#raging tendonitis in my hand wrist and forearm

[prisonhannibal]

who else is in their 20s with an occupational injury from overuse already LMFAO I thought I had at least a couple years

[thechaoscryptid]

It's been ages since I wrote anything just for me and it's my birthday in a week and a half so for WIP Wednesday pls have some of the SHAMELESSLY self-indulgent Andreil/Andrew Minyard study I've been working on this week as an excuse just to write pretty things. As a treat. A lil present. Just for funsies for once

Andrew Joseph Minyard makes it easy to forget he was not born with blood in his teeth and blades kissing his wrists. It is survival, plain and simple: excise what doesn't matter, and it's easier to wrap his jaws around the remains and gnaw until he hits marrow. His history remains hidden in his snarl and his tendons scream with the force of holding on. He is ten feet of rage hemmed in by five feet of skin, and he is bitter bile upon porcelain, and he is—he needs to be—the monster everyone knows and no one loves.

Restless energy scratches at his skull, each staticky frisson feeding off its predecessor until the world is cotton and his breath is a fluttering mess nestled against a dead heart. His knives weigh heavy against his forearms, but he doesn't reach for them. He tangles his fingers between his knees as he glares down at the parking lot; in his haste to flee another "I'm fine" that's starting to sound a lot like "Help," he—so stupidly—hadn't stopped to consider how nothing feels like the worst thing of all as it tries to slip through his hands.

Neil Josten, who exists as a bandage-swaddled lie, has not yet learned that "I hate you" is acquiescence: belly-up vulnerability delivered straight into uncomprehending palms. Neil doesn't understand because they are not the same—Andrew does not allow his desperation to seep out of every pore. He is not a blue-eyed fool. Moreover, Neil would not know vulnerable even if Andrew beat the idea into him.

He cannot—will never—explain the significance to Neil, and so he says I hate you, because he refuses to allow Neil a foothold.

I hate you, he says, because it is easier to keep people alive when they don't matter.

I hate you, he says, because he has never quite known how to like without loathing.

I hate you, he says, because lying is easier than admitting he might—at some nebulous future point he feels coming like a freight train—want to allow Neil to see the craven creature he keeps locked deep behind his ribs.

Because though Andrew will not—

(Andrew does not allow himself to name it, because want is a prelude to please, and if he never pleads again it will be far too soon.)

—Neil, he still has to grapple with the fact that something stronger than apathy rears its ugly head when he sees Neil struggling to maintain his facade.

[keeper0fthestars]

would you let me

din djarin x fem!reader (au)

summary: tattooed!din. guys you should know me by now, there’s no plot this is shamelessly soft and a little bit of filth (you can assume this takes place well after the events of ywmnd, but it can be read as a stand-alone fic)

warnings: Din without his helmet, 18+ explicit, fluff/smut, love and affection, oral f receiving, praise kink, y’all din is Hor-neeeee, dirty talk sort of, possessive din, cock warming, unprotected sex, oh yea- din doesn’t realize how enamoured you are with his tattoos.

a/n: Did I intend for this to be 2.8k words? Hahaha, oh god, in my head this was only 600 words at the most and i have nothing to say for myself, all i want is Din Djarin to be being safe, stable and happy.

✨immaculate✨moodboard at the bottom by: @bxbafett​

~~

His skin tingles where you still touch him.

The sweat has dried but he can’t yet bring himself to move from where he'd collapsed next to you on the pillows a few minutes ago. Sprawled on his stomach, he takes up your side of the bed, the comfortable weight of your leg bent over the back of his thigh. The heat of your mouth and the exquisite grip of your pussy would stay with him for days.

The peaceful glow blanketing the room hangs in contrast to the raging wind outside. The storm arrived unexpectedly before dawn and continues to rattle the windows every so often, a promise that it's far from over. 

Muscles protesting, he bunches the pillow under his arms. His eyes struggle to stay open and he sees you’re doing no better, not a lick of tension left in your body. His shoulders bulging, he rests his head on his forearms, lulled by the sensation of your slow fingers tracing the dark ink over his shoulder blade. 

He wonders what you're thinking about, he wonders if you even realize you’re doing it. Not that he minds. Not that he needed a reason to keep you in bed today. Drowsy and spent, the look on your face tells him you wouldn't be able to recall a single thing you’d carried over from yesterday’s to-do list. He likes days like this when the only thing on your mind is him. Even now, especially now, when all that exists is the delicious scent of you and he’s on the verge of dozing off and it's not even noon. He can't get enough of how fucking beautiful you are after he's fucked you. 

//

The dwindling fire dances in the corner of the room, creating shadows across the dips and valleys of his back. Coals begin to crackle but neither of you seems to care about the chill creeping back in the room. The window could be wide open right now and neither of you would even notice.

At the moment, other things occupy your mind. Lazy, your fingers continue over the smooth slope of his shoulder, repeatedly admiring the same path of black ink. 

With a languid exhale, he shifts, turning on his side, ruffling the toasty air under the quilt between you. One arm propped under his head, his other hand slipping warm underneath the blanket, hugging your hip, he settles heavy and solid beside you. 

Your eyes are drawn to the intricate pattern that spreads across his chest and curls around his biceps and disappears under the blankets. You know the significance of each piece of ink. The one on his shoulder, the one bigger than your palm is your favourite. Ever since he'd gotten it, you found yourself silently longing for something you’d never thought you’d want. But then, you’ve never done anything as reckless as being in love before. 

You've often wondered if he'd like that; to see a similar version of one of his tattoos somewhere on you, to watch him brush his fingers over it, or his mouth- tracing the pattern in the dark, knowing the shape of it from memory alone. Tender evidence of just how entwined your life with him is. 

The thought of it pulls delightfully inside your stomach.

When you look up, he’s already watching you. 

He sees the flash of eagerness in your eyes before you blink it away, he sees the cautious way you wet your bottom lip as you consider your words. He can see you’re itching to say something. 

"If I wanted something like this, would you do it for me?"

His brow flattens, his lips part and you can tell the question catches him off guard. You hear the hitch in the air but you don’t know the half of it. 

You do not know that his throat jams with adrenaline when he opens his mouth to answer you— he barely manages to swallow it down and level his voice enough to speak. He’s powerless to stop the grin that sneaks into the corner of his mouth.

‘Of course, I would.’ 

The kick of overwhelming pride in his veins is instant, a punch to his lungs. This timid little request sets off fireworks in his stomach, floods hot up his chest, flushing the roots of his scalp. Something so tangible, so primal he thinks he could reach in and touch it. He thinks if he does, it might lay him to waste. The more he visualizes you this way, the more light-headed he becomes. 

And then you weaken him further. Sweet little apples forming on your cheeks— and he gives in. Allows the sensation to shatter him.

His girl, his girl, wants ink that matches his. 

He wants to bask in it, drown himself in it. Arousal licks hot inside his stomach, tightens his cock so fast it makes him dizzy-  

Instead of on your hip, the heat of his hand is now curling around the back of your neck and his forehead collides gently with yours. Warm and solid.

He has to close his eyes, focus on you, or the muscles around his heart will squeeze right out of his chest and turn him into a puddle. His cock, painfully heavy between his legs.

Tethering himself against your warm brow, he lingers, focuses on your breath fanning down his cheek. Eventually, he comes back down again. 

You'd said you want him to do it.

You'd be wearing a part of him on your skin. Forever. 

Fuck.

How he wants it.

His lungs threaten to collapse again.

Gentle fingers squeeze the nape of your neck, spreading warmth down your spine. Nudging your forehead up, you are met with the imploring depths of his eyes carefully fixed on yours, circling your features. You watch his brows pull together, the earnestness on his face tugs at the strings around your heart.

“You would let me?” He asks.

You know exactly what he means.  Giving him the power to adorn you, stinging with needles.

To hurt you. Trust that he wouldn’t. 

Like his name hasn’t already been written on the inside of your heart since the day you met.

Your hand curves along the scruffy edge of his jaw, reaching further, tangling in his hair. Tipping your face up, your mouth slides between his supple lips and you answer him the only way you can.  

He melts immediately, nose pressing into your cheek, tugging you closer with a soft hungry moan. Stubble grazing, you’re lost inside the slick of his mouth, his tongue sliding deeper, reaching for yours. His hand trails down the curve of your back, his cock rigid, presses against your softness and heat swoops low in your belly. Much too soon he pulls away and you already feel his burning gaze as you struggle to pull your eyelids open.

Bloomed and dark, his eyes burn with adoration so intense it would blot out both suns.

"Where would you want it?" 

The softness in his voice makes your heart flutter. You already see the possibilities flickering in his eyes; his ink decorating you.  

Easing you back on the pillows, you barely get a chance to give his question any thought when you feel the ends of his hair tickling your jaw, his mouth ghosting over your clavicle. 

"Maybe here?" his voice lilts up at the end, satisfied at the goosebumps erupting across your skin.

He doesn't give you time to answer, instead, he grasps your hand, softly brushing his thumb over the tendons on the inside of your wrist. "Or, here."

And then it hits you and your mouth goes dry. “You’ve already thought about this.”

‘Yeah,’ he says softly, bending to slot his lips over your open mouth. ‘I have.’

His admission just about ruins you.

Ugh. This man.

Curiosity ignites inside you, in sync with an eagerness of an entirely different kind. One that charges your pulse, makes your voice weak.

‘Where would you want it?’ 

He's slow with his answer. Even slower gripping the blanket from underneath. Pulling it down, watching the satin edge slide over your skin, watching it slowly catch on your nipples. Bit by bit, exposing the soft fullness of your curves. Doesn't stop pulling until the blanket bunches around your knees. 

You watch his mouth tug into a crooked grin. 

Crowding over the side of you, he’s so long and so broad. Your skin tingles under his appreciative gaze. A warm hand trails up the side of your hip, fingertips counting ribs, so gentle it's almost ticklish. You struggle to breathe around the quivering in your stomach where your heart thuds erratically from one corner of your ribcage to the other. 

Unhurried fingers trace a slow semicircle underneath your breast.

‘I want one here,’ his head dips down, his nose following the swell of soft skin. ‘So I can see it every time I fuck you.’

Your pussy twinges, heat flaring all the way to your nipples. 

Oh.

Grasping a handful of your breast, he circles his tongue over your nipple and before you can put a single thought together, his large hand moves to your hip, squeezes, then melts into the softest of touches.  

“And I want one down here.”

You catch his gaze, blazing and dark, before his mop of messy dark hair trails down your stomach. 

He licks a hot stripe over the spot he's just identified on the inside of your hip bone, teeth nipping. Your core clenches painfully at the contact and your vision goes hazy. He is pleased with your splintered gasp, but you can think of a few other uses for that smug grin.  As though reading your mind, his open mouth finds more bare skin, hot and wet, scraping slower, pushing your legs apart. 

His voice low, possessive, ‘No one but me would ever know about them.’

The thought sends a spectacular sting of arousal around your ass and up your spine. 

Something only for him. Maker. He renders you so defenseless so fast your head spins. 

"So, what do you think?" his voice dips lower, his stubble scrapes up the inside of your thigh. "Where should we start?"

You know he just asked you a question but his thumb is toying with the seam of your pussy now and the words he just said have nothing to cling to inside your head. He’s slow about it, pressing just far enough to collect your wetness and push it up around your clit. Painting. Teasing. Dipping further each time only to pull away and bring it to his mouth. Spreading you wider so he can see how flushed and swollen you are and he hasn’t even used his mouth yet.  

“You gonna answer me?” Using his palm to pin your leg open, his mouth sinks into the inside of your thigh, teeth and all, and he hears you pull air from the beams of your ceiling.

“Tha-s not fair..” you plead.

He moans his agreement into the flesh of your other thigh. “We can finish this conversation after you cum.”

His mouth closes over your clit and your eyes roll back in your head. He doesn’t let up.

“Din-,” you gasp.

He pulls off your swollen clit and sucks the taste off his lips, watching you clench for him at the loss of contact.  

“Yeah?” 

You’re so fucking wet for him that his cock throbs, leaking between his stomach and the sheets. Bending his index finger he drags the side of his knuckle over your clit, pushing deep until he snags your entrance, holding you there. You’re already fluttering around him, so eager. With every clench, more slick leaks between his fingers. Your ragged breathing turns into the most filthy whimpers every time he laps at your clit. His other hand pries your fist from the sheet beside you, curls his fingers through yours and holds tight. Collects wetness on his tongue and leaves it on your clit again.

“You wanna cum on my mouth... or my cock.”

“Yes…” you plead, chest heaving, not sure if he even hears you. 

He doesn’t know what you’re moaning ‘yes’ to but he doesn’t care because your pussy is too fucking tempting to stop now. Two fingers buried to the knuckle, they twist and curl and he has to hold your hips from seizing and climbing off the bed when you cry out and come apart at the seams. 

He moans blissfully, mouth buried in your pussy, working you through it until your grip on his hair loosens and your thighs finally lay limp around his shoulders.  His mouth becomes patient, gently cleaning you up until you’re too sensitive to take anymore.

He crawls up to your mouth, forearms crowding you on either side, settling his weight between your legs. Your hands tug through his hair and he moans again, taking his time inside your mouth, sloppy and breathless.

Blissed out and shaky, you let him nudge you over on your side. Bringing the blanket over your bodies, he climbs up behind you like a massive wall of warmth. 

Soft kisses to your shoulder, his hand splays firm on your belly; he needs to be as close as possible, needs to fit himself between your legs, perfectly content to just keep himself there for the rest of the day if that’s all you wanted. 

He knows it’s not. 

Still keyed-up from your orgasm, the heavy length of his cock slides exquisitely through your folds, the wide ridges catch perfectly on your tender clit. He throbs hot and your eyes cloud over with a need so obscene, so sharp, it would take no effort at all to angle your hips and ease every inch of him into you. Your fingertips reach down, smearing your fingers over the blunt head of his cock and he twitches for you, leaking and hot, a broken groan shuddering within his chest behind you. The ache goes straight to your pussy.

His mouth gone dry, his hand like steel on your hip now. He holds delightfully still, right over your clit and he feels you shudder and clench, more heat spilling out around his cock. 

“Does my girl want more?”  His hand dips below the swell of your ass, he squeezes into your flesh, pulling you apart, making more room for himself, fixed on supplying you another heavenly inch of contact. You oblige and squeeze the muscles between your legs, giving him more friction and he keens for you, whimpering ‘fuck’  

He sees you bring your slippery fingers into your mouth, and he has to force his eyes shut and rein himself in, dazed at how dangerously close he is to that sweet blinding edge of oblivion. He feels you clench desperately again, knows it’s because you’re gathering more slick from his weeping cock and swallowing it down.

Pressing your ass into the base of his hips you arch your back, sliding him once more through the same path. The desperate sound he makes against the back of your neck makes you throb. 

He hums wet kisses into your neck, bringing three fingers soaked from his mouth to your nipple, rolling them over the hardened peaks. You shudder for him and grind harder into his lap, legs trembling, your nails digging into his arm.

“What d’you need, my girl?” 

Your only answer is a low whine. “I need you in me.”  

Grasping your knee from behind, he lifts your leg just enough to wedge his hips properly... ‘like this, you want me just like this’ ...and it’s effortless. He drags through your whimpers, through the haze of his own blurry desperation, burying himself into your slick heat all at once. When he reaches the hilt, you gasp high and tight, the stretch fucking divine. 

He groans through a string of filthy curses, low and needy and breathless through gritted teeth, ‘this what you want, just like this?’ A delicious ache burning deep in his stomach, he stills, waiting for you to breathe again. ‘...good girl, y-es,’ he hushes against your neck, ‘...relax for me.’

There is no more room for him to move but slowly, somehow, he still manages to rock into you, continues to gush praise into your hair, easing your leg down on his, ‘so fucking good for me,’  keeping you anchored, close and unmoving.

Your grip on his cock is intoxicating, nothing could ever come close. Buried deep in you is the only place he feels truly weightless. 

It’s a heady thing, the way you claim him, the way you light up when he walks in the door, how much you trust him, how much you care for him. It takes his breath away.  Erases every fear he’s ever had and every worry yet to come. 

Snug in your bed like this, forever is a real thing. 

//

Shielding you from the cold room, you’re both on the edge of sleep again when it occurs to him and he smiles. “You never answered my question, sweetheart.” 

You inhale with a soft contented sound, burying deeper underneath his arm.

“On my wrist.” Your drowsy slurred voice makes his heart swoon. 

“I want everyone that sees it, to know who I belong to.”

His arm tightens around your waist.

~~

TO BE CONTINUED...! HOPEFULLY :)

thank you so much for reading! I would love to know what you think of this! if you’ve every left me a comment on anything i’ve written -please know i’ve never forgotten it xx

perm taglist: @opheliaelysia @oldstuffnewstuff @sistasarah-sallysaidso @fromthedeskoftheraven @hiscyarika @oloreaa @punkpascal @wickedfrsgrl @b0n-chann @buckstaposition @mstgsmy @the-wishmonger @givemethatgold @cinewhore @ksgeekgirl @princessxkenobi @getinthepoolkeanu @paintballkid711 @yespolkadotkitty @pedropascalito @randomness501 @demigod-dragonrider-schoolidol @dearspacepirates @jaime1110 @chews-erotically @this-cat-is-dea @cryptkeepersoul @findhimfives

din djarin tag: @tiffdawg 

@seawhisperer deserves all the pancakes in the fcking world for tolerating my incoherent messages at all hours of the night and her endless supply of inspiration xx

If anyone is interested, you can use this link to add or remove yourself from my tag list :)

[lepus-arcticus]

43.

He studies the artefact of her voice on his machine, cataloguing each inflection, mentally charting each subtle flux of her pitch. He replays her empty missive over and over, hunting for distress signals, visualizing the choreography of her lips and teeth and tongue as they conspire to lie to him. Her apartment is empty, her cell phone turned off. 

He can’t help but conjure impressions of her in distress; the barrel of a gun shoved into her warm, yielding temple, her slim, vein-mapped wrists rubbed raw, bleeding into knotted jute. He pores over emails signed with her name, finding no trace of her mellow cadence. 

He sweats and he paces, his skin feels too tight. It’s happening all over again. It’s Duane Barry howling at the peak of Skyland Mountain, the lung-scraping cold of Antarctica ice.  

-

The Scully he knows is not prone to fantasy. She is not easily manipulated. She does not play games, even when fate seems bent on maneuvering her like a queen on a chessboard. The Scully he knows is scrappy and canny and proud, and that’s what makes it all the worse. 

All she has to show for her foolishness is a clutch of vacant wood-paneled offices and a blank CD. Disgust and devastation and relief gnash fiercely at each other within his chest. He can barely stand to look at her. 

- 

“I took an oath,” she pleads, pacing the shadowy perimeter of his apartment, the fray of her opium-poppy hair tangling with lamplight. Her mouth is set in a femme fatale snarl, her voice is low and thick. Mulder leans against the door frame, avoiding her eyes, knowing that the righteous blaze he’ll encounter there will burn him all the way down. 

“It was my responsibility as a physician,” she continues. “If there was even the slightest possibility—”

Her hand comes to her forehead, like she’s had a revelation. “You know what? Fuck you, Mulder. I don’t need to explain myself.”

She turns on her heel and stalks to the door, yanking it open, sloshing light into the room. 

A full-body swell of possessive wrath propels Mulder forward, and he lunges for her, clamps a hand around her wrist. He wrenches her back to him and slams the door closed, backing her up against it, pinning her captured hand to the wood beside her head. His pulse drones in his ears. He still can’t meet her eyes, but the defiant set of her jaw makes him ache to claim her, makes him so angry that for a moment, he thinks he might break down and cry, the way little boys rage in the face of playground injustice. 

He crowds himself into her space, determined to bully her into submission, ducking his head to feel her quickening breath mingle with his. The tendons of her wrist flex under his palm. Her small, impertinent breasts rise and fall against his chest. “Mul—”

“Shut up.”

Kissing her isn’t fair, he knows, so he does it harder and better than ever before, gripping her jaw with his free hand, invading her mouth with arrogant, calculating lust. 

See why you need me, Scully? He transmits the thought to her, rutting his growing erection against her belly while he kisses her senseless, secure in the knowledge that she likes him like this, that it gets her hot when he’s cruel and hard and selfish. 

At least he has this. At least he knows that even at their worst, their most discordant, her body will listen to his, absorbing everything he hurls at it. 

Scully knows it too, and she rips herself out of his grip with a frustrated gasp. She manages two frantic paces before he catches her from behind, an arm locked across her ribs, the other hand fumbling with the button at her fly. 

“You gonna do to me what you did after Ed?” She pants, clawing at his forearm. 

He nips her ear in retaliation. “Depends. You gonna ask me to stop this time?” 

She struggles against him, but he can tell it’s not her best effort. He manages the button, gets her zipper down—

“He drugged me,” she says. 

The oxygen leaves the room.

“The smoking man. He drugged me, undressed me while I was unconscious. Took my bra off. My panties. Probably did it nice and slow.” 

Mulder loosens his hold, releasing her slowly, choking on a flood of horror and bile. 

Scully turns to face him, and he finally musters the courage to meet her eyes, finding something like victory in their dark, acidic blue. “He made me wear this… this tight, tiny black dress. He stared at my tits with his mouth watering. He stank, Mulder. I had to breathe through my mouth.” 

“Scully. Scully, what are you telling me?” 

She stares him down, a hook at the corner of her mouth. “I would have done anything, you know. If he’d asked it of me.” “But... he didn’t,” Mulder says carefully, searching her face for confirmation. “And you… you wouldn’t have.”

“I would have,” she hisses back at him. “One night for the cure to all human disease? One night? How would it be any worse, any different, than what he’s done to my body already? He gave me cancer! Or did you forget? He controls this goddamned chip in my neck! He--he made children from me, Mulder, he stole my ova and used them to breed sick, doomed babies, my babies, babies I’ll never hold, never know, never get to say goodbye to. Seriously, what do you think the chances are that Emily was the only one? How many more do you think are out there?” 

“Scully, stop it.” 

“Might as well make the most of it, right? I would have let him use me in any way he wanted if it meant that I could save just one person—” 

“—But it was a lie, Scully, a lie like all of his other lies! You would have thrown away your—”

“—It’s just a body, for Christ’s sake,” she snarls, and as if to demonstrate, she starts to strip, tearing impatiently at herself. “It’s meat and bone and—and, and tendon, and nerve. That’s it. That’s all it is. Look at it,” she says, throwing her shirt to the floor, tossing her arms up. “It’s nothing!” Her belly is muscular, pale, bullet-scarred. Her hip bones rise from her waistband like a challenge. 

It’s not nothing. It’s his altar. It’s his mania, his confessional, his asylum. 

His. 

“He did this to get to me.” He knows it’s the wrong thing to say before it leaves his mouth, knows it sounds pathetic, knows he’s really pissed her off, even before the colour rises in her cheeks and her lips spring open to reveal her sharp little teeth.

“I’m not an extension of you, Mulder. You don’t own me.” 

All the worst parts of him conspire to decide that it’s a challenge. 

He crosses the fissure of energy and space that separates them, once again laying claim to her furious lips, swallowing her cry of objection. The neglected dining room table is only a few feet behind her, and he backs her up until there’s a clatter of resistance. He reaches blindly, shoving mail, newspapers, a stack of files to the floor, where they scatter like dead leaves in an autumn storm. 

He knows she can’t hold out forever, and he’s right—and when he feels her soften and submit, when she goes slack and puts her arms around him and moans into his mouth, a dark whim like a restless spirit possesses him, body and soul. 

He breaks his kiss and jerks her around, halving her over the table. Unclips her bra, pulls it from beneath her to fling across the room, scrapes his nails down her back. If the splintery, weathered thrift store wood is chafing her cheek, abrading her sensitive nipples, all the better. 

One hand between her shoulder blades keeps her pinned, and he uses the other to rip her trousers and panties over her firm, sweet ass. He’s so hard now that he can feel every ridge and vein of his cock straining against his jeans, pulsing angrily, demanding attention. He wants to punish her, wants to make her beg. He wants to make her come so hard that she’ll never think of leaving him again. 

His hand flies through the air. The resounding crack as it meets her ass is so, so good, just as good as her anguished yelp, her following whimper. The victimized patch of her skin pinks up, and he strokes it tenderly, making soothing sounds in the back of his throat. 

Scully stretches her arms forward to grip the edge of the table. He wishes he was wearing a tie, so that he could rip it off and bind her wrists with it, spread her out and tie her to the table leg and leave her trembling and begging and cursing him out while he puts his feet up beside her face and finishes off a beer. He could do it with his belt, he supposes, but he’s a selfish, selfish man, and more than anything, he wants to fuck her.

He smacks her harder. 

While she’s vocalizing her approval, he dips his fingers lower to slick through her hot, slippery pussy. He groans, then brings his hand up and wipes his fingers on her cheek, catching the corner of her mouth. “Wet,” he accuses her hoarsely. 

Her eyelashes flicker, and she nods her confession. 

She stays still while he frees himself from his jeans, his socks, his shirt. His cock bobs against her ass and his balls flex tight up to his shaft, but he wants to see her face, wants to make her look at him while he fucks himself back into her. 

He hauls her off the table by her hips and turns her around. She’s ragdoll compliant, letting him strip her pants all the way off and lift her back up so that she’s sitting on the edge, facing him, her thighs spread wide and her plump, pretty, glistening cunt on display. 

Simmering with greed, he sidles up close, his cock brushing the seam of her labia. She wraps her legs around him and crosses her ankles at his back, trying to pull him closer, but he doesn’t move an inch, his swollen, pulsing head just barely touching her, just barely grazing the peak of her clitoris. She’s wet and she’s hot and every nerve in his body is screaming at him to fuck, fuck, fuck, but he’s got a point to make, and goddamnit, he’s going to get it through to her. 

He gathers a fistful of her hair and forces her head back, leaning over her, planting his other hand on the table behind her for balance. He locks her into his eyes.

“You’ll never go with him again,” he commands. “Never.” He pushes forward and slides the underside of his dick through her folds, grinding hard against her clit, because if he can just make her need him enough, surely he’ll never have to feel the soul-sickening panic of her absence again. 

“I’ll do whatever I want,” she retorts, articulating every word, her chin jutting proudly, her pupils a black and dangerous chasm. 

He tightens his fist in her hair and stabs himself into her. 

The sound that rips up from her chest is short and shrill, and god, even her pussy feels defiant, strong and grippy and tight as hell. He fucks her in brutal, relentless strokes, punishing her, pleading with her. His eyes burn with unshed tears of humiliating rage as he reclaims her body, this perfect and inviolable body that she chooses again and again to share with him. 

It’s not long before he forces an orgasm from her, steals it from her, biting her neck while she writhes and cries out for her god, to witness it, maybe, or to save her sinner’s soul. And while she’s calling on heaven, he falls harder than Lucifer, jerking and spilling inside of her, pumping her so full that at least for a short while, she can’t possibly claim to be only herself. 

And then it’s done.

The world rights itself. The hush of traffic returns, the tick of his antique mantle clock. 

She wraps her arms around him in silent forgiveness, and then he really does start to cry, hard and hopelessly, because how could he ever truly hope to keep her safe?

-

Incrementum

[wyslyyzr]

HOW DID I MISS THE FIRST LISS MEME ROFLMAO do it. I dare you. I double dog dare you.

◈ for a first kiss between our muses.  |  @sebastianshaw

through the motions of life, erik has always tried to be decisive. it is a change from the quivering and persecuted child he was, but even then, max had ground nails into knives, and on more than one occasion, decided he would die to kill his oppressors, thwarted only by misstep. he prides himself on his strengths, but there is one distinct category he's had a tumultuous time with: interpersonal relationships. they were often elusive at worst, and complicated at best; his methods were disavowed but he was loved, or he was not loved and was feared, or he was precisely asocial to the point of withdrawal. it was always a struggle, and erik's loneliness was silent, tucked away beneath his breast bone with the rest of his pain he had no desire to aerate.

he doesn't particularly like sebastian shaw, but he tolerates him as demanded or requested by those around him that he respects more, which allows for a subsistence of social dynamic he wished he could simply scorch to nothingness. shaw is oppressively annoying, but erik suspects even if he could train himself to offer minimal reactions, shaw might not retract--his interest ran a bit deeper than mere needling, though erik could not quite deduce what it was that interested shaw. his strength or convictions? maybe, but it was difficult to imagine sebastian approved of how he used them--he'd almost made that clear already. erik simply pretends that isn't there, that he can exist in relative peace, though he feels sebastian's eyes on him rather consistently.

this is a quiet moment, one erik relishes, even if it's beside someone like sebastian shaw. he offers ambivalent reactions, responses, a neutrality meant not to reveal his hand or thoughts, but it would be a lie to claim he didn't enjoy this, at least; the sprawling scenic view of high risen paths and low valleys of clear water, the refracting light from the falling sun, the subtle breeze that tickled his throat and forearms and hands, that lazily tangled in his hair.

when shaw gestures, albeit vaguely, to the ink stretched across his bare forearm, erik's brow sets in clear annoyance, a sharpness narrowing his eyes. sebastian lifts a finger to tut, oh, please, erik, i am not mocking you. he watches shaw fold a leg over the knee, expecting a verbal display of stupidity, or at least, something that would evoke a tremor of rage, but to his surprise, it doesn't come.

shaw mumbles in a way that seems deliberate, like he was sharing exactly what he meant to, a storybook that eliminated any opportunity for vulnerability--like if he said what he meant in an exact tone, it couldn't possibly sound like something that was about him, something that made him less than impervious and grandiose. when he speaks, its of his father, of an impoverished childhood, though the details are deliberately obscured. perhaps a brusque and narrow comparison to what erik endured, but perhaps not done maliciously.

this once, at least.

the bars of tendon in erik's wrist flex as his fingers spider about the rim of his offered glass of champagne, and the taste is fragrantly sweet. he'd observed the bottle had been appropriately stamped with a kosher seal, and wondered if that had been intentional, too, or if shaw had deferred to his misconstrued idea of what exactly kosher meant. that was fine by erik, either way; he hadn't had a good glass of wine or champagne since passover. see, i am not quite the privileged lout you seem to think i am, erik.

erik rolls his eyes, though a bud of amusement burrows into the side of his cheek, pressing a soft line beside his lip. ' oh, believe you me, shaw, i still think that of you. ' he stands from his seat, the sunlight touching his white clothes in such a way that it made erik look otherworldly, illuminating his pale hair, his draped shawl, the tight fit of his long legs. ' i'm unsure what your motivation is for sharing such knowledge with me, ' erik begins, opening his hand in offering to take shaw's emptied cup, ' as it would be out of character to think of you doing anything without an ulterior motive, ' he raises his brows at shaw, though the gesture is almost playful, ' but.. regardless, i appreciate that it was shared. ' shaw rolls his hand on the ball joint of his wrist, flicking his fingers in a dismissive manner. i have servants for that. so erik drops his hand, and shaw rises from his seat in tandem, electing to take erik's emptied glass himself. erik watches him set the pair aside on a small, cherry-oak polished end table that bore nothing else but what looked to be a cigar box. take it as a display of good faith.

' you do nothing in good faith. '

quite untrue, and such an unyielding accusation. you think so low of me. ' is that so? give me an example of your good faith. ' when shaw staggers to an idle, searching for something that would appease magneto, erik almost laughs in his face. ' i did not think so. ' shaw reaches for his arm before he can retreat from the balcony, his hold unkind enough to make erik jerk in response, but he relaxes when it becomes evident to him sebastian merely wants to gain precedence over this debate, and keep him here to speak. well, i make regular donations to a homeless children's education fund in pittsburgh.

' okay. ' thats an example, as you demanded. ' i suppose so. '

when shaw contemplates him, erik thinks he looks rather dull. he watches his brow press into a line. when you learned the scarlet witch and quicksilver were your children, what did you do, magnus?

erik raises a pale brow, something hot and brittle waning in his chest. the sudden switch in topic is jarring, and suspicious to erik. he blinks, averting his eyes from sebastian in thought. ' i held my granddaughter in my arms. i thought about all the time i had missed, and i felt sorry for myself, and sad for them. and i got over it, and began trying to fill in the gaps. why? what does-- '

shaw, perhaps realizing he had yet a hold on erik's arm, lets him go. nothing. it was--a ghost from my past has come to haunt me. you, so filled with them, might have known what to do. i was.. perhaps, asking for .. help.

' help? you? ' ridiculous, isn't it? it feels disgustingly wrong.

' well, thats your problem. ' erik presses his finger into sebastian's chest, albeit the pressure is slight; it's meant to get his attention, nothing else. ' you only accept help when it means theres less work for you to do. what do you do when it makes you vulnerable? i struggled with that for years, and it is still wanting. '

there is a long suffering moment of silence between them, the sun continuing its descent on the horizon, bloated colors of orange and pink crawling over glass. finally, one of shaw's near-comically large hands raises to crest the side of erik's face, his thumb curling to the hinge of erik's jaw, beneath his ear. he tilts erik's head like he's appraising his face, and erik scrunches his nose. ' what are you doing? '

kissing him is certainly the last thing erik could have expected. in fact, it's so left-field to him, so abrupt and strange, that for a moment, erik doesn't know exactly what to do. shaw pulls erik's head down just slightly to compensate for the inch of difference in height, an act erik would suspect meant to be domineering. when his senses come back into focus, he can taste alcohol, a hint of smoke, something beneath that likely to be meat. his heart rushes into his ears, and the swirl of panic pushes erik to respond, his suspended belief finally giving like an overcrowded dam. he balls a fist against shaw's clavicle and shoves with force, successfully prying him free, and nearly knocking him into the railing.

' gott! du khazer, what in--why did you do that? ' erik roars, wiping his face in his sleeve.

i thought we were having a "moment".

' no! '

[writefinch]

The Prince’s Offering, Pt.5 (noncon, bondage)

As the wine girl collected her board and scurried off, Karim continued. "It is good that your house sent you, I think. It is not often that an offering of tribute falls through from the boorishness of the emissary, but it is most sad when such a thing happens. But you, Lord Davai, have been naught but gracious and pleasant in my company."

"I thank you, Sir Karim," said Davai. His throat was dry, absurdly dry considering that his entire body now seemed soaked with sweat, as cold as morning dew on every inch of his skin.

"We will enjoy another few cups together, the serving girls will show you to your rooms—they make delightful pillows, so choose freely amongst them—and once you break fast on the morrow I will bid you goodbye to return to your estate," said Karim. He paused, and his brow furrowed. "There is a trifling matter first, however, and I beg forgiveness for thrusting this upon you. My scribe, Farah, had a query regarding the translations upon the scroll."

Davai stared dumbly at the gauze-clad girl as she sat down next to him and unfurled the parchment. Over her shoulder he could see the continuing scene of degradation on the dais, where the Mughal men were fitting the iron masks back on to their captives. Before affixing them, they scooped up the puddles of bile, slobber, and sperm from beneath the hounds' chins and deposited them on the inside of the masks. Each hound was then encased, coating their faces in slime as well as depositing it in their open mouths.

"Lord Davai?"

He snapped back to attention and nodded. "Yes, please, go on."

"I apologize for my confusion," said Farah, "I am familiar with Mongolian writing but somewhat less so with the Latinate script of these lands. The passages in each language are a fair translation for each other in most cases, but there is one line I fear I have translated incorrectly. Beg pardon, could you tell me what the final line of the passage in Latin reads?"

Davai nodded and took the parchment, feeling the sweat wick away from his fingertips. "'...We offer this to you secured in the blood and honour of each noble line within the Houses of the Amber Plains,' is what it says, girl."

"Oh." She looked concerned, and looked between Davai, Karim, and Thom with worry. "That is what I suspected, but that is not at all what the final line of the passage in Mongolian reads. Perhaps there may have been an error in its composing?"

"Why, what does the Mongolian passage read?" asked Karim, his attention occupied by the final brandy-soaked pear as it slid around the serving plate away from the jabs of his fork.

"It reads, um," Farah cleared her throat, and gestured for Davai to return the parchment. He did so, upon which she turned it over and said, "it reads, 'inquire with the man known as Thom the Brigand for further instruction.'"

Karim looked up. "Hm?"

Davai's head shot around to stare at his companion. "What?"

But Thom the Brigand was not looking at Davai, or Karim, or Farah for that matter. He was staring directly at Justyna. "My instructions are but three words: take the gift."

Karim nodded as Davai stared between the two of them in bewilderment. "I see. Very well then," said the host, and then raised his jewel-encrusted hand in the air.

Davai did not see the two men who seized him from behind.

He shouted and struggled and kicked at his assailants to no avail, two of the guards pinning his arms behind his back as a third one slipped a thick leather strap around his neck, strapping it in place and tightening it until it bit into his skin and pushed on his Adam's apple. He panicked, fearing he would be garroted, but as the pressure let off he realized with a deeper horror that he'd been collared. Cold metal closed around each of his wrists, his arms were bent behind his back and his hands were raised up to his neck, pressing against each other in a deeply uncomfortable reverse-prayer position. His wrist shackles were clipped in place onto a D-ring at the back of his collar, and a long length of twine was wrapped around both of his forearms. His captors tightened the loop, forcing his elbows together behind his back. Excruciating pain shot through him as if his shoulders were ready to pop free of their sockets.

The guards pushed him down to his knees, keeping a firm grip on his collar to discourage further struggles. Still he craned his neck to look at Thom, eyes bulging and teeth gritted, his face a mask of rage.

"Betrayer! Thom, you Janus-faced dog-buggerer, what foul bargain have you made?"

Thom's smirk was stomach-churning. "I have made no bargain that you were not privy to, Young Lord. The Houses of the Amber Plains tasked me to deliver their emissary, gift, and letter of tribute to the Great Empire, and I have done as instructed."

"You were tasked with my safe return!"

Thom burst out laughing. "You fool, you highborn vapourhead, I was tasked with the emissary's safe return."

"That's—"

"You said it yourself!" Thom cut him off. "You recited the very customs of the Mughal rulers before we even caught sight of the keep, and you said aloud the rule of gifts: the gift must be a trifling thing to the Mughals and yet terrifyingly dear to yourself." He pointed to Justyna with malicious glee. "Even you, Davai, are not so soft and sentimental as to think that a peasant girl, no matter how comely her face and how warm her bosoms, holds any value to the Houses of the Amber Plains."

Davai looked at him in stunned silence. Horror did not so much dawn on him as it revealed itself—the outline of wrongness had been clear since he arrived, and he felt as if on the cusp of solving an awful riddle.

"Allow me to present something to you all," said Thom, walking over to the shelves and lectern and picking up the scroll case. He returned to the table, tapped the bottom of the ornate case, reached into the opening, and pulled out a slightly thinner tube that had formed a false wall. He gave the whole case a shake, and removed a second piece of parchment that had been hidden within. "Read this, girl," he said, handing it to Farrah.

She read this much-shorter scroll, her eyes widening as she did. "It reads that the young Lord Davai is to be given to the representative of the Great Empire as a gift, stripped of his titles and claims, to be done with as the Great Emperor wills. It is signed at the base by all the signatories of the first scroll."

Davai shook his head wordlessly, the numbness in his shoulders spreading through his entire body.

"The elder nobles cast lots, and it was your name plucked from the pile," said Thom with mocking melancholy. "I am told your uncle was heartbroken over the matter, but he persisted nonetheless. A true believer in the obligations of the nobility."

Desperate, Davai turned to look up at Karim. "Sir Karim, I beg of you, if you will please only—"

He squealed as a fist crashed into his liver, doubling over and retching from pain, and as he opened his mouth a leather-wrapped ring was forced between his teeth and buckled around the back of his head. As he sobbed and writhed, he knew he had missed his final chance to talk his way out of this nightmare.

"I am deeply sorry, Davai," said Karim with what sounded like genuine regret, "but now that you have forgone your noble title, your penalties for rudeness and impertinence have increased quite massively. That gag is a gift of sorts, for it will prevent you from saying anything you might come to regret in this time of adjustment."

"Hlah!"

"I’m afraid that's what they all say." Karim sighed and shook his head. "Guards, take him to the throne."

The struggling noble was dragged up onto the dais as the eight Mughal men finished dressing themselves and stepped down off of it. As he was pushed towards the tattered chair he saw that many of the rags on the seat of the throne were not rags at all, but restraints and leather straps. He howled in protest, resisting as best he could through pain and misery.

"Stop, stop!" shouted Karim, waving his arms and moving between Davai and the throne. "I have made a mistake, and treated the young lord unfairly. He must be given a chance."

Looking up at him with wide eyes, Davai did not dare to let hope burn within himself but was not so consigned to his fate that he could ignore any such offer. Karim crouched down in front of him and held Davai's chin between thumb and forefinger, stroking his boyishly smooth skin.

"I told you three things, Davai," he said. "The first was that our gift, received from the Houses of the Amber Plains, must become a slave and a serving girl. The second was that it is impossible for any true member of nobility to be enslaved, as their very honour prevents such a thing. The third was that I am a torturer by trade."

Davai swallowed. In front of him, Karim opened his palm to reveal the tiny silver fork he had used to spear fruits. He took the fork in his fingers and slowly brought the points an inch away from Davai's eye, until Davai backed away from sheet instinct.

Karim spoke with the soft intensity of a priest delivering last rites. "If you do not wish the indignity of slavery—and it will be a great indignity, your fate will not be a perfect mirror of the hounds to our sides but by Allah it will rhyme—I will kill you. It will not be an easy death. You are a young man and in good health, for now, and I will draw your death out to a fortnight, perhaps a day or two longer even. Your skin will be flayed, inch by inch, you will learn the terror of cold ice and the agony of the hot iron, I will strip your fingers, toes, ears, eyes and teeth away at a rate just slow enough to allow you to mourn their absence before destroying the next part, your bones will be broken, your tendons split, I will feed you broken glass to see your innards torn apart...

He looked Davai in the eye. "But it will come to an end. You will die as a noble, and though your body will lie in tatters I will not—I cannot—strip the honour from your soul. You will not be reduced to a slave, and you will be free in death and life."

Davai stared back at him, his breathing ragged. He thought of Ihsan, the wine girl, of her drugged haze, her lewdly-pierced nipples, and the gilded cage around her cock. This is what he would become for the rest of his life, a toy for men like Thom.

"I can see you are considering it, so here is my offer: ram your head forward and pierce your eye with this fork," said Karim. "If you do so I will kill you slowly. If you do not, I shall grant you a new life."

The torchlight glared off the tines of the fork, blooming until it took up the full field of his vision. Davai thought of his grandfather, a great warrior, felled not by the arrow that struck him on the field of battle, but by the soured wound a month later. His death had not been a quick or pleasant one, but all who knew him remembered his bravery and honour. He reared his head back and prepared to strike—he would only have to make the choice once—then pushed forward.

He flinched, stopping himself a hair's breadth from the point.

"You've a yellow belly to match your golden hair," mocked Thom, as Davai sagged in his bonds, sobbing helplessly. Karim ran his fingers through the lordling's locks, petting him pityingly, and put away the fork.

A guard took a small hunting knife from a walnut sheath and deftly cut away Davai's dull green tunic, tossing aside the sliced-up rags as he did. Karim bade him to pause as he admired the young lord's bound form.

"No hair to speak of, certainly not overfed, it is not exactly a warrior's physique but there are some thews to be softened.... Small nipples but the herbs will help with that of course, and soften the skin even more, yes, delightful..." He looked at the guard. "Leave the stockings on for now, they're rather fetching. Carry on!"

The final part of the tale is here:

https://writefinch.tumblr.com/post/649562103918837760/the-princes-offering-pt6-end

[blackaquokat]

The Song You Might Have Been (Chapter 3)

Link to Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 here!

A/N: Should I be putting Trigger Warnings for Attempted Murders? In that case, there’s one for this chapter.

Also, yes, this story does actually have an underlying plot, and it comes into play now.

---

It’s not until the end of Week 2 that the first attempt on your life is made.

You’re working at the dishes, sweating in spite of the cold water. Overall it’s been a fairly normal day. You sent out another letter, chatted with Yancy’s gang, spent some time in the yard. You’re finally settling into a routine. That worries you. Does that mean you’ve been here too long? Should you be letting yourself get comfortable?

You’re so lost in thought you don’t notice the shadow growing across the wall in front of you until you're setting aside another dish. You spin around just as a hand gripping a shiv aims for your stomach. 

You grab at the hand by the wrist just in time, but your arms are wet from the sink water, so your grip slips. You manage to redirect the weapon enough that it just grazes your arm and then you punch the guy with your other hand. You aim a kick at his hand to knock the shiv out, but he moves at the last minute. When he tries to tackle you again, another figure barrels into him like a raging bull, knocking the shiv across the floor.

You go for the weapon as the other two struggle. When they break apart, your assassin punches at your rescuer (Yancy?!) and knocks him back to the ground with a bleeding lip. The assassin hurries to his feet, but when he sees you ready to cut him with his own shiv, he turns heel and starts running off.

A club comes from out of nowhere and cracks across the guy’s head. The inmate falls to the floor in a heap. 

You let out a shuddering breath and look up to see your terrifying boss guard of the kitchens, Rex, standing over him.

“Not about to let a perfectly decent dishwasher go to waste,” he comments with a twirl of his club. “Not when that dishwasher promised to include a new poetry collection in that library of theirs.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles out of you. It doesn’t stop until tears are running down your face (you almost died, you almost died) and that’s when you notice the throbbing in your forearm. You realize that the shiv cut deeper than you noticed before. Blood is dripping from your skin to the floor.

Shock, you think. I’m going into shock. 

“Hey, hey, Eagle.” Yancy climbs to his feet and approaches you not unlike one would a spooked horse. “It’s alright, it’s alright. Why don’t we get youse to the doc, yeah?”

You wipe away your tears with your unscathed arm and nod. “I...yeah.”

Yancy glances over at Rex, who twirls his baton again. “I’ll just take care of this guy. Permanently.”

“No!” you blurt out. When Rex and Yancy stare at you with blatant “have you lost your mind” expressions. “I don’t recognize him from court,” you explain. “Which means he’s killing me for another reason. I need to know why.”

Rex and Yancy exchange a glance. Rex shrugs. “I can live with that reasoning.” He grabs the unconscious inmate by the foot and starts dragging him away. “I’ll inform the warden of the near shish kebabing!”

Later, in the infirmary, after your arm is stitched and bandaged up, Yancy speaks up. “Youse would’ve let Rexy boy kill that guy if he didn’t have that info.”

You shut your eyes and sigh. “I...I guess so. Yeah.”

“Usually it takes more than three weeks before newbies are comfortable with murder.”

“Yeah, well, this isn’t the first time someone tried to kill me. Only that time there was no one to help, so I…” You flex your hand and cringe at the pain the movement elicits. “I took matters into my own hands.”

Yancy’s looking at you with contemplation, his hand stroking at his chin. There are tattoos on his fingers too. “Youse full of surprising depths, ain’t you, Eagle?”

“I threw boring out of the window the day I was born.”

Yancy laughs and shakes his head.

“So what the hell were you doing in the kitchens, anyway?”

Yancy’s humor dissipates. “I, uh...I was stealing some bread rolls for the group. Then I saw that guy tip-toeing about and decided to see what the hell he was doin’.”

“You saved my life.”

He shrugs, suddenly looking sheepish. “Youse were doin’ just fine without my assistance.”

“Yeah.” The two of you smile. “But I appreciate it nonetheless.” A beat of silence passes. “You planning on telling me what you know about my case anytime soon?”

Yancy looks around the room. The doctor had left a few minutes ago to tend to someone else. “Not here.”

“When we get back to our cell then--”

“No, not there either. I’ll tell you tonight in my, uh...secret place.”

---

That “secret place” turns out to be the rooftop of the prison in the middle of the night. 

“Shouldn’t there be guards up here?” you point out through chattering teeth. Most romantic and dramatic novels fail to mention just how damn cold it is on rooftops at night.

“I’m owed a few favors,” Yancy explains simply. “Nothing gets a system going like favors.”

“That is true.” You plop down onto the floor and cross your legs. You immediately regret moving so suddenly when pain shoots up your arm. “So what have you got for me?”

Yancy sits down in front of you, his knees bent almost to his chest. “That dead attorney youse told me about? The one youse were framed for killing? He’s been here before. Talkin’ to another inmate by the name of Louie Winfield. We called him Scrawny Louie.”

You perk up. “You’re kidding me. Is there anyway I can talk to--”

“The guy was found bleedin’ out in the showers last week. Dead ‘fore anyone could blink.” 

Your shoulders drop. “Of course.”

“That bein’ said,” Yancy leans his head into his hand, “when I heard youse’s story last week, I thought, well, there’s no such thing as coincidences, yeah? A dead inmate and a dead lawyer who’d been chatting it up for months? Another lawyer with a spotless reputation takin’ the fall? I didn’t look forward to havin’ another dead inmate on my watch, so I figured I’d keep my two eyes on youse and see what I could see, you know?”

Your elbows rest on your knees. “Are you...you’re saying there’s an inside man here? And that he’s involved in my case somehow?”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. All I’m doin’ is pointin’ out a whole string of coincidences taking place in a very short amount of time.”

 “All these coincidences happening around the time I was investigating Connor Smith…” you bite your lip, “and Merrill Byron.”

Yancy’s eyes pop out of his head. “Youse just pullin’ my tail, right? Ain’t that the guy who runs that charity orphanage or whatnot downtown?” At your questioning gaze, he tacks on, “We get the paper every week, remember? I keeps up-to-date on the outside when I can.”

“He’s also best friends with the deputy commissioner and backs several other political campaigns in the city.”

Yancy slack-jawed gaze doesn’t let up. “Is youse crazy? Youse tellin’ me that’s the guy you was investigating that got youse in here?”

You lift your eyebrow by way of response. 

Yancy bursts into laughter and shakes his head. “Shit, Eagle, youse got a spine of steel, don’t you?”

You shrug and tighten your arms around yourself, wincing at the stabs of pain in your forearm. Damn, it is cold up here. “I have to. Someone like me, working with the District Attorney? The shit I had to deal with from the other attorneys in the office was worse than facing criminals in court.”

“Should I feels offended that criminals aren’t as much a bother as the people youse worked with under Lady Justice?”

The two of your share a laugh over that, before Yancy asks, “When we met youse mentioned that Byron was embezzling from that orphan charity of his?”

“And probably funding the newest drug empire in the city.”

Yancy strokes at his chin. Quite the habit of his, you’re noticing, for someone without much in the way of a beard. “That makes sense. Poor dead Scrawny Louie was a dealer on the outside and continued his operation on a smaller scale in here. Had to tell him to keep it on the downlow more than once, otherwise the Warden would catch on.” He must see the question in your eyes. “Not much for snortin’ myself. Makes me sneeze. I like to keep a clear mind, I do.”

A thought occurs to you. Something that somehow you didn’t think to ask earlier. “So what did you do to land in here in the first place?”

Yancy’s gaze darkens. “I thought we were talkin’ about youse and how youse ended up in here?”

Tender subject then. Maybe you’ll try to ask him again later. Or you’ll just look into it yourself when you get out of here. 

(You have to think in “whens.” The moment you start thinking in “ifs” will mean you’re starting to give up and you do not give up. Ever.)

“Okay.” Your shoulders feel stiff, so you roll them to loosen up the muscles and tendons. “So what do we do now?”

Yancy’s relief at your dropping the subject is minute, but you catch it nonetheless. “Well, youse came here to Happy Trails at an ideal time. Visitation is this Sunday. Youse could probably pass this information to whosever’s workin’ on youse’s case. Now, youse shiverin’ so much youse makin’ me cold just lookin’ at you, so let’s get back to the bunk, shall we? Next time we’ll bring blankets.”

“Next time?”

Yancy wiggles his eyebrows. “Youse think I was gonna let this slide? Nah, I’m gonna find the bastard who’s killin’ for the outside and make ‘em pay. I doubt your assassin is the only one in here.”

You can’t help the grin sliding across your face. “That mean you’re gonna help me out?”

“Our goals appear to be coincidin’, don’t they? May as well meet here to compare notes and investigative realizations, ya know?” He holds out his hand. “Whaddya say, Eagle? Youse too much of a goody-two-shoes to work with a criminal?” His tone is entirely teasing and it makes your grin widen. 

“Well, I’m in prison right now too, aren’t I?” You stretch your uninjured arm out and take his hand. “I know how to adapt and conquer.”

“That’s what I like to hear, Eagle.”

---

When you ask to interrogate your assassin, Yancy says it’s not necessary. 

“Youse let me worry about that amateur killer, hey Eagle? His face isn’t one you need to subject youself to again.”

Later, when he comes back to the cell with bloodied and split knuckles that you don’t ask about, Yancy reports that the guy was hired anonymously. A letter under his pillow with a bag full of contraband. The letter was tossed into the furnace, so there’s no chance at comparing handwriting or anything like that. 

Still, it’s something to report to Damien when you see him at Visitation.

“Somehow, I am not surprised to hear that you’ve managed to investigate your case from inside prison,” Damien says in response to your discoveries that Sunday  during Visitation. “I’ll pass it on to the people looking into your situation. I am, however, concerned about this attempt on your life. Do you want me to pull some strings with the Warden? Get you into protective custody?”

You shake your head. “It’ll be easier to gather intel if I’m out and about. No worries, I’ve got my own protection detail.”

Damien grins brightly at you. You hadn’t realized how much you missed your closest friend until now. “So you did manage to make some friends, huh? See, you don’t realize how likeable you are, my friend, I knew you could do it.”

His praise makes you straighten in your chair. “Well, I mean, it helps that I’m trying to get that library implemented. Which reminds me, are there any strings you can pull in that department to get things moving along?”

“It also doesn’t surprise me that you’re trying to improve a prison’s quality of life from behind bars as well,” Damien teases with a shake of his head. “I’ve put in a good word, made some members of the department read your appeals. You’ll be glad to know you are this close to annoying them into doing something about it.”

“That does make me happy.” 

“Even if you aren’t cleared for a full on library at some point, I’m sure you’ll at least get more books.” Damien gives you a knowing look. “Not that that’ll stop you from aiming for an actual library, I’m sure.”

“You know me.” You cross your arms and your ankles. “I’m all about an even distribution of knowledge across classes and situations.”

You and Damien sneak in a quick hug before a guard calls you out for touching the visitor. “Stay safe, my friend,” he calls out by way of farewell.

You wave until he’s out of sight.

“Ain’t that the guy gunnin’ for mayor?” 

You turn around to see Yancy staring at the space Damien just exited through. “Yeah. We’re University buddies. I wouldn’t be where I am today without him.”

“In a prison with a target on youse’s back?”

You punch him lightly in the shoulder (and then marvel at the fact that you’re comfortable enough to do that with him). “On the District Attorney’s team. I spent a lot of my time in law school in a nonstop puddle of anxiety, and he not only supported me through it, but he also put in a good word to the DA to give me a chance. It took a year and a half of interning before I got a job.”

Yancy stares at you as the two of you head for the yard. “Thought youse weren’t good at makin’ acquaintances.”

“I’m not,” you confirm. “But Damien is. He saw a lonely, cranky person who came from nothing and decided that person was worth getting to know. I didn’t trust it for a while, but eventually...I did.”

“How?” The pain in his tone throws you for a loop and breaks your heart at the same time. “How do youse trust that someone won’t leave you behind?”

You look at him. Hopefully he won’t interpret the sympathy in your face as pity. You heard that the last person who pitied him ended up bloody and bruised in the infirmary. 

“It...it takes a while. I’ve had a lifetime of experience with people leaving me behind in some way or another. I’ve only been able to really trust three people: my parents and Damien. There’s an element of...taking a leap of faith, when it comes to trusting someone. And I’ve hit the ground hard in the past.”

“What makes youse so sure you won’t hit the ground again?” Yancy challenges, insistent.

“I’m not.” You sigh and look out at the prisoners mingling in the yard. Yancy’s gang is in the corner, laughing and pushing playfully at each other. “But Damien’s been there for me for years. And...I realized how exhausted I made myself, waiting for him to let me down. But he doesn’t ask for my trust, doesn’t ask for me to give more of myself than I’m willing to give. He just...accepts me for who I am. Same with my mom. There’s not much more I can ask for than that.” 

You glance at Yancy out of the corner of your eye and pretend not to notice how misty-eyed he looks. “It’s hard to give yourself to other people. Especially if you’re used to relying on yourself. I have to say, though...I can’t regret finally letting someone in.”

Yancy doesn’t look at you. Probably doesn’t even realize you’re looking at him. Doesn’t realize what you’re saying.

I was you, once. Distrusting and isolated. Ready to leave people before they could leave me. I still am, in some ways. And that’s okay. It doesn’t make you broken. Just lonely. And you don’t have to be lonely if you don’t want to be.

“Yeah, well,” Yancy sniffles. Once again, you pretend not to notice. “That’s all well and good until it’s too late.”

You finally turn to him, the bitter sadness in his tone chipping at your chest, but when you reach out to comfort him, somehow, he pulls away and scurries back into the prison.

You can’t help but feel like you’re missing something important.

---

The fact that you don’t learn the reason behind Yancy’s imprisonment until you’ve been in jail for almost four weeks is impressive, honestly. 

No one is willing to talk about it. Not that Yancy is secretive. He’s blatant about so many of his crimes, from the murderous kind all the way to the not-so-harmful loitering kind, but funnily enough, Tiny is the one who finally clues you in when the two of you are alone in the kitchen together. Apparently Yancy thinks it’s for the best to have your inmate protection detail extend to your job, so Tiny has switched from laundry to dishes with you.

“He killed his parents,” Tiny tells you. “His dad was a piece of work, a total dick. Not sure about his mom, but...I don’t think she was supposed to die. I think she was collateral damage. It was a pretty bad situation. Not that he’ll ever admit that. It’s bad for his reputation in here if he’s seen as anything but the cold bastard who murdered his own parents.”

That...that makes a tragic amount of sense. (For all the other unfortunate happenings in your life, at least you had loving parents. Well, one of them. The other wound up six feet under far too soon than he deserved. But Dad was good to you while you were alive, and you never stopped missing his embrace.)

Tiny tugs on your collar until you’re nose to nose with her. “I wouldn’t mention that to him, you hear me? The boss gets really intense about his parents. It’s not pretty.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“And if you tell him I’m the one who spilled the beans, I’ll cut you myself.”

“My lips are sealed.”

She nods and releases your shirt.

You keep to your word and don’t mention your newfound information about the most important inmate in Happy Trails Penitentiary. But the information stays in the back of your mind.

You’ve already written up a mental list of things to do when you get out of here. Now you’ve definitely got one more thing, placed below improving the meals here in Happy Trails and getting that library implemented:

Find out what happened with Yancy and his family.

---

The prison mattress is not comfortable. At all. Most of your nights for the first few weeks involve staring at the springs of the top bunk and willing yourself to sleep.

At least Heap-Ass came through on the items you asked for. He slipped a bundle of ballpoint pens and paper under your pillow sometime when you weren’t in your cell. All it cost was six packs of cigarettes you’ve been hoarding. (It’s a good thing you don’t smoke, otherwise this form of currency would be much harder for you to handle.) Your lists are far more coherent, less smudgy, and less ink-splattered.

It takes about five weeks as well, since your arrival, to finally hear back from the state legislature about getting an expanded library collection. 

You’re summoned to the mail room by an equally eager Rex and grin like an idiot at the sight of four large boxes. Rex tears one open with extreme prejudice and the two of you stare in giddy delight at the books inside. You go for another box to open. 

“Is my poetry in there?!” Rex demands as you start sorting through the pile until you find the letter included with the packages.

“I’ve been asked to please stop my letter campaign,” you report to Rex. “And to stop heavily implying that I know enough dirty secrets to get some of them thrown out of the office, or at least in the tabloids for a few months.”

“Damn, Eagle,” yes, apparently the guards have picked up your nickname too, “you’re fearless, aren’t you?”

“They sure are,” Yancy declares upon his sudden entrance in the room. “So we got ourselves an expansion, huh?”

You victoriously hold up a copy of the Velveteen Rabbit. “I can’t wait to see Tiny’s face when she gets this.” You gesture at one of the still unopened boxes. “See if you find anything you like, Yancy.”

“What about my poetry?!”

“No worries, Rex!” You gather a pile into your hands and scan the spines. “Looks like we’ve got Pablo Neruda, T.S. Eliot, Yeats, oh!” Your grin stretches into something even brighter. “We got Langston Hughes and Edna St. Vincent Millay!” You pull out the Langston Hughes collection. “I wonder if I can talk them into sending over Lola Ridge next…”

“Wait, what?” Yancy steps up and pulls a copy of The Sun Also Rises from the box to examine. “Youse want more?”

“This is just the beginning, Yancy.” You take a moment to flip through the Langston Hughes book. “I’m hoping to get an actual library here, not just a bigger book cart or closet.” A page title catches your attention and you stop to read the contents:

“Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.”

You don’t realize how quiet the room has become until you mutter the last word. You look up and realize your little reading attracted the attention of passing inmates and a few guards. Rex is looking into the distance with a dreamy, glazed look, the Pablo Neruda collection clutched to his chest. 

Yancy, meanwhile, is staring at you like he’s never seen you before. “What...what was that?”

You flash the book cover at him. “It’s called ‘Dreams.’ It’s one of my favorite poems.” When he doesn’t stop staring, you hand him the book and return to your pile. “I don’t read Langston Hughes all the time, but he’s definitely someone people should be familiar with.”

“Why’s that?”

“There are plenty of renowned old-ass white male writers,” you respond. “People should be just as familiar with the ones who aren’t white. Or male.”

Yancy shakes his head. He still looks rather wrong-footed. “I’ll take youse’s word for it.”

He says that, but that evening, while you’re once again trying to fall asleep while every spring of the mattress presses into your back, Yancy’s head pops down again and he drops a book onto your lap. It’s a book of Yeats poetry.

“Read it.”

“I have, Yancy--”

“Out loud,” he clarifies. After a beat of you giving him a stern Look, he tacks on, “Please?”

A tender smile grows on your face, while your mind ponders on how the hell you’ve gotten to the point in your life where you’re going to read poetry out loud to the most feared man in the prison. And how you’ve gotten to the point where you can demand he speak to you more politely than he deigns to others.

“Um...was there any in particular you wanted me to read?” you ask when he disappears into his bunk again.

“Dealer’s choice, Eagle.”

You flip through the pages until you find “Reconciliation.” Before you start reading you find yourself muttering, “Life is already so goddamn weird.”

“Some may have blamed you that you took away

The verses that could move them on the day

When, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blind

With lightning, you went from me, and I could find

Nothing to make a song about but kings…”

The consistent mutterings echoing in the hallways quiet down as you read. If this kind of undivided attention keeps up every time you read out loud, it’ll get you spoiled for when (not if) you get back to the DA’s office.

“...My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.”

“...I don’t understands all of it,” Yancy says suddenly, when you finish. “But youse make it sound nice.”

“If it helps,” you reassure, “I don’t always read poetry for the deeper meanings. It gets exhausting analyzing literature. Sometimes it’s good to just read for enjoyment. Comfort.”

“...got any others in that book youse’s fond of?”

“Yeah, do another one, Eagle!” shouts Shithole Hank from three cells down. 

“Speak up! We can barely hear you out here!” Jimmy joins in.

Jesus Christ, you’re going to get even less sleep than usual at this rate. “Okay, fine. What about ‘When You Are Old’?” 

To your surprise, Rex is the one who answers back. “That’s a good one!”

Why am I more accepted in a goddamn prison than my own workplace? Maybe better not to read too much into that one.

You clear your throat and start reading again. 

“When you are old and grey and full of sleep, 

And nodding by the fire, take down this book, 

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look,  

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep…” 

---

Link to Chapter 4 here!

Thank you for reading! Please relbog/comment! If you want to be tagged/untagged for the rest of this series or this pairing, please leave a message in my inbox!

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[tishtashohmygosh]

Flash Fiction - Arena

Preface: I haven’t written in a long time. I have depression and a full-time job so I don’t feel very motivated to write often. But lately I’ve started to feel my passion for writing come back. This was something I wrote and didn’t really edit much because I wanted to write a piece of flash fiction and actually post it somewhere, instead of putting it aside forever and rediscovering it in 4 years. Thanks for reading and have a wonderful day/night/whatever time it is when you see this.

She spat on the dirt, the earth sizzling at the acidic touch of her spittle. The man they’d brought to fight her didn’t flinch. He must have seen her sort before, and assumed she was just an abomination bred to die by his blade, despite the reputation she knew she had. She knocked her gauntleted fists together and let out a roaring shout. The need to hurt him, to destroy him, was so strong now. He’d bled in her arena and now that she’d smelled it she had been driven into a frenzy. She couldn’t reach him though, not with the chains at the base of her gauntlets holding her back. She had to wait for him to get close, and then she could bathe in his blood.

The crowd roared even louder than she had, but she could hear his foot shift in the sand as he prepared to strike. Her bloodlust impossible to resist now she foamed at the mouth, her spittle burning the fabric of the cloth wrap around her. She strained against the chains, the gauntlets digging so deeply into her forearms that the skin bruised and bled. The foolish man smiled, thinking he had an advantage in her animalistic rage.

He raised his chipped and rusted blade and lunged. As he did, she thrust herself backwards with lightning speed, putting her gauntlets between them. His blade glanced harmlessly off, and he stumbled. She twisted and grabbed, catching his left arm with one hand before he could dodge away. Unforgiving, she pulled him towards herself so that she could grab his arm in both of her hands. She grabbed and pulled, one hand at his elbow and the other at his wrist.

His scream was silence to her as skin, muscle, and bone tore and more blood dribbled onto the dirt of her arena. Euphoria. She grinned and spat on his arm, severing the final tendons with her acid. He rolled away, his blade still at her feet. She tossed his severed arm aside and kicked the blade at him. His blood glistened on her gauntlets. The arena’s noise had reached a new deafening level.

One fight. The slaves and prisoners who served their sentence in her arena were told that they only needed to win one fight, and then they would be free. But they would never win, not against her.

[alvaar-aldaviir]

Movement: Affrettando

Time Frame: Stormblood, 4.4 patch. Spoilers accordingly.

Notes: No real warnings required. Just an introspective piece on Alvaar’s thoughts through the Burn in the search for Alphinaud. A companion to Patching Up Wounds, and part of that lovely segment in the SB post patch where Alvaar and Alisaie's friendship strengthens

Cross-posted to Ao3.

 -

It’s been some time since he’d last slipped the lease on his anger but there’s enough sand and wind and plenty enough teeth to warrant Alvaar’s rage in his solo flight through The Burn.

It’s not something that he’s proud of, but letting the rage consume him is far more preferable to the paralyzing fear that waits for him outside of it.

 -

  He remembers landing in the harsh sands with his yol, still hearing the faint echoes of Lord Hien on the winds calling them to seek shelter.

Shelter. Pah.

If they were afraid of a storm, then he would continue alone. He would scour all the Burn if he had to. He would march straight to Garlemald and rip this fake Zenos’ throat out a second time and torch his infernal body if he found so much as a hair on Alphinaud’s head had been damaged.

Like hell he was about to sit and wait when he was in danger…

Alisaie wasn’t here right now. He didn’t need to keep up the calm air of faith and be the steady rock between them. The level head else it would send them both weapons drawn straight to the Garlean border.

There were monsters. A few machines he thinks. A stretch of time running in metal corridors with the baleful cry of the sandstorm against the hull of a broken ship.

It was all cloaked in red, and he didn’t even try this time to reign it in with the single-minded purpose and anger coursing in his veins. Rage was preferable to the coiling knots of terror. Fighting better than an endless assault of potential death or capture or- His heart pounded a staccato as his bow creaked and hummed with every snap of the string. A lone lupine howl of his song wailing higher and more fearsome than the storm in his wake as he cut a bloody path through whatever moved to oppose him.

Alvaar was not afraid of wind and sands when they beckoned to his call. He was the eye of this storm and God’s be good and true if they did not find some sign Alphinaud was alright...

He would bury the empire under a mountain of fire and sand and ash. He’d ask penance from corpses and play a dirge even Nidhogg would envy.

There are white scales and teeth. A draconian form slipping through the fog and sands to harry him, slowing his frantic search. And its fire and snow and the bitter cold of Coerthas cutting against his skin as he settles into a familiar dance of death. Carving their path forward as he has always done for the youth that believed him capable of miracles. For the ally that had remained at his side and steadied him in his darkest moments…

The blade-point of the Halonic bow is sunk as far as it can reach behind the dragon’s skull. Severing nerves and tendons as Estinien had shown him while the white scaled beast shudders its last under his feet.

And the world is blue and bright and dazzling as he gasps for air in lungful’s that sting like sandpaper though the storm has since abated. And this white sandy hellscape is not Coerthas. There is no Estinien, no Alphinaud, no Ysayle trailing in his wake on their joint quest for peace...

There’s instead a firm hand at his wrist, someone that looks like his precious friend but who definitely is not. And it’s the part concern, part nervous look on Alisaie’s face that breaks through his fatigue and sends sound back through his ears. He can hear Y’shtola and Hien speaking in the background while Alisaie studies him worriedly, though he can’t yet comprehend what they’re saying through the fog of fatigue.

Her white magic doesn’t feel the same as her twins. It’s not calm and warm, but passionate and hot as it races through him sealing his wounds. It feels like a burn by comparison and the realities crash in around him in the wake of his last full rage since they’d rescued Rauhban as he puffs for air and notes he’s covered in splatters of blood. This is not a hundred previous battles with worried hands and voice at his side patching his wounds. The winding fluff of a carbuncle leaned against his shin while it’s master frets in that quiet but obvious way of his.

He’d thought he’d be done with feeling helpless. That after this bloody campaign and storm of steel, with a true turning point in the steady march of their enemy, maybe things could be different now. But no, he was seldom ever that lucky.

This world only ever saw fit to take what desperate things he struggled to hold on to…

Hands grip on his forearm carefully, a brief pause to pat firmly at his leather jacket and shake off some of the sand in a shower of white grit. He feels fingers threading with his own over the supple leather of his gloves, squeezing tight as his name sounds between them. Soft and gentle with concern.

His fingers hurt as he releases the white-knuckle grip on his bow to leave it standing blade down and unwavering where it’s still imbedded in flesh. The joints in his hand creaking as they’re finally allowed to move and flex a moment before he’s settling his hand over hers slowly.

He hurts. Inside and out. Muscles aching faintly from a berserker fury and pushing himself just a bit too hard. Heart clenched in a mute fear as the lack of news or evidence of Alphinaud’s presence cuts him up inside. Heavy with guilt that he’d let him go when all his instincts had screamed not to. That it was too dangerous no matter how right Alphinaud’s reasoning had been or how much Alvaar had seen the Arcanist had needed to stretch his wings and fly solo for his own dreams of peace.

He’d failed to protect him and the knowledge it might cost Alisaie her sibling hurt even more than the silent fear that the one person who probably knew him best was now well and truly missing and possibly even dead...

“Alvaar,” she tries again, shaking him just a bit and tone a little more forceful. Pulling his focus steadily from everything dark and haunted within him. Making his fingers twitch over hers as he starts to rouse back to the present.

“Alvaar.” Still quiet, but there’s a command in that tone and it breaks him free and has him meeting those too blue eyes again. Deep and vibrant as the midday sea.

“M’here,” he murmurs softly, voice dry and weak. “Still here... sorry. Sorry I didn’t... I couldn’t...” He looks about, unable to find better words before meeting her gaze again sadly.

The tight look of worry on her face holds for a moment before she dips her head and leans into his arm. Takes a moment to steady herself before lifting her gaze to his again, azure eyes burning with firm conviction. “We’ll find him. My brother may be foolish, but he knows better than to die on me. He’ll send word once he can. Come on, let’s go back and sort out a plan. ... You need a bath too; you look a wreck.”

It’s enough to make him blink, an ear flipping faintly in disbelief as she manages the faintest grin before pulling away and freeing the canteen from his belts. Taking off the cap she hands it to him with a no-nonsense air, pushing it at him again when he takes a second too long to claim it. “Come on. We’ll all be in trouble if you wear out your voice and can’t be your usual chatterbox self.”

It’s not the same as what he’s known. It’s not the dear friend he’s grown to rely on more than he wanted to admit, who’s seen him at his best and at his absolute worst.

But Alisaie doesn’t have to be. They’re different in many ways, but alike in more ways that matter. He’s no less committed to protecting her either, even as it seems she feels the same. So he rinses his teeth and takes a drink. Coughs and clears his throat before offering it back, staying put so she can cap it and hook it back to his belt while he yanks his bow free and shakes the dark blood off the spearhead. Clipping it onto his back, he settles a hand at the Red Mage’s shoulder and pulls her into his side for a brief one-armed hug.

“Whatever it takes. I’m with you,” he murmurs, lifting his head to meet Y’shtola’s thoughtful look while Hien politely studied the landscape instead. Neither miss the way Alisaie grips onto the hand still at her shoulder, but the Miqo’te doesn’t comment on it as she tilts her head.

“There’s naught left here for us. Let us away.”

[red-and-blue-sewer-circus-arc]

Rufo the Clown: Audience pt. 2 (revised)

Warnings: voyeurism, possessive behavior, blood, gore, rough explicit smut

“Just like that. Keep facing the closet for me”

Was he fucking with him? Earl made it a point not to look at another mans junk but even he couldn’t help but stare when Rufo pulled his out. His dick was the same shade of white as his face and arms! Earl watched Rufo crawled on the bed behind Miss 504 like it was the most natural thing in the world and slap her on the ass. Rufo pulled her panties up between her cheeks and spanked her again. This time he hit her harder and she gave another little yelp of pain.

“You HAVE been waiting for me, haven't you?”

504 looked over her shoulder at him.

“Of course I have Rufo. Now please. I want you so bad.”

She pushed her ass back against him, her voice was thick with lust and Earl was surprised she wasn’t panting like a bitch in heat. Rufo chuckled. That stupid cocky grin was still planted on his face as he lined up and pulled her back on his cock.

“Careful what you wish for doll.”

Earl watched the expression on 504's face change. She bit her lip while Rufo pushed inside her and when he grabbed her by the hips and started thrusting, her mouth dropped open in a little o of pleasure. There had been a few nights where Earl had jacked off to the thought of her making that face for him.

“Rufo!”

Rufo reached down and grabbed a handful of her hair. He lifted her upper body off the bed until it was flush against his chest and wrapped his arms around her. He pulled and squeezed her tits while he kissed a trail down her neck to her shoulder.

“I love it when you say my name like that.”

Rufo stared down Earl’s hiding spot and sank his teeth into her shoulder. 504 grit her teeth, but when blood started to run past his red painted lips and drip down her breast, she screamed in pain. Rufo didn't stop thrusting as he bit down again and left another set of teeth marks on her body. This time it was his name she cried.

Earl shifted his position in the closet and cursed under his breath. It was barely audible to him, but he noticed the clowns body tense. Rufo pulled his bloody lips from her skin and frowned inside his clown smile. He bared his teeth in anger and slammed her face back down into the mattress, holding her down while he pounded into her.

“You know what I would do to you if I found out you were fucking around on me?!”

He moved his hand from her hip only long enough to slap her ass again before he resumed the harsh pace of his thrusts. 504 gripped the blankets so tight Earl could see her knuckles turn white.

“Only you Rufo… you’re the only one who gets to fuck me!”

That seemed to please the clown. His smirk returned and he changed the angle of his hip to move with her instead of against her. Soon she was moaning louder than Earl thought a quiet girl like her could. Rufo pulled her head up and gave Earl a good look at her face as she came. The manic clown behind her laughed and let her body drop to the bed. He grabbed his cock, now covered in her cream, and gave it a few hard jerks before thick streams of cum shot out and covered her back. Rufo groaned and leaned his head back to try and catch his breath while 504 rolled over and smiled up at him.

“Rufo, I'm going to have to shower again.”

Rufo looked down at her, a sadistic smile planted on his face as he tucked himself back into his slacks.

“Sorry Doll. You know I just can't resist performing in front of an audience.”

Earl barely had time to stand up straight as Rufo flew across the room and threw open the closet door. Earl came out swinging. He put every ounce of weight he had behind a punch meant to knock out the clown, but Rufo ducked at the last minute and grabbed him by the wrist. 504 screamed as Earl’s forward momentum was used against him and Rufo swung him against the wall. His considerable weight busted through the plaster, leaving an impressive hole. Earl felt the tendons in his wrist snap but the adrenaline coursing through his system did wonders for the pain. He tried to stand up and throw a punch with his one remaining arm, but Rufo was too fast for him. Earl didn’t know where the knife came from, he didn't even see it until he was pinned to the wall with the long blade wedged between the bones in his forearm. Earl opened his mouth to bellow his rage and hurt but slim fingers wrapped around his face with bruising force and cut off any noise he would have made. He tried to lunge forward in one last rush but he was held down with impossible strength. He should have been able to overpower the slim man, nobody was that strong, but Rufo held him still without even breaking a sweat.

Earl’s eyes went wide as he finally got a good look at the clown face. The pattern had been carved from his skin deep enough to stick a fingertip in. Earl could make out the twisted knots of scars hidden just underneath the colored patches of skin. Skin, not face paint.

Rufo stared at him with eyes that seemed to glow with insanity from deep in their sockets. When he spoke, his voice sounded like dry, dead leaves rustling in the wind. Heat radiated off his body and Earl gagged against the stench of death.

“Early Early Early. I thought we had an understanding.”

Rufo casually reached out and Earl thought he was going to brush his hair back from his sweaty forehead. Instead, he felt the hot finger of the clown push behind his eyeball and pop it out of the socket. Rufo gripped they eye and pulled until all of the connective tissue snapped and the organ came free. Earl screamed but the vice like grip on his mouth muffled the noise. Rufo glanced at the eye before he crushed it and tossed the gooey remains to the side.

“Now that the cats out of the bag so to speak, I'm going to ask you one more time. Have you been fucking our friend Earl here behind my back?”

Earl could see 504 with his one remaining watery eye. She had been watching the whole thing, one hand covered her mouth and the other arm held across her breasts like he hadn’t already seen everything she had and then some. He silently pleaded with her to do anything, say anything to save him. She moved her hand from her mouth and grabbed the little decorative pillow beside her. It was almost comical the way she threw the pillow at the clowns head. The look of surprise on the clowns face before he turned to glare at her was even better. Earl almost felt like laughing.

“Of course I haven’t! I didn’t even know he was in there! I wouldn’t have done that stuff with you if I knew. That creep saw... everything.”

Her face burned red with embarrassment and she looked away from both of them. So much for mercy.

“I believe you babydoll, but a man comes home from work and finds some rube in his closet he’s entitled to ask a few fucking questions.”

Rufo turned his attention back to Earl, the grip on his face tightened as he leaned closer.

“Your turn now Early. I’m going to let you go and you’re not going to scream. You’re going to explain to me just what you were doing in that closet and you better make it damn good.”

Rufo moved his hand and Earl stammered.

“I was...look pal. You don’t know what she's like when you’re gone. Parading her ass all around in those skimpy outfits. She’s been begging me for attention. If anyones to blame here, it's her.”

Earl ignored the look of indignation on her face as he wet his dry lips.

“Honest man. You gotta believe me.”

Rufo looked him up and down then reached into the pocket of his uniform and pulled out the sweat stained stolen panties. He waved them in front of Earl’s face.

“Final answer Early?”

Earl took a shaky breath and licked his lips again as hope died. In that moment he knew he wasn't going to make it out in one piece.

“Earl. It’s just Earl. They put the E on my uniform because Earl C is the groundskeeper.”

Rufo shrugged and reached into Earl’s mouth. His bloody fingers wrapped around his tounge and he pulled. The muscle stretched a lot further than Earl would have guessed before it tore free. Earl thrashed his head from side to side but couldn’t shake the clowns hold. Blood spurted out of his mouth and hit the clown in the face, but Rufo simply smiled and tossed the tongue down beside the remains of his eye.

“Unfortunately for you, Earl, I could hear your heavy breathing as soon as I walked through the front door. I wonder what you would have done to my girl if I hadn't shown up?”

Earl tried to scream when Rufo pulled the knife out of his arm, but only succeeded in choking on his own blood. Rufo grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him away from the wall.

“You're a bad man Earl, and bad men have to be punished. Oh, I almost forgot.”

Rufo chuckled and ripped Earl’s nametag from his uniform. He tossed it to the woman on the bed.

“Wouldn’t want to make identifying the body too easy for them. Pack your bags doll, I think it’s time we relocated.”

Rufo kept a tight grip on the back of Earl’s neck as he steered him towards the bedroom door. Earl only had a moment to wonder what was in store for him before Rufo changed course and flung him towards the large bay windows that covered the far wall of the bedroom. He let loose a gargled scream as his weight carried him through the windows and over the balcony in a crash of shattered glass. Earl fell five stories, head first, while the clown laughed. His last conscious effort was to put up his hands as the sidewalk rushed up to meet him.

[brundenn]

"Why do you persist? Is the vain struggle for knowledge worth the suffering?" The shrouded figure questioned coldly as it turned away from Brundenn to place the smoking pokers back into the coals of the forge. Brun hung limply from the shackles, his head lolling against his chest for a moment as the cold iron cut into his elevated arms. "We were content to let you carry on and live after you and your little band of mercenaries cut down our summonings in La Noscea, but you...you continue to press on. What do you have to gain from your hunt? You have your life and health. We've turned our focus elsewhere. And what has your obsession brought you? Isolation from your compatriots? Pain and suffering? Is it vengeance that guides you? Vengeance for a life you know nothing about? Or is it some self righteous desire to eradicate the lands of what you consider an evil cult? Some misguided 'hero' complex in which you're this knight in shining armor doing their duty to the people of the land? The people of these lands couldn't give two shits what you do. I'm sorry to be the one to inform you, but the actions of one man matter not to the world. Especially one who sells his blade for Gil." The figure turned back to the shackled Brundenn, carrying the glowing pokers before him. "We know much about you, Brundenn Ceylon. You've bloodied your axe with the blood of innocents just to earn some coin. Those assassinations you've undertaken weren't as anonymous as you might believe." The figure stepped close to Brundenn and held a poker close to the soft flesh of his forearm, letting the heat linger over the tender skin. "You're little better than the beasts you hunt. Fueled by instinct and bloodlust. And yet...somehow you've come to learn how to find what we seek. Something your 'parents' were unable to share with us before their untimely demise...something you *will* be telling me." The figure growled lowly and pressed the poker into Brun's skin, the sounds and smell of searing flesh filling the air. Brundenn winced and let out a roar as his head snapped upwards and he fought against the pain. The figure kept the poker pressed against the man even as the flesh blistered and charred around it, unmoved by his protests. "Every bit as stubborn as I was led to believe. But every man has their limits and their weaknesses. It is but a matter of time before we find yours." The figure twisted the poker against Brun's arm until just the tip was nestled in the charred flesh and with a grunt, he thrust it into Brun's arm, piercing between the bones and sticking out the other side. Looking it over for a moment, he released his grip on it and left it within the man's arm. "I wonder how much of this you can withstand before you succumb to the pain?"

Brundenn panted and spat at the figure despite the pain raging through the wound. "For a torturer, you talk too much." He said with a wicked grin. "I've taken worse wounds fighting a fire sprite. Now impress me. Show me what sick pleasure you take from torturing a defenseless man!" His words earned a heavy backhand from a gauntleted hand. Brun spat a bit of blood and tooth before smiling broadly up at the figure. "Where are your words now, o' mysterious one? Don't know how to handle a subject that talks back?" He spat again as his mouth continued to fill with blood. "You know, you might not be the first one I kill on my way out of this pit...but you will be dying. Likely with this very poker you've given me." He shot a bloodthirsty glare at his tormentor. "Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll just break your knees and leave you to be found by your fellows here to send a message." His glare turned icy. "Yes...I think I'll do just that. Break your legs in such a way that you'll never walk again and leave you laying in the filth letting the wounds fester and leave you to die a painful, slow death of infection and disease. Yes, a man of the cloth such as yourself deserves nothing but the best."

The shrouded figure remained unmoved by Brundenn's words and turned back to a table littered with various blades and torture instruments, turning a few in his hands and debating while Brundenn continued to taunt him. Settling upon a cruel looking long knife, he stepped back to Brundenn, he unleashed another back hand before gripping the brute's wrist. "Every bit as stubborn and foolish as I was led to believe. Pain won't get the answers we seek, but that doesn't mean I won't enjoy our time together until the others arrive. There are more ways to loosen a tongue than simple tools. One can do so much to the very aether of someone with the right motivations." The figure grinned wickedly underneath his shroud before pressing the knife to Brun's remaining untouched forearm. "Now...my personal favorite..." He pressed the blade into the flesh and started cutting long, shallow lines around it. With surgical position, he turned the lines into squares and began systematically carving pieces of skin from the arm. Brun's cries of pain reverberated off the dungeon walls until finally it became too much and he passed out.

Faint flickers of dimmed torches were all that answered Brun when he finally regained consciousness. Blood ran freely down his arm and there was a pool at his feet. A groan of pain left him unwillingly as he looked upon the muscles and tendons of his expose arm and he tested his restraints again. "You know Brun, for someone who hides such intelligence...your façade as a mountain of muscle and stone is quite impressive." Whispered a voice from behind him. Brun let out a breath of relief at the familiar voice. "Now, let's get you free from this place and to a chirurgeon." A shadowy Hrothgar stepped into the torchlight before moving to the restraints and deftly picking the locks. "I'll just add this rescue to my tab then."

Brun collapsed to his knees and rolled to this side, the blood on the ground soaking into the ratty furs that clung to his shoulders. "Grentt Maddox. Of all the souls to see in this pit...you're the last I expected."

The Hrothgar smiled down to the Highlander and tossed an axe down beside Brun. "Your uncle was concerned when you didn't return from the fighting pits and sent me out to investigate. It wasn't easy to find where they hauled you off to, but we'll leave that discussion for later." He reached to his side and pulled out a waterskin to press to Brun's lips. "Now, drink up and gather yourself. I've dispatched the guards but your captor still lingers in his quarters. I'll keep watch if you want to say your farewells."

Brun drank deeply of the water and remained still for a few long moments as he gathered his strength. With great effort, he pushed himself up to his feet and collected his axe. Without a word, he nodded and disappeared down the hallway that led to his cell. Staggering weakly, he made his way down a few winding corridors before coming to a heavy wooden door. Resting against the fall for a moment to take some deep breaths and gather his strength, he reached to pull the poker from his arm and toss it to the ground with a clatter. With a loud roar, he burst through the door with the rage of a wounded animal and descended upon the man within. The sickening sound of cracking bones and cries of pain echoed off the stone walls of the dungeon for several minutes until an uneasy silence fell upon them. Grentt grinned wickedly to himself as he took position at the entrance.

Several minutes passed before Brundenn limped up next to Grentt's position. Without any words being exchanged, the pair departed into the darkness of the night.

[atlanticcocean]

My Mental Health as of 5 months ago.

In the middle of the ocean is a torrential hurricane. Waves the size of tsunamis and my boat has long since capsized. With each breath I take it feels like a new wave crashing down on me, forcing my head deeper into the water whenever I try to reach the surface. My lungs are out of air- the waves pushed it all out; so I can't allow myself to just float to the surface. I have to kick and claw desperately at the water to try and rise. The water is cold and weighs on my limbs like lead; wrapping icily around my limbs, turning them to rusted iron that creaks as they move, and the fog at the edge of my vision is closing in more and more as the oxygen starvation kicks in. Just as my head breaks the surface I gasp for air and choke on salt water and rain that swarms the ocean's surface. Just as I can grab that one half-gulp of air, another wave crashes on top of my head and pulls me back under, and the struggle begins again. There is no rest, no break, no salvation; just fighting or drowning.

My body bleeds into the water around me as I quietly exist. My silhouette feels like a suggestion, and the slightest shift in the water will turn me into a swirl of a shape. It means when I move I feel my arms dissipate and reappear every second, as I see them, real and solid before my eyes. My chest feels like it's being crushed by a thousand weights- right on my sternum. It constrics my chest and makes the world feel smaller around me. My lungs feel like they're so overused and full of air that they risk tearing themselves in order to relieve some of the pressure. This feeling rises up into my throat and slices razor cuts up my oesophagus and scores my tongue, splitting it into a serpentine fork.

I can crack my head open in a hundred ways: the skull grows spikes that force their way out of the surface of my skin, protruding like stalactites as a way to fight back the harshness of the light and cold, or to stop my eyes from crawling out of their sockets again. Deep incisions underneath my jaw cut through my mouth and the adjacent cheek, sometimes with some kind of tool- a bar or a saw perhaps- sticking out of my face like some sort of sick piercing.

Sometimes my mouth is sewn shut, sometimes I don't have lips; just exposed teeth, and sometimes I don't have a mouth at all. It makes speaking seem like a delusion; successfully hiding the creature I'm becoming from the eyes that cannot see my true body.

My ears bleed or are shredded, torn off by my own fingernails. My tendons and ligaments are strung up on my wrist using fish hooks protruding from my forearms.

Claw marks, bullet holes, scratches, bite marks and holes pepper my torso. They trace my ribs and take up residence in the softest and most vulnerable places on me. Sometimes they're red and raw, sometimes they're old white scars carved so deeply into me it's as if I was a discarded clay plaything, long since dried out and cracked.

Sometimes my limbs go missing. Some fingers, a chunk of my throat, or most commonly, my left leg is missing, just up until under the knee joint. I walk on a real falsehood when this happens. When I write or draw and paint and then both my hands are hacked off, or my wrists slice open and the blood crawls up my arms, into my mouth and up my nose, into my sinuses and wrap around my eyes, blinding me with my own blood.

Sometimes large areas of my skin are flayed red and raw, leaving me even more naked to the watchers in the walls. They're looking at all of me- even the parts I shouldn't be able to and can't see. The watchers in the walls are eyeballs that always watch, never resting. Some perverted panoptic observer, dissecting my every move and thought. Sometimes the eyes turn into hundreds of CCTV cameras. Sometimes the eyes are on the inside of my skull, or underneath my blanket. Sometimes I'm under the impression that it's the watchers that split me apart. I feel like a sack of blood loosely stitched together and animated to walk. I don't feel human. I don't feel like a person. I love fiercely and trust with my whole heart, but all my perceptions of the world around me aren't really mine, they were taught to me. The words I use to describe my environment- what I like and dislike, what's good and bad was never decided by me, but was informed by what people often said TO me.

I don't understand what makes something beautiful. I can see and recognise beauty, but there are so many things in my life that I look at and recognise as beautiful and feel nothing. Does that mean I truly believe that? I learned through association, and it's only because of recent events that it occurred to me to question all that I knew about myself and how I thought. I was forced to challenge my beliefs in every aspect over and over again and I have been stripped down to my crudely scraped bones and dried up marrow.

I thought as I grew up I'd figure out how to be a human being but I'm more lost than ever. For the last decade all I have known is to try and break the surface of the ocean and tread water.

But recently a life preserver has been thrown my way by someone else who is in the middle of this storm. I'm hauled onto a raft that seems to be held together by nothing but kindness and spite and I am held in warm arms and another gargantuan wave looms overhead. But for the past decade all I have known is how not to drown. For this moment I'm no longer in the water. I no longer know what I am. I don't know what I am without the water in my lungs. I never had the opportunity to learn.

The cold water crept its way into my mouth and down my throat until I gagged. It tossed me back and forth as it pleased, and if I tried to resist I was met with icy riptides and despair. The water swarmed my arms and chest and robbed me of any sense of up or down. It snaked its way between my legs and tore me apart from the inside out, tearing away the warmth, comfort, security or confidence I had in myself. And every time i felt the brine in my sinus or the salt sting my eyes i just kept telling myself that “this is the nature of the sea. It cannot be helped, and it cannot be resisted. Save your strength for when the water calms”. I did not realise that patience and endurance were not the same. Patience yields focus, while endurance dulls the blade. It does not matter how strong people may see themselves; eventually even gods bleed.

And now I can feel steady hands and honest warmth. I do not know what to do with it, other than cling onto it with all my might. The dark grey-blue breaks and a ray of gold peeks through. I turn to my new companion and I see how long he has been trapped in this storm. His eyes blend in with the water and hold the same iron will as the storm trying to drown us. He pulls up a makeshift sail that pulls us full force towards the water mountain looming ahead of us. I grab onto the cracked mast of the HMS Determination and brace myself to see what crests first: us, or the wave.

The thrill is exhilarating and the maneuver is risky. Sailing is what got me in this mess in the first place- perhaps it would be best to continue to swim? If this stubborn little raft capsized, that's it. There's no reason to keep swimming. There aren't any other rescues around. I've put all of my life preservers in this one dingy, and i'm going to enjoy breathing air while i can. It’s our turn to be able to breathe. On this raft the eyes at the bottom of the sea cannot hunt me, and my crewmate can stitch me up when the threads come loose. I have no choice but to trust him, and to me that is a privilege.

We reach the top of the wave before it crests and in a moment of euphoria, I see land silhouetted against the flash of lightning a few miles east of us. I cry out in desperate joy as the Determination races dangerously down the other side of the wave, threatening to capsize as it goes. A small curl catches the corner of our raft and sends me toppling back into the waves; but before I hit the water, a strong grip around my waist.

“I've got you,” I hear as we tumble back into the centre of the raft. And I believe him. That's twice he has saved my life with no expectations in return.

I've got you.

The storm is still raging and we are far from shore as of yet, but the watchers are less prominent, and with him stitching me together I am dissolving a little less.

I've got you.

I am still cold and drenched in sea water. My blood mixes with the water on my skin and on my clothes and coats everything on me that I can see. But I have a direction and a purpose now. I cannot guarantee that I will get to shore, but I am confident now that I stand a better chance than before.

[killianmesmalls]

On Route to the Bottom, Ch. 4

This is it. It was a bit emotionally exhausting sometimes, but it’s finished. 

Chapter: 4/4

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Warnings: EXTREME angst and sadness (the poor babies…), Gothel continues being a creep.

Killian Jones had murdered countless people. It was a fact he wasn’t proud of these days, but a fact nonetheless. Mostly split-second incidents brought on by a bout of rage and the gnawing emptiness that had settled in his stomach for centuries. Yet, the instant he set eyes on his Alice sixteen years ago, that emptiness evaporated and with it any desire to gut anyone.

Except for her.

Gothel continued to smile at the frozen pair of them, taking in the site of their horrified faces before she leaned in to kiss Killian on the cheek. Gods, it would take everything he had not to burn the flesh off his face to rid himself of the sensation. It brought him back to that night all those years ago when she had transformed before him, changing “quite a night” into something far fouler.

Into something that had kept him from wanting to get too close to anyone, from ever wanting to truly open himself up to anyone but his Alice.

“Don’t look so upset. Like you said before, we both get what we want. You two get to live and continue living your small lives here, and I don’t have to worry about the chance of you ruining any of my plans.” She raised her hand to rub the stubble on his face, gave him one more wink, and left without so much as a look back to her daughter.

Once Gothel had disappeared in a puff of smoke, father and daughter felt the invisible binds holding them give way. In a heartbeat, Alice rushed to be near her father. She was two steps in when they both descended into screaming.

Killian reached for his heart, a pain unlike he had ever felt pumping through it. It was going to burn out of him if it didn’t explode first, ripping his body to pieces with it. Alice doubled over, holding her left wrist and staring down at a rising red welt just at her tendon. Instinctively she took a step back, and the worst of their agony died away leaving only a residual ache and an almost more agonizing realization.

“Papa!” Alice cried out, her hand flying to her mouth to keep in the sob that threatened to escape.

“Alice…”

He had no words of comfort. Nothing to offer that could help either of them process what was happening, what had happened. What couldn’t happen anymore.

“I’m sorry,” she burst. “I’m so, so sorry! I didn’t mean any of it! I swear, I didn’t!”

“I know, love. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left. Oh, Alice, this is all my fault.”

“No!” she shrieked. “Don’t say that! It’s mine! I was awful! Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry!”

At the sounds of the other’s anguish, both made a move from years of muscle memory to rush to their side, but even their twitching muscles sent hot knives into her wrist and his chest.

When the searing heat on her wrist dulled once more, Alice’s mind flooded with new terrible truths. Her papa, her whole world, the pillar of strength she had relied on all her life and the person she knew would always be there for her, couldn’t come close to her. Couldn’t hug her to his chest, couldn’t put his secure arms around her and whisper to her that everything would be alright.

Nothing was alright. Alice collapsed to her knees, numb. Her ocean-blue eyes, so like her father’s, searched into nothing for who knew what. An answer? Something to comfort them? Some reason why this day had gone so tragically wrong.

“Alice, darling, we’ll figure this out,” her papa said, his gentle voice breaking what levy was holding her together. She wanted to be strong, she wanted to make up for everything, everything she had said. To make their world right again. Except she couldn’t see through the black fog now wrapping around them. Her world as she had ever known it was over. Even if they figured something out, some way to make this new reality tolerable, her world was upside down.

Killian too was at a loss, standing there dumbly waiting for some stroke of genius that would allow him to fix this. Fix what he knew would never have been broken if he had been a good father and just stayed with her. If he had just protected her. He rubbed a callused hand over his eyes, attempting to stem the tears that burned in their corners.

Sixteen years. Sixteen long years, and he had never been at such a loss of what to do. Never felt such a complete and utter lack of hope.

“I’ll fix this,” he uttered. He hoped an ounce of her believed it.

Rogers sat out in the patio area of Roni’s bar, working through some paperwork in between sips of black coffee and a newspaper crossword. Over the last few months it had become his favorite place to work. The company of Roni and, occasionally, Henry helped lighten the days after his back-and-forths with the jaded officers at the precinct and his treacherous bastard of a partner.

Something about Roni felt familiar, and they had settled into a comfortable place between ribbing each other and offering quiet support. Henry was ever-eager to help whenever he saw Rogers struggling with anything between a crossword and a case. The detective wondered if this grew from the younger man’s experience in foster care and subsequent desire to be close to someone. Perhaps Rogers simply reminded him of a figure from his turbulent past.

As much as he was growing to care for those two, it was the tell-tale footsteps behind him that had him smiling the most. She rested her forearm on his shoulder, leaning her weight on him.

“Afternoon, Detective.”

“Tilly,” he greeted.

Usually he wasn’t the biggest fan of personal contact. Something about someone he didn’t know, someone he didn’t trust, touching him at all sent shivers up his spine. Yet, Tilly leaning there didn’t bother him in the slightest. A small hint of it even felt natural. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.

“You ready to lose? I do like the idea of a third time in a row. Something about a nice, odd number,” she teased.

“Boast all you want,” he started, putting his work away as she began to set up the chessboard he had purchased them. “Things may not be looking good now, but I’ll fix it.”

[dunmerofskyrim]

18

Strange. I don’t think there was one mer among us not scared half to death and nerves shot to shaking by what we faced at the gatehouse. Neither those on the walls and able to fight, nor those yet to climb them, helpless outside.

The Morrowind natives among us in particular faced something awful. These corpsewalkers had no necromancy behind them. Nothing to hate except that they made us fear them. Only something gone wrong in the nature of things. The souls of those who ought to’ve been ancestors to someone, caught instead in their bodies, with parch and rot both fighting to claim them. Patrolling their old watches, mindless. Lying dormant til something came near — life to envy, interruptions to rage at, who can say?

As individuals we each had the salt shocked out of us. But as a group our survival emboldened us. A sigh of relief through us all, soundless but sole in its meaning: still alive, still alive. Tammunei did that. As they did back in Bodram, so they’d done now.

The air reeked of burning. Cloth and hair and bone. Smoldering paper. Preserved by the souls inside them but otherwise gone to husks, the flesh of these things had ceased to be flesh. A small mercy. None of the usual meat and fat stench as they burnt.

Bones and weeds in the courtyard. Mushrooms trod under our feet as we regrouped.

A second turret of bitter smoke poured up from the tower staircase I’d set ablaze. With shaking hands I searched my satchels and came out with a scrap of dried root. Pale pink guljana – manpaw, creeproot – to still the spent ache in my belly. I slipped it into my mouth and began to chew. First the tannic taste of overbrewed tea. Next would come a heaviness in my limbs, something between wading in water, or trying to run from a nightmare. But it would stem the sick hollow feeling of drawing on my body’s magicka deeper than I ought to have. I had no better recourse.

I was bruised and battered. Something had scratched me close to my temple. A line of blood had gone to crust, drying down the side of my face. The first corpse I fought had got its claws into my side, tearing tattered a patch of my aketon, but sparing the shirts and skin beneath. And that was another larger mercy all its own. Any fleshwound got from those things’ teeth or claws would go sour, sure as anything.

“Thank you…” I croaked, voice scorched and coming out black. “Thank you.” My feet began to pace.

All around me a chaos of voices, murmuring. Who was hurt? Take this, here, take it, it’ll help. My brother, have you seen my brother, blue eyed, can’t miss him, have you seen—? Someone was crying. A high thin ceaseless sound like a baby’s wail in a full-grown throat, no regard for breath except when a new sob tried to start but pulled on empty lungs.

No warriors, these, I reminded myself. It couldn’t be helped. And this had been both kinder and crueler than any skirmish against the living.

Spent but restless, I paced. My eyes veered, fixed on one soot-stained grubby nerve-drawn face, then the next, and then the next. It might’ve looked like concern. Some might’ve expected that of me as Tammunei’s second. The one with a mind to keeping us fed, watered, safe. Whose thoughts were on every banal and needful thing that would keep the lot of us living. Tammunei’s mind was ever a day ahead of us, always in Vvardenfell, pressing on and onward. Live too much in the future, or dwell too much in the past, your thoughts cease to think, and turn instead to dreams.

One face I saw had blue eyes. Strange in a Dunmer. That was a third mercy. Somehow it made things better.

“Your brother!” I called out, raising my voice as best I could. “Here, your brother!”

The bathwater was warm. Its surface shone in slicks and whorls and its steam rose nut-like sweet with apricot oil.

He’d seen the trees as the sun set last night. They were everywhere in Oudabridge, anywhere they could force roots into the dust. At least he’d assumed they were apricot trees. It was almost Winter and their limbs held no fruit. But the cornerclub itself had three such trees in its narrow walled grove of a garden. No fruit perhaps, but the oil from their kernels went in most everything they cooked. Why shouldn’t it be in their bathwater too?

Simra leaned backwards, sinking himself to the tip of his chin and curling his legs and back to fit the short oval tub. Scent and heat, the smooth and soothing slickness of the oil as it soaked into his skin. It had all been pleasant for the time it took to blink twice, but quick enough it had turned to guilt, and guilt turned all the rest with it. What was it the Nords said about bad apples and barrels? One tainted with rot will sour the whole lot.

His skin prickled now, thick and gelid, like his bones had gone soft while his muscles stayed tense. A glowering pain nestled at the front of his head, between and just above his brows. A hangover that felt like a third eye opening, just as in the old Sixth House stories. Simra grimaced, disappointed. He’d not been drunk, not by a long way. If he’d known he’d wake up feeling this way, he’d have gone the whole distance and earnt it.

“And how much more’d that cost you, hm?” His breath troubled the water’s surface as he muttered. “Four shils more? Five?” Simra kissed his teeth. “Done enough damage already. To yourself and your purse.”

He’d wanted comfort. A change from the plains, the yurt, the hard ground beneath its floorcloth and his bundled up mantle for a pillow. Not luxury, just a chance to stop feeling like an animal. It wasn’t excess. In the greater scheme of things it didn’t come close. But sixteen shils, a redware yera, a piece each of Imperial copper and silver, spent in a night and morning on nothing that would last — it felt like excess all the same.

“Feel better if you’d got something solid, would you? Real and needful and lasting? Fuck off.”

Sword, boots, a new bag or book, a coat for the cold — Simra knew it would make no difference if he’d spent the same on them. It would still set his upbringing a-clamour inside him. A sick and stomach-fallen feeling that had made his bed seem rough and hard, and this bath feel like being a piece of hardybread soaked to soften in broth.

The numbers moved and changed in his head, unwanted and unprompted. Coins flowing in and out of Imperial, never staying long, but always passing through. Three drakes to the shil and seven drakes on the penny. Two shils on the penny with some sliver of loss meant twenty-four to the shilling, but not if you counted those slivers, like you always ought if you’re clever… Thirty-two shils, then, to a shilling, on a good day, in a fair exchange.

For two weeks a shilling could feed a family of four and leave scraps still for rainy days. All the more scraps for a family of three. That was his mother’s reckoning. The first part came of shrewdness and thrift, the second part from pain. If he had it figured right, he’d spent a third again more than that. Not luxury, he’d told himself, but now it came as a question. Not luxury? Back home it would be. Back home it was good food, meat, a ways towards rent for the month or stores for the Winter.

The sound he made was part sigh but the rest was a growl of disgust. Up from the water, Simra heaved himself dripping, both arms braced to the sides of the tub. He grimaced as his bruises complained. Newer knocks and pains. The old aches spoke up too, down his back and across his shoulders: a tightness that only came open by tearing. The scars at least were silent, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

Cold the stone floor under his feet, even through the rushes. He soaked them as he stepped from the bath. The lingering bitter-white scent of leech-lily soap. Together with the cornerclub’s apricot oil, the distant rainstorm smell of boiled riverwater, they filled the small room to its rough-plastered walls.

Steam fogged the tiny diamond of polished steel that Simra had set on the nightstand. Better that way for now, he reckoned, and pushed back the dripping white weight of his hair. Clothed to the collarbones – or in a mirror the size of his hand – he was marked enough already.

The deep scar through his lips, from nose to chin. The tear straight down through his right ear’s lobe, ragged and stupid. The shallow horizontal on the left side of his throat, too, if he wore no scarf. The twinned stars on either side of the muscle between neck and shoulder, one where the arrow went in and another where Kjeld had pushed it out.

But naked, bared down to bones and dove-grey skin, there was no escaping the rest. Arms and shoulders, forearms, ribs. One wide stripe on the side of his thigh, like the growth-marks on Gitur’s hips…

“Ghosts and bones,” Simra muttered, swearing as his body remembered back to Windhelm, the parlour under the Grey Quarter, the bedding-down musk of soft pelts. A testing flex of feeling, as mixed as every scar. But better he dwelt on that than the torn ear…

Simra dried himself with a sheet of kreshcloth, folded beside the tub. He mussed his hair from soaked to simple damp. Wrapped his loins and feet, then stepped and struggled into his leggings. Again his shoulders complained. No quiet tightness now, but a sharp insist of pain. Lips gone into a crooked snarl, teeth all grit together, Simra let go a hiss.

He sat down hard on the bed, hating that he had to. Old, he thought. That was how it felt. Old already. It hurt to reach out to the nightstand. Hurt worse to turn his head and see. He shuffled at the hips instead, to look and grope for his bandages.

Without them, bare, his right hand was a mess. He looked down, grim-curious, to watch as its fingers flexed. Index and thumb as normal, but the outer three were pale and bloodless, skin cured tight. Ropes of scar knotted round their knuckles, ugly back and ugly palm. The tendons stood out rigid in a squall of silver seams that spread like lightning along the heel of his hand and towards the wrist. A whole hand, true, but it didn’t feel his own. Something stolen instead — broken, then borrowed back.

Simra wrapped it, covered it, everything up to the second knuckles of his corpse-pale fingers and the nails on them that never grew. It was awkward, clumsy left handed, but he was well practiced by now. Well-used to that, as much as to the looks of confusion, the quick glance down, that came with the name he’d made for himself, then half-glad left behind.

“Seven-Fingers…” He snorted. Another thing he’d traded in, all part of the price he’d paid. Another reputation gone all but cold and a new one in need of making.

Shirts, jacket, bags. Simra finished dressing. With kohl-lined eyes and goatskin mantle tossed back over one shoulder like a dandy’s cape, he stepped into the cornerclub’s courtyard, sack on his back and satchel at his side.

A triangle of paving slabs surrounded another of dirt. Bare-armed apricot shrubs, and a spray-limbed pomegranate tree, limbs weighted and red with fruit against the drab white sky.

[montykyreblog]

i don’t know how to start this

i just need to pretend that somebody cares

i go from my room to work and back to my room

i have no friends to hang out with

everybody in my house is depressed and my dad and sister are a bit delusional sometimes

when i was 8 we moved to a far away place

and i grew up there with my best friend for 8 years

i told him i don’t know what’s real any more

he seems to think i’m overreacting

when i was 16 i started playing league of legends with somebody who grew to be a close friend

we called each other brothers

i opened up to him

he had nothing to say

i called a girl who i met almost two years ago in the middle of the night because i felt happy and i had nobody to share it with

she said she would call back tomorrow

that was the last i heard from her

i told my dad i quit my job because i overworked my hands to the point of me getting tendonitis in both wrists and forearms at 20 years of age

he said i might be a hypochondriac

even though two different doctors told me otherwise

i keep trying to make friends but there must be something wrong with me because i’m utterly alone

i want to move out of home but now i know nobody gives a shit out there either

it’s getting harder and harder to tell what’s real any more

everything used to be so vivid

i remember waking up and looking forward to every day

i remember knowing somehow that it was all coming to an end

and then it did

i remember being afraid for my life for two months

locked up with a psychotic violent rage filled brother

i was afraid to shift positions at night because he hated me making any noise 

and i didn’t want him to kill me

he threatened to murder me

he would stare at me with pure hatred

he wouldn’t speak

he would just stare

he would control everything

he told me i was a piece of shit over and over again until i believed it

and now i’m turning into him

maybe i would have been better off dead

i heard voices whispering to me a couple nights ago

still think i’m being dramatic?

i wish i was just being dramatic

i can’t tell if i’m surrounded by crazy people or if i’m the crazy one now

all i wanted was friends

i just wanted to feel safe

i can’t sleep at night

i feel like i can barely do anything any more

nobody gives a shit

they all judge me

they all say i’m being an attention whore or something

i’m locked up in my room again

just like i’ve been

i hate these walls

i hate thisworld

i feel like i’ve slipped through the cracks

if i go crazy

everybody will abandon me

i can’t trust anybody any more

i have to trust myself

or else i will lose it

let’s hope i find my sanity again

i’m gonna move out of here

i’m gonna keep trying to improve myself

i’m going to get better