what lead to the deeper pain. He didn’t know that was why he would stay up at night, staring holes into the ceiling as his eyes and head burned with forbidden emotion.

But, time doesn’t pause. It doesn’t slow down. You can’t pause and take a breather- or you’ll slip and end up getting dragged behind.

In Darry’s book, maturity meant many things. Working hard, good thinking, etc. But he seemed to also confuse it with ignoring how things really feel.

Sunlight streamed in through the kitchen windows, and besides the 20 year olds presence- the Curtis house was empty.

Standing in front of the counter, Darry stared at the tables surface, rocking back and forth by the palm of his hands.

He had come into the kitchen 15 minutes ago, with the intent of starting dinner before Ponyboy and Sodapop could get back later that day. But he found himself here, unmoved since entering, rocking back and forth in front of the table, hands pressing further and further into the counter top.

Darry’s chest felt tighter, and every time he tried recounting the steps to begin cooking- his mind would reset, start over again.

The floor creaked quietly under his feet, and he exhaled loudly.

“Don’t go getting worked up over some food…” he muttered, and it sounded wrong in his head. He knew the food wasn’t why he felt like this- but he couldn’t name what the true reason was.

His mind overlapped with thoughts, so many weaving around each other that it almost hurt. But at the same time, it felt like a clean slate. Nothing but grey, fogging up his brain like steam staining a mirror.

In an effort to shape up, snap out of whatever daze he had fallen into, he blew out of his mouth quickly, wiping at his face as he sucked in air through his nose.

“We gotta get going-“ he starts, pep-talking himself into moving.

Just as his arm was about to reach out for the cabinet, a large ‘slam’ echoed through the house, and a striking crash filtered through the air.

The sudden wood-on-wood thunder startled Darry, the tall man whipping around while his eyes widened. His mouth dropped open, as if a shout was trying to escape him.

But, the familiar thumps of shoes slapping the ground struck him out, bringing him back down to Earth. He groaned, upon realizing there was shattered glass littering the kitchen floor.

“Ponyboy!” He shouts, seeing a glimpse of the brown-blonde hair through the living room.

The teen didn’t answer, continuing to stomp through the house. Darry was panting heavily, a hand pressed to his chest while he scoffs.

“You scared the hell outta me- don’t just go around slamming doors!” He continues to scold his kid brother, leaning against the counter and wiping his cheek with the backside of his hand.

“Leave me alone, Darry!” Ponyboy yelled back, Darry’s fist clenching in response.

Ever since the two had “reconciled” that night at the hospital, the night with Sodapop in the park, there was still some lingering anger. Ponyboy’s teenage angst, mixed in with Darry’s stubbornness was bound to be a recipe for disaster.

The taller male scoffed once more, a second slam echoing through the house’s wooden walls and ringing in Darry’s ears.

He looked around the kitchen, eyes landing on the scattered pieces of glass that littered the floor. His fists clenched at his sides, eyes trailing the pieces until he found an old picture frame, face up on the floor.

“Damn kid…” Darry mumbled in frustration, pushing off the counter and taking one step closer.

He dropped to his knees, mind going straight to autopilot as he collected bits and shards of glass and placing them into the palm of his hand.

He scoured the floor, mind still lingering from his daze before- the clouds coming back and floating around the hazy edges of his brain.

Small curses fell from his lips, mumbling to himself quietly as he worked closer and closer to the picture itself.

“-can’t catch a break-…”

Darry paused.

The picture had come to his full attention now, the remaining edges of the frame poking at its paper. The clear glass spiked across the frame, as if pointing to the very center.

It wasn’t too old of a picture. But it was just old enough to have a smiling Dallas, and a timid, smirking Johnny sitting in the center of the paper.

Darry stared at it for a long minute. It felt as if the previous buzz of doing something, the busy work to distract himself, had all been paused- and he now hovered over the wooden frame with tired eyes boring into those of his friends.

He shouldn’t be so affected.

It was just a picture, likely a year or two old.

Its edges had folded over, crammed into a frame just a tad too small. Black and white presented the outline of the gang, all 7 of them.

Darry and Steve were standing up, Steve leaning above Sodapop- who was smooshed into Two-bit’s side. Dallas was in front of Darry, sitting down and smirking into the camera. Ponyboy and Johnny were next to each other, the only ones posing normally as chaos ensued behind them.

A small smile found its way onto Darry’s face, only for a split second, before it crashed down into a frown.

They looked so happy.

They looked so ‘there.’

A shaky breath fell from his lips, and his blue eyes squeezed shut.

“I can’t be doing this right now…”

But he never moved.

His knees grew sore, and he leaned back onto his calves as if defeated. The glass slowly fell from his palm, clattering into a small pile beside his thigh.

The familiar brown eyes of Dallas bore into his own, and Johnny’s pulled at the continuously tightening rope in his chest.

Darry found that he couldn’t speak, his mind had gone blank. He felt dizzy as he stared into the faces of his passed friends, until their features began to morph.

His eyes were beginning to do tricks, the background of the photo swirling in with the faces of the rest of the gang- but Dallas and Johnny went unaffected.

He hadn’t realized it before, but he began to now.

They were gone.

They weren’t here.

After their deaths, the tragic happenings shoved together in less than 36 hours- Darry never took the time to think about it. His mind instinctively moved straight into day to day life, so fast that it tricked itself into thinking as if Dallas and Johnny were only “gone” optionally.

It wasn’t permanent.

They just weren’t “around” anymore.

It wasn’t until now, as he was staring holes into a broken picture, that he realized they were not here, anymore. This was permanent. They were no longer with him, as they were before- he couldn’t go out to the lot and find Johnny sleeping there the way he once could. He couldn’t walk down to Buck’s and find Dallas wasted, hunched over the bar counter.

He couldn’t do that anymore.

Hell, they weren’t even on the same ground as he was- despite having their bodies buried underground and mixed with the dirt and soil of Tulsa. That wasn’t them, not truly.

He would never see their face in person anymore.

This picture, tattered and torn on the floor, was his best bet.

He had been in denial.

And now the realization hit him with the force of a rolling boulder.

His eyes began to burn, only now opening his mouth to let a strangled, breathy sigh leave his throat. His body suddenly felt tight, cold yet burning hot at the same time as he became hyper aware of the walls that surrounded him- how they could vanish at any second, yet crush him with their weight at the same time.

It was almost pathetic, this tall, grown man hunched over on the floor mourning the loss of a 17 and 16 year old.

But he was too caught up in this unpleasant feeling that filled him, one he hadn’t felt since that day just over a year ago when his parents had gone too.

“..Darry?”

Ponyboy’s voice startled Darry once more, his head darting up to meet his younger brother. Unlike before- his face was soft, as was his voice. The boy felt cautious- only seeing this sort of emotion from his brother a handful of times.

The sudden embarrassment of being seen in this state moved Darry enough to sit up straighter, and wipe at his glossy eyes.

“Go back to your room, Pony…”

But, the boy refused. He took one careful step closer, and Darry watched from the corner of his eye- but didn’t protest.

Ponyboy found himself hovering over Darry’s hunched figure, where his eyes landed on the broken frame.

“…oh.”

“...yeah.”

They stayed in silence for a moment, Darry trying his best to shove the tears down, to collect himself. But every time he tried, his lip would quiver and he would duck his head down.

Now that the emotions had spilled, they felt like a flood- rushing out of him after weeks of denial.

“Pony, I-“ he starts, as if trying to prove himself- but there was nothing more to prove. His voice shook and his chest squeezed in on itself.

Ponyboy understood- as soon as he saw the picture. He was surprised, Darry hadn’t shown many signs of even being affected. But as he stood here, standing above his shaking brother, he realized perhaps he simply wasn’t looking.

Kneeling down, he joined Darry on the floor- only just missing the glass shards.

“I get it.” He says, cutting the man off.

They continued to sit there, both staring ahead at the shattered photo. Slowly, Ponyboy’s hand slid over to rest right next to Darry’s, and a similar, shaky exhale fell from his chest.

“Ain’t nothing to be sorry about, Dar’.”

[find the rest of this series in my master list]

#The outsiders #the Outsiders angst #Darry Curtis #Ponyboy curtis #dallas winston #johnny cade #angst

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aph-fruk-after-dark · 2 years

Photo

Rest of the comic here

Fanfic by anon under the cut!

Fingers drummed on glossy wood in sympathy with the rain pattering on exquisite window panes. He could go out into town with little risk– he knew the moon wouldn’t be rising tonight, although even if it hadn’t been a new moon, those blessedly unaffected would never tell from the heavy coverlet of cloud hung in the evening sky. However, with no dramatically pressing needs, he would very willingly put off going back out into town whenever possible. Instead, he had resigned himself to standing by the window, book abandoned next to cold tea. He had done the same the night before, and the previous night. Days spent cleaning, reading, writing, praying, finding small ways to earn money, and doing it all again. Bursts of melancholy would make him despise such a secluded lifestyle– such agonising penitence, the sameness of each day, the deep need to accomplish or create something that was never sated, these were all more internal issues, ones he found no choice but to endure. What one would see from the outside would be the inexplicable complete bareness of it all, which had its own logic. He couldn’t afford to keep the valuables he had found in the laden manor once he had arrived– both out of need of funds to keep his meagre lifestyle possible, but out of worry that all such things would only end up broken and in ruin anyway. Expensive gas lights went unused in favour of sparse candles carried from room to room, larders that had once been bursting now held only minimal provisions, cellar empty of coke and coal and instead stocked with sorry stores of hand cut wood to heat the labyrinth, walls and cabinets empty of trinkets, silver, crystal, porcelain. One clock still hung on the wall, the others long sold. All mirrors save one had met the same fate, the plain one he kept needed for his near-religious grooming. But now, his hand clenched along the delicate dark stain of the wood of a straggling armchair, fingers tapping, tapping. Tapping, beating from rain shuddering the glass in their frames echoed like the sounds of his fingers throughout the cold house. Tapping again, beating, louder. No. Those were bangs not from the dark, but harmless storm outside, those were purposeful. His fingers’ rhythm abruptly ceased, his stomach clenched. He drew a breath, one as shaky as the windows beside him, as he purposefully walked to the front door, grabbing a candle as he went. It would be resolved as quickly and painlessly as the few visits that had come before. No, he wasn’t interested in anything sold, nor any ideology, nor anything else. His already harsh gaze was steeled again as he cracked the door open as slightly as he could, flame flickering almost to nothing in the sudden torrent of wind. He didn’t have much of a chance to study the face of the man at the door before the visitor ruined the setting by gingerly barging his way inside, dripping where an entry carpet had once laid. Golden hair rested in damp, sad strands along high cheekbones that had flushed from the cold and the wet. Eyelashes fluttered as their lengths shed the clinging rain. He took a step, then another, away from the guest, not remembering it would be polite to help the struggling man bring in his bag.

« Excusez-moi, êtes-vous le valet de chambre de mon oncle ? Je suis son neveu qui est venu lui rendre visite. » The man held out a paper with words he didn’t care to try to read as he took another step backwards. His pulse had already begun to quicken.

“I’m afraid I do not understand, but judging by your bag, you’d wish to stay here. That is out of the question. Goodbye.” The lack of grace of his terse reply wasn’t aided by the words' slight catching in his throat. He hadn’t expected visitors, and he wasn’t prepared to usher them away. Nonetheless, he strode as far as he could from the man as he approached the door, opening it back up to the slate grey of the storm.

« Ah, English. You are the valet to my uncle ? I had not written, but I am visiting him. » A sheepish smile only amplified the pitiful nature of the man still dripping in the entryway. But pity was easily forgotten by panic.

“The… Right. You should have written. I purchased this manor from him two years ago, and I don’t know where he’s gone.” His hand was still gripping the doorframe as he shifted where he stood, trying to loom there as unwelcoming as possible.

“There’s an inn back down the road a few miles off, so if you wouldn’t mind, I have be–”

« The carriage has left for minutes. » The man stepped forward imploringly, met by the same unmoving gaze. « We can speak about my uncle until the morning, when I can leave from here. It is raining, sir. »

With his eyes so wide, it was difficult to miss the searing blue urging for affirmation. The visitor’s full lips were pressed tightly together. For a heartbeat, the storm outside, starting to encroach into the entryway from the open door, was all the sound filling the empty room. As the heavy oak door slowly shut, the small splat of water onto the floor below the uninvited visitor took its place.

“You will be in a guest room for tonight. If you take it upon yourself to leave the room, I will consider you a trespasser.” The front door clicked as it locked in place. He took the stranger's bag without asking, assuring that there would be no protest to his offer. “You will lock the room and keep it that way until morning, when you will leave and take your things with you.”

« But my uncle, I would kn–»

“I am not to be disturbed throughout the night, or before you leave. I’ll fetch something for a fire, and then I am to be left alone.” His quick strides up stairs and down hallways, knowing the exact room that was as far away from his own as possible. The guest hurried after him, flying around corners and down halls, suddenly much less pitiful and much more determined.

« I may not even ask your name ? Or of my uncle ? I had not meant to offend by calling you a valet, » the frenchman called, assuming by his course behaviour that something had been misspoken.

« I am the heir to my father, the Baron d’Elbeuf, Francis Bonnefoy. » With this came another smile, much less sullen, although attempting to be just as charming. It was met with the pair’s pace slowing to an immediate halt in front of the last door down a long hallway. He opened the door, making no move to respond or even show he had heard the man as he lit a single candle on the mantelpiece inside.

“Master Bonnefoy. This is your room. Stay inside while I fetch kindling for your fire.” Within a moment, he was gone, the door shut tight behind him.

His heartbeat was racing faster than his steps to get away, fingers back to drumming against his thumb with pent up nervous energy. It was a test, was all. A test and a punishment. He was a fool to think he could have stolen everything that man had, to sell his possessions, to live in his home, with no repercussions. His nephew, of course his nephew would come, as both a weight for his uncountable sins and a temptation. A glaring reminder when he had gotten all too complacent of his comfortable lifestyle and had forgotten what he had done to land himself there… But it was more than that. He wasn’t just a family member who had come to show him his past folly that he had yet to adequately repent for. He was a thorn burrowed deep into his heart. A test. He was a test to see how well he could resist the infernal temptations that had plagued him for too long. He had failed those two years ago– he had coveted men in his heart and was soon after cursed. This was a chance to right his wrongs, wasn’t it? But he could have been given an easier trial… His chest heaved as he took a deep breath, body almost shaking as he stormed his way to the cellar for kindling. He wouldn’t let it overcome him. It had almost happened twice before, the curse dominating when it wasn’t the full moon. Going in to town to fetch well-needed necessities only to see temptations. This was no different. His imagination had nearly triumphed many more times than that, sometimes in his chair, imagining what it could feel like to hold someone, to share an intimate glance. Or, in the early mornings, before the sun had risen, rousing him from sleep with dreams that had already begun to change him. He had even torn through bedsheets while dreaming before. But he was sure this time. This was the ultimate test. God would not give him such a man, a living reminder of his two great faults, if he did not believe he could endure the trial. He would lodge him, and let him safely go in the morning. He would speak no further word to him other than goodnight. He would even give him far more wood to burn through the night than he allotted for himself, having grown used to the ceaseless drafts, the pervasive cold. Perhaps fetch him an extra blanket from his own bed. He had just come in from the rain, after all. And that would be it. The last human contact he would have for another month or so, and the closest he had been to conversation for more than two long years. But he would pass his trial, he would, and maybe even gain salvation.

With stacks of wood he had painstakingly cut and gathered himself in one arm, he went to his room on the other side of the manor to fetch one of the three blankets he used to keep out the cold for his guest. The candle, its meagre light just barely enough for him to navigate by, was threatening to go out from his fast pace. Facing his bed, he paused before a moment of compassion overtook him, and he grabbed two of his own coverlets and hefted them on his shoulder so he would have a hand free for the stub of a candle left in its small holder. Striding the length of the manor did little to ease his nerves. His breath was still heavy as he neared the door, his teeth picking off skin from the inside of his lip. He was only starting to think of what to do to get into his guests room, standing awkwardly at the end of the hall, when the door opened to meet him. Master Bonnefoy had already changed out of his wet clothes, and was waiting expectantly, it seemed. Was it with satisfaction or a degree of remorse that he realised his French visitor had grown resigned to conversing further, or getting to know him?

Wordlessly, he stacked the kindling in the fireplace, and set it alight with ease. Without meeting the other’s gaze, he set the blankets at the foot of the large, four post bed, realising too late they were untidily left unfolded. All of his time so utterly alone had robbed him of his etiquette as well as his manners, it had seemed.

« Will you introduce yourself, or must I spend the night in the residence of a stranger ? » Came the silken voice behind him. He stilled, collecting himself for a moment before turning. It took effort to keep himself glowering adequately.

“It’s… l. Lord Kirkland,” he paused. He would succeed. “The key is on the mantel. Keep the door locked.” His jaw tightened as he quickly took four large steps to the door, hand resting, just for a moment, on the knob.

“Goodnight, Master Bonnefoy.”

He wished he hadn’t heard the faint echo of a farewell through the door he shut behind him.

What fault that man had with him, he didn’t know. The journey to get to this remote place had been a wretched one. This country was not for his tastes. Grey. Endlessly, exhaustingly grey. The most exciting things he had seen as he had taken carriage after carriage and train after train had been spots of castles crumbling in the distance, dotting grey pastures under grey skies. He liked to excuse it to himself as a holiday. He had finished his studies, and as his father had done, he needed to take a trip and become world-wise if he was ever to become a Baron himself. That was the version he would write to friends, his extended family. It was true enough. If he could have chosen himself, he would have gone to the Italian beaches, Greek art hubs, even German dens of philosophy. That would have only exacerbated the problem. No, for him it was the most pallid, grey country with the most boring, grey people, so he could be looked after like an infant by his uncle, who his family assured him would whip him into shape. So to arrive and be met with a stranger was somewhat of a relief, really. This way he could swan about wherever he’d like instead of being shamed and lectured by a man he had never met before, maybe even find those special Italian beaches or meet those charming German poets. At least, he would have been more relieved if he hadn’t found the manor in the state it was in. Cold and bare, that’s what it was. His uncle must have taken anything even remotely valuable from the place when he sold it, not that he nor anyone else would know– his parents hadn’t spoken to him since long before Francis himself had been born. And draughty! At least, that's what he had thought at first. But once the fire had been stoked and he was curled into a dry bed with at least four blankets atop him, it wasn’t quite so bad. That odd, odd man must be keeping the house like this on purpose. And what a cheapskate he was. Burning wood fires in a manor house, absolutely staffless, with no lights about the place. Perhaps it was an English habit. He had never stayed anywhere other than an in or a hotel that didn’t have at least one or two servants. The only reason he didn’t have a valet accompanying him was that he was still just young enough to have not made his way of the world yet. Still, he couldn’t call the place entirely unpleasant. As much as it needed a bit of livening up, he couldn’t say it wasn’t well built or clean. A good foundation, he thought. Just something to brighten it… He laughed to himself, turning on his side with a blanket twisted around his leg. If he wanted to think about the man, he didn’t have to do it in the guise of this old house. But he was right, he did have a good look about him, even if he did himself no favours. That scowl accentuated his strong brow, a feature that could so easily be overdone, but made him look more defined. His pallour certainly wasn’t helping his dour countenance, but it made the venomous green of his eyes all the more striking. Even his gaunt face and build lent itself well to his rugged jaw, his strong bones... Ah, and here he was again, getting back into trouble in his mind. Although, it’s not as if it mattered. No uncle to lord over him, right? Still, he grinned a little to himself at the quiet rebellion of it all. Hell, he could even come home after a holiday around the most sordid spots in Europe and tell his family just how perfectly chaste, humble, and lordly he had learnt to become under his uncle’s tutelage. It wasn’t as if either side of the family would be writing to each other about it, seeing as how he had moved without saying a word, and his family had shipped him off here with equal forewarning. So a night in the manor, and off in the morning to find a ship or train or anything to get him anywhere else, anywhere he could imagine. He had the funds, or, at least, enough of them. He wasn’t one to give up on luxury, not that he’d know, since he’d never had to, but he was sure he’d find a way to stretch his allowance. He could live a bohemian life! After all, back home he had gotten glimpses of the Romantic lifestyle more than a few times in more than a few salons. Maybe he wouldn’t buy quite so many new suits as he had imagined, so what? All the fewer trunks he would need to buy to fit it all, and less to carry. But that wouldn’t matter if he found a man strong enough to dote and carry them around for him… He wanted to go to sleep on such happy musings, but he was, admittedly, restless. He had locked the door, per the Lord’s instructions, but the blatant hostility was getting to him. It couldn’t be himself, of course, that had raised the mans ire. He knew he must have looked absolutely endearing, showing up the way he had. And he had been nothing but perfectly polite. What kind of cold-hearted man could resist his big, blue eyes, drenched from the rain? And to ask him to walk all the way back to town! Unforgivable. But he had stoked the fire for him, and he had that small hint of a gentle touch. He could see himself going to leave the next morning, already on the train back to the mainland as he finds a letter slipped into his coat, confessing the quiet stranger’s passions for the charming French visitor that will never be realised. Another chuckle to himself and he sunk deeper into his bed, face nestled against worn covers. He knew not everyone was like him, and his host had made it more than abundantly clear that he wanted as little to do with him as possible. Yes, he had provided him with the bare minimum, but that was the most base of human decency, not out of genuine regard. For all he knew, he could have only given him wood and one measly candle while he himself was already fast asleep with a hot coke fire and a large supper. Though, by the looks of him, he probably hadn’t had any substantive meal for quite a while. He still had to admit it though, despite want for much more, he had been made quite comfortable enough… The fire crackling in the hearth, the extra blankets. He breathed deeply, trying to get himself to sleep, but something was nagging him that he couldn’t place. He rolled to his other side, curled up with blankets up to his ears, his pulse starting to quicken for reasons he couldn’t explain. And then it hit him. These must have been that man’s blankets. He could smell something heady, warm, musky even. He stirred again, his mind running wild. He couldn’t help it, even if he didn’t mean to be so perverse. There was something about it that, for lack of a better term, excited him. He could just see the man, so stoic, finally letting himself relax in bed, dreaming of a life outside of these cold walls. He laughed out loud once more, ever one to amuse himself. That was it. If he was in such an outrageously unserious mood, there was no use trying to sleep. He so resented being told what to do, and had been quite certain he wouldn’t stay cooped up in this little room, door locked behind him, anyway. What if he needed to relieve himself? Surely there wasn’t anything objectionable about looking around the manor for a water closet. And if he happened to get a bit lost and end up wandering about to his heart’s content, who would ever know?

He kicked his legs over the edge of the bed, tensing from the shock of cold and remedying it by wrapping one of those special blankets around his shoulders and waist like a shawl. Slipping extra stockings on his feet kept him at least out of fear of frostbite, a worry he found perfectly justified; he grabbed the candle and was off. The extra stockings came in handy, as he found the floorboards to be louder than he had noticed when he was storming after Lord Kirkland, and the softness of his feet made him quiet enough as he traipsed from room to room. The first door was to an empty bedroom, a bare bed and nothing else to find. As was the next, and the next. Room after room, unfurnished, bare, lifeless. He was almost ready to just go back to his own bed from shear boredom, but the candle caught a glimmer– or a lack of one. The dull shine of the wood floorboards had been broken up by a scratch on its surface inside. Crouching down with the wavering candle, he could feel the grooves gouged into the wood, scraped up like by some anxious creature. What a complete destitute hovel this was! If it was due to his uncle’s negligence, or this Lord Kirkland fellow; either way it was ice cold, empty of any valuables, and infested with vermin. He couldn’t get out of that room fast enough, feeling rather squeamish at the thought of getting bitten or scratched by any sort of animal. To his own luck, the next room he tried, after quite a few hallways and twists and turns, was the library. Finally, an insight into his uncle, or to the stranger he was boarding with.

Instantly, he noticed the difference. He could feel himself breathe again, despite the room being so cramped in comparison. Every wall, lined with books. Every table, scattered with notes, papers, inkpots and blotters. Multiple teacups and saucers, full to varying degrees, strewn about just as haphazardly. Whereas each other room was neat as a pin, this was an eclectic mess, but clean, spotless everywhere. Not a room in the house had a speck of dust or dirt, the library included but this room, unlike the others, was, quite frankly, a mess. Who would sweep and dust so religiously that wouldn’t bother to put papers into place? Clearly that Lord Kirkland fellow, as there were no servants in sight. Well, as much as he wanted the dull patter of rain from the unshuttered but windowed balcony to put him to an easy sleep, his curiosity had got the better of him. All of those scribbled notes were just lying there, so the guilt he’d feel at perusing them would be minimal. As he approached the nearest stack, his mind raced with possibilities. Was this englishman a wealthy hermit, shut in out of distaste of his fellow man? A tortured soul, cast out by those who wouldn’t understand him? Francis could much relate, though his mental images of Romantic lone men in harsh landscapes were over embellished, even he would admit. But to be alone in such a manor necessitated some level of romanticism, didn’t it?

The first page he found was just a list of things to do, with many marks alongside that seemed to indicate they all had been fulfilled more than once. Fetch wood, clean ground floor, clean first floor, clean second floor (each of these had subpoints of things to do, sweep, mop, dust, launder). On the back was a list of commodities he needed, seemingly to purchase each time he went to town. Candles, flour, preserved foods of many kinds, all seemingly only to provide for the basest of subsistence, and a subsistence Francis himself couldn’t stomach. Of course the man was so pale and lean, he seemed to eat no game, nothing he couldn’t store that would last out as long as he would go without another trip in to town. As much as such trite lists bored him on their own, they did pique his broader curiosity, and dulled him to the idea of further snooping. Besides, the script itself gave him enough insight into the man’s character that it wouldn’t be that much more invasive to go further. Not flowery, but well-written, with care to be legible. An assertive hold on the quill, and careful never to run out nor overload the nib with ink. A pragmatic but thoughtful man, Francis judged, although the exactness and care put into his writing seemed an odd contrast to the house devoid of personal effects. That just meant he would need to delve further to get a better insight, wouldn’t it?

The nearest, somewhat organised stack of papers was his next choice. From its arrangement and multitude of teacups swarming its presence, he assumed this was something he worked on often. He could imagine the man sat there, drinking away as he worked. Francis sat in the chair at the desk, the only one remotely comfortable he had seen in the entire manor, like a last vestige of indulgence in the place. Getting into the mood, he tried a sip of some of the tea in the nearest cup, and instantly spit it back out. He had seen milk on the list of foodstuffs earlier, but this was black as night, unsweetened, and ice cold. Perhaps he had used the milk earlier, and was now living in his sparing, miserly way. He wasn’t usually partial to tea at all, but this was a step beyond, and far worse than the sweet, creamy things he had been given on the trains here. But, adhering to all preconceptions Francis had of their ilk, the man was devoted to drinking some, of any quality, as he spent hours hunched in faint candlelight in front of his work, his lifeblood. Yes, that must be it, he was an author! He knew the English were inclined to such follies– locking themselves away to finish massive drafts of work, novels of exquisite horrors and elations. He much preferred French painting or poetry to such literature himself, but something was to be admired by the adherence to such stoic values the English so stubbornly committed themselves to. What kind of masterful, terrible work could he unearth there that would reveal the passionate heart of the icy man somewhere within these walls?

‘The last personal effect that I could find has been sold a half week and a fortnight before this, save for those small bits that I require for daily use and other larger things, such as beds and furnishings I cannot remove alone without suspicion. I am ashamed that I cannot bring myself to be rid of it all, and to purchase back things of lesser quality and cost to both protract my funds and assure I remain penitent. In my condition, any such extravagances seem affronts to the Power which has so mercifully allowed me chances at redemption. Although I cannot commit to a monastic life for fear of exacerbating the seed of my trial, I should replicate the dutiful, pennitant, and austere life of those closest to God. I had thought, and worried over quite often, the eschewing of all of these such items, as I believe, on the first, I had done so to be rid of the reminder of the day solidifying my sin. To be comfortable in a home I had never known and to see such things that belonged to another have plagued me, so it would be false to say a great relief has not fallen upon me to have seen the back of the last trinket that was not my own. And yet it would be just as false to say I do not want for such things. Countless repairs of garments habitually torn instil within me yearning for such finery as I had found upon my arrival to this place, and though I have grown hardy to the cold after consistent exposure, and now find such lights as I see briefly upon visits to the village for supplies to be grating, a good supply of coke and candles are such material wants that I think upon often. It is only due to Providence that I shall quickly find my way again after, and on such occasions that I have found a better part of an evening or afternoon at wanting such things, I have made duly sure to go without them and all else twice over the next day. And still, I have yet to come any closer to deliverance as I have been when I first thought upon my sin as a boy or was punished for it those two years ago, and am still punished for it since.’

Had it not been for the stark resemblance to the man himself, Francis would have still believed this to be some sort of twisted novella instead of a journal. With each passing word, the bizarre lifestyle of the man became more and more apparent, but the deepening stone of dread in his stomach almost overcame his near insatiable curiosity to read more. The perverse level of self-hatred over some perceived failing was overly apparent, but as he thought about that first page, almost too apprehensive to read older entries, his imagination was beginning to fill in the gaps his logic could not. The personal effects Lord Kirkland mentioned weighing on him so were his uncles, and, with his uncle missing, he could only imagine one sin that could be so vexing to the man. He suddenly felt much like a caged rabbit in the den of a wolf, knowing he was living in the home of a murderer. The storm, once something coaxing him to sleep, was making him jump when errant raindrops came down too hard on the window panes beside him. If he was to flee, he had nowhere to go. He was trapped with a killer. A killer! Hands trembled as he clutched at the paper, compulsively reading and rereading that first page. It wasn’t difficult to read between the immaculately penned lines, Lord Kirkland had murdered his uncle, but that left much unexplained. And that was the sin he had mentioned, of course. Issues with that story arose, however. ‘Thought upon his sin’? Was this something he had planned for so long and only recently executed? And clearly, if he believed all this self sacrifice was a necessary way to repent for his deed, he wouldn’t so readily do it again… The man had demanded Francis lock himself away, after all, something that would undoubtedly hinder any bloodthirsty urges of a true killer. What deliverance he hoped to find by it all was beyond him, though. Papers fluttered as if from the wind outside as he rifled through them, delving backwards in time and trying his best to learn more as quickly as he could. His eyes ran across each page as he came closer and closer to the journal’s beginning, unable to rest for more than a moment. …’felt the changes’, … ‘another month unsuccessful’, …’cannot remember the night before’. Francis could only stop his fervent rhythm of skimming and turning the page once he finally reached the very first entry, scrawled more quickly in a less steady hand.

‘I have tempted fate and made another suffer for it. A man is dead from my perversion. I cannot recall much. For fear of losing more of myself, if what happened last night should occur once more to-night or indeed at any moment, I write this in the hopes to preserve some of myself. Perhaps I can read this and keep hold of the fine thread of my sanity. All I can recall comes from before the sun set on yester-day. I had succumb to my lusts I had known to be an affront to God, I had thought openly and wantonly of another man and thusly have been smote. Dear God! What creature had assailed me in the night, I know not. I recall hardly a thing after. Only the running, the hunger, the need, unending need unbridled by sense or humility to His word. But no, the beast, surely an emissary or embodiment of His most despicable opposition, had come to exact a vengeance upon me for failing in my duty to the Lord, I am sure. For what other explanation could illuminate these events, I know not of one. I had laughed in the face of the Holy with my villainous lust, and this time had acted on it in wretched self fulfilment. Knowing I was surely destined to his realm, I am convinced, I am certain Lucifer had taken his chance to punish me for it in his own way. That was the animal, or man, which had massacred me so; the wound in my side, my forearm, and my throat I shall not soon forget, although now that I have awoken the next day, what I know should have been fatal blows have somewhat healed. I have been kept alive to do the dirty works of the Darkness, as I already have done. Oh, that I have done! A man, I know not who, is dead for it. And I am here, amongst his belongings, in a home wearing his own clothes out of a lack of my own. Out of Christian respect I have buried what was left of his body outside of wherever I have now found myself. Aside from my scars, my own corpse is much like how I remember it from the day before, but I cannot break away from the images I saw of myself from last night. For it was not but moments after I had certainly perished that I was brought back in a body not my own, driven by such infernal desires that must have made me kill a man! Lord, help me! If there is any chance, it would be through Him. But should such a wicked creature be offered any chance of contrition? As I have not been damned straight to Hell, I know I can still be saved. I shall not write more today, I have decided. Earnest prostration before the Lord is all I can do now.’

Sick did not begin to describe the sensation assaulting Francis’s body. This man must be mad, surely he was. And yet such lucidity demonstrated by the character before him on the page made him tremble in his place. He hadn’t realised he had stood, clutching the paper as close to his chest as he could manage as he read, and now that he had finished, he had thrust it back onto the desk. That was why he had been given a key. This miserable wretch was convinced he would kill again. Indeed, it was such a killing before that lent credence to his tale. If this man had killed his uncle, would that not indicate this account was accurate? Yet this man, this poor man was afflicted by a guilt at such lusts as Francis himself would willingly submit himself to, and for this he believed himself to be abandoned by God. Curiosity still unsated, Francis knew, deep inside, he wanted to read on, but his urge to flee was overpowering. If only he could urge his feet to move from their icy spot on the floor. His breathing was unnaturally steady for facing such a shock, and his head felt remarkably clear. He would walk, slowly, back to his room. He would lock the door. Most likely, he would not sleep. But at the first sign of sunrise, he would carry his bag and twenty others like it if it meant he could run from the place. But, no! This woeful man seemed no more a threat to him now as he had upon the moment of his entry, if his logic was to triumph and be believed. No-one was overpowered by the Devil and forsaken by the Lord to become a beastly thing, not for this sin nor any other. The rhetoric seemed more like a man twisted to breaking by the guilt of a perversion Francis found all too familiar than of one cursed. In a more assertive upbringing, he could easily see how he himself could have felt so neglected by God as to have been driven mad by the conflict between his own desires and the will of those around him. He would follow the man’s request to stay secluded in his own room, but he would not go in fear of an inhuman animal roving the halls in search for flesh. With a level head, he could rationalise an impotent madness, a harmless personage who was slowly killing himself with his grief, but would not kill another. How his uncle, unequivocally deceased, tied into it all, he did not know. Perhaps he had been such a man as had made Lord Kirkland, if he really was a Lord at all, realise such sinful desires as he had mentioned, and had ultimately paid the price for it. Perhaps in his grief at his ‘self fulfilment’, Mister Kirkland had found the first man he happened upon and acted upon his uncle in fervour, later cleared. Either way, Francis would not be in terror for his own life if he returned to his bedroom unnoticed and disappeared in the morning without a trace. A deep, level breath helped him to collect himself as he grasped at his dwindling candle. He turned, lightning crashing behind him on the balcony. In the burst of light, he saw a dark silhouette loom in the doorway.

Before he had reached his bedroom, he knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight. He would have locked the door and tossed the key out of the window if only he could have found a way out again when he would be of solid mind and composure, but such a thing would hardly mean he had succeeded in facing his trial by following the word of Christ. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, exhaling as deeply as he could as he ran a shaking hand down his face. It would not be so difficult but that he was so horrified of what would be a result of his failure. He almost wished for immediate damnation if it only meant he would not commit again what he had already done to another, or worse. Yes, worse. For before, as he knew from the unceasing reliving of snippets of that night that assailed him, he had but killed the man. He was repulsed by the images of what could come for the other fellow if he failed in his test of will and devotion. Master Bonnefoy… Francis–. It was an hour he paced before he knew his actions, and only then did he stop from his candle burning so far down to its stub that he was worried he would never have the chance to light another until he went into town to replace the matches he had run out of so long ago. Resolving to go down to the library to light one of the few candles he had left to replace this nub, he also figured he could spend the rest of the night reading or filling more into his journals to keep him busy. He would clean if only he had the chance to go throughout the manor without fear of losing himself. A distraction in writing or reading would assure he had something productive to do, a fruitful outlet that would keep him from temptation. And, of course, he would pray. But all would be well. Master Bonnefoy was locked away, safely. The fear that was agitating his imagination was unfounded. The trial was one he could overcome. Such affirmations he reiterated to himself as he carefully trod to his study, taking precautions to assure the dwindling flame would live until he could light another with it. The sound of the rain, strong as it was now pouring, dwindled as he wound through halls, then crescendoed with a boom once he finally reached the heavy oaken doors he threw open. A still form, outlined as lightning’s glow encompassed him, stood, seeming to wait there for him. Ultimate dread overcame him. If his candle had been any taller, it would have threatened to catch the floor alight when he dropped it; though its pitiful wax spattered, the holder clinking too the floor. Instantly, his heart raced. The assurances he had made to himself evaporated away, and the horror of his chance at a relapse was self-fulfilling. The itch on the back of his hands started immediately. Desperately, he told himself he could still calm himself out of it. If Fra– the man left now, did as he was told and stayed in his room, all would be well. At least, he would be safe if he couldn’t control himself. It was their proximity he dreaded. For one look at that startled face framed in a halo of stormlight and golden ringlets, his lithe body in little more than a thin sleeping shirt and blanket, and the pounding heart within the man’s chest was urging on his changes.

“Leave now. Lock the door or you will regret yourself.” His voice was thankfully stern, almost sounding enraged. Better that than the absolute fear that wracked him to come out in his speech, and risk the conversation lasting longer. If his guest was afraid of him, he would do as he was told.

« Mister Kirkland, I had not– I do not wish to intrude. But I did not want being locked in the room of a stranger. » The itching continued up his arms, down his spine. His heartbeat wouldn’t slow.

“I don’t care what you want. This is my manor and you will do what I tell you.” Now he was trying to intimidate. He stepped slowly closer and to the side of where the other man stood; although he dreaded the contact, he was desperate to give the poor man an easy shot to the door in case he later had to escape. He himself knew that he wasn’t strong enough to remove himself from the situation, trying as he was to urge his feet to move him far away from here.

« I am not afraid. » What an obstinate reply! For a moment, fear at what he may do was overcome with a burst of rage.

“You know not what you say! I would do to you what I wished and you stand and mock me. Do as I bade you and return to your room, or you shall lament your choice, if you have the chance!” Fingers spasmed after an accidental injury– he was so impassioned he had dug his nails into his palms. They had left marks in the short second they were held there.

It was with more shock and horror that he saw the other man step closer to him, making no moves what so ever for the door.

« I know what you would do. You are not the monster you think you are for such desires, and I am no fool. You act as if such feelings make you incapable to resist yourself. » He sneered, both in anguish and resentment as the other man attempted an assuaging smile. What the fool thought he meant when he insinuated such mortal peril was beyond him, but he was loath to give him an example, even as a means to urge the man to escape.

« I am… of a similar mind. I have been sent here to see my uncle, as he was to make me want for… standard affections. I am flattered to be the object of yours. But such feelings make neither of us criminals. Look, I am no animal consumed, no ? » Another step forward by the guest; he took one more back. He could now hear the rustle of the blanket as he breathed, smell his warm scent on his slender neck. Yet he wasn’t hearing what the Frenchman said, his head was swimming. There was no more room for rage. It was starting already. Through God, he would do what he could to slow it. He would not let himself harm this man, but he knew there was only so much he could withstand against a trial such as this. Both of their fates rested in the man’s will to remove himself.

“If you will not listen to reason, please… leave, if only because I beg you to do it.” His words stuck in his throat as he stepped back, almost stumbling to any refuge he could find; there was none. His pulse drummed in his ears, painfully so, especially as it mixed with the tempting heartbeat in front of him. The storm was too loud, the rain, the slight fizz of the wick of the candle on his desk burning. Sounds barraged him as his body was scorched from the inside out. He staggered to the sitting-chair, clutching it with one hand as the other came to his face. Pins down his neck stung as hairs poked through flesh. His ears pointed and flattened. He was drowning. He heard a sharp breath, and looked up to see those two blue eyes, staring in distress, but remaining in place. Sharp teeth clenched. He rasped out another plea, but was met with no reply but that same concerned look. The look of a fool. A flush of blood came to his head and heart, his eyes widened in near-fury. This idiot would stand, mouth agape as the emissary of Satan urged him to leave for his own wellbeing! His lunacy would damn them both! If he would not scamper away like sensible prey, he would need jostling.

“I cannot– I… You must leave!” It was only once he had lifted him from the ground by his neck that he had even noticed he strove to meet the man where he stood. The Frenchman fell fully onto the floor with a thud immediately afterwards; he looked on from above, horrified. What dread it was to have grasped him so, but even worse to have thrown him away as a dog would with an unwanted bone. He hadn’t meant to–. He… He was only trying to–. He began to hyperventilate, head spinning. He would resist. He could. But the sensations overcoming him were too much. He couldn’t block out the scent of the man below him, the cacophony of his fluttering pulse, the look of red lips trembling. He– he needed him. He needed him to leave. His eyes trailed, examining the tear to the delicate nightshirt that exposed supple, pink flesh below. A red nipple poking up in the cold, bare chest heaving with weighted breath. His stomach ached. A tickle behind him began to peak over the top of his trousers, swaying as a short tail lengthened. His nose twitched. His body moved of its own accord, grabbing at the neck of the man now finally scrabbling away, back on the floor. The poor soul quickly stopped his planned escape as sharp nails scraped his neck. His thumb trailed down the man’s angled jaw. The hitch of breath that touch caused made him snap back to consciousness, if only for a moment. The pitiful man was lying there, terrified. Terrified! Of him. God, he wouldn’t do this to him, to a helpless creature. He would not defile him to sate his own lust. His own miserable desires. Oh, how long had it been since he had spoken to another? He needed– he needed someone. Needed him. But now in this perverse greed he would forsake another man to Hell. No! He could feel– feel compassion for this man, lying beneath him. He could still feel that. He could feel it, sense it in his own erratic pulse. His own heavy breathing… Breathing that wasn’t echoed by the man holding his breath below him. His face blanched in dread, yet… appealing, so appealing. And the scent. The man’s sweat from fright was full of it, his essence begging to be noticed. He noticed it. He couldn’t resist.

He winced as his clothes strained, his excitement only just beginning but already too tight for the fabric around him. He was already hard, but all he did was stare at the body below him, smell him. Hear the figure’s pulse in his ears and feel it in his hand on the man’s throat. His knees were pressed to the floor between the other’s armpits, his straining crotch in the man’s face. The pressure was unbearable. Too much. He needed release, needed to start it. He should grind into his face, he needed to grind on him, shove his hard cock down on him– at the thought, his hips spasmed in desperation. Rut on his mouth, his face, grind, animal need flooding his mind. Too hard already. Erect length shockingly pronounced in his meagre garments. The merciful cloth ripped away as his hips took control, trembling. He did what he could to pull away from the man’s face as it did, hunched over as he dragged his now freed, erect member against the exposed chest below him erratically. Flashes of horror at the sight of himself, of the form his length had already become did nothing to stop his body. He was big, dark, swollen, veiny. His weight dropped down onto the man as his lower body worked frantically all on its own. Rutting woefully, in short staccato bursts. He tucked his chin against his own chest, straining to resist himself, small bits of hot tears springing to his eyes as another second of humanity was quickly swallowed up by thirst. His body was determined to fuck, even the mans supple chest if that was all he would manage. The friction of his movements was eased by warm precum– dripping normally at first but soon overflowing. He was certain he couldn’t get any harder, but his pitiful attempts at release did nothing to sate his needs. It felt good. Good, painful, too hot. The agony of desire had almost entirely overpowered him– but not so. His sharp nails pressed once more to his palms, he stopped his hips for just a brief moment. His mind wavered again, rising up in a bid for control. He could still tear himself away. He– he could save this. By– by God, he– he could–. Cool hands carefully holding and leading his hips back to where they had been, or even closer, put a stop to his moment of clarity. Blue eyes looked up at him and sudden sensation robbed him of his thought, of any thought. His member was in something warm, wet. With the enlarged head of his cock placed down the man’s throat, he had no hold left on himself. His body took the cue. Hormones flooded his searing blood, overtaking him. Hips pounded. It wasn’t enough. Why? A vacant but possessive look at the man below him clarified. Those red lips, enticing. Not enough. He pulled out, noises rising in his throat as the cold air met his throbbing member, overstimulating him once more. In less than a moment, he had turned the man to his stomach, pressed his face to the man’s neck through his bouncing curls. That scent… not just any scent. He would be his. He was his. He would be his mate, mount him. He trailed his nose down his mate’s back, smelling his heady essence as he did so. The back arched in response, showing him his mate wanted to be bred just as much as he wanted to breed him. As his nose drifted down further, finally, he met with what he needed. Soft, fertile flesh that tensed as he pressed his nose against it, the strong musk of his mate’s own hard member overpowering as it flooded him. He pressed his long tongue into it, eyes closed, but was met with something scratchy. That wasn’t right. He growled, biting down on the barrier, fibres catching in his sharp teeth as he ripped the cloth away, the silken nightshirt left in tatters. Wet nose dragged again along the spot, then tongue, readying his mate for mounting with generous preparation. His mate squirmed, must have been happy below him. Pressure pushed back against him, and a low growl rumbled in his throat in reply– his mate was being good, compliant. It didn’t take long before he was ready. As he pulled away, his heavy tongue spilled over his sharp fangs, too large to stay in his inadequate maw. It took too long, he hurt. His cock was an angry red, engorged with incessant, pheromone laden blood. Balls swelled with potent seed, tighter than ever before. His head was dripping, visibly pounding with each heartbeat. In frantic mindlessness, he thrust it between the plush ass his mate displayed just for him, rutting as he once more curled over him. His stomach lay flush against the back of his mate. His hands gripped his mate’s chest that was now thrust to the ground. Still not satisfied. More. Needed to be inside, but his hips wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop long enough to position. Without a choice in the matter, they kept thrusting, slick precum sliding back down his length, his length deep between the plump, fertile behind of his mate, until finally, he plunged inside. A pause as his body took account. He was in him. Tight, hot, made for him. A growl broke deep in his chest. This should have satisfied, but he still hurt. Still too hard. He wasn’t deep enough. His nose, his muzzle pressed back into the crook of his mate’s neck. He breathed into him deeply, needing his scent. Hands moved, claws digging into hips held tight. Grabbed them hard as his own hips pulled back, and pounded in. Not deep enough. Still hurt. It hurt so much, so good, his pulse drumming his cock from inside. Needed more. Ridges formed and grew and pressed outwards alongside his expanding length. Head swelled, reformed, pushing out of thickening foreskin. Tip now fattening up to inhuman size and shape, too sensitive. Veins throbbed around his swelling girth that wouldn’t stop growing. His body would stimulate prospective mates, get them productive. He whined, long tongue out as he panted, desperately rutting into his mate as hard and fast as he could. Why no release? In only a few strokes, he felt his mate shudder under him, moaning. Then again. Again. He could feel the liquid under him. He was doing well by his mate, his mate cumming. His hormone riddled precome had been seeping into him, and he was rewarded with a potent slickness from his mate coating his shaft. His own pheromones soaked the air, saturating it. But he was so hot, too much pressure. There was something to do… to ask. Help. Wanted to speak to his mate. Fran… Sounds choked gutturally in his throat as he tried to get something out. Soon the noises devolved into a whimper as his erratic rhythm intensified. Needed to breed. Head dizzy. Claws pulled his mate in tighter. Sharp teeth marked his neck in between heavy panting breaths. He wasn’t doing enough. Not deep enough. His body pushed him further, his hot prick curving to pummell deep into his breeding hole. He whined again, the sound twisting to a growl. His body couldn’t stop, wouldn’t slow. Claws yanked up his mate's hips, driving into him at a heavy angle. His desperation began to twist him. He couldn’t bear more of the heat, the intolerable pressure. Mate below him was shuddering so often, must be reaching breeding point again and again. His body wouldn’t let him. Rutting mindlessly, pulling his forearm sized, or bigger, inhuman cock out to the head with each furious buck of his hips. Faster than possible, he would pound back in again, deeper. Constant rumbles vibrated deep in his chest, his mouth busy marking his mate, panting with heavy breaths, or grunting. Teeth gnashed. Mate was ready. Stomach tightened. On all fours like the animal he was, all his strength was used for breeding. Hips railed his mate, head spinning more each time. Close. Seed filled him, preparing. His balls swelled again, full to bursting, hurting. Mate was good, fertile, ready. The moans below him only piqued his insatiable lust. His body prepared. He moaned at a final surge of his animal length, ridges and bumps enlarging, veins popping. His head swelled, morphed again, as did the base of his pulsating cock, stuffing his mate. Erratic thrusts became frenzied, though his length was stuck, embedded deep inside. Explosive, searing pleasure. Ceaseless streams of cum filled his mate. Hips couldn’t, wouldn’t stop. He rut through long orgasm, howling. Still bucking his hips, he seized his mate in his arms, turning him while the pair were still connected. Now facing one another, and joined at the hips, he collapsed after more final thrusts, body pressing atop his partner. Protecting his mate. Panting and growling contentedly, he drifted off. Seed would stay inside, keeping his mate fertile, bred. His muzzle pressed deep against the crook of his mate’s neck as his eyes closed.

#fruk #ukfr #werewolf

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xx-state-of-mind-xx · 1 year

Text

If Love Could Heal

Dovesso first kiss

*TW* Self-harm, panic attack*

Lesso’s POV

The glass shatters against the wall with a satisfying crash. I pick up another, watching as it bursts into a million pieces. I reach for another before realising all my whiskey glasses are in smithereens on the bedroom floor. Surveying the destruction I caused, the only things still intact are my potions kit and books – even the ancient oak cabinet in the corner wasn’t spared in the onslaught. I realise it had done nothing to ease the panic rising like bile in my chest. With a furious cry, I make my way over to the bedside table. My hands are shaking uncontrollably as I withdraw an ornate silver blade and press it against my wrist. I don’t even wince as I draw it down my arm. Ruby-red blood wells to the surface and collects in a pool at the base of my wrist. I make two cuts and then another three. Control. I focus on the pain, on the biting sting in my arm and find I can finally take a deep, clean breath. Control. Blood drips onto the floor, staining the stone.

I realise someone is knocking on the door. Fury crashes over me like a tsunami. Throwing the blade back into the drawer, I stomp over to the door, glass and splintered wood crunching underfoot. I hurl half a vase at the door, and it smashes against the wood. I fling the door open a crack, just so my face and crumpled white shirt are showing and find myself looking into the startled face of Emma Anemone.

“On the wrong side of the bridge, aren’t you Professor?” I sneer, leaning on the doorframe casually but mindful to keep my arms hidden.

“Um, sorry to bother you, Lady Lesso, but-“ I snort, like hell she was sorry. “But,” she continues forcefully. “I was wondering if I could have the rest of the potion you made me. You did tell me to come back and, well, you weren’t in your office so-“

“No, you can’t,” I say, cutting her off. I know it’s petty, but I am still pissed off, and the potion is in my office.

“What? Why not?” I can’t help thinking how much she looks like a flamingo in her stupid pink dress with ridiculous sleeves. I roll my eyes.

“Because I have better things to do than sit around all day making potions for beauty teachers.” I am aware of the blood running down my hand and dripping onto the floor. I fight to retain control on my breathing.

“What?! Lesso, you’re being unreasonable! You said last month that you’d give me the rest and I’m here to collect it. Bloody Nevers, you always- are you alright?”

Anemone peers up at me with concern. I snap out of my stupor and stand upright again, taking a deep breath. It feels like I’m thinking through a haze.

“Yes, of course. Just waiting for you to leave,” I say coldly. My voice sounds strained, and I pray she doesn’t notice.

Anemone huffs and pushes against the door, trying to force her way in. Thankfully my body blocks her way. Something within me snaps and my carefully bottled emotions overflow momentarily: “I told you to leave!” I scream and slam the door in her face.

“Fuck,” I breathe. It’s been a while since I lost control like this.

In the bathroom, I bandage my hands and arms clumsily. The wolves howl in the distance, signalling breakfast. Cursing, I pull on a pair of black leather gloves and do my tie hurriedly not even bothering with a pin. I shrug on my heavy grey coat and leave the room.

The day crawls by. I am aware of my exceptionally foul mood and almost feel sorry for the fifteen students I’ve sent to the Doom Room. Finally, I sink down at my desk and shut my eyes against the blinding pain at my temples. I have not yet been game enough to return to my trashed room and instead prepare to settle in for yet another long night of work. I am pulling a pile of essays toward me when I remember we have a staff meeting at four. Shit. I have five minutes to get ready and get my arse over to the Good school.

I burst into the meeting ten minutes late. The other teachers gawp at me like fish from their seats around the long mahogany table laden with pens and papers. I glare coldly back. Determined not to use my cane, I walk slowly to my seat at the end opposite Dovey. Anemone is standing up obviously in the middle of a presentation and shoots me a dirty look. I smirk back at her and make a show of sitting down, unable to quite disguise the hiss of pain as weight is put on my leg. Emma continues her speech – something about an excursion for her fourth-year Evers, but shockingly I find myself unable to concentrate. I instead gaze at a nauseating tapestry depicting a prince in armour riding toward a tower surrounded by rolling green hills with a dragon lying decapitated in the background. With a subtle flick of my finger, the brightly coloured threads start moving, slithering like snakes to rearrange themselves in a much more… interesting way. I smirk at the new picture – the dragon towers over a flaming tower and the prince is nowhere to be found.

****

“Meeting’s over, Lesso.” Dovey’s voice comes floating over from the doorway. I glance around and realise I’m the only one left in the meeting room.

“I was just leaving,” I reply coldly although I make no move to get up.

“Actually, on second thought,” she slams the heavy double doors shut and whirls around, gold dress creating sunspots around the room as it catches the light. “You and I need to have a little chat.”

I sigh dramatically. “What is it now, princess?”

“Respect, Lesso, respect! Constantly you undermine and disrespect my teachers! They’re your colleagues, I don’t understand it. They- we earned and deserve our place here just as much as you. What is it, you think you’re better than us or-or you feel threatened? All Emma wanted this morning was the rest of the potion you promised her!” The Good Dean’s voice rises in pitch and she’s gesturing wildly. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“What does she expect when she turns up to my rooms at six in the morning dressed like a goddam flamingo.” I drawl lazily. “She doesn’t even teach a real subject!”

“It doesn’t matter! She deserves your respect. You shouldn’t have spoken to her like that!”

I scoff. “I can speak to whomever I want in whatever way I damn well please,” I say through gritted teeth.

Dovey just rolls her eyes. “Keep rolling them, princess, you might find a brain back there.” I sneer.

Colour rises in her cheeks, and she groans in frustration. I smile internally – God she’s hot when she’s angry. Dovey seems to sense my lack of focus.

“What is with you?! Storming around like you own everything and everyone. Tapping your stupid cane and rolling your dumb purple eyes. Always isolating yourself – obsessed with winning. Seriously, what have you got to prove?”

Up until then, I’d been tolerating her rant with calm coolness, but this is getting personal. “Enough!” I scream, standing up abruptly. I regret it as soon as the words come out. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I close my eyes.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I whisper. I didn’t mean to say it out loud and when I finally look at Dovey’s face she is staring at me with a kind of intensity that makes me sure she heard.

The Good Dean walks around the long table, so we are standing face-to-face about two metres apart. She takes a deep breath.

“Look, I guess what I’m trying to say is, please at least try to be cordial, ok? You don’t need to hate us. It’s difficult to work with you when you distance yourself and don’t give anyone a chance. And-“ She hesitates and looks down. “And maybe try to get a good night’s sleep, it might help.” I frown. Dovey fidgets with her hands and the corners of her mouth crease with nerves.

“I-I just- your office light has been on all night for the past week, and I’ve seen you around Sader’s office after dark and, well, I guess you must not be sleeping well.” She finishes hurriedly, rushing to explain herself. A sly smirk spreads slowly across my features as the realization hits me.

“Have you been stalking me?” I ask; My voice is as smooth as a snake’s, and I see a hint of fear on her face as I move closer.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She meets my gaze defiantly and I stare into her warm brown eyes. Dovey takes a step forward. Lazily, I rake my eyes deliberately over her form, taking in smooth curves clad with gold satin.

“You’d better watch yourself, Princess.” Her eyes are enchanting, drawing me in. Upon closer look, I find that in those brown eyes is the warmth of an everlasting hearth, as if they were the wood that could burn with golden flame yet be forever perfectly entire. They remind me of the forest and the autumnal leaves, the soil in summer and after the rains - I find myself unable to break away. I catch hold of her slim wrist.

“Or what?” she murmurs, searching my eyes. “you’ll send me to the Doom Room?”

“Mm, you’d like that, wouldn’t you Clarissa?” I whisper into her ear, mocking her tone. The other woman shivers at the use of her name and her breath hitches in her throat. We’re so close we’re almost touching. I move my thumb in slow circles over her smooth brown skin.

“For the record, I don’t hate you. But… I’ve been dying to ask you a question…” I lean forward slowly, giving the Good Dean plenty of time to pull away. I catch her lips softly in my own before drawing back, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

Dovey reaches up and presses her forehead against mine. The intimacy of the moment sends shivers zinging up and down my spine. Usually, my mind would be screaming at me to leave, to push her away, to punish myself for succumbing to such weakness and I almost do until…. Silence.

For the first time in years, my thoughts are silent, and I feel no need to pull away. I finally feel alive, as if there is liquid gold rushing through my veins instead of blood and I want to laugh and wrap my arms around the woman in front of me and kiss her until we’re both drunk on the taste of each other. For the first time in years, everything feels right.

Suddenly, she shakes her head as if pulling herself from a daydream and the moment is shattered. She places a firm hand against my chest and pushes me away gently. I step back and slide my hand into hers before letting it fall back against her gold dress.

“Goodnight, Lesso,” Dovey says softly, dipping her head. I incline my head back at her and watch her exposed shoulders as she walks toward the exit.

“Oh, I’m free for dinner on Thursday at seven,” she says, from the door without turning around.

“Of course,” I reply. “I’ll be in the Blue Forest then; so I’ll see you there.”

I make my way back to my office in something of a daze, the strange encounter with the Good Dean replying again and again in my mind. What’s gotten into me? Going around kissing Ever princesses? But seriously, she is so hot – the sight of her breasts heaving after I kissed her… A Cheshire grin spreads over my features at the thought of our impending date.

Shit.

I stop stock still in the middle of the corridor, the fading crimson light of dusk illuminating the stone pleasantly.

I don’t know a thing about cooking.

#dovesso #sge #sge fanfic #lady lesso #clarissa dovey #first kiss #idiots in love #hurt/comfort #self harm #panic attack #school for good and evil #ao3 #fluff #angry dovey #idk what this is #argument #emma anemone

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vampiric-prometheus · 1 year

Note

🩸, for book canon or NTH

Aren't drabbles meant to be like, 100 words? If so, I went over that limit; oops. I guess this is more of a one-shot, then. Regardless, thank you for the ask, Anon! This was super fun to write.

"First Name Basis" Nowhere to Hyde one-shot. Prompt: patching up a wound. Characters: Utterson and Hyde. This is hydeseek content, though you can read this platonically. But there's romantic implications, soooo... yeah. CW: mentions of blood.

"It's just a scratch-" Utterson insists again, awkwardly cradling his injured arm from where he's seated.

"Shut it," Hyde snaps, though not with cruelty, rather with an agitated concern, "I'm the one who dragged you up that tree, I'm the reason you fell. I'm fixin' it."

Rifling through the cabinets of his small Soho apartment, Hyde wants to slap himself for not bothering to stock his place with proper medical equipment. You'd think that having the mind of a doctor within your skull would encourage such forward thinking, but nooo, Jekyll's a chemicals kinda guy. The only thoughts rattling around in their head are salts and bunsen burners and indulgences and-

"You did not drag me up that tree," Utterson corrects, "I followed you willingly."

"Only 'coz I refused to get down," Hyde grumbles, hissing a triumphant 'yes!' as he finally locates the bandages. Snatching them from the cabinet, he lets the little door slam shut without a care, focusing instead on rushing back to Utterson before anymore blood can trickle down his pale arm.

The lawyer's gaze tips to the side, his voice quiet, "Actually, it was because of what you were saying about the stars."

Hyde pauses from where he's crouched in front of Utterson's seat, fingers inches away from the man's skin, "Eh?"

"You describe them often, when we walk together," the lawyer's voice remains faint - shy, "and it occurred to me, recently, that I had never truly paid much mind to them before our encounters."

Hyde tilts his head curiously, taking Utterson's injured arm and beginning to bandage it as the lawyer continues his explanation, "Whenever you speak of the stars, you have this... life to your voice. Granted, you usually speak with a rather, uh, 'upbeat tone', but there's something else to it. I'm not certain if I can define it, but this fondness you hold for the stars... Well. It made me wonder if, perhaps, by getting closer to the stars, to observe them as you do... maybe..."

Finishing his bandage dressing, Hyde glances up to Utterson, finding that his eyes meet the lawyers. He holds this gaze for a while, emerald melting silver, before Utterson awkwardly clears his throat, grey eyes flitting away, "...Perhaps if I got closer to the stars, I could also become closer to you."

Oh. Hyde smirks: "Well, ain't that adorable."

A dusting of pink stains the lawyer's cheeks as his shoulders stiffen, "I-I do not know what you mean."

"Yeah you do," Hyde casually retorts, drinking in the flustered sight of the usually straight-faced gentleman. But he also notes Utterson's uncomfortable squirm, the way his shyness is slipping into an anxious unease... and he decides to spare the gent. The man did fall out of a tree for him, after all.

How to quell this rising tension? Well, there's always one method that works with Utterson: "Y'know, maybe I should've said it was utterly adorable? Or am I bark-ing up the wrong tree?"

The lawyer blinks, glancing back towards the fella still crouched in front of him. His lip quivers with the hint of a smile, "Those were terrible."

"Oh, c'mon," Hyde leans towards Utterson with a wide, smug grin, "Don't be a stick in the mud."

"Hmm, you certainly had to stretch for that one," the gentleman relaxes back into his chair, "Wood you like a hand?"

"Ha! No worries, I ain't stump-ed just yet." Hyde shrugs, noting how Utterson's smile has grown. Time to go for gold, then: "In fact, I've got a question for you. What's the best way to make a tree laugh?"

"I don't know," the lawyer eagerly indulges, "What's the best way to-"

"You tell it acorn-y joke!" Hyde cuts in excitedly. In response, Utterson snorts with laughter. Perfect!

Together, the pair of them chuckle, Hyde admiring the sound of the lawyer's laugh. It's a rare thing to hear, so it's always something to appreciate whenever the man can coax it out of Utterson, can get him to drop that stiff persona all Victorian gentleman's train themselves to have. When Utterson relaxes - when he and Hyde can just be themselves without judgement or care - that's when their meet-ups are at their best. That's when the stars shine brightly against the darkness of the night sky.

Amidst his laughter, the lawyer speaks, sounding so fond whilst grinning with closed eyes, "Oh, Edward, since when did you learn such--"

Hyde doesn't hear the rest of what Utterson says. He's caught on one word, ensnared by the sound of a name, shocked so much by it that he stares at the lawyer with mouth agape and emerald eyes blinking rapidly.

Edward. Edward. "Y-You just called me..."

"Hm?" Utterson's chuckles falter, ceasing awkwardly, "Did I say...? Oh. D-Did you not want me to call you-?"

"No, that's not what I meant!" Hyde insists, making a sweeping gesture with his hands as if to shove the mere thought aside, "It's just... no-one's ever called me by my name before. Like, okay, everyone calls me Hyde of course, but Edward?"

Not even Henry Jekyll has called his other self by that name. Edward Hyde only has a full name for legal purposes, to have a complete title to write on wills and cheques. No-one was ever expected to actually call him by his first name - in Victorian society, everyone and their mother just went by their surnames, purely for the sake of formalities. There were few exceptions to this societal rule: parents to children, husbands to wives, and... friends to cherished friends.

"Is it... is it alright?" Utterson timidly queries, "To call you that in private?"

Hyde's brow furrows as he thoroughly thinks it through, stroking at his jaw in contemplation, turning over the name 'Edward' within his mind. So many names within this skull; Henry... Jekyll... Hyde... "Does this mean I can call you Gabriel?"

The lawyer doesn't vocally react, but his expression alone communicates his startled bewilderment.

"Yeah!" Hyde grins, nodding frantically to himself, "Gabriel, or- OH! GABE! I'm calling you Gabe!"

"Gabe-?!" Utterson wrinkles his nose like a disgruntled rabbit.

The other fella bursts into laughter, smirking wildly up at the lawyer, leaning crossed arms atop Utterson's knees, "Don't you think 'Gabriel' just sounds so pretentious? A shortened name would suit yah, really!"

The lawyer sighs, voice exasperated, "Edward... please, no..."

Hyde pouts, "Fiiine. Gabriel it is. But you get the privilege of calling me Eddie, if you want to."

Utterson doesn't respond immediately, silver eyes drifting downwards, having realised how close Hyde is to him. The crouched fella expects to be pushed away, to be asked as politely as possible (for an embarrassed Victorian gentleman) to remove his arms from the lawyer's legs... But instead: "If you would prefer that I call you Eddie, then I can certainly do that."

Heart full of starlight, Hyde grins, "Dang. Maybe I should've made you fall for me sooner. ...O-Out of the tree, of course."

The lawyer's lips twitch with a hint of a smile, "Of course."

#dr jekyll and mr hyde #the strange case of dr jekyll and mr hyde #gothic literature #edward hyde #gabriel utterson #>nowhere to hyde #writing #fanfic #drabble #one shot #utterson is entirely to blame for hyde's love of puns #which is good because now they can flirt-- oops i mean tell each other jokes #yep #nothing else to it #just guys being dudes #hydeseek

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dontcallme-likethat · 1 year

Text

And With What Conscious Equipped, Pray?

A brief excerpt of a TBZ Gang-type AU in the works. This is meant to be a prologue of the bigger story. Open-endness and missing details intended.

○ ○ ○

Synopsis - Sangyeon and Chanhee, leader and second of their city gang unit, have made quick work of tracking down the people who kidnapped one of their own.

Warnings - Mentions of weaponry, blood, and minor injury

○ ○ ○

Besides the drumming of the highway cars and semis that drove above, humming through the thick concrete ceilings of the underground parking space, only the clicking of Chanhee’s heels echoed down the empty lot as he briskly made his way to his car.

He opened the trunk with a sigh, tossing the heavy duffel bag of unused armery parts he’d just collected, and used a clean rag to wipe off the smudges of rust and dirt he’d gathered from the messy ordeal off his jacket, as well as the blood that had managed to spill from the open skin of a few of his knuckles towards his elbow. Usually he would be more annoyed about the stains, the mess, how unusually angry he’d gotten – but tonight he dismissed a quick patching trip to Hyunjae’s office.

He had more important matters to attend to, ones that did not involve attention to his pitiful wounds. He had a closing case, and an idiot to save.

The drive to the Center was without trouble, where the late night rain had fended off any stray from overtaking the slippery streets. When he arrived, Chanhee grabbed a folder of files from the empty seat beside him before exiting his car and making his way inside, nodding in quick greeting at the handful of recognizable but unmemorable faces of other members of the gang who littered the main floor, people outside of Chanhee’s scope of work. He climbed the backwell stairs to the higher up offices, lining a dimly lit, wide hall of dark oak wood floors and doors, with walls the color of worn, grey linen. It was quiet and it was comfortable, but it wasn’t out of invitation.

Chanhee knocked thrice on one of the furthest doors before swinging the it open without waiting for a reply.

Sangyeon looked up from his paperwork that currently scattered the small coffee table before him, the set of seats by the large glass windows apart from his larger desk. Chanhee dropped his folder in front of him with a small thud.

“I’ve cornered the leads we discussed yesterday,” Chanhee said, inviting himself to a cold glass of water from Sangyeon’s small drink cabinet. “Took a whole day of scouting but we have our guy,”

Sangyeon flipped through the pages of identification and history work of at least a dozen men, men from a small gang from the far southeast side of the city. They weren't significant or troublesome enough to garner their attention, even a memorized name, until just a few days ago.

He hummed, scanning the last file of the man Chanhee was referring to, one of the leaders that was sure to have what they were looking for.

“That was fast. Well done,” Sangyeon said as Chanhee sat across from him. “Did you find their armery? I was looking at the documents of the robbery here,”

“In my car. Those kids couldn’t leave a trail more obvious if they tried,”

“Not much trouble, I hope?”

“They’re children, Sangyeon,”

“Not what I asked,” he nodded at Chanhee’s knuckles.

Chanhee scoffed, covering his hands with his sleeve. “They pissed me off, is all. They don’t know what they’re doing, following their leaders like blind dogs. I took one down when he tried to put his hands on me, but that was all. I told the rest to go home,”

Sangyeon looked back down at the files, nodding with a sigh. “They aren’t a threat, at least, it seems. But we’ll be done with them come sundown,”

Chanhee gazed at the cityline below with a frown. Rooftops, dark alleyways, and the glitter of orange streetlights from the glass’ raindrops built the scape. Too pretty a sight for a most obnoxious night of work.

Sangyeon’s tired but light chuckle before him made Chanhee face him again.

“Get some rest,” Sangyeon told him, “This will be over soon. You know he’s okay, right?”

Chanhee clicked his teeth. “Of course I know. I’m just annoyed. How he let something like this happen to him is what I’m concerned about,”

Sangyeon thought for a moment. “I had the same thought. It’s rather unlike him,”

Chanhee gnawed at the inside of his cheek in the enveloping silence before saying quieter but with a firmness, “We can’t let it happen again, Sangyeon,”

“A lousy kidnapping?”

“You know what I mean,”

Sangyeon watched as two droplets crawled down the glass, fighting against a breeze. They twitched and grew is size when they gathered other standstill drops. Together, they slid down, down.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I do,”

○ ○ ○

#the boyz fanfic #tbz fanfic #tbz au #chanhee fic #sangyeon fic #ty for reading :> i hope this was a worthwhile read!#not my best work but i had this lying around for a while and wanted to try putting something out there #and this type of stuff is up my alley of stories and writing so im definitely gonna do so more over the summer #so! lmk if yall liked this and would be interested in more! perhaps a part two :>#og works #mafia au

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ladycatofwinterfell · 1 year

Note

😇

I saw your struggles today and I’m giving you what should have been the beginning of a magnum opus but instead went nowhere

Darkness, a barren nothing, and then suddenly fire. She could feel it in her whole body even though she saw no light, the flames licked her body. Her cheeks were melting away and the smoke went down her throat and into her lungs, hot and dry. She could hear her own wheezing breaths, small and weak. It was a dying woman’s breaths, the sound of death, and she could not move.

“Here” a soft voice said.

The Stranger had come to take her. The Stranger had a gentle voice and suddenly her throat was cool. It was sweeter than any cake she had ever eaten, she had never known such relief despite that the fire still had hold of the rest of her.

“You poor thing, it is truly a wonder you lived.”

Then it was only darkness once more.

Next time she knew more than blackness the flames are smaller, not as ruthless. They try to harm her, try to cause her pain though they have lost the strength she knew before. Still her breaths were small, still she couldn’t move. Her lips parted in what should have been a scream but was merely a whisper.

“Ronja, she’s awake again.”

It wasn’t the gentle voice from before, the Stranger took many forms. It was the gruff voice of a man, low and deep.

“Give her some of the honey water.”

There it was again, the soft voice, a woman’s voice. She loved that voice, she wanted her to speak forever. It was warm and comforting like the embrace of a mother. Perhaps her own mother had come to meet her and bring her home. It had been so many years, she wanted to see her again.

“You took her in, she could die for all I care.”

She wanted to die, there was so much pain in life. In death was Mother and Father. Robb and Bran and Rickon waited for her, her little boys, her lovely sons. And Ned. Ned’s warm embrace and gentle kisses, his comfort and his love.

“Don’t listen to him, lass, he doesn’t mean to be so harsh.”

The woman with the sweet voice calmed the fire even more, granted her the sweet relief in her throat and cooled her cheeks. Like when she had been a child and swam in the rivers, diving under the water that was sometimes so cold that her lips were turning blue.

“Rest, sweetling.”

And so Catelyn did.

Slowly she opened her eyes, trying to get used to the light. A small room met her when she had blinked a few times. It was only the narrow cot she was in, a larger bed next to it, a table with three chairs and a cabinet. A small fire burned in a little fireplace in the other end of the room and above it hung a kettle. The only window in the room was above the larger bed and a door that led outside was opposite of the beds.

She didn’t recognise the room, she had never seen it before. She didn’t remember anything at all after seeing Robb fall to the floor. When she slowly turned her head to look out the window she saw some leaves and a grey sky.

Her body was sore and stiff and only moving her head was exhausting. Her mouth was dry as sand and every breath hurt in her throat. There was a wooden bowl with what seemed to be water and a roughly carved spoon placed on the dusty wooden floor next to her, though she couldn’t reach for it.

Catelyn didn’t know if it had been minutes or hours of staring at the bowl when the door opened. The woman that entered was plump and clad in a grey woollen dress, torn and stained. Her face was lined and weathered, her hair as grey as her dress, though still there was a kindness to her. Despite her torn appearance she seemed to have close to laughter.

At first she didn’t seem to notice Catelyn, only crouched down in front of the fire and put more wood on it from a small pile next to it.

“Please” Catelyn croaked, her voice no more than a whisper. “Water.”

The woman quickly stood up and spun around, smiling at her.

“Of course, sweetling” she said.

She crossed the room, carefully lifted the bowl and brought the spoon to Catelyn’s lips. She felt like a child as the woman fed her spoonful of the sweet, honeyed water, though she was not strong enough to care. Greedily she took spoon after spoon until the bowl was almost empty.

“Thank you” she whispered.

Though she couldn’t speak louder her voice was smoother, it didn’t crack.

“You needn’t thank me.”

The woman put the bowl down and then sat at the edge of the cot.

“What’s your name, lass?” she asked.

Catelyn hesitated. She didn’t know who that woman was, she didn’t know to whom she was loyal. She didn’t know who Catelyn was from sight, though perhaps her name wasn’t a welcome one.

“My mother named me Cat. Cat Rivers.”

Cat was not a strange name and there were thousands upon thousands of bastard in the realm. No one could say she wasn’t one of them.

“I’m Ronja. You might’ve heard my husband speaking, he’s Birk. It was he who found you washed up on the river bank.”

Washed up on the river bank? What had they done to her? Why had she been in the river?”

“I don’t remember being in the river.”

“Oh you were far from this world, Cat Rivers, barely alive. We thought you were dead just like everyone else in the water, but suddenly you gave a small sound and then we knew there was life in you. And I wouldn’t let that change.”

Catelyn didn’t know what to say so she remained silent. Why had they thrown her in the river? Had they believed her to be dead and thought they were ridding themselves of her corpse? Had it been a final mockery of her? They had killed her son and thrown her in the river.

She should have been dead. If not from the knife at her throat then from drowning and yet she had lived. That felt more like a mockery from the gods. They took everyone she loved and then made sure she lived to feel it.

Ronja and Birk had been kind not to leave her, though she couldn’t thank them for it, it would have been easier to be dead.

“What do I owe you for saving my life?”

She had nothing, but she was aware of that every debt had to be paid. And she was completely at their mercy, they could sell her to a brothel if they so wished. She found that the thought didn’t disgust her as much as it should have. She had nowhere to go, might as well have been the bastard she claimed to be. Lady Catelyn Stark was no more, her son and king was dead and gone, as was the rest of her family and her cause. Winterfell had been burned, Riverrun would be taken by the Lannisters and the Freys.

“We cannot ask you to pay when you didn’t even have clothes on your body and we won’t keep you here for longer than you wish, but there are always things to be done in our little field and we have sheep to care for.”

“Winter will soon be upon us” Catelyn said. “It will be a burden to feed me and keep me warm, I cannot stay with you.”

It would be dangerous, she didn’t care. She could die, it wouldn’t matter because she had nothing to live for. Though she couldn’t say that to the woman who had worked to keep her alive.

Ronja sighed, her smile turning melancholic. Her eyes, muddy green, had no tears in them and yet Catelyn dreaded her next words.

“The lions took our only daughter, we have a place for you if you’ve nowhere else to go” she said. “Though now I need to go back outside and you should rest, I’ve kept you awake for too long.”

Catelyn wanted to protest but Ronja had left her before she had time to open her mouth.

She had to know that Catelyn couldn’t stay there. Even if winter had not been fast approaching she wouldn’t be able to find peace. She could not live a small life after all that had taken place, it was impossible. Either she found a way to make her way to an ally that had not yet been destroyed or she died. The rivers had given her life to her, she would give it back to them willingly.

Though she was tired she couldn’t sleep more after the conversation. The lions had taken their daughter, as the lions had taken Catelyn’s husband and still held her eldest daughter. As the twin towers had taken her eldest son, as the kraken had taken the youngest two. As something unknown had claimed Arya, as doom had taken her home.

Sansa still lived. She was a prisoner, had been wed to the dwarf, but she lived. How long had it been since the twins? Did Sansa know? Had she heard of Robb’s demise, had someone told her of Catelyn’s death? Her little girl, her sweet and gentle daughter, she had to be saved. She couldn’t walk out into the river while Sansa still lived, she couldn’t let her be alone. She had to save her. She hadn’t been able to save Ned or Robb or Bran and Rickon and Arya. Though she couldn’t give up on Sansa. When those not entirely loyal to the false abomination of a king heard of what had been done at the Twins they would not be silent, she could take advantage of that. The king and his mother would fall and then Sansa would be free.

Though before that she had to regain her strength. She didn’t want to be a prisoner in the little house wherever she was, but she could barely lift a hand. Ronja was right, she needed to rest.

It was easier to be asleep, Catelyn quickly became aware. Nothing hurt and her mind couldn’t wander. When she was awake all she could think of was death and very rarely were her hosts there to distract her. The occasional wind howling outside was like screams, and she wanted to join it. Though when she was asleep she was at peace, they all waited for her there. Happy and safe, and it made the waking world even more painful.

So she spent most of her time sleeping. And slowly she noticed that she became stronger. After seven days and seven nights she could sit upright and eat by own accords even though it still hurt to swallow anything but water. Birk refused to speak to her, though she didn’t care because Ronja was kind. Tended to her torn cheeks that very slowly healed. The long wound that went across her throat, almost from one ear to the other, refused to stop bleeding. If she moved her head too quickly it ripped open, so in the end Ronja tied a piece of cloth around her neck and ordered her to be perfectly still. Birk had grumbled terribly then.

“Can you not care for your own wounds, woman?” he had asked, glaring at her from a chair at the table.

“No” Catelyn responded shortly. “I cannot.”

Had she been able to she wouldn’t have been there.

#i might turn this into a one shot one day #2022 snippets

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