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bottleofspilledink · 4 years ago

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God’s Watching, Put on a Show || Chapter XVI

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Eve made the sign of the cross with unsteady hands, filled with fear and guilt and shame and sin, wanting to be cleansed of it but at the same time not wanting to do what she had to in order to be saved, in order to be purified in order to be welcomed back into the Lord’s light.

“May the Lord be in your heart and help you confess your sins with true sorrow.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Eve couldn’t help the tremble in her voice, hands reaching to fidget with the beads of her rosary. It brought her no comfort now, though, she honestly isn’t sure if it ever did… “My last confession was three months ago.”

“Proceed, my child.”

“I’ve, um…” She pauses momentarily, trying to think of something to say. None of the time she spent outside was spent actually reflecting on her sins. No, instead, the thirty minutes she spent on the pew was used to debate whether she would actually confess her sins or – and the thought of what it would cost her soul scared her, believe me – lie. “I’ve been ungrateful for what the Lord has provided me, Father.”

“How so?”

“Uh, b-because I was angry that my father was never home…” It was for the better, Eve thought, that she leave out the fact he was a womanizer. “I found myself wishing for a different family.”

Again, she left out that she wished for a different, more accepting family. Eve doubted that such a thing even existed, especially since she’s never even seen one.

The whispered words of Joan and Lilith and everyone else at the lunch table came to mind, or more accurately, what she was able to catch of it. They spoke of a place – she didn’t know what it was called but she knew it was a city – filled with people like them, where people loved the way they loved, a place of freedom, a place that, if she decided to tell the priest of it, he’d call a den of sin.

“I see.” The priest responded, more to let her know that he was still listening if anything else.

“I’ve been envious of my friends.” Envious of their normalcy, of their heterosexuality, the ease with which they lived. She prayed for it every night, after tucking away Lilith’s note, after wiping her hands on her sheets…

“And have you acted on that envy, my child? Have you stolen?”

Eve was quite sure there wasn’t a way to steal such things. She wished there was, though. Had it been possible, she’d have done it long ago, wrong as it may be.

What a painful thing it was, to want what you could never have.

Oh, but it was even more agonizing to want something she could so easily have, yet constantly have to deny herself of.

A tantalizing, forbidden fruit that lay in reach, red and ripe and just there, waiting for her to grab it.

“No, Father. I have not stolen.”

“Good.” The old man comments. “The Lord will be pleased that you’ve at least managed to resist some of the devil’s temptations.”

“I partook in something she did not wish me to. I was selfish in my decision and thought only of what I want.” She was running out of things to confess, the time she had to decide whether to hide the events of the past two weeks wearing thin.

“What did you do, my child?”

“Tell me what you partook in, my child. Remember, I am here in place of the Lord to forgive yours sins and save your soul, But I can’t help you if you do not confess properly.”

Ah, there was truly nothing better than the threat of damnation to scare someone straight.

“Recently, Father,” She continues, “I’ve been disobeying my mother…”

“I joined the gardening club against her wishes, Father.”

The fact this was considered a sin did nothing to surprise her, painful as it was. Practically everything that made her happy nowadays was a sin.

“What else?”

“I think bad things sometimes.”

“I cheated on a quiz.”

At this point, Eve was only saying things for the sake of saying them, to be able to say to herself that she had confessed.

“Being tempted is not a sin, my child. Have you nothing else to confess?”

This was it. Her last chance to tell him everything that had happened and hope to be forgiven. If she walked out of the confessional right now, she’d be a sinner.

“Anything more?”

She already was.

There was so much to confess.

Everything was dark and frightening in the cramped space of the confessional. It was as if the booth was closing in on her, hardwood walls coming nearer and nearer, squeezing the sin from her body and the air from her lungs.

She couldn’t breathe.

Lilith’s note burned like hot coals in her pocket. Everything she’d done with it were sins. Memories of the past week, all sinful, came rushing back to her in the deafening … that time she almost kissed Lilith. Another sin. A grave one. The lust she felt upon their second meeting after glimpsing her cleavage. Once more, a sin. Thinking that Lilith and Joan and Paula and Colette and Julia were good people despite them being unrepentant homosexuals. A sin. Letting Lilith change her blouse in the bathroom. More sin. The way she clung to Lilith after. Again, sin. The way she felt when Lilith held her close behind the gardening shed, as if God himself wouldn’t be able to hurt her if she’d hide herself in the girl’s arms. Did that count as blasphemy? Either way, a sin.

Hiding what Lilith had done the day of the fire. Sin.

Everything she’s ever done. Sin.

Everything she’s ever thought. Sick and sinful.

Sin.

Sins. All of it. Everything. Even her.

“Do you have anything else to confess?” He asked again, at last breaking the deafening silence that had settled over them.

From the little light that seeped in from the already dim chapel, Eve could just barely make out the priest’s outline, portly and hunched, any other distinguishing features obscured from her, as she hoped she was to him.

“No, father.”

“Well then, if that’s the case, I will now give you my advice.” The man cleared his throat and for the first time since she began doing confession, just before her first communion, she dared to look at the almost opaque screen that separated them.

“In times of ungratefulness and longing, you should think of those who have less than and say a prayer of thanks and a prayer for the less fortunate.” Eve couldn’t help but think the man sounded haughty, as if believing his words to be filled with some sort of profound, unheard of wisdom.

“As for when you encounter temptation, you must simply look to God for strength and guidance. Pray to him, so that he may see your plight, so that he may see how hard you are trying to stay obedient to him that he may send aid.”

She was near tears, hands clutching at her rosary once more, holding it so harshly that there was now an indent on her thumb in the shape of a crucified Christ. Damn it all, she had been praying!

He looked… plain, undeniably human. Nothing he was resembled anything close to being the bridge between heaven and earth, in no part of him could you see the link between man and Jesus, nowhere in sight did his flesh look to be the naturally benevolent stand in of the ever-ethereal and unknown God they so wholeheartedly praised.

Eve prayed nearly every hour of everyday, through every trial, begging to be relieved of her ailments and sins, asking for help, reassurance, at the very least, some sign that this wasn’t all for naught and in vain, a light at the end of the ever-elongating tunnel.

“But remember, my child, the Lord will not make you face anything you are unprepared for. Have faith and thank him for giving you your cross to bear, that you may work your way into heaven.”

Everything this man was telling her, she’d heard before and twice over. The same advice regurgitated to her over the years by different voices using different words that all boiled down to the same two: Have faith.

When would that faith be rewarded?

When would she be free of her cross?

“For your penance, ten ‘Hail Mary’s, two ‘Apostle’s Creed’s and an ‘Act of Contrition.’”

In her mind, she doubled that number and added a ‘Lord’s Prayer’ for good measure, wanting to make up for her unconfessed sins but unwilling to state them.

Why?

For love, for Lilith. For the trust Lilith put in her, in exchange for keeping her own sins secret.

“I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

The confession had ended.

“Go, now, in peace, for you have been forgiven.”

Eve left, even more sinful than she’d entered.

...

“What did you tell the priest, Eve?!”

Lilith screamed, at last snapping the blonde into the present, pulling her from the prison that was her mind and making Eve come to and look upon her, agonized, in the throes of desperation and panic.

Never before had she seen Lilith so vulnerable, so scared. Was this what she’d looked like, Eve wondered, crying and clinging to Paula on the bathroom floor only days ago?

“Please, please, Eve!” Lilith begged, hysterical. Perhaps if she pleaded enough, Eve’s betrayal would undo itself and they could revert to their usual dynamic, with Lilith as the rock and Eve as the weeping one, or going even further back, return to what once was and rid herself of the ache and ailment that was being in love with Eve Peccator and the consequences that came with it.

Eve pried Lilith’s hands from hers, joining her where she knelt on cold, unyielding stone, breaking the painting of the damning deity and distraught repentant, instead creating one that was far more human, closer to their reality, one of two sinner, banished from Eden yet finding comfort in each other.

Stained glass figures and marble saints looked down on them both, now, passing their own judgements upon the pitiful scene. Other than them, no one was there to hear Lilith wail as she broke down, sharp features scrunching up as she let what had built over the day, over the week, over the year, over her entire lifetime out in the form of hot, salty tears that now fell on Eve as they rolled down her cheeks, blotchy and red as her hair.

She took Lilith’s sobbing face into her caring hands, full of love and respect for the girl in front of her even in what was the other’s most fragile and shameful moments.

There was a moment of silence when their eyes met for the first time in hours, earthly brown meeting tear-filled, heavenly blue.

“Nothing.” Eve wiped the tears off Lilith’s cheek with a tender stroke of her thumb.

“I told them nothing.”

Lilith again broke out in harder sobs as the fear that filled her melted away, Eve taking away her pain, her suffering, her cross as she leaned in close and brought their foreheads together, noses barely touching, never once breaking eye contact.

“I kept you secret.”

Oh, how heavy those words were… The weight they held was indescribable, more so coming from Eve. She almost couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She wanted to, though, wanted to believe that Eve loved her as much as she did, loved her enough to hide her away in her heart, away from the God she so feared in spite of the harm it may bring her soul.

“I've sinned for you, Lilith.”

___________

Have I destroyed you? Good ψ(｀∇´)ψ

Happy holidays again and I’ll be back in January with more chapters :D

It’s now actually christmas!! This is my present for you guys (/≧▽≦)/ Take it!!!! Lmao make my holidays better by giving me comments ands reblogs cause yes!! (To the people who talk in the tags: I love you guys <333)

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rotzaprachim · 4 years ago

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some things from the “carmen is niall’s daughter” ramble fic i didn’t really know how to finish or clean up

the carmen is niall’s daughter theory fic

When the king was very young, a woman who was not a called a witch but had the green world curling through her blood read open his palm. She didn’t like what she saw, so she read the dregs of his tea and then the shards of a glass he dropped on the kitchen floor. She didn’t like that either so she bundled them both in their coats and took him on a long walk. Night was falling and so was the curfew, but the woman who was not a witch feared what she saw in the shadowy twistings of the future more. Finally she found what they were looking for. Her sister had a dog who’d been put out for the night. The woman who was not a witch roused the dog from his sleep and slathered his nose with a concoction so he would not cry and wake the neighbors, which was the dog’s entire purpose. Then she took the dog and a kitchen knife and the young king out to the back garden, and read the future. This was the way to get the strongest reading.

Blood could look blue in the night, if the moon was full enough.

Afterwards, she whipped off her knives on a spare bit of kitchen towell.

“You will have many children. You will kill your son, but his death will come from your daughter’s hand.”

The king laughed, because the witch was not really a witch, just an old lady who made extra money making amulets and embroidering tea cozies, and what could she know of the future? Who was an oracle to the man he was planning on becoming? He wouldn’t have any kids at all, really, the money-sucking bastards they were, although if he was a king then the idea of a son, lone, singular, too endowed with this strange dark power of his, was an appealing one. Every king needed an heir.

---

What the moderators didn’t understand was that was what it was to be Carmen Farooq-Lane: to have an unpassable line between the person you had been and the person you were now. To never again be that person who was neat and precise and methodical, but who was good at friendships and smiling, and not only aquaintances and shaking hands. Who sometimes dyed her hair blue. Who had a lot of hair, and wore it down, curling around her face. Who wore jean jackets, sometimes even with pins, and tights in unusual colours. Who listened to MIKA and the Cranberries and Janis Joplin and Joan Baez and let herself cry over girls who broke her heart in the dorm bathroom. Who bought candy-pink shower gell and Hollister body mists. Who broke girls’ hearts. Who kissed girls she didn’t know. Who went home with girls she didn’t know. Who came back across the city at five am with a matcha latte and a knish to bang out an economics essay by nine. Who did that and didn’t think the world was ending.

She’d thought about shaving all her hair off, but that would be a prototypical sign of teenage rebellion, stereotypical and nigh par for the curse of being hormonal and rebellious. She thought about getting a tattoo, but what to put on it? She didn’t want to be seen. She wanted to disappear. She wanted the world to swallow her until she was nothing at all. She wanted to disappear.

---

The king gave each of his children land.

To the oldest, the son of his youth, he gave land that had never been his. It had never been anyone’s at all, situated on the Kerry ley line as it was. But he had no writing of it, no record apart from his trips there, almost no one alive who knew of it, and they would not hurt his son. To his oldest he gave the knowledge of it- if things go south for us, men of our kind, run. And then the men with guns came knocking, run his oldest son did. Caomhan Browne was there, and he understood what had happened before Nathan said a word. He was always going to fuck himself over, living like that, Caomhan Browne said. But no one could find you here, all the magic in this place keeping out those without the dreamstuff, no one but one of your own blood.

To the second, the son of his homeland, a blank DC townhouse. The king had used it mainly to store boxes of his stuff when he came into the city in business, and also to meet with women. Otherwise it was empty. After the king was found dead, his second son ran away from home forever and found something he could live within here, in the blankness, because it matched what he thought was his own. To the second son, the house in the city, the business in the city, the eye for women, the firm handshake. The second son, but the last of his children to whom he portioned his kingdom.

To the third, the son of his dream, he gave his kingdom.

To the fourth, the son that was not his son, he gave the empty plot of land in Armagh he’d bought mainly because he could. To show himself he was no longer the empty-pocketed Belfast scrounger but a man who had made himself a new name and pulled gold from a new lan, a man who could buy things and own things and let money run cold through his fingers. His family had not lived in Armagh for generations. For him it had been a story of a place more than a place itself. But still a local dairy farmer was happy to let him buy an empty plot awkwardly positioned between fields for a pittance, and the king liked the idea of owning the land more than the land itself. He never visited it.

To his only daughter, the king gave the truth of himself.

The king had not meant to. He had merely planned to give her the Chicago brownstown, more picturesque than her DC cousin, and hers as long she could pay her part of the mortgage. It had been spruced up by his wife with yellow curtains and vintage shop bric-a-brac and stylish modernist furniture she compulsively ordered out of a Restoration Hardware catalogue, but it was a strange place with both the kids gone, so they were planning on moving out to the suburbs. It was an easier place to get to and from, and keep things buried in the yard, and with the earnings of his work his wife could retire early and more fully devote herself to morning cooking shows and the homeowner’s association and the other trifles she had arranged into a life. In their absence the house would be his daughter’s, and he considered it a fair section of her birthright. And she had been happy to claim it as her own, until the day she came home and found grey-pink chunks of her mother’s brain on the entryway carpet.

In the aftermath, she had gone through her father’s things. There were many many photos of the cousins he had told her about, Scott and Sean and some other kid, blonde. There were photos of her and Nathan too, and even her Mom, when she was young and Dad was young, and Dad still had awful hair, like an 80’s rocker. There were folded over stacks of money of five currencies, wrapped with rubber bands.

There was the deed to a house. There was an address. The address was in Belfast. Carmen was not an expert on the Northern Irish housing market, but she had a mind for these kinds of things, financial dealings and stealings, where money could be hidden and how, and she found the address belonged to a narrow brick house in the north of Belfast. It had once been a council flat, but since had been auctioned off for cash, and her father had bought it, and kept the evidence of the dealings in a lockbox in his desk. And the keys, which were very cold to her touch. These Carmen slipped into her pocket. Her father had had many secrets, some still living even after he’d had his brains bashed out with a pair of sewing scissors. When he was alive it had been her purpose to hear the secrets, but now she was left only with the spaces where those secrets had beem which were very loud in their silence.

After the moderators killed Nathan, they burned the place down. Ramsay tossed a bunch of cans of petrol, peyitroooolll, he said in what was supposed to be an Irish accent and sounded more like a Bucca di Beppo ad, peyitrolll, and the other moderators laughed and jostled each other, like football jocks, like her brothers body wasn’t lying there cold, and she helped arrange things so the blaze would be controlled. Then she watched from the road with a gun in her hand, in case there was other damage that would need to be cleaned up. They were a long way from anywhere but if there was anything her time with the moderators had taught her, it was that people could poke their noses where they didn’t belong from anywhere on earth. Someone might even show up with a hose and some water, or call the fire department, in the interest of being neighborly. She took her boots off and plastic bagged them, and then stood on the sharp-pebbled dirt of the boreen in her sock feet with a loaded gun in her hands. The flames licked the sky. No one drove by.

Then they all made themselves scarce. Carmen was good at this. She was a financial planner on a week-long vacation, and had already purchased some Guinness Factor keychains to hand out to coworkers to shore up this fiction, but now it was time to make themselves scarce before the guards came and tried to work out if any of it was something stranger than a gas leak.

#my writing #carmen farooq-lane #niall lynch #just looking through drafts trying to remember how to put words into sentences again

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jwillowwolf · 3 years ago

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Magic and Miracles - Chapter 10

Sanders Sides Big Bang fic, Chapter 10!

< Previous Chapter | Next Chapter > | Masterlist

(Art by @just-a-pintrovert)

Summary: “Hey, Virgil, what’s this?” Remus asked, pointing at the large flat box thing mounted on the wall.

“A tv.”

“Oh… what’s a tv?”

Warning/s: food mention.

Tag List: s: Logan, Virgil, OCs, Roman, Remy, Remus, Patton, Janus, Emile.

Tag List: @theimprobabledreamersworld @remy-please-come-back

Read on Ao3

10 | This is Not a Place of Logic

“Nico and Thomas have been kidnapped.”

"Did you just say, Thomas and Nico? As in the King and Prince Consort?" Willow asked.

"Yes. They were abducted earlier along with the Magic Council." Remy stated.

The others began asking more questions about the incident but Logan didn't listen to them. Instead, he focused on Virgil's face. He saw little colour in his pale skin slowly fade away. His grey eyes became cold and dull, like a stone, and he stared at Remy. His breathing was beginning to become short and erratic. He began to sway on his legs as if they'd suddenly become numb.

"Virgil," Logan said gently. "Virgil, please look at me."

Virgil turned his blank gaze to Logan.

"Can I touch you?"

Virgil nodded weakly.

Logan took his hand and guided him outside the room, to the hallway where they could sit alone on a bench. The moment Virgil was sat down, he let out a choked sob. Logan began to comfortingly rub his back, then found himself wrapped in a hug.

He froze in shock for a moment, before he began to hug Virgil back. Holding him close as he cried into his shoulder like a scared child. It was metaphorically heartbreaking for Logan to hear, but he could not let go. He had no other way to comfort him at the moment, so for now he would just hold him.

After some time, Virgil pulled away. “Th-thank you.”

“No problem… How are you feeling?”

“…I’m not sure how to describe it... Scared... Lost... Alone...”

“I don’t know how comforting this may be but, you are most definitely not alone. You have our friends, Remy, and me.”

Virgil perked up a bit. “That is very a lot more comforting than you know.”

“Ehem,” the boys looked up to see Remy was standing in the doorway. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but you probably didn’t hear all the details of what happened.”

Virgil nodded and motioned for Remy to fill them in.

“Thomas, Nico, and the Magic Council were having their quarterly meeting to discuss the kingdom’s magical balance. During said meeting, someone cast a strange spell that caused everyone inside the meeting room to disappear. The caster was found dead on site, having used their MP and HP to cast this spell.”

“Was there any evidence on where the caster came from?”

Remy paused and took a deep breath to steady himself. “The caster… was a fae...”

“What?”

“The caster was a fae person. We don’t know who or even how they got into the realm.”

“Has anyone talked to Tía Tanya or Dune?”

“Joan has been named regent while your parents are… missing, and they sent a messenger to fill me in. I’m going to go and talk with Tanya and Dune, then we’ll need to send someone through to the Fae realm to inform your grandmother.”

Virgil nodded. “I’ll come with you then.”

“What? No! You need to stay here where you’re safe.”

“I can’t stay here and do nothing. Besides, you would need me to help with opening the realm gate and getting an audience with my grandmother.”

“Virgil, it won’t be safe, especially if I’m the only one guarding you.”

“We can guard him,” Remus said from behind Remy.

Remy narrowed his eyes. “Who is we?”

“Us, the class,” Janus answered. “We’ve been trained in combat and can wield magic.”

“And are only fifteen.” Remy pointed out.

“We’re young, but that doesn’t make us helpless,” Willow replied. “We faced down that giant mole, all together. The seven of us are a lot harder to take down than you think.”

Logan nodded. “You need Virgil’s help, and we can help to protect him. Plus, if there are people here who want to hurt him, then the best thing to do is probably take him somewhere safe, like to his grandmother.”

Remy sighed. “We don’t even know if the fae realm is secure, Logan.”

“But it would be safer than here, right?”

Remy groaned. “Emile, help me here.”

Emile was quiet a moment and looked directly at his son. “I know I won’t be able to change your mind. You’re too much like your mother for that. Just… Promise me you’ll be careful.”

Logan nodded. “I promise dad.”

“We’ll all be taking care of each other, Mr Picani. Don’t worry,” Roman assured.

Emile smiled. “Well then, I think you’ll all do great.”

Remy looked horrified but he knew he couldn’t win this fight. Virgil, Logan, and the rest of the class would all be going with him to the fae realm whether he liked it or not. Or maybe he could get Tanya to talk this lunacy out of them.

---

“Brilliant idea, darling,” Tanya complimented. “Taking Virgil and his friends will get you to Valeria without any problems about your identity and whatnot.”

Dune nodded agreeingly. “The only thing I am concerned about is the children’s lack of protection.”

“We do have our weapons and magic,” Remus stated.

“That’s good dear, but I think that you’ll need some added protection. Hmm, here,” Dune brought out a box with some beaded bracelets. “These are enchanted with protection spells. Each of you can take one and it’ll be as good as dressing you in full plate armour.”

“These are so beautiful. Thank you so much, Mx Dune,” Patton said

Dune smiled. “It’s nothing really, dear. I’m glad you like them.”

Not to be impatient, but can we get going? Virgil asked.

“Right. You’ll need to be as fast as you can to get the news to your grandmother. I wish the mirrors were working so we didn’t have to send you all off so quickly, but I believe that you will do brilliantly. Follow me to the gate then!” Tanya said, briskly walking out of the room where they had been debriefing her and Dune on the situation.

There were some stairs down to the portal gate, which Logan was very grateful for. He didn't mind flying in Virgil’s arms last time of course, but he wasn’t quite sure that Virgil would carry him this time around. It also meant he was able to take in the brilliant architecture as they descended, so of course he loved that. He didn’t quite love the aching in his limbs when they finally reached the bottom of the stairs but it was so worth it.

At the bottom of the stairs was a lovely area full of rich green vegetation. It looked very much like an enchanted garden, which was impressive considering how far underground they were. At the centre of this garden, there was a tall archway made from black stone with strange runes carved all around it. Tanya and Virgil walked over to this arch and stood directly in front of it a moment.

“You remember how to activate it?” Tanya asked.

Virgil nodded and held his hand out towards the arch.

Tanya did the same and they began to chant in unison, some strange words from a language that Logan had never heard before. Their voices seemed to echo with an ancient power and their hands that were outstretched began to glow with purple light. The runes on the archway glowed with the same strange light which bled into the opening of the arch until it was like there was a door of purple light there.

Once the chanting was done, the light from Virgil and Tanya’s hands faded away, but the light in the archway remained bright as ever.

“There you go, the portal is now active. I’ll make sure to keep it open for you so you can return whenever.”

“Thank you, Tanya,” Remy said. “You kids ready to go?”

The teens all glanced at each other. It had been one thing to agree to help their friend in his time of need, but right now the reality was setting in. They would be leaving behind their homes and families for gods know how long to visit a realm inhabited by a race they didn’t know very much about. Despite all of that, however, it took them less than a moment to decide this was right.

They could feel it in their souls. This was something they had to do. They were ready to do whatever it took to help their friend. It didn’t matter what was on the other side of that porthole because they would be facing it together.

“Well?”

“We’re ready.”

One by one, they walked through the archway. Oddly enough, it felt like walking through a normal doorway, except their skin tingled a bit as the magical light made contact. On the other side, there was a garden that looked nearly identical to where they had just been, except the magnificent greenery was now blue. They also seemed to be on top of a cliff, overlooking a city made of tall glass towers that reflected the bright green sky above.

“Um, is it supposed to be that colour?” Roman asked, pointing to the sky.

“Hmm, oh, yeah,” Virgil answered. “There are a lot of strange things in the fae realm but they’re harmless… mostly.”

“That’s reassuring,” Janus muttered.

“Well, I like it!” Remus declared.

“This place is insane,” Willow stage whispered.

Virgil laughed. “You guys haven’t seen anything yet. Follow me.”

He led them away from the cliff’s edge to a quaint little house that seemed to be strangely overgrown with vines. On the porch of this house, there was a woman sitting reading a book. When she looked up to see the group coming out of the garden gate, her eyes went wide.

“Prince Virgil! What brings you here?”

“I need to see my grandmother. It’s urgent.”

“Well, she’s in the city, of course. I can drive you and your friends over there quickly. Um, if all of you need to go through, I’ll need to get Doug to drive a second car.”

“Great. Sorry for being so rushed.”

“It’s no problem, dear. I’ll fetch Doug.”

“Uh, what’s a car?” Patton asked.

“Well, it’s like a carriage, but it’s powered by magic to drive around without horses,” Virgil explained.

Remus tilted his head to the side. “That sounds crazy... I like this place even more now!”

The cars were indeed very strange. They seemed to be formed from glass and steel, with wheels covered in rubber, and an ‘engine’ that hummed with life as they drove down the mountainside and into the city. At a closer glance, the group saw that the towers were indeed made with many large glass windows, although some seemed to be tinted for privacy. The roads between the towers had many cars driving up and down them, and still, there was an uncountable amount of fae folk walking on the ‘sidewalks’.

The group drove directly to the largest tower at the very centre of the city, which Virgil said was the palace. Once they got out of the cars, a man standing by the door saw Virgil and fished out a small handheld device which he talked into before walking over.

He bowed. “Prince Virgil, welcome back to the Fae Realm.”

“Thank you. Would you please have my grandmother alerted I’m here?”

“Uh, yes, sir. I’ve already called for someone to come and fetch your luggage.”

“We don’t have any.”

“Oh, well, then allow me to escort you to a room to freshen up.”

“I need to speak with my grandmother.”

“Please, sir, I was told to take you to a room.”

Virgil frowned impatiently. “Alright then. Lead the way.”

The man led them into the building’s reception room, and then through a pair of sliding doors into a box room called ‘an elevator’. The doors closed by themselves and the man pressed one of the many buttons beside the door. Logan felt his stomach lurch as the elevator rose up, quickly passing floor after floor until finally, it got to the one he assumed was their destination.

The floor they arrived on was huge, with a sunken lounge area, a small kitchen, and a wall straight ahead that looked like it was made entirely out of the window. The teens looked around in awe at the strange wonders of the room while Virgil tried talking their guide into taking them to his grandmother. The man deflected his request however and declared he would return shortly with some snacks for the group before departing via the elevator.

Virgil groaned. “How didn’t he understand the word urgent. I’ll need to talk to gran about this.”

“Hey, Virgil, what’s this?” Remus asked, pointing at the large flat box thing mounted on the wall.

“A tv.”

“Oh… what’s a tv?”

“It’s for watching movies and stuff. Here, you use this remote to control it,” Virgil explained before turning it on to display a moving picture of what appeared to be a fae person dancing.

“Woah. How does it do that?” Roman asked.

Virgil shrugged. “Magic.”

“Is everything in the fae realm made to use magic?” Logan inquired.

“Well, most things do. Here, everyone has access to the use of magic and magical items are used for most daily tasks, like cleaning, cooking, going places, and even speaking with people via mirrors.”

“This is incredible.” Patton said, staring at the tv which now was showing a kitten dancing.

“Yeah, it’s cool, but we need to go guys-”

Virgil was cut off by a loud sound from the kitchen, which turned out to be Remy using some small device that looked like a glass jug?

“Sorry, kid, what were you saying?”

“Are you making an iced coffee right now?”

“These things are amazing, and we don’t have blenders in the other realm.”

“What’s an iced coffee?” Janus inquired.

“A drink from the heavens themselves,” Remy declared, pouring the drink out of the blender. “Here, have a taste.”

Janus wearily took the cup and sniffed its contents before taking a sip. “Oh… That’s bitter. And so good.”

Remy grinned. “I know, right?”

“Hello, people, we’re on a mission here,” Virgil tried reminding them.

Unfortunately, Remy and Janus were preoccupied with a discussion about iced coffee, and everyone else was captivated by the tv.

“Fine, I’ll just go deliver the message alone!”

Logan looked away from the TV at that. “I can come with you.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, we didn’t come here for this. I’m sure I can look at everything later.”

Virgil smiled. “Thanks, Logan. Follow me.”

They both got into the elevator and took it to a different floor with a long grand hallway that Logan could barely keep track of as they went left and right, and up some stairs, then left again -or was it right?- then down some stairs, then another direction? And finally, they came to some huge doors that Logan assumed led to the throne room.

“How is there so much space on this floor?” Logan questioned.

“It’s the fae realm, L, if it doesn’t make sense, just assume it’s magic.” Virgil said before pushing the doors open and walking into the throne room.

Logan followed half a step behind Virgil, but nearly walked into him a few minutes later when he froze. Logan looked around Virgil to see what made him stop and noted that there was a man sitting on the throne. And if Virgil’s reaction were anything to go by, then that man wasn’t meant to be there.

“Prince Virgil! It’s so wonderful to see you again after so long! My goodness, you’ve really grown since I last saw you.”

“It is good to see you as well, Earl Ynclementia, but where is my grandmother?”

The earl’s expression turned sorrowful. “I am afraid that she is unwell, your highness. She’s confined to her bed with terrible sickness and no one but the doctors are allowed to see her. They won’t even let me in there.”

“She’s sick? How?”

“We’re not sure, your highness. We were going to actually send someone to tell your parents immediately when we realised that the mirrors were not working for inter-realm communication.”

“When did she get sick?”

“Only two days ago. As I said, we were going to inform your parents immediately, but there were complications.”

“Do the doctors know what she has?”

“I’m afraid not. Or if they do, they haven’t told me.”

Virgil looked absolutely crestfallen. Logan couldn’t blame him considering all that was happening. His parents were missing and his grandmother was stuck sick in bed. It was understandable that Virgil would be devastated. However, as quickly as Virgil’s sadness appeared, it disappeared. His face became stoic and he looked up at the Earl with a critical eye.

“I need to see my grandmother.”

“Your highness, like I said, even I’m not allowed to see her. The doctors fear her illness may be contagious. You should go home to inform your parents of what’s happened.”

“I will contact them via my mirror.”

“Your highness the mirrors aren’t working.”

“Mine is working just fine. I used it to call my parents and tell them I was safe when I got here.”

“O-oh? You called... your parents?”

“Yes. I’ll call again to tell them what's going on here. I assume you’re currently acting as regent.”

“Ah, yes. I am.”

“Good, they’ll be glad to hear that. If you’ll excuse me then, I’ll inform them at once.”

Virgil turned around before the earl could say anything else, grabbed Logan’s hand and promptly marched out of the room. Logan was very confused about why he’d just lied like that to the earl, but he waited until they were alone in the halls to say anything. When he tried to ask though, Virgil put a finger over his lips and looked around suspiciously first.

“I am quite sure we’re alone,” Logan stated.

“Good, because I think that we’ve walked ourselves into the lion’s den.”

“What?”

“Call me crazy, but things around here are too… calm. If my grandmother were really sick in bed then we wouldn’t even have been able to park out front without getting harassment from the press.”

“Press?”

“News Reporters. People who keep the common folk informed for a living.”

“Couldn’t they be trying to keep things secret to stop any panic?”

“People are naturally gossipy, Logan. Someone would have let it slip to the news by now. Something isn’t right here...”

“...We need to get back to the others.”

---

A/N: thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed this. I'll be posting two chapters a day until the full fic is up, so if you want to be tagged, you can just ask.

I'd love to hear what you thought about the chapter if you wouldn't mind commenting. Thanks again for reading! Here's hoping you have a magical day 💜

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years ago

Text

The Crucible (part two)

[UK Tour; Carrie AU 2]

Part 1

Word count: 9240

TW: Child abuse, blood, the r-word again, emotional manipulation, minor implied sexual content (as in: one paragraph and nothing actually happens), underage drinking, vomit

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

-Eve Was Weak-

“Jesus watches from the wall,

But his face is cold as stone

And if he loves me,

As she tells me,

Why do I feel so alone?”

Mulaney looked up from the notebook, which is studded with doodles of crosses and stars and hearts, and set his gaze on the teenager sitting across from him. Her arms are crossed over her chest again and she’s leaned back in her chair, jaw set thoughtfully. She’s got some sass, but was one of the easiest, most well-mannered people he’s spoken to for questioning before. Plus, she made the examination more fun with her snarky comments, which were even able to make his stoic partner who ran the camera, Madeline, chuckle or smile from time-to-time.

“Any speculation as to who the author is?”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say Joan Seymour.” Katherine Howard said. That sass mentioned before slipped back into her voice, edging her words in a way that made Mulaney huff out an amused breath.

“What do you suppose she’s trying to say?” Mulaney questioned.

“Probably, ‘help me, my mother’s insane.’” Katherine responded.

“Interesting.”

Katherine raised her eyebrows at him, sniffing. She’s poised and waiting.

“Do you consider yourself anti-religious, Katherine?” Mulaney asked.

Katherine snorted a light laugh. “No.” She said. “I just think some people take it too far, that’s all.”

“And you disapprove?”

“Look--” Katherine uncoiled her arms and sat up straight. At Mulaney’s side, Madeline quirked a brow at her change in stance, intrigued. “I’m all for believing whatever it is that you believe, but you say ‘religion’ to me, and I’m thinking da Vinci’s Last Supper. Jesus looks sad. The apostles look miserable. I don’t want to go to that party!”

Mulaney blinked at her logic. Katherine looked back at him, then turned her gaze up thoughtfully. She drummed her pointer fingers against the tabletop.

“Shouldn’t religion be more like Dogs Playing Poker?” She said.

“Dogs playing…”

“Poker.” Katherine finished for Mulaney. “I can’t tell you what any of the apostles are doing in The Last Supper. But I can tell you that the little white bulldog is holding an ace under the table.”

Mulaney unsuccessfully tried to smother a smile. Katherine caught it, grinning.

“See?” She said. “That’s fun! I’m engaged! There’s wonderment and awe! That other stuff is just all ritual and punishment. And it’s way too weird and way too serious.” She leaned back again, studying Mulaney and Madeline’s expressions. “What? It is!”

------

Jane Seymour was a woman of many faces, and not in the mentally ill sort of way, although some people assumed she may have been harboring multiple personality disorder within her wretched brain. She had many masks to wear, some cold and stoic, others sinister and wicked, and a few that may have even been sweet and nurturing. When she was at the local laundromat she worked at in town, several customers reported how she would “look at them like she was assessing their souls”, like she was judging whether or not they deserved to go to heaven. She thought most of them were Godless and muttered about it constantly, regardless of if they could hear her or not. She simply did not care.

Many people thought she would never delve into the sexual world of intercourse, what with all her screws loose that warded away most men and her extreme devotion to Christ, so it was quite shocking to hear the screams that erupted from the Seymour bungalow May 13th, 2005. Police were called, but had to wait to get a search warrant, so they, along with several neighbors, sat on the curb for hours, listening to the piercing cries that split the street in two. By the time police finally burst into the house to locate the struggle, they thought they were too late when they reached the master bedroom, which was covered in blood. But then they saw the woman rocking back and forth on the soaked bed, holding a tiny red baby with tufts of whitish hair to her left breast and everything clicked into place.

Several believed this woman was not fit to raise a child for obvious reasons, but police had no right to take a baby away from its mother, so the infant stayed and grew up in the house she was born in. It wasn’t like there was any place she could go, anyway. Jane’s husband was nowhere to be found.

Henry Tudor is--was--had been a mountain of a man. His arms were like truck tires, round and firm to the touch. He had broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and a huge body to go along with his already giant frame. Coppery gold hair framed his head and his bright sapphire blue eyes struck a stare that could put someone six feet under. Every single aspect of the man’s body boasted of an indestructible juggernaut.

And yet, he hasn’t been seen in fifteen years.

Rumors bubbled up. They always did. Some speculated he ran away to avoid the burden of taking care of a child or to simply get away from his insane wife. Others, mainly rowdy teenagers itching for drama, said Jane killed him and sacrificed his body to the Lord. Because of that, stories of the Seymour bungalow being haunted were created, although there was no proof of anything of the sort. Because they weren’t true. But Jane Seymour had been out to kill.

Her girl-spawn had barely been a few months old at the time. She laid in her homemade crib, gurgling and laughing, staring with strange blue eyes up at a mobile that was made for her. Jane crept up to her and aimed a knife for her throat.

Henry stopped her.

“You shall name her Johanna,” He had rumbled, easing Jane’s hand back to her side. “Joan for short.”

“Like Joan of Arc.” Jane had observed.

“Yes,” Henry had said.

“Hm.” Jane had peered down at the wriggling little beast. “I suppose that does make it slightly less Godless.”

“Yes,” Henry had said again. “Wait and see.”

And then, he was gone, disappearing into the night and never coming back.

Jane should not have let him stop her.

The child, of course, did not know this.

Joan slipped through the front door, but not without noticing a few neighbors peeking avidly out of their own windows, ears pricked. The whole neighborhood, possibly even the entire city, was always so interested in every little detail of the Seymour family’s lives. At least a few of them actually had the decency to duck back inside when they saw her coming up the sidewalk. One didn’t even notice her, it seemed, because he was still staring when she disappeared inside, while another was only pretending to not snoop while she fussed unnecessarily over her rose garden. Joan shot the flowers a sharp look, willing them to burst out of the ground and bite the lady’s nose off, but the front door closed behind her before she could see if anything happened. From the silence outside, she assumed nothing did.

(damn stupid woman wish she’d just go blind)

The smell of cinnamon was drifting through the entrance hallway. Maroon and orange (never red) candles were lit up throughout the downstairs area; Mama always preferred their warm glow over the harsh fluorescence of the overhead lights. Mama’s favorite radio station, WORT Radio, could be heard playing from the kitchen, along with the sound of singing.

Mama’s singing.

“Jesus, possess me!

Sweet savior, be my shepherd

Bless each endeavor

Till I finally join you forever”

A giddy tingling sensation zipped up through Joan’s spine. She always loved the sound of Mama’s singing. Her voice was so silken and honey-slicked, like the gentle croon of an angel. Joan said she should join a gospel, that she would be the best singer in the entire group, but Mama would always wave this off with a dismissive hand and a chuckle.

Joan ventured further into the house, feeling lighter and lighter with each step. She entered the lounge, where a Black Forest cuckoo clock clucked peacefully on the wall. There were many religious pictures and crucifixes in here, but Joan’s favorite was the photo of Jesus leading a herd of baby lambs through a beautiful flowered field. It radiated so much innocence, unlike all the other paintings of punishment and hellfire and sin. It was hung up beside the huge wooden cross with reddened edges over the unused fireplace. Joan did her best to never look at that decoration in particular.

Weaving around the brown felt couch and two moth-eaten velvet throne chairs facing each other, Joan glided into the kitchen. It was an old kitchen indeed, with an oven that squealed like a dying pig when opened and a sputtering gas stove, but everything worked perfectly fine for the two of them.

Two…

“Fly me free of temptation

And the flames of Hell's devastation

Then He will take me

And wash me in the river

I will make celebration

In the joy of final

The might of final

The fire of final Salvation!”

There was Mama, singing along to the song playing from an old radio on the counter, her back to Joan.

She was a moderately sized woman, but had a strong, corded neck and incredibly muscled hands from years of working at the local laundromat. Honey blonde hair framed her face, which was quite beautiful in a weird, overzealous religious way. Reaching brown roots slithered like snakes from her scalp, with only a few white hairs visible. Despite being in her forties, her complexion was more weathered by hardship and discipline than age. Piercing golden brown eyes flickered when she finally noticed her daughter standing there and a smile broke out on her pale pink lips.

“Mama,” Joan said breathily, unable to bite back her giddy grin.

“Ah, Joan,” Mama said, “there’s my sweet girl.” And then she opened her strong arms out wide and Joan darted into them instantly, nestling into her embrace. Mama smelled like honey and laundry detergent. “You’re home early.”

Joan felt her lower stomach twinge and she leaned a little closer into Mama’s chest. She would keep her mouth shut about the incident at school for now. Mama was in a good mood; no need to go and mess that up.

“School--ended sooner than usual.” Joan said, internally wincing. She hated lying, always fearing that she would be struck dead the moment the fib rolled off her tongue, but she would correct herself and tell the truth soon.

Mama hummed. “I see.” She pulled away and turned back to the counter, where she had been shaping bread dough with her wolf-like hands. “Dinner won’t be ready for awhile.”

“That’s okay,” Joan said. “I can wait.”

Mama hummed again. Joan fidgeted anxiously behind her.

“Is everything alright, my darling?” Mama asked, concern in her smooth voice.

“Yes, Mama,” Joan answered. “Just-- umm-- may I go shower?”

Mama chuckled. “Of course, dear.”

“Thank you, Mama.” Joan gave her another quick hug, then scurried up the creaky wooden stairs to her room.

Filthy. She suddenly felt so filthy. She had showered barely an hour ago, but grime seemed to be crawling all over her. Would Mama be safe from it? Was it bad that she touched her?

She tried to remember what Miss Aragon had told her. About this being…

“Normal.” Miss Aragon said. “It’s perfectly normal, Joan. Every girl goes through it.”

Joan whimpered. The spattered mess between her legs had been wiped away by Miss Aragon, a humiliation she would never be able to live down, and she was now fully dressed again, but her clothes felt too tight, especially around her groin. It felt like there were eels alive and writhing inside of her. She squirmed on the grey couch she was seated on in Miss Aragon’s office, a place where most students were forbidden to go into.

“My skin feels weird,” Joan whispered. “I-I’m hot…”

Miss Aragon frowned. Joan looked up at her with shiny, wet blue eyes and a glazed expression.

“It hurts,” She croaked.

“I know, sweetheart.”

“What did I do?”

“What?”

Joan shifted uncomfortably. Guilt surged through her, along with another painful sensation in her lower stomach. She whimpered again.

“What did I do?” She asked again. “D-did I sin? Is this my punishment?” Miss Aragon looked baffled, and Joan wasn’t sure how she should feel about that.

“No, no, Joan,” Miss Aragon said quickly. “You didn’t--you didn’t sin.” She made a face, like those words tasted funny on her tongue, but it disappeared quickly. “You’re a very good girl. All women go through this, like I said. It’s completely normal.”

“But--but I’m bleeding!” Joan cried woefully. She could feel drops of blood squeeze slickly out of her vagina and she cringed. “You shouldn’t-- it’s not-- I-I’m gonna bleed to death!”

Miss Aragon is frowning again, and Joan easily recognized it as a frown of pity. That’s the expression most adults wear when they look at her.

“You aren’t, Joan,” Miss Aragon said patiently. “It’ll stop in a few days.”

Joan squirmed again, wanting it to stop now. She looked up at Miss Aragon helplessly.

“What did you do?” She asked. “To get yours? How did you sin?”

Miss Aragon sighed and Joan instinctively shrunk away. Instead of being struck, however, her coach eased an arm around her shaking shoulders and pulled her in close against her side.

“Oh, Joan…” She murmured, stroking her wet hair. “You poor, poor girl…”

Miss Aragon had then gone on to explain the process of the strange word called ‘menstruation’, telling her how she would bleed for four to seven days at a time every month for basically the rest of her life. It sounded awful. How could God curse females with such a horrible bodily function?

The sharp ache in her lower stomach returned like a tug on her small intestines. She put her hand between her legs, but drew no blood (this time). A new feeling rose in Joan’s sore chest, a yearning, an ache. She felt suddenly cold, as if the sun could no longer warm her. This was it, then, the change was here.

Would she still be Joan after it was all over? When she shed the last of her “uterus lining”, as Miss Aragon had said, would she still be herself? Or would she be someone new?

Would being someone new be all that bad?

Joan swiped some looser, fresh clothes from her dresser and then scurried her way into the bathroom. She didn’t want to turn on the lights, so she lit a few candles instead, letting their warm glow fill the small space.

With muscles that were weak with fatigue, she slowly began to undress herself. First her overalls, then her white and baby blue flannel, her cream colored bra, and finally her underwear. The puffy sanitary napkin--a “pad”--that Miss Aragon had put in for her was spotted with large dark red, almost black stains that looked like gross bodily jelly. It was wilting already, so she carefully removed it and replaced it with one of the many others she had been given, remembering how Miss Aragon had told her to always change them whenever she got the chance or she may get sick.

After throwing away the pad she wadded up with toilet paper, Joan stepped into the bathtub and cranked the faucet handle.

Showering was agony.

Although the hot water had offered her a brief respite from the deep, otherworldly chill that had settled into her body, there was no escaping the pain. Each beating droplet against her limbs felt like a fresh wasp sting stabbing into her muscles and the flesh on her stomach, taut and uncomfortably bloated, pulsed and throbbed with agony every time she moved.

Like before a few minutes ago, like at school, she reached between her legs, and it came back sticky and red.

The smell of the blood was pungent and unnatural. It was nothing like real blood at all. It was more like the rot from her deteriorating insides as her sin caused her to rapidly decay. It made her feel sick, so she stuck her hand under the spray of liquid fire shooting out from the shower head and didn’t pull it back until all the blood was gone.

The smell remained on her hand.

Joan scrubbed vigorously between her legs, which seemed to be permanently stained. Crimson would smear across her pale flesh each time her vagina bled again and she did her best to wipe the trails away with an itchy sponge. By the time she finally gave up, her inner thighs felt chafed and raw.

Joan took to just watching the water and beads of soap run down the slightly rusted drain. Slowly, she sat down, knees bent up to her chest, legs spread slightly. Red drools down the floor of the shower to join the suds down into the pipes.

This reminded her of a time when she was eleven and was violently ill in the shower. She remembered looking up, slumped heavily over the rim of the tub, still in all her clothes, and seeing Mama in the doorway. She had been shaking her head, but had a morbidly amused glint in her eyes. Then, chuckling darkly, she was saying, “You shouldn’t have gotten--”

“--drunk,” Said Joan, her fists clenched determinedly at her sides and her heart hammering in her throat.

The figure in the armchair in front of her turned to look at the doorway and squinted up at her for a moment as though trying to figure out who she was. And then it sagged back into the chair with an air of disappointment. Like it had been expecting someone else, someone better.

Joan stared back through the thick mop of white-blonde hair that had started to hang in her eyes lately because she’d been too lazy to cut it.

She was eleven and standing in the doorway of the house she’d grown up in, feet squared in her tattered shoes (she hadn’t gone and gotten herself a new pair in awhile, though she was long since overdue) and jaw set grimly.

“...You're what?” Said the figure slowly, her weathered, thick-knuckled hands clutching a periwinkle embroidery and a shiny sewing needle.

“I’m drunk, Mama,” Joan said again, feeling a thrill that was equal parts excitement and terror run through her from head to toe as she said the scandalous words. She watched those dark eyes apprehensively, dimly aware through the buzz of alcohol that she was shivering.

Later, on nights when she had nothing better to think about (there would be a lot of nights like that), she would dramatize this event in her head. She’d think about what might have happened if she’d been yelled at, or sent to her closet, or even slapped across the face and sent sprawling. It wasn't that she did this to feel sorry for herself, or to pretend that it had been worse than it actually was.

The truth was that all of those outcomes were things she wished had happened more than what actually had.

From the worn-out old armchair, the figure stared at her a moment longer, before simply shaking its head in silent apathy and looking back down at the embroidery.

“This is why God has left you,” Said Jane Seymour, dismissively.

And then Joan had trudged off, disappointed by the lack of reaction. Usually her Mama would throw an absolute fit over the littlest things she did, but the night she drank alcohol was barren of any dramatics.

An hour later, she would violently heave up all the whiskey she ingested from her system in the shower. It burned more than it did on the way down and made her cry helplessly for her Mama, who knelt by the bathtub and stroked her hair like she was a dog while she threw up all over herself. Mama had cradled her head against her chest when she was finished, mouth and chin still dripping with vomit, and told her what an evil little imp she was in a voice like sweet caramel.

Joan shook her head, scattering droplets across the shower walls and curtain. She looked down and saw a small sea of blood rippling around her feet. Her nose curled in disgust and she backed up further against the back of the tub.

Minutes passed. Joan’s mind was fuzzy and blank for most of the time she sat in the water and her own blood. Her vagina began to hurt at one point and throbbed steadily with her beating heart.

When it was eventually time to get out, she found that the heat of the water had soaked the energy right out of her, and it took everything in her to get dressed again instead of just curling up naked in a corner of the shower and passing out.

The cuts splattering her figure, those that hadn't scabbed over yet, were gooey and red, the flesh around their edges white and puckered from the water. They burned faintly as she stepped back out of the shower’s steamy shelter and into the cold air of the rest of the house.

The light from the candle flames cast her gaunt features in harsher contrast when she peered into the mirror. Her hollow cheeks nearly became empty holes and her sunken eye sockets were black caves. Still, the shiny blue of her eyes was visible even in the cavernous puncture. The fire’s glow reflected off the stygian liquid steel of rolling droplets over her emaciated frame.

The sight of the deathlike girl would send anyone but Mama screaming into the night.

------

“Good news, Kitty!”

Anne came out of nowhere, flinging her arms around Katherine and causing her to jump. They staggered, nearly falling right over, but managed to stay upright in the crowd of students leaving the school. Katherine laughed.

“What can it be this time, Annie?” She asked, shifting her backpack onto one shoulder after Anne pulled away.

“It turns out we are going to college together after all!” Anne declared, smiling widely. “I just got the text last period!”

Katherine felt a surge of happiness go through her, but still couldn’t help but tilt her head.

“Wait-- I thought the Royal College of Music turned you down?”

Just saying the school’s name sent flutters of joy and excitement and awe through her. She still couldn’t believe that SHE, Katherine Howard, got accepted into THE BEST music school in England. Maybe even the entire world!! She couldn’t wait until she got to explore the castle-like campus and fulfill her dream of being a real performer, and although she had hoped that her dear cousin and best friend would be a part of that, she didn’t actually think it would have happened.

But here Anne was, shrugging nonchalantly with a radiant look in her dark brown eyes.

“Yeah, well,” She waved a dismissive hand, “Daddy pulled a few strings and now I’m in.”

Katherine couldn’t help but chuckle knowingly when her Uncle Thomas was brought up. She could only pray for the poor soul at the Royal College’s administration board that must have met the other end of his needle-sharp words.

“We get to be roomies together!” Anne said. “Isn’t that great or what?”

“It’s AMAZING!” Katherine declared, hugging Anne. “I can’t wait!”

The sound of a car broke their embrace and the two of them, along with a few other students in the courtyard, turned to look at the shiny dark blue Ford Mustang honking at the curb. The driver’s side door popped open a second later and a gorgeous young woman, probably twenty or twenty-one, with lush olive skin and curly brown hair came sliding out. She lowered her electric blue Burberry sunglasses and hickory brown eyes swept over the crowd of high school kids in disdainful amusement.

“CATHY!!” Anne cried gleefully. She launched herself at Catherine Parr and the two immediately melted into a heated kiss. Katherine sputtered a laugh.

“Classic Anne,” Maria said, coming up beside Katherine with Maggie and Bessie. “Always can’t wait to jam her tongue down her lady’s throat.” She’s elbowed in the ribs by both Katherine and Bessie for that, making her snicker. “What? It’s true!”

“Come on,” Maggie said, and they all crossed over to the couple. “Alright, children! That’s enough PDA!”

Anne parted from her girlfriend to stick her tongue out at Maggie. Cathy chuckled and turned her gaze to the others.

“Hello, kids,” She said languidly.

“Hey, Cathy,” Katherine smiled at her. The other three greeted the other woman as well. “How are you?”

“Bitchin’ good,” Cathy rumbled, her lips twitching upwards. The lipstick coating them was a dark red color; Katherine believed it was called “Nibble” if she remembered correctly.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Anne suddenly said. She perched on the hood of the Ford Mustang and spread her hands out in front of her like she was about to tell a grand fairytale. “Can you guys believe the stunt in the shower earlier?”

Like that, Katherine’s good mood dropped away and icy guilt slammed into her once again. It made her feel so stupid, as all her friends burst into giggles around her, enjoying the funny memory while she just felt sickened by them. Why couldn’t she be more like them?

“What?” Cathy looked at all of them in confusion. “What happened?”

“Oh, Joan Seymour happened,” Anne told her. “Sixteen fucking years old and that stupid retard just stood there having her very first period.”

Katherine winced at the use of the slur. Why did it suddenly hurt to hear? She hadn't cared when Maria said it earlier in the pool. Was she just now realizing that it was wrong to say?

“I think she’s fifteen, actually,” She said.

“Who cares?” Anne said. “Doesn’t change anything! I knew when I was 9!”

“Wait--” Cathy said, and then she exclaimed, “Gross! In the shower?”

“Oh yeah!” Anne nodded her head enthusiastically. “Blood was just dripping down her legs!”

“All the blood ran into my stall!” Maggie joined in excitedly.

“And she sat in it!” Bessie added.

“All while squealing like a fucking pig!” Anne chortled. “WEE WEE WEE WEE!!!”

“Anne, enough!!” Katherine shouted over all the laughter. “Stop it! It’s not funny!”

Anne looked at her and then said, “Hey, you guys! Stop! Stop! Kit is right. It’s not funny.”

All the giggling died away instantly. Katherine breathed out a sigh of relief--

“It’s fucking hilarious!”

--that was quickly replaced with a sharp intake of breath.

Anne slung an arm around her shoulders. “Aww, sweetie!” She nuzzled her cheek with her nose. “There’s a runt in every litter! A nobody. And our nobody,” She chuckled darkly, “is Joan.”

------

The smell of freshly baked bread hit Joan’s nose when she walked down the stairs and her stomach growled so loud it caught Mama’s attention in the kitchen. Her face flashed dark red, her blush bright against the pale backdrop of her white-blonde hair, and Mama chuckled in amusement.

“Someone’s hungry,” Mama said.

“J-just a little…” Joan stammered shyly.

She really, really was, though. She skipped lunch because she had left school and hadn’t eaten since breakfast, which had just been two pieces of plain toast, but she felt like she was starving. Like it’s been a lot longer since she ate anything. She set her hands on her lower belly and wondered if hunger was another bitter side effect of menstruation.

“Joan?” Mama noticed the way she was holding her stomach. “Is your tummy alright, darling?”

Joan felt an intense flash of fear

(she knows she knows she knows she knows she knows she knows)

lance through her and she inhaled sharply. She nodded, dropping her hands limply to her side.

“I’m okay, Mama,” She said. “Just hungry.”

“Dinner will be ready soon,” Mama told her. Joan could smell the casserole in the oven and her stomach growled again. “Why don’t you go wash your hands and set the table?”

Joan nodded and hurried to wash her hands off in the kitchen sink before retrieving the plates and utensils from various cabinets. She took them to the dining room, a dimly lit room filled with more crosses than anywhere in the entire house. A huge iron one hung above the table, where Jesus’ petrified face of agony could always leer down at her when she was trying to eat. The only other decoration was a wooden picture frame laying face-down on a small shelf. Joan glanced at it and remembered the last time it had been filled by...

...a photograph of Mama’s wedding.

It had been a bright and sunny day, with white clouds floating over the wedding ceremony. In the picture, the newlyweds were standing on the top of the stone stairs leading to the chapel. Above their heads was a tall arch decorated with beautiful white roses, handpicked by the maid of honor. The bride and groom held each other’s hands, the picture of matrimonial bliss.

This was the first time Joan actually saw what Daddy Henry looked like. Mama didn’t talk about him very much, and when she did, it wasn’t ever in a good way.

But these two in the picture looked so happy.

Daddy Henry’s wedding tuxedo had to be one of the largest ever designed. He was herculean, with a behemoth body and golden blonde hair. Dazzling sapphire blue eyes stood out brightly in the photo, so much like Joan’s own. He had a massively wide smile on his bearded face, grasping his bride’s hands in his own huge ones.

Mama was in a beautiful white gown gown that hugged her every curve, with sterling silver feathers sewn into the sleeves and into the frills of the wedding dress. Her lips were painted ruby red and were curled up into a blissful smile as she leaned into the wall of muscle that was her husband, her hands lost within Daddy Henry’s colossal grip.

...Were these really her parents?

Joan had found the photo hidden behind one of Jesus’s birth when she accidentally broke the frame while playing. She was ten at the time, and itching for mischief, so she hid the photo from Mama, despite all the questions she wanted to ask.

It had been a complete accident that Mama found out she had it, when she saw it in her room after she forgot to put it away.

For a long time, Mama didn’t speak after she found the photo. She just gripped it tightly and stared at it with wide, bulging eyes.

“Where did you find this?”

Joan flinched at the edge in her voice. Trembling, she stuttered, “I-I broke a picture frame a little while ago. You didn’t notice, so I picked up the broken glass so that we wouldn’t get hurt. I found it behind the picture of baby Jesus.”

Mama took several deep breaths that did little to calm her. Joan swallowed thickly.

“M-maybe it could help us look for him?” She said timidly.

Turning abruptly, Mama stormed out the bedroom and downstairs. Joan ram after her, crying, “Wait! Mama!”

Mama strode into the lounge and began roughly throwing firewood into the fireplace. Joan skidded to a stop behind her, her eyes wide.

“Mama!” She shouted. “Stop! We have to find Daddy!”

But Mama didn’t stop. She just kept tossing in wood until the fireplace was full, then moved to dousing the logs with an alarming amount of lighter fluid. Joan lunged forward and grabbed her arm as she lit a match and flicked it in. The flames roar to life instantly, illuminating the cold look in Mama’s golden eyes.

“No.” She hissed, and then threw the photo into the fire.

“NO!!!” Joan screeched.

She threw herself at the fireplace, dropping to her knees and shoving her hands into the burning logs. Flames licked at her skin and she howled in pain, but didn’t pull back until she grabbed the smoldering remains of the photograph. It disintegrated in her fingers and she wailed in anguish right before Mama grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her backwards.

“What are you doing?!” Mama cried. Her eyes are even wider now, and Joan saw that she was scared. The smell of burned flesh hung heavily in the air.

“That was going to help us find Daddy!” Joan yelled, tears running down her cheeks. Her hands hurt so badly. Pink and scarlet criss crossed together over her charred skin. “We were gonna find him and he was gonna come back!!”

“No he wasn’t, Johanna!”

“WHY?!”

“BECAUSE THERE IS NOTHING KEEPING HIM AWAY!!”

In an instant, the scalding hot blood in Joan’s veins turned to ice-water. She started to comprehend the implication of Mama’s words, and the tears came out from her eyes faster and faster. She wilted like a daffodil, crossing her burnt hands in front of her chest and grabbing her arms, squeezing them tightly as she bowed her head and doubled over on her knees. The crown of her skull cracked against the hardwood, sprawling her hair like a waterfall of white-gold all over the floor.

“No… No… No...” She wept again and again.

“He doesn’t want you, Joan,” Mama said ruefully. “He didn’t even want me.” She took a deep breath, sadness etched in the grooves of her words. “He doesn’t want either of us.”

Mama knelt and took Joan into her arms, rocking her slowly. Joan tried to grip onto her, but just let out a pained wail when she moved her hands.

“Mama!” She cried. “Mama, it hurts! It hurts!”

“Oh, my poor baby,” Mama said sadly. “Shh… It’s going to be okay, my darling angel. It’s going to be okay, Joan…”

“...Joan? Joan?”

Joan jolted, backpedaling into her mother, who looked concerned. Mama gently cupped her cheeks.

“My dear angel,” She murmured, “what’s wrong?”

(tell her tell her tell her)

Joan swallowed thickly. “S-something happened at school today. Something terrible...”

Mama frowned and brushed a loose strand of hair out of Joan’s face. “Terrible things are the Lord’s way of testing us, Joan.” She said wisely.

“I know, Mama, but the other girls--”

“You aren’t like the other girls.” Mama cut her off.

“But I am, Mama! I am!” Joan said. “I never thought so, but--”

“You aren’t, Joan. You aren’t. You’re special.” Mama’s lips twitched slightly. “Special.”

“You aren’t listening to me, Mama…”

“I’ve heard all I wanted to hear, now finish setting the table, please.” Mama said. She glided past Joan and went back into the kitchen to check on the casserole. Joan slowly laid out the plates, then looked over her shoulder.

(tell her tell her tell her)

“Mama, in the showers today…”

Mama whipped around instantly, her eyes suddenly lit up like hot coals. Joan thought she might have seen a flicker of fear somewhere in there, too.

“What have I told you about showering with the other girls?” Mama said.

“I know, but--” Joan floundered.

“What have I told you?” Mama shouted.

“It’s a sin! It’s a sin!” Joan gave in.

“And as such--”

“But Mama--”

“It is--”

“I STARTED TO BLEED!!”

Silence.

Stillness.

The platter Mama had been holding slipped from her fingers and shattered against the wooden floor. White and blue pieces exploded out in every direction. A few chunks cut Mama’s slipper-clad feet and ankles, and blood slowly began to bud out like blooming roses in May, but Mama did not move. Or flinch. Or even blink. She just stared very intently at Joan like she was hoping she would burst into flames if she leered hard enough.

And then, her face did something strange. It twitched, like all her expressions were falling off one by one, so it looked like a mask for a moment. Then, the skin rippled and creased and wrinkled, and her soft features were eroded away by furious and sinister ones. A sick white light ignited behind her golden brown eyes, like twin lightning bugs of insanity inside the sockets. Joan backed up against the dining room table with a whimper.

“Mama, I started to bleed in the showers and the other girls-- they laughed at me and called me names and threw things at me!” She said woefully. “I was so scared, Mama! I thought I was dying!”

Mama’s face twitched again, and this time her head jerked a little with it. The veins in her neck bulge out of the flesh and pulsed monstrously. Her eyes suddenly looked a lot less golden brown and a lot more brown-red.

“Mama, why are you looking at me like that?” Joan asked softly, quaking.

“The curse of blood,” Mama said quietly. There’s an awful, dry chuckle edging her words. Joan blinked like an oblivious pure white heifer about to be sacrificed to God.

“Mama, you’re scaring me…”

Mama’s entire head twitched this time and then, a split second later, she’s striding across the kitchen with her right hand held high. Joan didn’t have any time to react before she was backhanded across the jaw by pointy, spike-like knuckles. She yelped out in pain and shock, tottering sideways and careening right into one of the dining table chairs. Her body unceremoniously crumpled into it, and she and the chair both crashed to the ground in an ungraceful heap.

“You’re a woman now,” Mama said above her. Her eyes are wide and gleaming, but there’s no emotion in them. “Pray to heaven for your wicked soul.”

“Wh-what did I do?” Joan stammered, rolling over onto her back. She could already feel her jaw welling up with a fresh bruise. “M-Miss Aragon said it’s something all girls go through. Even y--”

Mama hit Joan again, and blood splattered out in a bright red line across the floor. Joan whimpered sharply, tears of pain springing to her eyes. Her tongue instinctively flicked out against her newly busted lip and it stung in response to being licked.

“And God made Eve from the rib of Adam,” Mama said like she was in a trance. “And Eve was weak and loosed the raven on the world. And the raven was called Sin and the first Sin was the Sin of Intercourse. So the Lord visited Eve with a Curse and the Curse was the Curse of Blood.” She leaned down to Joan and her words were suddenly washed with potent venom, “Say it, woman.”

“No, Mama--”

Joan was struck a third time. Smears of her blood are left on Mama’s knuckles.

“Say it!” Mama bellowed.

“No!” Joan cried. She turned sharply and scrambled away, but Mama pursued her and delivered a kick to her ribs that sent her sprawling on her back.

“And Adam and Eve were driven out of the Garden and into the World and Eve found that her belly had grown big with child.” Mama droned on. She lifted her foot and pressed it down on Joan’s stomach, pinning her to the ground. Joan yowled in pain when a cramp seized her at that very moment, deepening her anguish even further. “And there was a second Curse, and this was the Curse of Childbearing, and Eve brought forth Cain in sweat and blood.”

“Mama!” Joan sobbed. The tears were flowing free without resistance, now, and creating small pools on either side of her head. “Mama! Stop it, please! Listen to me!!”

But Mama did not listen. She just leaned down, applying more pressure to Joan’s poor belly, like she was hoping to make all the blood come out now. Joan threw her head back and screamed in pain.

“And following Cain, Eve gave birth to Abel, having not yet repented of the Sin of Intercourse. And so the Lord visited Eve with a third Curse, and this was the Curse of Murder. Cain rose up and slew Abel with a rock. And still, Eve did not repent, nor all the daughters of Eve, and upon eve did the Crafty Serpent found a kingdom of whoredoms and pestilence.”

“Mama, listen!!” Joan yelled. “Stop! It wasn’t my fault!”

“And Eve was weak,” Mama said flatly. “Say it.”

“N-o!” Joan squirmed underneath her mother. Her hands, rough and scarred permanently from the burns she got five years ago, flew up and grabbed Mama’s leg. Two of her fingernails jabbed into one of the cuts on Mama’s ankle she got from the glass and Mama jerked away with a hiss.

“You vile demon!!” She screeched.

Joan fled as quickly as she could, but Mama went after her, just like last time. Just like all the other times.

(if i had a nickle for every time she made me cry in here...)

Her wrists are seized and they both fall to their knees on the floor in the lounge. The impact rattled Joan’s frail body and she could feel more blood drip out onto the sanitary napkin in her underwear.

“Mama, let me go!!” Joan cried frantically. She struggled, but her Mama was much stronger than she was and was able to restrain her. Mama’s body hunched over her, her belly pressed against her rigid spine, practically crushing her frail daughter. “Please! Please, Mama! I’m sorry!!”

“Say it, woman,” Mama whispered harshly in her ear, her words biting like serpents.

Joan sniffled and, with words that were thick with blood from her busted lip, choked out shamefully, “And Eve was weak.”

The grip on her wrists loosened slightly. Mama’s hot breath tickled her ear when she breathed out a dark laugh. A sloppy, halfhearted kiss was pressed to her temple.

“Good girl,” Mama whispered breathily. She leaned back and twisted Joan around so they would be facing each other, but did not release her child from her ironclad grip.

“Mama, why didn’t you tell me?” Joan asked. Her icy blue eyes are filled with tears and sorrow, so much sorrow. “I was so scared, Mama. I thought I was dying!”

Mama shook her head and looked up ruefully. She squeezed Joan’s hands together and exclaimed hugely, “O Lord! Help this sinning woman beside me here see the sin of her days and ways!”

“Stop it, Mama--” Joan squirmed uncomfortably.

“Show her that if she had remained sinless the Curse of Blood never would have come on her!” Mama brayed on.

“Mama--” Joan whined. “Mama, please stop! I don’t understand! What did I do?” She squirmed harder. “Mama, let me go!!”

Mama shook Joan violently, then drew her in close, eyes flashing.

“Ask for forgiveness of your sin.”

“No, Mama.” Joan said, swallowing thickly. “I didn’t sin, you sinned. You didn’t tell me and they laughed.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Darkness overtook Mama’s features like the black clouds of a thunderstorm. Her face twisted with disgust, and she suddenly looked like she hated her child with every inch of her being. She dug her fingernails deep into Joan’s brittle wrists.

“I did not.” She hissed lowly. “I did not--sin.” She carved off chunks of Joan’s flesh with her nails. “Go to your closet and pray.”

Joan stiffened, her eyes bulging hugely in her skull. She whimpered and shook her head, shrinking down into herself.

“No, Mama,” She whispered fearfully. She could see her prayer closet from the lounge, the door fitted underneath the staircase. It was cramped and dark and hot in there, just how Mama liked it for her. “D-don’t wanna go…” She couldn’t look away from it.

“Pray.” Mama said. “Ask for forgiveness.”

“Please, Mama,” Joan begged, looking up at her mother desperately. “P-please don’t make me go. I-I don’t wanna go. I’m sorry!”

But Mama’s uncaring look of hatred did not change, and inky black dread poured out through Joan’s organs like a thick, dark oil spill. Her breathing began to hitch and pick up, but Mama didn’t seem to care about her worsening panic attack.

“Please, Mama,” Joan wheedled hoarsely. “I-- I’ll bring the Stones again!”

This time, it was Mama’s turn to look scared. But then it morphed into intense enmity and she began to beat Joan senselessly towards the closet.

“You monster!” She howled. “You spawn of the devil! Why must I be so cursed?!”

“The Stones!” Joan yelled as she was kicked and hit and slapped. She rolled to the side, but Mama beat her back down to the floor, slowly getting her closer and closer to the wretched, evil closet. “I’ll bring the Stones, Mama! I’ll bring the Fire!”

And then a powerful kick drove into her belly and her words pitched into a shriek of agony.

“MAMA!!” Joan screamed. “MAMA-- MAMA, STOP!! IT HURTS!! Y-YOU-- IT HURTS!!!”

Mama grappled onto Joan’s arms and began dragging her across the floor to the closet. Even with the sharp, unbearable pain in her stomach, Joan fought her, kicking and struggling and screaming bloody murder, but it was futile. Mama shoved Joan into the prayer closet and slammed the door shut, locking it tightly.

“NO!!” Joan shrieked. She threw herself at the door, causing it to rattle heavily on its hinges. “Mama, let me go!!”

“Pray, little girl!” Mama ordered. Madness curled from her lips like poisonous vipers. “Pray!”

“Please, Mama!!”

But Mama did not let her go. Her footsteps retreated somewhere into the house and Joan sunk to the floor, weeping. Panic started sticking to her lungs like black tar, making it harder and harder to breathe.

Mama was so angry… What if she never let her out?

Dread sped up her thoughts, racing through her veins, filling her with desperation.

No one would even hear her screams, her last dying words, her final prayers…

She began to wheeze, the thick, musty air brushing against her lips. The oppressive stench of her own fear and blood and piss from other times in the closet burned her nose.

Would the neighbors notice? Would they even care?

Pain lighted in her belly again as her chest contracted with her heavy breaths.

Would her teachers, so quick to look away from her black eyes and limping figure, even call and ask where she was?

Joan began to scratch on the door, the frame, the hinges, scrambling to escape, her instincts pitching her action into a fury of movement.

What would they say when her body was finally discovered, a rotting corpse hidden in the darkness of a closet made for holy purposes? Perhaps she would be the talk of the town, even more than usual. The poor Seymour kid, whose Mama went mad after her husband left and God could no longer satisfy her. Who killed her only child, slowly starving her tiny daughter to death one evening while she sewed a new blouse for a customer at the laundromat and listened to her religious music.

Joan’s fingernails scratched harder, grazing the wooden confines of her holy coffin. She could feel the warmth of her blood as the nails began to tear and break, smell the copper of her panic, leaving thin lines of crimson as she clawed frantically.

What if she didn’t starve to death? What if she suffocated? Could that happen? No, she’d read about that before. There was enough air filtering in here, probably. She’d die of dehydration first. Already she could feel her throat constrict, dry and callous, an arid lining of flesh. Spots of light pricked her vision. Tears ran down the side of her bruised face, mingling with the sweat now coating her skin. She felt clammy and cold, yet suddenly too hot, as if in a fever.

“Mama, let me out!” She begged coarsely, the words scratching at her throat.

She could take the hitting or yelling or cursing. Anything but this.

“Mama…”

Joan slumped to her side, shuddering. She looked up and gazed around at the horrors that littered the closet. There were so many paintings of Jesus’s death, all in great, graphic detail. When she was little, they used to give her awful nightmares about evil men nailing her to a cross or Jesus’s bloodied body chasing her through a ruined dreamscape, welding a wicked-looking crucifix made of barbed wires and yelling at her to join him on his cadaverous crucible.

They still gave her nightmares, she hated to admit.

The dead eyes of Christ bore down on Joan’s pathetic, shaking frame. Jesus’s face was contorted into the same expression of disgust and pain as Mama’s had been, like even he knew that she was the worst thing to ever grace God’s green earth. She curled into a tight ball on the floor, not wanting to meet his scornful gaze anymore, and began to pray through her haze of tears.

------

Moonlight cast silver streams on Anna’s smooth, glowing skin, making her look like a goddess of the night above Katherine. Her soft touch sent pangs of pleasure crackling through Katherine’s body like lightning bolts of lust, soothing her mind of all its worries with her warmth. Everything felt good and okay and wonderful again when Anna was with her, holding her, talking to her, loving her. She thought that nothing could possibly bring her down when her girlfriend was there by her side.

And yet, she still couldn’t get the image of Joan Seymour’s naked body covered in blood on the floor out of her head.

Katherine sighed heavily and Anna pulled back, blinking.

“Am I really that bad?” She said, then looked at her fingernails, inspecting them closely. “I thought I got them down to the perfect length this time…”

Katherine managed to laugh. “No, it’s not you, you big silly,” She nudged her playfully. “It’s--something else…”

Anna tilted her head. “What is it?” Worry flashed across her expression and Katherine couldn’t help but feel a flutter of love flap in her chest. She loved when her girlfriend got like this, all concerned over her, even over the littlest things. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Katherine said. She pushed herself up into a sitting position with a sigh. “It’s just-- I did something...not good today.”

“Oh no,” Anna gasped. “Not good?”

Katherine shoved her. “I’m serious!”

Anna laughed slightly. “I know! I know!” She said. “Come on, tell me about it.”

They got dressed and stepped out of Anna’s red Jeep so Katherine could get some fresh air that would hopefully help her tell the shameful story. It was a warm spring night and they were parked on the side of a small grove that had a trail that led to a hiking trail and some camping grounds. Katherine ducked under a tree that was wrapped in blooming vines of pink-white dog roses, pale ghost petals shivering in the breeze. Anna came up beside her and they both sat on a low-hanging branch that was practically grown for the purpose of sitting and telling your girlfriend about the awful bullying you participated in today.

“Did you...hear about the Joan Seymour incident today?” Katherine eventually choked out hesitantly.

Anna actually thought for a moment, as if a fifteen year old girl getting her first period and thinking she was dying hadn’t been the talk of the entire school.

“Vaguely, yeah,” She finally said. “I don’t get into that kind of drama, though. I tend to stay away from it, you know?”

Katherine did know, and that sent fear ricocheting through her body when she remembered it. Of course Anna didn’t like discourse- she’s told her several times before! How could she be so stupid?

Anna peered at her closely, and she knew it was too late to turn back now.

“What does Joan Seymour and her period have to do with you?” Anna asked her.

Katherine swallowed thickly. Fear pounded heavily at her brain, fear of Anna breaking up with her when she told her and leaving her all alone--but didn’t she deserve that? What she did was horrible. She didn’t deserve a girlfriend after harassing a poor little girl, ESPECIALLY when she herself was eighteen and technically an adult.

“I--” Her words caught in her throat for a moment, but Anna’s patient, loving gaze made them all come tumbling out. “I was in there. With her. In the locker room.” She lowered her head in shame. “I--yelled at her with everyone…”

Anna just looked at her for a long time, moonlight glinting in her caramel brown eyes and making them look like they were glowing. Then, she sucked in an impressed breath and said, “You’re right. Not good.”

Katherine felt a cold slicing of fear slash through her, but then Anna’s grave expression shifted into a thoughtful smile. She ran a hand down an ivy-coiled section of the tree and mused, “I kicked a kid in the ribs one time.”

Katherine blinked at her.

“I did!” Anna said, then shook her head and chuckled at the memory. “Reed Mulligan. Big white kid who’ll probably grow up to be a robber or something. Anyway, he beat the shit out of me once in Year 7. And then, in Year 8, he picked on the wrong kid and got his ass handed to him. Everyone ran when he dropped to the ground, but first I gave him a good kick in the ribs. Felt terrible about it afterward.” She peered at Katherine closely. “Are you gonna apologize to her?”

Katherine snorted dryly. “Did you apologize to Reed Mulligan?”

“Hell no!” Anna said. “But there’s a big difference, Kat.”

“There is?”

“This isn’t Secondary School anymore.” Anna said. A flurry of snowy pink petals swirled down from the tree and over their shoulders. “What did Joan Seymour ever do to you?”

------

The prayer closet lock clicked and the door creaked open after seven long hours. Joan stopped crying for her Mama after the first hour and fell silent for the rest, not even asking to eat or go to the bathroom. Probably because she was asleep, curled up into a little ball on the floor, pillowing her head with her arms. Mama knelt down to her, setting one hand on her shoulder and raking the other through her white-blonde hair. Joan’s eyes shot open instantly, and they seemed to glow in brilliant shades of blue in the candlelight.

“Did you finish your prayers, little girl?” Mama asked.

Joan nodded.

“That’s my good girl,” Mama cooed. She kissed Joan’s cheek, saying nothing about the dark indigo bruise bloomed on her jaw. “It’s time for bed.”

“Yes, Mama,” Joan whispered. Slowly, she uncoiled from her position on the floor, shaking out her numb limbs as she did so. Mama watched her with a sharp eye as she rose to her feet.

“Joan?”

“Yes, Mama?”

Mama took a deep breath and stood up, practically towering over her little daughter.

“I know I sometimes do things that I can’t explain,” She said, “but know that my feelings for you never change. Even--if you have sinned.”

Joan winced, but she shook her head and managed to smile wryly up at her mother.

“Mama, you don’t have to say that,” She said. “You love me. You don’t need to ask for forgiveness from me. I know you do what you have to.”

“Yes,” Mama said slowly, nodding. “We have no one except each other, Joan.”

Joan shivered. Her heart ached fiercely in her chest, and she so badly wanted to believe that that wasn’t true, that there was someone out there who wanted her, but she knew that was just wishful thinking. Fifteen years, and the only person who didn’t throw her away was her Mama.

“I’m the only one who cares about you.” Mama said. “No one will ever love you except me.” She cupped Joan’s cheeks and looked at her with maddening adoration and love flickering in her eyes. “You will always be a monster to everyone else.”

And Joan nodded, knowing this would always be true, and whispered, “Yes, Mama.”

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ofstormsandwolves · 4 years ago

Text

True Colours

Zoey x Joan, Mitch x Maggie

Major canonical character death, angst, emotional hurt/ comfort.

Part of ‘what the heart wants (or, Zoey’s Extraordinary Gaylist)’, set during Send My Love

Synopsis: Joan has a talk with Mitch, and helps Zoey through the hardest night of her life.

(Missing scenes from 'Send My Love')

Read on AO3

“Hi.”

Maggie Clarke looked up in surprise at the voice, smiling slightly when she saw Joan in the doorway. “Joan. Come in.”

Joan stepped into the room, glancing over at Mitch as she did so. “Where’s Mitch’s carer?” she asked with a small frown.

“I sent Howie to get some rest,” Maggie admitted quietly. “He’s done so much for us, and I know he’s run himself ragged the last few days. He could do with half hour to himself.”

“So could you,” Joan responded, giving the other woman a small smile. “Not to be rude, or anything, but you look like you could use some rest. Even if it’s just a twenty minute lie down.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “I mean, I can’t leave Mitch, and I don’t like putting Zoey in that position-”

“I’ll sit with Mitch,” Joan interrupted calmly. “Just, please Maggie, take a few minutes for yourself.”

For a moment, Joan thought the other woman would protest. But then, Maggie sighed.

“I won’t be able to rest,” she said, “but I could do with ten minutes alone. Just to... Just to get my head around everything.”

Smiling, Joan nodded in understanding. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Maggie quietly left the room then, and Joan seated herself in the chair that had just been vacated. It was right beside the sofa, not too close but close enough that if Mitch needed help she would simply have to lean forward.

Outside in the foyer, Joan could hear Zoey and Max having a quiet conversation. Forcing herself not to listen in, she instead turned her attention to the man on the sofa.

“Uh, hello, Mitch,” she began awkwardly. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I- I’m Joan. Zoey’s friend. And boss. And, well, her partner.” Joan’s throat suddenly felt painfully dry. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m dating your daughter.”

She paused then, as it sunk in that this was the first and last time she would ever speak with her partner’s father. She swallowed hard.

“I’m not very good at this,” Joan said then, laughing awkwardly. “Um, I should tell you though, I very much love your daughter. And, and I can understand that this must be very strange for you, and for Maggie, and I know that I’m probably not who you expected Zoey to end up with. Because- Well, I’m a woman, for one. And I’m more than twenty years older. And because I know Max has had feelings for Zoey for quite some time, and he seems to fit in well with you guys. I suppose you probably thought he was the person your daughter would end up with.” She let out a small sigh. “Sometimes I still think that.”

There was silence then, except for Mitch’s wheezing breaths, as Joan tried to gather her thoughts.

“I really hope Zoey and I can make it work. And I want you to know that I will do everything I can to make sure it does. And I like to think Zoey will too. I mean, we’re coders, we’re good at solving problems.” A small smile spread across Joan’s face. “And your daughter’s an excellent coder.” The smile grew prouder as she thought about Zoey leading her team on a daily basis. “In fact, she’s the best coder we have. I mean, I know we’re both biased, but I really believe that. Zoey’s an extraordinary woman, and I hope you’re proud of her. I... I know I am.”

Having said all she wanted to say- and all she could think to say- Joan nodded to herself. It was a bittersweet moment, she supposed. It felt good to tell Mitch how she felt about his daughter, but it felt awful not to be able to have a real conversation with him. Was this how Zoey felt whenever she came to the house? Forced to have one-sided conversations with her father, unable to hear his thoughts or opinions on what she was sharing with him?

Hearing low murmurs of speech, Joan looked over at the doorway in surprise. Zoey and Maggie were there, soft smiles on their faces, and she realised that they’d caught her talking to Mitch. Feeling a little awkward, Joan got to her feet.

“Hi,” she said, a little wide-eyed as she stared at her partner. “Has Max gone?”

Zoey nodded. “Yeah, he figured there wasn’t much he could do here, so he’s gone home.”

Joan nodded in return, beginning to make her way to the door as she sensed Maggie wanted some space with her husband. A warm smile was on Maggie’s face, and she squeezed Joan’s arm as she passed. Still a little uncertain, Joan followed Zoey from the room.

Hours later, Joan felt helpless. One minute she was pacing the foyer, giving Zoey time and space to say goodbye to her father. The next, Zoey was calling for help and Howie was rushing into the room to give Mitch more medication. Joan stopped in the doorway, unsure whether to intrude on the family moment. David and Maggie had joined Zoey at Mitch’s bedside, and as much as she wanted to hug her partner, Joan was very aware that now was not the time to be rubbing their new relationship in everyone’s faces.

But then, Zoey moved away from her dad’s bedside, and Joan instinctively shifted. Her arms were already outstretched before the younger woman reached her, and Zoey tucked herself against her body gratefully. Zoey’s brother gave them a glance, but simply gave a small smile before his attention was pulled back to his father.

For the first time ever, there was a very tiny part of Joan that was grateful she’d missed her mother’s death. It wasn’t that she didn’t care, or that she didn’t wish she could have said goodbye. But the waiting around, the thick and stifling tension that seemed to suffocate them all, was almost unbearable. It felt cruel, for everybody involved, and Joan couldn’t help but feel angry. Angry for Mitch, who had been slowly dying for months. Angry for Maggie, who had staunchly faced Mitch’s illness and had desperately tried to make his remaining time comfortable. Angry for David and Emily, who would have a son who never knew his grandfather. And, most of all, angry for Zoey. Yes, Joan was angry for her partner, for the pain she was going through, for the fact there seemed to be nothing they could really do to make it easier.

And, in a way, she was angry at herself. She’d been through this before; she should know what to do. But for all the talk, all the efforts to persuade Zoey to take time off work, to not worry about the bake-off or any other projects, Joan felt like she wasn’t really doing anything at all. Anything she tried to say would sound cheap and tactless, and throwing money at the problem clearly wouldn’t fix it. All Joan knew was that it felt like she should be easing Zoey’s suffering, and there was nothing she could do but hug her.

She hoped Zoey liked hugs as much as she seemed to.

Hours later, the sun was rising and Zoey was stood out in the back garden, just staring at the plants. Joan approached her slowly, arms folded across her chest to keep herself from reaching out to her partner. Considering that Zoey had spent the better part of an hour in the garden alone, it seemed pretty clear that she didn’t want any contact. There was a good chance she didn’t even want to talk, but both Maggie and Joan had quietly agreed that she had been alone long enough and they were starting to worry.

“Hey.” Zoey’s voice was soft, a little distant, and she didn’t look at Joan as she spoke.

“I came to check on you,” Joan said, voice equally soft. “Your mom’s worried about you. I... I’m worried about you.”

Zoey sniffed, but didn’t respond. Joan came to stand beside her partner, taking in the foliage that Mitch and Maggie had tirelessly cultivated. They stood in silence for several long moments, taking in the sunrise over the plants, before a quiet sob interrupted the quiet. Almost immediately Joan looped an arm around her partner’s shoulders, pulling her in for a one-armed hug as the younger woman cried.

“This isn’t fair,” Zoey choked out, voice still quiet but anger evident in her tone. “This isn’t fair! He’s gone! He’s gone, and, and, the sun’s coming up like it’s a normal day, but it’s not! The sun shouldn’t be shining!”

“I know,” Joan agreed quietly. “I know.”

She rubbed at her partner’s arm as she lapsed into silence again, desperately racking her brain for something to say to Zoey. The younger woman sobbed again, and Joan hugged her that little bit tighter.

“I- I saw him.”

Zoey’s words startled Joan, and for the first time since wrapping her in a hug, she looked down at her partner.

“My dad. I... When I left the room... He, he was calling me.” Zoey’s words were halting, stuttering, uncertain. She looked up at Joan with wet eyes, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “He was in the sitting room, all dressed up, saying he wanted to talk to me. We danced. True Colours. I... I was happy.” She sniffed. “And then, Mom was crying. And I looked back, and Dad was gone.”

“That’s why you froze,” Joan realised quietly, recalling the way the younger woman stilled under her touch, before leaving the room.

Zoey nodded, staring once more at her mom’s plants. “If I didn’t have these powers...”

Joan sighed then. “I’m so sorry, Zoey. I... I know that doesn’t sound like much, but...”

“No, I get it,” Zoey assured, managing a small, sad smile. “And thank you for being here.”

There was a pained look in Joan’s eyes, though. “I wish there was more I could do, though. I don’t like seeing you hurt.” She paused. “Your dad seemed like a great guy.”

“He was.” Zoey answered softly.

The two women stared back at the plants then, as the early morning sun spread across the garden. Zoey slipped her hand into Joan’s and squeezed. Silently, Joan squeezed back.

#zep fic #zoey x joan #zoeys extraordinary playlist #zoey clarke #joan bennett

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linneawritesstories · 4 years ago

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This is a repost of a story I posted previously in a different format.

You are a poltergeist in a haunted house, and you are in love with a possessed artifact. However, she was taken by the last owners when they moved out. After years of gathering your power, you’re finally strong enough to leave the house and search for her.

- @writing-prompt-s

She was beauty. She was light and love. The only good thing in my dark existence.

Before her there was only anger. Rage, to be more accurate. I wanted peace. I wanted quiet. This is my house. I lived here and I died here, and that makes it mine. And yet, there is a steady stream of intruders. First it was the police to cart away my body. That was fine. I no longer needed it. Then it was a cleaning crew to scrub away the blood with their acrid chemicals and box up my things. No! Those were mine. My favourite doll from my childhood, my father’s old pocket knife, the quilt my grandmother made for me, my mother’s earrings, my beloved plants. They took everything. My home was left cold and hollow.

I was not strong enough to stop them. Not then. But the anger simmered.

Perhaps that’s why I changed.

Keep reading below or on my official website.

With the anger I grew stronger. More solid. I couldn’t tell you the exact moment I made the shift from innocent spirit or benign ghost to a poltergeist. But with the shift came power. I could pick up plates from the kitchen and hurl them to shatter against the wall while the new family ate dinner, relishing in their horrified silence as the shards fell to the floor.

This was my house. I would make sure they knew.

The family did not last long here. Perhaps because of the children. The youngest boy seemed to sense me. He cried whenever I came near. The father scolded him and told him not to make up stories. I turned the lights on and off, and his face went pale and he carried the boy out of the room. The family moved out soon after.

A ‘For Sale’ sign was put up in the yard. I could see it from the front window, though I couldn’t leave the house no matter how hard I tried. After that there was a revolving door of realtors and prospective buyers, as if they had the right to sell and buy my home out from under me. I soon learned that my nails could leave deep grooves in the walls, and that was unnerving to the people who came through. It didn’t discourage everyone. I seethed the day the ‘Sold’ sign was put up.

That family didn’t last long either.

They all blurred together after that. Should I have bothered to keep track? Stupid loud people with their stompy feet and their high pitched screams and their crying babies. Ugh. Get out. Get out!

And then she came.

Another moving day. Loads of boxes left higgledy-piggledy in my home, which had been blissfully quiet for too short a time. The boxes made me curious, they always do, and the couple blamed each other if something wasn’t where they left it, so I could go through them as I pleased. They had nice things.

Nothing as nice as what had been mine, but nothing was mine anymore. Nothing except this house.

It took a long time for them to unpack all the boxes and put everything away. This was normal. It was odd, though, that other than the essentials they needed to get through the day-to-day, the first thing they put out was a doll. A beautiful ceramic doll that must have been a family heirloom. She was set in a sunny spot in the window. Her bright blue eyes seemed to stare at me when I went over to inspect her. It shames me now, but I thought about throwing her across the room as my first warning to the couple that they weren’t welcome here. I didn’t, though. She was too pretty.

The couple went to bed. I was drifting through the house, wondering what hell I could raise to rouse them, when I noticed the doll was missing from the front window. How strange. The couple had seemed pleased with her placement, so I had not thought they would move her so soon. My curiousity got the better of me, and I searched the house for her.

I found her in the bathroom, on the back of the toilet. A strange place for such a pretty creature.

By the next afternoon, she was sat in the centre of the living room. A single beam of sunlight from the window illuminated her among the shadows of sheet-covered furniture, not yet set where the couple wanted them for the duration of their stay.

I started to suspect that there was something up with her. My suspicions were all but confirmed when the young man, upon entering the living room, paused at the sight of her and laughed. “Meg! I found Auntie Hannah! She’s in the living room.” And he picked her up and set her on the mantle. “There you go, Hannah. You’ll get dirty if you wander before we’ve got everything cleaned up.”

Wander? A doll? Dolls don’t move by themselves.

Yet over the following days, Hannah appeared in various locations around the house. The kitchen. The basement. The little room that Trevor, the man, was turning into a home office. And once, the back garden, which alarmed Meg as she scooped Hannah up and made sure she wasn’t dirty. “Hannah,” she sighed as she carried the doll back into the house. “Please stay inside.”

It was peculiar, but do not think I stopped my efforts to frighten the couple into leaving just because of some strange doll. Not at all. I wanted them gone! I smashed an antique teapot and made Meg cry. But no matter what I did, the couple thought Hannah was the culprit.

“Hannah, how could you?”

“Why are you angry?”

“Here’s a different dress. Is that better?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her, Trevor. She hasn’t acted like this since my cousin died and she was passed on to me.”

It was after the teapot incident that I finally saw Hannah move. I was in the living room, now a cozy little space with couches and bookshelves and pictures of smiling people on the walls as if they had a right to claim them. I was trying to decide if I wanted to throw the pictures or the spiderplants on the mantle, or both, when footsteps came behind me. They were too light to be human, and when I turned, there she was.

She stood in the doorway with her little perfectly formed fingers on her hips, her new purple dress flared around her. The purple ribbon Meg had lovingly tied into her cloud of brown curls brought out the blue of her eyes beautifully. And yet when she spoke, her face never moved.

“If you hurt Megan or Trevor, I’ll make you pay for it,” she informed me in a rich voice that I never would have expected from a doll. “They are my people, and I will make you leave if I have to.”

“This is my house.” I knocked one of the framed wedding photos to the ground to illustrate my point. “Mine. And I’ll do whatever I want.”

“You’re dead. You can’t own anything.” She stomped into the room on her doll feet and pulled herself onto the couch. “Just like me. Not even this doll body belongs to me. It belonged to Marcia, then Joan, then briefly to poor Tracy, and now it’s Meghan’s. Isn’t this house the same?”

Despite myself, I was fascinated. I couldn’t leave my house, so I only knew how being dead worked for me. I did not know that other ghosts could experience other things. It didn’t occur to me that ghosts could haunt things other than houses.

So I sat with Hannah on the couch and we talked and talked and talked. She told me that Meghan was her distant relative, a great-great-great niece or something, and that she’d been passed through the family after she had died and possessed the doll. It was so nice to have company. And unlike me, Hannah could be moved from place to place. Oh, the stories she told me! Her granddaughter Joan was quite the traveler, and she had brought Hannah to places like England, Scotland, Mexico, Nepal, Thailand, and the list went on and on. I was fascinated by her stories.

Hannah and I talked every night, and I was too busy with her to spend time making trouble. By the time I realized what she was doing, I was attached and didn’t want her to leave. And for her to stay, Meghan and Trevor had to stay.

Well, fine. So be it. I would let them live in my house if it meant my Hannah could stay.

I soon understood why everything strange was blamed on Hannah. She would go out to the garden in the middle of the night and return with bundles of dandelions, which she scattered around the house. My favourite place to skulk during the day was the basement, which the humans used for storage and so didn’t bother me. Hannah made sure to leave a couple dandelions on the basement steps for me.

I got them a little glass of water. My heart was as warm as their bright yellow colour.

The years that passed after my home became Hannah’s home were the happiest I’d spent since my death. We laughed together, and my anger with the world faded. I lost my ability to throw plates even if I wanted to.

I did not want to.

But good things never last for long.

Meghan’s pregnancy test was positive, and she and Trevor set up a nursery in the room next to theirs as Meghan’s belly grew big. Hannah was so excited. All she could talk about was the baby, and she left flowers all over the house. Meghan laughed and tucked them behind her ear. “See?” she’d say. “Hannah’s happy too!”

Then the baby came, and with it sleepless nights for Trevor and Meghan. With them up in the middle of the night, Hannah and I couldn’t talk the way we used to. Although Meghan and Trevor knew she moved, she didn’t like them to see her do it.

“Of course not! What if they make me do chores?” she demanded the one time I asked if she had considered it.

Trevor and Meghan had been among the most quiet of intruders, but the child was not. And little Damien’s volume grew with his body.

He was afraid of me.

If he saw me in his room while I searched for Hannah, he would scream and scream until his parents came running. When he was very small he could not tell them what was wrong, but he soon learned to talk and he told them about the monster. I never hurt him. I had never harmed a child, though I did sometimes frighten them on purpose. But children were more sensitive than adults and were often first to pick up on my presence.

It was no different with Damien.

“I know they said the house is haunted, but I thought it would be like with Auntie Hannah,” Meghan told Trevor one night, her voice troubled.

Trevor put his arm around her. “I know. We took a chance because the house was so cheap. And it’s worked out! Nothing bad’s happened to us.”

“But Trevor, Damien keeps talking about a monster. What if its hurting him when we’re not in the room?” Meghan would have fought a bear for her baby, I thought as I hovered in a corner of the kitchen. A monster was not much different.

I had not hurt Damien. But Meghan became convinced.

They brought home boxes.

I knew what that meant.

“Stay,” I begged Hannah. “Please, Hannah, stay. Don’t leave me.”

It was night. Everyone was asleep. I knew Trevor and Meghan planned to leave. I didn’t want them to take my beloved, beautiful Hannah.

“You could hide until they’re gone. We could stay together.”

Hannah kicked her feet against the couch. “And what if the new owners throw me away? No. Meghan is my family. I don’t want to leave you. But I know where I belong.”

I knew she was right. I knew. The thought of the next tenants finding her ugly and throwing her away filled me with rage. It was unthinkable. Meghan took good care of her. But if Hannah had to go, I wanted to go with her.

In the days that lead up to moving day, I tried to stick just my hand out the front door. I tried and tried and tried. It was like pushing against glass. I could not do it.

I could not leave.

They left without me.

Hannah was gone.

This house was my home. That had been enough, before Hannah. It never seemed so cold and hostile as it did after she was gone. I never wanted to leave before, but now I did.

Grief and rage grew within me. I could throw plates again. I did. The new owners didn’t even last a week before they moved out and put the house up for rent.

This house was mine. I had never hurt it before.

But that didn’t matter anymore.

I ripped cupboard doors off their hinges and flung them across the room. I gouged the walls. I ripped down the curtains and threw books through windows until the carpets sparkled with shattered glass. I screamed Hannah’s name over and over. No one stayed. No one new moved in. And still, I raged.

My power grew. But I lost myself. The house wasn’t mine.

The house wasn’t mine, so I could leave.

For the first time since my death, I stepped out the front door. I didn’t know where to look, but I would. I would search and search until I found my Hannah again.

Hopefully Damien would have outgrown his fear. Maybe he would even see that I could be a friend, if he wanted. If not, he could be dealt with.

Children were fragile.

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cobraonthecob · 5 years ago

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Date Flowers

So I finally get around to posting this, a week late, but here is my Lukanette Exchange fic! This one is for @thenovelartist, I’m so sorry that my fic is late by a few days.

@lukanette-exchange, here I am, yip yip. Ao3 link will be in the reblog.

The requirements were: Fluff is required, otherwise, open to anything: AU, aged-up, I like

Excludes: No angst (like, drama and tension okay, but don’t make the whole thing angsty)

So hopefully I did it justice!

Also, I wrote this before I found out the Snake’s powers in-show, and then I said “Nope, not in this fic. I’m keeping it to Hypnotize.”

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

She brings a hand made cloth flower to each date.

At first it was small and plain, but each date, it got bigger and bigger, more complex each date.

He made a garden arrangement in his living room, the smaller, simpler ones at the edges with the larger and more ornate ones in the center.

Five years of dates, Luka thought as he stared at the floral arrangement. He had no idea where he was going to put any new flowers, he wanted to keep the flowers as private as possible.

This time, they were going to celebrate her twenty-third birthday. He nervously thumbed the ring box, before putting it into his pocket. He drove over to her apartment, and his jaw dropped as she walked towards his car.

Her qipao went from dark blue to purple, with a faint hint of a reddish hue at the hem. Silver dots - stars, Luka realized, formed constellations in the fabric. The qipao was sleeveless, her arm muscles too large for a normal sleeve, and she probably didn’t have enough fabric for a sleeve anyways. Besides, she liked sleeveless dresses, keeps the creeps away, she says. Her upper arms were adorned with silver bracelets in the shape of snakes, one had green-blue eyes, the other red. A black bracelet - from their first date - was on her left wrist. Her hair was down, grown out to mid-shoulder blade after two years of a pixie cut. In her hands was a massive red flower, the stem beautiful and long. Luka scrambled to open the door for her.

“You take my breath away,” Luka murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheeks in greeting. Marinette did the same.

“For you, love,” Marinette said, holding the flower out. Luka took it in both hands and nearly fainted from the sheer detail. The petals alternated between red and pink, some shades lighter or darker.

“You are absolutely amazing, I wish I had a gift that could compare to this,” Luka said, finding his words. Technically, I do have something that could compare but I had help to make it.

“You don’t need to. It’s something I like to do.” Marinette said. Luka smiled, and gestures for her to get in the car. Marinette obliged.

<>-<>-<>-<>

“Thanks for the dinner, Luka,” Marinette said, as they got into Luka’s apartment. Luka grinned, and picked up his guitar.

“Your birthday’s not over yet,” Luka said, beginning to strum his guitar, briefly playing her heart song. Marinette raises a brow.

“Oh?”

“You might as well had the Snake Miraculous, you hypnotized me with your art,” Luka began to sing.

“Sass helped you, didn’t he?” Luka shrugged, and gestured that he had a little bit of help with the words.

“You are the love and the light of my life, and I will always listen to your singing heart,” Luka continued, “For it brings me joy and happiness to hear you happy, and I love you even when the days have you snappy. I’ll love you forever, if you’ll have me, and even if you don’t, I still will. You taught me the greatest and purest form of love, from the battles to just standing still. And you, whether you’re Marinette or Ladybug, I will stand by your side, as Luka and Viperion, and I’ll do so even if the world ends. I sing this from my heart, with the most sincere melody that is you, I’ll love you forever if you’ll have me…”

“Always, Luper,” Marinette said, leaning in for a kiss.

“I’m not done,” Luka said, “for I, Luka Couffaine, wielder of the Snake Miraculous ask one Marinette Dupain-Chang, wielder of the Ladybug Miraculous, will you marry me?” Luka set aside his guitar and pulled out the ring box, presenting the ring.

“YES!” Marinette practically shrieked, launching herself at Luka, nearly taking him to the ground. Momentarily forgetting the ring, Marinette kissed Luka, joy rushing through her body. Luka pulled away, panting.

“The ring,” Luka gasped. Marinette chuckled.

“Sorry,” Marinette said, her hand reaching out as Luka put the ring on her finger.

“I love you, high energy and all,” Luka murmured, going back for another kiss.

“And I love you for everything,” Marinette murmured, then closed the gap between the two.

<>-<>-<>-<>

Her wedding dress is white with pinkish tones, flowing, sleeveless, and in the light, sparkle due to the hidden stars she sewed in. In short, she was drop-dead gorgeous.

The wedding is just as beautiful as the bride, and the entire venue radiates enough joy to power the entirety of France, if such a thing were possible. Compliments and well-wishes poured onto the new Dupain-Cheng couple, as Juleka threw a smile from across the room every time Luka’s new last name was said. He and Marinette jumped back onto the dance floor, the music surging in his veins, a siren to dance with his wife. Couples swirled around him, but Luka didn’t care about them. He only had eyes for Marinette.

“Mr. Dupain-Cheng,” Marinette teased, dropping into the most faux reporter voice she could manage and pressed a kiss to his cheek, “How does it feel to take on your wife’s last name instead of traditionally keeping your last name and hers changing?”

“The best decision ever, since the only other option we thought of was to go with ‘Couffaine-Dupain-Cheng - “

“Bullies would have a difficult time,” Marinette noted.

“Oh my goodness, last-name-only-basis-bullies. No wonder why you’re such a great Ladybug. You think of every possibility.” Luka whispers so that no one else could hear, but before Marinette could respond, the music changed for something with a faster tempo, and Luka couldn’t help but roll along with it, he and Marinette danced in sync, moving together effortlessly. The crowd’s hoarse from cheering them on all day, but they cheer nonetheless. Sass and Tikki enjoyed watching the festivities from afar, their chosens moving with each other. A dance floor isn’t so different from a battlefield after all.

<>-<>-<>-<>

Ladybug and Viperion were on patrol that night. Chat couldn’t make it, said that he would be too tired from his day job. The others mentioned a big event that day as well, and big days the next day. Ladybug and Viperion thus decided to step up, enjoy Paris as newlyweds and hope that an akuma wouldn’t attack that night. They rendezvoused at the Eiffel Tower ten minutes before midnight, one last look at the night Parisian skyline before heading home.

“I never did ask how Queen Bee fought in those high heels,” Ladybug said from her perch, massaging her feet.

“She was never one for practical battle outfits,” Viperion commented. Ladybug shrugged, then scooted herself across the beam to spoon with Viperion.

“Think this is safe?” Ladybug asked. Viperion glanced down at her.

“We’re the heroes of Paris, we can do this. I can sit here all night, considering I have a Ladybug on my lap. It’d be bad luck to remove her.” Viperion teased. Ladybug gave a fake gasp.

“I’d say it’d be bad luck to offend Lady Luck,” Ladybug responded, but remained where she lay, grinning at her husband.

“How would you feel if Falena released an akuma tonight?” Viperion asked. Ladybug rolled her eyes.

“I’d snap her neck myself,” Ladybug growled, “Because it’s our wedding night, and all I want to do is be with you. So sue me for being selfish on wanting to be with the ones I love.”

“I’ll be right beside you if that happens. Ready to head home?” Viperion asked. Ladybug sighed, then pulled herself up.

“I’ll race you home,” Ladybug said.

“Not fair, you have the yo-yo,” Viperion mock-protested.

“Fine, I’ll carry you bridal-style across Paris,” Ladybug said.

“Please do. Broadcast to Paris that we’re married.” Viperion said.

“You’re on,” Ladybug said. She and Viperion leaped off, Ladybug’s yo-yo snagging onto something so they could swing around as she grabbed him out of the air. Whooping, the couple swung onto a rooftop, Ladybug easily running across the rooftops, Viperion moving his body so that he was balanced and so that she could see. Easily, they dropped onto their balcony, making sure no one saw the heroes of Paris before making their way inside.

“Sass, scales rest,” Viperion said, opening the fridge as soon as Sass came out from the bracelet. Luka quickly put the small plate of chicken into the microwave, Sass eagerly waiting for his food.

“Tikki, spots off,” Ladybug said, Tikki dropped out of one of the earrings, and eagerly dove into the plate of cookies that they left.

“Good night, Sass,” Luka said as the microwave dinged and Luka pulled the chicken out for Sass. Sass mumbled good night back, mouth full of chicken.

“‘Night, Tikki,” Marinette said, gently kissing the kwami.

“Good night, you two,” Tikki said, smiling. Smiling, Luka and Marinette left the kitchen and into the darkness of their bedroom.

“A rarity, a Snake and a Ladybug,” Sass observes from his plate. Tikki smiles.

“The Black Cat and Ladybug don’t always have to be together. Sometimes they work as platonic friends. Other times, the relationship fails completely. Ladybug and Chat Noir are lucky - they get to be friends even after all these years.” Tikki says, then drifts over to Sass.

“In this day and age, love and life are easier,” Sass muses, a note of sadness in his voice. Tikki pats his back gently, as both kwamis thought of their past holders who more or less martyred themselves; such as the more well-known Joan of Arc and the lesser known Snake holders during World War II, making the ultimate sacrifices that never failed to bring the kwamis to tears.

“Indeed they are. After all, how often is it that you get Music and Creation together?” Tikki asked.

“Don’t remember the last time that happened,” Sass said, “Shall we celebrate with the other kwamis?” Tikki giggled.

“Of course!” Tikki said, swiftly darting out the apartment, Sass hot on her heels, “Race you!”

“You’re on!” Sass hissed playfully, and the two kwamis darted into the night, to celebrate with their fellow kwamis, as their holders slept, holding each other close.

#nightfalcon writes #lukanette exchange #lukanette exchange 2019 #luka #marinette #lukanette #viperion #ladybug #viperbug

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blogs-from-europe · 5 years ago

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Paris

We did not intend to come to Paris. We had planned ot head to Venice, but the coronavirus outbreak in northern Italy was kicking off and it seemed stupid to charge into the middle of it. Instead, we re-routed to Paris with no real plans for what we were going to do for the next month.

We took the Eurostar high speed train from London to Paris: there was wifi, cushy chairs, and some catered snacks we purchased from Marks & Spencers. The dining in London was meh, but their store-bought snacks blow Australia out of the water. Down with the Coles / Woolworths duopoly!

We arrived into Paris around 9pm and walked from the train station to our hotel. This may displease some of the parents reading this missive, but Matt and I did not check Smart Traveller before booking to go to Paris. It turns out that the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade considers France quite dangerous! The whole country has been slapped with an "Exercise a high degree of caution” warning, and this isn’t because of the coronavirus, this is down to the amount of violent crime tourists are likely to encounter (armed robberies on trains, car theft, etc.) and the riots. Oh and the likelihood of terrorist attacks. We certainly noticed in France that the cops were heavily armed: we saw a police officer cradling a machine gun during a friendly exchange with a citizen to give directions.

On our Sunday night walk from the train station to our hotel, the streets were mostly empty. We passed a number of sex shops, massage parlours with red lights, groups of men standing around apparently doing nothing, sex workers, and suspicious men selling cigarettes on street corners. We were on high alert for pick-pockets and the violent crimes which Smart Traveller had warned us about: with our enormous backpacks we were effectively wearing neon signs saying ‘We are tourists! Please rob us!’. Despite our fears we made it to the hotel safely. The hotel was a last-minute booking as part of our rescheduling to avoid Italy so we didn’t have many options when booking online: I think it would be safe to say that our hotel was one of the worst in Paris. We were given tokens to access the shared shower down the hallway from our room: for our three night stay we were given four tokens, effectively rationing our showers for the stay. (Again, parents reading this may be troubled to learn that we only ended up using three of the four tokens – the person who only showered once has a name beginning with ‘M’ and ending with ‘atthew’.)

Another charming feature of the hotel was the low ceilings, roughly only two meters in height:

For our first day in Paris, it rained all day.

To stay out of the rain, we picked a couple of indoor activities: a visit to the Musee de Cluny (famous for its Lady and Unicorn tapestries and various other medieval art) and a visit to the Pantheon. After paying to get in, we realised that the Lady and Unicorn tapestries section of the museum was closed. Disappointingly, a promising section of the museum called ‘Treasures’ was also closed – I must confess, Matt and I did inadvertently go into the Treasures section and stole a fleeting glance at a magnificent tapestry before a strict Frenchman told us (in French so this may not be an exact translation) “Can’t you see this section of the museum is closed? No treasures for you! Get the hell out!”. Utimately we only got to see some old rocks and a bath. Overall rating for Musee de Cluny is 1/5. Matt observed that it should really be called the “Musee de Close-y”.

Next we trudged uphill through heavy rain to the Pantheon. Matt had expressed his indifference towards visiting churches, but I thought Foucault’s pendulum (housed in the church) might be of interest to him. Turns out, the Pantheon has many great qualities: it’s an amazing sandstone church built in the 1700s. During the Enlightenment, the church became a sort of secular shrine to the great figures of France including writers, politicians, scientists, etc. In addition to looking through the church (which included a huge dome, Foucault’s pendulum and some cool paintings of Joan of Arc) we got to explore the crypt which was much more pleasant and well-lit than you might expect a crypt to be.

Contrary to popular opinion, we did not find the waiters of Paris to be particularly snooty (maybe this is because we are residents of Fitzroy, which is home to many snooty waiters – mostly with fluoro hair and ripped jeans) but we did notice that they would greet us assuming we were French with a ‘Bonjour!’ or ‘Bonsoir!’ and when we would respond in attempted French they lose a little of their joie de vivre and would immediately switch to English. This was obviously intended as a kindness and did make things easier for ordering and finding a table, but meant we were robbed of the chance to practice our French. This also suggests that our pronunciation of ‘Bonjour’ is so poor that we cannot even pass for particularly uncultured or stupid Frenchmen.

To get around we tried renting electric scooters and bikes via Uber, with mixed results: there was terror, joy, and some frustration with Uber’s capricious parking rules.

For the super-interested, here are some other things we got up to in Paris:

Montmarte: We rode our electric bikes to Montmatre, an area famous for Sacre Coeur, an old church with a fantastic view, and the Moulin Rouge. The ride was mostly uphill, but on the electric bicycle was quite easy.

Wine tasting: We also did a wine tasting via Airbnb. Key takeaway: Chardonnay in France is not aged in oak barrels, meaning it doesn’t have that strong oaky taste (which I often find to be kind of cloying). Matt and I never really liked the taste of Australian chardonnay, so this was probably because of the barrel flavour. We also learned about tannins (broken down grape skins which appear in red wines) and about how rose is made (red grapes, but the skin is taken out sooner!)

Catacombs: There are old mines under Paris, which were the source of the sandstone used to build many of the city’s great buildings. These were later filled with bones after the central cemeteries were filled. We both regretted visiting the catacombs as it was very somber and confronting: millions of bones, hundreds of years old, piled on top of each other in a network of disused mines. Who enjoys this stuff?? We both felt sad and flat after the Catacombs, but then stopped for a hot chocolate and apple pastry which improved the mood. Afterwards we agreed to not visit any more mass graves.

Champs Elysées: We walked past the Louvre and gardens, Champs Elysées, Arc de Triomphe – a lovely area. We stopped for crepes and paid 1.5 euro (~$2.50 in Australian dollars) to use a public bathroom.

We also spent some time watching street hustlers. In the photo below, just below the Eiffel Tower you’ll see a ring of people in black.

We watched them for half an hour or so. They stand together all day pretending to play a three-shell game, betting 100 euro a pop. The idea with the game is that the dealer hides a ball under one cup, then quickly shuffles all three cups to ‘hide’ the ball - the person who paid to play can then pick the cup which they think holds the ball. If they are right, they get 200 euro; if they are wrong they lose the lot. We inferred the people dressed in black are working with the dealer, spending all day pretending to play. They win some, they lose some, they clap and say “bravo!”. The idea is to make it look like riotous good fun for people passing by so that they might be tempted to play. They’re essentially just shuffing money around within their group. A key part of the scam is that after each shuffle one of the group picks a cup which, if you’ve been paying attention to the shuffle, clearly does not hold the ball - the incorrect guess is jeered at by the group and then someone else guesses correctly to much cheering. This makes the game look easy, and probably fools observers into thinking they’re especially good at the shell game because they can find the ball every time. I can only assume that when someone is playing the game for real, the shuffle is much faster and tricker to follow.

After watching for a while, we saw a middle-aged tourist approach the group, watch from the side for a while, and then scurry away to pull cash out of his money belt. His friend tried to talk him out of it. He played anyway. We watched him lose. His friend walked off in disgust. He lost again. He walked off to find his friend. The shell game people packed up after that. I assume they also pick your pockets when they can.

There were a few more tourist-scams going around, but we didn’t have any trouble. We don’t know why these three golden retreivers were standing sentinel outside the subway...

... but we can only assume it was a part of some kind of elaborate hoax.

Matt and I are now in Chamonix, a ski town in the French alps. He is practicing the ukulele and I am writing this. We’re staying in an Airbnb - our hosts are have at least three cats (two of whom have deigned to let me pat them) and we were warned that if we hear a noise like someone tapping on the window during the night it is just the local deer inadvertently banging their horns on the window while they try to eat whatever bits of grass near the house aren’t under snow.

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thathalloweengal · 6 years ago

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Her Sleepless Heart (A Doctor Who Fanfic)

Yasmin Khan couldn't sleep, her mind was ticking over the events of the incredible adventure she had just shared with her friends. With the Doctor. Yaz was also constantly afraid that she was going to do something stupid and get kicked off the ship.

When she was at home, Yaz dealt with insomnia and anxiety all the time, she'd worry about bills, about the state of the world, all the hate and fear in it. When Yaz felt that worry that kept her awake she'd usually go to the kitchen, get some warm milk and read a chapter of whatever book she happened to be reading at the time. On the TARDIS though, she had no book, she forgot to pack any. Though Yaz did remember the Doctor telling them that there was a kitchen nearby their rooms, maybe she could get some milk there. Though knowing the Doctor, it would probably be Martian milk from the 31st century. Deciding to take that risk, Yaz threw off her duvet and left her room.

Making her way down the hallway, Yaz heard Graham talking in his sleep, he had warned them that he could do that but it was funny actually hearing him. From the sound of it he was dreaming about hosting some sort of game show.

Turning a corner, Yaz found a set of green double doors on her right. She doubted that a kitchen lay behind them but she was on board a bigger on the inside space/time ship so anything was possible. Pulling open a door, Yaz found herself looking out on a massive swimming pool with a few inflatable toys and even a surfboard just left floating in its waters. She fought the urge to walk along the poolside and put her feet up on one of the nearby sunbeds.

Yaz needed to get her milk and get back to bed as soon as possible, she didn't want to be falling asleep during tomorrow's adventure and becoming lunch for some kind of extraterrestrial Dragon.

Closing the door behind her, Yaz made her way down a corridor, she passed a small room with a wooden finish and small stained glass windows. She passed two spectacular gardens that somehow had sunlight and even a little breeze. She briefly looked in on an enormous art gallery with an amazing replica of the Mona Lisa hanging from a wall.

After several more rooms of incredible ridiculousness, Yaz considered giving up before noticing that a door up ahead was ajar. She could just about make out the contents of the room and felt herself picking up her pace before pushing the door fully open. Yaz stepped inside a library that was so vast it must've went on for miles, with shelves of books as far as the eye could see. It was no kitchen but at least Yaz could get a book that might help her get to sleep.

Yaz scanned a nearby shelf, trying to find something that she might like but she was quickly distracted by a magical melody nearby. It was entirely alien to her and was being hummed by a very familiar voice. Following it, Yaz found the Doctor sitting up a nearby staircase, reading, her legs flapping excitedly over the edge of one steep step. She looked so beautiful and was consumed in her own little world of imagination.

"Room for one more?" Yaz asked

The Doctor looked up, her eyes full of joy and wonder.

"Yaz! I thought you were sleeping" she beamed

"Too excited, traveling on a spaceship, traveling through time, still not used to it" Yaz told half the truth

"That excitement never leaves" The Doctor smiled "I've been doing this for such a long time and I'm still always giddy"

The way the Doctor said the word giddy was so cute, Yaz couldn't help but smile back.

"So what are you reading?" Yaz asked, in an attempt to appear like she wasn't falling into the Doctor's green eyes every time she made eye contact

The Doctor's cheeks flushed, Yaz had never seen that before, was she embarrassed? Silently the blonde alien showed Yaz the cover of the book. It was purple with some strange glittery symbol on it.

"Oh wow" Yaz feigned a mixture of shock and surprise, pretending to know what the book was

"I know, I just read it to help me get to sleep"

"I didn't think you needed sleep" Yaz admitted

"Aliens need sleep too" the Doctor teased "I don't really need a lot of it, about half an hour or so every two weeks but the thing about time travel is, well it makes it hard to keep track of time"

"When was the last time you fell asleep?"

"Back when we got rescued by the Tsuranga, I think"

"That was over a month ago and it doesn't count, you literally passed out"

"Tomayto, tomahto" the Doctor smirked

"Now I feel like my problem isn't as big"

The Doctor's eyes widened.

"There's something else, isn't there? it's not just excitement that's keeping you awake"

Yaz felt sick, she didn't normally like talking about it but the Doctor felt so inviting, Yaz trusted her with her life.

"I have anxiety"

"About what?" asked the Doctor

"All sorts but one thing I've worried about since I came on board is" Yaz paused, this was so embarrassing "Is that you'd kick me off the TARDIS"

"Why would I do that?" the Doctor said, her voice and face equal parts confused and concerned

"Trust me, I'll do something to mess this up"

The Doctor took Yaz's hand, gently tugging her to sit down beside her.

"Yaz, you're cool, funny and kind, I would never kick you off the TARDIS"

Yaz felt her heart rise, she had no idea what to say but that reassurance meant the world to her.

"You will leave at some point" the Doctor continued "but it'll be because you start another adventure or find someone who makes you really happy or both"

"I'm already on an adventure with someone who makes me really happy" Yaz couldn't resist saying

An awkward silence washed over the two and Yaz's worst fear had come to life, she had just messed up their friendship and was probably going to get left off back home, never to see the Doctor or TARDIS again.

"Does Graham know?" the Doctor asked

Yaz immediately felt like bursting out laughing but was also just a smidge insulted that the Doctor thought that she would fancy Graham, not that he wasn't sweet but he reminded her of her grandad. Yaz briefly considered letting it go, letting the Doctor get the wrong end of the stick but Yaz knew her feelings wouldn't go away so easily.

"I'm not talking about Graham" Yaz admitted, feeling brave

"Ah! you and Ryan would make a lovely couple"

Yaz squeezed the Doctor's hand softly and shook her head.

"Oh"

Yaz felt a lump in her throat, she felt like she was going to cry, the Doctor probably didn't like her in that way but at least it was out there instead of being trapped inside her.

The Doctor traced her thumb over the back of Yaz's hand, caressing it softly in circles.

"I'm glad to be on an adventure with someone who makes me really happy too"

"Graham?" Yaz joked as her alien maybe-more-than-friend chuckled and put an arm around her

The Doctor was so warm and really easy to snuggle up to, within seconds, Yaz felt safe and cozy.

"So what were you reading?" Yaz asked

The Doctor held up the book once again, to Yaz the cover was just as odd and lacking in information as before.

"Oh, must've left the filter cover on" the Doctor said, swiping the cover away with a flick of her finger. The cover of the book was instantly replaced with a picture of two women walking hand in hand on it, the title of the book was "the Third Street" by Joan Ellis.

Yaz had heard of this book, it was a piece of gay history, a romantic pulp story but one that scarcely existed in the time she came from. The few copies that were still around were in terrible condition but this one looked brand new.

"Where did you get that?" Yaz asked

The Doctor simply smiled and showed Yaz the first page, it had been signed.

"Dear Doctor, thank you for helping out with the Booie monster - Joan"

"Booie monster?" Yaz raised an eyebrow

"Really big snake with seven tiny legs, he lives in Australia, really good dancer"

Yaz giggled, she could never tell if the Doctor was having her on.

The Doctor read a chapter of the love story, her voice delivering every sentence gently and beautifully and before Yaz knew it, her eyes had become so heavy, she felt like resting them for a moment.

Yaz's eyes flickered open, just enough to see the Doctor sleeping peacefully on her shoulder, tiny snores coming from the adorable alien. Yaz smiled and cuddled up to her, falling asleep once again.

#Doctor Who #Thirteenth Doctor #Yasmin Khan #Thasmin

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hekate1308 · 2 years ago

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Fictober 2022, #6

Prompt: “Adaptable, I like that“

Fandom: Endeavour

Rating: G

Pairings: Morse/Joan

More of my vampire!Morse witch!Joan AU because I couldn’t resist. Enjoy!

Some days, it felt like her head was spinning. When she had first realized she had magic, Aunt Reenie had told her she would get used to the Veil and everything it entailed – small lies and omissions, for one thing. In truth, Joan thought those were fun – it was the other stuff she still occasionally had trouble with.

For example, why Dad would continue to insist that magic was dangerous and they should have nothing to do with it.

Or that she couldn’t talk to Mum about her day, not openly at least, not as she had been used to.

She had Sam though, and of course the friends she had made since she had begun her magic lessons a short time ago.

There was Fanny, for example, and Tiffany, and –

Well, she supposed there was Endeavour too, although that was a little bit more… complicated. She wasn’t sure students were supposed to be friends with officers of the Guard, for one thing. And then –

No, she decided to focus on that. He was way too old for anything else, really. Twenty years old! She was sixteen (only sixteen, as Dad would have said, although that didn’t have to mean much when one had magic) so really…

Anyway, nothing of that had to do with what she was busy with today, namely, looking after the school garden. At first, she had thought having to do so was a punishment of some sort – after all, ;I, usually insisted on them tackling the weeds at home when she wanted a bit of peace and quiet – but now she knew better. There were several rather dangerous plants in the garden, not to mention the magic of generations of students having seeped into the ground and reacting with the power that was already inherent in nature; and so, it wasn’t uncommon for a flower to start talking or trying to munch on people. Therefore, it was considered a show of trust and respect for a student to be sent to look after the garden.

It was her first time, and since she had only been at school for about two months, a triumph in every way. She couldn’t wait to tell Sam later.

But first things first. She checked the hex bag she had assembled for her protection one last time before she entered the enclosure. Better safe than sorry, as Aunt Reenie would have said, and she wouldn’t risk a curse or something similar following her home.

That should work. Nothing too dangerous in the garden anyway…

Or so she thought.

She stood by the fact that she could hardly have foreseen a territorial gnome having decided that the garden was his now, and that he would consider any attempts to look after it as an attack, and so she was soon hiding behind the one old oak that stood near the east corner, going through her back. Her hex bag protected her from curses and environmental influences, but would do nothing against spells being used against her. She needed something to trap and/or paralyze the gnome, and fast…

Who knew, with time, they might convince him that they could peacefully co-exist, but not while he was still being… well, while he was still convinced that he alone should be allowed in the garden.

She needed to – wait – there –

So far, she had only theoretically learned about shambles, but since all that was required were things that one carried around, she should be able to…

Something to incapacitate him, she thought, no, more prayed as she worked, just something to incapacitate him. I don’t want to hurt him.

Having no idea what to do with the finished product, she simply threw it at the gnome, then ducked back behind the oak.

An angry shriek told her that she had been successful, as did someone commenting, “Seems like you have everything under control.”

And she was looking at Endeavour Morse. He smiled. “They called, said there was a problem… seems like you handled it alright. What exactly did you do?”

She told him.

“Adaptable, I like that” he told her, grinning once more. She wondered if there were people who saw through the Veil and were scared of his teeth.

She wasn’t. On the contrary.

She looked down and pretended to search her bag for something. Anything but have him notice her blush. “Thanks” she muttered.

“I mean it. It’s important to be able to think on your feet if you want to join the Guard, Joanie.”

That made her look up against her will. “Joan. And who said anything about me wanting to join the Guard?”

He only laughed and left her with another “Good work anyway. I’ll deal with this, don’t worry.”

Joan herself went on her way, telling herself that the glow in her breast was due to the praise she had just received, and nothing more.

Like many other things she had done at the age of sixteen, she would much later find herself laughing about it.

#fictober22 #my writings #endeavour #british detectives #morse x joan #endeavour morse #joan thursday

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letterfromtrenwith · 6 years ago

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Old Wounds - Ch. 3 & 4

Police AU with George/Elizabeth

George faces an uncertain reception on his return to work, and is thrown into the deep end. Elizabeth deals with some professional conflict, and there’s a break in the case.

Ch. 1 & 2

Chapter 3

“Welcome back, Sir.” George started at the voice, finding Sgt. Emma Tregirls smiling at him from behind the reception desk.

“Oh, hello, Emma. Thanks. You pulled the short straw today, then?” Front desk duty was not generally something the relief fought over – dealing with assorted eccentrics, complainers and timewasters wasn’t really anyone’s idea of decent police work.

“Yeah, so it seems.” Emma gave a ‘what can you do’ shrug. “So, how are you?”

“Er…fine.” He knew she meant well, but he was getting a bit sick of people asking that question, not to mention the inevitable way their eyes would stray to his temple afterwards. He resisted the urge to pat down his hair. “The Super in?”

“Far as I know. I’ll just ring up.” He did his best not to fidget while Emma called the Superintendent’s secretary. “She says he’s ready for you.”

Detective Superintendent Ray Penvenen was a bespectacled man in his late 50s whose genial demeanour belied his tough reputation and storied career history. Nearing retirement , he’d settled with only minor irritation into the managerial requirements of his senior position. Nowadays, the higher one rose in rank, the more ones duties consisted of form-filling and being complained at by even more senior officers.

“So, how are you feeling?” George gritted his teeth. “Ready to get back to work?”

“Yes.” That was mostly true. He had found leave extremely boring, but considering the circumstances of the injury that he’d been signed off for, coming back was hardly going to be a smooth affair.

“Well, I’ve got something for you to get stuck into.” Penvenen slipped a blue folder out of a pile on his desk and handed it over. George flipped it open to be immediately confronted with what looked like an overtly-realistic Picasso painting. It took him a moment to recognise the face as male. Fighting a grimace, he flipped through the rest of the pages, taking in the basic details. “You’ve heard about the body at the Tintagel Developments sight, I assume?”

“Yes, although the press seem to be more interested in the historical discovery.” He suspected that was because the police press office was deliberately trying to divert their attention, which meant there was more to this than met the eye. “Has the recent victim been identified yet?”

“Not yet.”

“His fingerprints have been scraped off.” Normally, something like that was a deliberate countermeasure against identification. It was often seen in gangland killings and the like. However, George had seen it under different circumstances. He turned back to the picture of the man’s mutilated face. “Wait...”

“This body has the hallmarks of another Mark Daniel victim.” Mark Daniel was a man arrested five years’ previously for a string of violent murders of men, allegedly prompted by the infidelity of his wife, who he had also killed. While she had been discovered buried in their back garden, the other victims had been dumped in various places all over the district, their faces smashed in with a crowbar, and fingerprints scraped off. Quite why he’d done all this had never been fully established, although as far as George knew, several criminal psychologists and the like had spent the intervening period trying to find out.

George had been a relatively newly promoted DS with MIT when the case came in, working under the team’s last DI, Harry Blewitt. They’d done their best to keep it low-key, not wanting a press and public panic over a serial killer. Daniel had officially been charged with five murders including his wife, but there was some evidence to suggest there might be more victims. It seemed the Tintagel builders could well have found one of them.

“We need to keep this under wraps so far as possible – we absolutely don’t need the publicity, and I’ve already had the Chief Con whingeing at me because somebody from Tintagel’s pestering him. Also, if the press start shouting about this being another Mark Daniel victim, it might damage any further investigation if he turns out not to be.”

“I don’t want to be stepping on anyone’s toes here.” He’d done enough of that in the past. It had basically been his job – and look where that had got him.

“You wouldn’t be.” It took George a moment to process this.

“You mean MIT are still without a DI?” Blewitt had retired before the…incident which had put George on leave, but that was over a year ago.

“Not now, they’re not.”

“Where are we on the identification?” George looked at the five faces staring back at him. This was going about exactly as well as he’d expected. New DI, complete stranger to everyone on the team, shoved in by management at the top of a potentially big-time investigation, taking over from a pair of Sergeants who’d had pretty much free reign up until now.

He had no idea how much they all knew about him exactly, but he bet it was enough not to like him. The Godolphin case had had plenty of publicity, and the police gossip mill would have filled in any official blanks, and likely added a Hell of a lot of embellishment as well.

“Well, obviously the fingerprints are a non-starter. The SOCOs couldn’t recover even a partial.” DS Elizabeth Chynoweth seemed the only one willing to speak up. She’d also been the only one who hadn’t appeared to regard him with open hostility. Perhaps she was just better at hiding her emotions. “DNA’s been extracted, and we’ve put a rush on the results but, well, you know what that’s like. There are a lot of results for mispers, but once the PM’s finalised we might be able to narrow it down.”

“ – “ George hesitated before he spoke. He’d spent several years being perceived as someone who strode in and told other coppers how to do their jobs. Doing almost exactly that on his first day back was not the best idea. “What about the watch?”

“The watch?” It was Chynoweth’s fellow DS, Hugh Armitage, who spoke up now.

“It’s a Rolex Datejust. We’d have to identify the exact variant, but they generally don’t cost less than 4k. That might eliminate some of the mispers. We can also check the watch’s serial number with Rolex Tracker, or the company – if the owner registered it, of course.” There was a predictable pause after this. George couldn’t tell whether it was because they’d already thought of that and didn’t like him thinking they hadn’t, or they hadn’t and resented him coming up with it first.

“That’s a good shout.” Armitage shifted in his chair, looking genuine but slightly irritated at having to admit it. “Joan, can you take care of that?”

“No problem, Sarge. Sir.” DC Pascoe addressed George as something of an afterthought, but he didn’t take offence. She’d been used to deferring solely to Armitage and Chynoweth, and frankly he’d been shown a lot more blatant – and deliberate – disrespect over the years.

“When does Dr Enys think he’ll have the PM report?”

“He says we can go over this afternoon.” This was Jim Carter, the most sour-faced of the lot. George was fairly certain he’d interviewed him as a uniform about an allegation of excessive force against another officer. He’d known he would always bear the stain of ‘Rat Squad’ even before he’d taken the transfer, but having such an obvious reminder on his first day back was not encouraging.

“Right. Am I correct in thinking that the body’s leg still hasn’t been recovered?” According to the file George had been given, the victim’s left leg had been severed at the top of the thigh, although it was not yet known exactly how.

“SOCOs are still going over the scene, but no sign of it so far.” Chynoweth spoke again.

“That wasn’t part of the Daniel MO, but I suppose we don’t know what caused it yet.”

“It looks fairly neat, Sir.” This was DC Penny Bloom, who seemed to be fighting an internal battle between trying to suck up to him and trying to be equally as stand-offish as some of her teammates. As soon as he’d walked in the door she’d leapt out of her seat and immediately offered to show him to his office, before cutting herself off while asking if he wanted a cup of tea as she caught the eye of Carter.

“From what we can see, yes. We’ll see what Dr Enys has to say. As for the Daniel connection…”

“The preliminary DOD puts him within the timeframe.” Elizabeth – DS Chynoweth, George mentally corrected himself – supplied. “And he might be in the right age range, not that Daniel was especially picky so far as I can tell.”

“Is he still being held at Long Lartin?” HMP Long Lartin in Worcestershire was the nearest Category A prison, Her Majesty’s Prison Service having oddly overlooked the South West in terms of dangerous offenders – or any offenders at all, considering there were no men’s prisons in Cornwall whatsoever.

“Far as I know, Sir.”

“Then call them. We need to talk to him.”

Chapter 4

“Sarge? Can I ask you a question?” Jim Carter looked down at his lap, more like a nervous schoolboy than an experienced detective. Elizabeth had a feeling this was a question he shouldn’t really be asking, but she might as well hear it.

“Go on, then.” At least the fact she was driving meant she didn’t have to look at him while he asked. She liked Jim, he was a good copper, but he could be a bit headstrong.

“Did they run it by you and Sgt. Armitage? Putting Warleggan in charge of the unit?”

“Yes. DSI Penvenen told us that DI Warleggan would be heading us up – for this investigation, at least. Besides, we couldn’t go without a DI forever.”

“Well, no, but – “ Here it came. “Why him of all people? From the fucking Rat Squad – “

“Professional Standards.” She ignored the swearing. Not exactly unusual in their profession, but somewhat inappropriate in the circumstances. She could tell by Jim’s face that he knew he’d rather overstepped the mark. At least it was better him saying this to her than to George – DI Warleggan, rather. He was her senior officer, too, she had to remember that. Even if he did intrigue her.

“But – It’s just – “

“Professional Standards is a department just like any other, Jim.” Elizabeth understood the hostility the general rank and file felt against Professional Standards, even if she didn’t feel it herself. Policing these days was subject to so much scrutiny, it sometimes felt like they couldn’t breathe without somebody complaining. Having Professional Standards weigh in after arrests, after some crafty lawyer got their client to cry police brutality or some such, after accidents, mistakes, it just piled it all on. But, there were corrupt police officers, despite what some of the more idealistic members of the force liked to think –and if they weren’t routed out, then the public distrust in policing would only get worse.

“Hmmm.”

“DI Warleggan was just doing his job.” A job that he’d nearly died for. When they’d been introduced in Ray Penvenen’s office, she hadn’t been able to help her eyes straying to his temple, where there was just a shadow of the scar tissue hidden by his hair. Everyone knew about the Godolphin case – it had caused enough of a publicity shitstorm as it was; without DI Warleggan’s actions, it would have been even worse. Under normal circumstances, an officer who’d received the kind of injuries he had in the line of duty would be hailed as nothing short of a hero, but as a Professional Standards officer there were some who would always regard him with suspicion, if not outright contempt. Astonishingly, despite everything, Andrew Godolphin still had his friends on the force; the full details of the investigation having never been made public didn’t help. For “operational reasons” – that old standby.

“But – It’s just – “

“Besides, he’s the most senior officer left who worked on the Mark Daniel case originally.” Of the one DI and two DS’ who apprehended Daniel, George was the only one left on the force, despite only five years having passed. DI Blewitt had retired, and DS Nanskervis had died tragically young of cancer, only a year or so after Daniel was arrested.

“But – “

“Look, Jim - ” They’d pulled into a parking bay at the hospital, and Elizabeth turned to look at him after she turned off the engine. “You’re a very good officer, you’ve more than proven your abilities, but in terms of both seniority and expertise, DI Warleggan has you beat by a long margin, so if you make a stink about this, it’s not going to be him senior management will shove onto desk duties, is it?”

“No.”

“No, what?” Elizabeth didn’t want to be ‘like that’, but considering Jim had spent most of this journey questioning a senior officer’s integrity and competence, she thought he needed a reminder of the nature of their organisation. Perhaps she did, as well.

“No, Sarge.”

“Right. Well, let’s hear no more about it.”

Elizabeth had made her first visit to the morgue about six weeks into her probationary period, after she and her training officer had been called to break into the house of an elderly woman whose neighbours had become worried when they hadn’t seen her for several days. It turned out that she’d passed away in her sleep while sitting in her favourite chair by the fire. By the lit gas fire, which had burned next to her for at least a week. Needless to say, the condition of her body was…like nothing Elizabeth had ever imagined. To her embarrassment, she’d been forced to run outside to vomit into a plant pot in the garden. She’d seen a lot more dead bodies since then – and things that were even worse, if she were honest – but she’d never forgotten that old lady.

Some officers found the morgue disturbing, but she’d gotten used to it over the years. Here, the victims of crime, or simply misfortune, were treated with a level of respect many of them had never been afforded in life. Dr Enys certainly made sure of that, as had his predecessor Dr Choake, even if he’d been a pompous arse otherwise.

Originally, they had been due to attend regarding their victim the previous afternoon, but an emergency case of a sudden death of a mother and child had come in, which had naturally been prioritised over their historic case, even though they were likely dealing with a murder. Elizabeth had therefore spent the rest of the day trying to navigate the administrative obstacle course required to obtain authorisation to visit Mark Daniel.

“Good morning, Elizabeth. Jim.” Many people might expect pathologists to be a dour, morbid bunch, but Dr Dwight Enys was the complete opposite of that. Cheerful, pleasant and good-natured, he was a soothing presence for both nervous young coppers and grieving relatives come to identify their loved ones.

“Good morning, Dwight. Did you get anywhere with the two from yesterday?”

“Carbon monoxide.” Dwight shook his head sadly. “I think some of your colleagues are looking into the landlord, but there’s not much to be done now, I’m afraid.”

“Shame.” After a moment’s respectful silence, Dwight stood up from his office chair and led them through into a spotlessly clean tiled room. Three stainless steel tables stood in the centre of the room; the one at the far end was empty, while two morgue attendants were covering and removing a body from the middle one.

“Possible autoerotic asphyxia.” Commented Dwight.

“Ouch,” muttered Jim as they approached the final table. Dwight drew back the sheet. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at the smell the cloth had obviously been doing something to contain. No matter how well Dwight’s assistants had cleaned the body once forensic samples had been collected the scent of death and decay would always linger.

“What have we got?” She took a subtle step back, not that it helped much.

“Male, white, mid 30s-to-early 40s. Been dead at least four years, but no more than ten to twelve, I’d say. He was in reasonably good health before death from what I can tell – good joints, no signs of disease or significant ill health. The soil in that ground preserved him quite well, so I’ve been able to take a decent look at a few of his internal organs.”

“Cause of death?”

“Well…” Dwight pursed his lips. “There’s the problem. No obvious wounds or signs of violence – apart from the face and leg, but they were both post-mortem.”

“So…”

“So, there was some minor cardiac damage – not really enough to indicate a heart attack, or any kind of chronic illness as I said. The stomach hasn’t been preserved sadly, but what’s left of the oesophagus suggests some trauma from what could be sustained vomiting.”

“Poison?”

“Could be, but can’t say for certain. I’ve sent off samples for testing – they’ll start with routine toxicology, but if that doesn’t turn up anything, we’ll have to get authorisation for further assays.” Elizabeth grimaced at the thought of trying to persuade someone that that expense was worth it. Although, on reflection, that was DI Warleggan’s job now. There were certain things about management she was quite happy to let go of.

“Definitely not suffocation?” Elizabeth had been intending to ask the same question herself – although she’d planned to wait until Dwight was finished – and she knew what Jim was getting at. Mark Daniel had suffocated all of his victims, including his wife, although he had claimed her death was accidental.

“I didn’t say that.” Dwight frowned slightly at being pre-empted. “Suffocation can be difficult to detect after death. Based on the current findings, poisoning is only a strong possibility. So is suffocation.”

“What about the face? And the leg?” Elizabeth changed the subject. Dwight looked less annoyed at her question, and extended a gloved hand to indicate the battered remains of the man’s face. She’d seen crime scene phots of Daniel’s victims, but they didn’t quite prepare you for the real thing – or something very similar at least.

“Both post-mortem. The damage to the face was inflicted with something long and fairly thin with an end on – something like a wheelbrace, probably. Decay’s altered the wounds so it’s hard to estimate the exact shape.” Daniel had used a crowbar, so it could fit.

“What about the leg? Could it have been removed by digging equipment?”

“No. Aside from the fact that we’d likely have found it if it was – they’d barely started digging there, and I had what little earth they had removed searched – there’s no way the cut was made with anything like an industrial shovel. You can’t tell with what’s left of the flesh, but look here at the bone.” He pulled at a magnifying glass mounted on an arm attached to the side of the table. Lowering the lens, he adjusted it until it showed what remained of the dead man’s left thigh in uncomfortably fine detail. “Do you see those little marks there? They’re caused by whatever was used to remove the leg – I’d say the teeth of a handsaw.”

“How long after death? Can you tell?”

“Not precisely, but I’d say not long. Certainly not a matter of weeks or months.”

The doctor had nothing more for them until the toxicology results came back so, promising he’d email them his full PM report by the end of the day, he bid them farewell as his assistants wheeled in yet another body.

“So,” Jim began as they made their way back to the car. “Aside from the leg, there’s nothing to say either way if he’s a Daniel victim or not.”

“No.” But the leg was a sticking point. Daniel had never dismembered any of his victims, so why this one? And if it wasn’t Daniel, then what accounted for the other similarities? Before she could consider any further her phone rang.

“Chynoweth.”

“Elizabeth, it’s Hugh. Turns out the DI was right about the watch. We’ve got a possible ID. And you’ll never bloody guess who.”

#poldark #george warleggan #elizabeth warleggan #elizabeth chynoweth #hugh armitage #dwight enys #morwenna chynoweth #george x elizabeth #old wounds #fic #f: ge #f: au #m: fic

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bottleofspilledink · 4 years ago

Text

God’s Watching, Put on a Show || Chapter XV

Now, normally a love confession would be followed by an answer. It was only rational. Declare your love and wait for a response. Either get a relationship or get rejected.

Lilith was not, however, what society by and large would actually deem ‘normal’ and neither was this confession. The word ‘love’ was not mentioned once, leaving her to wonder if Eve actually did understand her…

As the days passed, what was unspoken but clearly there blossomed, from a pinky-sized seed into a lush bouquet that filled their chest with an indescribable yearning and their conversations with heavy pauses, gazes overflowing with a tenderness that far surpassed what was appropriate between fond friends.

Soon, though, the rubber band holding the bouquet together would snap.

Soon, Lilith would come to know that Eve understood her quite well.

From the tension that sat in the five inches of space between their two chairs, something akin to electricity buzzing there, to the way Eve would eagerly ramble about the (not forbidden, she was still too shy to talk about what exactly was in the book Lilith snuck into her bag) books she’d read during lunch, to the patience Lilith would show as they ran through equations in study hall.

What was unspoken was slowly growing whether Lilith or Eve wanted it too. Like an unkillable weed that always grew back, no matter how many times you’ve pulled it out of the ground, no matter the chemical you chose to douse it with. But far more beautiful… That is, if the gardener would allow it to grow.

And everyone who was willing to see it would know it was there, what was there, even if the people feeling it were too scared to give it a name, even if the people seeing were too scared to admit it existed.

...

It was Thursday night on the same week as the incident, Lilith and Joan sat drinking cola in the shack, crickets and cicadas chirping in chorus outside, no one else with them busy with part-time jobs and family dinners and catching up on a week of homework.

“Hey.” Joan said, trying to steer the conversation away from their light-hearted chats and towards something a bit more… complicated, a tad more touchy.

“Yeah?”

“Are… Eve, I mean.” The brunette took a long sip from her can, the relaxed air between them shifting as she stalled what she needed to say. “Are you sure we can trust her?”

“What do you mean? She’s obviously gay and in denial-”

“That’s the point.” Joan fixes her with a soft stare, trying to strike the balance between firm and sympathetic. “I doubt Eve’s even admitted it to herself, and even if she has, she’s no friend of ours yet.”

“Where’s all this coming from all of a sudden?” Lilith can’t help but be defensive. After everything she’d told Joan about Eve and how she felt for her, after everything Joan had seen Eve go through just that Monday, how could she still be against the girl?

“They’re holding confession tomorrow.”

“What?”

“In the afternoon, just before club. There’s going to be confession.” Another sip from her drink, faster this time. “The holy type.”

Lilith knew exactly what Joan was implying, now considering the possibility herself having remembered what was happening tomorrow and every week after that. She wouldn’t admit it, though, refusing to doubt Eve despite the danger it may pose to trust her, to… love her.

Aster blue eyes widened, if only a fraction, in shock.

“And what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Are you sure she won’t crack?”

It hurt to think of. The chance of betrayal very real and very close, the things it may cost them all hung heavy in the air. What they’d worked for during the past year – the subject of many serious chats, full of tears and thinking and uncertainties, the cause of many sleepless nights, weighing risk and reward, planning – could vanish in an instant and make them vanish with it.

She could practically feel the ‘Godly Living’ brochures in her hand.

It was another thing she tried not to think of too much; her friends strapped into electric chairs and deadly hydrotherapy chambers, pumped full of pills that made them nauseous at the very thought of love with women or ones that didn’t let them think at all, the possibility of getting lobotomized.

“- could out us! She could out you!”

Joan’s voice pulled her from her mind before she could go too deep.

The emphasis on ‘you’ nearly made Lilith cry.

At the end of it all, even with the threat it brought to their gay little family, made up of people so vastly different yet somehow so similar, Joan was thinking about her.

And she was right to.

Tomorrow, if Eve did give her away, the others would be able to lie their way out of it, come up with alibis and excuses and cry ‘I have a boyfriend’ because Eve hadn’t spent enough time around them to gain anything as evidence because Eve had only been around Lilith.

“I don’t think she will.”

She tried not to sound scared.

“The only thing she really has against me are words anyways…” There was no reason to tell the other of the note she’d written for Eve. Painful as it was, the girl had probably thrown it out by now, especially since she knew what it meant. “And she can’t mention experience without admitting what almost happened between us a week ago.”

Joan was unconvinced.

“Are you really going to take this risk?”

She tossed Joan a few quarters. Enough for three phone calls on the payphone a mile or so away.

Maybe Lilith was going to risk herself for the sake of some girl.

But she’d be damned if she let her friends do the same thing for her.

“Call the others. Tell them to pack essentials and paperwork. Tell Colette to bring the check.”

“Only if you pack a bag too.”

It seems they would do the same for Lilith, whether she wanted them too or not.

“Joan-”

“No. If we have to leave tomorrow, you’re coming with us.”

And that was that.

...

It was a fine Friday morning in St. Agnes School For Girls. Maybe even her last.

Lilith tried to stay calm. Even as she packed her bags, even as she snuck into her grandfather’s office to retrieve her personal papers, even during the walk back to the shack, even while Paula and Joan and Julia and Colette went over what to say if they were questioned about their relationship with one another, their closeness, their relationship with Lilith, specifically.

It was agreed they would never throw each other under the bus. Agreed that, they’d deny all allegations against each other despite the proof, even if it may mean making them complicit.

After all, if they had to flee, they’d flee together.

If even one of them were found out, the plan was to run and pull a fire alarm, notifying the others.

Joan’s truck was parked just a few streets away from the school, no more than a quick sprint needed to reach it, key in her pocket, Paula carrying a duplicate, bags already in the back, fastened, Julia had forged a note for them about an after-school activity, buying them some time before a search was called if the school didn’t immediately call their guardians, and Colette carried all she needed to cash the check in on her person.

The last thing they did were practice statements, crafting sentences that left no room for interpretation and had no strange implications, absent of loopholes and additional clauses.

“What do we say if any of us are questioned about homosexual activity?”

“I know nothing about that.” They said, all in synch, drilling the words into their heads exactly as they were so there was no chance of them being taken out of context and used to spin a narrative. If the nuns wanted any of them sent to conversion therapy, they were going to have to lie through their teeth. “I’ve never taken part in such things and know no one who has.”

They sounded nothing like themselves, Lilith realized in between breaks.

Though she supposed that was the point.

“Again!” Said Joan. “What do you say if they accuse your friends of being homosexuals?”

“My friends and I are good, Christian people who would never willingly associate with homosexuals. I have personal anecdotes to prove the innocence of the girl you are accusing.”

It made them sick to their stomachs, having to say such things.

It made them safe, though.

And for now, that was all that mattered.

They were prepared.

But they didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

...

As the day went on, Lilith began to lose her cool, anxiety creeping deep into her bones, growing fidgety and restless. Her leg shook under the table, fingers tapping against the desk and clicking pens, eyes always shifting, looking for another sign that they needed to go.

Was this what Eve felt like every day?

The fear of being found out was in no means foreign to Lilith, nor was the fear of God, a tyrant she used to believe in and worship just like Eve did. But it had faded, her hiding of herself perfected to a science, fear turning into anger as she realized that everything she was raised on was a sham.

It had been too long since she felt this real, crushing anxiety.

She didn’t like it.

...

It was time.

Lilith and Eve sat next to each other in the small chapel on school grounds, just a bit behind the actual building but before the convent, not an inch of space between them as they were squeezed into the pews filled with those yet to receive the sacrament of confession. The seats were divided so that there were two groups of pews, one for waiting, the other for prayer, where many would do their penance. Two confessional booths were far behind them, having been placed like that so none of the girls would see who went in when or be able to hear a peep.

She knew how this was going to happen, how they could possibly get outed.

Priests were not allowed to break their vows and tell the nuns of the sins they’d heard during the confession but a penance was to be given to those who had sinned.

It could be anything from a prayer to an act of service.

It could be telling the nuns what you’ve done or know someone’s done as a way of repenting.

No doubt, if anyone confessed something of significance, they would have to tell Mother Cecilia.

And since most everyone who did this in earnest would believe their soul was on the line, if the girls in this school were truly the people they claimed to be, they would tell the nuns, friendships and loyalties and love be damned as the person they tattle on.

“Eve?” The girl whispered, finally snapping. “The note I gave you, do you still have it?”

The blonde did nothing more than look to the marble floor, hair shielding her face. There was no way for Lilith to tell if she was ashamed or guilty or planning to-

“Please answer me.”

“I still have it.”

For the first time in years, far longer than what most would consider healthy, Lilith felt herself minutes away from bursting into tears, eyes stinging from having to hold it all in.

“Where?”

“Why?”

Eve refused to meet her eyes when she ducked down to try and catch a glimpse of her face.

“With me, right now, in my pocket.”

Before the girl could answer her, a nun appeared to lead Eve into the booth, giving her a light scolding as they went.

“Time before confession should be used to reflect on your sins, Miss Peccator.”

“Yes, Sister Jane. I’m sorry.”

And with that, she was gone.

...

It was an eternity later when Lilith left the chapel, finding Eve just outside, to the right, standing amongst stone pillars that had barely started growing moss, waiting.

They were as alone as they could be, the only things watching them were the unseeing eyes of the statue saint surrounding them, whatever creature lingered in the cracks on the chapel’s stone, and God.

Perhaps what resided in the chapel was God.

“Eve…” She stepped closer to the girl, desperation potent. “What did you tell them?”

No response.

All she was given were downcast brown eyes and fidgeting fingers, guilt.

Lilith took another step forward, grabbing the other by her hands, letting Eve feel her warmth, her pulse, the softness of her flesh, of the blood that flowed through her veins, of her humanity.

“Eve, what did you tell the priest?”

Lilith had fallen to her knees, in a plea, in a prayer, the ground beneath her unforgiving and now stained with her blood, dark red and sinful. Eve’s hands clasped in hers and pressed to her sweat-soaked forehead as sobs wracked her body harder than it had in years.

She was screaming now, pulling on the other’s hands hard enough to hurt, something, anything to make the girl look up at her, unaware of the tears streaming down her own face.

“Eve? Eve?! What did you tell the priest?!”

They were the image of repentance, a holy figure, a dirty sinner; Eve towered above Lilith as she cried, immaculate and unattached as the girl wept into her skirts and her hands, a holy portrait commissioned by a long-gone pope.

If only they weren’t both sinners in His eyes.

“What did you tell the priest, Eve?!”

__________________

HAPPY HOLIDAYS HAVE A FUCKING CLIFF HANGER ψ(｀∇´)ψ

Lmao yes I know it's only the 24th but I’ll be back on actual christmas day with the next chapter tho so please don’t be mad at me and I’m very sorry for this (┬┬﹏┬┬)

Anyways, I would like some reblogs as my present this year <333

Taglist: @atahensic @anomiewrites @leahstypewriter @madame-ree @melpomenismask @littlemisscalamity @phillyinthebathroom @gaypeaches @extrabitterbrain @pirateofblood @i-wanna-be-a-rock

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sleepychai · 7 years ago

Note

Hey could you do a Virgilxreader where the reader has known Thomas for a while through YouTube & is a theatre student so is very passionate about dance singing & acting. Virgil really likes the reader but tries to cover it up, so teases their dancing, singing, acting & YouTube so that no one will realise his feelings (maybe one of the sides could know) the reader doesn't think he likes them back because of his teasing, it's only when he sees them cry that he realises how much he hurt them

Hi sorry it took so long. It’s finally here. It’s like 2:20 am here as I’m finishing this off so I may edit it later when i have the brain power to. Anyway I hope you enjoy. Also I will be uploading a new request post with more options on requests.

Also I’m not giving this a title because i feel like this doesnt need one.

One more thing I’m sorry if this is shitty, this is my first sanders sides x reader.

Virgil x Reader

Words: 2791

“Until next time, take it easy guys,”

“Gals,”

“And Non-Binary pals!” Thomas and I finish together, posingridiculously in front of the camera before bursting out into a fit of laughter.

“Oh my goodness that was great! We have to do this againsome time!” Thomas exclaims as he turns off his camera.

“Definitely, we have to do a collab more often.” I reply asI throw the rest on the unused beans into the nearby bin.

“Thanks again Joan for reading the questions.”

“Your welcome. It was fun watching your reactions.” Joanreplies.

“Just don’t make me try the brown one again. Ick! I stillcan’t get the taste of dog food out of my mouth.” I cringe and poke my tongueout briefly.

“But shouldn’t you be used to it?” I freeze for a secondbefore I groan quietly to myself. The voice is laced with mockery and agitation.The voice that sounds exactly like Thomas, except it’s not. “It’s the perfectdefinition of your own channel.”

I slowly turn around towards the couch where a slumpedVirgil appears with a dark smirk. I close my eyes and breathe calmly. I force asmall smile on my face before opening my eyes.

“Hi Virgil. It’s always nice to know what other people thinkof my content.” My voice is strained and forced and dripping with innocentvenom.

“I’m only speaking for the behalf of the viewers who watchyour crappy content.” Virgil replies coarsely. “They only watch your videosbecause they pity you.”

“Virgil!” Thomas snaps, glaring daggers at Virgil who seemsto be unfazed by Thomas’ voice.

“It’s ok Thomas.” I say whilst holding my hands up in agesture to stop the glare. “I’m used to it by now.”

Thomas stops his glare at Virgil and stares at me almostsympathetically, obviously noticing the sorrow that had threaded itself into myvoice. I’ve always had a crush on Virgil from the day I met him. Although he isa replica of Thomas, he has his own persona, literally. Sure he might tease meabout everything I do but I’ve learnt to cope with it, even though it still causesmy heart to break at every insult. I always find the connection of love to him.But I know he’ll never feel the same about me, especially considering how muchhe bullies me. Sure, I have my own insecurities about myself and yeah, Virgil’steasing doesn’t help it but what can you do to fight against love?

I pull out my phone and check the time that reads 1:21pm. Iturn back to Thomas who has gone back to glaring at Virgil.

“I better go. I need to pick up my costume and buy some moremakeup. I’ll see you tonight at Theatre Class?”

Before Thomas gets a chance to reply, Virgil once againtakes his opportunity.

“You’ll be needing a lot of the makeup to cover up that faceof yours, don’t want to scare away anyone with that hideous face of yours.”Virgil says bluntly.

“VIRGIL!” Thomas shouts causing me to flinch slightly. Iquickly grab my bag of head towards the front door.

“See you later!” I call out as I exit the house and closethe door. I make quick steps to leave the front garden and walk down thestreet.

Once I turn the first corner, I let the tears that I heldback fall down and make streams across my cheeks. I sniffle a bit and dry myeyes, letting my (h/l) hair fall down and hide my face (for short hairedreaders, a hoodie will be over your head). I take slow deep breaths, timing themwith the pace of my footsteps. By the time I reach the bus stop I almostcollapse in sobs, wanting to let it all out, scream out all my agony andheartache, the regret and misery, the burning self-hatred for being so in lovewith a man who puts me through mental torture. I feel the desperation to cryout to the world and scream away my pain, but I don’t. I bottle it up and pushit down, using all my mental energy to forget those emotions.

The bus arrives a short time later. I quietly board the busand sit down by a window seat, looking out the window yet keeping my facehidden from anyone else.

/\Virgil’s POV/\

I slump against the corner of my room after practicallybeing forced back into my room by Thomas. He gave me this big lecture aboutbullying (Y/n), but I didn’t listen.

The truth is that I actually like them, a lot, and not in aplatonic way. I’m just too afraid to admit it, so I tease them to cover up myfeelings for them. I never like to show emotions, especially feelings ofaffection. I’m always worried that I’ll do or say something wrong or ruin therelationship.

If I wasn’t so nervous about confessing, I would’ve havedone it by now. But that doesn’t stop the possible fact that they won’t likeme, which is another reason why I don’t confess. The feeling of possibleheartbreak is worse than not knowing, so I choose to not show my feelings tothem.

A beam of light enters my dark room. I look up from mycorner, peering over my bed and to my door where a very irritated Roman stands.He swings the door fully open allowing my room to absorb the bright light as hewalks over towards me, stopping a few inches from me.

I look at him blankly, almost telling him to fuck off.

“Those were very hurtful things you said to them.” Hestarts.

Oh boy, here we goagain.

I sigh and return my gaze to them floor, preparing myself foranother lecture. But instead of a speech of what I did wrong, I get a sigh. Ithen feel Roman sit beside me, legs spread out straight in front of him.

“You know you can’t keep doing this to them.” I lift my headup enough to look at him, seeing him stare at me with a knowing smirk. “You’llhave to confess sooner or later.”

I scoff, turning back to the floor. “I think I’ll savemyself the heartbreak.”

“Yes, but whilst you’re doing so, you are also engulfingyourself in heartache. You can’t stop love.”

I growl lowly, knowing he’s right.

“Have you even thought to consider how they may feel?”

“They hate me.”

“Maybe, not really what I’m talking about right now. Do youknow how your words are affecting them?”

I perk up slightly, looking into his eyes which hold withseriousness, something strange to Roman. “What do you mean?”

“Well, before they left the front yard, I saw a few tears rundown their cheeks. Have you considered how your words might be causing them emotional pain? Some of the things you say have been really hurtful, sometimesI see them clench their fists so hard they turn white.”

I now fully look up, a force of guilt and worry washing overme. “So what? Their feeling anger.” My voice comes out almost strained,attempting to my emotions.

“I don’t think it’s just anger, and not specifically at you.What would you do if they start to believe your words?”

“Tch, their smarter than that, they wouldn’t actuallybelieve anything I say.”

“Yes but you’ve been bullying her for a while. Maybe yourwords have finally crawled their way to them on an emotional level.”

My mouth hangs agape. The reality slowly coming into myrealization. What if what Roman’s saying, is true? What if I’m actuallystarting to hurt them on a deep emotional level?

My thoughts stop abruptly when a hand on my shoulder pullsme back towards Roman. He looks at me with a stern gaze. “You have to confessto her. I would suggest you ask Thomas to come to theatre practice tonight anddo it then.”

My eyes widen in shock and disbelief. My mind fights betweenconfessing tonight or holding it off for more.

“The more you hold it off, the more possibility of you losingthem forever.” Roman adds.

Losing them forever? What does he mean? Before I give myselfa chance to debate over what to do, I blurt out; “I’ll do it tonight. I’llconfess to them tonight.”

Roman breaks out into his wide grin and cheery attitude.“That’s my boy Virgil! I’ll go tell Thomas!”

Before I get to stop him, he’s up and out of the roomrunning down the hall towards Thomas. I sigh, a small weight seemingly liftingoff of me.

I’m going to confess to them, I’m going to confess myfeelings to them. I keep repeating that in my head, knowing I’ll have no way ofbacking out.

I breathe deeply, turning back to the door before yellingout.

“You forgot to close the door!!!”

~Timeskip~

/\Your POV/\

I complete my back flip and land softly, feeling thepounding beat of the music as I sing my last verse. The words come out cleanand well-pitched, the notes matching the tune in perfect sync. I sing out thelast note, holding it for as long as I can, only stopping when the music stopped.

I stand there, panting as the rest of my dance crew freezein their positions, some looking at each other while others are looking out tothe audience.

“Ok, that was fantastic guys!” The producer says, clappingloudly along with the rest of the class. “(Y/n) your dancing crew did great! Andyour singing sounded excellent! The whole performance looked fantastic!”

I huff out and wipe my face with a nearby towel. My tightsand gym shirt almost soaked in sweat. I pull my face away from the towel enoughto see Thomas walking towards me. My eyes falter over to Virgil, who slouchesonto a bench. Our eyes meet for a split second before a shift my gaze to theapproaching Thomas.

“Oh my goodness (Y/n) your dancing was flawless! I can’twait till the show next week! You and your dance crew will be so cool and I betthat you’ll pump up the audience just by your moves!” Thomas cheers with a widegrin.

I can only smile and laugh lightly with him. But myhappiness seemed fake. I didn’t feel like I did well. I was shit. I messed up alot of the footing and almost fell at one point. I don’t even know why theproducer praised me even though I messed up a lot. A lot of my notes werestrained and some of them were out of tune. Don’t get me wrong, I’m extremelypassionate about what I do but sometimes by efforts are put to shame. SometimesI feel like I’m the worst out of everyone here. Luckily Thomas seemed to notnotice. That or he’s deciding not to say anything.

“Thanks.” I mumble. “Hey, I’m going to go to the changerooms. I need a break for a bit.”

“Sure! Go ahead, you deserve it after the dance you did.”Thomas then walks off to another group talking amongst each other.

I quickly grab my water bottle and rush towards the changerooms, tears threatening to fall. I push open the door and rush to the back ofthe lockers, collapsing on the ground in tears. I bring my knees to my chest,sobbing into them with no thought of stopping anytime soon.

I let the tears stream down my face, the emotions flowingwith them, the anger, the sadness, the loneliness.

I let the tears bring them out. The heartbreak from Virgilbullying me. Knowing that he’ll never return my feelings. The pain from hiswords hurting me emotionally, me finally coming to believe them. I feel theloneliness of being the odd one out. I never feel like a part of the class. Ifeel like I’m only here because of how passionate I seem to be.

A door squeaks open and I gasp, my body freezing in spot. Myeyes widen and I mentally panic, afraid of who entered the change rooms.

I stay silent as I hear quiet footsteps come closer to mylocation. I slowly scooch away from the footsteps, only stopping when my backhits the wall. My hand flies to my mouth as my breathing becomes more uneven. Ibring my knees closer to my chest, hugging them with my free arm.

Agonizing seconds pass as the footsteps get nearer beforefinally the person reveals themselves. And oh how I wish it wasn’t him.

Virgil slowly rounds the corner and stares at me, eyeswidening at my form. “(Y/n)” His voice his soft and gentle, almost in a caringway.

That’s all it takes for me to break. I choke out a sob andclose my eyes, scared to see the tormenting look Virgil is no doubt giving me.At least I thought that’d be the first thing he’d do. But it’s not.

Instead I get warm arms wrapped around me tightly. I snap myeyes open only to see Virgil’s jumpers as he tucks my head into his shoulder. Iattempt to push him away, unsure of why he’s doing this. Wondering whether he’sshowing my pity or simply trying to fool me. He starts softly speaking into myear, making my body freeze.

“I’m so sorry (Y/n), I didn’t mean to say any of thosestupid things to you.” His voice sounds genuine and upset, like he’s regretful.“I didn’t mean for any of those words to hurt you. Everything that I said isthe complete opposite of what I think you are. I was only saying those thingsbecause I was afraid of admitting my true feelings towards you.”

I gasp lightly at his words, pulling my head out of hisshoulder enough to look at his face. I peer into his eyes which hold sorrow andsomething unidentifiable. “What?” I whisper.

Virgil sighs and leans against my forehead. He then bringshis hands up to my face and wipes away the stream of tears. “I was so scared aboutrevealing my feelings towards you. I was and am afraid of you rejecting me. Ididn’t want to risk the heart break.”

“Wh-What are you saying?” My voice comes out strained andairy, almost as if my whole voice had disappeared.

Virgil breathes deeply before replying. “(Y/n), I…I loveyou.”

I can almost hear my heartbeat stop. My brain freezes overfrom shock and my breath hitches in my throat. Did he just…?

“And I understand if you don’t return my feelings. I get it,why would anyone even like a fuck up like me. I just wanted to say it to you soyou knew. And if you don’t want to see me again then it’s fi-“

“Virgil.” I interrupt him, my voice finally gaining enoughconfidence to work properly. “I love you too.”

Virgil’s eyes widen and his mouth hangs open before breakinginto a small smile, a beautiful rarity. We unconsciously lean in towards eachother, noses touching and lips inches away. With a final look at each other’seyes, we close the gap.

The sensation of Virgil’s lips leaves mine with a tinglingwarm feeling as if desperately waiting for this moment. A warm fuzzy feelingspreads throughout my entire body, leaving me to want more.

I spread my legs out straight as Virgil moves to sit on mylap.

Unfortunately, air was begging at our lungs so we had todepart. When we do, a long string of saliva connects our lips before fallingdown to drop on our chins.

I smile at Virgil and giggle lightly. Virgil returns thesmile and wipes my chin with his thumb. We lean in for another kiss but a smallsqueal interrupts us. I look behind Virgil’s shoulder to find Patton silentlysquealing behind his hands, a smiling Logan and a proud looking Roman standingat the other end of the lockers. I gasp, a blush quickly creeping up on my faceand hide behind Virgil. He takes a quick glance at the others before scowling.

“Can’t you guys fuck off?!”

“Guys, what’re yo-“ Most likely Thomas says. I peer over Virgil’sshoulder slightly to see Thomas joining the other sides. His face contorts inconfusion before exploding into realisation and quickly pushing the three sidesout of the room.

Virgil turns back to me and instantly smirks.

“You look cute when you blush.”

I lightly slap him and whine. “Shut up.”

“Gladly.” He retorts as he kisses me once again.

#virgil sanders #virgil sanders x reader #sanders sides x reader #anxiety #anxiety sanders #anxiety sanders x reader #sanders sides #fanfiction #my writing #requested

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