#its tissue time and clutching pearls

[whoviandoodler]

On today's episode of 'Wow, you haven't got that parasocial relationship under control, huh buddy?'...

[anamericangirl]

In #America you can’t be forced to give your organs to anyone, even if you caused the need for organs, the government cannot ever legally force you to donate a kidney or tissue or blood plasma, even if you are the reason someone needs it. So it follows that you can’t force someone to use their uterus to undergo a pregnancy that they don’t want. You don’t have to like abortion or think it’s moral, but making laws that people can’t choose to have autonomy over their own organs is fundamentally dangerous. You don’t have to think abortion is wrong, you can clutch your pearls and you can wind up reasons why fetuses are people, but it doesn’t take away that people are supposed to be granted medical autonomy and a person cannot be forced to use their organs in a way they don’t want to

It does not follow that you can kill your child if you're pregnant just because you can't be forced to donate an organ.

Y'all really need to stop with that organ donation argument because it is not comparable to pregnancy in any way. They are completely different situations that involve entirely different actions and the fact that's the default pro-abort argument just illustrates you guys don't know what you are talking about.

You are trying to say that not saving the life of a dying person is no different than intentionally killing a healthy person who would have continued to live without your interference.

You are trying to say that donating one of your organs is the same as one not donating an organ and having an organ in your body work for its intended purpose.

You are saying parents have no more responsibility to protect their children than they do to protect a stranger.

You are saying because you don't have to donate an organ to a sick person that translates to being able to violently murder your own child.

Pregnancy and organ donation are not the same and it's time to stop pretending they are.

You can think women not being able to kill their children is wrong and you can clutch your pearls and dehumanize the preborn to justify their murder but it doesn't take away the fact that bodily autonomy has limits and those limits are in place when it would directly harm or kill another person. It doesn't take away the fact that is the direct and intentional killing of a human child. The right another person has to live always trumps the right to bodily autonomy. Bodily autonomy is not the right to commit murder.

If the woman didn't want her uterus to be used for its intended purpose then she shouldn't have had sex and made the baby. You are in fact responsible for the life you create.

So cry harder.

[liesandbrokenhearts]

Smooth raspberry calamities

Calm somehow found within tragedy

Branches marry vines, told by sweet butterflies

Of sweetened hue and chosen few,

told of pure perfume

And found in its extremities.

(For love is not found in the sycamore tree)

Morrow feels yet hollow

Microscopic lullabies of sorrow

Engrossed in colors between the time

Close dug happiness in given signs

Compare and find in winds turbine

Monarch butterflies:

Or monarchies divine?

Crown mold, both told and old

Hidden in bloodline

And called in the nighttime,

Ancestors blood crawling to their lifelines

Tissue destroying the furrows,

And it’s outlines.

To see pain in another

And no morals to live by,

Do you clutch your pearls

The same way you shame,

when you glance as we walk by?

Circular wealth redundant to the place

You’ll soon reside,

You can find comfort in numbers

Til it’s gone and you’re brushed by.

Find a place to be told in its many loved faces,

Become of the word that is deserving of their graces

To see as be seen you must erase these old faces,

You’ve become of yourself

When you rid of once traces.

For petals yet found will wilt within the hour,

You cannot stop them from falling,

For the soon surpassing flower

You must accept of the roots,

Now new with new perfume,

It’s youth not it’s meaning,

It’s essence it’s bloom.

[lepus-arcticus]

37.

“Why a snake?” 

Outside, a cacophony of cicadas shriek, their shrill melodic cries lacerating the thick Tennessee dusk. 

“Hmm,” she grunts into the pillow, her wet hair curling around her earlobes. The door connecting their rooms is ajar, creaking against the air-con. She’s sprawled naked on her belly across the cheap paisley comforter, towel abandoned to the sticky carpet, and her ouroboros leers at him from above the refined slopes of her sweet little ass. 

She lifts her chin and fixes him with a look that says ‘leave it alone, Mulder’. Instead, he moves from the desk to the bed and sinks down beside her, covering the tattoo with his palm, getting close to her skin and inhaling the lingering scent of motel bar soap. There is a subtle ripple of scar tissue distorting the snake’s twisty scales, a souvenir from that awful afternoon in the office. Surely, he thinks, still sick with shame, it’s been longer than three years. Surely he’s not the same man he once was. 

The serpent observes him from between his fingers, and he finds he can’t look away. “I mean, from a purely Abrahamic perspective, snakes are the ultimate in baddie symbology. They’re practically reviled in your religion. Why… why choose to mark yourself with such a symbol?” 

Scully nuzzles the pillowcase and pouts, sinking back into that place she goes. Mulder bides his time, thinking of the temptation of Eve, of original sin, of the swath of papery snakeskin nailed to the doorbeam of the Church of Signs and Wonders. He thinks of Minoan goddesses glazed with quartz paste, of Osiris and Ra. He thinks about how the span of his fingers nearly encompasses the width of Scully’s waist. 

“I don’t know,” she says, finally, but he knows it’s bullshit. There’s nothing that Scully doesn’t know, doesn’t turn over in her head until every thought is as clean and hard as a freshwater pearl. He hums in disapproval, and she pops her ass up into the warm air, rolling it towards him, trying to change the subject. 

“Was it the alchemical connection that stirred you?” he murmurs dramatically, allowing himself to be hypnotized by the suggestive pulses she’s making with her hips, by the way she looks at him from under her eyelashes. “Surely it’s not an ode to organic chemistry.” At this, she snorts, and he smiles through a tremor of lust, dipping his head to bite her soundly on one peachy cheek. 

She jerks but then purrs his name, and he keeps his head low, getting hard at the thought of all the paganish and sin-soaked things he suddenly wants to do to her. Maybe it’s the case and its stink of religious zeal that’s getting to him, but he wants it dirty this time, wants to shock her a little, wants things from her that the professionals in his videotapes charge extra to do. 

He roots closer to the seam of her rump, tasting her downy skin, letting his tongue dip into the divot below her tattoo. There’s a dumb joke rattling around his brain about eating tail, but there isn’t enough blood left in his head to make it clever. Instead, he moves behind her, strategizing, salivating. 

He grips her hips and hauls her up so that she’s on her knees, spread wide before him, and she’s so slim that there’s no flesh to move out of the way--the view is already downright pornographic. She stretches her arms towards the pine headboard and sighs happily as he wrestles his stiffening cock out of his jeans one-handed, sliding the fingers of his free hand through the searing hot basin of her cunt; her beautiful, beautiful cunt that is already so wet for him, because, thank whatever snake-scorning gods hold dominion over the earth, his Scully nearly always wants it just as bad as he does. 

“You’ve got the prettiest asshole,” he croons, and it’s indisputably true, especially when he drags his fingers up to glaze it with her arousal. 

She’s quiet, and he knows from experience that she’s waiting to see what he’ll say next, what he’ll do. He’s not sure if it’s a dare, but he decides to take it as one anyway, because there’s a hot pang at the base of his spine and it’s spreading to his balls and he’s not in the mood to be anything resembling circumspect. He swipes his thumb over that tight, sweet bud, his dick throbbing painfully at the way it clenches a little against him, at how she doesn’t retreat, but instead pushes back. 

Jesus Christ. 

He rubs and rubs with the meditative concentration of a Jaipur snake charmer until she finally makes a small, desperate sound, and then he’s lost. Without even bothering with a warning, he’s got two fingers deep in the velvety clutch of her pussy, and he’s diving face-first into that forbidden place, tonguing the pucker of it viciously, already drunk on the earthy tang that’s at once thrilling in its novelty but still so essentially Scully that he almost comes into his fist. 

But he holds off and makes her come instead, begging to fuck her ass while she’s pliant and pleased with him, promising to go slow, groaning good-naturedly when she shuts him down and then amends her rebuffs with a sly maybe some other time, Mulder, because despite what your videos might advertise, that kind of thing requires careful preparation. 

He enjoys fucking her hard from behind anyway, enjoys watching the ripple of her body as it slams against his hips, enjoys sliding a cheeky thumb into the pink, puckered darling of his fantasies as she’s coming a second time, enjoys earning her dazed, delighted mewl. 

“At least tell me about the tattoo,” he says afterwards, when they’re sweaty and exhausted and starting to talk about finding a diner. “We’re in snake country, Scully. It’s only right.” Even as he’s saying it, he realizes he’s not serious, that he doesn’t care, that he likes that she won’t give him all of herself, even when he asks nicely. 

“C’mon, Mulder, you love a good mystery,” she smiles. “Maybe if you figure it out, I’ll let you fuck me in the ass sometime.” -

Incrementum

[kaiparker-avengerssmut]

CURSED: CHAPTER ELEVEN

“All is fair in love and war”

Kai Parker x OC!Mack Grace

Series synopsis: "We're both cursed, in a way."

We all know the story of Kai Parker, but he once lived in a very different life. Do you ever wonder what that life looked like?

Chapter summary: werewolf shit, guys

Warnings: death, blood, violence, swearing possibly

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

MACK clutched her head in her hands, her back resting sharply against the car wheel as her chest rose and fell rapidly, her lungs struggling to keep up with her breaths. Tears streaked down her face like paint and her eyes were swollen with fear as she stared down at his body.

Ben's head rested sickeningly in a pool of deep crimson, his eyes frozen open like a deer in headlights, unblinking and unflinching. His nose was bloodied, his clothes scuffed and ripped and his chest looked nauseatingly con-caved. Mack chocked backed sob, covering her mouth with her hand. The more she stared at him, the more the reality sunk in.

She killed someone.

She killed him.

Someone she new, someone she once loved. She killed him. Someone who was worshiped at her school, someone whose name was on every certificate, every trophy. Someone who new her mum, her dad her sister.

A demented scream ripped from her throat like a banshee, her vocals straining to make a sound that sinister and that piercing. She kept going. Her world collapsed, crumbling like sand around her until only grit remained. She would go to jail. She would be sentenced to death. She would have to leave her dad. She would have to leave Kai. Mack's thoughts swooped through her like vultures, praying off her emotions like they were merely insignificant worms or insects.

The tainted sound stopped at the feeling of warm breath tickling against her ear. Welcomed hands on her shoulders. Comforting words whispered by a soothing voice.

"Shhh. Shh. Sweetheart, I need you to listen to me." Kai cooed gently, tucking some hair behind Mack's ear and tilting her head to face him with his finger and thumb on her chin. "No one is going to find out, okay? Just - just do exactly as I say." Kai's blue eyes were so calming, soft okie the ocean - blue and dazzling with sparks of hope like the theory of salt that littered wave tops and swells. "Can you do that for me, sweetheart?" He persisted and Mack managed a nod. "Good."

Kai stood up again, moving from his crouched position in front of Mack and over to where Ben's body menacingly taunted him. Kai scrunch up his nose, gathering saliva at the back of his throat before spitting over Ben. He hoisted the boy's body up, as arm under each armpit as he dragged Ben into the tree line that outlined the small road like thick, black marker in a child's painting. Setting his body down at the bottom of a tree, Kai sprinted over to his car, opening the door and flinging the glove box open.

He rummaged through it, tossing unwanted items on the seat like a scene out of a movie. That was until he came across what he wanted.

A small teddy-bear. Small enough to fit in the palm of Kai's hand; stuffing bursting through the seams, button eyes clinging on by strangled, old threads and ears half ripped off. He enclosed his hands around it, eyes rolling back and a small groan passing his lips as the glow emitted an orange hue. A warmth spread throughout him, filling his veins like a drug. Kai missed this feeling, the feeling of magic running through him. The adrenaline was heavy now, coursing through him just like the magic and aiding him as he ran back to Ben as fast as he could.

He bent down beside the body, arms held out and palms hovering over the torso and he muttered incantations and Latin phrases.

Scatters of ash floated upwards as spread densely to the sides, flaking off like tissue paper. The embers scorned the sides, titian hues edging them and creating a malevolent glow around them. When the ash cleared and the air thinned, clearing of magic, only an empty spot of grass that boarded the broad roots of the tree remained, all evidence of Ben's body disintegrated and nestling into the forest floor like any other leaf or decaying plant.

An abrupt grunt brought Kai back to present, making his head turn suddenly in the direction of Mack.

"Kenz?" He asked tentatively, but was merely met with another grunt, "Kenz, you're really scaring me." Kai said as he made his was round the car until he was face to face with her.

Then the screaming started. Mack collapsed to the floor from where she'd managed to stand to, her leg snapping in an unnatural manner. Then she jerked to the left, another scream ripping from her throat menacingly as her bones seemed to crack and break - her body distorting into a creature. Kai's head tilted to look at the moon, hanging mockingly, a full, bright, Pearl-white circle in the dark, spotted sky.

A sharp gasp pierced through the air, Kai's breath turning into a small cloud of icy white. It was a full moon. He looked back to make quickly, her form now hunted over, resting on all fours with her head dipped.

Mack's head rose from where it's been bowed, her eyes glowing with an intense fusion of gold, pain and fury. Her top lip pulled back threateningly, unveiling a pair of fangs which protruded uncomfortably over her bottom lip like small knives. All trace of Mack was gone, besides her hair and torn-up, blood-splattered clothes. A feral growl tore from her and Kai's eyes widened, his mind finally processing the situation in full.

And that's when he ran.

Kai ran, fast. As fast as he could; along the tarmac road, his converse crunching against the gravel grossly as he sprinted back to his Jeep. Looking back, Mack no longer chased him. No. It wasn't Mack - it was a monster. It's fur ran silky over its skin, dark silvers mixed with blacks, whites and yellowy-browns, it's eyes burned gold and it's ears stood to attention in the bitter wind whipping around them. It's paws were huge - as big as Kai's feet, maybe even bigger, and it's tail was a swooshing sweep of death behind it. Kai swallowed thickly, his hand resting on the door-handle now, tugging desperately and flinging the car open wide.

He clambered in, slamming the door just in time as the wolf scraped its claws down the side of the door. Kai winced at the screeching sound, cringing at the thought of the huge scratches that would be there now. He desperately tried turning his keys in the ignition but it cut short. He tried again and again, the sound of her clawing at his door making the desperation grow stronger.

After a short while Kai gave up, slumping into his seat and burying his face him his hands and hoping that she'd soon leave.

Mack didn't. She remained relentless, scratching and scraping at his car all night long. Kai can't remember when, but at some point he must've fallen asleep, as the whole world went black and all nosies were drained out.

...

The pale sun peaked over the trees, illuminating the dark road with a creamy-white light that shone over the sticky tarmac and leaves and grass glistened with the morning frost. Kai sat up slowly in his seat, groaning at his aching body and slowly peering out the window. Nothing was there. She had gone.

He slowly opened his car door, climbing out the black jeep and wincing at the damage done to his vehicle.

Long, jagged lines of scratchy sliver-grey were clawed down the doors, over the bonnet and the windows were scattered in lines of blue where the panes had been scraped. As he wandered around the car, Kai stopped in his tacks upon seeing Mack sprawled out over the floor, her shaking, naked frame shivering in the frosted grass. He rushed over to her, grounding slowly beside the girl and quickly shedding his coat. He spread it over her, pulling Mack's head into his lap for a moment and stroking her hair calmingly. When she didn't stir, he gently collected her into his arms, walking cautiously over to his car and placing her in the back seat. He looked at her, sighing as pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.

While he drove back to Mack's house, Kai's divers gripped the steering wheel tightly and his thoughts spiralled. Could he ever look at her the same? Of course he could, she was his best friend, his... well, friend. The girl he lo-

What? He didn't love her. No. He just cared deeply for her, felt hurt when she was hurt, wanted to cry when she cried, felt immense joy when she was happy, could barely stand to spend more than a few hours away from her, not touching her, not kissing her-

Holy shit. He loved her. He was in love with his best friend, his fuck buddy. Kai's mind was sent into overdrive, his senses buzzing off adrenaline, but they were soon interrupted by a low groan from the backseat. He looked back slightly, keeping one eye trained on the road ahead of them.

"Rise and shine, sweet cheeks." He quipped cheerfully, smirking as Amelie sat up, the coat falling from her chest and giving Kai a perfect view of her breasts from the rear-view mirror. He whistled and she frowned. "Fuck, you have nice tits." Kai grinned and Mack's eyes widened. She instantly reached for the coat, pulling it up over her chest and holding it there with one hand.

"Kai!" She exclaimed as he started to laugh.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before, sweetheart. And it definitely isn't something I wouldn't mind seeing again." He mentioned with a wink and she scowled at him. Then her eyes finally caught onto the scratches and scraped littering her shoulders, her legs, her feet, her hands. She gasped, holding her arms out in front of herself and examining her hands. The coat dropped again and Kai went back to his marvelling. Mack soon realised, pulling it over herself again.

"Stop doing that!" She said and Kai chuckled.

"I'm not doing anything, sweetheart. You can't blame your own...clumsiness on my intuition to see you naked." He smirk and she stuck her tongue out at him. "I'd be careful if I were you, babe, or I might get you to put the tongue to a better use." He winked and she gasped again, slumping back into the seats and crossing her arms over her chest.

They pulled into her drive, Kai stopping the car and walking round to Mack's door. He opened it, scooping the girl into his arms and kicking it shit with his foot.

"Kai!" She screamed, giggling as he walked with her in his arms. "Put me down!" She demanded, hitting his chest with her fists and kicking her legs.

"And let your dad think I'm less than the gentleman I made myself out to be last night? Nuh uh, babe." He quipped and Mack huffed, settling into his arms and he blindly opened the door to her house.

"You're back." Ian sighed, standing swiftly from the couch and crossing over to Kai, patting him on the shoulder and thanking him. "You're a good kid, thank you so much for helping us." He said in Kai's ear as the boy let Mack down and she scrambled off to her room. Ian sighed again, sitting down on the sofa and patting the spot beside him.

Kai tentatively sat beside him, kindly refusing when Ian offered him a beer, saying it was too early. They sat back against the cushions, a silence filled with awkward tension settling over them.

"Look, I'm guessing you saw...her." Ian started, gesturing towards where Mack had scurried off to.

"Yeah." Kai said bluntly.

"And you're still here?" Ian prompted and Kai nodded.

"I'm not exactly...human, myself." Kai admitted and Ian's brow raised.

"You're a wolf?" He asked and Kai shook his head with an amused smile. "There's other supernatural creatures?" Ian pressed and Kai smiled.

"Yes, I am a siphon." Ian pulled a confused face, "I'm a witch that doesn't have any powers of their own - I can only draw from other magical beings." Kai explained and Ian nodded slowly.

"Hey, Kai, do you wanna maybe go out? I need some fresh air." Mack called, rounding the corner and walking into the living room, now clad in some jeans and one of Kai's sweaters. He grinned at her, pleased to see her earring his clothes.

"Sure, Kenz. Do you want to start up my car? I'll meet you out there." He suggested and she plodded off. After the sound of the door slamming reached their ears Ian turned to Kai once again.

"If you plan on hurting my daughter in any way, I will kill you." He whispered and Kai smiled. "Got it?"

"Not like you'd stand much a chance.." Kai mused. "But yes, I understand and I have no intention of letting anyone or anything hurt Kenz. I promise." Kai replied and Ian smiled.

"Now go, have fun, keep my daughter happy!"

[largeballz]

Second Tooth

The first one came out the week of her birthday.

This second tooth’s harder: she pushes

and pushes at it with her tongue, tries to grip and drag it out.

Nothing comes but blood.

*

In the museum is the jawbone of a child, undated.

A label in fine ink: Upper and Lower Milk Teeth

and first permanent molar.

You can see the next loose milk tooth,

jutting squintly from the lower jaw.

Nobody dislodged it when the child died,

nobody kept that little white seed-pearl.

They left the mouth as it was, when its tongue

could wiggle the wobbly tooth,

and there was almost a gap in the grin.

*

At the school gate she’s clutching the tooth

in a paper towel. It fell out at playtime

just when she’d finished her apple and milk.

That night she wraps it in tissue

puts it under her pillow

with a note for the fairy not to take it away.

In the morning, a shining twenty pence

that she puts with the tooth in her heart-shaped box.

Inside her mouth, the permanent molars,

the teeth of an adult, are pushing and pushing through.

poet anon!! long time no see bestie <3

[aristsagainstarttheft]

Oh grow up mr not so high ground

So calling a kid out for stupid stunts, bullying others, and making money off official art is now bad? Get your head checked dipshit.

No real slurs were thrown at the kid either, except the fact they were called dumb and scummy, which they ARE indeed being puddin. I mean stealing ocs and selling them off, deleting comments of those telling them to stop, and being a giant brat about it. Yea, scummy and stupid.

How would you feel if this snot nosed lil punk took your hard work, sold it for pts; and when you kindly told them to stop, blocked and hid your comment and KEPT stealing your work? People are pissed bucko, we long past the point of peace. Oh but I bet you are the type to go "Think of the children!" While clutching yer cheap ass pearls and balled up tissue.

Sometimes you gotta slap a kid with a dose of reality and get MEAN. Otherwise you keep fucking babying them, they gonna keep doing shit thinking its ok!  So wouldn't you wanna stop the brats now rather than later?

So take your moral bullshit and shove it up your tight ass fuckwad, this ain't a Sunday Church gathering, this is the internet, and if you think its bad here...hehe buddy you'll shit your pants at kiwi farms forums.

Again you gotta be harsh to get a point across sometimes, cuz being a meely mouthed loser going "Pwease stop uwu" ain't gonna cut it, especially to rude spoiled brats. Show the kid you are the adult and that they are in big trouble, and then they'll panic and start listening.

Also, not all kids are saints fuck head. I've seen kids say the hard R with the N slur, I've seen kids say f#g, I've seen kids say ppls should go play in traffic, kill themselves, along with way worse things. Oh but we DARE call one lil thief "scummy" and you flip your shit buddy? How about you go wash those kids mouths out with soap before preaching on your soapbox to us hmm? 

Again, get your ass outta here, and next time come out from anon so mod can ban your stupid backwards thinking Karen ass. Toodles, mwah! ❤

[barnesandco]

Nikah: March

Story Masterlist

Nikah: noun, Arabic, meaning the contract of marriage.

Bucky marries Peter’s former tutor because her student visa’s about to expire and the government isn’t granting her a green card. Can she find a way to permanent residence by marriage, and if so, will it be at the cost of their hearts?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: None.

A/N: Written under the Arranged/Accidental Marriage trope for @mermaidxatxheart​ ‘s writing challenge. Thank you all for reading and commenting! (Picture below is mine, btw)

Bucky’s birthday arrives amidst blooming flowers and a pollen-scented breeze, the day marked by preparations for a party Sam is throwing for him at one of the hotels downtown. Avengers and close friends only, yet he’s spared no expense, insisting on a proper welcome back. The captain is unrelenting in matters of social activity, especially since he has been spending minimal time with his teammates since his marriage. Marriage. He shakes his head at himself in the floor length mirror as he straightens his cuff-links and moonlight catches on the gold band on his finger. It no longer feels like a burden.

Rather, it’s a seed that’s been planted on him, and it’s taken root inside him, growing, growing, growing into a steady feeling of friendship with the person he wears it for. An understanding, a companionship. He refuses to confess to anything more, even within the confines of his own mind. His heart, on the other hand, has no compunctions about making its opinion known, setting off like a hare being hunted whenever she approaches. Most dangerous assassin in the world, defeated by her smile.

She offers him one now when she enters, picture perfect elegance very nearly succeeding in concealing her nerves. Bucky’s nerves, meanwhile, are on fire at the sight of her, sensory overload short-circuiting his brain. He finally turns to look at her directly and the fox-hunt pace of his heart stumbles, stutters to a stop.

“You- you’re- jeepers,” Is all he can manage, the rosewater blush deepening on his cheeks. It has the opposite of the desired effect, and she steps back, mascaraed eyes widening, horrified.

“It’s too much, isn’t it. Oh God, I knew I should’ve-”  She begins to reach for a tissue box on the dresser and Bucky stops her. Lowers her hand slowly and keeps a hold of it, as if she will float away otherwise.

“Jesus, doll, stop. You’re perfect,” He tells her, and she slips her hand away but smiles a little as she sits on the foot of the bed - their bed - to put on her shoes.

“Thank you. You look nice, too,” She says, lifting the hem of her black gown as she pulls on pearl white heels. The matching clutch - pearl encrusted - is on the bedside table, and he hands it to her as they leave the room and then the apartment. 

“Hang on, your tie is loose,” She says the moment they enter the elevator. He can’t even press the button for the ground floor while she holds him in place. The split-second it takes for her to wrap her hands around the green silk and pull it tighter stretches into hours, the graze of her knuckles gentle in his cotton-covered chest. He has enough time to carve the shape of her cupid’s bow into his mind, the descent of her jaw to her chin into his lungs. After half an eternity, she puts distance between them again and presses the button while he tries to smooth his hair back only to feel the short strands tickle between his fingers, and he remembers cutting it last week.

The lobby is bustling, people coming and going like bees in a hive, and they nod their hellos and offer the doorman a Good evening before getting in the car Sam sent. The seats are cold and comfortable, and the chauffeur tips his hat once in the rear-view mirror before putting the Rolls Royce into gear.

“ ‘Possess ye, therefore, ye who borne about In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue’ ” She murmurs, letting her fingers trace the stitching in the butter-soft leather. 

“Marlowe?” Bucky asks, turning away from the New York evening, that special, streetlights-reflecting-on-wet-asphalt evening, to look at his wife. 

“William Cowper. The Task.”

“I think I’ve read that one,” He lies, fully prepared to come clean, and she looks at him curiously. 

“Wow, really? Even I haven’t read all six books,” She says, dubiously verging on impressed, and Bucky drops the facade.

“I’m pullin’ your leg. I’ve read some of Cowper’s work. Don’t remember much, but bits and pieces of school are still there,” He explains, all cheeky smile. “What’s it about? And why in God’s good name is it six books long?” This - the conversation, letting her talk about her work, her passion for literature - this he can do. Playful questions intermingling with genuine intellectual interest is manageable. Her beauty, her grace, the cloud of perfume that bleeds into his veins and makes his lungs strive for air, is not. So he concentrates on what he knows. Or doesn’t know, apparently.

“Honestly, what isn’t The Task about?” She laughs, eyeshadow glimmering like stardust in the smile wrinkles in the corners of her intelligent eyes. “Cowper had a bit of a breakdown during his barrister training in London, and retired to the countryside. In 1781, he met his friend Lady Austen, who later gave him a task to write about, to cheer him up. He started, and then just followed that train of thought wherever it took him.”

“Which book is that line from?” Bucky asks as the car stops in the inevitable Friday night traffic jam. At least they accounted for it, leaving early on purpose to avoid tardiness.

“I don’t actually remember. I think it’s from an extract in which Cowper criticizes the superficial pleasures and unnecessary luxuries of city life,” She answers, opening her clutch. Her phone and a tube of lipstick peek out but she reaches deeper for a pair of earrings.

Closing her eyes, she fastens the first one on the side Bucky can’t see, the other crescent-moon shaped accessory in her silk draped lap. The flower made from pearls matches her bracelet, the two pieces of jewellery clinking together as she puts on the other one.

“City life, huh?” Bucky muses, trying desperately to calm his heart. The earrings dangle, contrasting wonderfully against her simple black gown, and he swallows. She looks like royalty.

“Yeah, many poets of the time wrote a lot about the beauty of nature. They had a lot more of it at their disposal, I guess,” She shrugs.

“Do you have any favorites?” “Nature poems? I don’t know. There are so many good ones. Wordsworth’s To the Cuckoo, Herrick’s Daffodils, Yeats’ Wild Swans at Coole, Tennyso-” She cuts herself off with a huff of a laugh at herself.

“What is it?” 

“Nothing, no- I just-” She laughs again, trying to wave her hand like she’s shooing a fly. “I just have conflicting feelings about these poems by classical authors who write about nature. Poems that express a keen appreciation of beauty yet are fillled with sadness because so many beautiful things are short-lived and because human life itself is so short,” She says, twirling the ring around her finger, deep in thought. Bucky doesn’t know how he found her. This simple, wise soul, in the midst of all the chaos of the world. The chaos of resettlement. 

The chaos of the kitchen, an hour before dinner as the Avengers prepare dinner together, is unholy. Sam’s panicking about dessert while Wanda stirs the marinara sauce for spaghetti in her signature demure fashion, while Peter’s pile of handmade spaghetti grows taller and the pasta dough shrinks. His phone lights up on the table, and Bucky - kneading more dough nearby - is the only one who notices. He calls for Peter and pushes it over to him, not knowing what the point of having a phone is if it’s always going to be on silent, but Peter holds it out to him after just a moment of conversation.

Bucky reads the caller ID on the top and sees who it is, closing the kitchen door behind him, flour on his black t-shirt, as she speaks.

“Hi, Bucky. I hope I’m not disturbing.” 

“No, not at all. Have you decided?” He asks, pacing the hallway, staying out of sight of the others. Not that it matters, they’re still fairly busy. She had seemed unsure when they met, and he had given her time to decide it she wanted to do this. 

“Yeah, but I just- this is a huge favor,” She says.

“Not to me, doll. I’m just helping a friend of a friend,” He says, and it isn’t entirely true. That isn’t why he’s doing this. Something in him wanted to help, wanted to repay the debt of kindness that he owes the world. This is how he wants to do it, although he doesn’t think it’s fair that he gets to choose his penance.

“I thought you said Peter talks your ears off.” Bucky cringes, grateful she can’t see his face, even though he can hear the joking lilt of her tone.

“He’s a good kid. And I want to do this. Do you?” 

“Yeah.” A lengthy pause, heavy and tangible, even across the phone line. 

“When do you want to get married?” She asks finallly, voice shaking. His hand is, too. 

“We have a week-long mission right after Christmas. Boxing day arms deal in Sao Paulo,” He replies, cursing the Brazilian gangs who could find no other time do get up to no good. Evil doesn’t go on vacation, and neither do the Avengers.

“So… New Year’s Eve?” She asks, doing the math. He realizes that’s true. A week from Boxing Day.

“Yes. Shit, you don’t have a ring-” He begins to say, freaking out about the logistics. He didn’t even propose properly.

“It’s okay, we’ll figure it out.” “Alright, I’ll see you then.”

“Bye Bucky.”

“G’night.” He bids her farewell, then looks at the phone, asking himself what the hell he’s just gotten himself into. A knot builds and twists in his body, and he tries to loosen it. Breathes, and makes his way back.

“I’m engaged,” And the kitchen freezes in time as they all drop everything - not literally, Sam’s holding a knife - to look at him. The smile on Peter’s face is brighter than the Christmas tree in the adjacent common room, and the somersaults in Bucky’s stomach only settle at the sight of his relief.  

It seems that his teammates gave him a later time on purpose, because they’re all ready, dressed to the nines and wine-tipsy, waiting for him when they enter. It’s a small ballroom, downtown Manhattan, quaint and graceful. A chorus of Happy Birthday erupts in the room, and he smiles and thanks them. The hugs pile on, and he begins to introduce his wife to his friends. Home away from home for the man who has never had one since the 1940s - until he met her, that is. She’s home now, though he wouldn’t tell her that.

Instead, he relishes in the grin she offers him between introductions, till Sam drags him off to stand him on a chair and sing a birthday song. The party commences in much a similar fashion, too much noise in the room for a couple of dozen people. He stays away from Thor’s alcohol, knowing she doesn’t drink, not wanting to make her uncomfortable. 

He’s just thinking about how she might be dealing with the hectic atmosphere when her hand slips into his while he’s talking to Harley Keener about letting him look at his arm. He’s shocked, looks at her to see her smiling and concentrating only on the conversation, but he can tell she’s tired. It’s been hours, and he knows he can’t leave early - it’s his party - but he just wants to slip those heels off her feet and sit and talk, still in partywear, for hours on end. Let her quote Byron and Cowper and Austen to him, poems and essays and books, until he falls asleep on their sofa. Instead, her voice says something he isn’t expecting at all.

“Is it possible to put some sort of temp regulation in it?” She asks curiously, head tilted to the side like a sparrow. Harley thinks it over for only a second.

“Of course, why?”

“It hurts in the cold. He rubs and rolls his shoulder a lot in the winter,” She answers, and the thoughtful observation astounds him. It’s accurate, but it hadn’t even occurred to him, the movements that she’s citing entirely subconscious. They talk to Harley for a while longer, and then dance to several of Bucky’s favorite songs. Billie Holliday is crooning in the background as the second-to-last guest exits, leaving only his wife and his captain and his deputy director. When the door shuts behind them, they break apart, and Sam and Maria approach, ready to call it a night.

The car ride home passes in complete silence, a comfortable weight resting like a blanket between them, so much so that she falls fully asleep on the way, her head resting against the cold window when they arrive. He doesn’t have the heart to wake her, so he goes around to her door, opening it slowly and lifting her into his arms, not caring what it might look like to onlookers. It’s late, and there are few of them, at least in the lobby, and as the elevator doors shut, her head curls against his shoulder, hair tickling his Adam’s apple.

Bucky looks down at her, her resting, easy expression, the chandni earrings still on, and thinks: what a way to turn 103.

Taglist:  @suz-123​ @mermaidxatxheart​ @buckyreaderrecs​ @shield-agent78​ @corneliabarnes​ @readerandcinephileingeneral​ @stevieboyharrington​ @notsomellowmushroom​ @veganfangirl5​ @mood-pancakes​ @lbuck121​ @starnight-charmer​

[awesomenightfall]

[’til death]

Haven’t written in 5ever and this is my first time writing Furuba ficlet! Rated PG, Ritsu/Mitsuru, Ayame/Mine, some mentioned others. Unbeta’d. 1,887 words.

With Ayame’s wedding looming, Mitsuru thinks, not for the first time, that they should definitely elope.

---

The invitation to the Sohma/Kuramae wedding was so big, so bedazzled and lace filled, that it had to be hand delivered to Mitsuru’s doorstep because it was too enormous to fit into the mailbox.

It was more box shaped than a standard paper invitation, Mitsuru observed, and knowing the ostentatious nature of her boyfriend’s relative, she wouldn’t have been surprised if live doves flew into her face when she opened it.

This was even fancier, if possible, than Ayame's baby announcement from the prior year. The pink lace monstrosity had taken a lot of people by surprise, but Ritsu sobbed hysterical happy tears for “Ayame-’niisan” and knitted no less than 12 pairs of baby socks for his new little cousin.

The older Sohma relatives were apparently not as impressed with the gaudy announcement or the out-of-wedlock baby girl that Ayame had brought into the world. The whole thing had been "Terribly scandalous," Ritsu's mom told her in a stage whisper, clutching her metaphorical pearls, "a baby before marriage and with his employee, no less… his mother almost had a nervous breakdown."

Her first thought: Wow. Rich people sure do things differently.

Her second thought: Am I going to have to see The Spawn of Satan - Shigure-sensei - at this wedding?

Ritsu, the sensitive, romantic soul that he was, was already blinking back tears by the time she pulled the velvet invitation out.

“I’m so happy for Ayame-’niisan and Mine-san. They’re such a kind, wonderful couple,” Ritsu sniffled, pausing from his knitting. He was curled up on her worn brown couch underneath an old blanket, hands working diligently at the tiny mittens he was knitting for one of his relatives' upcoming babies. They were adorable, of course, with a kitten motif in soft orange. “And it will be so good to see Hatori-’niisan and Shigure-’niisan again!”

Mitsuru shivered violently at the mention of her old boss. It was a Pavlovian response at this point and no amount of therapy in the world would help her work through it. Her worst fears were confirmed: she was definitely going to have to see Shigure-sensei and she was definitely going to have to be on her best behavior in front of Ritsu’s parents and relatives.

Ritsu lifted the blanket, looking concerned. “Mitsuru-san, are you cold? You should come under here before you get sick.”

She smiled to herself as she slid next to him. In the five years they had been dating, Ritsu had come a long way in terms of shyness and self confidence. He still asked if it was okay to kiss her and he blushed from neck to navel at the thought of anything beyond an innocent smooch, but they had gotten past the “apologize hysterically for holding her hand too long” stage and that in itself was a miracle. 

“You’re so cold,” Ritsu said softly, setting the knitting needles down on the coffee table in front of the couch. He tucked her into the blanket next to him and took her hands in his, rubbing them for warmth. “Maybe we should plan a trip to my mother’s hot spring resort sometime soon, they’re the best in the winter. And she would love to see you, she’s always asking for you.”

Mitsuru rested her head on his slender shoulder and took this opportunity to stealthily stare at him. He was so cute, she thought. Beautiful, even with his cropped hair and more masculine clothing. And he was so darn sweet, always worried about her, worried if she was working too hard, if she had enough to eat, if her new clients were treating her right. 

She had always thought she would die alone in her house surrounded by Shigure’s unfinished manuscripts with only cats to keep her company; Mitsuru never thought she could be so happy.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, catching her gaze with his own. Eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Do you not want to see my family? You -- you don’t have to, I mean. I don’t want to pressure you. Are you too warm? Do you want me to--?”

She put her fingers to his lips, shushing him. “Nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking how lucky I am to have you.”

Her words had their intended effect and Ritsu nearly shot off the couch in embarrassment. “N-no no no no, Mitsuru-san! I’m the one that’s lucky to have you!” he babbled, face red. “I’m not --”

Mitsuru cut him off with a gentle kiss; the most effective way, she learned over the years, to stop his self deprecating apologies. “Ritsu,” she said with a smile. “I love you.”

Immediately his eyes glistened, even though he had heard this from her hundreds of times before. It never failed to make him emotional and it was infectious -- Mitsuru could feel her throat tighten at the look of gratitude on his face. “Thank you,” Ritsu said quietly, hugging her to him tightly. “I love you, too. And I’ll work so hard to make you happy.”

They sat in silence for a long while, enjoying the company and warmth.

“Weddings are nice, aren’t they?” Ritsu asked, somewhat hesitantly, not quite looking at her. “Being married must be wonderful.”

Mitsuru wondered if he was feeling her out on the subject. She knew he was getting some pressure from his family on proposing and while it was amusing, she didn’t want him to stress too badly. There was only so much knitting and yoga he could do to stave off a freakout. “I think so, too.”

“Y-you do?”

“Of course,” she said, snuggling closer. “To be with the person you love every day -- is there anything better?”

He let out a quiet, “Oh,” but said nothing further, only kissing the top of her head absently, looking deep in thought.

As the comfortable silence returned and she drifted off, a thought so horrifying nearly jolted her from Ritsu’s embrace:

If Ritsu and I get married, does that mean I’ll be related to Shigure-sensei?

The things people do for love, she thought with a heavy sigh, and let herself succumb to sleep.

---

The Sohma clan in its entirety was overwhelming, to say the least. The grounds of the complex were decked out with an explosion of flowers, beautiful against the autumn backsplash. There were gazebos and arches and tables upon tables of food, alcohol, and desserts that spanned as far as the eye could see.

Mitsuru recognized a lot of Ritsu’s relatives -- mostly the ones that had once lived at Shigure’s house -- so she didn’t feel entirely out of place. Shigure had yet to make an appearance because of course he would be fashionably late, even to his best friend’s wedding.

“Mitsuru-san, you look beautiful,” Ritsu said at her side. “I love your dress.”

“Oh? Thank you.” She didn’t even bother to hide how pleased she was that Ritsu thought so. The black, long sleeved cocktail dress has been a safe choice and not nearly as lovely as the kimonos Ritsu once donned, so it was nice to know it made an impression. “Is your suit warm enough? It’s a bit chilly out.”

He squeezed her hand. “Oh no, I’m fine. If you get cold, I brought an extra shawl in the car.”

How was it possible, Mitsuru thought as they walked towards familiar faces, that this angel shared DNA with Shigure?

Ayame’s brother, Yuki, looked resplendent in a dark gray suit but, well, the pinched look of stress sort of ruined the ambience.

“Bets on if you think Aya-’nii is going to wear a wedding dress?” another Sohma relative, the one with black and white hair, asked.

“He would look so good in one!” a blond, perky Sohma replied. He paused from digging into a huge plate of desserts. “Do you think they’re wearing matching dresses?”

Yuki looked pained. “Please, don’t even breathe life into those words. My mother is already having an aneurysm at the whole situation.” 

The redheaded one -- Kyou, Mitsuru remembered -- handed Yuki a very full glass of champagne. Yuki took it gratefully and immediately started imbibing. “Kind of serves her right, don’t you think?” Kyou asked with a snort. “She bitched and moaned about him not being married before. Well, wish granted.”

A very pregnant Tohru beamed up at Yuki. Her hand cradled her round belly, a modest gold ring twinkling on her slender finger. “I think it’s wonderful. I can’t wait to see what Ayame-san and Mine-san wear!”

“Are you okay?” Kyou asked her, a protective hand on the small of her back. “Are you tired? Do you want to go sit down?”

Yuki rolled his eyes good naturedly, turning to Mitsuru and Ritsu. At least something was distracting him from his existential dread. “He’s only gotten worse since the pregnancy. I’m surprised this idiot hasn’t implanted a GPS chip into her neck so he can keep track of everything Tohru is doing at all times. It’s borderline obsessive.”

Yuki’s girlfriend - Machi? - gave him an even look. “As if you’re one to talk. Who is the one browsing baby websites at 2am and reading all the reviews to make sure Honda-san only has the safest baby toys?”

“Thank you, Yuki!” Tohru trilled over Kyou’s protests. “You’re so kind.”

Before Yuki could retort, the lights dimmed. A literal orchestra started playing as Mine -- wearing a breathtaking lace and crystal ball gown with a hoop skirt that would put Victorian novels to shame -- slowly walked down the aisle. Mitsuru could hear Ritsu sniffling and she immediately handed him some tissues from her purse.

Before anyone could inquire where Ayame was, the music stopped. The spotlights zoomed in on one of the temporary partitions that separated the food area from the reception area. 

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Yuki muttered. “‘Niisan kept mentioning a ‘surprise’.”

Hatori, arguably the one sane person at this event, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Just remember… this will be over soon and we can all go back to ignoring him.”

The partitions slowly opened to reveal Ayame -- not wearing a dress, to his credit, but a white tunic and pants outfit that looked like it belonged to an Arabian king-- in a lavish, horse drawn carriage, baby tucked in one arm, being pulled down the aisle. He waved benevolently to his subjects with his free hand and then blew a kiss to Yuki and then to his future wife.

“Please repress my memories of this night, Hatori,” Yuki said miserably. “It’s the least you can do for making me come.”

“Yuki, your mom fainted,” Hatsuharu said helpfully.

“Holy. Shit,” Kyou said.

Yuki grabbed an entire bottle of champagne from the nearby waiter. “I formally renounce the Sohma name and am now an orphan.”

Ritsu wiped at his eyes, passing a tissue to an emotional Tohru. “What a beautiful wedding. I can’t wait to see what they have planned next!”

“I hate this family,” Yuki said and honestly? 

Mitsuru couldn’t blame him.

---

“Ritsu,” Mitsuru said a few hours later, once they were back in the safe haven of her house, “let’s elope.”

Ritsu dropped all of the plates he was washing with a loud crash, hands pressed to his burning cheeks. His voice went up at least three octaves. “Elope--? As in-- marriage?? Mitsuru-san???”

Elopement would be perfect, she thought happily. 

The further away... the better.

[chillahead-bridge]

grave mistakes

inspired by @arrival-layne‘s good good angst art for jim, a mini-au about a what-if scenario about the grave sand having some... side effects on humans. (AO3 version)

TWs: body-horror, mouth horror, blood, description of injuries and violence. enjoy and stay safe!

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

Grave sand burns.

It’s bare seconds, passing in a painful flash- but Jim feels the grit scrape against his sinuses, leaving his airways raw as he hacks, lungs struggling to supply him air. And then it’s over, just like that, and a surge of energy washes over him. Like stepping into the cold depths of a pool, diving deep downwards.

“How do you feel?” Strickler asks him, watching him with sharp eyes.

“Angrier,” Jim replies, voice rough. He feels himself smile. The energy- the emotion- it’s pulsing through his veins. It’s incredible. It’s intoxicating.

“Good,” Strickler says, bursting into brilliant green arcs of light as his body twists and changes, horns curving over his skull as he raises his head. “Use that anger,” he encourages with a grin of deadly fangs.

Jim can feel himself shivering, deep inside, at the blatant challenge. An invitation to fight. The Amulet responds to his silent call- wrapping him in its armor and power, forming Daylight in his grip. Another flash of light and Jim glances over his shoulder, seeing Nomura stalk predatorily towards him with her blades.

Two highly skilled opponents. Both of whom have fought him to a standstill before. Jim feels no fear. He snarls right back at the changelings, reveling in the way he feels. He’s stronger, he’s faster, his heart races and his throat aches, and he meets his mentors’ attacks with zero hesitation.

It’s a blur, for a few euphoric moments, where there’s nothing but Jim, his weapon, and the changelings he’s beating back. Jim growls, shouts wordlessly- he kicks the larger, heavier changelings across the floor more than once, keeping up and surpassing them as they clash. Strickler has no close-range weapon, he falls back all too quickly. Nomura is brutal and unyielding, but she doesn’t expect the strength Jim has now. Her swords clatter against stone, her skull impacts against the wall he shoves her into, her claws shriek over the metal of his shield and Jim presses harder-

The interruption that comes will be something he’s grateful for, later. In the moment, however, Jim steps back from Nomura and turns to his first and dearest mentor, and all he sees is someone interfering with his victory.

Jim points his blade at Blinky. He takes swings at him, though they’re not truly meant to harm. Just intimidate. His words come between coughs, the energy in his body beginning to hum fiercely, urging him to fight more, to give it outlet-

“Master Jim, look at me,” Blinky says, holding him carefully but firmly. Jim tries to pull away, but the troll keeps talking, keeps him close and still. The words that come are warm, soothing, “-for your human heart,” and it pulls him back up from the depths.

Jim steps back, coughing harder as the corrosive enhancer in his body shifts. The Amulet’s power recedes, the armor vanishing; releasing him from the bloodthirst. He’s sickened, as his head clears, by the fact that he’d fallen so deeply into that desire.

“I’m- sorry,” Jim rasps, coughing still, “I- I lost myself.” He tries to say thank you, but the coughing won’t stop and he bends, pounding a fist against his chest.

Blinky turns on Strickler, launching into an angry conversation with him. Their clash of mentalities grows distant as Jim keeps coughing. His ears are starting to ring. His throat aches.

“Jim?” Nomura’s voice asks, a hand touching his back. Jim tries to respond but can’t get a single word out. He’s beginning to hyperventilate, but he can’t stop, coughing as the grave sand does something- else. Before it’d been flowing through him, circulating the unnatural aggression and energy. Now it’s- it feels like it’s seeping into something deeper, like it’s forcing itself into the rest of his body-

A lightning strike of agony abruptly explodes in his chest. Jim can’t even cry out, robbed of air.

“Jim!” shouts Blinky, but Jim can’t raise his head and look to him. The pain radiating from his ribcage is climbing, spreading outwards.

His fingers, his jaw, his eyes- Jim only hears the thundering of his own heart as he clutches at his mouth, deaf to whatever is happening around him. Oh god, the pressure is building, pushing to escape, make it stop, he’ll do anything, just make it STOP-

Something gives, a sweet relief of pressure for a split second, and then iron liquid fills his mouth and a new kind of throbbing pain takes the other’s place. Jim doubles over completely and heaves, red and spit splattering the stone. Jim coughs and shudders, tears blurring his vision as he gasps raggedly.

Little white pearls fall into the slurry, one by one.

Those are teeth, Jim thinks outside the pain, just as his eyes roll back and he passes out.

 -/-

 “For what it’s worth, young Atlas… we were unaware these particular side effects could occur.”

Jim doesn’t look at Strickler or Nomura. He keeps his eyes fixed on a corner of the room, focused on the rough-hewn walls of it.

“We’re already looking into a way to reverse it,” Nomura adds in a subdued tone. Jim still doesn’t answer, or acknowledge their presence.

“I swear it,” Strickler says, low and sad, “we will fix this for you, and I am deeply, deeply sorry for allowing this- to happen, to you.”

Jim curls his fists into the blanket covering his legs.

“Leave,” he manages to say, throat hoarse. “W- we’ll talk. Later. But for now…”

“Of course,” Strickler says softly, and that’s the end of it. The two changelings walk out, drawing the curtain closed; leaving Jim to sit in Blinky and Arrrgh’s bedroom, wrapped in an overlarge blanket and shadows to hide within.

Gingerly, with a hesitant hand, Jim reaches to poke at his aching jawline. The claw that’d burst from under his nail throbs in time with the teeth he presses against.

Jim hasn’t looked in a mirror, but he knows. He’s already searched his face and body- he knows about the teeth, the claws, the point to his ears, the way his vision is perfectly suited to the dark room he’s in… He knows what it all means, what it all looks like.

He drops his hands to the blanket and twists them into fists again, hunching over his knees and shaking. Tears drop onto the fabric not for the first time today, an echo of his teeth falling out of his mouth.

The parallel forces him to unlock his clenched jaw and let out a wounded cry. His voice wavers and cracks, the internal damage done by the grave sand persisting still. Jim doesn’t spare a thought of concern that he might worsen the injuries; the noise pours out of him and he couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to.

The curtain is suddenly yanked open and he hisses, flinching and covering his sensitive eyes. “Oh- shit, shit, I’m sorry Jimbo,” says a more than familiar voice, and the curtain is hastily closed again. Jim doesn’t even have time to blink the spots out of his vision before two sets of arms are thrown around him.

“Blinky told us what happened,” Claire rushes out, fingers already shifting to touch the ruined parts of him, searching, caressing- “Oh, Jim, how could they? Why- god- I’ll, I’ll strangle them both-”

“Should’ve never left you alone with them,” Toby says to the crook of Jim’s shoulder, squeezing his middle so tightly it hurts, but in a good way. “I should’ve- we should’ve been there, maybe then we’d’ve been able to steer you off this fucking- this horrible idea, what were you thinking?”

“I- I just-” Jim stutters, trying to answer both of them. His hands hover, not quite touching them, keeping the claws away from their human skin. “I need to get stronger,” he says, the mantra he’s been repeating for what feels like ages now. “They were just helping me, I asked them to, and- I’m the one who, who let Strickler- it’s my own fault.”

“Bullshit,” Claire curses, eyes blazing. “They did this, they hurt you and I’m going to- to-”

“Drop them into the shadow dimension forever?” Toby suggests in a dark tone.

“Yes,” Claire hisses vindictively.

“Guys, no, we need them, they were just doing what I- what I asked them-” Jim breaks off as he loses his voice, biting his lip and slicing into the thin skin immediately. Right, he has fangs, small but sharp fangs that jut up over his lip in an overtly inhuman way, something nothing short of removing them can fix, and oh god how will he hide this from his mom? How is he supposed to hide his ears? His eyes?

“What am I gonna tell my mom?” Jim whispers harshly, and starts crying in earnest.

Claire makes a wordless noise of anger and sadness, carding her fingers through his hair and letting a few of her own tears slip free. A tissue is pressed gently to his bleeding lip, held in place by Toby as he looks at Jim, brushing away his tears while ignoring the ones on his own face.

Jim wants to curl up and hide himself, cover up the pieces of himself he tainted, cheating for power. But he’s held between his two closest confidants and he can’t bring himself to pull away, instead slumping into the hold, burrowing into their comfort and care and clinging to that safety.

 -/-

 Sometime later: Claire holds his hand without fear of the claws that’ve grown there; Toby pokes the tips of his ears and jokes about Lord of the Rings. They beam at him pointedly until Jim will nervously smile back, not letting him sink further into his mire of self-loathing.

The adults shuffle back and forth behind the curtained entrance, unsubtly checking on the three of them. Sooner than later, they’ll be pulled out of the safely shadowed nest they’re huddling in. But not yet, as stated firmly by Claire when Blinky comes to ask after them.

Jim huffs, embarrassed by the fuss everyone is making over him, pressing his face into the softness of Toby’s sweater vest to hide his flush. Claire’s lithe arms wind around his waist and hold him like wrought iron, refusing to let him slip away even a little. Toby’s arms are warmer, stronger, wrapping around both of them best he can and helping their trio lower themselves gently onto the wide pillows that make up the bed.

Jim’s future has become even more uncertain, another trial added to his seemingly endless path to their ultimate goal. But for a moment between the three of them, tangled up and shielding themselves from that uncertain future, he can breathe easy.

[stainandscribble]

Beyond Words (I)

A Not So Beautiful Goodbye

Pairing: Jongdae (EXO Chen)  x Reader

Genre: Jongdae Poet AU, angst, quartet? 

Summary: A poet reminiscences about his old lover and their relationship in his new anthology, reminding himself of the importance of sincerity, and that love words are just as important spoken aloud as they are printed on paper. 

PART 1  PART 2  PART 3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: since Jongdae’s Barista AU has been doing so well, I decided to switch the roles, so that Jongdae is now the poet. Also, April and a Flower is art in its purest form. So excited for Dear My Dear

Word Count: 4169

Jongdae walked out of his publisher’s office, his brand new book clutched by his side. His knuckles turning white with the force of his grip on the hardback copy - the very first printed one.

His fingers felt the rough green material cover, focusing on its imperfections. The book felt heavier than it was; rougher. He could feel the effort with which he bled ink into paper, and he could hear the clicking of the computer keys like a ghost of an echo in his ears. This was the heaviest book he had written. Not because physical weight, nor the number of pages that had ended up in the final print. No, it was a different type of weight. The weight of a heavy heart; crushing his chest, beating despite the damage. It was the weight of emotional baggage he had spilled- the printing ink might as well have been made out of his tears

I spilled all my love for you

As ink on paper

How could I forget

To fill you up first.

Yes, this anthology was born of pain, and regret; and somewhat bitterly, he thought it was best one he had ever written. It was heavy, and so damn hard to write he had spent many a sleepless night staring at the lined paper of his notepad, locked away in his office. Alone. 

It had been a long time since Jongdae had been this hollow, a cavern carved out of his chest, the inflamed tissue now a home for despair rather than a heart. 

He had only himself to blame. Jongdae did not shy away from admitting his wrongs. The least he could do was admit them and leave behind any self-pity festering in his broken heart like an infection. 

Instead he did what he knew how to do best; he spilled all his sorrows and apologies as ink onto paper. 

Ironically, that ability, this dysfunctional coping mechanism, was the very reason he was in the predicament in the first place.

Your love for me was like an inkwell; never drying

And I, 

I was like a pen,

Which drew from you forever.

I did not notice,

How you dried up in silence,

Blinded by the illusion of your infinity.

Sometimes the best things in your life; the best people, leave. Sometimes you leave them. It is all a vicious cycle of life. A part of life he had recently became intimate with. Nothing lasts forever. All is finite. All good things must come to an end. 

Still Jongdae’s biggest regret of all, was the fact you didn’t have to be finite. 

If only he had paid more attention to you, instead of drowning in ink and pretty words, he could have continued on. With you by his side.

He had left the building of his publishing company, glancing up at the sky. The heavens were heavy this morning, overcast with clouds so dark and looming day had taken on the look of night. There was no rain yet, but Jongdae was sure that at some point the clouds would be unable to hold their weight, and the rain would come in a violent storm. Like any other summer.

The inkwell is empty and when the pen immerses

It comes back dry,

Leaving the words I wanted to write,

To remain a whim.

The ride back to his apartment was quiet, the sky still ominous, but Jongdae knew that the calmness, and the stillness were bad omens. The calm before the storm. The only question that bugged him was when the sky would open, pouring its tears onto the ground from the sky in a hail of bullets. 

He wondered how loud the heavens would roar as it happened. Would it feel as if the windows were shaking? Would he be able to feel it in his bones, despite tucking himself away in his apartment? 

Would it shake him the same way you leaving him did?

He doubted that- nature didn’t have the same kind of power. A storm was not a woman; although it was eerily similar in its magnitude.

He flicked through the anthology, finally taking the time to appreciate the work and effort put into its creation. The cream coloured pages stared at him with hundreds of ink eyes.  Their looks were accusing, and among the black letters, he saw you. Your eyes, clear and sparkling in the way they looked at you, your smile bright. He reminisced the adoration with which he looked at you those the last few years, eyes wide and sparkling at everything you did. The corners of his lips quirked upwards in a cat-like smile at the happy memories.

Finally, after the present settled over him again, pulling him out of the happy daydream, his smile fell, and the light feeling in his chest, and the way his heart beat a little faster at the memory of your soft lips against his left him too. It left him cold and aching despite being hidden away safely within his home, His heart nestled safely in in his chest, protected by the cage of his ribs.

Light brown eyes moved to look out the window, the world outside brightened by flashes of lightning. On the table before him, the vase of red tulips was wilting, the petals falling gracelessly against the windowsill, no longer their vibrant red, but rather a burgundy colour fading into brown.

Like flowers on the windowsill,

I forgot that unlike the ones growing wild in meadows,

The rain shall not come water you,

And that dew shall not condense on you like the pearls, 

Which I never gave you.

You sat in your old room, surveying its blank walls. When you moved out, your parents took down all the posters, and drawings you stuck on the pastel green paint. It was the decision you made at thirteen, and the decision you cursed all your Uni years. A decision you had accepted over time. Now you found the colour soothing and familiar, and in a world where you were always moving, you were glad for the little comfort it brought you. It was still your room. 

Now, with the turn of events, you moved back, and you were ready to reclaim your space; the tubes and frames at your feet were the beginning. 

One photo was staring at you, of you, a little younger, smiling along with the man beside you. You were in a meadow filled with wild flowers you had frequented with you mother when you were little. You remembered the raspberry bushes you used to pick fruit from, and you remember making flower crowns from the chamomile growing there. 

You had taken that man there. Showed him all your favourite things; the meadow, the raspberry bushes, the sketchbook filled with gouache paintings. He showed you the ink splattered notebooks and the small coffee shop at the end of the street. 

But the sunny days were over. The storm raged outside, thunder clashing in the darkness. And the raspberry bushes were gone too, and concrete blocks had taken their place. 

And the man no longer showed you the world with ink stained fingers either.

But he had not showed you anything for a long time now, even before you left your shared apartment. So you left him. It had felt like he had left you a long time before you did. 

Your mother’s voice broke you from your musings, and you left your room surprised to see her standing in the corridor with a brown package. She handed it to you wordlessly and disappeared into the kitchen. The look she gave you was piercing, and there was a certain amount of concern floating behind her soft eyes. You tightened the grip on the flimsy paper that wrapped around the object, and you could already feel that it was book.

For a moment you didn’t understand why it came; you certainly didn’t order one, but the look in your mothers eyes was enough to tell you who it was from.

“So he did finish.” You murmured, hands tearing at the paper in desperation, giving way to the soft green of the cover.

 Flowers in April

The golden lettering was delicate and beautiful, and you wondered why he mailed it to you. You were no longer together. You walked out months ago. You were moving on.

Opening the book, your attention was caught by the handwritten note on the front page, the black pen standing in stark contrast against the off-white paper.

 “To my muse.

I thought it would only be fair to give this to you, after all you had suffered because of it. You should at least know why you were suffering.

I’m sorry for all my shortcomings.

-      Jongdae”

 Your eyes followed the trail of the pen, his handwriting familiar from the little notes he used to leave for you, and the shopping lists that were stuck to your fridge.

The ache of your heart was familiar too, familiar from all the nights he ignored you, and every time you sat at the dinner table alone with only the tv to keep you company. The heart in your chest ached for your loneliness, but it also ached for the home that was long gone, the home you did not wish to return to and the man who occupied it now. This time, he was the one eating dinner at the empty table, sleeping in bed alone and you had no pity for him left.

But you are not a flower, 

You were a woman.

You are a woman.

And I, 

was not a pen,

But a man.

Jongdae listened to the thunder raging outside, shaking his windows, turning his day into night with anger. 

That was one of the ways You and the storm were different. You did not shout, you were not like the storm, shaking the windows in their frames and destroying things in the wake of your rage. You had left quietly, given back the keys to your shared home, and before he could protest, make an excuse for his absence, you had left without a word, leaving no trace behind but the cracks in his heart. 

7 months ago

You came back from work, ready to order takeaway and watch films with your boyfriend. The weariness in your bones weighed you down as you made your way up the stairs, wanting nothing more than to climb under a blanket in the living room, wrapped in Jongdae’s arms. 

The door opened, and you caught the sight of him at the kitchen counter, his phone in hand, calling someone. 

“Jongdae, do you want pizza?” You asked, looking up at the leaflet you had stuck on the fridge. You turned to face him, weariness leaving your bones at the hope of spending the evening in peace. The lightness does not last long, and he crushes it in his hands, unknowingly, without a thought.

“I’m busy.” The words leave you heavy. You know them too well now it seems. Jongdae had been like this for a while, more preoccupied with phone calls and writing than sparing you a moment. Just like you, he seems tired, but for a different reason. One you do not know, and one is not willing to share. 

“What about watching a film later?” You try again, hoping. Being foolish. Deep down you know the answer already, feel the rejection before it comes. Your heart has been breaking recently. The cracks started growing deeper, and you don’t know how to mend them.

“I don’t know.” He tells you, his soft voice cold and indifferent, eyes not looking at you when he speaks, and with another crack, you realise he hadn’t looked at you since you arrived.

PRESENT 

You had walked out of your office, your hands now empty as you left your portfolio and necessary documents with the client. You had finalised the designs this week and everything was ready for editing. 

You were given the task of illustrating a reprint of a popular book series recently, and you had been very proud of your work. So far it was one of the biggest projects you have done. It seemed you were riding the lucky wave. Your boss had given you a slight raise as you moved to a better position at the company. This project had been a success, and the company was contracted for another project, and the clients had requested you. 

It was time to celebrate. 

You had invited your friends out for a few drinks later that night. 

The bar had a chic vibe to it. Everything was made of sleek wood and toned down colours, coupled with the dim lighting and pretty chandeliers, it was a perfect place for you to unwind and gloat your success. You didn’t get to do it every day. 

You were sipping on you third cocktail, your three friends laughing at some work gossip. It had been a pleasant night so far. That is, until you caught the eyes of Jongdae’s publisher. The woman had averted her eyes when she saw you looking, but you could still make out the displeased look on her face, and the sour curl of her red lips. 

The black dress she was wearing was fancy. Fancier than what you wore, but it did not bother you. not until your eyes found the one person you hoped not to see that night. 

It was not that you hated him. It was not that you loathed him. It was that you resented him. For how he had treated you; spent the last months of your relationship ignoring you. As if you didn’t live right there with him. As if you didn’t share his bed. As if you were not irrevocably in love with him. 

Your heart broke all over again, seeing him here, with the beautiful woman opposite him, when he had said he was too busy to come here with you. 

His eyes caught yours. Their soft brown drawing you in with their warmth. He was still familiar, he still looked too much like home to you. And in your slightly intoxicated state, you saw the regret and remorse bubbling behind the kaleidoscope of browns in his irises. Or maybe you just wished to see it. 

You didn’t want to find out. 

“He’s here.” You turned to your friends, and the moment they realised who you were talking about, they had made their way to the bar.

“Can we get a tequila?” Your friend asked, bringing over a whole bottle of the alcohol, along with four shot glasses.

“What’s that for?” You asked, surveying the glass wearily.

“For the fun of it.” She told you, the cheeky smile that formed on her lips matched the flame in her eyes.

“You are beautiful. Never forget that.” She told you as you took your first shot.

Only when I had lost you, I realised 

That you, like an inkwell

Needed to be filled.

And like a flower,

Needed to be watered;

With words of love,

Looks of awe,

With warmth.

6 months ago

“I’m eating with the editors.” Jongdae told you as he fixed his tie in the hallway mirror, barely sparing you a glance into the kitchen. You had spent the last hour making his favourite, hoping against hope he would stay for dinner. Turned out you were trying in vain.

“I thought we could eat together.” You told him, your voice small, barely above a whisper as the hope fuelled elation left your body.

“Not today.” Jongdae said, his voice softer, sounding resigned as his shoulders hunched a little. He had been feeling tired lately, bored. For now, he wanted to leave. Get out of the familiar four walls, breathe in some fresh air.

Dinner with the editors was a good reason to leave. Besides, he was in the process of writing his third anthology, and it was an important meeting he had to attend. Jongdae needed everything to go smoothly.

His hands fell to his sides when he stopped fixing his tie, and you barely heard the quiet goodbye that left his lips. Or maybe you just imagined he said it. Lately, you couldn’t figure out which it was.

Tears burned the back of your eyes, but you didn’t let any spill. Outside, Jongdae had put his head in his hands breathing deeply, before getting in the car and driving away.

You felt him climb into bed late in the night, but he never moved closer. He used to brush your hair back and kiss your forehead before falling asleep, but now he stayed far away, and you had been colder in your bed with him than you would feel with a stranger. 

And your heart broke.

PRESENT

Jongdae found your form in between the tables, eyes glued to the side of your face, feeling more like a spectre than a man. His heart roared in his chest, beating against his ribs the way an animal beat at the bars of their cage. The way it had not done in months. For a moment, the moment that lasted a split second when your eyes met, he felt more alive than the last few months. 

His anthology had been a success, and he had come in to celebrate that. Still, the biggest celebration, better than wine and better than gin, was the sight of you. 

His publisher had seen it, the way his eyes fell on you, again and again. Jongdae, for the life of him, could not understand the way her lips curled when she caught your eyes. He was too preoccupied with stealing glances your way to pay attention to her. 

Everything about you called to him, reminding him of his love for you. Reviving the passion you had shared, setting his whole body aflame. The sight of you flowed over him like water, cold and refreshing. He was awake. For the first time in forever he felt lucid. 

“Well done Jongdae. Your anthology had just become a bestseller.” His publisher told him, reaching over the table to hold his hand. He brought it back instantly as if it burned. 

Over the course of the last months he had figured out what he done wrong. He had admitted his shortcomings. And he had promised himself to be better, for you. He was not going to ruin it tonight. 

Sitting among your friends, you were glowing. Dressed in your best dress, eyes sparkling as laughter bubbled from your chest. It was a warming sight, like watching flowers unravelling in the spring. And his heart wretched when he realised, he wasn’t the reason for your joy any longer.

Now, you, like a wildflower,

Are experiencing spring again,

After a harsh winter.

You are spreading your petals,

And green leaves.

And I, like a fool,

Stare at the empty windowsill,

Not seeing you.

I cannot water you anymore,

And pearls, like dew

I cannot give you.

He watched you stand up and make your way to the exit, and without a moment of hesitation, he was out of his chair too, making a bee line to you, heart pounding at the idea of you. 

He caught you by the elbow as you turned away from the bar.

“Jongdae.” You warned him, voice low as you stared right into his eyes. Jongdae’s eyes were soft when he looked at you, and you could make out their glassy sheen of tears in the darkness.

“I know what I did wrong.” He told you, sincerity lacing his voice, thick with remorse and deeper than usual. You could feel the desperation rolling off of him like waves.

He was wearing a nice suit today. A deep grey with a bluish tinge, and a white button up underneath. His fringe was parted, exposing his forehead and the straight brows that furrowed as he looked into your eyes, searching for something. Whatever it was; forgiveness or hate, he didn’t find it.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered.

“That is how I find out?” You spat. He knew you were talking about the anthology. 

“You didn’t call.” You accuse him, poking a finger against his chest, and he lets you.

“I wrote it.” He tells you, silently begging for you to understand. But you won’t. Not this time. You had told him already; tell me what happened, tell me why you didn’t talk to me. 

Instead, he wrote an anthology, spilling all of it on paper. Just like he always did. Just like you suspected he always would. And you had grown tired of that. He spilled all his emotions onto paper, dressed hem up in pretty words and rhymes. Devoted his time into doing so. By doing that he left you alone, and as he spilled all the love he had for you somewhere else, you were left to give him your love. Over the last months of yoir relationship, all the little acts of love had ceased to exist. There was no notes left on the fridge, there was no flowers on the vase on the table.

“You did.” You tell him, disappointment rolling off your tongue, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. 

The whole world now knew you broke his heart. The whole world knew you left him without a word. But did the world know how he had left you, months before you left him? How you had sat at dinner alone and slept alone. Did they know that? Did Jongdae tell them that? Did he write about his faults? 

You didn’t know, and you didn’t know if you wanted to find out.

“Y/N.” He starts, but there is nothing that comes out of his mouth, and you shake your head. Desperately wanting him to understand. Because despite everything, you still love him, but you cannot live like this, like a stranger that shares his bed at night.

“I don’t think you figured it out quite yet.” You tell him when he stays silent, not knowing what to say. You find it amusing. A poet lost for words.

“I didn’t pay attention.” He confesses, looking defeated.

“I locked myself away and tried to run from you.” He tells you, walking closer, his wide eyes looking straight into your own.

“I was too proud to say something was wrong. Too proud to admit that I was doing something wrong.” He admitted, hands balled into fists. For a moment he averts his gaze, looking everywhere but you, before bringing it back to you, eyes red with unshed tears, shoulders shaking with frustration.

“I wasn’t sincere. I should have told you then, that I love you, instead of keeping it to myself. I thought you knew, but no one can read minds.”

“I’m sorry.” He tells you, and you know he is apologising for his actions. All but the writing. You could see the ink stains on his fingers even now. You had accepted him writing, locking himself up for a week and coming out a dying man. You have accepted that. But you have not accepted the way he treated you then, and you were not going to accept ever again.

“I’m not ready to accept your apology.” You tell him, voice even, and you seem calm as he looks at you with the hopeful spark fading from his eyes.

“Why didn’t you just,” You begin, searching for the right words, “Why didn’t you tell me then?” You finally ask, referring to the poems in the anthology. Love poems- all directed at you, written from the very beginning of your relationship.

“I didn’t know how.” He admits, wrapping his arms around you, burying his nose in your hair.

“You should have done this earlier.” You tell him, hugging him back, feeling like you have come back home for the first time in months.

“I know.” He whispers, caressing your hair, bringing you closer by the shoulders, until he envelops you.

“I know.” He mumbles again, and you listen to his heart beating out of his chest.

You move away, letting him go, before giving him one last look.

“I’m glad you know. Goodbye Jongdae.” You tell him, your voice soft, without any hint of malice. You seem content. You feel content. This was you leaving on your own terms. You loved him. of course you loved him. Sometimes though, you think, love is not enough. It does not keep you warm at night, or less lonely. Sometimes love is not given equally as it should. So you leave, walk away without turning back, knowing now where it was that he had spilled all his love- into words. You thought, that maybe, just maybe- Jongdae loved his words more than he loved you.

Jongdae followed your retreating figure walking back to your friends, glowing like the sun. As he was left in the dark night outside the bar, alone.

I’ve lost my privilege to love you

I can only apologize to you,

For being winter,

When I should have been endless spring;

How you were, 

My infinite happiness.

- The Beautiful goodbye I could not give you.

[theredknightstruggler]

A Bitter Sunrise

    The sun sat just under the horizon on this early morning in Grizzly Hills, the sound of birds starting to fill the air as the temperature began to rise. In a pocket of the Hills there laid a cabin of honest condition; hand-chopped, sanded, weathered. A deep rumbling interrupts the peace of the waking birds that chirped in the treetops above the cabin’s roof and a pitch black rift tears open forcefully about 10 feet from the front door. It grew wider in moments and out came the Red Knight atop his Deathcharger. It’s hooves clopped against the green grass and the tear that brought the pair through began to close quietly. Shards of ice hung down from the Knight’s armor as well as large clumps of snow frozen to his form, but he seemed unphased. He dismounted the steed with haste and paced towards the front door of the cabin with urgency.

    Morddred grabs the handle of the door, but hesitates as his attention is brought to the side of the cabin. He noticed two fresh graves that weren’t there when he had left a few days prior. “Hm.” He rumbled out before pushing open the door to an empty cabin. “Agatha?” He called out. There was no response save for the creaking of the log cabin’s uneven floorboards. The Knight’s boots thudded against the floor towards the open bedroom and his gaze was brought down to a piece of parchment and used quill that sat in the center of Agatha’s desk. As he finished reading the last sentence in the letter he was interrupted by the sound of his Deathcharger screeching. The hair on the back of Mord’s neck stood up and he maneuvered out of the cabin in a few long strides until he stopped at the bottom step on the porch where his eyes narrowed on a semi-circle of hooded figures.

    “Your essence was all over this place when I came by earlier...Axe-Wielder.” A long fanged said as it grinned towards the Red Knight. The acolytes flanking the larger figure in the center all had their eyes on Morddred and the rune-axe that was strapped to his backside with a hunger beyond starvation exhuming from their glares. The clopping of the Deathcharger’s hooves could be heard off in the distance as it retreated. “Where is she?...” Mord barked out in an aggravated tone. His rise in emotion began to melt off the snow and ice that clung to his armor and with that the runes decorating the trim of saronite plate flickered to a bright red from their dull slumber. “You know where she’s going. You sensed it.” The center figure replied. He continued, “Your existence is spared this one time axe-wielder, but do not get content with my...generosity.” A full row of pearl white serrated teeth smiled widely in the darkness of his hood. “You’ll be a much more substantial meal in the coming weeks...and now that I know your face; You. Cannot. Hide.” His voice danced on those last three words while he opened up his arms from their crossed position. The acolytes to each side of him began to drift away into ash that scattered to the wind, but the center figure remained. 

   “This place, this...continent. Its great, you know. Everywhere you go there is something in common.” The hooded figure knelt down and pressed his clawed hand to the grass, “There is death. Everywhere. A land of graveyards...” His voice trailed off and the amused grin fading from his hidden face. The glow of his eyes slumped in an annoyed manner, “You’re no fun. You don’t even whimper or plead.” The Red Knights hands were clenched tightly as his flaring crimson orbs glared intensely at the hooded figure. There was no need for words or facial expressions to feel what emotions the Knight was projecting. “And your presence is exhausting.” The figure hissed. “A parting gift.” The creature’s hand held out an open palm as it stood up, causing a sudden explosion of earth and rock to open up between the two. A grotesque hand of meat, bone, and rotten flesh gripped the edge of the chasm that had formed and pulled its lumbering body up and out.  The hooded figure began to crumble away into ash before the dust of the eruption settled, leaving the Red Knight to deal with the amalgamation before him. 

   The stench of several dozen corpses filled the air with a thick miasma the longer the creature existed, but to the Knight it was just another reason to eliminate it. A familiar face stuck out from the side of what was presumably the head of the creature and it resembled that off a boy he saw often that would come for herbs from Agatha. Half of the child’s face was nothing but mangled flesh and the other half was in mid-rot. Across the chest of the animated corpse-pile stuck out the deceased mother of the boy with her pregnant stomach bloated beyond normalcy. Half of her face was melted into the congealed flesh while her other half gazed blankly with the frozen fear she felt upon death. “Abomination.” The Knight growled out and was met with an ear-piercing roar coming from the open maw of the melted flesh, spewing bits of guts and bile that sizzled upon contact with the saronite plate. “You will not stand between her and I.” The knight calmly reached up to the chains that kept his pauldron’s maws closed and unlatched each one. A low hiss escaped the slightly open maws as if they were exhaling. Saronite began to stretch and morph beyond its normal appearance, many smooth edges becoming jagged along with his helmet completely closing.  Morddred reached for the hilt of Dreyrugr to free the rune-axe from its sheathed prison and hauled the hunk of metal against his shoulder with a firm, lowered stance. 

    A gurgling belch  erupts from the amalgamation as it swings a long limb of connected tissue towards the Red Knight in the form of a blade made from bone. The Knight braced himself by widening his stance, but rather than retaliate with a swing from his axe, he would hurl Dreyrugr in one fluid motion towards the creature’s midsection. The runeaxe hummed through the air until it reached its target and was embedded within the melted tissue at the center of the creature’s form. The force of the blow caused an explosion of flesh out the backside and created a gaping hole on the animated tissue’s flank. Morddred felt the bladed limb coming towards him slam heavily into his right pauldron, making him stagger a step backwards. He reaches up and grabs the flesh of the limb trying to cut through his armor and grips it tight enough to spatter blood out across the once green grass below. A deep rumbling growls in his throat as all of his effort is put into pushing against the downward strike. Bone and tissue begins to rip and tear as the Knight’s struggle overwhelms the amalgamations raw strength. Its limb snaps backwards and hangs limp for a moment before its retracted back into its melted torso. Morddred made a lumbering dash towards Dreyrugr that was continuously feeding on the life essence powering the creature. His boot slams into the melted face of one of the victims in the pile and he grabs the runeaxe’s hilt firmly with his right hand. The Knight’s left hand plunges into the tissue to get a firm grip before the creature could try to pull him off, giving him time to rip Dreyrugr away from its greedy feeding. Morddred looked upward at the melted collection of heads that glared down at him from up top, narrowing his crimson eyes with focus.

    He knew what he had to do. The Red Knight swung the free’d runeaxe vertically to embed it a few more feet above to begin his ascent. His boots and free hand helped him along the way to hold him in place with each swing of his runeaxe. The creature had recovered a portion of its broken limb and immediately grabbed at Mord’s right boot. He held firm to Dreyrugr’s hilt to fight against the limb that tried to pull him to his demise. A firm thump mashes against the fleshy limb as his he slams his left boot into the tissue over and over again. Each strike sends ripples throughout the slightly gelatinous skin of the creature, weakening its grip on the Knight’s boot until he was able  to finally pull himself further up and out of the retreating limb’s grasp. He was nearing the top after three more vertical strikes with the final strike splitting into the familar boy’s face. Morddred pulled himself to stand atop what he determined was the creature’s neck, his boots firmly planted into the flesh that made up the neck and backside he stood on. He rips Dreyrugr from the boy’s face and rears it over his head with both hands to slam it downward into the hunk of neck-flesh at his feet. The Knight was only able to get one more swing into the gored flesh before a series of tendrils formed together and slammed into Mord’s grip on his runeaxe, causing him to lose his grip and send the weapon rolling down the creature’s backside. With a forceful inhale through his nostrils he brings a closed fist above his head and slams down into the partially torn outer layer he had struck at before. Right, left, right, left; each closed fist took its turn pummeling down into the softening flesh. Each strike sent more ripples throughout the gurgling creature’s form from the force coming from those fists.        

     After a good dozen hits the Knight could see the glow he was looking for that shined from deep within the layers of flesh. A black stone glowed brightly in Mord’s face as he peered inward, his head turning to the left and right to release a few cracks. The runes across his armor started to fade in brightness, starting at his boots and stopping at his right fist that was now raised. All the energy once pulsating over his whole form was now concentrated into this last strike. He growled with effort and slammed downward. *THUMP* The trees and grass were coated in a splattering of seperated flesh and the Knight was sent flying to the ground a good twenty feet below, but in his hand was clutched the stone powering the amalgamation of flesh. Without the stone to keep the flesh bound together the creature would begin to fall apart into a liquefied pool of sludge. Morddred slammed into the uneven ground with enough force to embed himself a good foot or two below the surface. The glow from his eyes vanished as the impact knocked him out for a time. 

    When he came to his armor had shifted back to its smoother appearance and his hand remained clutched around the black stone he ripped free. Sunlight hugged the faceplate of his helmet, his eyes flickering back open to see the sunrise off in the distance as parts of him remained embedded in the dirt. It took a few turns and shifting, but Morddred freed himself from the ground and stood to his feet. He inhales slowly through his nose and exhaled out through his mouth, releasing his thoughts from the battle that took place. “I’m coming, Agatha.” He said to himself with his gaze focused on the bright sunrise. The Red Knight would stuff the black stone into a satchel on his belt for safekeeping and his gaze would turn to Dreyrugr that writhed on the ground in hunger for all the life essence splattered everywhere. Mord reached out with an open palm and called back his runeaxe despite its hunger. It hummed through the air, being caught in his right hand and was slid back into its sheath beneath the Knight’s cloak. He turned towards the direction of Icecrown where he could clearly see the opening in the sky, his steady stride pacing him as he collected his thoughts. There was no rest for him until imbalance was corrected. There was no rest for him until she was safe.  

    The Red Knight made no stops and  only the sunlight accompanied him against his backside. It was going to be a long journey, one he knew he would have to struggle through, but to him this is how he’s survived. There is no growth without challenge and no balance without a keeper.

            @agathascytheel​

[liesandbrokenhearts]

Smooth raspberry calamities

Calm somehow found within tragedy

Branches marry vines

told by sweet butterflies

Of sweet hue, of sweet perfume

And found in its extemeties.

(For love is not found in the sycamore tree)

Morrow feels yet hollow

Microscopic lullabies of sorrow

Engrossed in colors between the time,

Gave happiness in given signs

Compare and find in winds turbine

Monarch butterflies;

Or monarchies divine?

Crown mold, both told & old

Hidden in bloodline

And heard called in the nighttime

Ancestors blood crawling to their lifelines

Tissue destroying the furrows

And it’s outlines.

To see pain in another

And no morals to live by,

Do you clutch your pearls

The same way as you shame,

Like when you grasp when they walk by?

Circular wealth redundant to the place

You’ll soon reside,

You can find comfort in numbers

Til it’s gone and you’re soon brushed by,

Find a place to be told by in many loved faces,

Become of the word that is deserving of their graces,

To see as be seen you must erase it’s old faces,

You’ve become of yourself

When you get rid of your traces.

For to you there is no privilege to be found

In hollowed humble places.

So petals yet found will wilt within the hour,

You cannot stop them from falling

The soon surpassing flower,

You must accept of the roots

Now new and with pefume

Its youth not its meaning,

It’s essence it’s bloom.

[the-end-of-art]

Blood Memory by V. Penelope Pelizzon

Hunched in the bath, four ibuprofen gulped         too late to dull the muscle cramping                  to sate a god who thirsts         monthly for his slake of iron, I am just a body bleeding in bad light. But after an hour, as the wrenching wanes, I run more water in, remembering         when I was a girl my mother knew                           one cure for this pain                           and, while I cried,         carried me mugs of tea and whiskey                  clouded with sugar cubes. In a palm of pinkish water, I scoop up         a burl of my flesh, almond-sized.                  The tissues settle, livid red to nearly black as I tilt my hand                  against the light to see it glistening like a ruby cabochon,                  appealing as it appalls,            recalling one future, years ago,            that would have borne itself on my blood                           had I allowed.                    The question swims into view: would I harbor another life now? Last spring, I sat above the harbor in Naples                  with three friends whose children,         after a week’s vacation, were all safely back at school. Palpable,                           the holiday mood         a morning freed from offspring brought! (I’d felt a guilty pleasure I’d go home         not to cook someone’s lunch,                           but to read.) Still, it wasn’t long before our talk’s         compass needle trembled north                  toward the motherland: soccer games in the Flegrean fields,                           ancient sun            reborn and swaddled putto-pink            in mist above the fumaroles;                           rococo                  messes of gelato; first words, whose honeyed gravity                           weighed on me                           like a toddler’s head         snugged below my chin in sleep.                  Then, Serena described         troubles at her daughter’s school. Their new principal refused to pay         the local gang’s protection money.                           And so, the teachers         arrived at work one day to find         the hutches where the children kept rabbits and a little clutch of chicks                           overturned.                  From the playground swings                  the throat-cut animals hung.           Next time we come for you someone had written across the door in blood.                  Now the parents wanted                  the principal to pay:            that was how these things were done.                             Screw her ideals,                           Serena heard. That bitch is going to get our children killed.         A blade bossed with oyster floats, the harbor glinted below Serena’s voice.           Into that water, Apicius wrote,                  the Romans tossed slaves         to glut the eels they’d later eat with tits and vulvae, succulently cooked,                  of sows who’d aborted their litters.                           And from that water,                  fishermen pulled a girl                           who’d been under                           at least a week.         She may have been the missing one         the papers were reporting on                             whose photo showed her         lippy, grinning, seventeen.                           A week in that wake. She was scoured of identity.                  Water’s thick in Naples                           as martyr’s blood         rusting in ampoules in the cathedral, where it liquefies on schedule                           —and it does;                  I’ve seen the miracle—                           to show the city’s            still protected by the saint.           I can’t remember, six months later,         loggy in my cooling bath, if some net had hauled these images         writhing up at me that morning                           as we sat together                           near the harbor,         or if they’d tangled in my thoughts that same evening after Serena’s dinner                    honoring Women’s Day.                             Across Europe, lapels flickered yellow wicks of mimosa,                           marking the feast.           ��                 And in Naples,                  flowers fumed for women burned on the flank of Mt. Vesuvius                  where they’d been sewing         sweatshop zippers on fake designer bags.         But as it did with everything, the city managed to transubstantiate         horror into carnival.                  With Theresa and Ellie         I’d walked home late along the harbor. Fireworks seethed above the bobbing masts.         Mirroring those harrier stars         the water seemed to flame, while                           drowned in lights         the Lungomare phosphoresced.                  Scooters rippled through                           the reefs of cars,         barely slowing for schools of boys                            and women in flocks,                  stiletto-heeled, who stalked         screeching over the cobblestones.                        From an alley’s mouth                        a gobbet of men disgorged.   One, drunker than the others, loomed         over and bent his face to mine.                  Where are your babies? he hissed,                  spit pricking my skin.                           Get home to your babies.           Not just drunk but whetted, his glare         stropped beyond seeing and testing its edge.                           You’re over-the-hill                  for trolling—is that what he meant?         Or was he putting all women away,                           including the vampire-                           lipsticked teens? Whatever he meant, he meant to make us bleed.           I wince, drain chill water out,                  drizzle in a little                           more of the hot,         and wonder at this habit of holding others’ words as worry stones         to fidget absentmindedly                           when thought goes slack.           Agates of fury, quartzes of scorn.                  Cold in my ear’s palm, the hematite heaviness of a final no.         And I still turn over my mother’s words,                                    costly pearls,                  handed me years ago in a college project on oral history.           She took my assignment seriously,         agreeing to an interview                  as if it would allow                  her, too, to wash through the wrack of half-forgotten truths.           Painstakingly on tape                  she recorded her life,         lapped by sluices and hesitations.   Her years in the Women’s Army Corps,         screening films on safety and hygiene                  to bored enlisted men.                           Her depression. Decades as a secretary. Marriage.           Until, near side B’s close, there gathered                  a final, muscled wave:         how, when she was well past forty,                           her bleeding stopped.           At first, she thought it was her age.                  Then—slowly, sickly—                           she understood.                           She’d tried to find         a doctor who would help her, but                           (her voice cresting, breaking) five months along, it was too late,         even if she’d had the money.   The tape’s hiss like receding surf.                    So here I am, at daybreak,                  adjusting the taps with my toes.         I think we are shelled animals, hauled at by tides, sleeking invasive grit                  with our nacre. I think of her hiding in the tub for half an hour                  to read; think how pleased         I was, finding her, to pull her                           back to me. Little plumes of my flesh rock in the swells,                  but my body is bland now,                           yielding as kelp,            and with my toes I pull the plug.   Drained, I need a couple hours of sleep,         then I’ll start the day again.                  And maybe, if I’m sleeping late,                           the dream will come,                  one that intrigues me almost         more than it disturbs, in which                           I’m falling, bound, into a bay of blood-threshed water.                  Fear ties me; brine            bites my lungs and I can’t breathe.            Then, with a clarity I mistake                           for waking, I wake below trees, at a table laid                  variously with meats—                  meats I realize, from a shudder in the grove’s air,                                    are human.         It should be awful; it is awful.                           But with a calm         familiar only here, a calm I’ve never known in any other place,         I find myself longing to taste                           the dish’s savor, braised and stuffed, as Apicius writes,                           with larks’ tongues.

[ask-vantablack]

The Shadow - Retribution

Warning: Contains scenes of violence, gore, and body horror.

A feral scream ripped through the deadly night sky, as hook penetrated through flesh and bone. The scream was abruptly silenced, a sickening squelch as the entity's claws descended upon their prey, killing them instantly.

There was but one lone survivor left. One that I knew all too well.

Her name was Cadence, or at least that is what I recall. She bore a striking resemblance to that of the streetwise Nea, but not quite perfect in imitation. Where half shaven hair would flow down to her chin, a short crop of pale dyed hair rustled close to her scalp instead. Where a short, dark green tank top helped to blend one in, she instead wore a bright and bold green jacket atop an even bolder shirt plastered in faces of pink, green, and blue.

Though despite appearing as an off-brand version of what one would consider the original, her skill in survival was far beyond that of her likeness. Of all survivors I'd hunted and preyed upon she was always the one to give me the hardest of chases. She was the clever one, seeming to sense when I grew near, even when I was within a disguise. Even in a chase she darted, dashed, and smoothly evading each of my strikes with disturbing ease. And with each missed swing, she would unleash her own in retribution, burning my flesh with the beam of her flashlight and giving her a chance to a quick getaway. In the end when I would finally catch her, she would stare down at me, smirking in victory, as her companions finished the last generator from beneath my nose.

She made my blood boil.

I leapt down from atop the hill, my cloak fluttering down my side. There was no point in hiding now, when there was nobody left for her to lean on. I stomped through the dirt, scanning through the abyss to find her telltale marks. Against the ground, I found her trail. She was no longer hiding, and that gave me a chance. I glided against the dirt and grass, following her trail as it broke, then reappearing between piles of rubble and thickets of trees. The path again went silent, and I stopped in my chase. I know this strategy of hers.

She was close.

But... I heard something far more interesting as well. I turned from my position, away from where I knew she was hiding, and found it nestled in the deepest thicket of the trees: the hatch. Her target and mine. I kicked that disgusting door shut, stomping it into the dirt. The ground trembled beneath my feet, cracks of foreboding red light tearing through the Earth around me. I slowly turned, eyes glinting between the trees. I saw her, and the dread that now burned in her eyes. She knew as well as I; there was nowhere left to hide.

She immediately took off in a sprint, running to get as far away from me as possible. I snapped my arm to my side, flesh twisting and shifting into a large, sickening blade. The hunt was on.

I followed her tracks through dirt and decay, every one of her panicked breathes echoing through the forest was music to my ears. She glanced back to my approaching figure, blade dragging behind me in the dirt. She ran for the shack, one of her favorite tactics, and our dance began. Around and around she gave chase, ducking beneath my swings when she grew too close. A loud gong shook the Earth, breaking her from her concentration. Too soon than she usually would, she threw down the pallet buried in the doorway. A fatal error, and so bringing our chase to a close. But as I crushed through the sorry excuse of a barrier, she struck, blinding me with an all too familiar beam of light. I hissed as I tried to collect my bearings, but when my vision recovered, she was gone without a trace.

I moved in, locker doors slamming open and shut. I circled the perimeter of the dreaded shack, and she was still nowhere to be found. Another tremor shook the Earth, cracks widening in the earth. It was then that I remembered...

The exits.

My footsteps quickened, I was practically sprinting toward where I knew was the nearest exit. I could hear the sirens blaring. My blood raced through my ears. I swung, my blade crashing into the metal lever. Electricity crackled across the faulty wiring. Cadence had just barely managed to slip past my strike, the tip of my blade barely grazing across her cheek. I swiped again, my blade barely missing her throat as she raced through the clattering exit gates. One step. Two. I raked my blade across her ribs, blood sprayed across the dirt, but it was a futile effort. She let out a shout, clutching her side as she raced through the exit. The Entity's barrier crackled up from the ground, gnarled metal daring me to step further.

I could see that gleam in her eyes.

And that damn, smug grin.

No. She will not escape this time.

I stepped further. My form contorted, shredding into tendrils of shadow black. Piece by piece, I slid through the bars of the barricade, my blood ablaze and vision searing red. Cadence's eyes widened in horror, and her legs moved faster. I reformed close behind, her blood still dripping from my blade. The chase had just begun.

Her pained grunts and pants echoed through the forest, and the pounding of our footsteps harmonized with the vicious slamming of our hearts. I thrashed my blade against her. In a moment of panic, she dodged, my blade raking against the gnarled trees. She leapt across fallen oaks, I followed close behind. We bent and winded between the infinite trees, a trail of blood the mark of our forbidden dance.

The further we delved, the thinner the forest became. The moon, ever so bright and blinding, began to dim. One by one, the stars started to flicker and fade. In a moment, she stumbled, nearly crashing to the ground. A feral impulse took over my body, My blade fractured, arms reforming into deadly claws of steel, and I leapt upon her. Her shriek made a shudder crawl across my spine, my claws slicing through her arm and further mangling her side. It wasn't enough. None of it was. I wanted her to bleed.

The forest grew thinner, grass decayed, and the dirt more unstable beneath our feet. Her dripping blood splashed against my face, hanging in the air far longer than it should. The moon started to flicker. Stars no longer hung in the infinite sky. She leapt. I pounced.

We never touched the ground.

It was only then my vision started to clear.

I blinked, looking back between her and the ground left behind our feet. We were... adrift. She gasped and shuddered, clutching her side. Blood dripped from her gaping wounds, floating like bubbles in an endless sea of black. There was no sound, no whistle of wind or rustle of trees. Nothing other than the blood pounding through my veins, and her broken gasps of panic and pain.

Could this be it? The end of The Fog? The void at the end of nowhere?

I clawed at the air, trying to stabilize myself. There was nothing to grasp. The air was deathly cold, pricking at my skin. We were trapped, floating in a sea of pitch black nothingness. The cold only grew more and more imposing, my skin was crawling with invisible icy daggers. Cadence seemed to sense it too, her body shivering and shaking, her clothes soaked with icy blood.

A sharp pain stabbed at my side. I cringed, gripping at my ribs. When I looked down, pearls of my own white blood were leaking out from between my claws.

Something was wrong. We weren't supposed to be here.

I shook again, a dagger of black ripping across my arm, severing my wrist from forearm. Cadence suddenly gasped out in shock, as a glitch of black raked across her shoulder. Muscle and tissue fractured away, dissolving bone barely keeping her limb clutched together. Another fracture, and her arm was in three. She opened her mouth to cry out in pain, and a dagger of black raked across her throat. Blood spurted from her mouth, and all that came out was a hiss of air. Her vocal cords had been destroyed.

Rakes of void tore across my spine, severing me in two. My flesh rippled and contorted against me, tendrils lapping out and suturing my pieces together, pearlescent blood continuing to pour from me. My breath never felt more erratic. My arms twisted and changed back to normal against my will. Tendrils of my flesh raced across my body. I felt like I was boiling alive in the freezing cold.

Tears blinked from Cadence's eyes. A gaze formerly smug and cunning struck with panic and fear.

She was going to die.

I was going to die.

No... it wasn't supposed to end this way!

I stretched an arm out toward her, reaching as far as my grasp allowed. My arm severed into two, and my tendrils clutched the pieces back together. She reached out for me, the only witness to her demise. Her only hope left for survival, her once mortal enemy.

I grasped her hand. My flesh rippled against hers, and my eyes widened as tendrils suddenly latched out and engulfed her hand. She opened her mouth if though to scream, but nothing came except splutters of blood. I tried to pull my arm back, to separate from her, but my body disobeyed. My skin raced across her arm, engulfing her into my body. Sparks of her memories raced across my vision. I pulled harder, clenching my eyes shut tight. Every memory, every person, every name, and every emotion poured into my brain. Her everything was being sucked within me, and I was powerless to stop it.

My flesh contorted from my face, a feral scream of agony tearing from my throat. Vision flashes of blinding white, before all at once crashing down into black.

…

…

My eyes slowly opened. My body shuddered at the breeze drifting across my skin. The cool night sky illuminated by the bright, glistening moon and its endless sea of stars. I'm... alive. I'm alive, and I'm whole again.

I slowly pushed myself up, looking around.

Cadence was gone.

[anaunicornzebra]

Let's Talk about EDS...

So let's talk about EDS, shall we! EDS is short for Ehlers Danlos Syndrome(s) and is a connective tissue disorders that can be inherited and or not. It varies how both affect the body. The most general characteristics of EDS is joint hypermobility, skin hypersensitivity and tissue fragility. There are currently 13 subtypes to EDS.

Ok, now that we got all the general information out of the way, let me share with you how EDS personally affects me. I have two of the subtypes of EDS. I have what is called hEDS or Hypermobility and I also have Cardiac-Valvular EDS. The hypermobility of EDS affects specifically my shoulders, fingers, hips, and knees a lot. I have had countless dislocations of each joint mentioned. I have awaken out of my sleep to my hip being dislocated or sublax (partial dislocation) many times in these past 4 years of being diagnosed. I have had scoliosis as a child and had a failed spinal fusion. There is days where the chronic joint pain or just pain in general can be overbearing. The Cardiac-Valvular EDS mainly affects the mitral valve and other valves of the heart. These valves can easily become ruptured which would not be a good thing at all.

At this present time EDS is affecting me with my balance and I use a walker out in public and at home sometimes so I don't fall as much. My gastrointestinal area is very much affected at the moment with laryngeal and esophageal spasms, food moving at super turtle speed down my esophagus which also has a narrowing towards the end where the food enters my stomach area. Food that does get to my stomach, sometimes just sits and ferments. My larynx is spasms and it affects how I speak at the moment and how I eat. Also at this present moment, my husband and I have to puree my food so I won't choke. I can literally feel the food slowly work it's way down. I've even choked on my own saliva. Yep, painful indeed. I felt you clutch your pearls and chest honey!

Life with EDS for me hasn't been the most easily yet I truly try not to allow what is beyond my control kill my spirit or vibes. Ehlers Danlos Syndrome not only affects those who have it physically, it has very much effects on our emotional and mental health as well. I've even been put in a mental facility because doctors didn't first believe me before I was diagnosed. We have been told several things by doctors and nurses that you would never dreamed of like my absolute favorite "It's just all in your head!" I think almost every EDSer I know have heard that line before!

The thing is EDS isn't all in my head. Yet there was times when my mental health has challenged me to even think otherwise. I'm learning more and more about this incurable disease that I can't allow what is beyond my control kill me. I'm human now and I still battle depression and anxiety yet I've learned more alternative ways to handle it like guided meditations, crystal singing bowls sessions and even essentials oils*.

So there you have it! That's EDS and how it affects me. Everyone that has EDS are not the same. Some of us have similarities yet not always the exact same symptoms or situations regarding our bodies. There are some of us that look so good it's like "Nah, you can't be sick!", or "Well you look good, so I don't see it!". I get that a lot! Unfortunately that is what an invisible disease is. You could look perfectly fine while your insides literally falling apart. You know the old saying... Never judge a book by its cover.... Well that's the message I truly want to get out about EDS. Just because some of us doesn't look physically and visibly sick doesn't mean there isn't something going on. I hope that me sharing my story will encourage those who read this to learn more about EDS. We need more researchers! We need to find a cure! It could be YOU, that can get us the next steps closer to finding a way to end this disease. I ask you to feel free to share this blog with anyone you may know, because we all know sharing is caring!!

*disclaimer some alternative medicine and or health approaches may not work for each person. Please consult your physician about anything treatments that is not of your every day use.