#verse: blooms wild and burns bright

[jaskierswolf]

Your heart beats like wings

Written for the Teef Week Event in @thewitcherbog.

Ship: Gerlion

Rating: E

CW: Fae!Dandelion, biting (and drawing blood), mating bites (of sorts), wing kink, coming untouched, blow job,

_

Geralt had always known there was something not quite human about Dandelion. Whenever his golden-haired poet was near, the wolf’s head would hum quietly on his chest, a fact that Dandelion seemed to delight in. Whenever they shared a bed or curled up together on the forest floor, Dandelion’s long lutist fingers would wrap around the wolf, calloused fingertips tracing the fur on its ears and muzzle. But Geralt never asked, and Dandelion seemed content to keep the mystery a secret. Years passed, decades, maybe nearing a century, Ciri blooming into a beautiful young lady, zipping off through time and space, Yennefer still scouring the Continent for a way to take back what she believed was stolen from her, and Regis settling down in Toussaint with a fellow vampire, popping in to see Geralt and Dandelion on occasion.

No one seemed to notice that the seemingly human bard hadn’t aged a day over the cruel winters and burning summers that had passed.

Geralt noticed but he was scared, scared of losing the one constant in his life. If he asked, if he drew attention to it, the peace surrounding them might shatter and he’d be left alone, always waiting for his friends and family to arrive, isolated.

Dandelion hummed, tucking his hair behind his ears before leaning down to press a kiss to Geralt’s neck, sucking a bruise into the tender skin, his hips rolling over Geralt’s cock. Ever the poet, Dandelion murmured a steady stream of praise as he trailed his lips under the line of Geralt’s jaw, whispering rhymes and verses as he nibbled Geralt’s ear.

“What thoughts are rattling through that pretty little head of yours, my darling?” Dandelion asked as he sat up onto his heels, his fingers tracing patterns into Geralt’s chest, not dissimilar to the runes on his swords.

“Nothing to worry about,” Geralt muttered, pulling his husband into a kiss to finally silence him. The words melted into a soft moan as Dandelion’s lips parted easily under Geralt’s, elderflower wine still on his tongue, sweet, delicious, divine.

They kissed some more, lazy and slow, a simmering heat gradually building into something more insistent as Dandelion’s hands finally wrapped around Geralt’s cock.

“You’re lying to me,” Dandelion hummed, hand slick with oil even though Geralt never heard the cork pop. “Tell me, dearest, please.”

Geralt’s eyes fluttered closed, Dandelion’s fingers working magic along his hardening cock, making it difficult to think about anything else. “You,” he finally mumbled, “was thinking about you.”

Dandelion giggled, the sound making Geralt’s medallion vibrate a little more against his chest. “And what about me?” Dandelion asked, his voice ever musical and beautiful, one carefully trimmed nail running along Geralt’s cheek.

“You- you never age, Dandelion. Why?” Geralt asked, feeling his cheeks heat up as he finally voiced the question that had been haunting him for years.

The poet sighed, pressing his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck, fingers wrapped tightly around the wolf medallion. “I was wondering when you would ask, my dear witcher.”

A heavy silence fell over the room as Dandelion sat up, legs resting either side of Geralt’s waist. He continued to trace patterns into Geralt’s skin, until the quiet became almost unbearable, crushing Geralt under the enormity of its weight. The question became a burning sword, ready for Geralt to fall upon, the destruction of everything he held dear. Until, in a strangely vulnerable voice, Dandelion spoke once more.

“Promise not to hate me, Geralt, darling, please.” His voice cracked, shattering along with Geralt’s heart. They may have had their spats over the years but to hear that his husband doubted him so… it was unforgivable. He would spend the rest of their days together trying to make it up to Dandelion, until his husband truly believed how much Geralt loved him.

Geralt took one of Dandelion’s hands in his, placing a kiss to each knuckle before gently turning it over to kiss the palm. “You must think me mad,” Geralt reminded him, echoing words from so long ago, “if you think I could ever hate you.”

And still Dandelion remained silent, cornflower blue eyes locked on his, lacing their fingers together. “Even if I’m a monster?”

If it weren’t for the sincerity in Dandelion’s voice, Geralt would have assumed the poet was joking. How could his husband, kind and gentle Dandelion who threw up at the sight of blood, think he was a monster? The most vicious Dandelion ever got was when he was up against Valdo Marx in a bardic competition, but his old rival had passed many years ago.

“Even then.”

“Are you- are you sure?”

“Dandelion, speak,” Geralt said, squeezing the poet’s hand in his.

“Very well.”

But instead of speaking there was a sudden burst of magic in the room, Geralt’s medallion jumping off his chest, the teeth of the wolf almost snarling as it vibrated wildly. Dandelion’s features blurred and changed, his already sharp cheekbones becoming more angular, the fingers between Geralt’s lengthening, claw-like nails replacing neatly trimmed ones. When Dandelion opened his eyes once more, cornflower blue irises now glowed with slitted pupils not unlike Geralt’s, and when he smiled, Geralt saw a row of sharp teeth glistening between rosy pink lips. His golden ringlets parted to reveal two curled horns, but what really drew Geralt’s attention were the shimmering rainbow wings that unfurled from behind his husband’s back.

He was beautiful.

“Dandelion,” Geralt breathed, unable to think of any other word.

“Hello, Geralt.”

“You’re- you’re beautiful.”

Dandelion’s eyes fluttered shut, a serene expression gracing his lips, and the room seemed to glow from whatever magic the poet was weaving, his hair gently blowing in a breeze that Geralt couldn’t feel. Behind him, Dandelion’s wings beat slowly, catching off the candlelight and sending glittery sparkles of light cascading across the room. It was captivating, enchanting, alluring, and Geralt couldn’t take his eyes off his husband.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, his voice distant to his own ears.

“Hmm, well, I rather think you should,” Dandelion giggled, leaning down to press their lips together.

Geralt’s fingers tentatively reached out to caress Dandelion’s wings, making the poet shudder, a soft gasp falling from his lips, the taste of wild flowers on his breath.

“Again…” Dandelion murmured, and so Geralt stroked along the seemingly fragile veins of the wings until his husband was a quivering mess on top of him, cock hard and leaking onto Geralt’s stomach. “Oh gods, Geralt.”

“I’ve got you, Dandelion,” Geralt hummed, his fingers digging into Dandelion’s thighs as they rutted together, Geralt’s cock aching between the curve of Dandelion’s arse.

“Julian,” Dandelion whispered. “My name is Julian.”

Geralt blinked up at his husband, cheeks flushed bright, the very picture of ethereal beauty. “Julian,” he repeated, “my flower.”

As the name fell from Geralt’s lips, a strange silver light whipped around his husband, connecting his heart to Geralt’s, and he cried out, lost in pleasure as he came, purely from the caresses to his wings. He collapsed forward, sharp teeth latching onto Geralt’s shoulder to muffle his cries. Geralt hissed in pain as the fangs sank into his skin, but the pain soon succumbed to pleasure and he thrust up against Dandelion’s arse, hands still exploring the colourful wings that were so alive beneath his fingers. Every touch tingled against his skin, hot and cold at the same time, magic in its rawest form, making Geralt feel dizzy.

Dandelion moaned, releasing Geralt’s shoulder for barely a second before kissing over the wound. His husband then wriggled from Geralt’s arms, kissing down Geralt’s body as he shuffled down the bed, each kiss was accompanied by a sharp bite until Geralt’s skin was a map of unfamiliar teeth marks, some bleeding, some not, Dandelion didn’t seem to care. Wherever his razor sharp teeth did break through Geralt’s skin, there was a thrum of magic, building and building inside of Geralt, until he could almost feel Dandelion’s heart beat right alongside his. Wings fluttered out behind Dandelion, now out of reach but still so captivating.

“My darling, my husband, my Geralt,” Dandelion murmured between kisses, gazing up at Geralt with glowing blue eyes as he pressed a kiss to Geralt’s hip.

“Yours, Julian,” Geralt agreed, threading his hands through Dandelion’s soft blond curls, knuckles bumping against the newly grown horns. Unlike the wings, Dandelion’s horns didn’t appear to be sensitive in the slightest, but Geralt was still intrigued. He gripped one of the horns in his hand, guiding his husband lower, moaning with every kiss and bite to his skin.

Dandelion giggled, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s inner thigh, “Patience, love.”

“You try my patience, poet.”

“And yet you insist I’m not a monster,” Dandelion sighed, sinking his teeth into Geralt’s thigh.

Fire blazed through Geralt’s veins, crackling electricity, even as Dandelion’s tongue lapped over the bite mark. He knew there was some magic at play, but it was a part of Dandelion, a part that had remained hidden for so long and finally, finally, Geralt had been allowed to see.

The trust that Dandelion- that Julian had in him was almost overwhelming.

Glowing eyes met his and Julian winked, eyelashes even longer and darker than before. That was all the warning Geralt got before his cock was enveloped in the wet heat of Julian’s mouth, the bard already moaning around his length. Geralt’s own moans harmonised with his husband as his head fell back against the pillow.

He had a feeling he would be in for a long night.

_

Taglist: @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @comfyswitcherblanketfort, @fontegagrilledcheese, @dani-dandelino, @dapandapod @unyielding-as-the-sea @officerjennie @feraljaskier @geralt-of-riviass @kueble @gilberik @llamasdumpsterfire

[inessencedevided]

- ☁️ Gusu Lan ☁️ -

The Wens are prepared with torches to burn down wooden beams that have stood for centuries, they bring swords and as many foot soldiers as possible to fight the prestigious disciples of the Lan sect, to slay them where they stand, paint the pristine white walls as red as the bird on their banners.

But they are not prepared for the anger of a god.

————————————————————

This is a story of a remote sect and a lonely deity, lost to the mountains until Lan An found his shrine again, cleaned it up, placed offerings and lit incense to welcome back the one who is now known as HanguangJun.

He loves his small humans, especially the children who tumble into his shrine, tiny and fragile like the wild white rabbits that visit his home. They bow clumsily but so very earnestly, offerings clutched in pudgy fists, slightly creased and yet worth so much more than blank, dead jewels and coffers full of gold he would never need.

One of the humans is a young, lonely woman. She looks tired each day she climbs up here, her robes as grey as the rocks surrounding his humble shrine. She lights incense and brings loquats she smuggled, rabbits spilling from her sleeves. Talks to him more than she prays, tells him how she stole away from the house they hold her prisoner in for an act of self defense, tells him how alone she is in these cold and remote mountains, speaks of how these visits are her only joy.

Day after day she struggles more and more to come up here, looks haggard, falls in on herself. Her eyes are still bright and alert but she seems lonelier than ever until one day her visits cease completely.

(They say it rained for a week after Madam Lan died, a cold and unforgiving wind howling through the mountains, that even the old trees sounded as if they were crying out with one voice. When ZewuJun, by that time still Lan Xichen, wants to clean his mother’s home, he finds an empty plot of land, a gurgling river and a small cluster of gentians. He remembers her telling him of the shrine on her deathbed, of the shrine and a lonely god who was almost like a son to her.)

————————————————————

The summer comes warm and with the sound of cicada song, a cooling breeze dancing around the feet of the visiting disciples that look in awe at the grand entrance carved from white stone. The sacred rabbits mill about and the atmosphere has something ethereal, something otherworldly. Even the rowdiest young people feel that someone resides here and watches over their every step.

Still, some of them find time to wander about, relax and swim in the streams that are rumoured to belong to the deity guarding this prestigious sect. One of them is Wei Wuxian, disciple of Baoshan Sanren, martial nephew to Xiao Xinchgen and Song Lan, a bright and curious youth, smart and wild like the streams rushing through the mountains of Gusu. He makes fast friends with the Jiang siblings and Nie Huaisang, who is also the one who tells him of the Keeper of the Mountains.

He treks up the mountain like so many before him, wind and sunlight dancing through his hair in a thousand ways of welcoming him, playing with his red ribbon almost like a bird tugging at it to bring it to its nest. He walks the path that has been smoothed down by footfall and age, anticipation blooming in his chest.

When he stumbles upon a remote house in the mountains and finds a man in there practising calligraphy with a steady and beautiful hand, he asks him (slightly breathlessly and shining like the sunlight that caresses his hair like a lover would) if he knows of the Keeper of the Mountains, of HanguangJun. The man lifts his head, his features elegant and placid like the finest white jade, hair like an ink spill and eyes the colour of dark, warm earth caught in a sunbeam and says in a voice that reminds him of sprawling riverbeds and the endlessness of the horizon beyond the mountains “Yes. I do.”

He offers spices to the shrine the man showed him when he walks down the mountain, tells the sky-blue tassels and the calmly chewing rabbits that he sadly does not have much to offer but that maybe this will be a joy to the deity in an otherwise bland cuisine. When he visits the man in his remote little house again, he serves food that swims with red and smells of spices that remind Wei Wuxian of home. He plays guqin and makes tea, pets the rabbits that wander up here and is a calming presence in the turmoil of burgeoning youth and a looming war.

————————————————————

War comes faster than most sects have time to recruit anyone. It carries a banner with a screeching bird the colour of the blood that will soon spill.

Some flee, some fight. And some? Some pray.

ZewuJun carries himself to the shrine, his sword already bloodied, panting and shaking, his hands and robes dirtied with red, so much red. He falls onto his knees, begs for his sect, for his mother who was once a beloved worshipper, for the children who should never be part of this bloodshed. For himself and for his uncle.

As he walks down the mountain, his sword sings in tandem with that of a god, glowing, radiant in his anger. Wens fall to his Bichen like autumn leaves, fires wink out in a wave of his hand. He steps in front of the building the little disciples and those unable to fight are hiding in, rabbits clustered around his feet, sword raised and a snarl on his ethereal face. Now Lan Xichen knows why a calm god like him is called HanguangJun, the Keeper of the Mountains. “Not a step further,” he says and his voice sounds like thunder. ZewuJun never had a brother, he is an only child but his mother told him of the lonely god she saw as a son of hers as much as himself and so he falls in step with the god, raising his own sword.

The Wens flee as if demons are hunting them.

—————————————————————

In Yunmeng, the Jiangs are in a similar situation, cornered like a fox by wild dogs, fighting until their fingers bleed, teeth and swords bared, attempting the impossible. Jiang Yanli, too weak to lift a sword but very versed with a cooking ladle is doing the best she can but her parents, her brother and her home are in danger. She is not ready to die yet, so she kneels down right here in the kitchen that is as good as hers, spreads out spices and prays to the god Wei Wuxian told her of. Her voice is shaking and she is holding the sharpest, longest knife she has (the one she uses to cut the ribs) in an iron grip.

She feels the cold encroaching, maybe because she grew up as child of the swamps, child of the summer heat in which robes stuck to your back regardless of how fine the silk is, sees the fog rolling in before anyone else does. Hears the reverberating twang of a guqin echoing over the lake, sees the lotuses bobbing up and down in a sharp wind smelling of mountain flowers. Sees the ice climbing up the wooden pillars that have supported Lotus Pier for years. Feels, more than sees him land on the pier, his anger radiating out, sword as unbending as the mountains he hails from still dripping with blood, a guqin in his hands made from a material that is as white as bleached bone.

He is terrifying but she is not scared. She is not afraid of the god who came when she called, a disciple mostly unknown to him but from the stories of the lovely young disciple she sees as a brother.

She falls in stride with him, holding her kitchen knife, her teeth bared and her footfall sure next to the god and his glowing white robes. Watches him fall in tandem with her little brother, with her mother, dance a deadly waltz with Wen Zhuliu, incandescent with rage. Her mother gets him, gets his hand that ended so many cultivators and the god that came to save them ends the life of Wen Chao, spears his heart with his gleaming sword.

He nods at her and she feels warmth wash over her, a benediction, an approval of her bravery. She lets the knife fall to the ground and sobs into his white robes, shaking and thanking him over and over. “No need,” he says and his voice really is a mountain river, calm and powerful. “You are steel wrapped in silk. A heart full of warmth. Fire too. You are one of mine too. I will protect you. Coming generations as well.”

He stays for a few days. He stays even though his sect must surely ask where their god has suddenly gone. Indulges Yanli in the kitchen and Wanyin on the training field, cleans up and heald. He is very homely for a being of such acclaim, quiet but curious, kind in a way that displays a hidden strength.

At the end of the week, Baoshan Sanren’s disciples come from their mountain and Yanli watches the god light up in a careful but very powerful way, like the sunrise over the mountains as the wild disciple with the red ribbon dancing in his hair runs up to hug him, sees the tall man cup his cheeks with a gentleness and devotion that borders on worship, sunlight and the god’s own glow illuminating them as they lean their foreheads against each others on her family’s pier, smiling without noticing anything or anyone else.

Wei Wuxian receives something most people work a thousand lifetimes for, most people will never gain, one mortal lost his life for: the approval and most importantly the regard of his hermit, the love of the Keeper of the Mountains. The heart of a god.

- 🍄 anon

🍄 anon wrote this for the @mdzsnet 'two years with cql' event ☁️💙☁️

[theyilinglaozus]

To celebrate the absolute insanity that is this little blog reaching a follower milestone of over 1,000 followers (honestly, how did that even happen?) I have decided that I would like to say a huge thank you by providing you all with the (very long time promised) list of some of favourite fanfictions!

Be warned. This is quite the long list. We’re sitting at 60+ fic recs here, and I’ve done my best with adding the most applicable tags for each. Some I’m sure will be old favourites to many in the fandom, but there’s also a few here which could potentially become one of your new favourites too. There are just so many amazingly talented writers within this fandom, and this is really just the tiniest slice of some of the fantastic stories out there in the wild. Thank you to all the many fic writers out there that provide such incredible content simply for both the love of the characters and the love of writing in general! 💖 I appreciate you for providing so many wonderful escapes and new journeys that we can once again join our beloved characters on.

And finally, thank you, to all my lovely followers. This list is for you. 

Favourites

grow → cafecliche post canon. age regression. fluff.

(our friendship) up against the ropes → daltoneering modern au. friends with benefits. mutual pining. oblivious!wei ying. dom/sub undertones + other tags.

The Absolutely True Story of the Yiling Patriarch: A Manifesto in Many Parts → aubreyli post canon. junior shenanigans. fluff.

where the chaos is → darkredloveknot post!drama canon. reunions. first kiss. first time. domestic.

Not rage but grief → dezemberzarin jealousy. established relationship. light angst. 

tell some storm → qurbat post canon. hurt/comfort. fluff.

Sometimes the Shadow → northofallmusic rough sex. kink negotiation. breathplay.

your persuasions → phnelt modern au. size kink. pwp.

Cut Through The Clouds → phnelt modern au. pilot!lan wangji. flight attendant!wei wuxian.

Mo Money, Mo Problems → x_los canon divergence. confessions. getting together.

I’m Going Out (Gonna Make A Name For Me And You) → cosmicmilktea post canon. slow burn.

As You Like It → cosmicmilktea post canon. light angst. fluff. 

Deeper grows my longing → feyburner post canon. getting together. first kiss.  

one good thing → Yuu_chi modern au. ghost!wei wuxian. angst with a happy ending. 

Sex, Science, and True Love: A Rigid Analysis of the Practical Applications of Dual Cultivation → aubreyli canon divergence. taoist sexual practices. still in progress.

there’s no promised goodbye here → anonymous modern au. post break-up. roommates. getting back together. angst and fluff.

Saw My Life in a Stranger’s Face → timetoboldlygo post canon. established relationship. light angst. domestic fluff. 

How to Keep Your Diplomatic Asset Close (and Your Wei Ying Closer) by His Excellency → misscam cql!verse. getting together. fluff. smut. humour. 

i don’t wanna lose you (i hope this never ends) → annemari post canon. sick fic. getting together.

I Don’t Want To Know → kuro modern au. post break-up. pining. angst and fluff.

wuxian → livsn fixing relationships (lan xichen and wei wuxian reconciliation)

paint smears on sunny days → SnowshadowAO3 single dad!lan wangji. art teacher!wei wuxian. a-yuan!. mutual pining. fluff and smut.

made of sunlight → retts body horror. body dysmorphia (wei wuxian over mo xuanyu’s body not being his original). angst and fluff. hurt/comfort. nightmares.

Love wakes me → dea_liberty modern au. famous!lan wangji. coffee shop owner!wei wuxian. found families (wei wuxian and the wens). reunions. angst. happy ending.

you’ve ruined my life (by not being mine) → cicer modern au. slow burn. awkward flirting. fluff. 

Take Root, Come Home → piecrust post canon. angst and fluff. established relationship.

your heartbeat, across the grass → fakeplasticlily modern au. footballer/soccer player!lan wangji. a-yuan!. oblivious wei wuxian. mutual pining. fluff. childhood friends.

the recluse at the end of the moonlit path → b_ofdale modern setting. immortal!lan wangji. reunions. asexual character. mutual pining.  

between the lines → jywait modern au. gaming. mutual pining. fluff. 

Silver & Gold → beeswaxing post canon. canon divergence. established relationship. age regression. angst and fluff. romance. mutual pining.

These Things Stay the Same → notevenyou modern au. accidents. minor character death. parents!wei wuxian and lan wangji. angst with a happy ending.

i’ll have you and you’ll have me → sundiscus modern au. established relationship. marriage proposal. fluff.

Martial Claims → yeolinski modern au. lawyers!lan wangji and wei wuxian. established relationship. juniors as interns. fluff and comedy. 

r/relationships → vespertineflora modern au. viral reddit post. love confessions. oblivious wei wuxian. fluff.

nothing gold can stay → rikke canon divergence. golden core reveal. angst and fluff. 

Tears of Pearl ‘verse → FleetofShippyShips

rebuttable presumption ‘verse → sarah-yyy

long way home series → idrilka

Twelve Moons and a Fortnight ‘verse → stiltonbasket

More Amazing Reads

yeah they’re just bros thanks for asking → victortor modern au. established relationship. aromantic wei wuxian. intimacy. fluff.

promise me the universe → somersaulter post canon. confessions. drunk wei wuxian. wen ning pov.

it goes like this → moonsteps modern au. soulmates. oblivious wei wuxian. humour. fluff. 

The Guests of Cloud Recesses → cafecliche post canon. fluff. light angst. grief and mourning. 

总有一天; a place to hide (can’t find one near) → yiqie modern au. hurt/comfort. getting together. depression. happy ending. ⚠️ suicide attempt through overdose. 

The Way It Wasn’t → KouriArashi canon divergence. fix-it fic. angst. family.

Standing Engagement → x_los sunshot campaign. golden core reveal. misunderstandings. accidental engagement.

your touch in the dark (your voice in the silence) → b_ofdale modern au. buskier!wei wuxian. musician!lan wangji. mutual pining. friends with benefits. asexual!wei wuxian.

Orchids in Lotus Pier → Vamillepudding canon divergence. misunderstandings. friends to lovers. lan wangji and jiang cheng are friends.

Two Unlucky Guys → saved modern au. pwp. first time. miscommunication. fluff and angst. 

梅花开放 | the plum blossoms bloom → doubletan post canon. sickfic. hurt/comfort. angst. established relationship. ⚠️ major character death.

Charming → WangXianPatriarch post canon. jealousy. fluff. teasing. 

Cave Survival (or: how the Xuanwu cave could have gone) → cerbykerby pining. oblivious wei wuxian. humour. fluff.

it’s you, it’s you, it’s always you → Fleetling modern au. friends to lovers. slow burn. fluff.

Closer Than Eternity → Netrixie modern au. reincarnation. immortal!lan wangji. angst with a happy ending.

How to propose to the love of your life in one simple step → CloudyInk royalty au. prince!lan wangji. general!wei wuxian.

Crazy, Rich Cultivators → ShanaStoryteller modern au. misunderstandings. established relationship.

a stone to break your soul, a song to save it → rikke canon divergence. arranged marriage. 

This Time With Lanterns → ChaoticAndrogynous post novel canon. fluff. light angst. established relationship. wedding.

a single fire bright → magpie_fngrl canon divergence. fix-it fic. pining. 

Hello IT. Have You Tried Turning It Off and On Again? → overmountainandmeadow modern au. IT director!lan wangji. graphic designer!wei wuxian. single dad!lan wangji. fluff. slow burn.

Walk the Circle in the Other Direction → notevenyou modern au. oblivious wei wuxian. bisexual!wei wuxian. childhood friends. fluff. coming out. brief wei wuxian/mianmian.

and in the spring i shed my skin → wvlfqveen modern/magical au. fluff. love confessions. shapeshifter!lan wangji. necromancer!wei wuxian.

the yungmeng accords series → cafecliche

misunderstood ‘verse → sysrae

Shameless Self-Plugging

Snowfall canon divergence. getting together. pwp.

A Brothers’ Love post canon. established relationship. fluff. gentle exposure therapy (wei wuxian working on his phobia of dogs).

Afternoon Retreat post canon. established relationship. fluff.

[bellarxse]

february 2nd: interruption

the world turned sweet (AO3) Nate hates the rain – hates the way it punishes the flowers in the grounds of Tulip Hall, hates that it has spoiled his companions’ moods.

Hates that it has thwarted his plans for a ride with the Captain.

The Captain, though, is genial enough. And also, it seems, an inveterate flirt, eyes lidded as he brushes off Nate’s grousing about the weather from the other end of the chesterfield. “I can hardly complain of spending more time with you, here.”

“I—” Nate is grateful for the low, ambient light of the hearth in the drawing room to hide even the barest hint of a flush on his face, turning his face away to collect himself and not be drawn in by the way the Captain’s eyes shine with fire beneath dark waves.

“I should like that too, Captain—”

“Mickey. I insist.” The Captain’s—Mickey’s—intervention is gentle, and a muscled arm stretches out across the back of the chesterfield as if to bridge the gap between them, and Nate turns to face him as if following some long-forgotten instinct.

“Mickey.” Mickey’s eyes are warm at Nate’s words, and he smiles at Nate widely enough to make Nate’s heart ache.

“I had merely hoped that I would be able to show you more of the estate.” The weather outside was far too inclement, winds howling and sky steel-grey, though thick, dark eyebrows disappear under lush tresses as Mickey reassures Nate.

“I had expected nothing more from my first English winter, you need not worry.” Mickey draws closer to him and slowly—so slowly—raises a calloused finger to trace the flush high on Nate’s cheekbones, making Nate’s eyes flutter shut for a moment.

“Though I had not expected the winter blooms to be so captivating.” Mickey’s voice is sinfully deep, and when Nate opens his eyes again Mickey is right there, pupils ink-like as normally bright blue eyes flicker down to watch as Nate licks his lower lip reflexively, his mouth inexplicably dry all of a sudden.

Nate’s breath hitches, and he dimly recalls his governess teaching him about Isaac Newton’s theories and—

And then the Lieutenant arrives, and the moment shatters like cristallo in Nate’s hands.

Mickey leans back as if burned, scowls at the Lieutenant who affects not to notice the irritation. The three of them sit in silence for a while before Nate requests more lights to be brought in, so at least he can escape into another world in one of his books.

Tries to, at least. Every other page, his eyes are drawn back to Mickey, who has not stopped looking at him in what feels like centuries, sometimes with a small, secret smile that Nate feels warm his soul.

They continue thus (the Lieutenant having stubbornly resisted any of the Captain’s increasingly less gentle suggestions that he might like to tend the horses, or check the bags, or be somewhere else) until it is dark without and Mickey and the Lieutenant must leave to return to Sutherland’s townhouse.

“We will see you soon, your Grace.” Mickey’s tone is thick and dark with promise, and Nate does not sleep a wink that night.

**

The day after his valiant attempts to stop his commanding officer making a fool of himself, Mason is bored, and tired, and bored, trying to explain something very simple to a man in his late twenties who should know better. “You know that you cannot stay here.”

Mickey looks bored too – or tries to, but the tightness around his eyes betrays the affectation, even as he tries to cover it with a sharp laugh. “I know. But why can I not enjoy myself while I am here?”

It is not as if Mason does not know fun – has not indulged himself in the pleasures of the flesh (though not recently, not since they first arrived in London, and he does not like to think about why that might be). Instead, he deflects and defends Richmond with a scowl.

“He deserves to be more than a plaything, you—”

“He is.” Mickey is harsher than Mason remembers ever seeing him, even on the blood-soaked battlefield at Santa Maura, blue eyes now ablaze and teeth bared in a snarl.

“Prove it.” Mason is shocked at himself, that he is involving himself in Mickey’s business so – but he Nate deserves better than to be cast aside, and Mickey is hurtling towards a precipice that Mason cannot save him from.

“I—” Mickey, for all his bluster on the battlefield, looks like a lost, little boy then, blue eyes wide with what looks like fear and soft, Mason realises, with unshed tears.

“I’ve never—” Mickey has not said much about his past, but Mason knows he had wandered half the globe before his 22nd nameday, lost and adrift – little wonder, then, that he has not known this kind of companionship before, even if he is well-versed in the other.

“Talk to him.” Mason tries to calm his voice, squeezes Mickey’s well-muscled shoulder gently, even as he chides him. “Get your head out of your arse.”

A wet-sounding hum of assent and a nod, before Mickey turns to face the wall to compose himself.

~

Nate does not want to interrupt them, is perfectly prepared to return to the library from whence he came – but he fancies that he hears his name on Mickey’s—Mickey’s—lips and cannot resist listening.

“You know that you cannot stay here.” The Lieutenant’s accent is as familiar as Mickey’s, as is the flat tone of his voice.

What is not familiar, is the harsh bark of laughter that leaves Mickey, whose laughter is usually warm and lilting, musical in its peaks and troughs.

“I know. But why can I not enjoy myself while I am here?”

Nate feels quite ill, all of a sudden, feels something within him slam to the floor like a leaden weight. Jerks away from the door and lets the book fall through his fingers as he flees to his father’s folly, where he stays until the storm outside has grown to a crescendo, loud and wild enough to match the storm of his own heart.

Nate jerks away from the door, flees to his father’s folly, where he stays until the storm outside has grown to a crescendo, loud and wild enough to match the storm of his own emotions.

**

Nate can hear the men searching for him and for a selfish moment does not care, does not want to care (caring hurts, it hurts to have been used so). Then thinks of what might happen if they do not find him soon, thinks of Riona and how the scandal might affect her with their arrangement in place, and ventures out into the storm, one step at a time.

The wind is punishing, and he welcomes this pain, drinks it in instead of savouring his own.

“Richmond!” And too late, Nate realises that even when trying to lose himself in the storm he has fallen back into Mickey’s orbit.

Mickey walks slowly up to him, dark hair plastered to his cheeks and blue eyes wild with a worry that does not seem to dissipate even though he has found his quarry. “We were worried sick, what—”

Nate brushes the outstretched hand away and carries on walking, carries on even when he loses his footing in the mud and skids down the bank.

“Don’t walk away from me!” Mickey’s voice is little more than a howl, primal and wanting, and Nate turns to face him with lips pulled back in the nearest thing to a snarl he has ever managed.

“Why? Is this not fun?” Nate’s voice is harsh, harsher than it has ever been, and he enjoys the flinch that draws from Mickey, even as Mickey strides confidently down the bank and stands before him.

“Fun is us being able to laugh in the warm. Safe and happy.” Mickey’s eyes are soft as he brushes hair away from Nate’s cheek, and Nate’s skin burns under Mickey’s touch, calloused fingers sanding away his hurt.

“But you—”

“I would not – you deserve more. That doesn’t mean I can’t want—” Exactly what Mickey wants must go unanswered for now, as Nate bends to capture Mickey’s lips, tastes the rain and salt on his tongue, and is not sure whose it is as he tangles a hand in thick, dark hair and devours the man in front of him, who offers himself willingly with a gasp.

“Your Grace!” Mr. Jenkins’ voice can just be hear over the storm and over Nate’s thundering heartbeat.

Mickey laughs helplessly, even as he steps away reluctantly to look up at Nate as best he can with the rain in his eyes.

“Always with the interruptions.”

[owillofthewisps]

gaze upon my bones

notes: are you ever just doing something and then you’re like ‘oh! a lightning strike to the brain!’ and you drop everything to do something else? that’s kinda what this was. which means idk about the quality but hey!

playin’ real fast and loose with gods and oracles in the witcher verse here because, well - i can.

title is from rafferty’s ‘mausoleum’

i tagged everyone in my ‘all witcher’ taglist but if renfri ain’t for you just skip it!

rating: hard teen? (warnings: canon-typical violence, major character death [canon compliant], brief mention of implied child death, brief references to sex, angst i guess?)

pairing: renfri/fem reader

word count: 3.5k

knowing fate does not save you from it.

People so rarely want the truth of fate.

You learn to read your patrons early, divine their desires from the lilt of their lips (pulled pink between their teeth, curved quiet around a secret, laugh lines carved around an unsmiling mouth) and the way their hands flutter like moths against the silk of your cushions.  In the beginning, they come to you relentlessly, mindlessly, a river destined to spill into your ocean, to mingle with the salt of you.  They pour into your endless reservoir and they never want the truth of it.  

It is a hard lesson to learn, to swallow down the truth, but you never forget the prick of the mother’s blade against the soft curve of your belly and the way her sobs burned bright against your ear.  When you were a child, pressing your ear against a seashell gave you the music of the ocean.  If you returned to the coast now, you think, the shell would echo with her wails instead. 

They do not want the truth, and so you no longer give it to them.

Instead, you carry their fates somewhere deep inside.  You have been to war a thousand times, all without even knowing how to swing a sword.  Have felt a man’s skull split beneath your blade, felt the pulse of it resonate up into your arm.  Cradled a child as they sweat out a fever, held them for hours after they went limp in your arms. The first time you’d orgasmed, it had paled in comparison to the one you’d lived through the woman with hair that cascaded like fire against her freckled shoulders.  The first time you’d loved, it hadn’t been as ardently as the man with night-sky eyes, a vast dark gaze full of the tenderness of the guiding stars.  

A trickster god, you said to your mother, years ago now.  Hundreds of other people’s not-yet lifetimes ago.  Of all the gods you could choose.  

She hadn’t known the trick would weigh heavy on you and not her, but that is the way of the gods.  

(In your seventeenth summer, you give yourself to a forest goddess, let her priestesses drape you with ivy and fiddleheads still tightly furled.  You trace a finger over the curved stem of the fiddlehead and turn your face towards the forest canopy, letting the dappled sunlight shimmer over your skin.  It feels like a blessing.

Not three evenings later, you dream.

There are teeth shining in the darkness, slick white against velvet night, each tooth sharp with something unearthly, a knife’s blade of divinity.  They smile terribly, and you know what it is to be small.  

Very well, the teeth rumble, dark amusement apparent in the rockslide click-clack of them.  I suppose you are owed a trick of your own. 

You wake with winter spiraling down your spine, the chill spreading cool across your skin despite summer’s heated kiss.  The gooseflesh prickles like little thorns, the sensation rolling over you like a shroud.

You do not know if it was just a dream, and you do not want to know.

If the trickster god has let go of you, he has not taken back your sight, the way lives unspool over little flickers of smoke with you a captive audience to their play, and that is the cruelest trick of all.)

There is inherent trickery in fate, you know, and most of your patrons’ fates are blurred at the edges, still intangible, still changeable.  

Not Renfri’s.

She comes to the temple, hidden deep in the shadows of the woods, and you are entranced.  

She is incandescent with youth, supple and wild.  She reminds you of a waning moon.  Aglow with vigor, the type of beauty that makes you want to raise your face to her and bathe in her light.  But at her edges, a shadow that consumes, that edges closer to the heart of her.  

She settles at the edge of the cushion across from you.  Her legs are long, lean things, slender but heavy with muscle, and something in you aches to touch.  

There is a small streak of dirt smeared across her graceful neck.  Your sisters had offered her a bath, hands twisting nervously in their sleeves, and she had laughed, a low, clear noise. 

“Some things we can’t be cleaned of,” she’d said.  “I would see the oracle first.”

And so she came to you.

She slings her arm over her knee.  In the sunlight, her eyes are the color of a newborn fawn, tawny brown and beautiful, but she has none of the fawn’s timidity. 

“I’d thought of oracles as old,” Renfri says.

You quirk a brow.  “Come back in several decades and I will be.”

Her pink lips lift at the corners with something sweetly sly. “I’d also thought them dull, so you’ve proved me wrong twice over.”

You hum something soft.  

Renfri considers you, and you can feel her trying to split you at the seams, to open you to her curiosities.    

“Do you truly know what is fated?” she asks softly, and for the briefest moment, she is delicate. Her leather armor, worn and nicked where blades have floated too close, seems too big on her.  

More than I wish, you think.  “Only time can answer that,” you say instead.  “Would you like to know?”

She nods, and there is the snarl of a feral thing tucked between her teeth.  The wild uncurls in her, that dark edge of the moon spreading across her, seeping like a shadow just beneath her skin. 

You contemplate the small scars scattered like stars across her knuckles, the fine delicacy of the scar tissue, and the hard peaks of her knuckles beneath.  “Think of what fate you want to know,” you say.  “You may speak it aloud, if that pleases you, but hold it in your mind.”

Most close their eyes to bring their uncertainty out of the depths of themselves.

Not Renfri.

She meets your gaze, her hard eyes framed by the soft sweep of her chestnut waves, and though her face is blank stone, you can sense the bared teeth.  She is all coiled snake, sleekly muscled and ready to strike. 

“Hold out your hand.”

Renfri extends her hand.  Her fingers are fine-boned, sleek and slender, but her calluses scrape against your skin as you turn her hand over.  Her scars are small hills, and you trace the pad of your thumb over the raised skin without thought.

You have only a moment to register the warmth of her skin against your questing fingertips, and then her fate sweeps you away.

And it is terrible.

Blood swallows you like a tide, drags you deeper into a wash of violence that makes you tremble.  Bellies burst and split open against the cruel drive of a spike; symphonies of cracking bones. The heavy thud of a sword pushing through a skull. The smell of copper and rot and death.  An empty space inside, a void hungry for control, for taking back what is yours. 

And then, for the briefest breath, for a lightning strike of a moment: your own lips, curling up into something fond. A touch so light it reminds of the sun, intangible but felt anyway.  The woody, pungent scent of thyme mellowed by soft, sweet clover, soap and skin perfumed by the temple’s lush cloverbeds. 

Then there is laughter, a comfort of familiar men’s low voices flashing by too quick for words.  Blood blossoms and fades and rage so deep it winds up your throat like vines until you are choking on the breadth of it and then - 

Snowy hair gone silver with grime.  A voice like a landslide.  Warmth and wonder, heat in the hallowed embrace of the woods. Two swords, silver and steel, and the bite of a blade at your throat.  Pain spreading like a disease.  A gaping maw of hunger never filled. 

Renfri’s death pulls you out of her fate.  You pick carefully at the threads of her still wound around the needle of your mind, tease them out before they can be woven into you.  It takes more concentration than usual.

The breath you take is deep and slow; it washes the copper stink of blood out from your nose.  “Do you want to know your fate?” you ask Renfri.

She considers you.  She has eyes like the forest, deep brown and full of life.  “No,” Renfri says.  “Not yet.”

Your hand is still on hers, but she does not move. 

You are the one who pulls back.

Later, once Renfri rejoins her men, Maya brings you a skein of water.  She hums quietly as you drink deeply. “What did you see?” she asks.  “It is not like you to be so shaken.”

You wipe the water from your lips.  “Me,” you say.  “I saw me.”

Maya cups your cheek.  Her dark eyes are soft.  They have the sorrow of the winter forest in them, bleakly quiet.  She runs her thumb across your cheekbone, her touch feather light.  “Knowing fate is a dangerous thing,” she murmurs.

You wrap your hand around her wrist, let your fingers play across the delicacy of her skin. She smiles, slow and sweet, and pulls away gently.  

Maya settles next to you, her skirt flaring like an opening bloom.  She rests her head against your shoulder and hums quietly.

The two of you stay like that for a long, long time.

-

Renfri returns a scant month later.  

She is wild with delight, all bared teeth and feral joy.  There is a cut healing on her collarbone; the edges of it going pink with the promise of a scar.  Her chestnut hair is mussed by the wind.  It wisps around her face like smoke.  

She is achingly beautiful.  

Maya must tell her where to go, for she finds you sprawled in the cloverbed behind the temple.  She hunkers down next to you in one fluid motion.  You blink up at her.

“Renfri?”

She smiles.  “Oracle. You remember me.”  

How could I not, you don’t say.  Instead, you tell her your name and say: “You don’t need to call me oracle now.”

You push to your elbows as Renfri plops down into the clovers with you.  She’s feline in her grace, stretches her lithe form in the sunlight, tilting her face up towards the light.  You think of her grace as she prowls around the broad man in the market square. 

“Would you like to know your fate?” you ask.  It feels an odd thing, to ask it here, in the warmth of the sun with the clovers brushing against your skin, the sweet scent of them catching in the breeze.

“Why do you ask that?” Renfri says.  She peers at you, shading her eyes from the sun, the deep mahogany of them almost black in the shadows.  

“What?”

She sighs.  “Why do you ask if I’d like to know my fate, instead of just telling?”

You shift.  “People don’t always understand what it means,” you tell her.  “Sometimes knowing the end makes you lose the present.”

Renfri hums.  “I don’t think I could lose the present,” she says softly.  “Not until I’ve run my blade through Stregobor’s belly.” 

“You’d be surprised.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“About what?”

“Stregobor.”

You sigh.  “If you wanted to tell me, you would.”

“You can say it, you know,” Renfri tells you.  She’s watching you carefully, those dark eyes half-wild.  “You know the stories, even out here.”

“Do you want me to call you Shrike?” you ask.

She tilts her head.  The waves of her hair spill against the shore of her shoulders.  “No,” she says quietly.  “I don’t think I do.”

“Alright,” you say.

You fade into silence, listening to the creaking lullaby of the forest.  Renfri lies down next to you, her dark hair stark against the verdant green of the clovers.  She tugs at them with nimble fingers.  The snap of their stems sharpens their scent as it floats sweet around you.  

Eventually, she tells you about Stregobor.  

Eventually, you nudge closer to curl up by her side.

Eventually, she leaves, and you are left with nothing but the lingering scent of her - warm cloves and sword oil, and just beneath it, the copper tang of blood - and the choking feeling of a sob caught in your throat.

-

“Would you want to know your own fate?”

“No,” you tell Renfri as you separate a wild cherry from its stem.  You split the flesh of it between your fingers and pry the stone free.  The pit plinks into the wooden bowl, the sound of it oddly musical. Maya had pulled you both into the kitchen to help her when Renfri first arrived.  It hadn’t taken her long to disappear, but you can still feel her warning gaze prickling against your skin.

Renfri steals the cherry from you with nimble fingers and pops it into her mouth.  The carmine juice of it stains her pink lips dark.  You try not to stare.

“Why not?” she asks.

It takes a moment to understand what she’s asking about.  You pull your gaze away from the dark sweep of her eyelashes against her pale skin. 

“Sometimes you can know too much,” you tell her.

Renfri hums. She cuts off a sliver of a nearby apple with a small dagger, holds it to your lips.  You roll your eyes at her but pull the crisp slice from her blade, let the fruit’s flesh crunch under your teeth, sour and sweet in the same breath. She pulls back and sucks the juice from her fingers.  

Heat rises to your cheeks.

You busy yourself with the wild cherries, breaking them down with the easy precision of constant work.  The smell of them fills the air.  “Besides,” you say absently, working at a particularly stubborn pit, “it’s hard enough already, waiting for what I’ve seen come to pass.”

Renfri pauses.  “You’ve seen yourself in other’s fates?”

“Ah,” you say.  “Yes.”

“Many of them?”

“No,” you say carefully.  “Just one.”

“Oh,” Renfri says, and then she is working at the apple again, peeling its skin off in a long, curling ribbon.  She’s quiet, then, and she stays quiet. During the mid-day dinner, with Maya and the rest of the table sharing the low benches at the long table, she seems to find her chatter again.  

She leaves the same night.  Her men are itching to move on, and from what low chatter carries to you, they’ve caught wind of Stregobor for the first time since he fled Angren. The sun is just gaining the golden hue of the late afternoon when she saddles her horse.  Her men start ahead of her as she dallies at the door of the temple.

“Stay safe,” you tell her, even though you know that in the end, she cannot.  

Renfri nods, and the sun catches in her chestnut hair, paints it bright and dark all at once.  “The fate you saw yourself in,” she says quietly.  

Don’t, you want to say. Please.

“Yes?” you ask.

“It was mine, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” you say, and your ribs crack under the admission.

“I knew it,” Renfri breathes, and she tastes of cherry juice and a hint of spice bread.  She kisses you again, fervent, her callused hands rough against your cheeks, and you open to her.  Renfri softens against you.  She tastes of cherry juice and something tenderly sweet and fate - fate has not prepared you for this.  

She pulls away from you and rests her forehead against yours.  You breathe in her air and push it back out as your own.  Her eyes are mahogany in the afternoon light, tinted darker still by want.  

“I have to go,” she says.

“I know.”

“Soon,” Renfri says.  “I’ll be back soon.”

You push into her again, catch her lips with yours.  She pulls you close, one hand dropping low on your waist, her fingers dipping under the gap between your bodice and your skirt.  She is so warm against you.  

Renfri rides off into the distance.  There is a moment where she blocks out the sun, and it gleams at the edges of her, crowning her with light seeping around her shadowed edges.  An eclipse all your own.

Please, you think that night, as you tend to one of the patches of your goddess’s favored ferns. Let me be wrong, just once.

-

You trace a finger across the scar just beneath Renfri’s left breast, a little sickle moon of healed flesh.  Your touch is feather light.

Renfri laughs and catches your hand.  She brings it to her lips, presses a kiss to the pads of your fingers.  Her lips are swollen and red and hot beneath your touch.  You echo her with a kiss against the lean muscle of her belly.  

“What are you thinking of?” she asks softly.

“Nothing and everything,” you say.  She had come to the temple wearing a leather vest with a familiar pattern.  You could not strip her of it fast enough.

“Come now, oracle,” Renfri chides.  “Tell me.”

“It’s nothing,” you say.

You crawl up and kiss her red, red lips.  She tastes of cherry juice and campfire smoke.  It’s a lazy, sweet kiss.  She cups the nape of your neck and urges you against her.  Renfri touches you with a reverence you’d never expected, her rough hands soft against your skin.  

Her hair is dark against your linens, the waves of it spread wide against your thin pillow.  She glitters with delight, but there is still something feral tucked into her lips.  She kisses you like a wild thing, sometimes, her deep brown eyes hazed until they are almost black, a velvet night to embrace you.  You curl into her side and stroke your fingers over her skin.

The two of you doze until Renfri murmurs: “Would you tell me my fate, if I asked?”

You think of blood, and how the sound of two swords scraping against each other reminds you of a mourning knell.  You think of Renfri’s teeth nipping against your neck like little knives, and her form molded soft against yours.  You press your face into her neck and she smells of thyme, wood and earth, your soap still lingering on her skin.  

She leaves tonight.  The two of you are hoarding every moment you can have, winding sinuous around time like a dragon guarding its treasure. 

“Do you want to know it?” you ask, tasting the salt of her skin on your lips.

Renfri traces the curve of your hip with a long finger.  You pull back enough to peek up at her, to see the way the fan of her lashes flutter over her skin.  She tips your chin up until you meet her eyes.

“No,” she says.  Her eyes glimmer and gleam like torchlight.

You think some quiet part of her already knows.

You press a kiss against the blade of her collarbone.  “Then I won’t,” you say.

The two of you stay entwined until Renfri has to leave.  The Arc Coast is not small, and there are many towns where Stregobor may be hiding, though there are whispers that he is in a sorcerer’s tower in one of the larger towns.  

Renfri’s goodbye kisses are always her hungriest ones.  

She casts a long shadow as she and her men ride off.  It glows around the edges, and you think again of an eclipse.

Not three evenings later, you dream.

There are teeth shining in the darkness.  Each tooth is sharp with power, all honed pale bone gleaming in the velvet cradle of the deep, deep night.  They are ghastly things, otherworldly, piercing through the veil. They do not smile, but you still feel small.  

It is a cruel trick, fate, the teeth say, all rumbling thunder crackling just overhead, splitting the sky with sound. The order of it brings comfort, but the knowing - the knowing is pain. I am sorry, child of mine.

When you wake, you are already crying. 

-

Years later, you step into a tavern and see a witcher with white, white hair tucked away at a table in the back.  His eyes glow sun-gold, and he is as handsome as you remember.  

You order a tankard of ale. Those amber eyes flicker towards you as you approach.  His face is stone, but his eyes are a warning all their own.  

“Thank you,” you say to Geralt of Rivia.  “For trying.”

The tankard makes a heavy noise against the pitted wood of the table.

From the deep grunt, he doesn’t understand, but you don’t need him to.  You still remember the look on his face as he skimmed Renfri’s own blade against the delicate skin of her neck.  The desolation of it, the crack in the very foundation of him.  You still know the touch of his arm against your back, how he cradled her as she fell. 

You had always known you were going to lose her. 

Knowing fate does not save you from it.

taglist: @whitewolfandthefox @hina-chans-stuff @witchernonsense @tutuwho @riviawitch3r @restingnurseface @consultingdetextive @ambivertomnivore @theunwantedomega @shewritesinthethirdperson

[domesticatedantelope]

somatic

Pairing: Tyril x MC

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1580

🌟🌙

He only ever says her full name.

Enunciates the syllables the way he incants magic, as if he will summon lightning from the sound of it - like he would let her steal those precious seconds of his centuries without a blink of doubt.

When she has him under her palm, breathing thinly through the hand around his throat, he chokes her name out on the sharp edge of a sigh and nearly comes undone. 

“Verena.”

She relinquishes her grip to drag her fingers down his chest, feeling the rapid flutter of his heartbeat at her touch. Pinned between her thighs, he swallows empty air and never tears his eyes away, the tension of restraint locked rigid in his muscles. 

“Shall I continue?” A lazy, feline smile curls across her face as she considers him: the dark splay of his hair and flush of violet blooming at his cheekbones, those finely skilled hands curling into fists among the linens, knuckles pale.

Tyril wets his lips, flashing the white of his teeth in a brittle laugh. “I expect that you can guess my answer.”

She can feel it, hard and heated beneath her weight, twitching when she rolls her hips against him. Impatience strains his voice into a groan, his normal eloquence beginning to unravel, thread by thread. 

Tyril comes apart in the most captivating phases. 

Never the same twice, with all the wild volatility that simmers in his magic. He has growled her name and left his mark in bruises from his fingers; he has pressed his lips in tender kisses down her neck and pleaded for her in the peak of climax. He has been both storm, and the stillness that follows. 

When she lifts her hips, one hand reaching to encircle him and guide him in against her, he steadies a burning palm at the slope of her waist. Slowing her, luring the flighty presence of her gaze back to his own, deep and bright and endless blue. Dark lashes frame his eyes, hung low on heavy lids as he stares up at her with something close to worship in the sharp planes of his face. 

“Verena.” Bitten down against a swollen lip, breath hitching in his throat when her teeth sink at the muscles of his shoulder. “Please, I…”

With an enamored hum, she splays her hand against his chest, dark fingers spread possessively over his pounding heart. “I like seeing you beg.” She licks her fingertips before teasing them down the rigid length of his cock, thrilling when he struggles not to fuck into her grip. “Mmn, I like feeling you even more.” 

His eyes flash with a glint so much like starlight, and the ozone crackle of his magic sparks between his fingers, prompting jolts of heat that drop in shivers down her spine. She feels the restless tickle of raw energy, like lightning he has tamed and drawn against her skin, and the knot of want within her cinches tighter with every strike.

“Gods.” Verena shudders, faltering above him. They both hiss when his cock slips clumsily against the slick of her folds, where her body aches to take him, wet and oversensitive. “Ha - I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”

He trails a sparking touch over her hip, magnetic pressure that leaves pinprick tingles in his wake. “I will -” and here his voice breaks, cracking into fragments when she firms her grip around him, “e-endeavor to keep you entertained.”

Her heart stutters behind her ribs, a sudden softness taking root there. She rests her palm against the warm curve of his cheek, her thumb tracing gently along his jaw. “You don’t need any magic to keep my attention, Tyril.” She tilts down to kiss him, and his lips part to her with a low and longing moan. “I’m already yours.”

His fingers clench into her thighs as she sinks down around him, gasping at the current that leaps from his touch and the breathtaking stretch when finally they come together. Her eyelids flutter, and she watches pleasure twist in his expression through thin slivers of vision, strangled noises catching at the back of her throat. The head of his cock nudges heavy against tender nerves, and the ecstasy of that connection spans her body, throbbing out the cadence of her frenzied pulse.

Tyril jerks a few swift, shallow thrusts, a curse clenched in his teeth. His eyes flit from her face down to her breasts, to the glints of silver piercing through the dark peaks of her nipples, and before she has a moment to adjust his hands are hunting greedily up the soft slope of her stomach. His fingers leave a path of arcing heat across her skin, and then his thumb is closing slowly in around a stiffened point, the first bright spark of magic prompting her to breathless keening. 

Thick locks of white hair tumble down her back as she arches above him, scrabbling at the tensing muscles of his chest. He surges up against her, and she feels the brief scrape of his teeth marking her throat, her collarbone, his hand a burning sun at the small of her back as she rocks her hips, chasing the shock of bliss when he sinks deep inside of her. 

Verena tangles both hands through his hair, grasping him close, breathing mindless adoration at his ear. Her head spins with the scent of sweat and incense, the smoke and earth that linger after storms. When he gasps and drags his mouth down the valley between her breasts, tasting with the flat of his tongue, she whispers an approximation of his name into the sweltering air around them. 

With a hoarse, rumbling groan, Tyril frames his hand around her jaw, lifting to kiss the corner of her panting mouth. “Tell me again,” he prompts, his voice dark earth and gravel. 

“Yours,” she chants into his touch, against the hollow of his palm, her heart beating a frantic rhythm in her chest that echoes: yours, forever. “Tyril - gods - I’m yours.”

His fingers chart five trails of lightning shivers down her side, hot, sawtooth pleasure bridging, building, filling every atom of her body. She reaches blindly for the edge of relief forming just outside her grasp, holding fast to every wave of rapture scorching through her. When Tyril finds the swollen bud above where they connect, his touch ignites there too, and she is struck abruptly speechless, seizing in his arms.

The void of pleasure yawns before her, endless precipice that threatens to consume her, and with broken sobs, she gives in to his pull and takes the plunge. Her body tenses everywhere, the fingers carving nails across his shoulders, thighs clenched tight against his sides, Tyril hissing his surprise beneath her when she squeezes down around him. White heat washes over, seafoam lapping shores, the light of fire when it burns, the glimmer of the stars against the dark of night; she sees it all in rushing glimpses through the pulsing bliss of her release, and then - vast nothing, empty darkness and the sweet relief of coming.

She vaguely hears her own name through the haze, panting clumsy nonsense at the column of his throat, digging with teeth when he curls a hand around her nape to drag her closer. She feels the coiled tension under his skin, muscles rigid as her hips fall out of rhythm. He secures a bruising grip along her thigh, guiding her back into motion, meeting her gaze through the dampened tresses of his hair. His mouth twists, almost pained, a desperate whine on his tongue as he fucks urgently up into her.

Dizzied by the high of climax, Verena bites down at the bend between his throat and shoulder, teeth against his pulse, and growls, “Mine,” into the heartbeat sprinting hard beneath his skin. Tyril’s fingers twitch against her waist, pinning her against him as he seethes a groan and spills inside of her, hips flexing out the crest of his release. His head tips back, mouth open to the ceiling and the sky and elven gods the world has long forgotten, his lips shaping a voiceless echo of her name.

She loops her arms around his shoulders, soothing kisses at the tense line of his neck until he stills against her, muscles lapsing into an exhausted slump. Her senses gradually recover, and she notes with growing clarity the places where their bodies meet, skin slicked with sweat, the air around them charged and stifling from the current of his magic. 

In the settling quiet, when they sprawl together in the starlight and sea breeze that drift in through their open window, Tyril traces scrawling letters in the cooling sweat on her skin, and he tells her of the old tongue, phrases that sing in his blood and lead his dreams at night, sacred words he spells like verse across her body. 

Eventually his touch drifts up the inside of her thighs, ancient poems etched beneath his fingers as he teases closer to the blissful throbbing that lingers on between her legs. When she casts him an accusing glance, he offers her a slow curl of a smile in response. 

“Shall I continue?” he wonders aloud, watching her squirm under his hands.

Verena hums, breathy with laughter, leading his touch higher up her thighs. “Tyril Starfury,” - and he blushes when she says his full name, even as he touches her and makes her gasp - “Don’t ever stop.”

🌟🌙

Permatag: @brightpinkpeppercorn, @choicesarehard, @navigatorholmes, @aworldoffandoms

[fericita-s]

The Bloom Is On The Rye

Her ring was still loose on her hand but it felt like hers now as she rested it on Henry’s shoulder and then gripped him tightly, urging him to kiss her again.  She could feel his breath on her lips and his thumb just under her chin and the nearness of him was intoxicating, like she’d been drinking wine instead of eating berries all afternoon.

Emmry Forced Marriage Mercy Street/Oregon Trail crossover! Chapter 4 below, also on AO3

a continuation of In having new eyes by @jomiddlemarch​ and beta-ed into being better by @the-spaztic-fantastic​.  Thank you both for your contributions to this story!

They left Fort Kearney with ten yards of calico and ten yards of sheeting muslin, a dairy cow, new boots for Henry, and a dress that with only minor adjustments could be worn right away.  Emma didn’t like to think about what might have befallen the woman it originally belonged to.  She wasn’t the only one who had suffered hardship on the trail, but in many ways she was lucky.  Henry was able to replenish what stores were waning and to add the supplies that feeding another person required.  It became obvious at the trading outpost that others on the trail were selling off wares they had once treasured enough to take on a 2,000 mile trek, parlaying a cookstove or a piece of furniture into more flour or sugar or simply the promise of a lighter load and quicker travel.

As they drew closer to the North Platte River, Emma and Mary gathered serviceberry and gooseberry and chokeberry, staining their fingers purple and their lips and tongues too. Dr. Foster had heard of outbreaks of cholera around this heavily traveled area and warned them all to boil water before using it, an untested preventative measure he was nevertheless certain would help.  That was a sweaty task, but the walks for berry gathering were a delight. They never ventured so far as to let the dust of the wagon train out of sight, but Emma could tell exactly when Henry spotted them returning from these excursions.  Even from afar she knew the tight set of his shoulders, the way he stood at the front of the wagon, looking for them.  The way his face broke into a grin at the sight of her and he jumped off the wagon in a fluid motion to coax the oxen with a “Come up, come up” as they plodded along.

They returned to camp with full stomachs and full baskets, enough that Dr. Foster declared them safe from scurvy and Mary spoke of making pies for everyone, even that horrible Silas Bullen who leered at everyone and hadn’t stopped complaining about leg cramps all day.  When Silas began playing on his fiddle and Henry and Emma lingered over their fire with the Fosters nearby, Henry wiped a thumb across Emma’s lips and then leaned in to kiss her. 

“Your lips are purple.” He spoke against her mouth, which made it feel less chaste than it started, the simple press of his lips against hers not unlike the one at their hurried wedding.  Emma could hear Mrs. Brannon singing along to the mournful tune Silas was playing and it felt like a song just for them.

But meet me, meet me in the Ev'ning, 

While the bloom is on the Rye. 

But name the day, the wedding day, 

And I will buy the ring.

Her ring was still loose on her hand but it felt like hers now as she rested it on Henry’s shoulder and then gripped him tightly, urging him to kiss her again.  She could feel his breath on her lips and his thumb just under her chin and the nearness of him was intoxicating, like she’d been drinking wine instead of eating berries all afternoon.

The moon shines bright and clear;

Then pretty Jane, my dearest Jane,

Ah! never look so shy,

But meet me, meet me in the Ev'ning,

While the bloom is on the Rye.

Her mouth was open and she looked from his eyes to his mouth just as he formed the word “Emma.”

“Give her a flourish for me, young fella!” Silas shouted, his speech slurred by skullvarnish and the strings of his fiddle screeching to a halt.  Mrs. Brannan shouted him down and he started playing again, mercifully, as Henry pulled Emma by the hand to their wagon. Once inside, he dropped her hand and took a step away from her.

“Why don't you?” She asked, trying to make it sound like a joke. She was angry with Silas for ruining a moment where it seemed Henry was finally looking at her in the way she wanted and now his eyes were on the floor, like he’d never look at her again.  “If I'd have married him he would have done it.”

“That’s why,” Henry said, meeting her eyes and looking so solemn she thought of Jimmy’s name for him, Old Stone-Face.  “If we did that, if I did that to you...I would be no better than him.  And you deserve better than that.”

“You wouldn't be doing it to me.  We would be doing it together.” If she was still in Alexandria she would have stamped her foot, but of course if she was there none of this would be happening.  She was an expert in avoiding assignations not of interest and encouraging affection only when it wouldn’t ruin a reputation, but not how to convince her husband she wanted his touch. He swallowed and moved a bit closer, and she could see his face changing from stone to man once more. 

“I didn’t want to eat the fruit too early.  It would have made me sick. Both of us sick.” He cupped her cheek and she nestled into it eagerly, willing him to see her eagerness.  “I thought we could fall in love. I could love you. I didn’t want you to be obligated or grateful, I wanted you to love me too.  But if I took that - “ He trailed off, and Emma wasn’t surprised when the words he came back with were familiar ones from the Bible.  He used it to speak for him so often, especially when he had no words of his own. “Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires.”

She heard it for what it was, a promise to love her if she’d let him.  “I desire it, Henry.  I desire you.  I love you.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

And then his mouth was finally against hers and his hands on her waist, untying her skirts and then working at her back to undo the buttons she had carefully redone on the unlucky woman’s dress. When his hands touched her skin, it felt like fire burning, a bright spot of heat where his palms moved to cup her breasts and then graze her sides, embers flaring down into her belly and outwards.  She had the wild thought that the flames he had put out on her ruined dress he was now putting back in, stoking a flame that she wasn’t sure how to quench.

She ran her hands under his shirt and then around to his back, pressing him closer against herself, delighting in the sharp exhale he made as their hips connected. 

And then, the sound of a loud thud and Dr. Foster cursing, silence where there had been fiddle music, cries of alarm instead of the murmuring of weary travelers.  

“Cholera!” Dr. Foster shouted as they adjusted their clothes and ducked back out of the wagon.  “I’m sure of it.  Damn fool didn’t boil his water, I’d wager.”

Henry kissed her forehead and then left to help Dr. Foster move Silas’s prone body to the edge of camp.  Emma took several breaths before joining Mary to see what was to be done. She had never nursed, but then again she had never done a great many things.  

Author’s Note:  Boiling water was not known to be a preventative measure for cholera but in 1850s London Dr. John Snow (really) isolated the cause of a cholera outbreak to a water pump, so I figure it is not too outlandish for Jed to have formed his own ideas a little bit earlier about cholera and its spread.

Overlanders did more often walk than ride, gathering berries and fuel for fires as they went.  Oxen were not driven by reins but rather voice commands and whips.

The Bloom is in the Rye was a popular song at the time wagon trains were moving west.  

“Give her a flourish for me, young fella!” is the best line out of the musical 1776, spoken by delegate Stephen Hopkins from Rhode Island to Thomas Jefferson as he announces he is going home to Virginia to see his wife. I can’t imagine Stephen and Henry are related, since Henry would never say anything remotely like that, even if we want him to.  

Skullvarnish was whiskey cut with molasses to make it last longer which sounds like just about the least appetizing thing I can imagine, and exactly what Bullen would drink. 

“Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires”  is a verse from Song of Solomon and I’m sure it made an impression on Henry because it’s in the book three times at least: 2:7; 3:5; 8:4.

[formorethananame]

@notfrsale, a closed starter

Carefully, Yirim scaled the side of the building until he found Tai's window. It was unlocked - Tai knew that he was coming, but pushing the damn thing up was still difficult.

With a grunt, Tai rolled himself through the window and fell to the floor. He winced at the thud it made. There was no doubt that Tai's parents knew he was here - neither were human, which meant all senses were alert. Even still, he wasn't trying to draw their attention.

Yirim pulled out his phone and sent a quick text. I'm here, hurry up and come in!!

[whitecrownsblackthrones-archived]

Genshin Impact Verse

So, I gave in & did the thing-

Full Name: Ann Li

Sex: Female

Birthday: June 11th

Constellation: Sunflower

Region: Mondstadt

Special Dish: Mother’s Super Buttery Brioche

Weapon: Catalyst

Element: Dendro

Title(s): The Flower that out-shines the Sun, Sunflower

Ann, a traveling bard, whom hails from an unknown place. She travels with her sister, Sue, as a harmonic duo. Though their primary place of travel is Mondstadt, they enjoy briefly traveling to Liyue & other regions as well. Bright & cheerful, it is almost difficult to find one in dislike of someone like Ann, her smile often compared to that of a bright & blooming sunflower. Her kindness & gentle nature, combined with her own & her sister’s talents, are said to make her shine so much, even the sun could not match her.

Combat traits: 

Ann uses the rare Dendro element, which has yet to be seen being used by any character in-game, however there is nothing to suggest that people are unable to wield the element. Her focus is Support

Flower Power - Ann’s normal attacks manifest in a way similar to that of Barbara’s(small blue bursts with musical note effects), in that they are small bursts of green with flowery effects. Her charge attack comes in the form of wild sunflower springing up from the ground, anything & anyone under it will also be sent up into the air briefly.

Lily of the Valley - Spruit a Lily of the Valley flower, which has three buds on them. Each time Ann(or whichever character) takes damage, a bud is used to heal for a certain amount of HP.

Sunflower’s Bloom - Cause a giant sunflower to spurt from the ground, exploding upon it reaching it’s full bloom; which damages slightly & knocks back enemies, as well as heals the party greatly. Applies Dendro effect to everything effected by the knock back.

Peony Petals(passive 1) - While under the effects Lily of the Valley, receive a small stamina boost whenever a bud is used.

White Rose(passive 2) - While Lily of the Valley is active, have a 15% chance of having an additional bud spawning after one is used.

When in Doubt, Add Butter!(passive 3) -  When a Perfect Cooking is achieved on a dish with restorative effects, there is a 12% chance to obtain double the product.

Full Name: Sue Li

Sex: Female

Birthday: February 12th

Constellation: Thorns of a Red Rose

Region: Mondstadt

Special Dish: Father’s Tender & Juicy Steak & Eggs

Weapon: Polearm

Element: Pyro

Title(s): The Bloom that makes the Moon hide in Shame, Moon-dusted Rose

Sue, a traveling songstress, whom hails from an unknown place. She travels with her sister, Ann, as a harmonic duo. Though their primary place of travel is Mondstadt, they enjoy briefly traveling to Liyue & other regions as well. Rather stern & a bit untrusting, it is a bit more difficult to befriend Sue, much unlike her sister. She prefers to see the logical side of things, looking for evidence & reasoning to things, rather then a blind faith or belief in one’s heart. She is also the more responsible one when it comes to mora. She if often compared to the rose flower, as beautiful as the petals of a rose, but has sharp & bloody as the thorns on it’s stem.

Combat traits:

Wielder of the Pyro element, her powers & abilities usually pair well with her sister Ann’s element, Dendro. Her focus is DPS.

Path of Thorns - Perform 6 normal rapid strikes. Charge & lunge forward a decent distance, with fire coming off it in a cone, dealing pyro damage to those close enough.

Spider Lily - Create a blooming spider lily flower before you, upon release create a small explosion of pyro damage, If held to full bloom(maximum capacity), pyro damage is increased & a slight push-away is added.

Every Rose has it’s Thorns - Spin around & create a flaming petal storm that covers the screen for extremely low damage, seconds later, the petals bursts into flames, dealing slow ticking pyro damage(burn) to everything on the screen. The duration of this ability lasts for 15 seconds.

Burning Wisteria(passive 1) - When applying the burn effect to an enemy, have a 6% change to increase the damage output.

Black Rose(passive 2) - When casting Every Rose has it’s Thorns, have a 12% chance to increase your normal & change attacks.

I Don’t Cook Often, So You Better Enjoy This(passive 3) - When a Perfect Cooking is achieved on a ATK-boosting dish, Sue has a 12% chance to obtain double the product.

[damienthepious]

*banging fists on the table* two fics! one day! two fics! one day!

Crystalline Knowledge of You

[ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Sir Damien, (others mentioned)

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Character Study, Ficlet, blood mentioned

Summary: There are things that Sir Damien the Pious is built for, as if they were written on his very bones.

Notes: Two for one special on fics this week!! how the hell did this happen. I'm a mess. This is a mess. Title from the song Crystal, by Stevie Nicks.

~

There are things that Sir Damien the Pious is built for, as if they were written on his very bones. There are things, also, that he is not.

Sir Damien is built for storytelling. Even in his youth, even when his tongue would freeze and his breath would halt and he would be utterly unable to recite, his failed performances were never an indication of a lack of passion or understanding. On his own, away from the judgment and the eyes of his father, he would pour over the stories, caress the pages, tales jumping to vivid life behind his eyes, clashing steel and bravery and pure, tranquil love-

He is built for words. He is built for the flow of them, assonance like a silver river over round rocks, rhythm and rhyme that come to him as naturally as breath, as easily as day dips down into night. He collects, with the care of the most dutiful curator, language in every size, crystalline words that sing on their own, phrases that lilt like pre-dawn birds, vast and sweeping tales like an entire orchestra in concert, and he folds them into his mind and he turns them. He turns them, examines and rearranges and cultivates, and he loves each word and phrase and tale, loves their shape, loves the way they pull his heart. Loves also, the way they pull on the hearts of those with whom he shares them. Loves the way he may enchant, the way that every eye upon him will shine as he recites or composes, loves the thrill of challenge and the delight of victory when he can coerce even a simple sentence just so, until he can weave it into something that may bring an audience to tears or cheering delight.

Stories, words, meaning and theme and pleasure, and Damien revels in every jubilant syllable. More lucky he, that he should be so attuned to creating passion in others, to match that which exists naturally in himself.

Sir Damien is not built to fight. It is not a thing that comes to him naturally, or without pain. His prowess is built on layers, and years, and layers, practice and practice and practice until his fingers bleed. Practice until he wakes with his arms tight and clawed, miming the shape of his bow in the grip of dreams. Practice until his lungs burn with it, until he can bury that burn, until he can fire ten shots in a row while reciting verse, with his voice bright and clear, his breath even and steady. Practice until the fight becomes his nature. Until his reactions are so quick and so clean that they could be mistaken for instinct. Until it can be mistaken for ease. Until the bow may as well have grown out of his own hands, an extension of his will.

In his youth, in training, an older squire (or perhaps only a bigger, stronger squire) laughs down at him, sneers and says he looks as suiting as a rabbit training for combat, and when not-yet-Sir Damien soundly knocks that squire into the mud in the duel that results from the insult, Damien thinks that even rabbits have teeth. He learns, with effort and strain, how a rabbit such as he may bite.

He is not built for this. These hands (still ink-stained, thin feather-cuts bled in with black like lines on a map) are not meant to draw blood. Damien remembers this, on occasion, when the shaft of his arrow is between his fingers, when he draws and no longer feels it burn his shoulders like slow acid. He is not built for violence, but in service of his Saint and his Queen his hands can do so much to stay violence done to others, now that he has practiced, and practiced, and practiced. He can be more than he was made to be. He must be more. For his Saint, for his Citadel.

Sir Damien is built to love. He feels, at times, like a vessel filled with only love. A tea kettle, perhaps- boiling and bubbling and overflowing, shrieking his desperate affection until someone can ease him another inch from the fire, until his passions can be steadied and brought to bear. He loves Saint Damien, his patron, his namesake, that soft steady current which guides him. He loves his Citadel, both sturdy and fragile. He loves his Queen, a model of diligence and decorum. He loves his fellow knights, in all their flawed brashness. He loves Sir Angelo, loves him and is loved back with equal ferocity (he and his rival match each other in many ways, despite their differences). He loves Rilla-

He sees her in dim candlelight, scowling at her notes, eyes dancing with challenge, and he needs pause to catch his racing breath. He feels her hands in his hair, gentle and soothing and playful, and his eyes well with helpless tears. She sings for him, sings and smiles, and his heart settles easy into the rhythm of her song.

Sir Damien the Pious loves Amaryllis of Exile, and he knows only one way to love: a heedless, headfirst dive, a plummet to the crushing bottom of the lake. Down, and down, and drown.

With so much love as he has, with his overflowing desire to care and please, how lucky is he, then, that there is another who he holds beloved? How lucky is he, then, to be loved in return by both?

Sir Damien the Pious loves Lord Arum, he who rules the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms. And Sir Damien loves, with a protective ferocity, the love that twines between Lord Arum and Amaryllis, as well.

Sir Damien does not think he was built to love monsters. He does think, however, that Lord Arum was built to be loved.

(Rilla agrees with him, in her own playful way. Oh, of course, he’s plenty loveable, she says, rolling her eyes, grinning hard, when he isn’t being a brat, I mean.)

Arum is beautiful like a blade, danger and elegance and potential, and the clever machinations of his mind fascinate Damien in a way that feels helpless, inevitable. He is brilliant, curious, doting, regal, wild, and Damien loves him with an intensity that makes his hands shake. And Arum loves in return- Damien could not have anticipated the way that a monster would love, would never have dreamed that his once-rival would tremble with his own passion, would lose his tongue at Rilla’s beauty, would laugh and grin with jagged teeth when Damien produces a particularly clever turn of phrase, would feign a sneer while drawing them closer regardless, would caress their skin with such delicate care, would look at Damien with naked need and ask with such desperate hope for him to try.

Damien did not need to try, to love Arum. He only needed to allow himself to feel what was already in his heart. Damien was always, always meant to love. Down, and down, and down, and the magic of Arum and Rilla loving him in return keeps him breathing, even at the most crushing of depths.

Perhaps, Damien thinks, he was built to be loved as well.

[iamtrashhenceiamhere]

Ghosts live on

It was a common enough legend; every small town had their own and Helsingør was no different. The foreboding abandoned castle didn’t help much either, but it was something for the occasional tourist to take pictures of. The children were told the story as bedtime stories and then in school in the form of Shakespeare. He may have called them a fictional city, but the name “Elsinore” stuck around like a loving nickname for the locals.

No one lived in the castle anymore. Out of respect and fear of what happened to the family of seven who lived there once. The Hansens. A good rich family who moved out when their youngest daughter of ten years nearly died in the forest at the outer parts of the small town. The castle now stands desolate, empty of all except the remnants of that family and the ivy that quickly took over and claimed it. They had an old caretaker whose job was to handle the children but he was let go before they all left when his bad hearing nearly cost the life of the youngest. He still lived near the castle gates and no one had the heart to make him clear off. After all, he only wanted company and the occasional conversation.

This whole incident didn’t help the case for the stories. Of course, the townspeople dismissed the whole “legend” as a simple story meant to keep children from wandering too far from home. The poor family was only an unfortunate coincidence. But everyone had a little fear in their heart

It was a beautiful small forest and a popular place, but you could never spend too long in it. It wasn’t safe was all the explanation people could provide when asked. How could they explain the off- feeling they felt when they went deep in? The urge to just remain in there, walking amongst the woods and trees going off the familiar path and follow the array of flowers that littered the place. people swore these plants seemed to be in bloom even in the harshest of winter. Bright dots of pansies, rue and daisies almost buried under decaying leaves and snow, but sure enough still there.

There was a stream that ran through the forest and led to a pond which looked almost like a picture. Reeds on the sides, little fishes and frogs shining near the surface in the light. It seemed other worldly. There was a large tree fallen tree across the stream near the mouth of the pool. It was almost like a gate keeper, covered in moss, ferns and multiple little critters crawling over the rotting holes created by time. The pond was a lovely place especially during summer but of course, no one stayed there for long. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t see the bottom of the pond. the water was clear but almost a never ending dark blue in the centre. It was safer to just not swim in it. There were stories of dead bodies being thrown in by murderers who will never be caught, people falling in, never to be seen again. Only stories they tried to reassure themselves, but it only strengthened the fear when the youngest Hansen almost drowned in the connected stream.

She lost balance walking across the fallen tree and fell on the stream side. The caretaker was with her and when she didn’t surface, he quickly went after her after. He’d searched frantically for her and found her floating unconscious lightly underwater a little way down. He quickly brought her up.

She recovered of course, but many say she had a chance only because she hadn’t fallen into the pond itself.

There was a family who lived in the castle. They weren’t royal, but Shakespeare took some artistic liberty. The tale of a nephew killing his treacherous uncle to avenge his father, the six haunting deaths in the castle were almost traditional. Almost each province had their own haunted mansion of unusual deaths. But the part of the legend that scared the town most was the fate of Ophelia.

A young woman, still a girl even, driven mad by the unlawful death of her controlling father by the hands of the man who used her like a throw-away doll. Her brother, who, like everyone else, could not look past the simple pretty face put on for the public and see the light of intelligent and awareness.

Ophelia went to the same forest, picking flowers and singing to herself and the trees around her. The trees who didn’t care who she was, didn’t judge or remind her of the rules she must follow to be a proper lady in her short stifling life. They just listened and silently appreciated. They didn’t care for her mad dances, her occasional screams between verses when she saw see the body of her father laid out flashing, the phantom blood still warm against her unstained hands. Her mind quickly pushed it out and she focused on the flowers, still singing to the trees.

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray,

love, remember: and there is pansies. that's for thoughts.

There's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue

for you; and here's some for me: we may call it

herb-grace o' Sundays: O you must wear your rue with

a difference. There's a daisy: I would give you

some violets, but they withered all when my father died…

She sang on and on, stepping daintily on the fallen tree and dancing atop it. Little jumps, turns and small twirls. The damp moss and slick wooden bark making slips almost inevitable, yet she danced on, for once in her restrained life, careless of any consequence. Falling wasn’t even a fear anymore, after all how could she fall when she felt so light? So, when the final slip did happen, she didn’t feel like she was falling. Ophelia was floating. She was free in the water, the coolness of it finally calming her. The clear water looked even clearer around her. Small fish tickling her hands and face as they swam around her. She felt peaceful. But she’d lost her flowers. Well that wasn’t good, she’d worked so hard to collect them! She looked frantically and saw they all were up at the surface, floating as free as she was. She could almost grab them.

Ophelia tried to reach for them, but her heavy dress felt heavier, water soaked up entirely. Now she felt the fall, the heavy drag pulling her and keeping her down. Ophelia tried to push herself back up, from the bottom of the pond. It was a lot deeper than it looked.

She looked around, the then clear water, now quickly growing murky by all the mud she was kicking up. The fish were gone, had enough of their home being disrupted by this outsider. She was alone and she couldn’t see. She tried to kick herself up again, the cool water now did nothing to chill the intense burn in her lungs. Her legs were entangled by hornworts, hardy pond plants that didn’t let go easily. Her large dress floated around her, restricting movement even further. Pulling whatever she could grasp, it eventually became too much effort, and she gasped for air. Instead muddy water flowed through. She was losing conscious quickly, she had to get her flowers, Laertes was waiting for her, she’d picked rosemary especially for him. and Hamlet, oh Hamlet would never receive her rues, they were such lovely ones. He would have loved it…

Ophelia’s body was found by the servants who went searching for her. Large torn pieces of dress fabric were floating alongside a bundle of wild flowers. But when they dove to retrieve her body, the pond bed seemed almost unreachable, going deeper and deeper still. Eventually they had to return with only the remains they found afloat.

There was a family that lived in the castle. But the story of revenge, murder and madness was all part of legend. No one knows really how they all died but it was so long ago. Fear is the hardest thing to kill though and it is said to never go into the forest on the anniversary of Ophelia’s death. They say she still haunted the pond, hoping to drag other souls along with her for company.

Little Clara Hansen was asked by other curious kids as to what happened to her. Most of them weren’t allowed to go into the forest on their own. Their parents explained it was only for rational safety reasons, “You could fall off a tree! Who’d help you if you break your leg in there?”, “Strangers could steal you away.” And the most common one, “You could fall down a hole and we’d never find you.” All ridiculous, the kids declared. Of course, the real reason was because Ophelia wouldn’t let you leave! They all knew the end of the story. If she saw any kids wandering in the forest, she’d keep them with her forever! Ophelia loved to have little children to dance and play with all day and night.

Clara said she didn’t have any particular urge to dance around or sing with anyone in the forest. She didn’t even see any ghosts. Just some walkers on the path and her caretaker alongside her to make sure she doesn’t get lost. Of course, they went off the path when she saw some lovely columbines and wanted to pick some for her father.

The caretaker followed her, listening to her talk about all the different types of plants she’d learnt at school.

“By the way, did you know that bamboo is the fastest growing wood in the world? I can’t remember the number, but it grows loads in a day!” she interrupted to boast of one of the facts she’d learnt.

The kids marvelled for a moment, exchanging further plant facts they had learnt before pushing her to continue.

Clara had reached a small pond area and exclaimed in delight at all the little fishes that swam in the clear blue water and reached to cup one into her hands. She leaned forward and as her hands touched the water, almost all the fishes swam away frantically. She tried to at least catch one but it was almost as if someone had grabbed hold of her and was pulling her gently. She could see her face fully now and it looked…weird. Different. She looked older…? Her hair was a lot longer. It was also black and curly but maybe that was just the water and light being weird. Maybe it had grown, and she just hadn’t noticed. Oh, she could do cool hairstyles now like her older sister Nora did!

Suddenly she was grabbed from behind and pulled back. Completely startled, water went flying from her hands right into caretaker’s face.

“Please be more careful there! You almost fell in!” he said.

She walked around the place as he set up a small blanket for them to sit on when she’d get tired. Clara didn’t go too close to the pond again, but explored the different plants growing. By the end she’d managed to pick many flowers and long leaves to take home as a trophy. The sun was now overhead and a warm stillness set in the area. The caretaker decided to lay down for a while and soon fell asleep on the blanket. Clara had relaxed before, sitting and talking to him. she was all keyed up now to just…do something! Anything was better than just sitting and sleeping around!

Clara spotted the fallen tree laying across the stream. The caretaker had said not to go on it because it wasn’t safe. Something about rotting wood and instability. But she wasn’t that heavy, surely the wood could take her. She imagined the pretty pictures she’d seen where girls in nice dresses swished their feet on water, sitting on moss and mushroom covered trees trunks. They looked like fairies. The water was so cool as well when she’d reached in before. Clara looked back at him. Light snores indicated he was truly asleep and not faking it. Just five minutes and then she’d come back, he wouldn’t even have to know.

She quickly went up the wood and looked at the stream. She could see the bottom, light sand glistened like sea glass. Small water plants danced around. It would just about come up to her chest, she decided and stepped up on the wood.

It had rained the day before, so it was a little damper than she expected but it was so smooth! Having kicked her shoes off before, it felt so weird feeling the moss snaking around her toes, tickling her. Clara grinned and walked until she’d reached the centre and sat down, facing the pond. It looked a lot bigger from here.

“Hello there.” A voice called. Clara turned her head sharply, startled to see there was a woman in the pond, swimming around. She had such lovely thick hair, like the reflection she’d seen before and a kind smile.

“Would you like to swim with me? The water is lovely and cool.”

Clara hesitated. Of course, Nora had told her not to be alone with strangers. She looked back at the caretaker, still fast asleep. She technically wasn’t alone.

“Sorry but I’m not supposed to go into the pond.” She hoped the woman wouldn’t leave because of her. She seemed nice.

The lady laughed and swam up to her. She was able to walk as soon as she reached the shallow ends and sat next to her on the wood. “Alright then, I’ll just join you then.” She looked even prettier but…

“why are you wearing a dress?” Clara asked. It was a beautiful dress even soaking wet and dripped water making the tree trunk even damper. But it wasn’t good for swimming.

The woman shrugged. “I was just walking around and saw the pond. Thought it was good enough for a dip. No one else really swims in here anymore so I suppose its like my personal pool.” She grinned. “Hey, if you want, it can our little pool! Our special pond.”

Clara beamed. A pond! She pictured coming here every afternoon now, sitting and talking with this lady, collecting flowers and maybe even berries in summer! It sounded wonderful, except… “what about Nero?”

The woman snapped up. “who?” she seemed panicked, worried almost. Clara pointed at her caretaker.

“Nero. He takes care of us while Mor and Far go off for business.” Now eager to show off her knowledge, “did you know Nero is a Latin name and it means timekeeper? Its so weird but makes sense I guess cause he’s always looking after us but he’s super strict about time ‘cause we need to go to bed at ten maximum.”

The woman relaxed a little, staring at him sleeping. “I had a friend like that. You know, his name also meant timekeeper. He was a good guy.”

They chatted a little longer about the meaning of names and Clara’s family.

“So you have an older brother? How does he treat you?”

“well, he’s kinda mean ‘cause he hides my toys but then I tell his friends embarrassing things about him and he always turns so red its funny!”

The woman was a quiet for a while. She smiled again, a little sad. “It’s strange, I had a brother too. He was always picking on me, but I knew he loved me. I loved him too. Maybe if things were different.”

“What do you mean?”

She smiled, “It doesn’t matter anymore. Anyway, I’m gonna go back in. You’re welcome to join whenever you wish.” With that she stood up and dived back in. Clara immediately stood up as well and looked for her. It was almost as if she had vanished.

Somehow Nero was still asleep. Poor guy must’ve been tired. Besides a little dip in wouldn’t be too bad right? It wasn’t like she was alone anymore…

The lady suddenly emerged up, splashing water joyfully. Startled, Clara gave a shout and fell backwards into the stream. The cold shocked her for a brief moment she could do nothing but stay still. She could hear distant voices. Squeezing her eyes, she tried to kick herself up. The water wasn’t that deep last she checked, and she did have two swimming lessons. So why was she having such a hard time getting back to the surface? Frantic now, she tried to swim back up but her feet seemed trapped by something.

The plants had wrapped themselves around her. they seemed to be growing and soon were folded around her arms and torso. Clara tried to tear them off but no matter how she tried, they kept growing. Why were there so many, she didn’t see this much before. Clara looked up. The surface looked so far off… where was that log?

The woman appeared in front of her. Relief filled her as Clara reached for her, expecting her to help her untangle this mess. But she just stared. She seemed different…her pretty dress was torn now in places and floated around her. Her skin seemed a pale blue-greenish colour. Her lovely hair diminished in wild knots and plants tangled up in it. she looked…menacing. It almost looked like there were even some holes in her face. Clara restrained from screaming at the sight.

Maybe this was all because she was underwater. An illusion. How long has she been under? She kept pulling plants off her. Where was Nero? He must’ve heard her fall. He’ll get her.

Suddenly the lady appeared beside her. She had a blank face and stared at Clara. Almost as if observing her as she struggled.

Nero awoke with a startle as soon as he heard a loud shout and a splash. He rose to see ripples in the stream which almost stilled immediately. He stared for a second before seeing air bubbles rising.

Shit.

“CLARA!”

Blood was now pounding in her ears and all she could hear was her own heart-beat going insane. Her chest was burning. She’d stopped kicking, her body growing tired from staying upright. She was slowly losing conscious.

No no nonononononononono this can’t be happening. She can’t die yet, not like this! She still had school to go to, her best friend was waiting for her, her brothers and sisters, oh God, her parents, they’d be so angry at Nero even though none of this is even his fault! He’ll be fired and then no one would play games with Andy or listen to Emily when she’s upset, and…and…

The woman has a strange expression, almost guilty. She leaned close to her face, gently cupping her cheek and finally gave a gentle kiss on her forehead. Her lips felt cold and slimy and Clara’s eyes closed as the woman went under.

She sat up coughing up water and looked around. She was sitting on soft grass, the sun still shining as she shielded her eyes. Nero was right there beside her, patting her back to help any remaining water come up. Clara lunged at him, wrapping her arms around him and burying her damp face in his shoulder. They sat there as she loudly cried the rest of the water out for around fifteen minutes. He quietly picked her up when she had calmed down to sniffles.

“How about we start to head back now?”

After she nodded vigorously, they began walking back home. Clara dared to look back at the pond again and she could see the woman, standing in the water, watching them leave. She never looked again. And she never went back to the forest.

Of course, a quick explanation was given about the drenched clothes. But she didn’t mention the woman. Clara didn’t know why but she felt if she did, it would… be worse. Make it real. Better to just say she fell in for a brief while until Nero got her out.

Of course, a few weeks later, she told the other kids in the town what really happened. They were the only ones who believed her when she said she thought it was Ophelia.

[changingchances]

Crossing Senses- Ben Hardy!Roger Taylor  Part 1

A/N: 1767 words. I plan to do this in several parts. It’s a bit slow, but I’m really enjoying finally getting to write some stuff. This was inspired by @bensroger ‘s And They Were Soulmates. This is the first time I’ve ever posted any of my writing, so I welcome constructive criticism and feedback! I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Some swearing.

******

It’s typical for one to see lyrics scrawl themselves across their skin in this world. Such a phenomenon is indicative of a soulmate. Music is a universal expression of the soul, and thus is a medium in which soulmates are linked to one another. When one’s soulmate would have a song running through their head, or should they be singing, the lyrics would appear in a variety of scrawling fonts on their soulmate’s body. An individual’s taste in music is often telling in terms of their personality, and a font resembling one’s handwriting is an excellent clue. So, when Roger felt his hand grow warm and tingly with clues about his soulmate for the first time, years ago, he was naturally overcome with excited curiosity, hoping this first song would give him some idea of what she was like. However, when he looked to his knuckles, there were no lyrics, no words scribbled into his skin. Rather, it was as if watercolors bloomed down his fingers and inside his wrist. And he had no fucking idea what that meant.

Everybody got their first song at different times. Some people received their first clue before they were in high school. Others waited longer. Roger’s first indication was when he was seventeen. He was worried when the colors appeared instead of the letters. He asked his family, and no one seemed to have any idea what it could mean, minus his half-crazy grandma, who kept insisting that some people see, feel, taste the music rather than hear it. Of course, Roger entertained her tales for her sake, but he knew she wasn’t one to make a great deal of sense in the first place.

Years passed by. Roger went to college, joined a band, and now has toured America as a Rockstar. Not long after the band began toying with international fame, Roger started scribbling down the colors into a notepad, taking photos when he could, even roughly painting them out to commit the oddities to memory and attempt to decipher them. Still, the colors run down his back, across his cheeks, all around his limbs and in between his fingers and toes, and still, he has no fucking idea what they mean.

 Roe is a college student and amateur dancer, studying Cognitive Psychology and stumbling gracelessly through life. She was always surrounded by music, and with her current research and her dance hobby, it seems that she’s always got some bopping background noise going on around her. She sang everything, all the time. Roe almost felt bad for her soulmate- he probably never caught a break from the ticklish feeling of songs across his skin.

Roe would watch with her mouth twisted into a little smirk as lyrics to songs, ones she’d heard on the radio and others she’d never come across before, tingled across her skin in colorful letters. She knew no one else saw the words in color- just her. She would sometimes look up the music to see if the song actually matched the colors she saw on her body. Often times, they did not. Her soulmate listened to rust red, dusky orange, and brassy gold music a lot of the time. But he sang everything, from bold reds to pastel yellows, bright greens to murky purples and blues. The words always appeared more opaque, bolder in their hues, when he sang. He sang a lot of this one band, Queen. A LOT of Queen. Sometimes, he’d sing the same few songs over and over again, the same verses appearing down Roe’s spine, along her ribs, up her neck. Sometimes when he did this, she would sing them back to him, her way of poking fun at him for his repetition.

But other times, Roe sang bits of her music, amateur pieces she’d had help composing with various friends. Or she’d catch herself humming bits and pieces of songs she was choreographing to, trying to work out little movements to match the musicality. As of recently, she’d been working on a dance to, ironically, a Queen song- Lily of the Valley. Roe likes Queen well enough, but she never found many of their songs running through her head on repeat. Lily of the Valley, however, is just perfect to dance to. This means she’s been listening to the song over, and over, and over again. It’s constantly in her head, she’s constantly humming or singing it, constantly in the studio with the track on loop. Her poor soulmate is destined to hate the tune, she thinks, for it must be practically tattooed on his body now.

However, in the recording studio with the band, Roger can’t for the life of him decipher the yellows, blues, whites, and purples, blossoming down his forearm. At this point, he isn’t even sure if they have anything to do with his soulmate’s taste in music.

“Maybe she’s simply on drugs.” Freddie offers during rehearsal, slouched on the sofa with Mary. A burning cigarette hangs loosely between his fingers. Roger sees Mary roll her eyes at the comment and nudge Freddie.

“Great,” Roger’s voice is thick with annoyance, masking the anxiety bubbling in his stomach at the thought. “So, she might be drug addict is what you’re saying. Thanks, Fred, that’s fantastic.” He’s not even attempting to hide the sarcasm, letting it saturate every word.

Freddie rolls his eyes. “I never said anything about addiction, darling.” He smiles and takes a lazy drag of smoke. “I’m sure she’ll grow out of it in time to meet your drunken ass.”

“Piss off, Fred.” Roger snaps. He’s pacing now, restless and frustrated. It’s been years. He’s never seen any of his friends with the same “condition”, as Brian puts it. It had to be him, yeah? He had to be the one person, possibly on the entire planet, who’s soulmate must be some kind of fucked up to have presented colors instead of lyrics like every other normal individual. Roger, still pacing aggressively, lets his thoughts go wild. God, what if she is a druggie? What if we meet and she’s more of a mess than I am? What if that means that my soulmate will never actually offer me a stable relationship like everyone else on the fucking planet? What if-

“Roger.” Brian’s voice cuts through the swirl of what ifs. He doesn’t look at any of his mates, just brings his hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. His cheekbone warms suddenly, only on the left side, and he lets his hand wander to the colors he knows are dancing on his face. She’s been thinking of this song for hours.

“Roger, I don’t think you have much to worry about,” John says in that calm, reasonable voice of his. “We’ve seen some pretty messed up people with normal indicators. That means she’s probably not a drug addict. Maybe she’s just… creative?” Good effort, Deaky, but it doesn’t calm the drummer’s racing mind.

Roger sighs. “That makes no bloody sense, Deaky.” He turns to look at the band, eyes frustrated, skeptical, and tired. They all knew that sense of hope when an indication from their soulmate appears. Most of the band had gotten their first lyrics in their twenties. Roger, though, had been waiting a long time, it felt, and he was growing more and more frustrated that he and his soulmate hadn’t crossed paths yet. He imagined it would click instantly, that he would know her the moment he saw her. It was his reason for picking up as many girls at shows, bars, parties as he could. She had to be out there, among them somewhere.

Freddie stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table and stands, approaching Roger. “It’s going to work out darling. Someone like you is not going to die alone.” The lead vocalist smirks mischievously. “And I’m sure she isn’t a drug addict either. If she’s on acid, the addiction rate is low. No one likes a trip like that for that long.” Freddie pats his friend on the shoulder affectionately before letting his own hand touch the drummer’s cheekbone, still lit up with pastels and watercolor. Roger huffs and pulls away, but with a small smile.

“How would you know that, Fred? About the drugs?” Deaky inquires, if not a little skeptically.

“Roe told us,” Mary chimes in, standing from the sofa herself and approaching Freddie to hug him from behind. Freddie’s face lights up at the mention Roe.

“Yes! She’s been doing some research this year on hallucinogenic drugs! It’s rather fascinating!”

Brian, at the academic chatter, pipes up, the topic piquing his interest. “Roe? Isn’t she that neighbor girl of yours?” John appears curious as well, having set aside his bass and now leaning forward to listen.

Freddie beams. “Yes! She and I are thick as thieves. She lived right next door to me and we would sneak out together to listen to bands at the pubs!”

Brian chuckles. “If you two are so close, why have we only seen her once or twice? I don’t think any of us have actually properly met her!” John makes a noise of agreement. Roger hums absentmindedly, noticing the same colors begin to run from his thumb down his arm. How long has she been on this one song?

“We should change that, Freddie!” Mary exclaims, looking as though a lightbulb just went off above her head. “If you could get her to one of the shows, it may be helpful for her research!” Freddie, at this comment, gives a dramatic gasp and kisses Mary on the mouth.

“You’re a genius, my love!” He shouts. At this, Roger looks up from his arm.

“How would a rock concert help with research?” He asks, sounding both confused and mildly exasperated at the noise Freddie is making. Freddie doesn’t calm down though, instead taking Roger by the shoulders and jostling the drummer a little in his excitement.

“I’m honestly not sure, but she’s been talking about music and drugs for months now and I want all of you to meet her, so it’s the perfect excuse. A rock concert for science!” Freddie claps his hands together, all smiles, and everyone laughs. Roger even lets out a small chuckle, unable to be entirely annoyed at the man’s apparent fondness over this girl. The drummer feels his neck and shoulder tingle a little and looks down to see the same colors splashed down his skin.

“Would someone hand me my notebook?” Roger mutters, deep in thought again. “I need to write something down.”

[strongmomfightingwarrior-blog]

All the things I couldn’t say.

Prologue—She knew, exactly what she was getting her self I too. What she didn’t know was how it would all happen next. I couldn’t remember the last time I’ve ever felt this way about anything, and everything we can be is frightening. He then kissed her hand and parted with words that rhymes “our paths will cross once more in a distant future. Then we can finally be together” This promise ate her alive.

Chapter 1–As I watched my dreams vanish from my hands. I knew I would have to stay here, in my childhood town with the same old streets and people that never seem to move forward or change. I’ve messed up several times in life and letting my opportunity to reach my dream was the most recent. That’s when we meet. Do you remember? It was at that point of my life where I was the most beautiful, and content and confident. Juggling two jobs and with hope! That that missed opportunity will soon be at my fingertips. I saw you, though I don’t think you noticed me. But your friends did. They saw how fascinated I was with your hard work and how swiftly and refined you looked. She said, John is my favorite worker that’s why he gets all the tables. Anyone that comes in I always ask him first if he wants it. Sorry I forgot to think ifshe was crushing on you. Seems like everyone that knew you did. How selfish was I..Like any other hustler in this restaurant industry I did a perfect job and a sweet talk here and there to get to where I needed to be to make the money I knew I deserved. First position was a host, greeting and making the costumer feel euphoric till the second you finished introducing their server and then parting ways back to your podium. Then like the industry, my hours started to drop. So I brought up to their attention I have degrees in the kitchen and can be an excellent expo, short for placing food on the tray to be delivered to the guest. That’s when my fun began. Gentlemen, older than i of course sabotaging me, working at snail speed to upset me, to get me yelled at “where’s the food” because I was too loud and kept repeating the orders that came in..bottom line I’ve been trained to do that job to Michelin star expectations. They just didn’t seem to get that. It’s okay. I was also taught not to cave into that distraction and jealousy. Then captain sparrow, a cook that would give me googling eyes started to ease down that tension, he liked how I work and the poor soul had a crush on me. Ugh why do people like me sometimes!? Right when it’s my me time, at my prime! I know what is this chunky girl bitching about? The kitchen ladies, is full of bored pervs that don’t care about your personal life nor what problems you have possibly just encountered. Just saying. They hire anyone to clean dishes. Captain, was sweet and handsome! I mean who doesn’t want a tall Johnny deep and Orlando bloom baby looking at you as if the most beautiful goddess on earth? I must have wanted him to just get me my fries and salads on que I was so friendly and polite. I could hear my sister say bro you brought home a fucking pirate! Hahaha she always knows what to say! Till one day, John and I, a laddies night and two random cooks. Sounds wild. It was the most risky thing I could have done..I can’t even want to start to remember how I felt. I just heard some Romeo and Juliet verse in my head remixed to my situations” oh fair stranger that I look on the schedule for to see if my foods going to get to their guest on time.” That to us is the most amazing quality in an employee the way they take the food from the kitchen to the anticipating guests. I see you your forearms lock of confidence and balance. The smile you Cary that tray with and the speed! Off how swiftly you Deliver and how before I know it you’re running right back to me to take another tray from my jittering lava cake burning hands from handling things with care. Hot lord just another shift in the kitchen. This guy John, well he was getting several sodas.

My fist rule is Johns they are either the most heartless heartbreakers or the most tender heart broken. He seemed like a troubled romantic and naturally wanted to get a smile out of him. Just one. Then I fell for him. It was one of those so slow nights in the kitchen and where talking too much as we prepped for the next day. And I had no tickets. I did the most common thing humans do when they have nothing to do.. some dumb embarrassing decisions..never have done so. I approached you and said “so where are we going tonight?” And your rude face said” I don’t know where you are going but I am going to my bar” I thought. With a did you really just say that to my face? This boy is trouble! I know now to listen to that fist instinct. No matter how cute a snake looks, some carry venom. Anyway I just walked away haha, because how to reply to that right? Later he talked to me and I handed two word sentences. But you approached me, right after you made me Carry over the tray to the floor, thanks for not doing your job in delivering on a 5top kind of night. “Hey stop” as you stroked my hand. I turned to you and looked in you bright brown eyes. “It isn’t that I wouldn’t want to take you out tonight, but I just have people to sort out, and tell them they can’t be at that bar when I’m there with you. To protect you. Why not Friday? It gives me time to clear the air” Danger danger danger! Why can’t I listen to my thought when I say anything??! It’s because you look like him, like that only guy you that broke my heart the sapphire beauty! The one who taught me to value and love my self. Somehow I want you to be just like him gentle and assertive when I want to hear it. I’m soo wrong! I fell for it. Like my body was in no agreement with any of my vital organs. I can hear people say it over and over again!How do you breathe in that relationship, You are happy? Is he really this much of a jerk outside of work too? All and all I’ve heard. The person I should have listened too was you, my sister that knows my darkest hours. I am sorry for that! Eternally great full you taught me how to diferénciate the diamonds from the rocks. Our roller coaster was an 11month, one that made me see so much of who I was becoming. Who I’ve let be manipulated to be. Who I wanted to be was no where in the distance. All I knew is I was stuck with you! Like you loved to remind me every night. As if getting car jacked by you to “go home” wasn’t my biggest problem you stopped loving me! And I couldn’t get you away! Because after all our disagreement you would say and do somethings to make me fall back in love with you. But swinging on swings because I begged for fresh air; and singing that song to me like we where the only two in that time and space. All that got you sick. Sick of me and the routine you felt you had to do to keep me around? I think you loved my car more. Over all that, that you felt you had to do I still loved you for wanting to make me happy and keep me strong. We had our better moments. Or I wouldn’t have tattooed your name on my heart, or thought about what our kids would do or look like. We had a happy family in my head. But like our differences where like our jobs. Getting fired from where we meet , to working together at a sports bar I knew. To then you getting me fired because I was giving you too much lip about why you light up when you see that manager? Right in my face. I know you wanted out! Me too! But you still kept me threatened to be my self, to be stronger, because the truth is I was better than you and it took me too long to realize it wouldn’t work out. In the mean time I got another job and tried my best to make you feel more manly than me, I laugh because even when I wasn’t trying I would always be tougher but a coward you would hurt my family.That’s when I meet the crazies.

The crazies was this kitchen I worked for that had a 30minute time limit to get the order taken, made and delivered. But this kitchen always had something going on. They where a bunch of on the job alcoholics and nuts. And there you where. My distraction from the real world. Just a friend someone I never saw my self running away with and yet we had so much in common. Oh boy how you loved to stare at me work. Always wanted to squeeze by me any chance you got. To stroke my hand, my, mind know it was just the heat of the kitchen that made us blush. Yup we where each others distraction through the night to get done quicker. Clearly since my life with you was miserable I needed all the smiles I could steal off work. That flame burnt, over me lip singing fethish by Selena Gomez, seeing how easily I can tease you. Whoops! That’s no fun is it Stan..Then I got outside to catch you John, like a creeper waiting out back for me, in the beginning it was cute..Till our fights where so annoying that you waited elsewhere with your lies of course my car and who ever you let in it that left traces of them sitting on my seat..you make bad choices, but I had my skeletons too. Until I meet a fox. They warn you about these Aladdin looking and Disney singing happy go lucky gentlemen. I can’t remember the first words we spoke but then I asked for your name. John you said. Damn! Another one I thought. I laughed ohh no not that name. “What’s wrong with my name? Well that all depends are you John the heartbroken or the heartbreaker? And with out hesitation “ oh definitely the heart broken”we shall see about that “sir John” and I walked away. I know to stay clear from you but your friends they brought us together I thank the fry cook and the other asshole John that forced me to fake my cars death. And break. That I had to beg for a ride Home. From some one I didn’t know what your best friend damn there was no escaping that fate. Hahahahaha! Oh I can see my crazy mind mentally breaking up with John to be with John. Because this John is everything I love in a soul, mixed with the beauty life is. I saw where I had to be, you had the schedule and smile I had before I even meet John. Did you know Jon is another name for the potty. Anyways. I have commitment issues acknowledges and changes it. That’s life. Learning. Even weighing about you. Makes me laugh and cry all at the same time. I am sorry. For how I ended our short love story. It will never be enough, not even if a million dreams rewrite the stars. That’s how you make me feel like if a million dreams for the world were gonna make. Lord I am shaking! , catch up heart! Saw what happened there my heart just meet its match and I was trapped in a toxic wasteland of drowning in tears. Terrified to leave someone that saw right through me. Help me! I can hear the universe yelling at me he’s not right for me. But I’ve stayed.. why am I scared to leave a crazy. Leave a rock! empty, empathy-less, monkey that can’t control his emotions even when he can. If it where up to me I would slap me blind sided. Maybe even punch me in the face? Right? That was your favorite phrase to me. —(This is where the 1800 get help from an abusive relationship I do t want my parents knowing about was known and will cause some problems goes**)— Sorry that I never got to escape with out scrapes and bruises..a Minch of them from crawling away from you; under a bridge that was steep, like spider Gwen I was slanted stepping and grabbing on for my dear life away from you! walkway that overlooked to uncharted waters of the great monster of they abyss that was about to pop I swear out of the water at the end of that tunnel. Meow! So dramatic but true. All because I wanted to go home alone. To be away from you because you where suffocating me! Grasp! A Ghasp of air! I have tried to leave you for a while John John my escape from this balcony my Romeo on the rockx! I am sorry that I left you.

Thats why John I guess we couldn’t be together. You deserved better. Though I let my self believe for that one night that I was going to send you to find out what John was doing if I never showed up that night. And you said he was with her. The her I knew he took my car to go pick up and waste my gas with. So I beloved to hear I was right and that exploiting my heart with you was okay. Remember kareeokee with you was my sleeping beauty scene with red wine lips and roses cheeks that lock between our glistening eyes from the day we meet. Wow how they still sparkle in my head!!my sister would have loved to hear I traded that old fart for my diamond in the roughest. After falling for you I feared your safety and mine. I had to break your heart to keep us safe. John. Remember me..? I’ll always be waiting for you. Kinda. To my sister: Forgive me for hearing your voice as my voice of reason always, with everything I do; you are the last person I wanted to disagree with I finally see that light, and its like God talks through you. Johns’ thruth is that I lost you. Because I needed too. One was the one I let go pass me on that walk home. The other the one I should have stayed away from. To begging with. However God had his plans and lessons. And I don’t regret putting up with you. Now it’s September almost my birthday. And I feel something inside my heart. It’s a little miracle that’s kindly giving me the strength to get rid of all the darkness in our life. Because now it’s momma and her against the world! no one is going to stop us! we are titanium! You Valerie where the first one I told. You come to my room to give me a hug and kiss on my birthday and apologize for not getting me a gift. When I laugh and turn to you to say. “Don’t worry God has given me the best early birthday gift!” Both in shock happy and crying o knew this was a beautiful beginning, to all the pain I put my self through. Truth is who’s baby is it anyways? Was everyone’s game! Mom and sister thank you for plying and for being there through my single pregnancy with out my families supporting me I don’t know what life it would be the one could have lived. Daughter I know we will reach all our wild dreams! Thank you for choosing me as your mommy! You saved me! God thank you for removing the bad in my life. The thing with life is when you can do something, and you let the universe drag it out of you. Your energy needs to better and succeed or it will keep dragging what’s holding you from that. To my wonderful friend, warrior, angel sister that I owe all my life’s smiles too! Thank you for your love and understanding and forgive me that after 16 months of happiness and waking up like momma hens to check on the baby that had made us so united and happy! One January first you left, to a high school reunion Getty, and you where last seen January 5th on a white cascate in an adoring lilo and stitch funeral blue like your nails and a sea of lamented crying people that you touched and broke with your parting. I am sorry that you need to know that you missed out on you nieces birthday. That you couldn’t see her run and learn to walk! I’m so honored and blessed you taught her how to crawl to the remote, up to this day she will five finger swipe it off the cup holder and run away laughing like a little naughty little mermaid! Just like you!I remember waking up January2nd I thought I heard you come home, slamming down stairs, thumping up the stairs and hearing you didn’t even use the bathroom as you slammed the bedroom door. That’s why when I woke up I couldn’t believe your door was wide open lights on and the bed made a mess. But where where you?? Where where you? Lost? Or in trouble I jumped to conclusion. Barefoot I ran outside looking for your car, all around the complex I remember. Praying God please!! Yelling at you better be okay! You better be in love with a guy and that that’s the reason you’re not here! God please save her God protect her I kept saying. My heart knew.

My fear was that you where kidnapped and hurt by them! I couldn’t believe what was going on. When I got home my poor mom, on her knees crying! praying. I called my dad, told him Valerie never got Home that he needs to come over now! He snapped!He knew nothing good would come from this random act of event. You see people like you don’t just not come home they make sure someone knows they’re safe. I called all your friends knowing you hate me contacting them. As we all in our own way, prepared for the worst. I saw how my mom was slowly losing her fate when she said some detectives have my sisters phone and they where coming over. Scared , I called the cops something seemed fishy about the situation. Then I saw my dads face when he got to my house bloodshot look in his face, pale, saying where is she what hospital is she in. And I was trying to keep composure for every one. I knew she wasn’t t dead I thought we had this connection that made me feel she was well! This was all a lie. It’s copping mechanisms I know that know. Then you guys walked in some detectives you are! I had to ask for your badges. Starting off with is this the home of such and so, confirm this and that, well we regret to inform you as of the late hours of 2:55 am she was impacted by a car, and unfortunately the injury Valerie revived where terminal. And she did not make it. Blah blah blah. What did they just say my mom asks. Dad explains..You know in the movies when everything goes silent and you can hear a high pitch ring in the background. And all you see everything fall in slow motion. Well it’s true. Losing you was like losing a vital organ bone of the previous pain mattered after that day. Your untimely parting broke me like no other. It will never be enough, not even if a million dreams rewrite the stars. That’s how you make me feel like if a million dreams for the world were making. Lord I am shaking! , catch up heart! Nah but seriously I have a hole in my heart it’s called a murmur. I miss you by seconds. Your my chikita banana for life you’ll always be my OHANA that keeps my baby daddy secret.

[babylon-crashing]

christina rossetti’s goblin market

“Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices.” Longing for forbidden goblin fruit the impulsive Laura enters into a bacchic orgy with the demons of the woods only to develop a consumptive wasting disease that threatens to kill her. It takes the brave Lizzie to cross through hell for her sister, enduring the Victorian equivalent of bukkaki and return, urging, “Eat me, drink me, love me;/ Laura, make much of me,” who then proceeds to lick and suck goblin juice off Lizzie’s face. For reasons that I have never understood parents keep insisting that this is quaint children’s verse, whereas I consider it one of my favorite subversively erotic poems. Not only is the ending message that Sisterhood is Powerful, but that the only heteronormative representation that Rossetti presents for us (the goblins are all clearly male, lecherous and untrustworthy/ Laura and Lizzie live independent as a couple in their own house) warns the reader that random forest gangbangs might leave you with something suspiciously like syphilis. Ah, literature.

Morning and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy: Apples and quinces, Lemons and oranges, Plump unpeck’d cherries, Melons and raspberries, Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches, Swart-headed mulberries, Wild free-born cranberries, Crab-apples, dewberries, Pine-apples, blackberries, Apricots, strawberries;— All ripe together In summer weather,— Morns that pass by, Fair eves that fly; Come buy, come buy: Our grapes fresh from the vine, Pomegranates full and fine, Dates and sharp bullaces, Rare pears and greengages, Damsons and bilberries, Taste them and try: Currants and gooseberries, Bright-fire-like barberries, Figs to fill your mouth, Citrons from the South, Sweet to tongue and sound to eye; Come buy, come buy.”

  Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bow’d her head to hear, Lizzie veil’d her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, With tingling cheeks and finger tips. “Lie close,” Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: “We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?” “Come buy,” call the goblins Hobbling down the glen. “Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men.” Lizzie cover’d up her eyes, Cover’d close lest they should look; Laura rear’d her glossy head, And whisper’d like the restless brook: “Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes.” “No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Their evil gifts would harm us.” She thrust a dimpled finger In each ear, shut eyes and ran: Curious Laura chose to linger Wondering at each merchant man. One had a cat’s face, One whisk’d a tail, One tramp’d at a rat’s pace, One crawl’d like a snail, One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry, One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry. She heard a voice like voice of doves Cooing all together: They sounded kind and full of loves In the pleasant weather. 

Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck Like a rush-imbedded swan, Like a lily from the beck, Like a moonlit poplar branch, Like a vessel at the launch When its last restraint is gone. Backwards up the mossy glen Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men, With their shrill repeated cry, “Come buy, come buy.” When they reach’d where Laura was They stood stock still upon the moss, Leering at each other, Brother with queer brother; Signalling each other, Brother with sly brother. One set his basket down, One rear’d his plate; One began to weave a crown Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (Men sell not such in any town); One heav’d the golden weight Of dish and fruit to offer her: “Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry. Laura stared but did not stir, Long’d but had no money: The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste In tones as smooth as honey, The cat-faced purr’d, The rat-faced spoke a word Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; One parrot-voiced and jolly Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”— One whistled like a bird. 

But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: “Good folk, I have no coin; To take were to purloin: I have no copper in my purse, I have no silver either, And all my gold is on the furze That shakes in windy weather Above the rusty heather.” “You have much gold upon your head,” They answer’d all together: “Buy from us with a golden curl.” She clipp’d a precious golden lock, She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl, Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red: Sweeter than honey from the rock, Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, Clearer than water flow’d that juice; She never tasted such before, How should it cloy with length of use? She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more Fruits which that unknown orchard bore; She suck’d until her lips were sore; Then flung the emptied rinds away But gather’d up one kernel stone, And knew not was it night or day As she turn’d home alone. 

Lizzie met her at the gate Full of wise upbraidings: “Dear, you should not stay so late, Twilight is not good for maidens; Should not loiter in the glen In the haunts of goblin men. Do you not remember Jeanie, How she met them in the moonlight, Took their gifts both choice and many, Ate their fruits and wore their flowers Pluck’d from bowers Where summer ripens at all hours? But ever in the noonlight She pined and pined away; Sought them by night and day, Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey; Then fell with the first snow, While to this day no grass will grow Where she lies low: I planted daisies there a year ago That never blow. You should not loiter so.” “Nay, hush,” said Laura: “Nay, hush, my sister: I ate and ate my fill, Yet my mouth waters still; To-morrow night I will Buy more;” and kiss’d her: “Have done with sorrow; I’ll bring you plums to-morrow Fresh on their mother twigs, Cherries worth getting; You cannot think what figs My teeth have met in, What melons icy-cold Piled on a dish of gold Too huge for me to hold, What peaches with a velvet nap, Pellucid grapes without one seed: Odorous indeed must be the mead Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink With lilies at the brink, And sugar-sweet their sap.” 

Golden head by golden head, Like two pigeons in one nest Folded in each other’s wings, They lay down in their curtain’d bed: Like two blossoms on one stem, Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow, Like two wands of ivory Tipp’d with gold for awful kings. Moon and stars gaz’d in at them, Wind sang to them lullaby, Lumbering owls forbore to fly, Not a bat flapp’d to and fro Round their rest: Cheek to cheek and breast to breast Lock’d together in one nest. Early in the morning When the first cock crow’d his warning, Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, Laura rose with Lizzie: Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows, Air’d and set to rights the house, Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream, Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d; Talk’d as modest maidens should: Lizzie with an open heart, Laura in an absent dream, One content, one sick in part; One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight, One longing for the night. 

At length slow evening came: They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; Lizzie most placid in her look, Laura most like a leaping flame. They drew the gurgling water from its deep; Lizzie pluck’d purple and rich golden flags, Then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes Those furthest loftiest crags; Come, Laura, not another maiden lags. No wilful squirrel wags, The beasts and birds are fast asleep.” But Laura loiter’d still among the rushes And said the bank was steep. And said the hour was early still The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill; Listening ever, but not catching The customary cry, “Come buy, come buy,” With its iterated jingle Of sugar-baited words: Not for all her watching Once discerning even one goblin Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Let alone the herds That used to tramp along the glen, In groups or single, Of brisk fruit-merchant men. Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come; I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look: You should not loiter longer at this brook: Come with me home. The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, Each glowworm winks her spark, Let us get home before the night grows dark: For clouds may gather Though this is summer weather, Put out the lights and drench us through; Then if we lost our way what should we do?” Laura turn’d cold as stone To find her sister heard that cry alone, That goblin cry, “Come buy our fruits, come buy.” Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? Must she no more such succous pasture find, Gone deaf and blind? Her tree of life droop’d from the root: She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache; But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning, Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way; So crept to bed, and lay Silent till Lizzie slept; Then sat up in a passionate yearning, And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept As if her heart would break. Day after day, night after night, Laura kept watch in vain In sullen silence of exceeding pain. She never caught again the goblin cry: “Come buy, come buy;”— She never spied the goblin men Hawking their fruits along the glen: But when the noon wax’d bright Her hair grew thin and grey; She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn To swift decay and burn Her fire away. One day remembering her kernel-stone She set it by a wall that faced the south; Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root, Watch’d for a waxing shoot, But there came none; It never saw the sun, It never felt the trickling moisture run: While with sunk eyes and faded mouth She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees False waves in desert drouth With shade of leaf-crown’d trees, And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze. She no more swept the house, Tended the fowls or cows, Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, Brought water from the brook: But sat down listless in the chimney-nook And would not eat. Tender Lizzie could not bear To watch her sister’s cankerous care Yet not to share. She night and morning Caught the goblins’ cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy;”— Beside the brook, along the glen, She heard the tramp of goblin men, The yoke and stir Poor Laura could not hear; Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her, But fear’d to pay too dear. She thought of Jeanie in her grave, Who should have been a bride; But who for joys brides hope to have Fell sick and died In her gay prime, In earliest winter time With the first glazing rime, With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time. Till Laura dwindling Seem’d knocking at Death’s door: Then Lizzie weigh’d no more Better and worse; But put a silver penny in her purse, Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze At twilight, halted by the brook: And for the first time in her life Began to listen and look. Laugh’d every goblin When they spied her peeping: Came towards her hobbling, Flying, running, leaping, Puffing and blowing, Chuckling, clapping, crowing, Clucking and gobbling, Mopping and mowing, Full of airs and graces, Pulling wry faces, Demure grimaces, Cat-like and rat-like, Ratel- and wombat-like, Snail-paced in a hurry, Parrot-voiced and whistler, Helter skelter, hurry skurry, Chattering like magpies, Fluttering like pigeons, Gliding like fishes,— Hugg’d her and kiss’d her: Squeez’d and caress’d her: Stretch’d up their dishes, Panniers, and plates: “Look at our apples Russet and dun, Bob at our cherries, Bite at our peaches, Citrons and dates, Grapes for the asking, Pears red with basking Out in the sun, Plums on their twigs; Pluck them and suck them, Pomegranates, figs.”— “Good folk,” said Lizzie, Mindful of Jeanie: “Give me much and many: — Held out her apron, Toss’d them her penny. “Nay, take a seat with us, Honour and eat with us,” They answer’d grinning: “Our feast is but beginning. Night yet is early, Warm and dew-pearly, Wakeful and starry: Such fruits as these No man can carry: Half their bloom would fly, Half their dew would dry, Half their flavour would pass by. Sit down and feast with us, Be welcome guest with us, Cheer you and rest with us.”— “Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits At home alone for me: So without further parleying, If you will not sell me any Of your fruits though much and many, Give me back my silver penny I toss’d you for a fee.”— They began to scratch their pates, No longer wagging, purring, But visibly demurring, Grunting and snarling. One call’d her proud, Cross-grain’d, uncivil; Their tones wax’d loud, Their looks were evil. Lashing their tails They trod and hustled her, Elbow’d and jostled her, Claw’d with their nails, Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking, Twitch’d her hair out by the roots, Stamp’d upon her tender feet, Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits Against her mouth to make her eat. 

White and golden Lizzie stood, Like a lily in a flood,— Like a rock of blue-vein’d stone Lash’d by tides obstreperously,— Like a beacon left alone In a hoary roaring sea, Sending up a golden fire,— Like a fruit-crown’d orange-tree White with blossoms honey-sweet Sore beset by wasp and bee,— Like a royal virgin town Topp’d with gilded dome and spire Close beleaguer’d by a fleet Mad to tug her standard down. 

One may lead a horse to water, Twenty cannot make him drink. Though the goblins cuff’d and caught her, Coax’d and fought her, Bullied and besought her, Scratch’d her, pinch’d her black as ink, Kick’d and knock’d her, Maul’d and mock’d her, Lizzie utter’d not a word; Would not open lip from lip Lest they should cram a mouthful in: But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip Of juice that syrupp’d all her face, And lodg’d in dimples of her chin, And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd. At last the evil people, Worn out by her resistance, Flung back her penny, kick’d their fruit Along whichever road they took, Not leaving root or stone or shoot; Some writh’d into the ground, Some div’d into the brook With ring and ripple, Some scudded on the gale without a sound, Some vanish’d in the distance. 

In a smart, ache, tingle, Lizzie went her way; Knew not was it night or day; Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze, Threaded copse and dingle, And heard her penny jingle Bouncing in her purse,— Its bounce was music to her ear. She ran and ran As if she fear’d some goblin man Dogg’d her with gibe or curse Or something worse: But not one goblin scurried after, Nor was she prick’d by fear; The kind heart made her windy-paced That urged her home quite out of breath with haste And inward laughter. She cried, “Laura,” up the garden, “Did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me; For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men.” Laura started from her chair, Flung her arms up in the air, Clutch’d her hair: “Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted For my sake the fruit forbidden? Must your light like mine be hidden, Your young life like mine be wasted, Undone in mine undoing, And ruin’d in my ruin, Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?”— She clung about her sister, Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her: Tears once again Refresh’d her shrunken eyes, Dropping like rain After long sultry drouth; Shaking with aguish fear, and pain, She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth. Her lips began to scorch, That juice was wormwood to her tongue, She loath’d the feast: Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung, Rent all her robe, and wrung Her hands in lamentable haste, And beat her breast. Her locks stream’d like the torch Borne by a racer at full speed, Or like the mane of horses in their flight, Or like an eagle when she stems the light Straight toward the sun, Or like a caged thing freed, Or like a flying flag when armies run. Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame; She gorged on bitterness without a name: Ah! fool, to choose such part Of soul-consuming care! Sense fail’d in the mortal strife: Like the watch-tower of a town Which an earthquake shatters down, Like a lightning-stricken mast, Like a wind-uprooted tree Spun about, Like a foam-topp’d waterspout Cast down headlong in the sea, She fell at last; Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life? Life out of death. That night long Lizzie watch’d by her, Counted her pulse’s flagging stir, Felt for her breath, Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face With tears and fanning leaves: But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves, And early reapers plodded to the place Of golden sheaves, And dew-wet grass Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass, And new buds with new day Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream, Laura awoke as from a dream, Laugh’d in the innocent old way, Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice; Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey, Her breath was sweet as May And light danced in her eyes. Days, weeks, months, years Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own; Their mother-hearts beset with fears, Their lives bound up in tender lives; Laura would call the little ones And tell them of her early prime, Those pleasant days long gone Of not-returning time: Would talk about the haunted glen, The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat But poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town): Would tell them how her sister stood In deadly peril to do her good, And win the fiery antidote: Then joining hands to little hands Would bid them cling together, “For there is no friend like a sister In calm or stormy weather; To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands.”

notes:

The illustrations come from Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s (1862), Laurence Housman‘s (1893) and John Bolton’s (1984) editions of Goblin Market, as well as the 1973 Playboy issue that was illustrated by Kinuko Craft.

[jeonbase]

Hi can you recommend some of your fav angsty yk fanfics pls thank you!!!

me: i don’t rlly like angst

also me: has 20+ angst fics to rec

no particular order: 

(some are light angst, some have happy endings, those that contain explicit sexual content are top yoongi/bottom jeongguk) 

la douleur exquise - sobi (ghost au):

[ la douleur exquise : french - the heartbreaking pain of wanting someone you can’t have. ]

the boy with the scarf changes everything.

(this is a fic that i have talked about/mentioned A LOT, this fic ruined me… beautiful, ultimate fave)

Star-crossed - ichibanjeon (soulmate au, reincarnation au, mentions of death)

Star-crossed: frustrated by the stars

People always reincarnate with the age they first met their soulmate with, so they can age together. Once every 100 years, a pair of soulmates is cursed. In each reincarnation, with the help of clues left for them, but without any form of communication, one must find the other before they die. Otherwise, they lose the ability to reincarnate forever.

(Or: Yoongi writes diaries hoping that, when he’s ready to show them, Jeongguk isn’t already gone. Not again.)

(i love reincarnation au’s. also: lovely maria, thxs for breaking my heart with that soulmates/reincarnation au)

I know I’ll fall in love with you, baby - witheredleaf (micooled) 

(soulmates au, fanboy jeongguk, rapper yoongi, fluff and angst)

The soulmate/soulbond au where Yoongi is part of a famous rap duo and Jungkook is his diligent fanboy, they meet at a fansign and things escalate from there

(alt. Yoongi didn’t sign up for this)

aere perennius - bellamees (side yoongi/namjoon) (gods & goddesses au, reincarnation au, soulmates au, love triangles, angst with happy ending, mild smut, blood) 

“one thousand three hundred and seventy-six years, hyung.”

or; gods never die, until they do.

Breathless - bluemixtape (reincarnation au, hurt/comfort, prince yoongi, servant jeongguk, canon compliant, implied prostitution, cross-dressing, smut)

The distance between Prince Yoongi and his only comfort Jungkook is more than earth and sky: the weight of the crown, the unspoken apology, the endless regret.

When the fate forces them back together again, all version of universes are jumbled in messy emotions and lingering memories. Min Yoongi, carrying a heart that never rests, desperately trying to reach his air: a splendid soul with thousand years worth of pain, Jeon Jungkook.

(i love bluemixtape’s works, loved this fic so much)

fire work - markerlimes (sunmi) (au, pyromania, unhealthy relationships, self-destruction, slight horror, angst with happy ending)

Jungkook’s hair is so dry, practically tinder to the touch, and Yoongi can’t wait to set him aflame.

arson boyfriends sugakookie inspired by the prologue

As venom as love itself is - monoxxide (au, criminal yoongi, emotional/psychological abuse, smut, drugs, verbal humiliation, love/hate,)

Jeongguk is weak and just can’t help but loving Yoongi

Yoongi is weaker and just can’t stop Jeongguk from loving him

subtle criminal!Yoongi au

the space in between - toomanysleeplessnights (also side taehyung/jimin) (light angst, au, friends with benefits, mild smut, mild jealousy, slow burn)

here’s the thing:“because you’re nearing that territory of no return, you know like when you’re swimming and everything is going, well, swimmingly, and you see a dark abyss if you go closer and you decide to tempt fate to see what would happen if you did go closer, but surprise, there’s a fucking current that sucks you in if you get too close - and if you get sucked in then you will die a horrific death at the bottom of the ocean. the end, nice knowing you. do you even know how to swim? also jimin wants me in speedos when he gets back and i don’t own a pair so i thought -”

“do you ever stop?” jungkook said, checking his ears for blood. “just - what the fuck. how do i end up at the bottom of ocean? why did you just recite the finding nemo summary?”“feelings, you doped up baboon, if you catch feelings in an fwb - you die. kicked to curb like the trash panda you are. and it’s an epic movie, dumbfuck.”

or, a manual (that no one should follow) on how to move on.

and like flowers in his hands, death blooms - bellamees (hades/persephone retelling, mild smut, death)

“i have this friend, he has a spare room,” namjoon says, and he sounds apologetic. “he’s an undertaker.”

transatlanticism - bellamees (au, dystopia, mentions of sex, angst with happy ending)

jungkook lives in the day. yoongi lives at night.

(or: the realms of day and night, two different worlds coming from two opposite poles, mingled during this time.)

sonata - numajiri (au, pianist yoongi, cellist jeongguk, light angst) 

yoongi’s fingers slot onto the keys like the first words they have ever known.

if tomorrow comes (when will you learn?) - toomanysleeplessnights (one sided taehyung/jeongguk) (college au, angst with happy ending)

yoongi moved forward and seokjin reached out, but yoongi was too predictable. he stopped inches away from jungkook - wild and desperate and still fighting. “then why me, jungkook? why us?”

jungkook couldn’t think of an answer.

alt:no love can last forever - but fuck it if they’re not going to try. (and fall apart, maybe together)

unfinished - fruitily (implied/past taehyung/jimin, brief namjoon/jin) (ghost au, light angst)

“what am i supposed to do about this,” yoongi said blankly, “call the ghostbusters?”

“you don’t have to do anything,” jungkook said, “except maybe stop walking the bedroom-bathroom distance naked, because i’m like, seeing everything, y’know, and i just told you we should take it slow, right?”

–

in which it takes yoongi a month to realize his place is haunted, jungkook is bad at being a ghost, and namjoon and jimin are probably the only contacts in yoongi’s phone.

(i love ghost aus)

the last - bellamees (au, light angst, light smut)

happy twenty-three, hyung. love, jungkookie.

it’s just a note, stuck in a red envelope with silly drawings and a couple of gift cards sort of folded, but mostly crinkled. yoongi keeps the card.

Your mouth makes a hurricane - subspinipes (au, smut, light bondage, biting, choking, dom/sub)

Yoongi almost never kisses Jungkook’s lips, but he does devour his neck like he owns him.

to prosper - xiajin (au, smut, forced separation, fluff and angst)

do you adore me as much as i adore you?

do you adore me as much as i adore you?

eternity - xiajin (au, spirits, tragic lovers)

while the sun creates, the moon waits.

A Song for The Demon - bluemixtape (one sided jimin/jeongguk) (fairy au, semi-dystopia au, alpha & half demon yoongi, omega &  half angel jeongguk, hurt/comfort, mpreg, minor character death)

Between colorful dust and tinkling laugh in the world of fairy, there’s few black wings hidden; those who are tainted by demon blood. That kind lives in a constant war against themselves and Yoongi, being one of them, is not an exception. As the one who has to carry the endless darkness, Yoongi can recognize even the smallest light. So when the blinding light called Jungkook comes, Yoongi has no chance against him.

love me blue - bellamees (soulmate au, mild smut, ambiguous/open ending)

“you said trees are green in the summer,” his voice is low, almost monotone, as if he might be perpetually bored. “you see colors—?”(or: soulmate!au where everything is black&white until you meet your soulmate)

Pale Petals - sue_bts (au, slow burn, smut, prince yoongi, peasant jeongguk, past abuse)

Min Yoongi is blind in his arrogance and power. Jeon Jungkook is a petal the prince plucked from a bouquet.

The Sound of Winter - officialmaknae (side seokjin/taehyung, side namjoon/jimin) (werewolf au, rape/non con elements, slow burn, underage drinking, blood and gore, minor character death, omega jeongguk)

Yoongi has a lot on his plate, but when his pack discovers a small pup in their territory, he finds that he’s about to have a lot more.

Your Smile Is My Happiness - Sealegs2414 (canon verse)

“Hyung…” the shorter male just grunted in reply.

“Is there a reason your knees are shaking and your hand is squeezing like there’s no tomorrow?”

Yoongi refused to turn his head towards Jungkook and meet his gaze. If it hadn’t been for the fact that it was really dark outside even with all the lights of the city, Jungkook could have seen his hyung blush. Sadly that was not in the cards for him to night. The two could see each other just fine but it wasn’t quite bright enough to see any dusting of pink on either of their faces.

A gruff, “No,” was the reply he got as well as a forced relaxation in the grip that the elder had on his hand but it still never moved. The knees however, well they got a little worse before they got better.

the nights really were made for saying things you can’t say tomorrow day - siderum (canon verse, slow burn, jeongguk centric)

“you know, the fact that my rap puts you to sleep should be insulting,” yoongi says wryly.

color in your cheeks (the feeling flows both ways) - siderum (canon verse, hurt/comfort, light angst, smut)

(continuation of ‘the nights really were made for saying things you can’t say tomorrow day)

yoongi and jungkook get put together in a hotel room for the next tour.

just the two of them.

siren song - xiajin (side taehyung/jimin, side namjoon/jin, platonic jimin/jeongguk) (magic au, hurt/comfort)

the thing about jungkook is that he’s a bit of a spacey witch.

Beauty And The Beast - TheOrgasmicSeke (minor taehyung/jimin, minor namjoon/jin, platonic yoongi/hoseok) (au, angst with happy ending, mild blood, jeongguk centric, dark fairy tale elements)

Jungkook didn’t completely understand what was going on, and he wasn’t sure if he believed in the whole true love thing, but he did know one thing. Yoongi was the single most lonely broken thing he had ever seen in his entire life and something deep inside of his bones screamed at him to fix it. So, He was going to fix it. Or perhaps die trying.

[tahlialynne]

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d

I When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d, And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night, I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west, And thought of him I love. II  O powerful western fallen star! O shades of night—O moody, tearful night! O great star disappear’d—O the black murk that hides the star! O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me! O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul. III In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash’d palings, Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love, With every leaf a miracle—and from this bush in the dooryard, With delicate-color’d blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig with its flower I break. IV In the swamp in secluded recesses, A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. Solitary the thrush, The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, Sings by himself a song. Song of the bleeding throat, Death’s outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know, If thou wast not granted to sing thou would’st surely die.) V Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris, Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass, Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen, Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards, Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, Night and day journeys a coffin. VI Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, With the pomp of the inloop’d flags with the cities draped in black, With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil’d women standing, With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night, With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads, With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn, With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour’d around the coffin, The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey, With the tolling tolling bells’ perpetual clang, Here, coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac. VII  (Nor for you, for one alone, Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring, For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane and sacred death. All over bouquets of roses, O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies, But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first, Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes, With loaded arms I come, pouring for you, For you and the coffins all of you O death.) VIII O western orb sailing the heaven, Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walk’d, As I walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night, As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night, As you droop’d from the sky low down as if to my side, (while the other stars all look’d on,) As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something I know not what kept me from sleep,) As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you were of woe, As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent night, As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black of the night, As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb, Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone. IX  Sing on there in the swamp, O singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear your call, I hear, I come presently, I understand you, But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detain’d me, The star my departing comrade holds and detains me. X O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved? And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone? And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love? Sea-winds blown from east and west, Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting, These and with these and the breath of my chant, I’ll perfume the grave of him I love. XI  O what shall I hang on the chamber walls? And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls, To adorn the burial-house of him I love? Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes, With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright, With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air, With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific, In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there, With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows, And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys, And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning. XII  Lo, body and soul—this land, My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships, The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio’s shores and flashing Missouri, And ever the far-spreading prairies cover’d with grass and corn. Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty, The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes, The gentle soft-born measureless light, The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill’d noon, The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars, Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land. XIII Sing on, sing on you gray-brown bird, Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from the bushes, Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines. Sing on dearest brother, warble your reedy song, Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe. O liquid and free and tender! O wild and loose to my soul—O wondrous singer! You only I hear—yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart,) Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me. XIV Now while I sat in the day and look’d forth, In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the farmers preparing their crops, In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests, In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb’d winds and the storms,) Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women, The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sail’d, And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor, And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages, And the streets how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent—lo, then and there, Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest, Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail, And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death. Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me, And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me, And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions, I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not, Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness, To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still. And the singer so shy to the rest receiv’d me, The gray-brown bird I know receiv’d us comrades three, And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love. From deep secluded recesses, From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still, Came the carol of the bird. And the charm of the carol rapt me, As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night, And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird. Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later delicate death. Prais’d be the fathomless universe, For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise! For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death. Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. Approach strong deliveress, When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead, Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death. From me to thee glad serenades, Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee, And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. The night in silence under many a star, The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know, And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil’d death, And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide, Over the dense-pack’d cities all and the teeming wharves and ways, I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death. XV To the tally of my soul, Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird, With pure deliberate notes spreading filling the night. Loud in the pines and cedars dim, Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume, And I with my comrades there in the night. While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed, As to long panoramas of visions. And I saw askant the armies, I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags, Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc’d with missiles I saw them, And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody, And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,) And the staffs all splinter’d and broken. I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them, I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war, But I saw they were not as was thought, They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer’d not, The living remain’d and suffer’d, the mother suffer’d, And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer’d, And the armies that remain’d suffer’d. XVI Passing the visions, passing the night, Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands, Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul, Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song, As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night, Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy, Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven, As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses, Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves, I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring. I cease from my song for thee, From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee, O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night. Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night, The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird, And the tallying chant, the echo arous’d in my soul, With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe, With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird, Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well, For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands—and this for his dear sake, Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul, There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.

-Walt Whitman